#Control fanfiction

[solynaceawrites]

"Three clicks. That’s all it takes to step between the Oldest House and the Oceanview Motel. Find a light cord, pull it twice, take a deep breath—better hold it, too, because that second of displacement is akin to stepping into space without wearing a suit—and then give the final tug. Blink, and the sterile walls of the FBC give way to golden hour sunlight and kitschy decor, haunting silence devoured by the scratchy tunes of jukebox jazz."

Set after the events of Control and featuring Jesse Faden, the Oceanview Motel, and whatever lurks within its labyrinthine depths. Written for @fbczine.

Read it now on A03!

[sylibane]

In 2003, a group of kids discovered a birdcage with the ability to make any letter left inside it disappear, supposedly sent to the future. But nobody realized the birdcage’s true power until it was almost too late. In 2019, a pair of low-level FBC employees wait out the Hiss Invasion by sorting through the letters and other documents of the birdcage incident to figure out what happened, only to realize that something is alive in the words. Presented here are the transcripts of their taped conversations, along with the relevant documents of the case.

I made myself a cover page for Letters from the Dead! If you enjoy reading fake documents or seeing some FBC grunts get up to their own adventure, this fic is for you!

[noodlecupcakes]

So I finally got around to writing something for the Tom Zane X Casper Darling ship...enioy

[chriscdcase95]

Chapter Sixteen: “After the Storm”

Okay, long, LONG, time coming, but I've been sitting on this one for over a year, but we're finally getting a full Pricefield chapter, after spending sixteen chapters mostly in the background.

We are also gonna be following up a segment I wrote in chapter 3 (all the way back from 2020). I've been meaning to do this one last year, but I had other arcs to wrap up. Mainly Rachel’s LA storyline.

Now this is a Route A chapter (”Sacrifice Arcadia Bay”), and will cover the immediate aftermath of the Bae ending, at least this fic’s version of that ending, and the FBC's investigation.

It was gonna be longer and would focus on Max and Chloe's years together before the present day, but I didn't want to over bloat the chapter. Luckily, it’s Route B (“Sacrifice Chloe”) version won’t be that much of a hassle to write. 

We were also gonna cover how the cast of Until Dawn meet and befriends the surviving LIS cast in 2015. But that can be saved for a later date.

There are other things I was hoping include; properly introducing Chloe's grandmother, Beth Price, after spending a while talking about her; as well as finding out more about this “Diana Reid” that Jonathan and Ashbury being up here and there. 

But I think Diana will get her own chapter covering her backstory. 

One newcomer we have is Agent “Gabriel Wallace”, an FBC agent and a seemingly minor but key player in the lore of Vampyr and this fic’s backstory. Though I’m not really subtle about his true identity. “Wallace” also briefly appears in the previous chapter, but this is his proper introduction.

Anyways, with what I did include, I hope you enjoy the read. We’re also getting several characters I’ve been wanting to feature for a while; be it those lost to the storm, who it’s survivors.

Content Warning: Canon character deaths and violence typical to the story thus far. There’s also mentions, allusions and a quick instance of sexual assault; however, there’s nothing too graphic depicted there.

[cdpdraws]

trope that makes me crazy.png

[stervrucht]

How I feel after finally finishing that long-ass chapter...

[jadewritesficshere]

Steddie soulmate AU where Eddie is a famous musician, everyone assumes he doesn't have a soulmate. Eddie was just smart and doesn't confirm, doesn't want to go through rabid fans who claim to be his soulmate. He's had too many show up wearing his initials they tattooed on themselves even before he was asked about soulmates in an interview.

Enter Steve Harrington who works as a nurse. Just casually on his third nightshift in a row in the ER. Sipping some coffee trying not to fall asleep when they get the call about some confidential patient coming in.

Eddie comes in for some injury. Steve has 0 clue who he is, just says "You look familiar, did we go to school together?" And Eddie practically falls off the stretcher at Steve's feet. Goes all googoo eyes at him. Steve being mildly concerned because Eddie's heart rate keeps skyrocketing (its because Steve is touching him).

One of the other nurses can't help but try and get the gossip from Steve, who is very much confused as to why she cares about this random patient. She tells Steve who Eddie is, and he's just like ???? Okay???

Steve doesn't admit it but the picture she shows is HOT. It's Eddie, flipping off the camera, tongue out. He's covered in tattoos, including the word 'sorry' written in a weird script on his middle finger. He's shirtless and his pants are so low that Steve can see the dip of his hips creating a v and-

Steve has to walk into the supply room to get himself under control. Pretends it doesn't mean anything and goes back to his job as his heart thuds rapidly in his chest.

Eddie tries not to pass out when they draw his blood, Steve holds his hand. It feels right. Eddie can't help wanting to ask," Hey, do you have a soulmate?" But he hates being asked that question, so he won't.

Until Steve bends over, his scrub top lifting up slightly. Eddie can't help glancing at his ass, but then he can't breathe. Because on his lower back is the initials EJM.

"Steve G. H?" Eddie asks as his voice goes up an octave. Steve turns, bewildered ," How did you-?" "Edward James Munson." Eddie whispers.

Oh

[everytimewetouch-dot-mp3]

svsss omegaverse au where only those with profound cultivation ability develop into alphas or omegas. this means both powerful spiritual cultivators and powerful demon lines

under luo binghe’s rule, any alpha or omega in the general populace is brought to bingge’s palace. omega women are added to the harem without question, tho there are a notable few alpha women there as well (shl and lmy).

sy transmigrates into a wandering omega cultivator exploring the world (the world building was the best part of that dumbfuck novel and now he gets to experience it firsthand!!!). his exploration quickly takes him from the few safe remaining human cities and into the wider world.

he’s chased for days by different demon groups until one finally catches him, because junshang’s been hell-bent on finding some particular male omega for the past few months. he’s put out a bounty and everything; whoever brings the right omega gets riches and their choice of one treasure from junshang’s vault.

everyone thinks he’s gonna kill this dude. they assume the omega wronged junshang somehow and he wants revenge. sy is scared absolutely shitless. these guys tie him up in immortal binding cables and beat him up a little bit. by the time they make it to the underground palace, sy looks fuckin rough

and surprisingly, lord luo is not pleased by this. so displeased, in fact, that he cuts the demons down right there in the middle of his reception hall? sy is 100% sure he’s gonna be next and he nearly passes out when bingge approaches. (part of him is screaming because!!!! luo binghe!!! in the flesh!!!!! with an air of power and deadly beauty and strength!!!! the protagonist!!!)

lbg studies sy’s face for a minute, then has servants take him away. he’s bathed (THOROUGHLY!! maybe TOO thoroughly!!! he can wash his own ass!! thank you!!) and styled, and with the cables removed he can finally heal his injuries from being captured.

the next time they meet, lbg seems weirdly angry. his hands are shaking and his face is red, and every time he makes eye contact with sy, he growls and looks sharply away. he’s definitely barely holding back from killing sy!! maybe it’s because sy left the human cities? maybe it’s because he was poking around somewhere off-limits?? sy has no idea what he did.

lbg leads him down down to the water prison, and again sy almost passes out. my mans definitely pukes into the water just from the smell alone. it’s…a gory scene. but what’s most unsettling about it isn’t the emptiness in sqq’s eyes or the desperate grunting that only becomes louder the closer lbg brings sy.

what’s most unsettling is how similar they look. they could be brothers, their family resemblance is powerful. same face shape, same nose, same cheekbones.

and sy gets it then. bingge is done playing with sqq; there’s nothing really left to do to him (though he’s still got his dick…sy was one of the loudest proponents of cutting it off for what he did to ning yingying!) so lbg must be looking for a replacement.

lbg studies them both for a long time, as if cataloguing all the similarities between their faces. the whole time, sy is shaking, trying not to fall over. eventually, lbg must be satisfied, because he looks sy up and down slowly before muttering. ‘you’ll do for now. we can see how you measure up.’

POORLY!!! shen yuan is determined to measure up extremely poorly to that old shizun of lbg’s!! to save his own skin, he’ll be nothing like that asshole!!

thus begins shen yuan’s plan to treat the emperor with such doting, kind respect that he’ll see nothing of sqq in him beyond his unfortunate face!! surely lord luo won’t want to kill someone so kind to him!!

(every measure of shen yuan’s kindness is overwhelming to lbg. after so long he’s found what that other him flaunted in his face. a close relative of his shizun’s, no doubt, (maybe a twin separated at birth?) who became that other binghe’s shizun in that timeline. he’s kind and gentle and so concerned with binghe’s wellbeing in a way…no one has since his mother, so so long ago. that one morning with the other shizun was so sweet, but this—having this omega here in his palace, fussing at him to eat more and dress more warmly when he goes to the north, smiling unrestrained, smelling so impossibly sweet—this is so much better than he could have imagined. luo bingge will convince this shen yuan to be his omega. not as a concubine, but as a proper wife. first wife, maybe. empress, even. whatever it takes to get him to say yes. whatever it takes to keep him.)

[natalievoncatte]

Kara had a guilty pleasure, one she didn’t share with anyone. It would have been awkward, and besides, everyone- friends, family, Lena; they all would have mocked her, relentlessly. It was the first of September and Kara was bracing herself for six months of the most exquisite torture.

She wasn’t expecting it on Lena’s desk.

When she walked into the office, the scent hit her. It tickled something in her brain and set her nerves alight, cascading shivers of excitement running down her limbs.

Kryptonians, you see, are not human. They are aliens, and react to things, to stimuli, in ways humans do not. The most obvious implication of this is Kryptonite, or rather the Kryptonite radiation it emits, which is unique to Kara’s lost homeworld and is deadly poisonous to her while being essentially harmless to humans without both significant and prolonged exposure.

There were, however, other things that Kara responded to differently. Certain flavors were too intense; some things her peers found pleasant were overwhelming or inexplicably bitter or otherwise unpalatable. Her enhanced hearing, even without her powers active, made her sensitive to noises that a human wouldn’t even notice. The list went on and on.

One thing in particular, though, was especially… stimulating to her. It got her motor going, as it were. Not like that, of course. Ironically it had the same effect on her that caffeine had on humans, even in small quantities.

There was something in pumpkin spice that excited Kara. Just not like that.

Okay, maybe a little like that. Even the scent of it made her feel things, and there was a steaming hot cup of it on Lena Luthor’s desk.

Kara had been summoned over some editorial matter of little consequence, probably an excuse to chat. When she stepped into her office, Kara stopped dead because Lena reached across her desk and picked up that cup and Kara was already having trouble.

Lena was… Lena. She was dressed in thigh high boots and black jeans and a tight, low cut green sweater that revealed a generous swell of cleavage that immediately drew Kara’s brazen eye. She caught herself looking and quickly put a stop to it, but Lena was looking right at her, smoldering green eyes peering at her over the rim of that damned coffee cup.

Great Rao, Lena was beautiful. Her hair was swept over one shoulder, baring the elegant column of her neck and her sharp jawline. Her visible ear carried multiple piercings dripping with diamonds and there was a faint pink tinge to her pale cheek. The red of her lipstick was almost violent and she positively smoldered. One might have thought she was dolled up for a photo shoot.

Kara was staring at those lips as she took a sip of coffee, leaving a faint white stain on the white cup.

Such a visual feast with the mere scent of the spices in her coffee was enough to weaken Kara’s knees and make her secretly fidget her toes inside her shoes. It was only a quick chat, a five minute conversation, but it was excruciating trying to get through it like this.

“Earth to Kara,” Lena sighed.

Kara blinked. “Okay.”

“Okay, you’ll go?”

“Where am I going?”

Lena rolled her eyes.

“Okay, Kara, you’re benched.”

“Wait, what?”

Lena huffed. “Look, it’s noble, going days without sleep while you live your double life, and we did agree that Supergirl duties will take precedence over your work here… but I can see you’re exhausted. I can’t order you to stop rescuing cats from trees and helping old ladies with their taxes, but I can order you to take the rest of the week off from working here. Which you are. Starting now.”

Actually, Lena probably could order her to stop doing things. Lena could probably order to do anything with the spicy tang in her nostrils and the quivering weakness in her limbs as heat gathered low in her belly. Kara was glad that she had just been ordered out.

“Oh,” Lena said, “and stop at Noonan’s on your way out. I hear the pumpkin spice lattes are your favorite and well,” she gave her cup a little shake.

Kara decided she would not stop at Noonan’s.

She stopped at Noonan’s. She got a PSL and a pumpkin spice bear claw and a dozen pumpkin spice donuts and consumed them all in the span of five minutes once she set foot inside her loft, after which she spent the next thirty in the shower thinking about Lena’s pillowy red lips and how kissable they were and her pale skin and how badly she wanted to mark it as hers and she sort of spent an hour in a pumpkin spice fueled fugue, and then passed out on her bed buck-ass naked.

Which was where she still was when the knock came at the door.

Her head shot up from the bed and she realized that it was movie night and she was hosting. She had no movies picked out, no snacks, and no clothes.

What she did have was super-speed, and this had a spread of frozen snacks ready to go in the oven, and a stack of blu-rays to be voted on, and pants. She needed pants and probably a bra and definitely a shirt. Humans were weird about their torsos. Fortunately Kryptonians were, too. Kara was rather lucky that she hadn’t landed on a planet that considered shirts obscene.

There were at least two like that, which isn’t a lot, but it was more than you’d think.

Kara opened the door and greeted Alex and Kelly, ushering them in. Brainy and Nia were next.

Lena showed up last, dressed in one of her peculiar movie night fits- a stylish leather jacket over honest to god fluffy pajamas, like a fashion plate going to a slumber party. Her hair was down and wavy and she looked soft and inviting and Kara wanted to snuggle her relentlessly and was very glad that the pumpkin spice was largely out of her system.

Largely.

Oh.

Lena lifted the two six packs she was carrying, giving Kara a suggestive arch of her eyebrow. Lena liked to bring gifts when Kara hosted, usually wine. Tonight she had twelve chilled bottles of… pumpkin spice beer.

Kara wanted to scream. Or possibly moan. Or possibly make Lena moan and maybe spank her a little.

Fuck!

“Hi-hi,” said Kara.

“Hi yourself,” said Lena. “Mind if I come in, or do you want to drink these right here?”

“C-come in,” said Kara.

“Eyyyyyy,” said Alex, as she saw the six packs. “The spice must flow!”

“The spice must flow,” Kelly repeated.

“Chai Hulud,” Nia said, in a faux-deep voice.

“I believe it is “Shai Hulud,” said Brainy.

“Sure, honey,” said Nia, patting his knee.

“You gonna hand those out?” said Alex.

“These are for our host,” said Lena. “Kara has plenty of spirits in her fridge.”

Alex busted out laughing, confusing the others.

Kara remained stone-faced.

Movie night then went on as normal. Everyone took seats, the first movie was voted on, snacks were enjoyed and beers were had. The pumpkin bottles sat in their cardboard holders in the fridge, untouched.

Until they got into the second movie, and Lena sauntered over from the kitchen carrying two bottles, and thrust one into Kara’s hands as she wedged herself in between Kara and Nia, casually tossing her legs over Kara’s lap.

Kara steadfastly did not look. She would not look. She would not look. Surely Lena was just making herself comfortable and private hadn’t noticed that the top couple of buttons on her pajama top had popped themselves and she was showing quite a generous amount of…

Kara looked away sharply. She had looked.

“Do the thing, darling,” said Lena.

“Do the thing! Do the thing! Do they thing!” Nia began to chant.

Sighing, Kara took her bottle and Lena’s, and popped the caps loose with a flock of her thumbs. Lena squealed in delight and Kara realized that actually drinking this concoction was an amazingly terrible idea.

Especially since Lena was basically in her lap now.

Kara tried not to drink, but the hint of that spicy scent from the beer was enough to make every nerve ending tingle and start a fire in her belly. She took a long pull on it and quickly realized she’d drained the bottle in one go.

Lena, grinning, stood up. Kara watched every sway of her hips as she marched to the kitchen, bent to grab another bottle from the bottom shelf of the fridge, and sashayed back to shamelessly plop right in Kara’s lap and offer her the new bottle.

The little display has gotten at least Alex’s attention, and she looked somehow at once horrified and amused and whispered to Kelly, who snorted.

Nia picked up on it next, after Kara had downed her fourth one of the cured pumpkin brews and her brain was sloshing around in sweet cinnamony goodness.

She was running into a considerable problem. Lena was curled up in her lap, draped across her in fact, a soft weight that was driving her absolute insane even as the scent of Lena’s… of Lena mingled with the spices singing in her veins. She forgot the movie. She forgot the existence of everything but Lena, and barely noticed when Alex announced,

“Guys, it’s late. I think we better head out so that Kara and Lena can clean up.”

“Perhaps we should help,” Brainy suggested.

“Nah, let’s go,” said Nia, who then muttered, “seriously Querl we need to go.”

Kara blinked and watched them all pile out, Alex shooting Lena a knowing look before rolling her eyes and closing the door.

Two seconds after the door closed, Lena twisted languidly in Kara’s lap, and was now no longer sitting in her lap but straddling her.

Kryptonians, you see, are not human. They are aliens, and react to things, to stimuli, in ways humans do not. They also have anatomical structures that humans do not, something that was was currently causing Kara to blush furiously, because Lena was well… sitting on it.

“I can explain,” Kara squeaked.

The look Lena gave her would have been devastating, pumpkin spice or no pumpkin spice. Lena’s face filled her vision as Lena placed her hands on Kara’s sides and rolled her hips, dragging a groan out of her.

“Is that explanation going to include a hands on demonstration?” said Lena. “I may need a few rounds before I fully understand.”

Kara swallowed hard. “You mean… you w-want to…”

“Kara,” Lena sighed. “How is someone who’s been flirting with me for five years so bad at flirting?”

Kara stared at her.

“Just, um, to clarify, you’re flirting with me, right?”

“I’m sitting in your lap unbuttoning my top, darling. I believe that qualifies.”

“You’re what?”

Lena grinned and swept her fingers down her chest, popping the rest of the buttons in sequence. The pajama top suddenly hung lose, baring the lush inner curves of her breasts while obscuring the rest of her in an agonizing promise.

Kara, finally, after years of this, took the hint and had Lena relieved of her fuzzy pajamas by the time they hit the bed.

The next morning, or rather next afternoon when Lena woke up, Kara looked over at her. Her eyes had just opened and she was grinning ear to ear.

“Lena?” said Kara.

“Yes? Before we go again I’m going to need a protein shake and some supplements.”

Kara felt her ears burning as her cheeks heated.

“Did you know about the pumpkin spice thing?”

“Pumpkin spice thing?” said Lena.

“Alex told you, right?”

Lena pursed her lips.

“Nope.”

“Cat Grant?”

“No, although I did ask her and she said you, and I quote, ‘creamed your khakis’ in front of her one time.”

“Then who?”

Lena grinned.

“I went to Clark to ask him the right way to go about seeking your attentions. Lois overheard and pulled me aside. Apparently you two share the same weaknesses.”

“My only weakness is you, baby.”

“Oh, it’s baby now, is it?”

“Yup,” said Kara.

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Jason had been acting strange lately, something everyone except him seemed to notice. It started with Jason bringing Tim a full home-cooked meal into his nest and insisting he needed to eat something decent and wouldn't let him get back to the case he was obsessing over until he did.

Dick got called "Big Wing" for the first time in a while and even got hugged and spun around. He nearly cried.

Bruce keeps getting called Dad. He also nearly cries. He actually does cry when Jason, half asleep, mutters a soft, "love you"

Cass took advantage of Jason's good mood to invite him to chat with her and Steph on a picnic where they both tried to figure out why he's so happy and buy time for Barbara to look through all the places Jason had been and make sure he didn't run foul of a rogue or something.

It didn't take her too long to find out all of this started soon after a party he was invited to via one of his former goons where Jason got drunk and left with an equally drunk guy.

Appearently Jason got laid but the guy disappeared soon after. Whats more mysterious is that this Daniel (Danny) Nightengale was a fake identity and they had no idea who- or what- he really was or what effect he was having on Jason.

Damian made the mistake of insulting this guy and it took Bruce, Dick, Tim and Cass working together to pull a pit raged Jason off of him.

Yeah.

They needed to find this guy.

Plot twist: Jason unknowingly fed on Dannys energy and accidentally got thralled

[blindmagdalena]

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter two )

18+ 3.8k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, masturbation, lite humiliation kink, lite somnophilia, breaking & entering, petty theft, sublander flavored. nebulously takes place post s1. part 2/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander is the most powerful man in the world, and all he wants is to be yours.

After spending the majority of your evening and the following morning anticipating being fired, walking into work the next day feels like traversing a thinly frozen lake, each step webbing out in precarious cracks.

Clearly you’re not the only one who thinks so: you clock a handful of surprised looks from coworkers who’d attended the meeting and took note of the tension between you and Vought’s golden boy.

Maybe they’d taken bets on whether or not you’d be coming in this morning.

There’s no sign of Homelander on your way in. Not that you were expecting him–yesterday was the first time you actually saw him in person–but you still find yourself on the lookout. It’s hard to say whether you’re anticipating or dreading him. Part of you is still expecting to open your door and find a letter on your desk politely informing you that they’ve determined you aren’t a good “culture fit” for the company, and that your probation has been terminated.

After all, who in their right mind would take your side over Homelander’s?

You push open your office door, and sure enough, there is a letter waiting for you, but not in the way you expected. You stand in the doorway, staring in quiet incomprehension. The envelope, crisp and bright white, is propped up in a bed of rich red roses sitting in a pretty vase upon your desk. You glance behind you before you step inside, closing the door behind you, and approach the desk cautiously. You pluck the paper out of the bouquet, taking a moment to smell the flowers–they smell as good as they look–before you carefully rip open the envelope, tearing the small american flag sticker that sealed it.

Inside, there’s only one word on the folded piece of paper, scrawled in surprisingly elegant handwriting.

Truce?

You can’t help the incredulous little bark of laughter you give at that. It’s not even an apology. It’s a demand that he expects a gratuitous bundle of flowers will help you swallow, like taking medicine with a spoonful of sugar.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say quietly to the letter, setting it down on your desk. You give the roses one last sniff, testing one of the soft petals between your fingers. You wonder if what you said actually got through to him.

Homelander has no real reason to smooth things over with you: you’re no one. He’s posed no risk to himself by coming after you. He could no doubt have you fired by complaining that your marketing tactics don’t align with his brand. It’s hard to imagine Vought denies him much.

Yet he is apparently negotiating peace. It’s not nearly enough, but it is a start.

Or maybe it’s just more than you expected.

You sit, idly tapping the letter against your desk. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t still think him handsome. Homelander wasn’t the first man to ogle your tits while you gave a presentation, but he was certainly the first to fluster you like that when he did. His sly smile had made you want to slap him, but there was a questionable little part of you that thought about kissing it better afterwards.

Taking in a steadying breath, you slip the letter into your desk drawer and adjust the flowers to the side, admiring them a moment before you pull out your laptop.

If Homelander can behave himself enough to let you do your job without public humiliation, you can afford a truce. You don’t need to forgive or condone him to be civil, or even to continue having your own private fantasies. A little guilty pleasure now and again never hurt anyone.

You can’t know that Homelander is observing you throughout this internal conversation, watching through several layers of steel and concrete, his parted lips curving into a slow smile as you accept his offering. You can’t know that you haven’t just acknowledged a truce, but an invitation.

No, you can’t possibly know what’s to come.

Two days later, you diligently change the water that the roses in your office sit in. They’re doing well, the crimson buds having unfurled into a splay of velvety petals. You pinch one between your thumb and forefinger and stroke it absently. Homelander has continued to be a scarcity, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen him. Quite the opposite: you spend most of your working hours either looking at or thinking about his face to the point where it’s starting to follow you home each day.

That’s what you tell yourself when you think of him outside of work hours, anyways.

It’s been long enough now that you wonder if the flowers were the end of it. He was simply covering his ass with a half hearted gesture that slightly resembled an apology so that you could both comfortably drop the subject. That was entirely fine by you so long as he actually did improve his behavior.

A familiarly brisk knock at your door catapults your heart up against the cage of your ribs like a spooked hare. It’s the exact same beat, you’re sure of it. You stay quiet, half expecting to be barged in upon, but when nothing happens, you move from your desk and open the door yourself, intentionally blocking it with your body.

Sure enough, Homelander stands tall on the other side. He flashes his signature smile while your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

“I think I’m the one who can help you,” he says brightly, that spread of teeth downright wolfish. He lifts a handful of papers that have been stapled at the corner, gesturing for you to take it.

Still wary, you take them from him and shift, wedging your foot to keep the door firmly in place while you flip through the pages. Your brows furrow as you recognize chunks of your own presentation. Understanding dawns when you realize that he’s annotated them.

“You read my presentation,” you say, unable to mask your surprise.

“Obviously. It’s my image on the line, right? Got some notes for you, but I have to say: y’mostly nailed it,” he says, reaching out to rest a gloved hand on the doorway.

“Mostly?” You echo, quirking an eyebrow at him as you look up from the pages.

“Yeah, mostly. Again, I have some minor notes,” he says, wiggling his other hand in a vague gesture. “But I figure I owe you praise on a job mostly well done.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Crossing your arms, you abandon your stern foothold on the door in order to shift your weight, your incredulity showing in every inch of your body language.  “What you owe me is an apology.”

Homelander’s grin softens into a smile that’s no less challenging. “Looks to me like you’ve already been enjoying my apology,” he says, leaning slightly to gaze past you, to the bundle of roses sitting prettily on your desk.

You briefly glance over your shoulder, but your expression remains impassive. Unimpressed. “That? That isn’t an apology. An apology would include the words I’m sorry.”

He scoffs a dismissive laugh, swaying back to look away, but you persist.

“I’m serious,” you say, luring his ocean blue gaze back to yours. “I want you to say to me ‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation. It won’t happen again.’ “

The two of you hold each other’s gaze with all the magnitude of two gunmen in a duel, hands steady over your proverbial pistols. 

To your surprise, Homelander does not fire back. He raises a dainty white flag.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation,” he says, words slow and measured. You watch his tongue flash over his bottom lip, wetting it attractively. You fight to not let your eyes linger on it. “It won’t happen again.”

You swallow, suddenly finding thought and speech an impossible task. You weren’t prepared for such raw, ready obedience from him, nor the intensity in his gaze that follows it. He reminds you of a charmed snake–docile so long as he is transfixed.

“Good,” you say, the word half a sigh. Homelander’s lips part and he breathes in like he’s caught wind of something particularly delicious smelling. “I accept your apology, and I appreciate that you took the time to do this,” you say, gesturing with the documents in your hand. “I’ll go over them and get back to you.”

He reaches out, bracing his hand on your office door. You half expect him to push it open, but he merely holds it there. “We could go over them together,” he suggests slyly.

“No,” you say, clearly disarming him. He looks as though he’s forgotten the meaning of the word. “I’m in the middle of another project at the moment.”

The leather of his gloves creaks faintly in your ear as he flexes his grip on the edge of the door. While what you’ve said is true, it’s also serving as a test. Words and flowers are pretty things, but only actions always speak the truth.

“At the moment,” he repeats, gears visibly turning in his eyes. “So… Later?” He extrapolates, displaying an uncharacteristic tentativeness alongside his obvious displeasure at the taste of rejection. You even see a glimmer of hope in the mess of his expression.. 

He did pass the test. You suppose you can reward him for that.

“Another time,” you say, giving your door an exploratory push. He relents, his hands sliding down the length of it before falling away as he takes a half-step back. “How about tomorrow on my lunch break? 1:00 o'clock sharp.”

He splits into a smile that looks more genuine than any of his you’ve seen before. “Aaalrighty-roo. Sounds gooood to meeeee,” he says, drawing out his vowels more the closer he gets to actually having to leave. At your silent, amused stare, he claps his gloved hands together with a muffled thump! and takes a few more steps backwards. “Yooooou’ll see me… tomorrow.”

Your smile pinches along with your brows. What a strange way to phrase it. “See you then,” you say, watching as his face is eclipsed by your closing door. You wait a beat and then let out a thin thread of breath from your pursed lips, resting your weight on the door.

Looking down at the papers in your hand, you push off from the door and head to your desk, flipping through them.

Such a strange man, you think, carrying the notes to your desk. You set them down next to the vase of roses and try not to think too much about the unconscious smile your lips keep settling into for the rest of the day.

Homelander’s got you hook, line and sinker. He’s certain of it. He lingers on the other side of your door just long enough to watch you through it while you settle, a charmed smile set on your lips. He can already imagine how those lips would feel against his own, how they’d taste. He swallows thickly and looks around before he departs, already plotting his next move.

The two of you have a date tomorrow, and in order to be at the top of his game, he’s going to have to do a little additional research. Knowing your work was a good first step. The next one will be learning about you.

Following you home is the easy part. It ultimately feels chivalrous to do so once he realizes you walk home even at this time of year, when the sun sets long before the work day ends. He drifts above you, cocking his head curiously. No wonder you walk. The streets are packed as tightly as sardine cans, and your apartment garage isn’t much better. The claustrophobia of it all serves as a stark contrast to the openness of Vought tower.

The interior of your apartment provides an even sharper juxtaposition to his penthouse. It’s tidy, but the comparatively low ceilings and minimal floor space still make it look cramped. Somehow, you simultaneously have too much and yet not much at all, the confinement of a downtown apartment making what minimal affects you do own seem crowded together.

That only becomes more apparent once he’s inside, slipped in through your balcony after sleep has taken you. Why would you bother to lock your balcony when you live on the 8th floor? It works out perfectly for him.

In all fairness, your living room feels cozier once he’s standing in the center of it. Your walls are lined with an assortment of art pieces and photographs, and the shelves are well stocked with books and knick-knacks. You have a decent film collection displayed on your media console, and he can’t help but snoop through it, bending at the waist, examining through the rows. He cocks his head.

Odd. You’d think an employee of Vought would have at least a few VCU films. He runs his index finger along the spines, slightly adjusting them flush as he goes. Pursing his lips, he straightens up and looks at the closed cabinets on either side. The left one yields an untidy assortment of electronic odds and ends, cords and the like. Nothing of much interest other than an indication that while you like to keep up appearances, you aren’t quite as together as you’d like people to think. 

It’s on the right side, however, he finds what he’s really looking for.

“Bingo,” he whispers, smiling to himself as he scopes out your little hidden collection of Vought hero flicks. Specifically, his films. He’s less interested in the handful of others you own (Queen Maeve: Her Majesty, Black Noir: Insurrection, Lamplighter: The Bright World, etc) and more so in the fact that you have nearly his entire catalog tucked away. 

Nearly. You’re missing his eighteen part miniseries, Homelander: Brightest Night.

At least that gives him something to gift you.

Closing the cabinet, he meanders about the rest of your apartment. You have some plants in varying states of decay, with only a few cacti looking to be in decent shape. Either your work keeps you too busy to properly mind them, or you just like the idea of them more than the reality. It tells him that you’re looking–and failing–to fill a void in your life. You want to feel less alone in your home, you want to nurture something. You just haven’t found the right something yet.

Striding into your kitchen, arms folded behind his back, he peers through the cheap wood veneer of your fiberboard cupboards, unveiling an unusually broad assortment of mugs. There doesn’t seem to be any particular theme: holidays, locales, characters, and a menagerie of patterns. 

He hums softly, pivoting out of the kitchen and down the hall, his steps preternaturally light. He listens for the beat of your heart as he draws near, tunes it in alongside the shallow cadence of your breath. Deep asleep. Good.

The walls are lined with pictures of you and others. Friends or family, he can’t say, but you look to have an abundance of both. He rarely sees himself in photos that aren’t promotional material. He pauses to straighten a picture frame, and finds himself so viciously jealous of the man sharing the frame with you–his lips pressed to your cheek, your laughing smile so genuine he can nearly hear it–that he almost knocks it to the ground.

Running his tongue along his teeth, he continues on.

Your bedroom door is open. He slips in silently, pausing just through the doorway. Your bed's a queen, too big for just you. You’re sprawled comfortably amidst pillows, limbs splayed in just such a way that he can easily imagine fitting himself in the empty spaces between them. He can smell the lingering burn of the candle you’d lit when you got home. He picks it up off your dresser, reading the label: Cup ‘o Joe. 

Eugh. He never cared for coffee, and the artificial sweetness surrounding the note is cloying. Your perfume, on the other hand, he doesn’t mind. He notices the bottle alongside a few other of your things and puts the candle down in favor of that, popping the cap off. The smell hits him before he sprays it: vanilla first, then amber and something more woodsy. It’s less impressive by itself than it had been on you.

Still, it’s yours. You chose it for yourself.

Slipping off one of his gloves, he lightly sprays into the inside of it before he sets the bottle back down, recapping it. It won’t be the same, but he’s driven by the compulsion to spirit away any little pieces of you that he can. Just enough to satiate himself until he can have you properly.

That’s when he sees your blouse from today in a careless heap at the top of your laundry basket next to your dresser. Licking his lips, he tests the feel of the garment between his bare fingers. He’s always been sensitive to fabrics, and while the blend of this one is fairly cheap, it’s been worn and washed enough that it’s soft against his skin. He grabs a handful of it and lifts it to his mouth, brushing it along his lips, under his nose, and he deeply inhales your lingering scent mixing with the fresh pump of perfume.

He bites back a moan, screwing his eyes shut. His cock gives a dull little throb. Fuck, the spell you’ve cast on him makes him ache just for the smell of you, makes him salivate. He swallows it back, letting out a rough little breath as he reluctantly puts the shirt back down. Under it, he spies a little flash of something black and lacy. His stomach clenches, and he’s reaching for it before he can stop himself, fishing the black panties out of the heap and twisting the fabric between his fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He can’t afford to overindulge. He won’t be able to control himself if he does, but he also can’t bring himself to put the little slip of fabric back down. He imagines he can almost taste where your sweet cunt had been pressed to it. Christ, he’s practically drooling. Out of sheer impulse, he yanks down the zipper of his pants with a quiet hiss of metal against metal and hastily pushes your underwear into his cup, biting down hard on his lip. He grinds once against his hand, savoring the feel of the fabric against his cock.

He’ll enjoy them far more than you’ll miss them.

Zipping himself back up, he carefully pulls open your top dresser drawer. He curiously pushes the contents around, mindful not to overly disturb, and his knuckles bump something solid. He shifts one of your bras–another near painful pang of arousal at the reminder of your breasts–aside and finds, to his delight, what any good marketing department would describe as  “a large purple massage wand.”

A vibrator. He chews his bottom lip briefly, turning it over in his grip. An exciting find on all fronts. It’s smooth and decently hefty, good quality. You deserve even better. You might be capable of indulging yourself with this, but he could make you scream. You’ll never need a silly little toy again. Not when you have him.

Homelander moves to put it back in the drawer, but–

“Fuck!” He hisses when the button catches on his finger, and suddenly the damn thing is buzzing.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, he chants mentally, jabbing at the buttons in an attempt to silence it, but pressing the same ones only makes the accursed device louder. In a frantic move, he grips the neck and squeezes. There’s a soft crunch beneath the silicone, and as abruptly as it had begun, the buzzing ends. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest. He listens to the silence, to you.

He looks over his shoulder. No movement. Your breaths remain shallow.

Christ.

So much for leaving no trace. He slips the busted toy back amidst your underthings and snatches his glove off of your dresser, tucking it under his arm. He hones his attention on you as he approaches your bed, assuring himself that you really are still asleep. He stands there for a while, admiring the part of your lips and the haphazard splay of your pajamas and where they cling to your body.

No bra.

His bare hand flexes. Being so close is too much of a temptation. He wets his lips with a quick slide of his tongue and bends down. He ghosts his fingers just over your cheek, not quite daring to touch. He can smell the faint remnants of your toothpaste on your breath, your shampoo, and beneath it all, you. It's intoxicating, it's…

Your brows furrow slightly in your sleep and you make a soft noise, interrupting his thoughts. He wonders if you’re dreaming–dreaming of him, perhaps. He’d like to think so. He’d like to think that you’re just as affected by him wanting you as he is, and that’s the real reason you invited him to lunch. He saw it in your eyes when he echoed your words, the thrill that went through you. He could have gone to his knees for you in that moment and had you in giving himself to you.

Desperate for just a taste, he kisses ever so gently between your brows, his own breaths matching the cadence of yours. Divine. You're divine. So effortlessly perfect and so aware of your own power. How could he not want every part of you?

He means to leave it there, to walk away with nothing but the slight salt of your brow on his lips, but the pull is too great. He's greedy, drunk on the smell and the taste of you, on the feel of your panties pressed up against his cock, and he can't stop himself from sampling your lips against his.

It’s the barest hint of touch, and yet the contact lances electricity through him like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning. Your lips are soft, soft, soft. He knew they would be. Everything about you is so fucking soft. It takes everything in him to pull away, standing back to his full height.

He's aching, yearning so intensely he could rip the covers away and take you just like this, shake you awake, declare himself and have you. Would you scream, or would you have that same look of affronted understanding of him? You see him in a way few are ever brave–or stupid–enough to dare.

Not yet.

He won’t spoil the game. He agreed to play by your terms. As far as you’re concerned, he’ll do precisely that. You’ll be none the wiser in regards to his little reconnaissance mission–anything could have happened to your vibrator–and the two of you can play your little game as if you stand on equal footing.

Sucking in a silent breath, Homelander leaves alone, but not empty handed.

He’ll make very good use of his little trophy tonight.

( chapter three )

[kettlefire]

Not Always a Villain (DP x DC Prompt)

Alfred Pennyworth is a man who always stands on business. Despite what the world might think, Alfred is truly the scariest man within the Wayne family.

He is a man of morals, that is correct. There are some lines Alfred refuses to cross. Harming kids is one of them. However, some morals become flexible when it comes to his family.

Alfred isn't Batman. Or any of the other vigilantes under Batman's wing. Alfred is simply a butler, and that's all that matters. He loves his family, deeply and truly. If there is a day when no love is shared, that is the day he is dead.

Despite all that, Alfred is detatched from the vigilante work. His job is to be there for the Wayne family. To offer them help in any way he can. And Alfred always delivers.

Even if it goes unnoticed, just how large of a role he plays.

Alfred is content with his role, with his life. He is more than happy keeping his darker traits hidden and tucked away. Unneeded in a family like the Waynes.

That was until a new villain appeared in the scene. A young man who seemed to strick fear in the hearts of everyone who encountered him. With snow white hair and blood red eyes.

Alfred barely spared a thought to it. Barely paid attention to the chatter about this villain. It wasn't his job to. Alfred was simply a butler, and that was all.

That was until the day it happened. Damian Wayne was sent to the hospital. Bloodied and broken. A truly brutal attack.

When Alfred looked down at the young master. Bruised in a hospital bed with a tube helping him to breathe. Bandages hiding most of the damage, but the whole family knew. This was an extremely close call.

In that moment, Alfred Pennyworth snapped.

He pulled some strings and checked in a few long, overdue favors. Before long, Alfred was on his own mission. He didn't breathe a word of it to Bruce or the others.

Alfred knew they would try to stop him. Or worses, they'll try to join in. This was something Alfred needed to do. Despite being an overall kind-hearted man, Alfred still had the heart of a stone cold killer.

He failed when it had been Jason. Alfred wasn't going to fail Damian. Not another Wayne kid will be failed. Not anymore.

Alfred had been so set on doing it. In taking out this villain before things escalated further. This young man was clearly cold-hearted, willing to hurt anyone and anything.

That's what Alfred thought.

What he believed until the moment he was face to face with the young man. It had been so certain. The man was unbelievably cold. Laughing in the face of Alfred's words, only stroking the old man's anger.

That was until Alfred had landed a hit, and everything shifted.

Blood red eyes suddenly shifted to bright lazarus pit green. The cruel look in those eyes suddenly changed to a horrified guilty expression. The man had stopped the fight in an instant.

Pulling away from Alfred. Terror and guilt clear as day as the villain seemed to retreat. In that moment, it all seemed to click in Alfred's mind.

This wasn't a villain. He wasn't a monster only determined to hurt anyone in his path. He wasn't the Joker.

Even when green eyes turned red once again. Even when the young man struggled and fought against him.

Alfred didn't yield.

He slapped special cuffs on the man, removing the powers he had. Dragged the villain all the way back to the cave.

Even when the anger and recognition flooded everyones' expressions. Alfred didn't stand down. He held strong, refusing to let anyone get their hands on the young man.

The young man that seemed too much like a young boy.

Alfred pushed the crusade to help. Laid his case out. Pulled the trust card. The supposed villain wasn't the person Alfred had beef with.

Not after hour long interrogations. Getting as much information as they could. It was a struggle, but it found an end. Alfred had no qualms with this young man.

No, he quickly learned who was to blame. Who was the person who deserved Alfred's anger. Deserved to pay for what was done. Alfred had a name, and soon... Very soon, that person will be in an obituary. A name was all Alfred needed.

Alfred was going to take down this Freakshow. Even if it was the last thing he could do.

[sylibane]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Control (Video Game) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Characters: Original Characters, Jesse Faden, Other Characters Mentioned But Not Present Additional Tags: Epistolary, Canon-Typical Violence, Altered Items (Control), Accidental Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Canon Compliant, (as much as possible), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, preemptively tagging for violence, expecting things to get nastier in future chapters Summary:

In 2003, a group of kids discovered a birdcage with the ability to make any letter left inside it disappear, supposedly sent to the future. But nobody realized the birdcage’s true power until it was almost too late. In 2019, a pair of low-level FBC employees wait out the Hiss Invasion by sorting through the letters and other documents of the birdcage incident to figure out what happened, only to realize that something is alive in the words. Presented here are the transcripts of their taped conversations, along with the relevant documents of the case.

[noodlecupcakes]

WIP Wednesday (On a Thursday)

Its WIP time! I was tagged by my beloveds @josephseedismyfather and @g0dspeeed. And I actually have something to share this time around! Hooray! Been working on a little Remedy Verse Control themed fluff fic between Darling X Trench.

Now that Emily wasn’t lumbered with the heavy case, she was having a better time navigating the terrain. Casper had taken this opportunity to take the lead, rattling off facts about Cauldron Lake. “Cauldron Lake is the eighth deepest lakes in the world, formed from a volcanic crater. There used to an island but volcanic earthquakes in the seventies caused it to disappear. Although I have a hypothesis that it was the first official altered world event within Bright Falls. It’s a shame we weren’t here to record it, it would have made for some fascinating evidence…” Darling spoke. Emily and Maltese weren’t listening. But Zachariah was. He always listened to his head of research.

Darling continued his ramblings, not particularly paying attention to his footing now as the path became thinner. Zachariah however was always on the lookout for threats or danger, noticing how Casper was getting closer to the edge with each step. It would be too late for Trench to call out to him, so the director grabbed the back of Casper's collar and yanked him back away from the verge. The doctor made a startled sound, looking down as a few lose rocks and dirt went over the edge.

I tag: @simplegenius042, @cassietrn, @la-grosse-patate and @3llisarts

[fleursdesmorts]

every year people get angry when ao3 requests donations but honestly in a world where almost all spaces online are slowly being eaten by corporations which censor the content on those sites, having a fan-run fan-sponsored place where people can create gay art without fear is great

[bacchusbasil]

Ficlet- Stan Loses his Memory (Shapes and Pines AU)

“Oh my gosh, Grunkle Stan you did it!” Mabel excitedly exclaimed as she placed the fez upon the kneeling man’s head.

Ford, Dipper, and Tad lingered behind, sober looks on their faces. Ford rubs his arm as a tear wells up in Tad’s eye.

“Oh uh... Hey there… Kiddo,” Stan hesitantly greets, gently removing Mabel’s arms from his shoulders. “What’s your name?”

Mabel laughs nervously. “Uh, Grunkle Stan?”

Dipper covers his mouth silently, joining next to his sister.

The man in the trench coat touched the back of his neck with an awkward chuckle and looked around. “Heh… who ya talkin’ to?” 

Tad floats up to Stan’s face, reaching for his chin. “C’mon, Mack! You know us! Don’t ya remember me? Your husband-for-tax-purposes?”

The blue being’s supposed husband just stares blankly. Tad grabs him by the collar. “You can’t just forget our anniversary that easily! C’mon, does twenty years of commitment mean nothing to you?!”

Stan backs away from the two, who now have tears flowing over their faces, and Dipper grabs each by the shoulders to pull them away.

Ford leans over to comfort Mabel. “We had to erase his mind to defeat Bill. It’s all gone.”

The older man glances up at his brother. “Stan has no idea, but he did it. He saved the world.”

Ford moves closer to Stan, placing his arms on either shoulder. “He saved me.”

The amnesiac blinked unrecognizingly as Ford teared up. “You’re our hero, Stanley.” His voice cracks. He embraces his brother for the first time in forty years.

Tad reaches for Mabel’s hand, who takes it and pulls him close like a teddy bear. The square cries into her sweater sleeve and she cries into his bowler hat, Dipper putting a hand on her shoulder and lowering his cap.

The family took a solemn moment to mourn.

(Shapes and Pines belongs to @void-dude )