#❛ &. it's the perfect day to die! ( asks. ) ❜

[nikito0x]

You don't know where your significant other disappeared, but you know one thing. You would do anything to bring them back to you or at the very least help them on their quest. All you want is to have them back in your arms, whatever that may mean. Whatever they would like it to be. You just... Just can't imagine life without them.

While looking for them, you get yourself involved in some shady dealings. You see the darker side of the world. You had tried the safe proper way, but it hadn't worked.

A year passes. Then two. Then three.

You are desperate. You have tried everything. Learned everything there is to know. Yet, you can't reach them. You don't give up, however.

After years of trials and tribulations, you have somehow become one of the most powerful people out there. You have money, power, prestige. But you care for none of it. You only want your love back home.

And maybe, maybe when they are back, they would run into your arms and try squeezing the life out if you, while you pepper their face all over with kisses.

They would hold you, comfort you, explain where they had been all this time. You would get to do the same for them and, after all this time, be able to finally provide for their every need and want. You sill kept that little apartment you two had been renting, just in case they come back to it.

Five years have passed.

You are now standing in the middle of that apartment, on your anniversary. With their favorite flowers in your hands you sit at the table before their picture. You have finished telling them all about your day and how things have been. So now you simply sit back in silence, reminiscing.

Suddenly, there is a jingle of keys and the click of a door unlocked.

Could it be..!?

Your partner enters through the door. They look older, tired. They have a new hairstyle and their clothes are nothing like what you remember them wearing. You can see some scars poking through, where fabric doesn't cover.

They're perfect.

They look up in surprise at you, stiffen as if preparing for an attack. You stay still, not wanting to frighten them. After a minute of careful observation, they finally recognize you. But...

In their eyes, there is none of the joy you had hoped for. None of the love you remembered.

Half an hour later, you have been sat down and explained everything in a summary that barely made any sense to you. But you accept it. Because it's them and you love them, and they wouldn't lie to you.

Finally, you are told, tentatively, carefully, ashamedly, that your lover? Your spouse? They had become someone else's.

The war had changed them. You understand. Things just... Happened. You understand. They are sorry things were like this. You understand. They no longer held feelings for you. You...

You are politely asked to leave as your... Your ex recuperates from what happened.

You go back to your empty manner (not home, never home, nothing will be ever again), you lie in your cold bed. You don't eat the expensive food made by your private chef.

You die inside.

...

What now?

For three years you’ve had an uneventful marriage with your spouse when one day they become the Chosen One. Immediately setting off on their journey, you don’t hear anything from them for five years. Then one day they reappear with a sheepish look on their face asking to speak to you.

[milessunflowers]

This came to me in a dream but imagine.

Max Verstappen x MotoGP!male!reader. They're very similar, both started very young, they both have four championships and they're both Dutch. But Max is well, Max and reader is an absolute sweetheart and cinnamon roll.

Thank you!

just read all abt motogp and didn't realize how fucking cool it was until now so ty for that! gonna start watching it this season!

max verstappen x motogp!male!reader

synopsis: two racers, both alike in dignity, in fair motorsports, where we lay our scene- you and max are very similar in a lot of ways yet so different that you guys just make it work

author's note: motogp, i was not familiar with your game. but srsly i have to start watching bc just reading and researching on it had me so pumped up at 11:45 last night bc i forgot to rest up 😅 worth it bc AHAHAHAJDLLWWN <- that's how im feeling abt motogp. hope you like it!

you guys are so similar before you even knew each other

you both started around the same time, being the youngests to ever race in your respective sports

fans were quick to point out the parallels between the two of you

you won a good set of races (even if it's hard to do) and max was dominating the f1 world

plus you guys were both dutch

so everyone's all like "what the hell do they feed those motosports kids in the netherlands?"

you guys meet in like some random gp, maybe yours maybe his but either way a random gp

im thinking cota lowkey before daniel was booted (rip king)

so like daniel sets you guys up practically

turns out you got along amazingly, followed each other on instagram and like added each other on whatsapp and stuff

like you guys really hit off

you talk and get to know each/build a stable friendship for like a year and half before you ask him out

he says yes of course, claiming he was just about to do it and you stole his spotlight

you don't care because you are just happy to have date with someone you've come to care a lot about

you go on this date, probably to the beach because you still aren't sure what he wants to eat and when

you guys start being official shortly after

skip forward and you have won your second championship and max as one so far so you guys are out celebrating and stuff

fans spot you, ask for some pictures and notice how drastically different your personalities are

like you seem all cheery and happy all the time while max only seems to enjoy himself when he's with you or other people he likes

but they also realize how perfect you guys are and how much you counter balance each other

like one gets too overwhelmed the other is taking them home and obviously vice versa

and you guys are so so supportive

like if your bike decides not to work and you have to quit mid-race, max is there to support whether actually at the circuit or over facetime

if max has a particularly bad race, you are supporting him in anyway you can to make sure he knows how talented and amazing he is

you guys don't fight a lot, but when you do you guys are both lowkey overdramatic and realize like ten minutes later how stupid the argument was and then make up/make out over it

anyways

anytime you guys can, you support each other

like if there just happens to be the races on the same day, you make sure to tell max before and after your race how amazing and proud of him you are and max makes sure everyone knows what an amazing boyfriend you are

also championship celebrations are insane

like drunk asf, waking up sire the next day

you guys are just happy you got to celebrate them together

even if max is a little overprotective

not as much as you though, because some guy looked at max the wrong way at a bar one time and you just about punched out his lights

look, you're sweet and all but you love max and don't want people to judge that

plus you are a max defender til the day you die

you tried getting max to ride your bike that you have a home, but he almost broke his arm and you almost got berated by horner

but horner's opinion doesn't matter to you because he's horner—pretty self explanatory i think

you guys will sometimes go karting together but max always wins (you jokingly accuse him of cheating to win but he just has a cheeky smile)

its always fun because you guys really just like to battle on track

though you are less aggressive both in your motogp driving and on the kart

max, well, you guys know how max's driving is

also i feel like you would drive him around, if that makes any sense

like he screams passenger princess to me and i don't really understand it but you know what, fuck it we ball

TAGS! (if you want to be added, lmk!)

@op-81-lvr-reblogs, @koalapastries, @justaf1girl, @ghostking4m, @spoonfulofmilo, @seonghwaexile, @alex-wotton, @raizelchrysanderoctavius

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

Hi, if you're still doing poppy playtime asks, mind If I ask, how would the toys react if the player saved up a lot of money and used it to buy a remote property far from any society. When asked why the player states they're going to die one day, one day they won't be around and they need somewhere to live when for when he's no longer around to take care of them. It's remote so Noone should ever run into them, it's got plenty of food either by the river, sea, forest or simply growing in the garden. It's got plenty of rooms for each of them, they just ask that the toys take care of themselves, so when they do die they'll die knowing they'll be okay

I couldn't fit everything you said into one post because it was getting long, sorry about that. Hope you like it anyway!

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Kind of a continuation to this post.

Player who lives in a remote location

★ You got the property years ago; it's off a dirt trail far into the woods. Hard to find if you weren't actively looking for it. Could go weeks without seeing another person. You liked it, it was nice and quiet. And, conveniently, the perfect home for all the toys you could rescue.

★ It was a big adjustment for everyone. Doey, Kissy and Dogday were still shaken up over everything that had happened. Most of the mini critters seemed in good spirits, which you were thankful for. Even though the first few days were stressful, each passing day felt a bit better than the last.

★ Cartoons are constantly playing in your living room. Usually, older Disney movies or indie shows you find on YouTube. Doey tries to play peacemaker whenever an argument about what to watch breaks out.

★ Some of the smaller toys are scared of being carried away by a bird of prey. You made one joke about it, and it was taken seriously. "Watch out, or a big bird might swoop down and carry you away!" It was meant to be funny, but Bobby didn't leave the house for a good week after that.

★ The lack of light pollution makes it the perfect place to stargaze! Some of the toys who were turned at a very young age don't remember seeing stars. It's sad, but at least you can help them make up for lost time.

★ A mini-Catnap is the first to ask you “What’ll happen when you die?” It’s a heavy topic and you try not to think about it. But he has a point. What will become of everyone when you're gone? How can you prepare them for that?

★ You begin by teaching the toys basic life skills. Showing the more responsible one's cooking, the rowdy one's how to set fishing traps. And take the time to show Poppy how she can use your old sewing machine to make herself new clothes.

★ The thought of losing their protector would be unsettling. However, over time, they find solace in your home's safety and the skills you've taught them. When you're gone, everything will be okay. They have each other.

(Got the idea for some of the toys never having seen stars from this comic. Please check it out! It's really good!)

[fandomtherapy44]

Work Rivals Gojo Satoru x Fem! reader

Paring: Satoru Gojo x Fem! Reader

Warnings: SMUT, language

Reblog Banner and 18+ Banner

and divider

cafekitsune

CW: 1,815

Summary: Y/n and Gojo have always been in competition fighting for who's the best. So what happens when an elevator breaks down and they are forced to face their real feelings?

Satoru Gojo, how do you describe someone who is a giant pain in my ass! My whole life I have been in consistent competition with him our whole life. It started in high school, where in each class and each test I felt like if he was just one point above me he would be laughing about it to everyone. I mean, I wouldn't know, I haven't really met him, but I knew if I was not on top, my family would think I was a failure. We both come from super old families that always expected that we were the best in everything from classes to who had the best lunch. I’m serious about the lunch thing in elementary school, our parents would send chefs to school and would make whatever we wanted.

And somehow he would always beat me, always one point ahead of me. It made me infuriated, also my parents breathing down my neck did not help. So when we finally got out of high school, I thought I could breathe and focus on myself, I was very wrong. First day Gojo had my job too. Every day got worse and worse to this little competition. Also, it wasn't great that my friend thought he was hot and would constantly talk about him.

“Y/n!” She ran after me as we went for coffee. “Did you see Gojo this morning, like oh my gosh, can he get even more perfect like I’m pretty sure he was wearing a Gucci shirt.” She sighed dreamily.

“Kai, what does it matter if it’s Gucchi or not?” I muttered while stirring my coffee in my cup. Trying to hold back my disdain.

“Um, how about the fact he’s rich too Y/n!” She shoved my shoulder in disbelief. 

“He’s not that great!” I raised my voice without meaning to everyone who looked at me.

“You talk about him like he’s the devil reincarnated but you've barely spoken to him.” Kai studied me with suspicion.

“Wait? Don’t tell me you guys used to date!?” My eyes widened at that.

“No! God No! It’s just that we went to school together.” I mumbled again.

“WHAT!” I spring up and cover her mouth and drag her into another room.

“Don’t scream that!” I swatted at her.

“Girl how could you keep that from me! That you went to school with Gojo Satoru!” 

“It’s not like we're friends we actually were in more of a rivalry then anything.” I crossed my arms looking down.

“Is that why you pretty much hate him?”

“I don’t hate him… It just annoys me how perfect he is.”

“Gotcha… well if that was me I would have hopped on that white-haired train a long time ago.” She moves her eyebrows up and down in a suggestive way.

“I know everyone would if they could.” Another thing that annoys me. 

Our elevator sucks we've told our boss like twenty times to get it fixed so you know we don’t die, but it’s still broken. I enter it sighing thinking about all the work I had to do and then I hear a voice yelling to hold the door.

“Wait, hold the door!” It was a smooth, low voice, the kind that would make any person pass out. And of course, it has to belong to fucking Gojo Satoru.

“Close close come on close!” I slammed on the button but the thing is broken so it’s slow as all hell.

“Thanks L/n.” He has a little pep in his step getting in the elevator. I roll my eyes and step to the side. I have to say he looks handsome today. A white button-up and black tailored pants. A silver Rolex on his wrist, pointing attention to his veiny-toned forearms. When he shifts, you can see his muscles bulge through the white fabric, making you want to see more. His leather briefcase scented with a light pine mixed with his cologne which was a Seawood and cinnamon musk. I hated how he could just be that handsome without even trying.

“So how is your project going?” He asks me to try to past the grueling three minutes.

“It’s fine Gojo,” I stated flatly.

“What you're not going to ask back?” 

“Why would I? I’m sure it’s going great for Gojo Satoru.” I scartiscally say huffing out my chest. 

“What’s with the attitude L/n?”

“I don’t know, Gojo, maybe it’s the fact that you don’t even have to try.”

“You don’t think I have to try!” He angrily expressed.

“Really you're playing the dumb card. Fine play it that way.” I couldn't believe him acting like he didn't know what I was talking about.

“I really don’t know what you're talking about!” He threw back. It seemed all my emotions of the last years had piled up and were being released like pompi.

“What about the fact that you have always won every competition, every test and now even at my job!” He lets the words sink in.

“You mean those stupid competitions that our parents put us in when we were kids!?”

“They were never stupid to me!” I’m practically in his face now. The anger in my veins pushing me forward.

“Oh my gosh L/n! Is that why you've always been so pissy towards me just because I've won all those things! When it’s not even my fault!” When he puts it like that, I look at my actions.

“Well, if you did-” I have to stop because the elevator stops abruptly, making me almost slam into Gojo, making him catch me.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure someone will come soon.” He tries to reassure me.

The small canvan of the elevator is now encased in a blue emergency light barely letting us each other. But I can’t even open my eyes, being terrified, if I did open them we would throw down the shaft. He notices my fear and grabs my hand.

“Hey Y/n we’re going to be okay.” With those words, I opened my eyes and did something that surprised both of us. I kiss him. I don’t know compled me do so the fear coursing through my body or maybe it was years of pent up sexual frustotion in one kiss. As soon as I realized I did I let go.

“Gojo, I’m so sorry. I-” I didn't get to finish before he pulled me right back and slammed his lips on mine. Our lips had found a groove that we didn't know we were missing. This second kiss was desperate, messy, unrealting as he lead me to hit the back mirror. Our hands clawing at each other’s bodies. When we finally let go in the blue hue I could see his lips puffy and red and mine were left with a sweet sting. In that moment, his hands go around my waist and his lips go for my neck this time.

“I've always wanted to do this with you,” he whispers in my ear, making shivers go down my spine.

BELOW

“Oh you little-” I’m shut up by him biting down on my neck. “Fuck Gojo!” I moaned out.

“That’s what I like to hear~” He purred out. Gojo licks over my hickie and makes a mess, he suckles at my neck. His tongue licks all over the sore spot. He keeps on nipping and tugging on the spot making my body junt out looking for some more relief. He lets go and my neck is left feeling the cold, I then feel his bulge through his pants on my knee. I pull him by the tie.

“Does pleasuring women turn you on, Gojo?” I tell him as I nip and lick his ear shell. He nods his head. “Then let me show you my appreciation.” I pull at his ear again and get down on my knees. I slowly pull down his pants zipper. 

“You don’t have to Y/n.” He breathed out.

“But I want to Gojo.” I can see through his briefs that his cock was already leaking pre cum. And his bulge was taking up a lot of space of the outline. I reach up and pull his briefs down his cock pop’s up. It is the biggest I have ever seen, it’s about seven inches and his head is red and puffy, ready to be squeezed. I lick my hand and start pumping it. As I touch it, it instantly gets harder.

“You're so big Gojo don’t know how I’m going to fit this.” At that I put my mouth around it. 

“Ahh shit Y/n you feel so good.” he throw his hand to the wall to steady himself. His cock pusles around my tongue. My tongue makes rings around it. I can feel veins and his taste is delicious, it was sweet and salty. Like a chocolate crossient that would melt on your tongue. I start to deep throat and he can barely stand it. It doesn’t fully fit in my mouth so I have to use my hand to ring the rest. He then grabs my hair and starts to fuck in. He starts to go faster and faster. “I’m going to cum!” He let’s go. His cock flops out. “That was… fucking amazing Y/n.” That sent confidene all through my body.

“Thank you now are you going to fuck me with that monster or not.” He smirks and lifts me up my legs wrap his waist. 

“Of course I will I got to fuck the attiude out of you don’t I?” There’s the cocky asshole I like. HE goes to kiss me again. Our teeth mashing together. His hand travels down under my pencil skirt and rips my fishnet tights at my crotch. I am soaked.

“All this is for me huh?” He slid my panties to the side and line’s uo his cock. “I’m going to go in okay?” I nod and he steadily sinks in. Just at that I felt so full. “You feel so tight, Y/n so good let me know when I can move in.” I barely hear anything because I am so distracted by this feeling.

“You can move kay.” I get out somehow and he starts slowly thrusting up. I put my arms around his neck. His cock get’s comfortablpe and thicker. His hip’s mett mine with each thrust. His balls slapping against my pussy. It goes in circles, drawing more and more out of me. 

“How is it, Sweetness?” 

“So good toru~” I moan out. He then add’s a finger to my clit to really drive it home. “FUck!” My wetness is now gushing like a waterfall.

“That’s my girl almost there right?” 

“Yes!” He pumps a couple more time’s and my pussy squzze’s and we an sexual explosion we cum together. I guess Gojo Satoru isn’t too bad.

I also have another Gojo smut fic if you like! Valentine's Day

[cappulcino]

The Shape of Us

Read on AO3

Words: 6,440

Pairing: Larissa Weems x Wife!Reader

Summary: You and Larissa are on a “break”. When you agree to meet for coffee at the Weathervane, you finally get to begin healing.

Tags: established relationship, angst with a happy ending, some fluff (flangst if you will), emotional hurt/comfort, eventual smut (skippable, but maybe minors dni), maternal Larissa, character development, no Y/N

Trigger warnings: non-graphic mention of G!P (tell me if I should add more)

A/N: Quite a change of style with this one. I had the idea and just wanted to use it to practice instinctive writing, kind of. It’s also the first time I try to write present tense. Very experimental overall, not as thought out as usual, Larissa might not even be characterised the way I like her to be. Also, no beta, we die like Phasma. I hope you still enjoy it.

Eight months. That's how long you haven't seen Larissa.

You're not divorced –not yet anyway. But after four years of marriage, six years total of a seemingly perfect romance, Larissa had asked for a 'break'. You had agreed to it, and perhaps it had been the right decision, too.

You and Larissa had been constantly fighting over trivialities. And since you had been barely having any, not even sex could have saved your relationship at that point. The main argument often revolved around Elias, your son from your previous spouse.

You had met Larissa when you were seven months pregnant after a particularly hard divorce, and it had never discouraged her. She had courted you all the same, made you feel loved and beautiful like your abusive ex never had –or any other partner, for that matter–, and she had sworn to stay by your side forever.

Elias' birth had propelled your relationship into something terribly concrete in very little time. It had not been easy. But Larissa had helped you raise your little boy as her own without complaining once.

That was until your somewhat divergent views on Elias' upbringing got in the way, amongst other things, leading to endless arguments late at night, trying to keep your voice hushed so as not to wake Elias, but gesticulating and pacing furiously until you were both too tired to say another word.

And then one night, Larissa had said, "I think we should take a break."

Out of anger, you had asked her to be the one to pack her stuff and leave. You had bought your house together –she could have claimed the right to stay, too. But you had Elias and nowhere else to go. She had her quarters at Nevermore. So she had packed and left that very same night without even putting up a fight.

Eight months ago, then.

The break had hurt, kept hurting month after month, and to this day it still hasn't stopped hurting. It might even be worse.

Today, however, you and Larissa have agreed to meet for coffee at the Weathervane –just to see each other and talk, nothing more–, and you are desperate for this pseudo-date to mark the end of that damned break.

But while Larissa had been the one to initiate it, you had been the one to be a bitch about it, so you know you can't expect Larissa to jump for joy when you bring yourself to step inside the Weathervane.

Yet, you're filled with hope, and when you finally push that door, you realise it's not the chilly wind making you shiver, it's the anticipation.

With faked determination in your stance, you head towards the counter. But then you catch the shy wave of a hand with perfectly manicured red nails from the corner of your eye and stop abruptly.

Larissa is already here –of course she is– and slides a cup of coffee across the table she is sitting at. She knows she is always ten minutes early to everything and you, ten minutes late, and has ordered accordingly so your cardamom and sea salt vanilla latte is waiting for you, still steaming.

You want to run to her –you almost do. But you have to take a second to compose yourself. There is a whole range of emotions on her face, from bitterness to sadness and hurt. But she flashes you a weak smile and you are pleased to find out that there is still love underneath it all.

Slowly, with less determination than before, you walk up to the booth she has chosen and sit across from her.

"Hey…"

"Hey…"

There is a slight hesitation in Larissa's attitude and tone as you take off your coat and put your bag down, and you wonder if she's excited to see you or scared –or both, like you are.

"I took the liberty to order for you. I hope that's okay," she says tentatively, as if worried your tastes might have changed in the past eight months.

"More than okay. Thank you."

Your eyes start a game of roaming all over each other's bodies without ever meeting, and you notice how Larissa unclasps her hands and her fingers start reaching out before she changes her mind to pull away and fidget under the table instead. It makes your heart clench.

"You look good," she suddenly blurts out.

It's game over for you as your eyes snap back up, boring into hers. You tell her that you think she looks even better. You mean it. But you are pained to see the weary look on her face, the hint of exhaustion no amount of makeup can hide.

You also notice the dress she is wearing, the same one she was wearing the day Elias was born. She had complained time and time again that it didn't fit her anymore, and the thought of her losing so much weight it does again almost brings tears to your eyes. Guilt is consuming you.

Larissa clears her throat in that particular way you know she does when she is struggling to stay calm, and you know it's your cue to pretend you haven't seen anything and start an actual conversation.

"How have you been?" you ask before taking a sip of your latte.

Larissa shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant, even though she is anything but.

"Oh, you know… Busy. With Nevermore, mostly. The new term is approaching, so there's a lot to take care of. What about you? And… Elias?"

You purposely ignore the first question. You feel anything but good and don't have the strength to pretend like Larissa does. You don't want to admit you have been obsessively thinking about her every single day for the past eight months either. But when she mentions your son, you can't help but let your heart speak before your brain can reason it anyway, your tone clipped and cold.

"Let's not pretend you don't know how he's doing. I know you've been calling his school, and that you 'casually dropped by' Clarisse's house right when Elias was there for Timothy's birthday."

Feeling caught, Larissa pinches her lips and looks away. But she quickly recovers, her expression slightly hardening.

"You cannot expect a mother to stay away from her child for months on end without any news. Elias is my son, too." 

"He's my son."

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel like dying inside, drowning in instant regret.

Larissa feels punched in the gut –so hard that it makes her gasp audibly. You notice the way her nostrils quiver and her eyes immediately water. But she clenches her jaw, forcing herself to remain cordial.

"Now you're just being cruel."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Are you?" 

"Yes."

"Then why did you say that?"

"I don't know!"

And it's true. The worst part in all this is that you never mean any of the poison you spit at your wife. It just comes out and you're not even sure why.

An awkward silence sets in for a moment, and you bring your cup to your lips with trembling hands before speaking again.

"He barely talks to me now. And when he does, it's only to ask, 'When is Mummy coming back?'"

"What do you tell him?" Seeing your lack of response, Larissa presses further. "He deserves answers."

"But I don't have them, do I? Just like I don't know what to tell him when he comes home from school and tells me that little Lisa's parents are getting divorced and her father is now with another woman, and asks me if his mummy is, too."

"What do you mean, you don't know what to tell him?" Larissa asks, briskly bringing her hands back on the table to better lean forward.

"Well, are you?"

"Am I what?" 

"With another woman."

Larissa scoffs loudly, visibly shocked by your question.

"Heavens, no! I'm still wearing my ring."

"It doesn't mean anything."

"No?"

Once again, Larissa visibly aches at your reaction, and you hate yourself for it. Thing is, the fact that she is still wearing her wedding ring does mean a lot to you. It means everything. But you're too scared to get your hopes up, and before you can do anything about it, your heart decides it's best to kill that hope in the womb.

"So… You haven't seen anyone else? At all?" you ask nonetheless, still needing to make sure Larissa remains yours.

You have always felt like she was the most attractive of the two, and have always had this fear she would go look for someone better than you whenever she got the chance.

Larissa glares at you as she sips her own coffee, debating whether to indulge your jealousy or not. Eventually, she decides to be entirely honest.

"Someone did ask me out." Your eyes instantly darken while she continues. "Hannah, the florist. But–"

"But what?" you cut her off, feeling yourself turning green. You can't bear the thought of her with anyone else.

"But I said no, of course! Gosh, who do you think I am? I was never interested in her."

There is another pause and, seeing your eyes dart away, Larissa suddenly worries you might have been trying to tell her something. You notice her gaze quickly scanning your left hand to check your wedding ring is still there.

"Have you been seeing anybody else?"

"Absolutely not."

"Good."

The relief that washes over Larissa's face is undeniable. You find it almost cute, but mostly you feel a weight lifting from your own shoulder, reassured by the notion that you both remained fiercely faithful, no matter what.

Impulsively, Larissa stops fumbling with her napkin, cup, and whatever is in front of her, and gives in to her desire to touch you again, snatching your left hand. She squeezes it, presses it to her cheek. Her thumb traces loving circles on your skin, her lips pepper your knuckles with urgent kisses. Her breath is heavy as she relishes the familiar touch.

"I still love you, you know," she finally blurts out in a desperate whisper. "So much."

You can't help but gasp. Larissa wants to see you. She is wearing the same dress she wore for your son's birth. She hasn't taken her wedding ring off. She doesn't want Hannah the pretty florist. She still loves you.

It has been way too long since you last heard these words, and they make your eyes instantly well up, tears threatening to fall over your waterline like a dam bursting open.

Seeing that, Larissa brings a hand to cup your cheek without letting go of your left one, which she still kisses now and then. The movement is barely there, but you see her shake her head as well, and you can tell she hates seeing you like this and wonders if this break was truly a good idea after all. You're both more miserable than you care to admit.

Eventually, she dares express her doubt.

"Was this break beneficial to you at all?"

You can't say that a little distance wasn't needed. But God knows you can't live without Larissa either, and raising a six-year-old on your own is just too difficult.

"Was it to you?" you ask, once again eluding her question.

Larissa looks up, both forcing herself to swallow her own unshed tears and trying to come up with an answer. But for the first time since you sat at that table, she seems not to have any.

"All I know is that I miss you," she confesses instead. "And I miss our son."

"I miss you, too. We both do."

Your voice cracks at these last words.

"I want to see him. I need to see him," Larissa practically begs. "You can't keep me away from him forever."

You nod slowly and snuffle. You know that's fair –you had no right to forbid her to see Elias. Worse than that, you had no right to forbid your son to see his mother.

After a moment, you carefully pull away and grab your napkin to wipe your tears and blow your nose rather disgracefully. Larissa can't help the faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she hears that sound and sees how red the tip of your nose has turned.

"Do you, uh… Do you want to come home for dinner?" you ask then. "I think Elias would be delighted to see you."

Larissa's heart skips a beat at your invitation. The idea of going home, spending some time with you, with your son… It's everything she has secretly been yearning for. Yet, you sense a slight hesitation. Larissa is still wary of how the evening could go –rightfully so, considering all the arguments you've had in the past.

"Are you sure?"

You don't want to imagine anything negative right now, so you just nod.

"Be there at eight?"

"I'll be there."

That evening, at eight, when the bell rings, you send your son to open the door.

"Elias, honey, I think you might want to answer that."

Your son turns away from the cartoon he is watching to glare at you darkly, but you insist, jerking your head towards the door, and he finally complies, sliding off the couch to go answer it.

When he does, you can see Larissa standing rather awkwardly by the doorway from where you are. The realisation of how uncomfortable she must feel to have to be invited into her own home truly tugs at your heartstrings. But then you see her eyes land on Elias, and her demeanour changes immediately.

"Hello, sunshine!"

Elias gasps loudly.

"Mummy!" he shouts, bouncing excitedly on his legs.

But just when you expect him to jump into Larissa's arms and squeal like he has just seen Santa, he freezes on the spot and a noisy whine escapes his mouth, quickly turning into full, ugly cries –the only way for him to express all those big emotions he had apparently kept bottled up all these months.

"Oh, oh, oh… Baby, no…"

With practised ease, Larissa picks Elias up, even though one of her hands is already full with the bouquet of roses she has bought for you on her way here. Hearing your son cry so desperately is killing you. But your heart breaks even further when you notice his short hair turning platinum blonde.

Elias has inherited your shapeshifting abilities but is too young to control them, of course –and you've never been too keen on teaching him how to, either. When a young, inexperienced shapeshifter feels strong emotions, it is not uncommon for their powers to go haywire. Quite often, the youngest partially shapeshift into someone they feel close to, usually a parent. For Elias, it's Larissa. Always Larissa.

"Mummy…"

"Oh, I know, sweetheart. Mummy missed you, too. More than you can imagine."

As you lean against the wall of your entrance, your hand on your chest to prevent yourself from choking on your guilt, Larissa glances at you, silently communicating her own mixture of sadness, guilt and affection.

Seeing Elias won't let go of her anytime soon, your wife invites herself inside. You come closer, closing the door behind her, while your son struggles to calm down.

"I… brought you these," Larissa says, bending at a weird angle to hand you the flowers without letting go of the little boy in her arms.

You take them, a small smile on your lips until you realise whom she must have bought the roses from.

"Did you buy them–"

"From Hannah? Yes." Larissa notices your jealousy flaring, but she quickly tames it. "I asked her for the most beautiful roses she had so I could gift them to my wife."

The pride in her eyes and her slight possessiveness make your heart soar and the smile returns to your lips.

"They're beautiful. Let me find a vase for them."

As you go find a vase for the roses, you can hear Larissa struggle to get out of her coat and then walk into the living room without ever putting Elias down.

"It's okay, sunshine. Oh… What's that you were watching? Is that Pokémon?"

"Mmh."

"You like Squirtle, don't you?"

"No. My favourite is Lucario."

"I'm sorry," you hear Larissa reply with a melancholic tone. "Of course, it's Lucario."

That simple exchange makes you realise just how fast things can change in a child's life, and therefore how much Larissa has missed because of you. You wonder if she will ever find it in her heart to forgive you. You know you won't.

Throughout dinner, Elias simply cannot stay still. Every time Larissa so much as shifts on her chair, his little hands reach for her to make sure she won't leave without him. Despite your instructions to eat his food –especially his vegetables–, he also keeps wiggling free, running back and forth between the table and his bedroom upstairs to go fetch his new toys and latest drawings and show them to Larissa. He speaks fast and loud, as if scared to give even the tiniest opportunity to either of you to say something negative and ruin the night for him.

Larissa, for her part, seems overwhelmed but far from unhappy. She holds each drawing carefully, murmuring praises as she flips through them, her smile never leaving her lips. Still, she regularly sneaks glances at you, and you understand she is waiting to be finally alone with you for a moment. You're waiting for this, too. You also both can't stop your eyes from darting to each other's lips, and it definitely doesn't help with the tension that has been building up since your coffee date at the Weathervane.

Thankfully, with all those emotions and that energy spent, Elias is quick to collapse on Larissa's lap, his thumb stuck in his mouth. You reach for his tiny wrist –you have successfully started weaning him off that habit over the past months and don't want him to pick it up again. But Larissa gently pushes your hand away.

"Leave him," she says, her voice not unkind but firm. "He needs it."

You sigh but give in. Tonight is not a night to argue about anything.

"You should go tuck him in," you offer after observing your sleepy child for a moment. By now, even his nose has shapeshifted into Larissa's.

Your wife smiles at the proposal and excuses herself, cradling Elias close to her chest as she brings him upstairs. Your gaze follows them fondly until you can't see them anymore and you decide to get up to clean the table a little bit.

But you quickly stop to go upstairs instead and see how things are going. You can't help it. Not necessarily because you want to control your wife, no. It's more because you find the sight of her with Elias comforting and absolutely heartwarming, and you need that right now.

As you arrive in front of your son's bedroom and peek through the crack of the door, you hear Larissa trying to explain to Elias how "mommies can still love each other very much and not be together for a while". You find her courageous. You've never had the balls to attempt such a difficult explanation, despite Elias' incessant questioning.

"I want you to be with me and Mommy again," you hear him plead sleepily.

"Oh, sweetheart…" Larissa coos, her fingers delicately brushing his still-platinum hair away from his forehead. "I want that, too. I really do. But Mommy and I… we're working on some things, okay? We're trying to make things better, I promise."

"I hate her."

The brutal honesty of your own child as he thinks you're not looking makes you want to scream, throw up, and bang your head against the wall. The pain burning in your chest is indescribable, and you have to cover your mouth so your inevitable sobs don't ruin the moment for Elias and his other mother.

Still, through it all, you are glad to find out Larissa has your back.

"Don't say that, Elias. I know you're sad, but Mommy loves you very much."

"But she doesn't want me to see you."

"I know, beautiful. I know. But Mommy is just… She's hurting, too. And sometimes, when people hurt, they say and do things they don't mean."

There is a moment of silence only broken by the constant stroking of Larissa's hand on your son's face. Then Elias speaks up again, his voice still weakened by the fatigue.

"Mummy?"

"What is it?"

"Is it my fault you and Mommy don't talk anymore?"

You can hear Larissa's heart break from the hallway.

"Oh, no, no, no, angel… No. Never. You have nothing wrong, you hear me? Nothing wrong. Adults disagree and need some alone time sometimes, but sweethearts like you are never the reason why, alright? Now, close those pretty eyes. You need to rest."

"But you won't be here when I wake up," Elias whines.

"I know. I'm so sorry, baby. But we'll see each other soon, I promise. Mommy will let me see you now."

You haven't even really talked about this with Larissa yet, but there is no point in denying it –Elias needs both his mothers with him and you can't prevent Larissa from loving him and wanting to take care of him.

There is a pause, and you can hear in Elias' lack of response that he is contemplating accusing his mother of lying. But thankfully, he is too tired to put up a fight and settles for a "Goodnight" instead.

You watch as Larissa tucks the covers around his tiny body and leans in to kiss his forehead, then step aside to rest your back on the wall next to the door so Larissa doesn't feel too overwhelmed by your presence when she comes out.

Still, she stops in her tracks when she spots you waiting outside. She looks at you, you look at her, and you both notice the tears in each other's eyes as you both ache deeply for your little boy.

"Do you want to say goodnight?"

You shake your head slowly. Deep down, you want to. But you figure Elias is halfway in the arms of Morpheus –if not already there– and might not want to see you anyway. With a small nod of understanding, Larissa closes the door.

"I haven't seen him so happy in a long time," you tell her as she moves to lean against the wall opposite you. "I shouldn't have kept you away from him. He misses you too much."

"You shouldn't have. But I think I understand why you did."

"He doesn't," you reply with a jerk of your head towards Elias' bedroom.

"He's just a child caught in the middle of our problems. It's not fair to him, we have to make things better one way or another."

You nod, your heart heavy with profound sadness, but say nothing because what is there to add? Larissa is right through and through –she always is. You're the one who keeps making the wrong decisions.

"You didn't answer my question earlier," Larissa eventually says, her voice soft and quiet like it always is after she has spent some time with Elias.

"Which one?"

"How are you?"

Your eyes meet hers, but only for a fleeting moment. You miss her, you long for her, you crave her, her touch, her lips, her scent… You feel like if you look at her for too long you're either going to pass out or do yet another regrettable thing.

Larissa calls your name, asks you to look at her. You don't answer. You can't. And then, in one swift motion, she is only inches away from you, tugging at your shoulders to pull you into a hug.

You don't resist, of course, and lean against her with your whole weight. But you don't have the strength to lift your arms to hug her back and instead just start crying, your face buried in her chest.

If there was any word stronger than miserable, that's what you would be.

"I know, I know," she says tenderly as if reading your thoughts. "Me too."

Her voice cracks and she finally lets her emotions fully show, too. Her silent cries pierce your heart, and only then do you feel strong enough to wrap your arms around her and clutch.

Now both crying, you hold each other like you're trying to mend the pieces of each other's broken mind. It feels so painful and so terribly good at the same time. Her body feels nice and comforting, you had almost forgotten just how much.

When you both finally start calming down, you realise you're scared of pulling away. But Larissa keeps you close, only shifting slightly to rest her forehead against yours. Her skin is warm, but as always, the tip of her nose is cold on your cheek. You don't mind it, it's one of Larissa's little things you often find yourself missing the most at night.

Your eyelids flutter open, and, inevitably, you make the mistake of staring not at her eyes but at her lips. The faint aroma of wine coming out of her mouth in hot puffs makes your skin tingle, and you know that you have to look away or you won't be able to refrain from kissing her. And if you kiss her, you won't be able to stop.

But Larissa cups your face with both hands before you have a chance to move and before your brain can formulate a single thought, her lips capture yours in a slow, loving kiss. You can feel the yearning and despair that have pent up in the past eight months in the way she moves her mouth against yours, and it makes you weak at the knees.

You reply to her kiss with a whimper and she deepens it, her tongue seeking entry into your mouth with a mix of hunger and fear. You welcome it without hesitation and move your arms up to wrap them around her neck, carding your fingers through her perfect hair bun. Meanwhile, her hands slide down to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You had missed this and obviously can't prevent your hips from bucking against hers, begging for more.

Larissa responds to your silent plea with a low groan and a hand moving further down to grip your butt. The air catches violently in your throat at the intimate contact and you throw your head back with a moan.

"We shouldn't be doing this," Larissa says. "Not like that."

But there is no conviction in her words, and she still has a hand on your rear and her mouth on your neck, gently sucking and nipping at your sensitive spots before soothing them with her tongue.

The noises you make are so needy that it becomes fairly evident you haven't taken much care of your own needs over the past months. The realisation makes your wife growl possessively, and her resolve crumbles. She needs to have you. Now.

"Bed?"

"God, yes."

Larissa doesn't pull away even once as she pushes you towards your bedroom. Her hands move urgently, her kisses become hungrier, her breathing accelerates.

"I love you."

You both repeat those words so much that it is unclear whose mouth they're coming from.

Larissa is quick to take off your clothes, revealing the skin she has longed to touch again for so long. You, on the other hand, try to take your time. Larissa had changed before coming home for dinner, and you've been wondering all evening if there is any fine lingerie under that burgundy dress. But it's Larissa –of course there is. You just like to torture yourself by unwrapping her like a priceless present. Besides, you don't want to look too desperate, nor do you want to make her feel like she isn't in charge. You want her to be now.

Unlike you, Larissa is not afraid to show how much she desires you. As soon as you're both naked, she pushes you onto your marriage bed, covers your body with hers and starts making up for lost time in every way possible. Fingers, vibrator, tongue… Nothing is off-limits tonight.

Then something different, something you haven't done in a very long time. Larissa shapeshifts, and you feel it –the size, the weight of it against you. Your wife looks down at you expectantly, hoping for your consent. It's something you've never downright refused, but have always felt conflicted about. It often reminds you of a past you'd rather forget and tends to make you question your sexuality in ways you don't want to think about while having sex –even though Larissa has reassured you countless times already that it didn't make you any less of a lesbian.

Not tonight, though. Tonight you nod eagerly and spread your thighs a little further to welcome her shapeshifted appendage, needing that special connection. In the faint orange glow coming from that one lamp post at the end end of your street, you see Larissa smiling brightly.

"Thank you," she whispers against your skin as she pushes into you.

She loves this, you know it, and the obscene moan she lets out as she stretches you only confirms it. It feels good, too good, and you meet her sensual thrusts with deliberate rolls of your hips, the way she moves, gasps your name, and loses herself completely to the moment only spurring you on.

She takes you twice like this. In a row. The first time, deep and slow, then rough and frenzied, until you're shaking and can't even call her name coherently. And by the time your final climax hits, you're so sensitive you feel like you're going to faint.

Larissa keeps moving, chasing her own release, her thrusts messy, uneven. And then with one last push, she spills over the edge, burying her face in the crook of your neck with a broken, "You’re mine. Mine."

You've always loved that possessive side she works so hard to mask under heavy decorum. The way she calls you hers reminds you of your wedding night and makes your chest burn with love. So when she collapses on top of you, panting in your ear, you just have to squeeze her tight in your arms and kiss every inch of skin you can reach.

You keep her close even long after she has pulled out of you, simply enjoying the warmth of her body and the scent that floats in the room in the aftermath of your passionate lovemaking.

It's about two in the morning now, but neither of you is sleeping. You're both just basking in the intimacy of the moment, exchanging gentle kisses and caresses until you break the silence.

"Come home."

Larissa shifts then, and you're suddenly scared you've ruined it all and she is going to leave. But she just props herself on her elbow to look into your eyes with a blend of vulnerability and longing.

"I want to. More than anything. I need you to know that. But…" She sighs. "There are things we need to talk about and settle, compromises to make."

"Like what?"

The way Larissa takes a deep breath before answering lets you know whatever she says won't be up for debate if you want this to work.

"We need to find common ground about our parenting styles. And I want you to try therapy."

"Are you saying I don't know how to raise my own son?"

Larissa sighs in frustration at the defensiveness in your tone.

"No, that's not what I'm saying. I'm saying we have different ways of doing it, and we need to find a way to reconcile them for Elias' sake."

"You want him to explore his shapeshifting abilities," you mumble as you roll onto your back, an arm on your forehead.

"Yes, I do," Larissa replies with a kind but firm voice. "He is a shapeshifter. It's part of who he is, and it's a part we need to let him embrace, not suppress."

"The world is a terrible place for Outcasts."

"That's why there are places like–"

"If you're going to say Nevermore, I swear–"

"Yes, I am going to say Nevermore. It would be the safest place on earth for him, and he would still get to evolve around Normies. You know I've even hired a Normie teacher this year."

"And I don't trust her."

"You don't trust many people."

Touché. You sigh heavily, letting your arm fall to cover your eyes as if trying to shield yourself from Larissa's truths –or rather, from how much you hate being wrong when it comes to making choices for Elias. But Larissa pushes your arm away and tilts your chin with a finger so you look at her again.

"I know you're scared. I am, too. But what scares me the most is the thought of Elias thinking he has to hide a part of himself, even around us, or that he can only move through life safely if he denies every fundamental aspect of who he is."

If you were to be completely honest –even if only to yourself–, you would admit Larissa has already convinced you. It's hypocritical to expect Elias to repress his abilities when both his mothers are exactly like him and free to use them, or to deny him an education at Nevermore when you have spent your own childhood hoping there was a place for people like you. What would be next? He'll come out as gay, and you'll tell him it's wrong? No, this is preposterous.

But you know this is not where the problem truly lies, and it's high time you communicated with your wife to treat it at the root.

"You're his model," you finally say, your voice too hoarse for your liking. So you clear your throat and start again. "You're his model, the one he instinctively shapeshifts into when he's not doing it on purpose. Look at how quickly his hair turned like yours when you arrived. It's you, always you. Never me. I'm his mother, his birth mother. I made him. But it's always you."

Larissa doesn't like it too much when you're this possessive over Elias because it throws her lack of biological connection to him back in her face, and it is something she has always struggled with. Still, her voice remains calm and understanding.

"Yes, you brought him into this world. But I've been a part of his life since he was in your womb, I was there when he was born, I fed him, changed him, taught him how to read, and let myself be vomited on more times than I can count. I have as much an impact on the person he is as you do."

"But shapeshifters are supposed to take on the traits of their closest parent the first time, and he took yours," you protest, your voice cracking. "Why not me? What have I done wrong?"

"Oh, darling…"

Larissa sits up, pulling you up with her so she can hug you properly and draw slow, soothing circles on your naked back.

"You have done nothing wrong. Sometimes, it doesn't work like it usually does and it's nobody's fault."

"My baby hates me…"

Larissa gasps and brings her hands to your face, clasping your jaw tightly while you start weeping again.

"No. Absolutely not. Elias does not hate you. Why would you ever think that?"

"That's what he told you earlier."

Larissa presses her lips into a thin line, feeling pained that you've heard these words.

"He's only six… He's in pain and doesn't have any better way to express himself," she says, pulling you back against her chest. She stays quiet for a moment, and then continues, "It's… It's the reason why you kept him away from me all these months, isn't it? You wanted to feel him closer to you."

You realise how ridiculous this sounds and can't even begin to explain just how hard you blame yourself.

"I'm so sorry…"

"It's okay," Larissa coos, rocking you back and forth, even though you know it's all but 'okay'. "We just… We need to communicate. I understand your fears, I do. I have my own. But we need to do better for Elias. I don't want him to suffer because of our problems anymore."

"I know, I know," you say with a weak nod. Then after a moment, you add, "Therapy, then."

"Yes, therapy. Please. But we're in this together, I'm not letting you go. We're a team, aren't we?"

"'Til death do us part'."

Larissa chuckles softly at your choice of words.

"Mmh, that's right. You, my love, are absolutely stuck with me. So we're going to work as a team for our son. No more isolating each other."

"But you're not coming home yet, are you?"

"No, not yet. But if we do this right, I might come back sooner than we both expected."

You untangle yourself from Larissa's embrace and let yourself fall back on your bed with a sigh. You're getting tired, and aren't sure what to feel anymore. And then you feel your wife's hand coming to rest lovingly on your belly, and it definitely doesn't help your weariness, both physical and mental.

"If you want me to leave now, I can," Larissa ends up offering, sensing your fatigue and disappointment and not wanting to cause you more pain by leaving in the morning after a whole night together.

Your eyes snap to her, wide with confusion.

"Are you serious? I'm asking you to come home, we've just had the best sex we've had in over a year… No, I don't want you to go. Stay. Elias will be so happy to see you at breakfast."

Your decision and the mention of your son's name make Larissa smile brightly, and she lies back next to you with a tiny, excited squeal before leaning in to press her swollen lips against yours one last time.

"I want to be better, Larissa," you whisper when she pulls back and makes herself comfortable on her pillow. "For both of you."

"I know, darling. I know. I believe in you."

"I love you."

Before Larissa can even reply, you're already drifting, your breath evening out and your body melting into hers.

Eight months. That's how long you hadn't seen Larissa. But you figure once you've spent your whole life with her –because you will–, it won't matter anymore.

Taglist: @cordeliasdarling @cygnetteflor @eurydice-shenanigans @vii-v @ellovett @schlaegerpaula-blog @peridot-pineapple @simonknowsnothing @goddessfloresz @barbarasstar @anothersapphicgirl @emeraldoceansstuff @dingdongthetail @valerielovebug @hasthebaconinhispants

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[eternallyordinary]

“He Belongs to You” - Part 9

spotify playlist<3

Part 1<3

Part 2<3

Part 3<3

Part 4<3

Part 5<3

Part 6<3

Part 7<3

Part 8<3

*:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧✧・ﾟ: *✧・ﾟ:* ˚₊· *:✧*:

Summary: You push Homelander to the brink, and yet… you’re the only one who can save him.

Warnings: violence, smut, yandere, control, age gap relationship, self harm, cutting, knifes, guns, aggressive behavior, harassment, foul language (let me know if i forgot any<3)

*:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧✧・ﾟ: *✧・ﾟ:* ˚₊· *:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧✧・ﾟ:

Vaught had given you barely twenty-four hours to breathe before forcing you in front of the cameras. You had to remind yourself you weren’t doing it for them, you were doing it for the people. For Mrs. Lieberman, even if her husband was a piece of shit. Was he even a piece of shit? While you may be one of the good supes, you are a diamond in the rough. You’ve heard stories of supes hurting others, taking and never giving. Maybe he was right in what he said. Maybe he had every right to puncture you so deeply, and you’re not even referring to the stab wound-you’re talking about the puncture it left in your chest, the heavy feeling of sadness it left on your heart. Vought on the other hand had its agenda, and it didn’t include your feelings.

“He was a piece of shit,” Homelander reminds you. “He deserved to die.” You snap out of your trance. Does he fucking read minds too? He gives you a “tsk tsk” look, coming up behind you and grabbing your waist. He can’t read minds, he just already knows you so well.

Homelander insisted on taking you up to your bed and taking care of you. You guys settled into bed and watched another dumb reality show. While yes, the shows are dumb, it’s nice to watch normal people being normal and doing normal things. He watched as you fell asleep - stroking your hair and taking in your scent. The next morning, you could tell he didn’t sleep at all, again. While you understood he didn’t really need sleep to function, you couldn’t help but feel bad he was so restless and you were the reason why.

Your makeup was sprawled out on the counter. One thing that hasn’t changed about you since taking compound V is your lack of organization, your messy side. Sometimes putting stuff away neatly felt to overwhelming. Homelander looked at the mess on the counter and couldn’t help but laugh. Moments like these he was reminded of your age, the youth in you that still exists.

“Why don’t you just have them do your makeup?” He asks. “I like doing it,” you say. You loved zoning out to some music or a good podcast and making up your face. “You don’t even need it,” he says. You roll your eyes. “That’s corny”. He pinches your side and tickles you. “I mean it!” You let out a laugh. It feels good to laugh and forget about the events of yesterday, even if it’s just for a second.

You sit on the bathroom counter, your feet in the sink. You slowly put on your makeup, as if slowing down would help you avoid this god forsaken interview. You examine your neck. A faint raised scar sit on top of it. You were still not used to the way your body healed so quickly. When you first were injected, you wanted to try everything, testing yourself to the brink. You slit your wrists so deep you swore it was the end, but marvelously, you lived. You never told anyone this. A lot of things you have kept to yourself - maybe one day you could tell Homelander. You feel like if anyone, he’d understand.

—

Homelander sat next to you in the sterile, white-lit CNN studio, his presence towering even in stillness. The host, Mark Davidson, was the perfect embodiment of corporate news—polished, rehearsed, the kind of man who probably voted against the Equal Rights Amendment but smiled on camera and called female colleagues “kiddo.” You could tell this was true just based on his appearance, but his demeanor was another story. He addressed Homelander immediately, kissing his ass as if they were longtime pals. Does he know who he’s trying to impress? Like Homelander would give a fuck. He eyed you up and down, sizing you up and taking in every inch of your curves, looking at the way your suit squeezes your ass. Maybe you should’ve got longer shorts like Homelander suggested. You find yourself pulling them down. Homelander doesn’t miss a beat, he notices this exchange and his face falls. Here we go.

The segment started smoothly, fake smiles and empty pleasantries. Until it didn’t.

“First off,” Mark began, leaning slightly toward Homelander, “let me just say—what a remarkable display of heroism from you yesterday. The way you handled the shooter, the way you neutralized the threat—truly, an inspiration,” Mark gestures to you, “This one is lucky to be able to shadow you the way she did yesterday. Not a lot of supes, especially women supes can say they’ve had that experience. Truly once in a lifetime, kiddo.” He gives you a fake smile. Ew.

You stiffened.

Oh. Here we go.

Homelander’s face didn’t change at first. A slow blink. A twitch of his jaw. A subtle shift in energy, but you felt it. That coiled thing beneath the surface.

The interviewer kept going, oblivious. “The people of New York—and the country—owe you their thanks. It’s moments like these that remind us why you’re America’s greatest hero, Homelander.”

Ashley, standing just off-camera, was already rubbing her temples.

And then—

“I wasn’t going to do shit.”

A silence so thick it seemed to suck the air from the studio.

Mark Davidson blinked. “…I’m sorry?”

Homelander leaned forward, his voice deceptively smooth. “Come on Marky Mark. You’re not that old… you have a toupee but your hearing is still intact, right? I said, I. wasn’t. going. to. do. shit.”

The words were sharp, like the edge of a blade being slowly pressed to someone’s throat. He gestured toward you. “I’d like you to apologize for treating her like an idiot. Because she’s the one who ran through the crowd. She’s the one who stopped bullets with her hands. I was simply enjoying the show. I got to say, watching my girl in action like that really made my cock hard.” Homelander grabs his junk, and then gives an evil, smile. Your eyes widen. You’re praying to God your dad isn’t watching this at home.

Mark opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“And what’d she get for all the work she did?” Homelander’s voice darkened, the weight of it pressing into the room. “Some incel with a tiny dick shooting her in the chest. And then an ungrateful prick stabbing her in the fucking neck. And then, you, an old geezer with balls that probably hang down to the floor as soon as your pants drop, treating her like nothing. God bless America, am I right?!”

The camera operator hesitated, looking toward the producers. Should they keep rolling?

Ashley, off to the side, looked like she was about to vomit.

“Cut it! Cut the fucking cameras!” She pleads.

Mark forced a chuckle, shifting slightly in his seat. “Well, of course, we—”

“Oh yeah,” Homelander continued, flashing that too-perfect smile, “I killed him too. Both of them. Didn’t I, baby?” Homelander puts a possessive hand on your leg. “And I’d do it again.”

Ashley squeezed her eyes shut.

The host paled. “Right, but—”

“Say you’re sorry.”

A second of pure, suffocating silence.

“Did I fucking stutter? I said, say you’re sorry.”

“I-I’m sorry.”

“Now say it like you mean it. And I want you to look into the camera while you say it. So the viewers at home, the wonderful citizens of America know how fucking sorry you are.”

“I….. I’m sorry. I am really sorry.” Mark says.

Ashley frantically gestured to the control room, Cut it. Cut it now. The segment’s lead producer hesitated—Vought wouldn’t like this, but ratings. The feed stayed live.

Mark cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable.

You exhaled, keeping your posture poised, but the moment was spiraling. You needed to smooth this over before Homelander decided to go completely off the rails.

So you leaned in slightly, brushing your fingers against Homelander’s wrist—a tiny touch, barely noticeable, but he felt it. His muscles twitched, but the edge of his rage dulled just a little. You knew he’d appreciate it.

“Look,” you said, keeping your voice calm, even. “At the end of the day, we’re here to protect people. That’s the priority.” You glanced at Mark. “And I think what Homelander is saying—passionately—is that it’s easy to put people like us on a pedestal. But we’re still…” You hesitated for half a second, choosing your words carefully. “We’re still people. We have families and friends and people who love us. Some of us didn’t even choose to be this way. And yet, we continue to fight for all of you.”

Homelander’s lip twitched, amusement flickering through his irritation. How did you pull that out of your ass? Nice save.

Mark forced a tight smile. “Of course. And on that note, let’s take a quick break.”

The second the cameras cut, Ashley grabbed onto her assistant, also Ashley.

“Oh my God,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “Does he ever stop talking?”

Homelander grinned, hearing her. “I don’t appreciate the way he spoke to her.”

Ashley closed her eyes briefly, muttering something that sounded a lot like fucking kill me before inhaling sharply. She approaches the two of you with panicked strides.

“Okay. Fine. Whatever. We have another sit-down with Cameron Coleman, and—”

“No.”

Ashley blinked. “No?”

Homelander smiled. “We’re done.”

She opened her mouth—then shut it. Not worth it.

She turned to you instead. “Can you at least—”

“I’d like to take a day to recover after being stabbed in the neck,” you said simply. “If that’s okay with you, Ashley.”

Ashley groaned, throwing her hands up. “Great. Perfect. Fantastic. I hope you two are very happy together.”

—

The second you stepped out into the crisp New York air, Homelander turned to you with a smirk.

“Dinner tonight?”

The shift was so abrupt you almost laughed.

You raised a brow. “We’re just ignoring all of that?”

“What’s there to ignore?” he said smoothly. “I defended my girl on national television. Very romantic, if you ask me.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t protest.

“And you… you liked it.” Homelander said.

It’s true. Yesterday, you would’ve torn him a part for claiming you on national television. But this time? It was hot the way he defended you, the way he treated you as an equal and made sure the man said sorry. It turned you on, to be honest.

You give an innocent little smile and decide not to say a word. He knows that look, a naughty girl trying to hide how naughty she really is.

—

Dinner felt… normal. Or at least, as normal as things could be.

You both traded in your suits for something more relaxed. Homelander wasn’t good at wearing “normal clothes”. To be honest, he didn’t really own any. Never had a reason to wear them. While you had other clothes, you didn’t love dressing up. You preferred comfort. You threw on a baggy pair of low rise jeans, a cashmere sweater, and some loafers. You hoped this would be good enough for wherever you two were headed. You had a feeling he would appreciate more skin, but that’s just not who you were. It confused him as during the photoshoot, you had no problem wearing a bikini, sexualizing yourself. But that’s different. That was you taking your power back. Right now, you just wanted to be cozy.

The restaurant was intimate, warm candlelight flickering against polished wood.

Paparazzi lurked outside, but neither of you cared. For the first time in days, you let yourself relax. You figured you’d get home to thousands of tweets criticizing the fact you two went on a date after a mass shooting. You didn’t care. For a moment, you felt like you could finally breathe.

You even caught yourself laughing at something stupid he said. The bill came, but you both wanted to Basque in the normalcy a little bit longer.

And then—

“Let’s get another drink,” you mused.

Homelander smirked. “Is that a request or a command?”

You grinned. “Neither. A suggestion.”

“Then I suggest we do it.”

—

The bar was dim, humming with quiet conversation.

He ordered an old fashioned, you ordered a dirty martini. His fingers drum against his glass, slow and methodical, as he watches the amber liquid swirl inside.

You sip your martini, savoring the briny bite of it as you glance around the bar. The low hum of conversation, the clink of ice in glasses, the faint melody of jazz drifting through the air—it all feels normal. Comforting, even.

For the first time in a long time, you feel at ease. The tension in your shoulders loosens, the ever-present hum of anxiety in the back of your mind dulls. You’re not waiting for something to go wrong. Not looking for a fight.

But then, like clockwork, the universe delivers.

“Homelander, oh my god, it’s really you.” Two girls your age swarm him like he’s some kind of messiah. They’re draped in tight dresses, teetering on sky-high heels, cleavage spilling out as if they’re on display. It’s obvious they pregamed before heading to the club—something you’ve never had the slightest interest in.

“Hi, ladies,” Homelander greets them, his voice dripping with amusement. Forty-eight hours ago, he would’ve dragged one of them into the bathroom, fucked her raw, and left Ashley to clean up the PR mess. Now, he actually tries to feel something—lust, arousal, that primal hunger that used to come so naturally. But it’s gone. That doesn’t mean he can’t have a little fun, though—just enough to get under your skin.

One of the girls clings to his arm, eyes wide with curiosity. “Where’s your suit?” she asks in that unmistakable Kardashian-esque drawl. Homelander places a hand on her lower back.

You fume. Electricity crackles through your veins, invisible to the naked eye. Jealousy. Fantastic.

“Well, you see, this one here is a little too humble—made me come out in Tom Ford,” he smirks.

You swirl the olives in your martini, forcing a smirk of your own as you glance up at the group. You don’t want him to know this is getting to you, though he doesn’t need to hear your heartbeat twice to know it is.

“Well, this is pretty hot too, I won’t lie.” The girl giggles, flipping her hair, and Homelander humors her with a charming smile, pretending to care.

“Isn’t it?” you chime in, standing from your chair. “Told you it would turn you into a looker. I was right.” You turn to the bartender, raising a finger. “Hey, when you get a minute, how about a round of shots for everyone in the bar? On Homelander. America’s hero!”

The girls cheer, mistaking your pettiness for generosity. Homelander’s smirk falters. He started this to make you jealous, to get you hot and bothered. But in true stubborn fashion, you had to take it a step further, didn’t you?

“Can you take a picture of us?!” the ringleader chirps, holding out her phone.

“Oh my gosh. Of course! I would love to.” You take the phone, pretending to snap a hundred pictures. In reality, you’ve just wiped it clean with a factory reset, just to make her life difficult. I mean, it’s better than lasering her face off.

“Y’all have so much fun,” you say sweetly, handing it back. “I’m gonna see if one of those Columbia boys over there wants to fuck me.”

The glass in Homelander’s hand shatters. One of the girls shrieks.

“We’re leaving,” he growls, grabbing your arm in a vice grip. That’ll leave a bruise.

—

He drags you outside, around the corner, into the shadows. He towers over you, chest heaving, eyes searing into yours. His hand twitches, moving toward your throat—but then he remembers your voice from the other night.

“You choked me,” you had whispered, wide-eyed and fragile.

He clenches his jaw, then slams his fist into the brick beside your head, cracking it. He wouldn’t hurt you. But he has to release the monster somehow. Why did you have to pull it out of him?

“What the fuck was that?” he demands.

You tilt your head, lips curling. “Me playing your game.”

His nostrils flare. “You want to be fucked by some young college kid? Someone your age? They won’t know how to touch you. They won’t know how to make you feel the way I do. How many times do I have to tell you that you’re mine?”

“Oh, come on. I was just trying to piss you off. You knew what you were doing, flirting with those girls in front of me. I thought tonight was supposed to be normal. Just me and you. But there’s always a game. Always some fucking twist.”

His fists loosen against the brick, his gaze softening—just a fraction.

“You’re jealous,” he murmurs.

“No, I’m not. I just think it’s really fucking immature to—”

“You’re jealous. Just admit it.”

“I’m not fucking jealous,” you snap, shoving him with more force than you knew you had. Blame it on the martini.

A low growl rumbles in his chest. His cock throbs. Oh, how he wants to take you—hard, rough, make you feel it. He thought you were too fragile. Maybe you’re not.

You stare at each other, the tension thick enough to snap, and then—you collide.

Mouths crash, hands claw, bodies tangle. Your legs wrap around him as he lifts you effortlessly, lips dragging over your throat, nipping, teasing.

“My sweet, jealous girl,” he taunts against your skin, voice dark and dripping with intent. “Daddy has to punish you now.”

Before you can react, you’re airborne, the wind rushing past you. Minutes later, you crash through the balcony doors, swallowed by the dim glow of the room, breathless, wild.

“Turn around,” he orders, rough, commanding. “Hands and knees.”

You obey without hesitation. Fabric tears. His grip on you tightens.

“I told you I had to punish you,” he murmurs, kneeling behind you. His palm comes down—hard. A sharp gasp escapes you, your body jerking forward at the sting. It hurts. It burns. But fuck, it feels so good.

Then he stills.

His hands remain on you, warm and trembling. His breath is ragged, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven movements.

And that’s when it hits him.

You’re innocent. His sweet girl. His delicate thing.

He had forgotten. Again.

A violent war rages inside him. The instinct to take, to claim, to devour you whole—it burns like an inferno. But you—you aren’t meant for that. You’re trusting him with something no one else ever has.

And that trust? It’s both his salvation and his undoing.

His hands, once gripping your hips like a vice, loosen. He exhales sharply, like he’s forcing himself back into his body, back into control.

Then, gently—so gently—he turns you over, onto your back, caging you beneath him. His forehead presses to yours, his fingers trembling as they trace your jaw. His touch is different now. Not punishing. Not possessive. Just… reverent.

“I—” He stops himself, shaking his head, struggling for air. He needs a second. He needs to reel himself in.

Your hands slide up his arms, fingers curling at his shoulders. Your pulse is fast, but not with fear. With something else.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “I can’t.”

You reach up, brushing his hair back from his face, grounding him. Soft. Slow. Steady.

“You won’t,” you whisper.

His chest tightens. His jaw clenches. He wants to believe you, but God help him, he knows himself too well.

“You don’t know that,” he grits out, still hovering over you like he’s afraid to lay his full weight down, afraid to lose himself in you completely. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

Your fingers skim his jaw, tilting his face toward yours. “I know you.”

That stops him cold.

You should be afraid. You should run. He wants you to. It would make this easier.

But you don’t. And you won’t.

“Let me have you,” you whisper, voice shaky but sure.

His breath stutters. His eyes—those impossibly blue, piercing eyes—search yours, looking for hesitation, for uncertainty. But there’s none.

“Baby…” he exhales, shaking his head like he’s still trying to fight it.

“I want you,” you say, firmer now, fingers tightening in his hair.

A low, pained groan rumbles in his throat. His forehead drops to your shoulder, his grip on you ironclad as he breathes through the chaos in his head.

Then—finally—he lets go.

He kisses you slow, deep, like he’s surrendering to something greater than himself. His hands map out your body, skimming your waist, your thighs, treating you like something precious, something he’s never deserved.

And for the first time in his life, he’s careful.

His lips linger on yours, moving with aching slowness, memorizing the taste of you. His touch softens, no longer gripping, no longer taking.

Because this isn’t about him. It’s about you.

His forehead presses to yours as he exhales, trying to settle the wildfire raging inside him. He should be the one in control—he always is. But now? You’re the one keeping him steady.

Your fingers skim up his back, tracing the hard lines of muscle. “I trust you,” you whisper.

Three simple words. But they hit him harder than anything ever has.

His hands still. His breathing stops. He wants to say you shouldn’t. He wants to say he doesn’t deserve it.

But he can’t.

Because he needs to believe you.

His lips brush against your temple, his hands skimming lower, resting on your thighs. He spreads them slowly, carefully, settling between them.

“Tell me you still want this,” he murmurs, voice rough, unsteady.

You nod, but he shakes his head. “No. Say it.”

“I want this,” you breathe, cheeks flushed. “I want you.”

His restraint nearly snaps in half.

A strangled groan escapes his throat, his fingers digging into the sheets instead of your skin. He drops his forehead to your stomach, inhaling sharply before pressing a lingering kiss there.

“You have no fucking idea what you’re doing to me.”

But you do.

And you love it.

Homelander drags his lips back up your body, trailing slow, soft kisses along your skin. Taking his time. Worshipping you. Letting this be more than just a claim.

His hands frame your face again, his thumbs stroking over your cheeks as he leans in. “I’ll go slow,” he murmurs against your lips.

It’s not a question.

It’s a promise.

You nod, exhaling shakily as he positions himself at your entrance, teasing, just barely pushing inside.

Your body tenses instinctively, nerves curling tight in your stomach. But instead of pushing further, he stops. Waits.

His lips ghost over yours. “Relax, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice warm, steady. “I’ve got you.”

You let out a slow breath, unclenching, willing your body to trust him the way your heart does.

And when he feels you loosen beneath him, he pushes in just a little more, watching your face, searching for any flicker of discomfort.

The stretch is overwhelming. The heat. The way he’s everywhere all at once.

He stills, barely halfway in, his jaw clenched so tightly it looks like it might crack. “So fucking tight,” he breathes, gripping the sheets beside your head.

You shift slightly, adjusting, and a strangled groan leaves his throat. His hands fly to your hips, holding you still.

“Don’t move,” he grits out.

You bite your lip, looking up at him. His pupils are blown wide, his expression wrecked, desperate.

You lift a hand to his face, brushing your fingers over his cheek, grounding him. “It’s okay. I trust you,” you whisper again.

His breath shudders.

And then, with one slow, deliberate motion, he finally pushes in completely.

A gasp rips from your lips, your fingers clutching at his shoulders, your body stretching to take him. He stills again, pressing kisses to your jaw, your throat, whispering something soft, something only you can hear.

“Are you okay?” His voice is tight, strained.

You nod, swallowing hard as you breathe through the sensation, letting yourself adjust.

Then, after a moment, you shift, a silent invitation.

His fingers tighten on your waist.

“Fuck,” he mutters, dropping his forehead against yours. “You were made for me.”

And then, slowly, carefully, he starts to move.

And for the first time in his life, he doesn’t take.

He gives.

His movements are slow at first—achingly slow—like he’s still holding onto the last thread of his control, afraid to push too hard, afraid to lose himself completely in the heat of you. His hands grip your hips, not to claim, not to take, but to anchor himself, to keep from unraveling.

He watches your face, his eyes searching—always searching—for any flicker of discomfort, any sign of hesitation. But all he sees is you, lips parted, cheeks flushed, your breath coming in soft, uneven pants.

And fuck, you’re so beautiful like this.

A low groan rumbles in his chest, his forehead pressing against yours as he exhales sharply. “You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs, his voice strained, wrecked. “I don’t—baby I—I don’t deserve this.”

You whimper softly, shifting beneath him, testing the way he fits, the way your body stretches around him. The sensation is foreign, intense, overwhelming in the best way possible. It aches, but not in a way that makes you want to stop. If anything, it makes you want more.

You reach up, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer. “You can go harder baby,” you whisper, breathless. “Just take me.”

His body shudders against yours, and for a moment, he just looks at you—like he’s trying to burn this into his memory, like he knows he’ll never feel anything as real as this again.

And then, finally, his control snaps.

His hips roll forward, slow but deep, pushing in just a little further, dragging a soft, breathy moan from your lips. He groans, his grip tightening on your hips as he starts to move, a steady rhythm that sends warmth curling deep in your stomach.

“Fuck,” he breathes, dropping his head to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re so—so wet for daddy.”

Your fingers dig into his back, nails dragging over the hard lines of muscle as you arch into him, inviting him deeper. He obliges, sinking into you fully, groaning at the way you squeeze around him.

“You’re taking me so well,” he murmurs, lips brushing over your jaw, down to your throat, where he lingers, breathing you in. “Didn’t think I’d be able to do this—be gentle—but fuck—”

He cuts himself off with another roll of his hips, just enough to make your breath hitch. You grip his shoulders, gasping softly, overwhelmed by the sheer size of him, the way he stretches you open, fills you completely.

“You okay?” he rasps, his voice edged with restraint, but there’s something else beneath it—something almost soft.

You nod, swallowing hard, your chest heaving. “Yes,” you whisper. “I—I just… I didn’t know it would feel like this.”

His lips curl into something like a smirk, but there’s no arrogance behind it, only warmth. “Yeah?” he murmurs, rolling his hips again, slower this time, dragging out the friction. “How does it feel, baby?”

You don’t have the words. All you can do is whimper, gasping as pleasure starts to curl through you, replacing the ache, melting the last remnants of tension from your body.

His smirk falters, his breath catching at the sound. “Such a good girl,” he mutters, but he’s barely holding on.

His pace quickens just a fraction, his hips pressing deeper, moving with purpose now, with intent. His mouth finds yours, swallowing your moans as he thrusts into you, each roll of his hips measured, precise.

“You really were made for me,” he groans against your lips. “Look at you—taking me so fucking perfectly. You are such a good girl, waiting for daddy for so long.”

You shudder, back arching, heat coiling tight in your stomach. You don’t know if it’s his words or the way he’s moving inside you, but it’s building, growing stronger, a pleasure so intense you don’t know what to do with it.

He feels it. Sees it. The way your body trembles beneath him, the way your fingers tighten in his hair.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice low, coaxing. “Let me feel it. Cum for me baby.”

And you do.

The pleasure crashes over you like a wave, white-hot and blinding. You cry out, clutching at him as your body clenches around him, pulling him deeper, drowning him in you.

He groans, burying his face in your neck, his rhythm faltering as he chases his own release. His hips snap forward, thrusts turning erratic, desperate, until finally, with a rough, shuddering breath, he breaks.

His body goes taut, a deep growl tearing from his throat as he spills into you, holding you tight, as if letting go would shatter him completely.

For a moment, neither of you move. The only sound in the room is your uneven breathing, the steady pound of your heart in your ears. His weight settles against you, warm, grounding, his forehead still pressed against your shoulder.

Then, slowly, gently, he lifts his head, his fingers tracing lazy circles over your hip.

His eyes find yours, something unreadable flickering in their depths. He swallows hard, his jaw tightening.

“Mine,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You smile sleepily, still dazed, your fingers brushing over his cheek. “Yours,” you whisper.

His lips press against yours, slow and deliberate, like he’s grounding himself in the feeling of you.

He always thought he was a god—but there must be another one who brought you to him. Maybe he’s human after all.

*:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧✧・ﾟ: *✧・ﾟ:* ˚₊· *:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧✧・ﾟ:

[siriusleee]

vii. goats

Zombie Apocalypse AU | SIMON RILEY x f!READER

↳SUMMARY: The world is trying to knit itself back together after fracturing apart. You're trying to put yourself back together with it; Simon Riley is just trying to stay alive. ↳WORD COUNT: 1.6K ↳TAGS: mentions of cannibalism, mentions of shooting things, mentions of dying. smut to come. canon typical violence to come. additional tags to come as the story progresses. female reader. no mentions of "your name". reader is given a nickname later on.nc-17. ↳AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, as promised, an update. Not as promised, a timely or long one. ↳TAG LIST: There will not be a tag list for this story, as Tumblr has issues with letting me tag people. To get notifications of updates, please subscribe on AO3 or turn on notifications for my blog.

additional chapters | ao3

You try to keep up with Ghost, but you're still bruised and broken. He loses you easily; it irritates you to think that he had been humoring and allowing you to keep up with him. But you limp behind him, allowing yourself to indulge in curiosity for the first time in a long time. You emerge into the weak sunlight, squinting as your eyes adjust. It seems like everyone from the compound is standing outside, guns and eyes trained on the gate.

They swing open, a heavy truck pulling in slowly. You try to catch a glimpse of them, but it's lightning in your leg to try and stand on your tiptoes.

"That's the advanced guard coming back."

Your heart stutters in your throat as you jump from Doc's words. She's appeared at your elbow, shirt sleeves pushed up around her elbows.

"The advanced guard?"

Doc nods, eyes trained on the crowd.

"When this all first started, the government's main goal was to keep the peace. After that, their goal became reunification of whoever was out there. These guys are still operating under that order."

"So they go out and search for other little pockets of communities? Do they ever find any?"

Doc shakes her head.

"Not any worth sticking with."

She sights, before jerking her head like she's remembered something important. She digs in her pocket, pulling out two more little white pills. 

"I tried to find you this morning to give you these. Come by the next few days when you wake up to come grab them."

The pills feel like weights in your hand and all of a sudden your dizzy again by what this place is. Years, fucking years, you'd been half starved in the forest, watching the few people you could cobble together die of starvation and sickness and cold. And here was this place all pristine and perfect and with fucking antibiotics. How many of your group could have been saved if you would have known this was here? How many names would you be able to remember without feeling like there was a kick in the chest. 

Doc seems to understand your feeling because as she starts to walk away, she nods at you to follow. You feel the pills break in half beneath the grip you have on them, and you follow, not sure what else to do. Doc waits until the two of you are back in front of the mess hall, farther away from the advanced guard before she starts talking again.

"I'm sure Ghost told you everyone here gets a job; can I ask what you did before this?"

"I was a midwife back when I lived in the United States. When I moved here, I had to work in the front office at a dental office."

Doc hums, eyebrows high.

"A midwife? You can deliver babies?"

"Well it's been a very long time, but yes technically. I'd need the supplies though, and I can't help if the lady needs a C-section."

"Well, we'll find something for you to do here."

"Who's in charge here, by the way? I would have thought whoever was in charge would have wanted to meet me or something."

"We don't have one person in charge exactly. Ghost and Soap were the lead trainers back in the day, and they certainly listen to what I tell them because if they want to be sewn up they have to be nice. We're more like a democracy."

“A democracy cannot exist as a permanent form of government. It can only exist until the voters discover that they can vote themselves largesse from the public treasury," you say, the quote slipping from you without any thought at all. It suprises you that you remember it - that you can remember a morning sitting in your dad’s classroom while he wrote down what he was going to say that day. It rushes over you, and with everything else, nearly takes your knees out from underneath you. 

"What's the from?" Doc asks, eyebrows nearly disappearing into her short hair. 

"I don't remember - my father was a History teacher. I've got a thousand quotes I remember him saying, but I can't remember what they come from."

You can’t remember much, anymore. You don’t want to - don’t want to think about your parents and if they’re alright. You’ll never find out. Those last days, you’d tried to get a hold of them. Planes had been grounded - they were forced to after multiple crash landed when someone reanimated mid-flight and created terror - and you knew as the news did their best to quell everyone’s terror, that you’d never make it back home. You would never see your parents again, so you’d tried to call them. But the phone had only rang and rang until eventually it didn’t ring at all. And then everything really fell apart, and you had so much blood on your hands before you had to leave home already. 

Doc’s face softens as she takes in your silence, her hands buried in her pocket. 

"Well - let's get you something to take those pills with."

The goat bleats at you as you push it away with your knee. You recognize the stubbornness in its eye as it thinks about head butting you, but changes its mind as it huffs away to chew at a small patch of grass.

There hadn’t been any jobs that were open, that were needed for a civilian type like you with a still healing leg to do. But Doc had suggested your knowledge of delivering babies could be transferred over to the animals. “How different can it really be?” She’d asked - explaining that she’d only had a few experiences with birth during her training, and they’d lost quite a few of the animals in the past years.

You didn’t mind. The animals didn’t stare at you like you were a freak, an outsider like the rest of the compound. You didn’t feel the need to be on edge around them. The chickens cluck at you, annoyed as you sweep them back towards the coop, their feathers rustling in annoyance with you as you shut the door behind them and flip the lock to keep them in for the night. In the sky, the sun is growing heavy, sinking down lower and lower each minute.

You study the soldiers posted on the edge of the fence; you wonder if any of them ever get the idea to just walk off into the wilderness and see what else is out there. You wonder if they've seen as much of the country as you have in the past few years, if they -

A low whistle breaks you from your thoughts. At the gate, a burly man stands, gun slung across his chest. You can make out the shape of him clearly in the dusk, all sharp angles and worn down edges - a hint of warmth in the darkness. He's the one who's been walking around with Ghost the past week, the man Ghost had been ignoring your for- his grin a start contrast to the furrowed brows Ghost wears everyday.

"Time to switch little Dove."

[afterlife-2004]

FIRST OFFICIAL TRAILER FOR THE SONIC MOVIE 3! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! 🦔💨💙💥🦔🖤❤️⚡️

[delusionalblfan]

you know what i miss the most? a stable mental state

[wildsaltair]

We sound like two wives of antiquity that find each other in the river shore to do laundry and pridefully comment about their mighty warrior husbands that are temporally absent for war.

Isn't that sweet? Matching delusions lol 💕💕

This is THE CUTEST mental image, friend!!! I love it so much <3 This is us on this website every single day. You listen to me prattle on about Maximus and I listen to you loving on Achilles. I will forever think of you as my river-laundry buddy 💕

[blooming-periwxnkle]

Idk why I never realized it, but Suwon is quite similar to Arjuna, one of the heroes of an epic from our country..

Maybe one day I'll write a post about it...

There is a saying here, if you want to accomplish your goal, make sure to only see the bird's eye( basically your end goal) and not other things, just like Arjuna saw.

To accomplish something, it is important that you put all your focus on the task and prioritize only that.

Suwon, too, is known to keep his eyes only on the main goal...

But that's not all..

Arjuna had to raise weapons against his loved ones and his brothers. He could not bear it. He could not bear to fight against his own kin. He wanted to give up because he did not wish to live with the blood of his own on his hands.

He was then reminded of his 'duty' as a warrior. About his responsibilities and how he must fulfill them. He must not be worried about who he's fighting against because, as a warrior, his duty is to fight.

He is also told to do his duty without being attached to its results, that is, whether he wins or loses, lives or dies, whatever the consequence is, he must not care about it, because he is not 'entitled' to the fruits of his actions.

Now, of course, Suwon wanted to avenge his father, I'm not denying that, but also, he did not succumb to his desire of getting revenge. He waited, and he gave Il a chance to see if he could rule properly. But I think it's definitely apparent that he does not desire the throne. He wishes to improve the condition of his kingdom, his country that his father loved so much. Now, one might say that it's because he knows that he has the crimson illness. He knows he's fated to die early, so what's the point? But even before that, we see that Suwon only wanted to stand beside his father and fight on the battlefield and wanted to give up his life for him someday. He did what he had to. Was it the only way? Was it the right thing to do? Was it right to severe the bonds he held so close to his heart? These are questions only he could answer, I guess. But was it right to let the kingdom fall into shambles? Was it right to let so many people die for the sake of a mere God's prophecy? I believe the answer is no.

Edit: okay, I removed character and replaced it with hero, because, Arjuna was a hero. And I'll let you all know that he was never condemned for performing his duty. In fact, to this day, he is revered as one of the greatest warriors.

So in case you want to know why I like him sm, here's the answer to it.

And, Wei Wuxian once said, "Let the self judge the right and wrong, let others decide to praise or to blame. Let the gains and losses remain uncommented on."

He did what he thought was necessary. Whether we like it or not is, of course, up to us, but in my case, I like him, so there's that. Regarding Hak and Yona, things could've been different, but I still stand by the fact that it's the responsibility of all three of them, not just him. And the text does try to tell us that he is not a cold and uncaring person. He cares for his friends. I still believe if the three of them try to, they could find a better path.

[burning-thistles-bt]

Here’s some of the sketches I’ve done ! I’m sending Finch’s separately since I didn’t know if you’d post bloody art or not

Couldn’t find an Oakheart art, so I used mine! He’s short and has a cool mustache

So Far I’ve got Cloudtail, Lizardflight, Scourge, Thistlestar, and BlueOak! (And Finch)

I'm back from my busy weekend lol

Sketchies! I love Cloudtail's floof! And Scourge's poker face! And Oakheart being a flirt lol

[13thpythagoras]

If you like Apollo 12 lore, here is a fun one, just to peek at some of the declassified scientific data that came out of that mission is possibly mind blowing and world shattering, you've been warned

...but the "fine print" of the results here are that the moon vibrated for over an hour after they merely dropped a 20 lb weight onto the surface from high up.

This result has been corroborated by further tests done later, but Al Bean was among the first to discover that the moon is just hollow, gut wrenchingly, world spinningly hollow, we have to put that in our soup and boil it, we have to put that in our pipe and smoke it, the goddamn moon is hollow shout out Al Bean and Apollo 12, great work

[doberbutts]

I've told this story before but the non-negotiable in allyship really reminded me of my gaming group. So one of my best friends is a twin and while I know *her* pretty well I don't really know her brother as well despite knowing him for roughly same length of time. We play videogames together and her brother asked to join us so at some point I took him aside and had The Talk with him because we at that point had a recently out trans fem within the group and she had just barely started hormones and hadn't done any voice training etc so I fully intended to head any trouble off at the pass.

So I basically had the "respect my friend's pronouns or die by my sword" discussion because while he knows I'm a trans guy and had so far been chill, I didn't know if that extended to all trans people.

What I did not expect was for him to pull an uno reverse on me and invite his two trans woman friends to game with us as well and did a "no no, *you* respect *my* friends' pronouns or die by *my* sword".

When I was working at Petco, one of my coworkers came to me having a total panic and anxiety meltdown and when I finally got them to tell me what was going on, the revealed they had sought me out because they were having Transgender Feelings and wanted advice. I ended up giving them my old binders that were too small for me but a perfect fit for them, and one of my roommates gave them their first masc haircut.

A few weeks later a customer speaking Spanish was saying many nasty things about my coworker and reacting with disgust. Another coworker- a cis gay man who speaks fluent Spanish- came to get me first so I could pull the other coworker away while he effectively cussed them out in Spanish. He told us the sparknotes version of the English translation and it was mostly horrifically transphobic drivel. My coworker had responded mostly neutrally to me being trans, but for him to be visibly steamed the rest of the day over my other coworker definitely bumped my respect for him.

And I've talked about how a cis lesbian friend of mine visibly bristles at anyone she even thinks is being shitty to me about being trans to the point of making them splutter and back down.

A cishet woman I am only sort of acquaintances with once caught me wincing at being she/her'd at a trial and asked if that had been happening all day. When I responded the affirmative, she stormed off and I didn't see her the rest of the day. The next day, any time anyone referred to me there was an audible pause before a deliberate choice to choose masc versions.

Another trans woman who is a friend of mine once beat up a bully for calling her trans boyfriend a heshe when they were in schooling together.

It's about holding the line. It's about making the active choice to show up for each other. And it's about linking hands and refusing to budge.

If you cannot hold the line with me by your side, then we are not moving together.

[webism]

best friend!ino is such a desperate loser for you, and he’s hardly ashamed of it. always at your beck and call and ready to serve—need a wedding date? he’s buying a suit. need a night off? he’ll finish up any paperwork you’ve got to do. need to destress after a long day? use him like a sex toy until you’re satisfied.

you thought he was joking when he first offered. but you were pent up and he was looking you straight in the eyes and asking—no, begging—to be used by you. takuma, you realised very quickly, will do anything to please you.

and he loves knowing he’s making you feel good. with you laid out on clean sheets, his hair tickling the insides of your thighs as he makes out with your pussy like he’s in love with it, which he is. moans as he eats you out, watching you through his lashes for any sign that you’re enjoying the way his tongue feels lapping at your clit.

he’s messy, strings of spit connecting him to you as he pulls back to tell you just how perfect you are. so he can watch his fingers plunge into you, curl upwards and bring you to orgasm. he never makes you wait, never makes you beg—he’d rather die than deny you anything.

and if you let him fuck you, feel you from the inside out, he’s just as eager to please. lets you ride him, control the pace and timing and keep him in check because he gets overexcited and too rough and fast sometimes. he can’t help it, though, you make him restless.

how good you feel wrapped around his aching cock, tip red and sore and desperate to fill you up with him cum. he has to do anything to keep himself from cumming—anything to hold out long enough for you to use him to his full potential. god he wants to be good for you, he’ll bite his lip and do math in his head and think about anything but the way you sink down on him and move your hips in painfully slow rolling waves of melting lust and—

he doesn’t realise you want him to come undone until he’s emptying his balls inside of you with teary eyes and choked apologies. your smile, though, tells him that you’ve been given exactly what you want. because when you kiss his forehead and push him back down into the mattress, takuma is met with another roll of your hips and the dawning realisation that you’re going to overstimulate his poor cock until you’re bored of the way he fills you so fucking deep it hurts.

he can take it, though. even if he can’t—he will. anything to make you feel good.

for my tumblr crush @creamflix

[cuntyji]

the first video nanami ever posted was filmed on a shaky phone propped up against a bag of flour.

he was making bread—simple, easy, the kind of thing he found comfort in after long days at work. his hands moved methodically, kneading the dough with a quiet precision, and though he spoke very little, the video was oddly calming.

he hadn't expected much from it. maybe a few views, maybe a couple of people who’d appreciate the lack of unnecessary chatter. but the comments were overwhelmingly positive, people asking about his technique, his recipe, his voice—deep, smooth, effortlessly steady. so he made another video. then another.

it was the late-night upload of him singing "baby one more time" by the marías that changed everything.

filmed on an old macbook with a grainy webcam, the lighting barely enough to make out his face, the video had been an impulse decision—one he almost deleted. it was just him, sitting on his couch, his voice low and hushed, the way he usually sang to lull yuuji to sleep. but the internet clung to it like ivy, twisting and reaching until the video had over a million views by the end of the week.

"who is he." "why is this the most intimate thing i've ever heard in my life." "he looks exhausted and sounds like a dream, i'm in love."

he thought it would pass. but it didn't.

his subscribers doubled overnight. the demand for more was loud, insistent. nanami, being nanami, didn’t rush to meet it. instead, he structured it into his routine: one video a week, a mix of baking and singing—because baking was reliable, and singing had never been something he shared outside of yuuji’s bedtime.

his channel evolved. the baking videos became polished, edited with subtle precision. he switched to voiceovers, explaining each step in that same low, deliberate tone that made people feel like he was speaking just to them. and when he sang, it was always songs that carried a quiet sort of nostalgia.

"he only sings songs he sings to his kid to sleep i’m crying." "his lullabies are better than half the music industry." "i don’t know his name, his age, or his face properly, but i know his banana bread recipe by heart."

nanami never explicitly talked about being a single dad, but it was impossible to miss. yuuji’s voice sometimes made cameos in the background, muffled questions about homework, laughter when nanami burnt the edges of a cake. he didn’t hide it, didn’t play it up. it was just a part of his life, and his audience adored him for it.

his faq video—one of the few times he ever directly addressed personal questions—answered almost nothing.

"are you married?" "no." "how old are you?" "old enough." "what's your name?" "nanami."

the mystery only made people more obsessed.

"i know nothing about him but i’d die for him." "his hands. his voice. his existence." "the fact that he bakes and sings for his kid and still won’t tell us his age is crazy."

he now posted twice a week. one video was always baking, the other was whatever he wanted—sometimes music, sometimes a quiet q&a, sometimes just a video of him making tea while rain hit the windows.

people knew everything and nothing about him at the same time. they knew the exact ratio of brown sugar he preferred in cookies but not what city he lived in. they knew he tucked yuuji in every night with a song but had never seen his full face in a single frame. they knew the precise cadence of his voice when he said “and that’s how you make the perfect loaf” but had never heard him say “i love you”—and yet, somehow, they felt like they had.

the internet had fallen in love with him. and nanami, quietly, without even trying, had changed his life with nothing but flour-dusted hands and the sound of his own voice.