#loved writing this one actually

[sehtoast]

Yearning (Homelander x OC)

18+ | 4.5k, yearning, slow-ish burn, spidersona oc, conqueror!au homelander, description of a corpse, pre-relationship pining, shared shower, first kiss, mild-ish smut, thigh riding, web-hole oral, finger sucking, 'i love you's, hurt/comfort | Fic Directory

gif by @blindmagdalena

He is the one who makes Homelander want to change everything. He is the one who brings warmth to these cold ruins, who smiles sunshine over this ashen world. He, who captured the heart of the god of death and destruction, is life and rejuvenation. 

He is kindness. Light. Peace.

He is the god of love, and he is everything to the god of death. 

He is the calming stillness that greets bloodied, shaking hands. He is the balm that soothes the ache, the water that quenches the agonizing thirst. He is the hand that pulls souls from the rubble of fury and pain and breathes relief into their lungs. 

He is simply Benjamin, and Homelander has no idea how he ever survived without him. 

Who would he be if those eyes hadn't cried on him the first time he delivered death in their presence? Who would he be without the hand that holds his while he judges the unworthy? How many lives have been spared simply because Benjamin was in the room? 

Too many. Far, far too many. God has softened his grip on his kingdom. 

And yet, they've not even shared their first kiss. Since his adventure in the other world, Homelander has always known they were destined to be together. They were a force transcending their own universe. He just had to wait. 

And wait. 

And wait. 

He had to show Benjamin that there was something inside of him worth loving. That he was more than a reaper, more than pain. 

There was love inside, buried so very deep– but it was there. 

It is there. 

He demands only the best for his Benjamin.  The best food, the best drinks, the best clothing and bedsheets.  He even has his own room in the tower.  A new, special super suit tailored to compliment his own.  The boy didn’t understand at first.  Why in the world would he lavish such things upon his assistant?  

Because he was more than that, obviously.  He was more than a footstool, more than a blood bag, more than meat meant to do his bidding.  Benjamin had heard the rumors surrounding the comings and goings of those who came before him, but the position paid exceptionally well and he was drowning in a world of financial misery.  He was prepared to be a doormat for the rest of his days just to get by, but he was surprised one day to find his debts wiped away.  Student loans settled, transition related surgeries paid off– his fucking credit score at a perfect 850 all within one week’s time of starting his new job.

When he expressed his glee about such an odd and godsent occurrence, Homelander simply winked at him.

By all means, he could quit this daunting job and focus on his heroics, but something stops him.  Not the material things, not the gifts or the rush of power when he realizes that the god of this world has chosen him as his favorite– no, none of that.

It’s when that god looks at him with big, doe-like eyes that he feels something telling him to stick around.  The first time Homelander ever took his hand, Ben knew something in that man needed him.  Maybe it was the tremble in his touch, or the overwhelmingly sad look in his eyes, but Ben decided to stay for Homelander.

Every day, they grew closer.  Every day, Benjamin chipped away at an exterior made of steel, revealing bits and pieces of a scared, lonely, pained man underneath.  God may rule his kingdom, but he is alone.  

Well, he was alone.

He’s not anymore.  When it all hurts too much, he knows where to go.  He doesn’t have to turn a town into a crater or eviscerate a gaggle of non-believers; he can go to Benjamin.  He can float down to that window and find a warm heart that will shield him from the pain.  He’ll find a shoulder to lay his head on and a hand to hold.

The next day, he’ll realize he’d miraculously fallen asleep, and the boy did everything possible to make him comfortable. Removed his boots, detached his eagle epaulets, tucked a blanket around him.  Then, beside him on the floor, he’ll peer down and find Benjamin sleeping peacefully.

He’ll feel something akin to pain tugging at his heart, but it’s more than that.  It’s so much more.

He’ll wake the boy with a thumb stroking at his cheek and a smile fit to melt glaciers. 

“Wake up, little spider…”

 He feels privileged to lay beside him in any capacity, though he wishes his lovely Benjamin hadn’t slept on the floor.  Homelander realizes that he wants to see those beautiful brown eyes flutter open every morning for the rest of his life.

Sometimes they would run around the city together.  Ben would swing while he followed closely behind.  They would make it a game of chase, or sometimes just a simple race.  They liked to hang out on top of the Queensboro Bridge, on the tower overlooking the decimated ruins of Rikers.  Mostly, though, they enjoyed the perches of the Chrysler Building at night time.  Sometimes they talked about everything.  Other times, they just enjoyed the silence and each other.

Regardless of location, Benjamin would hold his hand.  He never mentions the tremble, never laughs at how nervous it all makes him.  Instead, he asks–

“Are you cold?”

He snorts a laugh.  He’s full of padding and has enough V pumping hot through his veins to kill most supes.  Is he cold?  

What a beautiful thing to be asked.

“Are you?” He counters.  He’s thrilled when the bug nods.  Thrilled to pull him closer, arm around his shoulder, eyes cooking up a faint glow. 

“Trust me?”  He asks.  

Benjamin looks at him with raised brows, clearly a little nervous at the idea.  

“I– Yeah.  Yeah, I trust you.”

He has the bug tilt his head back and he flickers the weakest beam of heat he’s ever conjured over various parts of his body. The moan of contentment sends a shiver down his spine and it took a titanic level of self control not to focus that beam of heat right between his legs.  It’s the first time he’s ever used his powers for something so… gentle.

 Ben ends up in his lap before long.  He’s thankful for the cup in his suit. 

He wakes the next day in Benjamin’s room.

In his bed.

Beside him.

Clad in only his briefs, he slides a leg through their shared warmth beneath the blankets until he can hook it around one of Ben’s.  They did nothing more than sleep beside each other, but it’s the most intimate feeling in the world to him.

He’s never slept better before in his entire life.

A lopsided grin spreads across his face and he snuggles up close to his little spider.  An arm around his waist confirms he, too, is only in his underwear.  He dances a thumb in circles over a hipbone.  It’s the most he dares to do.  

Ben is a heavy sleeper and a late riser.  Even the sun blasting through the curtains isn’t enough to rouse him.

He dozes off once more.

There comes a day when he finally snaps.  Some nuisance in the staffing department combined with too many unwanted, painful flashbacks in one day, and it leads to a bloody mess painting an office.

He wants to eviscerate whoever called Benjamin in to fucking handle it.  

He’d lingered too long, remained at the scene– but what other choice did he have?  Run the risk of his little spider seeing him like this?

As fate would have it, neither choice would spare him the shame.

Benjamin walks in and his eyes go wide.  Homelander swears he sees fear, horror, disappointment, disgust– everything he’s never wanted to see reflected in those precious brown eyes.

He tries to speak, reach out a hand, anything– but he doesn’t want to scare him.

The body on the floor is torn in two.  The head of it is a pulpy pile of muck just mere feet away.

What were they thinking, sending Benjamin in here?  Worse yet, what is he thinking when he takes a step inside?  There’s blood everywhere.  It stains the white soles of his shoes the second he comes closer.

And closer.

Closer.

Homelander steps back with each of Ben’s movements.  His chest heaves with frantic breaths.

It’s not supposed to be like this!  He’s good!  He’s good, he’s good, he’s good– he’s not bad!  He’s– He’s tried so fucking hard to be good!

His back presses against a bookshelf.  He can feel the heat radiating from his own eyes and it must feel so hot as Ben comes even closer.

“It’s okay,” he reassures.  “It’s just us.  It’ll be alright, Johnny.”

Johnny. 

Oh, how he loves that name.  Loves to hear it, loves to be called it, loves to know he’s still worth being called something so wonderful.

When his little spider slips his stained gloves off and grasps his bare hands, he crumbles.  It’s the first time he’s ever cried in front of him.

“Please don’t hate me…”

He even falls to his fucking knees.  It’s so much worse when Ben follows him down.

He hides his face against Ben’s neck.  He remembers the day he dematerialized in the other world.  How the Benjamin there hugged him through the panic, through the fear.  Told him what he needed to hear.

Just like his Ben is doing now.

“I could never hate you.”

He hates himself for crying harder.

There is no lecture for what he’s done.  There’s tears– his own and Ben’s– but the bug doesn’t torture him with talk of why he was wrong, why he shouldn’t have done it, nothing.

Ben leads him out into the hallway.  Has Homelander keep his eyes locked on him as they make their way to the elevator.  They ascend higher and higher.  Ben keeps his hand pressed to the back of Homelander’s neck.  Comforting and grounding.  The fingers that dance through the bloody, sticky nape of his neck are even more so.

It’s not the penthouse that Benjamin brings him to, but rather his own apartment.

“Let’s get you out of that, okay?” 

His pride goes up in flames when Ben sees his body for the first time.  

His totally unsculpted, normal body.  A far shot from what the suit makes him look like.

But the bug doesn’t say anything about it.  Doesn't make any faces. Just collects the soiled material and tosses it into a laundry basket.

Homelander sits nearly naked and vulnerable on the seat of the toilet.

Ben turns the shower on and offers him privacy, but he’s so quick to snag him by the wrist and wordlessly beg him to stay.

There’s still a light tremble in Ben’s hand.  He hates himself for causing it.

“How do you wanna do this?”  Ben asks him. 

He chews his lower lip and casts his gaze down to the floor.  Curse him and all of his stupid fucking inhibitions; he always goes quiet when the bad things happen.

“Do you want me to just sit in here?”  Ben gives him a moment to nod.  

He doesn’t. 

 “Do you want me to– I mean, I can get in and help if that’s what you need.”

He gives the weakest confirmation.

“Please…” 

Homelander has peeked under Ben’s clothes countless times– seen him naked and writhing in the other world– but the sight of him so close is… He’s breathtaking.  Homelander’s praying he doesn’t end up hard from the sight of him stripped down to his underwear.  

Benjamin offers for him to keep his briefs on, but he takes them off before stepping in.  Might as well.

The bug keeps his underwear on, but little is left to the imagination when the water soaks the fabric.  Homelander shuts his eyes to keep himself under control.

His mind runs with the image anyway.  With the touches to his bloodied face and neck, the scratches to his scalp.

Benjamin washes him with such care.  He tries to return the favor and he’s so damn clumsy about it that he’d kick his own ass if he could.

Just the same as the bug did for him, he lathers a soft cleanser over his face and neck.  Rubs it in little circles, thumbs it over his cheekbones, into his brows and onto his forehead.  Ben’s eyes are closed.

He still trusts him even after what he saw.

Washing his hair is a joy in and of itself.  Sudsing up those brown locks, combing through them with his fingers, shaping them into weird styles.  The giggle from his little spider brought the first smile to his face since Ben had found him.

He cleans Ben’s hands of dried blood, too.  Even tries his best to get it all out from underneath his nails.  Benjamin doesn’t deserve to be stained with his sins.  The god of death should never tarnish the god of love.

The god of death should never tarnish the god of love.

And yet, he’s leaning in anyway.  Some flicker of confidence, some bubble of courage to do it– but he can’t.

He can’t ruin this sweet boy with his love.

He rests their foreheads together instead.  Shuts his eyes and lets the water flow over them.  It won’t run cold– Vought Tower has tons of hot water– but they stay there long enough that it should’ve.

Ben dries him.  Dresses him in his own clothes.  They’re so soft… They smell so nice– like him.  The shirt is a little tight, but he doesn’t mind.  Not when it’s Ben’s.  

They lay on the bed together.  Neither says a word.  Neither needs to.

Ben ends up ordering food from the staff chefs.

“You gotta eat something, pumpkin.”  He tells him.

Pumpkin.

That’s what the other Ben always called his Homelander.

“Here,”  the bug holds up a fork wound tight with pasta.  Somehow it looks more appetizing than the identical bowl Homelander had been reluctantly poking at.  Probably had more to do with the person offering it than anything else.  “It won’t bite.  Promise. That's your job.”

He leans in and takes the bite with downcast eyes.  

“Attaboy!”

But that… That makes his eyes go wide and his cheeks flush.  Maybe he should eat his food after all.  

Their conversations lead into an explanation of what happened earlier.  He tells it as simply as he can.

He got overwhelmed.  A bad, bad day.  A horrible day.  And then some fucking meeting happened and he saw red when the employee made an offhand, snarky comment.

Ben nods along until the end.  He doesn’t interrupt Homelander.  Doesn’t critique or shun him.  He just listens.

Nobody’s ever done that before.  Nobody but him.  Madelyn would have put her foot up his ass in some form or another.  Same with Maeve.  Stan would’ve torn him down bit by bit.  Vogelbaum would’ve ordered corrective measures…

Ben just listens.

“Next time,” his little spider takes his hand.  “Just find me instead.”

What?

“We can handle it together, y’know?”

He doesn’t know what to do with that at all.

A week later, he's lounging in Benjamin's room while the web-head practices playing his guitar. He's never been one for music, but Ben's playing is incredibly soothing. 

“Any words to that one?” He asks out of the blue. 

“Yeah, but I can't sing for shit.” Ben hums a laugh. 

“Doubt that,” Homelander sighs. “You're you. You can do anything.”

Ben looks at him with a bashful grin, but Homelander's eyes are shut and he doesn't see. 

“Alright, you asked for it.” He strums a slow chord progression.

“I thought that I had everybody by my side.” 

“Then I went and blew it, all sky high.” 

“And now she won't even spare a passing glance.”

Homelander peeked over in excited anticipation. 

“All because I… RIPPED MY PANTS!” 

Ben breaks out into giggles over a joke Homelander's certainly not in on, but strums away nonetheless. He doesn't sing along, but his laughter was music enough. 

“I don't get it,” he deadpans when the playing stops. 

“Ehh, after your time.” Ben winks. “Not that you're old or anything. It's from SpongeBob. It's funny, trust me.” 

“Christ.” John groans. “If you say so.”

Ben sets the instrument down with a wide smile on his face and plops onto the bed by Homelander. 

“Cute when you're confused.” Ben says casually, but his eyes widen and his cheeks flush the second he realizes what he said. “S-Sorry, I mean–” 

“Oh, really?” Homelander props himself on his elbow to look directly at his little spider. His grin cuts from ear to ear, thrilled beyond measure at such a slip up. “What's cute about me, huh?” 

Ben shakes his head and giggles bashfully. “It's– I meant–” 

“Ben, Ben, Benny, Ben, Ben,” he sing-songs. “C'monnnnn, make me feel as cute as you say I am!”

Benjamin's blush grows deeper, turning his cheeks a beautiful crimson. 

“I dunno, you just– you get a cute little half smile but you hide it quickly. But it’s always so genuine and I just think it’s cute.”

“Mmm, tell me more.” He teases.  Truth is, he fucking loves hearing this from Ben.  Cute is a good thing.  He’d rather hear sexy or handsome, of course, but this is still a fucking amazing sign.  And that blush?  Now that was cute.  “When else am I cute?”

He cages Ben on the bed with his arm when the bug tries to wiggle free.  He grins at the bubbly laughter from his little spider.  Homelander could hold him in place like this all day and never tire.  He’d have to fess up.  

“C’mon, Benjamin!  Earn your freedom.”

“I– Johnny!”  He whines.  “Fiiiiine.”  Ben stills himself with a deep breath.  He tries to ignore how close they are.  “You just are, y’know?  You have cute eyes and a cute nose.  Your hair is really nice and you have a pretty smile– when you’re smiling for real.”

“Oh, you flatter me!” Homelander lilts.  There’s a part of him– same as the day Benjamin cleaned him of blood– that feels guilty for what he’s pushing for, but he can’t stop.  He’s practically hovering over Ben at this point.  Faces mere inches apart.

He could kiss him right now and–

The bug’s phone goes off loudly in his pocket.  Normally it’s muted, but…

“Sorry, I gotta–  I was expecting this.  Sorry.”

Homelander leans back and gives him space to answer.  From the sound of it, it’s that nephew of his asking for advice for something that could’ve fucking waited until literally any other time.

He rolls onto his back and huffs in disappointment.  Homelander listens loosely to the conversation.  Homework help.

He has half a mind to ban homework.

Maybe he made too loud of a sound, because Ben reaches back and ruffles his hair and shoots him an apologetic smile.

Seems like every time he thinks they might finally seal everything with a kiss, something stupid happens.  It’s like fate, no matter how clear it seems that they should be together, demanded that they wait.  If it’s not interruptions, it’s his inhibitions.  A fear that one wrong move would undo months of… god, could he even call this work?

Some time passes, with Ben droning on about some weird literary rule, and then it’s silent.

“Sorry,” Ben tells him once again. “Kid took an honors class but he’s kind of terrible at the subject.”

He knew a little about Ben’s family.  Not much, but enough.

“No, that’s– you’re fine.”  He sputters.  God, did he act too mad about it? 

“Thanks, but still.  Now, where was I?”  Ben huffs a laugh and assumes the same position as before, only this time he’s the one leaning over Homelander.  Not as close as before, but it’s…

The fact he went back for it drives Homelander mad.

“Cute things, cute things…” he muses as he scans Homelander's face.  “Here,” he taps his index finger to Homelander’s upper lip, tracing over the length of it.  “The right side flares up just a liiiittle bit more than the left.  That’s cute, t–”

Oh, fuck– fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

He did it without even thinking.  Without a fucking second of hesitation, no– god, no he shouldn’t have.  But it was right fucking there and his body just did it.

He’d taken the tip of Ben’s finger in his mouth.  Laved his tongue over it and suckled firm just once before realizing what he’d done.

His lips are locked tight against Ben’s knuckle, but he dares not move an inch.

“That’s… huh.”  

At least he doesn’t sound mad.

“Is this your way of showing off to me?”

And that sounded like a fucking flirt.

Does that mean… does that mean he should keep it in there?  Does that mean it’s okay?  His eyes flutter open just the tiniest bit to find a warm, fascinated smile.  

He tastes so good.  So, so fucking good.  Every taste of stolen underwear in the world paled in comparison to him here, now, like this.  There’s something about his… his skin.  The taste of it.  The scent.  The slightest flare of his nostrils and he picks up something… something amazing.

He grasps Ben’s wrist and his thumb rolls over that spinneret and he knows exactly what that scent is, that taste…

There’s fucking pheromone glands in there.

Among other things, as indicated by Ben's reaction… 

He realizes it's a fucking erogenous zone, too.

“O-Oh,” the web-head gasps.  His mouth is agape with heavy breaths, his eyes are dilating.  All that from one touch of Homelander’s thumb.  “Y-You– Ah!”

He has every opportunity to pull away, to rip that finger from Homelander’s mouth and jump right off the bed.  Hell, he could even cling to the ceiling for distance– but he doesn’t.

Homelander sucks his finger in just a little deeper, presses the pad of his thumb just a little harder.  Ben’s noises make him harden in his suit.

Their eyes lock and he knows.

Over the intense pheromone release of the spinneret, he can smell it.  Benjamin is wet– no. 

He's fucking drenched. 

Homelander can practically hear each little throb of his pussy, each near-silent squelch of slick between his ravenous walls.

“Johnny…”

The way Ben whispers his name with such a shaky breath sends a jolt right between his legs.  He wants to return the feeling tenfold.  Wants to see Ben feel just as fucking good as his mere presence makes him feel.

He slips the finger free and pulls Ben’s spinneret flush to his lips.  He pecks sweet little kisses at the edge of it, watching the smaller openings flare around the larger slit.  His arm has found its way around Ben’s waist to keep him close– a nice little way to realize his hips have started to grind against the bed.  He shuffles Ben’s body just enough to wedge a thigh between his legs.

“O-oh my god…”  Ben’s face falls to hide against his neck and Homelander's pleased as can be at the pitchy moan sung in his ear at the first swipe of his tongue.  “That’s– k-keep going…”

He tastes so, so fucking good.

It should be a crime for something so sweet to have been kept from him.

Homelander’s hips raise to meet the minuscule press of his cup and, in doing so, he pushes his thigh against Ben’s heat.

Ben keens weakly and starts to grind against him.  The bug’s fingers seek to stroke his cheek, stuttering with every swipe, every dip of that tongue into that sweet little opening.

It’s everything– everything Homelander needs to get closer to his own release.  Not even a touch to his cock, just the knowledge, the fucking feeling of Ben getting off on him.

Because of him.

The god of death has tainted the god of love.

He gasps sharply against Ben’s wrist.  Lips have pressed to the exposed part of his neck and he’s out of his fucking mind.

Ben is kissing him.

Benjamin is fucking kissing him.

His tongue juts out and he wriggles the tip deeper into that delicious slit.  He rocks his leg up against Ben, squeezes around his waist, helps direct him to ride it out.

Drool trails down his chin, but he can’t possibly care about that.  Why in the world would he ever focus on himself when his little spider was right there?

Is this what the fates wanted?  That he should have such an enrapturing taste before their lips could meet for the first time?  Were they meant to fall into one another before such a simple act?

But he could change this!  He could.

 He could and he fucking should.

If he could stop being so fucking selfish and demanding more and more of that sugary sweet flavor, he could break away and kiss his little spider for the first time.  He could lock lips with him, savor the most simple act of love, if he could just–

The taste is torn from his mouth, leaving behind only tiny wisps of webbing.

A hand tangles in his hair and Ben’s forehead presses to his.

That hand he’s been suckling on falls to cup him through the suit and he sees stars.  His breath catches, his eyes roll back, he’s so close, he–

“Be–”

The press of softness and warmth cuts him off.  Moving against him, breaths panting between pecks, Ben kisses him with a tenderness unlike anything he’s ever known.  He’s mewling and it’s downright pitiful, but he feels everything.

He cries out open mouthed against his little spider when his orgasm hits.  His cock weeps in the confines of his suit, relieved only by the press of the hand between his legs.  Ben pants against him until a shaky moan rips from him to signal his own undoing.  Each thrusts against the other, clinging, grasping, needing.

“Johnny– oh god!” 

Homelander’s too far gone to do more than moan through his gaping mouth.  He’s ascended from hell to heaven.  

This is…

He feels so…

So warm.  So peaceful.

Where is the shame?  Where is the anticipation of being told to go?  Why hasn’t Ben rolled off of him yet?

Is this how it was always meant to feel?

Like basking in the sun, floating above the clouds, but… so much better.  He, who has graced what humanity’s ancestors believed to be the heavens, knows no height above this world could feel like this.

No solar glow nor moonlight breeze could tingle the way Benjamin’s peppered kisses do.  No sound more melodious than that huff of joyful laughter.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

And nothing in the world more powerful than those seven little words.

It takes a concentrated effort to reply through the torrent of emotion he feels.  The words come out shaky and tearful, but they come out all the same.

He’s safe enough to say it.

He can let those words fly free without fear.

“I know I’m in love with you.”

The kiss that follows is even better than the first.

[inkskinned]

because sometimes there are invisible tests and invisible rules and you're just supposed to ... know the rule. someone you thought of as a friend asks you for book recommendations, so you give her a list of like 30 books, each with a brief blurb and why you like it. later, you find out she screenshotted the list and send it out to a group chat with the note: what an absolute freak can you believe this. you saw the responses: emojis where people are rolling over laughing. too much and obsessive and actually kind of creepy in the comments. you thought you'd been doing the right thing. she'd asked, right? an invisible rule: this is what happens when you get too excited.

you aren't supposed to laugh at your own jokes, so you don't, but then you're too serious. you're not supposed to be too loud, but then people say you're too quiet. you aren't supposed to get passionate about things, but then you're shy, boring. you aren't supposed to talk too much, but then people are mad when you're not good at replying.

you fold yourself into a prettier paper crane. since you never know what is "selfish" and what is "charity," you give yourself over, fully. you'd rather be empty and over-generous - you'd rather eat your own boundaries than have even one person believe that you're mean. since you don't know what the thing is that will make them hate you, you simply scrub yourself clean of any form of roughness. if you are perfect and smiling and funny, they can love you. if you are always there for them and never admit what's happening and never mention your past and never make them uncomfortable - you can make up for it. you can earn it.

don't fuck up. they're all testing you, always. they're tolerating you. whatever secret club happened, over a summer somewhere - during some activity you didn't get to attend - everyone else just... figured it out. like they got some kind of award or examination that allowed them to know how-to-be-normal. how to fit. and for the rest of your life, you've been playing catch-up. you've been trying to prove that - haha! you get it! that the joke they're telling, the people they are, the manual they got- yeah, you've totally read it.

if you can just divide yourself in two - the lovable one, and the one that is you - you can do this. you can walk the line. they can laugh and accept you. if you are always-balanced, never burdensome, a delight to have in class, champagne and glittering and never gawky or florescent or god-forbid cringe: you can get away with it.

you stare at your therapist, whom you can make jokes with, and who laughs at your jokes, because you are so fucking good at people-pleasing. you smile at her, and she asks you how you're doing, and you automatically say i'm good, thanks, how are you? while the answer swims somewhere in your little lizard brain:

how long have you been doing this now? mastering the art of your body and mind like you're piloting a puppet. has it worked? what do you mean that all you feel is... just exhausted. pick yourself up, the tightrope has no net. after all, you're cheating, somehow, but nobody seems to know you actually flunked the test. it's working!

aren't you happy yet?

[hinamie]

unconditionally

[ruby-red-inky-blue]

hello, sexiest man alive committee? yes I'd love to nominate Lou Wilson and Brian Murphy for attempting to speed-write an actual in-universe 300-word essay in 5 minutes of real time as Fabian and Riz posing as Fabian with complete earnest and a 120 percent commitment. both this effort and the incredibly smooth hand-off in the middle of it was maybe the most attractive thing i've ever seen a man do

yes it's a dungeons and dragons show. don't put me on hold. hello

[dapper-lil-arts]

You should read The Princess and the Peasant it's really good lol

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Not beating the allegations.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[somnimagus]

My page for @sheikahzine; about Impaz's duty to her village, empty of people and full of memories.

[id in alt text]

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Changeling AU pt.2

This idea got me in a chokehold, so I'm here to add more.

I'm sticking with the 'Talia outplayed the fae in order to acquire 2for1 deal of babies' for this one and probably for any later continuations.

Damian knows his brother is not human. He knew it from the very beginning since no one bothered to hide the fact. Yet Danyal grows up just like any other human baby, acting like a child he is supposed to be. He trains by Damian's side, he eats just like everyone else, he likes the stories and lessons their Mother teaches them both.

But Damian knows. His brother is no human. He sees it in the way Danyal tilts his head like a curious bird, in his swift, flowing movements that remind him of snakes, in his eyes that reflect the moonlight in a way cat's eyes do. He knows it by how some of the assassins lose their names to his brother and how Danyal never lies but also never tells the truth.

More than that, he sees it in the way Danyal smiles. Others would call that smile a mischievous one, but Damian sees no mischief in there.

He sees amusement.

And it drives him up the wall.

So he trains. He works harder than ever to prove himself better. He is worth not just simple amusement, he is the Heir, the Son of the Bat, he demands respect, even from his brother. Danyal will never take his place - not that he even could, Grandfather would never allow an unpredictable being to become the next Demon Head.

And he learns, from his Mother and from the old books, and sometimes from Danyal himself. He learns of customs and rules, of names and wordings, of odds and debts, and of tricks and riddles.

Damian has his own pride, and he wants to show it to his brother. To see the amused smile fade from his face, to make Danyal understand he is not just a weak mortal who's been simply allowed to exist beside his brother.

He wants to defeat Danyal.

And one day, he does.

Danyal is on the floor, and there's no smile on his face. Instead, in his eyes he sees the calm tranquility of a lake, frozen to the bottom, as he looks at Damian. And Damian? Damian grins, victorious at last.

Yet it is only after Danyal stands up and leaves a soft, cold and barely noticeable kiss to his forehead before disappearing in the shadows, that Damian realises:

His brother never asked to have his name.

| <-prev | next-> |

[shushmal]

There's an incredibly pretty girl at the front desk in Family Video, and Steve—Eddie's boyfriend of eight months—is leaning over the counter with a sly smile and half-lidded eyes.

Eddie pauses in the doorway, struck dumb for a moment as he takes in the scene, and then gleefully ducks down behind the nearest shelf.

"So tell me," Steve says, all low and intimate. "What kind of movie were you looking for?"

"Um," the girl says. She doesn't sound very enthusiastic—barely indulgent at best. Eddie wishes he could see, but any sight of him will ruin Steve's chances right now. He's got a pretty good mental picture though. "I really like those old black and white movies, the really glamorous ones, you know?"

"Oh, totally," Steve sighs, like he's swooning. "Like Cary Grant, Clarke Gabel?" Eddie can practically hear his smirk. "Katharine Hepburn? Ginger Rogers?"

"Oh, I love Ginger Rogers!"

"Really?" Steve says matching her excitement. "Well, you're just in luck! Robin here knows all about those old black and white movies, don't you Robin?"

Eddie presses a hand to his mouth to hide his snickering. Robin had looked like a hooked fish when he'd walked in, she's gotta be gaping stupidly right now. "Uuuh," he hears her mumbling, and tries not to snort too loud. "Y-Yeah, uh, golden age of Hollywood stuff, absolutely. I could? Show you where they are?"

"Oh my gosh, that would be amazing!" the girl says, her interest in the conversation now warmed by several degrees. Eddie is still a little in awe of how well his boyfriend can sniff out gay girls.

"I got the front here, Robin," Steve cuts in smoothly. "You ladies take your time, make sure you pick out a good one!"

Eddie waits another beat, listening at their footsteps shuffle away, before he pops up from behind the shelf. Steve, lighting up like a Christmas tree, beams at him.

"Am I a genius or what?" he whispers, grinning ear to ear.

"Your lesbian powers know no equal," Eddie says just as quietly, taking the girl's spot at the counter, leaning into Steve's space. Steve happily mirrors him, until they're tucked together, the world narrowing down to the two of them. It's Eddie's favorite place to be. "All hail Steve Harrington, blessid he, lesbian whisper. Come to aid all useless queers in the fight against singledom."

"Thank you, thank you," Steve says with an air of novel benevolence. "I promise to only use my powers for good."

"Dingus. Doofus."

They jump away from each other as if shocked. Robin glowers at them both, but the pretty girl behind her is giggling and standing way too close for friendly, just at Robin's elbow.

"Move it, lovebirds," she hisses as she rounds the desk. "I need to check Claire out."

"I think you already have," Steve says. His smile this time is down right evil.

Robin actually hisses at him, and hip checks him away from the register. Eddie does a bow, sweeping his arm out to give Claire the prime spot in front of the desk, before he turns back to Steve.

"My dear, if you could please," he simpers, all posh and nasally. "Show me to your finest, grossest horror movie, thank you my good sir."

"Ugh," Steve groans already heading off into the shelves, not waiting for Eddie to follow. "You're lucky I love you, Ed. Shit gives me nightmares."

"I know," Eddie sings, chasing him. "I love you too."

[karalovesallthegirls]

Kara has always dreaded the day she’d meet her soulmate. 

There’s relief in knowing she has one, of course. The person meant for her didn’t die with Krypton. That’s something! Even still, it’s hard to feel excited for the moment they meet, because that’s the moment Kara will hurt them. She’s had their exclamation of pain inked into her skin for as long as she’s been on Earth. In some ways it’s better. Most people have phrases like “good morning” or “hold the door please” as their soulmate’s first words. They have to endure hundreds of almosts, breath held just in case that stranger really is the one. Kara won’t have to do that. Her words are far too distinct.

It's agony, thinking about how their meeting will go. She spends years imagining every possible scenario, each one more painful than the last, yet the day it happens she barely even registers it. The words wash right over her, drowned out by the loud crack as her hand makes sudden contact with a stranger's face. The telltale crunch of contact shocks her. She hadn't registered anyone was there during her dramatic retelling, otherwise she would have kept her gestures small. She wouldn't have flung her hand out with such force.

The woman she's hit is hunched over, clutching at her face. She gasped loud and sharp when it hit, and now she's just wheezily breathing in shock. Kara can see blood starting to drip down her wrist.

“Did you," the woman gasps, and her voice sounds wet. "Did you just break my nose?” Kara wants to die.

“I’m so sorry! Are you okay? I am so sorry!”

People are looking at them and the woman keeps cursing under her breath and Kara really, really doesn’t know what to do. Her hands hover uselessly over the hunched figure, desperate to soothe but scared to touch in a moment like this. “I didn’t mean to – I was telling a story and I got too excited with my hands I guess, I didn’t see you there. Are you- can I-”

She looks to Alex for guidance, but she’s just staring at the interaction with a wide-eyed wonder. Typically her sister knows what to do in a scary situation, but now she’s looking just as clueless. They’re both barely awake at this point – it’s six in the morning and they’ve been at this airport terminal since midnight, miserably watching their red eye flight push into a mid-day departure. They’re both half-delirious, which is fun when you’re goofing off but less so when you’ve just broken a stranger’s nose. 

And then it hits her. The words she’s carried on her arm for so many years are tingling, she realizes, and they’ve been tingling from the second her skin met the girl’s. 

Did you did you just break my nose?

“Oh wow,” Kara says, dumbfounded. “It’s you.” The woman falls silent. She must be realizing too Kara thinks as she fumbles with her sleeve, pushing it up enough to show her inked arm. The woman's eyes drop to the tattoo that's brought such shame to Kara for so long. She feels her eyes like a touch. “I – I’m so happy to meet you! I’m so sorry it happened like this.” She laughs and it sounds strained. Her hands are shaking. The woman doesn't look up from her arm.

Even hunched over in pain, it's clear the woman is beautiful. Important, even, considering how she's dressed. She's dressed like she's en route to lead a business conference, her tight black skirt and matching blazer scream business professional. Though the effects are tampered a bit by the splattering of blood that’s dripped down her white blouse. Kara wonders how old she is to be dressed like that. She must be older to look like that. At nearly nineteen, Kara has never had anything more than a graduation to dress nicely for, and even then she wore her stained dress pants. This woman - her soulmate - must be much older than her, which feels strange to think. She looks Kara's age, maybe even younger. If not for how clearly tailored to her body her clothes are, she'd almost look like she was playing dress up.

Kara feels self-conscious then, sharply aware of how she must look to her soulmate. As smart as it felt to come to the airport in pajamas for her all-night flight, standing in rubber duck pajama pants while trying to have a conversation with her goddess of a soulmate did little for Kara's confidence.

When Kara’s eyes finally track back up to her face, she finds sharp green ones staring back. They're the prettiest eyes she's ever seen, and they don't seem interested in looking away. That's fine with her - she's more than content to stare right back.

It's only the soft plop of blood hitting tile that draws her attention back to her crime, and she can see the way the woman's hands have become covered in blood. "Oh gosh, here - let me…”  Kara fumbles in her backpack for a moment with no clear plan. All she knows is she has to do something to fix this. She fumbles about before pulling out a clean t-shirt. “Here. For the-” She holds it out to the girl and gestures at her own face. Slowly, like she’s scared Kara might grab her or something, the woman takes the offered shirt. She wipes the blood from her face and hands, dabbing beneath her nose. The bleeding seems to have stopped, at least, and the shirt helps contain what's escaped. Watching a stranger wipe blood on her high school band t-shirt shouldn’t thrill Kara as much as it does, and yet.

Kara laughs again, the sound nervous and high-pitched, before taking a step towards her. Her soulmate’s eyes go wide, tracking her movements, and Kara's heart clenches when she steps away. The rapid race of her soulmate's heart beats into Kara's ear - she can literally hear her fear. She holds her hands up in surrender, stepping back to where she’d been before. The last thing she wants is for her to be afraid. “Does it hurt?” she asks, and her soulmate shakes her head no. “That’s good. That’s good. I- uh." She has nothing more to say, and her soulmate's certainly not contributing. Kara’s palms are sweating. She hasn’t sweat since she was thirteen, but one look from this person has her rubbing her hands on her pajama pants like a middle schooler at a dance.

The woman finishes wiping up and lets her arms fall, blessing Kara with her first real look at her face. Bloodied and skittish, she’s beautiful in a way Kara can hardly comprehend, in a way she could never imagine. Kara's pretty sure she's blushing now for some reason, and she has to flex her toes to be sure she’s still touching the ground. “My name’s Kara,” she says, and then gestures over her shoulder. “That’s my sister Alex. We’re flying home for winter break. Midvale - Midvale is home for us. Where- where are you flying to?”

The woman stares and stares, and Kara's starting to panic thinking she'd given her soulmate a head injury that's muted her somehow, when at last the woman speaks just barely above a whisper.

“Home,” she says. It feels like her heart might burst just from hearing that one stilted word. Kara wants to hear a thousand more, wants to hear nothing else for the rest of her life.

“That’s awesome. W-where’s home for you?” The woman's lip trembles as she opens her mouth, closes it, and then opens it again.

 “I’m sorry,” she says, and then throws the t-shirt at Kara’s face. 

Kara fumbles catching it, distracted by the shock and gross factor of having a blood-soaked shirt hurled at her face, and it takes her far too many precious seconds to realize her soulmate is gone. Bewildered, Kara looks around before just catching sight of her vanishing around the corner, high heels and racing heart clattering away. She looks at Alex. Alex waves at her, frantic. “Go!” Alex yells, and Kara takes off.

Pretending to be a human has never been harder than it is while chasing after her soulmate. Normal human pace - especially what's acceptable at an airport - is not fast enough for this, not when the woman has already gotten so far ahead. Kara must look ridiculous, bursting into sprints only to trip suddenly into a walk over and over again, her ears locked on to the thudding heartbeat and faint whispers of her soulmate mumbling, “crap crap crap crap,” ahead.

Kara’s thankful they’re in an airport, at least. Her soulmate can’t just run outside, and Kara is fine embracing the romcom trope of following her love onto the plane. Her soulmate stops moving ahead and Kara speeds up, nearly wiping out twice tripping over luggage and small children. Her heart is in her throat as she clears the corner her soulmate is behind and pushes her way into the door she's passed through. All the wind knocks out of her lungs then when she sees her again. The woman looks up at her in shock, as if she didn't think Kara would chase her. As if Kara would just let her go. With a visible gulp, her soulmate flees around a corner and disappears out of sight. Kara manages a single step forward before a body blocks her way, and she looks up to see a massive security guard staring down at her.

“Membership card, please.”

Kara tries to peer around him. He steps in her way, cutting her vision off. Her soulmate led her into some private place you can't just walk into, she realizes, glancing around at the sleek appearance and exclusive atmosphere. “I- uh, left my card in my other bag,” she says, gesturing back over her shoulder. She can hear her soulmate’s breathing and it's all she can focus on. She’s right there. Just out of sight. Kara is so close. “I’m afraid you need your card to enter the fly lounge,” he says sternly. He starts pushing gently at her, trying to nudge her back out of the sliding glass door she’s come in. Kara almost forgets to let him move her. “I- I’m sorry, someone I need to talk to just went in there and I-” She stops in the doorway, hand firm on the wall. She can hear the way the guard huffs against her solid pressure. She’s not acting very human right now and she knows it.

“I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, ma’am," he says, pushing more forcefully against her. Forceful enough that she knows she has to move even as all her instincts war against it. “Can- can I buy a membership? Like a day pass or something?”

The guard looks over at the front desk, making eye contact with a woman who looks like she would rather watch Kara be flayed alive than allowed another step inside.

“A day membership is $189 plus tax,” she whines out in a nasally voice, tone making clear she already knows Kara won’t be affording that. Which is accurate. Kara barely has enough to buy a meal. 

Looks like her soulmate is rich, then.

The man nudges her back again and a flash of panic echoes through her chest. For a moment, she envisions herself throwing him out the open door, tossing aside anything or anyone that tries to keep her from her future. But she’s already scared her soulmate enough for one day, so she smiles with forced bashfulness and allows herself to be walked back out of the lounge.

The frosted glass door marked High Flyers Club Lounge shuts her out mockingly. But it’s fine! Eventually her soulmate’s flight time will be here and she’ll have no choice but to come out and face her. Kara just has to be patient. (Kara hates being patient.)

She takes a seat against the wall across from the lounge entrance. Her glasses rest low on her nose as she stares her soulmate, soaking in every inch of her as she paces in the luxurious lounge. Her heart is racing, she seems on the edge of a panic attack, and Kara wants desperately to be in there with her talking her down. But she can’t, so she’s left to watch – at least until the girl steps into the private restroom. She stops watching after that. Instead, she settles down to listen to the comforting beat of her soulmate’s heart, closer now than it’s ever been.

Her mind wanders as she waits, mentally reviewing every moment of their interaction. Considering where she failed, where she succeeded. Making lists about what to say to her next. She never got her name, for one thing, and she still doesn’t know where her home is. There’s so much for her to learn.

Her mental meandering is so consuming that it takes her a bit to realize the heartbeat has moved farther away. At first she thinks her soulmate is just moving around the club, but no- she’s moving away from the airport.  A quick glance through walls shows her that her soulmate isn’t in the club anymore. The heartbeat is elevating, she realizes, and Kara runs to the glass wall just in time to see the plane - small, private, with an apparent access point from within the lounge – take off. 

Horror and confusion overwhelm her, bringing tears to her eyes. This doesn't make sense. Why would she just leave without saying a word? Why would her soulmate do that? It's almost unbearable, the pain of it. She doesn’t know how long she stands there, face pressed to the glass, listening as the heartbeat grows quieter and quieter before vanishing all together.

Kara learns a lot about grief after that. 

She knew a lot already – far more than any one person should ever know – but that grief carried a different weight. The loss of her people wasn't a choice by them. They didn't want to die. The loss of her soulmate is its own beast, sharp and cruel in her heart, because this time the person she mourns chose to abandon her. Her soulmate chose to leave. She saw Kara that morning and decided that one look was enough, that Kara wasn't worth any more of her time. She left her there with nothing but a bloody t-shirt and a thousand questions. Kara never even learned her name.

She goes through the stages – she feels her anger burning out in her eyes, feels the sorrow take hold. She denies it, she bargains with everyone, anyone. She calls the Flyer’s Club, tries calling the FAA. She tracks flight logs and makes cold calls and still finds nothing at all. She writes about it on soulmate websites and Medium articles, casting a wide net so that someday when – if, her mind reminds her. if if if - her soulmate ever looks she’ll be able to find her.  

Time dulls the sharpness, though, and the years shift that rejected feeling into a more muted anger. Kara doesn't care about the love lost. She doesn't care if the person is her other half. All she cares about is the anger. Finding her feels more like a hunt than a quest for love – she’s got a lot to say to the other woman when they finally meet again. She just wants one more meeting, that’s all. Just enough time to tell her exactly where she can go. Kara doesn’t need a soulmate, after all. Her life is full of love and joy and adventure, and she doesn’t need another person to complete her. She graduates college with a degree in English, minor in Journalism – her attempts to track down her soulmate really ignite the journalistic bug in her, and with Clark’s constant encouragement it feels inevitable. She moves to a big city despite her small-town fears and she gets a job almost no one survives. Kara is thriving.

It almost shocks her, then, the way her heart trips over itself when she sees her again.

They’re watching the trial, her and Alex, and Alex is halfway through a lecture on how she’d always known Lex Luthor was evil by the way he wore his pants – (“Good guys don’t wear their pants that high, Kara, it’s common sense.”) – when Kara's nerves jolt like a lightning bolt has rushed through her. Her gasp is so sharp Alex screams almost in sympathy. 

“What? What is it?” Alex yells at her, looking around for some danger lurking nearby. Kara tumbles to the floor practically crawling to the television screen. Someone new has taken the stand, someone she'd recognize anywhere.

“Alex,” she says, jamming her finger against the somewhat grainy image projected on her television. “It's her.” “What!” “My soulmate!" Kara knows it like she knows herself, even after all this time. She looks different. Six years of struggle sit clear in her hard gaze, her mouth twisted into solemn resignation. She looks almost casual on the stand, sitting comfortably despite the eyes of the world on her. Like it's just a regular conversation. Like she’s not about to help send her brother to prison for life. “Lena Luthor, sister of the defendant” reads the helpful banner beneath her grim face. Even after everything, Kara is struck by her. She's breathtaking. Kara kind of hates her for it. “Hold on, that’s- you barely even saw her when you met! You don’t know for sure.” Alex sounds desperate, which is fair. The younger sister of the man who tried to kill Superman is certainly not an ideal soulmate for someone like Kara, but it doesn't matter. It's her. “I’m sure,” she says, and feels the truth of it deep in her bones.

A giggle hits her then that's so inappropriate for the moment it makes her feel crazy, but she can't help it. As Lena Luthor begins to explain the piles of evidence she’s gathered against her brother, Kara giggles away. She feels almost drunk on it, smug and satisfied. “Found you,” she says, almost like a taunt. She drags her finger over the screen, feeling the static of her ancient television biting back at her as she caresses Lena Luthor's face. The anger that’s long settled inside of her seems to reignite with every charged word Lena speaks against her brother, with every glance she makes at the camera. She can feel Alex’s nervous energy behind her but she doesn’t care. The politics of this, the implications - none of it matters to Kara. What matters is she has a name, and she has a general location. She's so close she can practically taste it. “See you soon, soulmate,” Kara whispers, and for a second it feels almost like Lena is staring right back.

[becauseplot]

qPhilza perching on people because bird

qFit: Mans is built like a brick shithouse—he can totally balance Phil’s additional weight. The first attempt is a bit shaky, sure, but nowadays Phil swoops down or hops up onto Fit’s shoulder and all Fit really has to do is jut out his elbow to give his friend a little more space for his talons to work with. Bam, he’s perched. Works out about 9.9 times out of 10, though Phil delights in trying to catch him off guard.

qEtoiles: He doesn’t have Fit’s bulk on his side, so he’s not as sturdy, but he is strong. The landing is usually a little rough since Etoiles has to work a bit harder to counterbalance the additional weight, but he always finds that center of gravity in no time flat. Phil usually perches with one talon on each of Etoiles’ shoulders since he’s not as w i d e, just so Phil can have a little extra grip. At some point, Etoiles tries fighting a mob while Phil is perched on him, and that goes exactly as well as you would expect.

qForever: Honestly, with all of the hard labor Forever does for his big builds, Phil was expecting him to do better, but the first (several) attempts end up with Forever stumbling over and knocking Phil off of him from his wild arm-pinwheeling. They eventually figure out it’s more doable if Forever himself has something to lean on (a wall, a chair, the butt of his pickaxe) and Phil puts one talon evenly spaced on each shoulder. Phil learns some new swears in Portuguese in the process.

qMissa: Flattened. Full-on face in the floor, mouth full of grass, wind knocked out of his lungs at Mach 5 the first time Phil tries. Phil apologizes profusely, but Missa—once he can breathe again—just rolls over onto his back and asks Phil if they can give it another try. It takes a long, LONG time, but they figure out that if Phil plants his talons on Missa’s shoulder pads and leans forward while Missa leans back, they have a small little window of time where they achieve balance. The best part? Phil gets a perfect view of Missa’s goofy little grin every single time.

[ofswordsandpens]

actually I also wanna talk about the part where Percy convinces Bob to kill Hyperion because even though Percy never says anything outright sinister, the way he handles the entire situation with such cool ease, playing on Bob’s emotions... its so insane???

Because Annabeth’s reaction to the three of them encountering Hyperion reforming is: “oh this is bad we need to get out of here” She knows if Bob remembers himself, that it's not going to play out well for Percy and her. She also thinks about how they're being pursued and don't have a lot of time. Her solution to the problem, seemingly, is to leave.

But Percy's solution is to work the situation to his advantage. He re-affirms Bob's loyalty to him:

Percy then re-establishes Bob's moral code: "Some monsters are good. Some are bad. This Titan is bad. He tried to kill me and a lot of people. He's not good like you are."

And it ends with Percy leaving the choice of whatever to do with Hyperion to Bob but of course, is it really what Bob chose to do? Bob decides to kill Hyperion. It's not what he may have done, if Percy hadn't intervened. But it's exactly what Percy was oh-so-sweetly leading Bob to do.

And listen, I'm not claiming that it was exactly morally bankrupt of Percy to take advantage of a once-evil titan who could get him and his girlfriend through hell in one piece. Percy, Annabeth, they manipulate monsters and enemies all the time. Annabeth ended the previous book with manipulating Arachne into weaving her own web. So it's not exactly like she's against using manipulative tactics, in theory.

But Bob, at this point, is not just some monster. He is so painfully sincere in his belief in Percy and their friendship, so yes, it does feel a bit sinister whenever Percy uses Bob... and he really uses Bob.

And I think what makes the scene so unsettling, it isn't just that Percy manipulated Bob, its how well Percy manipulated him. He manipulates Bob so well that Percy doesn't even have to kill Hyperion... because Bob does it for him. He manipulates Bob so well, that Annabeth couldn't tell if Percy was purposefully trying to manipulate the situation. (Newsflash, he most definitely was). Like holy shit.

[disastersareajoy]

Pussy Drunk Thomas Hewitt - Drabble

Thomas Hewitt x FEM!Reader

Tags: established relationship, cunnilingus, forced orgasms, talk of bruises, wet and messy, squirting, dacryphilia, overstimulation

Word count: 1.1k

fucking obsessed with the idea of Thomas getting absolutely, down bad, pussy-drunk as soon as he gets a taste

like his virgin-ass being too afraid of hurting you to fuck you at first and getting on his knees for you. he gets a taste, kind of pulls back and licks his lips and you can see his pupils dilate and his eyes fucking glaze over and he just falls face first into your pussy

sloppy, wet, spit slick, hungry oral from that man. his teeth bump into you in all the right ways sometimes. one moment he's whimpering into you and the next he's grumbling and trying to get his tongue deeper and deeper into you to taste more

and it does not matter to him when you beg for him to slow down and how you can't cum anymore. because you keep dripping on his face and tongue and making wonderful noises and you just taste so fucking good, how could he stop??

his arms wrap around your thighs and he holds onto them hard and firm and keeps you pulled close to his face. you can feel that it's gonna bruise and you're going to cherish those bruises for days

he doesn't even notice how hard he's gripping you because he's trying to get all of his senses filled with you. he tastes, smells and feels nothing but you. the only thing his ears can focus on are your moans and whimpers. his hands massage your thighs periodically and when he opens his eyes it's just to look at your face, thrown back in pleasure. the only thing better is when you're looking down at him with tears in your eyes, still moaning for him

Tommy is completely drunk off your taste. he loves the feeling of your pussy on his tongue and he loves the little whining groan you let out when he sucks on your clit

now, when he keeps going and going and your hand in his hair trying to push him away finally falls to your side, he doesn't even realize what he's doing next. it's all out of instinct when his hands readjust so his arms stay wrapped around your thighs but his thumbs are spreading open your folds. that's when he really loses it

because he can get his tongue even deeper like that. he can bury it inside you and find the spot that makes you drip a little more and that makes you moan all broken and needy. once he finds it he abuses the fuck out of it. keeps licking over it, poking at it with his tongue and savoring every drop of you that spills into his mouth

and then. his holy grail. you grab his hair again and moan louder. you're sobbing and begging him to slow down because it feels different this time. he doesn't listen of course. all he knows is you're about to do that thing again where he can feel your pussy flutter and twitch and your thighs squeeze around him and your moans get all whimpery

he keeps going until your hips lift up into him. he stays attached to your pussy and keeps doing what he's doing, knowing he can't stop. needs to keep going to get you to do that thing

suddenly you gasp and go completely quiet. then you moan so loud it's almost a scream. a sobbing sort of thing that's absolutely gorgeous to him. on top of that your hips start wildly shaking along with your legs and your pleasure starts gushing out of you

Tommy moans into your juices and gets closer if that's even possible at that point. he shakes his head so he rubs over your clit side to side while he keeps his tongue abusing that spot inside you. and fuck does he get drenched. he swallows down as much as he can of you and whimpers into it. anything he can't get, drips down his face and drenches his shirt and lap

once you come down you realize he's still going and you can't handle it anymore. you start crying more and weakly kicking your legs out which finally makes Tommy look up. he sees your devastated face and while he thinks the sweat mixed with tears and drool, as well as the tortured pleasure in your eyes is a heavenly sight, he listens to your weak pleas

he finally pulls away and you sigh in relief. Tommy stays away from your pussy (as much as he hates it) and spends his time licking your thighs clean. just a minute away from your pussy makes him whimper and look up at you pleadingly. your legs are still shaking and you shake your head at him

so Tommy whines and starts biting your thighs instead, getting closer and closer to your pussy until he's mouthing right next to it. you're shaking and sweating and still losing a coupe tears when he licks flat over your clit once. then your back arches and you gasp, trying not to make too loud a noise

you know if you moan he's gonna start again and you think he might actually kill you that time. he softly licks over your clit again, wraps his lips around it and you slap a hand over your mouth. but Tommy sees your lack of noise as a sign to keep going and starts sucking on your clit. when his teeth graze over it your hand whips away from your mouth to his hair and you yell out a moan that ends with a broken whine

immediately you know you're in for it. Tommy moans happily and grabs your thighs hard once more. he dives into you again and gets back to his sloppy, needy and enthusiastic pace without hesitation. all you can do is moan, whimper and whine as Tommy makes you see stars over and over again

he's obsessed with making you squirt on his face and listening to your whimpers as he tastes you. he loves the feeling of your heartbeat in your clit, pounding against his tongue

sometimes you can't get him off of your pussy until he's had at least a couple hours of his way with you. he's obsessed with your pussy and a single taste makes him entirely lose his mind. he'd do anything to fall to his knees in front of you

he would spend forever between your thighs if it was up to him

your pussy is his paradise and his salvation. every gush of your juices is a baptism of wonder. you are his goddess and he worships you at every turn

[inkskinned]

you're grabbing lunch with a nice man and he gives you that strange grimace-smile that's popular right now; an almost sardonic "twist" of his mouth while he looks literally down on you. it looks like he practiced the move as he leans back, arms folded. he just finished reciting the details of NFTs to you and explaining Oppenheimer even though he only watched a youtube about it and hasn't actually seen it. you are at the bottom of your wine glass.

you ask the man across from you if he has siblings, desperately looking for a topic. literally anything else.

he says i don't like small talk. and then he smiles again, watching you.

a few years ago, you probably would have said you're above celebrity gossip, but honestly, you've been kind of enjoying the dumb shit of it these days. with the rest of the earth burning, there's something familiar and banal about dragging ariana grande through the mud. you think about jeanette mccurdy, who has often times gently warned the world she's not as nice as she appears. you liked i'm glad my mom died but it made you cry a lot.

he doesn't like small talk, figure out something to say.

you want to talk about responsibility, and how ariana grande is only like 6 days older than you are - which means she just turned 30 and still dresses and acts like a 13 year old, but like sexy. there's something in there about the whole thing - about insecurity, and never growing up, and being sexualized from a young age.

people have been saying that gay people are groomers. like, that's something that's come back into the public. you have even said yourself that it's just ... easier to date men sometimes. you would identify as whatever the opposite of "heteroflexible" is, but here you are again, across from a man. you like every woman, and 3 people on tv. and not this guy. but you're trying. your mother is worried about you. she thinks it's not okay you're single. and honestly this guy was better before you met, back when you were just texting.

wait, shit. are you doing the same thing as ariana grande? are you looking for male validation in order to appease some internalized promise of heteronormativity? do you conform to the idea that your happiness must result in heterosexuality? do you believe that you can resolve your internal loneliness by being accepted into the patriarchy? is there a reason dating men is easier? why are you so scared of fucking it up with women? why don't you reach out to more of them? you have a good sense of humor and a big ol' brain, you could have done a better job at online dating.

also. jesus christ. why can't you just get a drink with somebody without your internal feminism meter pinging. although - in your favor (and judgement aside) in the case of your ariana grande deposition: you have been in enough therapy you probably wouldn't date anyone who had just broken up with their wife of many years (and who has a young child). you'd be like - maybe take some personal time before you begin this journey. like, grande has been on broadway, you'd think she would have heard of the plot of hamlet.

he leans forward and taps two fingers to the table. "i'm not, like an andrew tate guy," he's saying, "but i do think partnership is about two people knowing their place. i like order."

you knew it was going to be hard. being non-straight in any particular way is like, always hard. these days you kind of like answering the question what's your sexuality? with a shrug and a smile - it's fine - is your most common response. like they asked you how your life is going and not to reveal your identity. you like not being straight. you like kissing girls. some days you know you're into men, and sometimes you're sitting across from a man, and you're thinking about the power of compulsory heterosexuality. are you into men, or are you just into the safety that comes from being seen with them? after all, everyone knows you're failing in life unless you have a husband. it almost feels like a gradebook - people see "straight married" as being "all A's", and anything else even vaguely noncompliant as being ... like you dropped out of the school system. you cannot just ignore years of that kind of conditioning, of course you like attention from men.

"so let's talk boundaries." he orders more wine for you, gesturing with one hand like he's rousing an orchestra. sir, this is a fucking chain restaurant. "I am not gonna date someone who still has male friends. also, i don't care about your little friends, i care about me. whatever stupid girls night things - those are lower priority. if i want you there, you're there."

he wasn't like this over text, right? you wouldn't have been even in the building if he was like this. you squint at him. in another version of yourself, you'd be running. you'd just get up and go. that's what happens on the internet - people get annoyed, and they just leave. you are locked in place, almost frozen. you need to go to the bathroom and text someone to call you so you have an excuse, like it's rude to just-leave. like he already kind of owns you. rudeness implies a power paradigm, though. see, even your social anxiety allows the patriarchy to get to you.

you take a sip of the new glass of wine. maybe this will be a funny story. maybe you can write about it on your blog. maybe you can meet ariana grande and ask her if she just maybe needs to take some time to sit and think about her happiness and how she measures her own success.

is this settling down? is this all that's left in your dating pool? just accepting that someone will eventually love you, and you have to stop being picky about who "makes" you a wife?

you look down to your hand, clutching the knife.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Lap Pillow

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[linkedin-offficial]

chimera vivi batch of stuff #1million