#writing 💥

[101ocs]

Firefly

OC: Leslie Sawyer [💛]

Note: @twsted-idiot NEW OC 💥💥 i’ll get to posting his actual significance in present day but first. the past. :3 this takes place WAAAY back then so. they’re just babies!! 😮‍💨 [leslie’s bio is uploaded on pinned post!]

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The gentle spring breeze played with his hair as he soared up toward the vast blue sky, his face adorned with a smile so pure and innocent that it could never be replicated. But that was Leslie for you. There was never a moment where that beautiful smile grew dull in the eyes of the world.

“Higher!” his little voice exclaimed as the tire swing came flying down. “I wanna go higher!”

In response to his request, Leslie felt the sensation of big hands cradling his waist to cease the swing’s movement. He giggled and jolted his head back to look at his brother, seeing a warm smile identical to his resting on his lips. “Higher? Well, you gotta hold on tight then!”

Grasping the rope tied up to the thickest branch they could find, palms were beginning to smell of dry fiber from his firm grip. That didn’t deter him from his goal of touching the moon. His brother held the swing high above his head for a moment or two to increase Leslie’s anticipation before releasing him, lengthening his height from the ground. Again, his wispy hair danced as though it starred in a ballet and his laughter rang like a church bell throughout their land. He closed his eyes and let the wind take him over without a hint of worry in his mind.

“You’re gonna touch it! You’re gonna touch the moon!” his brother cheered, pointing upward to calculate where his feet needed to be to hit the desired target.

“I am?”

“You already did! Didn’t you see?”

“I was closing my eyes!”

His momentum decreased gradually to the point that his brother felt confident enough to open his arms and call for him. “I’ll catch you, Les! C’mon!”

Releasing the rope and launching himself forward, Leslie landed precisely in his brother’s warm embrace. He swung him around a few times and let little legs go airborne, evoking more laughter to erupt from his chest. Then, once he was done, he rubbed his rough knuckles into Leslie’s head and gave him a noogie. He whined in response.

“Oww! Johnny, that hurts!”

“Oh, grow up.”

In response to his brother’s teasing, Leslie gifted him with a playful shove and ran off to the hills. He knew better than to stay behind and let his older brother land another hit on him. Tagbacks were the worst when it came to Johnny because instead of shoving him back equally or giving him a sucker punch, he’d headlock him and ‘playfully’ wrestle. (That’s what he always told their mama. In reality, he was pretty close to cutting Leslie’s air supply off.)

Mud sprayed up their backs as they ran through the field leading up to the house, practically signing their certificates of being scolded and forced to bathe thoroughly that night. That didn’t matter at the moment. What mattered was that Leslie got to that porch before he was able to grab a hold of him. Tragically enough, the younger brother lost his footing and toppled over, putting him at Johnny’s mercy. The rich scent of earth hit him in the back of the throat as he groaned and lifted his freckled face from the ground. Blood leaked from his nostrils.

Catching up to him with heaving breaths, Johnny’s cruel laughter reverberated in his head. “Annnnd that’s what you get for tryna snitch on me!” When he didn’t get an immediate response, he took a few steps closer. “C’mon, lil’ boy. Dust yerself off.”

Sometimes it was hard for Johnny to remember that they had a nine year age gap, which made little Leslie six. So when he saw those gigantic tears in the corners of his eyes, Johnny instinctively grabbed him to help him up.

“No!” Leslie resisted his grip. “I’m fine! I don’t wanna go in! I wanna hang with you…”

Johnny’s russet eyes lingered on his bloodied face with a fond expression — Not quite a smile but something close to it. “Wipe them tears then. I don’t like seein’ them.”

It took a while for him to recalibrate. Wiping the tears from his eyes while more appeared, he turned away from his brother to get some unnecessary privacy. Johnny respected it. Instead of waiting for him to be done, he began catching fireflies in his palms. Leslie really liked fireflies. He thought that maybe when he was done crying, he could surprise him with a palm full of them — That was the closest he’d get to comforting him. Johnny wasn’t particularly good with being gentle anyhow.

Tugging on his arm, the little boy regained his brother’s attention. His round face was a light shade of pink from crying so hard but other than that, he was back to normal. Tough for a six year old. Johnny helped him get the rest of the blood from his face by licking his thumb and rubbing it off.

“What’s in your hand?” Leslie curiously asked.

Smirking, Johnny opened his palm and released all the fireflies. They scattered into the air as flashing green lanterns, some still crawling on Johnny’s calloused fingertips. Leslie bubbled in excitement, jumping up and down and trying to grab one. Due to his height, it didn’t work out in his favor.

“How’d you catch ‘em, Johnny? I can’t get none!”

“Just be patient and they’ll come to you. Jumpin’ around like that just scares ‘em.”

They spent a while trying to catch as many as they could. Leslie managed to catch five which was a big achievement in his book. Johnny, on the other hand, caught at least thirty. After examining their pretty lights and silly wings, they would release them back into the air and watch them fly off. There was a time here and there Leslie begged to keep one as a pet, but Johnny put an end to that dream quickly.

“They’ll die soon, y’know?”

Leslie’s eyes darted toward his brother’s face in search of what emotion lay behind his words, but was met with a stare devoid of life. It was unusual for his brother to be lost in thought like that. Usually he would’ve played off his words by saying something silly or scoffing and changing the subject, but he didn’t. And although there wasn’t much proof to go off of, Leslie knew something had changed in his brother. It was like standing next to a stranger.

“…Johnny?”

That seemed to break him out of the trance. Stroking Leslie’s curls back and smiling innocently enough, he came back to earth. “It’s ‘bout time you hit the hay, lil’ boy. C’mon, let’s go in.”

[eepwtf]

UNPUNISHABLE—soldier boy boarding school au! x catholic boy

find part two here ⤷ part two

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

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

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

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

and then, there was you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i’m not—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you think they’re...?”

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

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

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

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

but then it started to change.

you started to change.

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

you noticed everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you hated him for it. you hated yourself more.

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

and worst of all, benjamin made you want.

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

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

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

but the dreams kept coming.

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

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

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

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

they were still warm.

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

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

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

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

you hated yourself for this.

you hated how much you needed it.

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

you were drowning in sin.

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

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

your body betrayed you.

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

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

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

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

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

the bathroom door creaked open.

you froze.

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

ben.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐰𝐭𝐟’𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐲! 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋!

[rayroseu]

this tweet gave me sick thoughts about immortal x mortal malleyuu trope where Malleus visiting Yuu even as they grow old and their memories diminishes because of aging,,, 😭😭

Like I'm imagining old Yuu will say things like "I remember having this friend that I promised I would always invite him, but I can't remember his voice nor face or most of the things I used to know about him, still, i hope i can make that promise lasts for much longer, i would've loved to write another invitation for him again, but it seems that even his name i have forgotten..."

and and Malleus will just have to listen to this old person's ramblings, knowing he's not recognized anymore, knowing that the time he spent with Yuu is only remembered only by him, realizing he's in this situation again where time relentlessly will wither everyone he cares about as he lives on-- "I'm sure he would've loved that..."

Maybe he could tell the memories he still remembers, but he knows it'll quickly be forgotten as they spent their twilight days sitting still and pondering about death- still, if they can remember a measly promise like for a simple invitations, then he can surely commit to this "I promise to remember you, Yuu."

[jumexju]

capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife capitano with a goth wife

[ryva]

yall

i just KNOW that if you praised Bakugou about being a good boyfriend, he would be putty. not even in any sort of sexual way, just that if you kissed him on his cheek and thanked him for doing some simple ass chore for you he would be whipped (looking at you all lovey dovey.)

just imagining cuddling together in the most comfy clothes, laying on his chest. "you're so good to me, 'tsuki, " you kiss him on the jaw, "the best." you lay your head back on his chest before you're smothered by kisses all over your face. ending up with the both of you giggling all happy and domestic <3

[neum6ns]

little headcanons for vickys powers bc they r so inconsistent it drives me crazy and i’ve made these all up in my head to act like she didn’t die an unfinished character:

after victoria blew up congress in s2, that woman SLEPTTT. we know that blood manipulation in the boys universe is tiring, victoria says it to marie in gen v, so imagine popping 12+ heads one after another… yeah she was exhausted. she literally ran on coffee and energy drinks for the next few days.

she can constantly hear people’s heartbeats and blood flow and it drives her crazy. i feel like she can hear heartbeats the same way cate can hear everyone’s thoughts - that it’s insanely overwhelming. she can definitely tune them out, it just takes a lot of strength and power. her favourite thing is just being alone with zoe, her heartbeat is the only one she can tolerate.

her eyes only turn white when she uses a lot of her powers (blood manipulation or extra durability). because there is no way in hell one of the smartest the boys characters tried to explode homelander’s head on live television - and that her eyes would turn white even though she didn’t succeed? the only reason they did turn white is because she tanked HOMELANDERS LASERS. like that’s an insane feat and ppl don’t credit my girl enough for that smh 😒

i wish we could see vicky with constant white eyes in the hearing scene in s2 but curse you eric kripke!! i love those pretty eyes 😖 (dare i say she has the second best supe eyes in the whole show! my fave is stormfronts, her powers are so cool)

one of my favourite headcanons is that she used to increase her heart rate around homelander to act like she was scared. especially in her first scene in the show when he swoops down and takes the microphone from her. she could’ve popped his head right there, she had minutes to do it, but instead she acted like she was scared - speeding up her heart rate to not give anything away. ugh she’s so smart and perfect.

in my little fanon world vicky did put herself back together after she was so wrongfully killed (😑). but putting herself back together came at a cost and she lost her powers. vicky had always known in the back of her mind just how powerful she was, stan had been telling her that her whole life. she always knew that if something like that happened, she would be able to come back. her body slowly stitched itself back together, making completely new organs and even more blood! her organs were completely made out of her old blood and guts tho, kinda like patchwork jeans! but they work… so they’re good enough for her.

lemme know if you guys would want more stuff like this! i have a whole essay written about how wrong they did her character, how they should’ve done her powers and ended her storylines but… thats the autism speaking

[mosaickiwi]

Patience

hi i really like this post so i wrote it!!! (my hobbies include robbing sai)

warning: Angel coming down from a panic/anxiety attack while Ren waits in da hallway. Also a little self loathing if u squint?

14 Days With You is an 18+ Yandere Visual Novel. MINORS DNI

💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤

The tightness in your chest was finally waning. You took a deep breath—the easiest one you'd had in what seemed like hours. 

It felt cold on the floor now. Or maybe it'd been like that since the moment you locked yourself in. But you were more aware of it, at least. You leaned back against the wall with a sigh, closing your puffy eyes. Though your hand trembled, you gently rapped your knuckles on the marble flooring.

A faint knock on the door to your right came in response.

[REDACTED] had been there the whole time while you cried. They never said a word, but always answered you in some form. I'm here.

Vulnerability was shameful according to the voice in your head. You were making gradual progress to get rid of that voice, to give yourself the grace you gave others to seek comfort when needed. And if he couldn't see you, letting it all out didn't feel so bad. All you needed was to know that they were close by.

You tried to speak and only managed to throw yourself into a coughing fit from how raw your throat was. Hunching over with your head on your knees, you could only wait until it was over. There were hurried footsteps from the other side of the door that you barely heard over the haggard sounds.

This time, they reached out first. It wasn't a knock like usual, but your phone vibrating atop the marble. You felt around on the floor until it was within your grasp. The simple message on screen turned clear as you gently wiped at your eyes, still blurry from earlier.

water?

Despite your exhaustion, you laughed, then silently winced at the slight pain it caused. Any help or care he could offer was always within seconds when it came to you. 

It took you a few measured breaths to gather yourself enough to unlock the door. Along with a thin line of light, a water bottle slid through the small gap, only the tips of his scarred fingers coming into view before they disappeared altogether. You opened the door a little wider and tilted your head to peek out at him.

His dark mess of hair greeted you, rather than his face. [REDACTED] was sitting on the floor, almost the same as you were minutes ago with his back to the wall, knees bent and arms crossed over them. They made sure to keep their head turned away. He knew you didn’t want anyone to see you like this.

You stretched out into the hallway to touch his shoulder. It was the only way you thought to offer some form of a thank you in the moment. Their muscles flexed and shifted under your fingers, but otherwise, they didn’t acknowledge you.

The room seemed stuffy now, so you kept the door open just a crack for a little fresh air. You scooted back to your place beside the door, then slowly drank the water in peaceful silence, the man that sat still as a statue within arms reach at the corner of your vision. Everything still ached in some way from the crying session. But it wasn’t as long as usual. You tapped on the floor and watched him.

Through the space no bigger than your pinky finger, you saw your partner immediately put one hand to the wall, and knock back.

[catocappuccino]

Before the storm

[ragnarokhound]

thinking fondly of you<3 want to ditch the kids and go to a winery this weekend? (drink some red wine(supernova))

also thinking fondly about jaytim. specifically, about how oftentimes we think of them as a slow burn… but you know what might make them a fast burn (an explosion?)?

one of them gets kidnapped and everyone thinks they’re dead:( but then they’re alive

Always, love, I'm sure they'll be happy to spend some time with their favorite familial babysitters, I'll give them a call tonight🍷💥

And OUGH. Yes. SUCH a classic action hero hurt/comfort trope, I'm always here for mortal peril being the trigger that forces a couple to realize what they mean to each other and that they WANT to take that chance!!

I am reminded strongly of one of feyburner's comics that I love so much... in this comic they were hooking up beforehand and this is the scenario that like. Makes it emotionally REAL for Tim and i love that sooo much... but also OwO

thinking about The Scenario:

One of them is kidnapped. Due to inspo in part from feyburner's comic, I'm thinking Jason. But it's been so long/the method in which he was taken leads everyone to believe that Jason's dead. EVERYONE. Tim included. Thinking that he's dead hits Tim harder than expected. Why? It doesn't make sense. I didn't even like him that much, what the fuck.

But he goes after the bastards who did it twice as hard, ridden by this sharp grief he didn't know he would feel. He's on a warpath. He's chasing down leads, shaking down goons, snapping at everyone that it doesn't matter that Jason's already dead this is about justice this is about vengeance this is about preventing it from happening again-- and finally finds the Organization's big base. Their big HQ.

Methodically he goes about tearing it down, one-man guerrilla style. As he moves through the complex, KO'ing goons, sabotaging weapons and computers, hell he might even rig this place to blow--

He picks up chatter about moving the 'livestock' and 'dealing with the troublemaker' and figures there must be human prisoners here. Possibly trafficking victims. He's been raising all kinds of hell, and security is just now going on alert as they find the evidence of his entry--

--when over one of the radios on the goons he just took out, Tim hears a very familiar and very alive voice taunting the Organization that he's out. They should have killed Jason when they had the chance.

Tim immediately factors Jason and the victims into his plans, gets in contact with Jason over the radio (full mission mode, no time for feelings or explanations yet) to work together on bringing this place down.

So by the time things are cleared up-- bad guys busted, victims rescued, base blown to smithereens-- Tim has been wildly coming to grips with the fact that Jason is alive after all and the confusing rush of emotions that's inspired in him, but Jason still has no idea that everyone thought he was dead.

So when Tim finally sees Jason in person, missing half his gear and still wearing the clothes he was snatched in, dirty and bloody and asking what took him so long-- he's not exactly thinking clearly, okay? Kissing him was a purely adrenaline/relief fueled action.

"Woah," Jason breathes once Tim gives him the chance. "What was that for?" "Thought you were dead," Tim muffles against the skin of Jason's throat. His pulse beats hard against Tim's cheek, his lips, sternly refuting the allegations. "Oh," Jason says, bowled over and bewildered. He's still holding Tim with an arm around his waist, his other hand cupping the back of his head, big and steady. "Well. I'm not." Tim squeezes tighter, his fists trembling in the back of Jason's shirt. Jason is solid, and warm, and alive-- and Tim might be in love with him. "Yeah," he apologizes. "Sorry. Had to check." Tim's clearly stumped him. "Huh." Tim doesn't let go. But neither does Jason. Jason clears his throat. "You know, I don't have the best track record with being alive after all," he says in a rambling tone so casual it makes Tim's chest hitch. "You maybe wanna... check again?"

[isjasz]

hey, so im not sure this is the kind of thing you’d be interested in, but i wrote a fic about that scarian feather comic you made, only to realize that my sideblog was shadowbanned and i have no way of letting you know BFBDBHDBFB

just sending u the link directly bc ik if someone made fanfic inspired my thing i would wanna know. hope u enjoy!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60754336

FUCKING SCREAMING OH MY GOD

I LOVE THIS SO MUCH ARE U KIDDING HOLYHSIT I NEED TO REREAD THIS SO MANY TIMES GELPHLEPH,E.SF/A,DOAWKG;E.GMLFAKLWWPAKEPWAL

EVERYONE GO READ IM JUST GONNA YELL ABOUT SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT

staring at it like a ghost YEA U GET WHAT I WAS TRYING TO DRAW FUCK YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

we can still be friends im going to end you

scar started sobbing UEHUAIJKAFJAKLJAKLEJAWLEGKLJEKL I FUCKING HATE THIS /VPOS

PUNCHES THE FLOOR. OH MY GODS I LOVE HOW U TRANSLATED THE COMIC SO MUCH THIS FITS SO WELL IM UAEHAUHAFJJEKLGJKAGJKAFJAJF <33333 tysm for taking the time to write this. this is going straight to my scarian fav fics folder i am so serious kJASKDAJSJGHKGJ <3 EXPLODING U WITH MY MIND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (im gonna ramble more in ur comments dw this is so sICK)

[the-harvest-system]

we did a thing

[cherrywrecked]

if you have time !! g!p reader x chaewon plspls taglish is ok english is ok TYSM

heh, g!p reader and your baby girl chaewon. 🩷 always the cutest little girl that she is even when she's begging for you to cum inside of her.

you first met chaewon at a bar a few months back. you were alone while she was with her friends. it wasn't on purpose that you had bumped into her, but you were glad, because if you haven't, you wouldn't have her on your bed right now, naked while she fucks herself with her fingers while looking at you. “daddy, please, p-please! please! fuck me already, please.” she would make all these cute noises that's even louder than the sound of her wet cunt. :( her voice would get louder and louder as she keeps on hitting that spot, but she just can't cum... not unless you were fucking her, and you knew that.

removing her hands from her pussy, you slipped your fingers inside of her instead whilst you started jacking yourself off with your free hand. you rubbed chaewon's cunt and made sure her entrance was nice and wet for you. “my pretty baby, look at you... all ready for my cock.” you said, letting out a low groan as you slipped yourself inside of her hole and fuck. her walls feel so familiar yet you can't get enough of it, even if you're fucking her every day. “n-nngh... s-so good!” chaewon would hold on to your waist while you slowly move your hips, thrusting onto her. :(

chaewon is so pretty :( you can't get enough of her face and how she would blush when you look at her straight into the eyes while pounding into her. she would sometimes even cover her face and that would only make you fuck her faster and harder that she couldn't help but to hold on to you or the sheets instead. :( “c-close!! daddy, i'm c-close... n-nngh...” and so were you. hell, you can't even remember a time when you didn't cum with her ever since you met her. “cum for me, angel. cum for daddy.” you started rubbing her clit with your dominant hand and you felt her walls clench tighter around your cock—the same time you started to feel the familiar knot forming around your stomach. she was so tight that it was already hard for you to move, but chaewon made it easier as she moved her hips uncontrollably, eager to feel more of you until the both of you came together. ♡

chaewon, after orgasm, would pull herself back from you only to spread her legs again and spread your cum all over her pussy, making a big mess... only for you to clean her up again with your own mouth. ♡ such a naughty little girl.

[laiamadej]

If anyone could've save me. It'd have been you.

I want to give them comfort, but i can't so i made them do it for me instead. They need it man. If only they had e/o😔

[aiktad]

"you don't actually take selfshipping seriously, right?" i do yeah. im holding the plushie i named after him. we're watching roblox video essays until my melatonin kicks in

[fatuismooches]

We all talk about fragile reader leaving Dottore, but what if it was the other way around? He dies (perhaps at the hands of the Traveler) and leaves behind only a segment for you (most likely Omega). Omega inherits all of his ambitions, but most importantly, is entrusted with the task of curing you. Of freeing you from your illness. And he will fulfill that task no matter what.

You miss Zandik so, so much. Your Zandik. No one could ever replace your one and only. Now, of course, you love Omega, and you're thankful for him, but... he will never be what Zandik was to you. So, despite you never saying it, both of you know that you would never love Omega as much as you did with his creator. And Omega cannot help but curse his creator, because he too wants to be loved even a fraction of how much you loved Zandik, but he knows that will never happen.

[larabar]

"so, that was fun"