#Noir reads minds

[siderealscribblings]

Devil Summoner: Akechi Goro vs the Phantom Thieves

Canto III: Visiting Hours

Goro always wondered when he would finally go stark raving mad . 

He had hoped that he would at least make Captain before his delicate mental state cracked like an egg in a tumble dryer; at least then he could hide his growing delusions and paranoia behind his subordinates until he could retire. But the Madness Fairy apparently decided to pay him an early visit in the form of his arch-nemesis crawling out of the walls and stringing him up with webs of shadowy tendrils. Insanity was, ironically, the most sane explanation for what he was experiencing; that, or he had to contend with the fact that everything he knew about the world was wrong (again). 

"You seriously couldn't stay put for ten— Goro, stop moving— minutes? " Joker sighed, tightening the shadowy tendrils holding Goro's wrists to the wall. "I have watched demons break their necks on these things trying to get out of them."

“You broke their necks, dear,” Fox corrected.  

“All the same, I— stop moving— don’t want there to be any necks snapped accidentally,” Joker grunted, bracing his arms around Goro’s chest and squeezing. “Hold… still , you stubborn little shit .” 

"This is not happening," Goro muttered to himself, pointedly ignoring the Fox demon that descended the stairs. “Not happening…wake up wake up wake up .” 

"I hear denial is an early stage of grief," Fox sighed. "I just hope we can get to acceptance before he pulls a muscle." 

Not real; he's not speaking to me, Goro reminded himself, struggling against the psychosomatic shadow tentacles that definitely weren’t restraining him. He was not in a Metaverse bubble, demons couldn’t manifest without a bubble, therefore he was not being shaken down by Joker and his pet fox. This was just a regular, run-of-the-mill mental breakdown fueled by two hours of sleep, shitty billiards lounge food, six energy drinks, and eight bars of chocolate. 

Nothing more, he promised himself; nothing more . 

"Don't you know that being a detective means shutting your eyes to the obvious and stubbornly holding on to your version of the truth no matter what the evidence says?" Joker chuckled, craning his neck around to catch Goro's eye. Pinned against the wall, Joker's breath lapped against his neck, an oddly ticklish sensation that interrupted Goro's insistence that this wasn't real. 

Maybe they opened a bubble on me when they killed the lights, Goro thought, trying to rationalize how Joker's hands gripping his shirt could be a figment of his imagination. It felt solid enough, but touch was a sense that could be fooled as easily as sight or smell. Once a demon was in your mind, it could make you experience anything .

"Sorry to drop in like this, but you have a nasty habit of not doing what I tell you to do," Joker clucked as Fox wordlessly opened Goro's jacket and fished his kuda holster out. "Unless you broke out because you want to help us-" 

"Fuck off," Goro growled, not sure if he was trying to shake off a demon or banish a delusion of his own invention. 

"You don't even know what we want," Fox clucked, spinning a kuda around on his finger and dodging Goro's foot as he lashed out wildly. "It might even be the same thing you want." 

"I want you both to die violently ," Goro said. "Judging by the fact that you keep pissing me off, that seems to be your goal as well.” 

"Nobody is dying here tonight," Joker said. "Not you, not us, not Yoshizawa, and especially not Prosecutor Niijima." 

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Start from the Beginning

[belowthesurface]

low quality fanart for my favourite ml fanfic ever: drowning (in plain sight) by buggachat

[desultory-novice]

Not for the tourney asks but Noir never thinking about what he'd be when he grew up makes me. feel things

"...You really draw every day. Even when there's only snow outside to look at. That notebook's almost out of room. Both sides!"

"That's because I want to be an artist when I grow up!"

"Are you sure? Not a musician like last time?"

"This time I'm serious! I want to make pictures that are SO real it's like they've come to life before your eyes! Then, I can show people places and things they've never seen before! Even different planets!"

"I wouldn't mind seeing a different planet. You've got me sold!"

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"........."

(...We're...going to die... Both of us...)

(We're never going to grow up... Even if we avoid getting killed by another whacko... We'll either freeze to death or starve to death... They talk about it all the time... The ports are barely staffed and they don't evacuate more than a handful a year... I've heard them call Old Earth a 'prison colony.' Some even called it a death camp...)

(...One prediction says Summer's only going to last around 10 more years before it'll be too cold to go out in ...We'll be in our twenties then...What point is there in thinking about the future when you know you have none...?)

"Noir?"

"I want to be...your big brother."

"My...? Noirrr, that's not an answer!! Don't tell me you haven't thought about it! It's THE most important question! ...Okay! Looks like it's time for me to step up and be the big sister! First, we list your positive qualities! Second, we look at your aptitudes and......"

(...I just hope I can still be your big brother at the end...)

[pbnmj]

Genuinely curious, what’s up with Noir’s age? And what does it have to do with his 08/09 run? ((You may ignore if you wish :D))

i no longer have to do an extremely long explaination about comics noir because it has already been done here, by foolsocracy!!!!!!! really great breakdown of his very vague age, which is never said outright in the 08-09 run, only implied!! my own personal take on this is that he's 17-turning-18 in the first one, just about graduated high school but not able to afford college (see the panel below LOL)

this also got a little longer than i thought it would, so under the cut for the rest of it! the tl:dr is "itsv!noir is not the same as comics!noir, and people saying that he's 19 isn't strictly true. to me, he's around 30!"

eyes without a face (the 09 run!!) only takes place 8 months after, in september 1933, which makes peter 18-turning-19. this is more of a headcanon though!! (see the noir birthday poll, which made me a noir-is-a-december-baby truther)

(peter being a libra is mentioned once in the first issue of amazing spider-man (2015), mostly as a punchline, and a specific date of october 10th was given in another issue that i have lost. other media, like with the mcu, has his birthday on august 10th. but to me noir is a sagittarius and you cannot pry that from me)

the 2020 run of noir begins establishing the year as 1939, making peter around his mid-20s, and 25 if you believe me on the 'peter was 17 in noir 2008' LOL.... i won't lie though i haven't read this one properly i very quickly skimmed so pinch of salt regarding my takes on the 2020 run

noir being in his teens during the first original runs is why "itsv!noir is 17-19" goes around so often! i've seen that on tumblr, twitter AND on tiktok and i don't mind what people hc, but it has become a pet peeve when people say it like its canon even though it's never been mentioned by the writers or the art book. itsv!noir is similar to his comic counterpart, but his differences in his origin story make me interpret him as a different noir (like how peter b.'s dimension is 616B, making him... 90214B?)

again, we are straying from itsv canon/etc here because i'm deranged, but i personally hc noir as being 32! some of my friends think he's in his mid-20s, others think he's older, but really the only reason is that 32 is the midpoint between the other two peter parkers: ripeter was 26 and peter b is 38. he's also voiced by nic cage, which makes me think older in the first place!

i just like the idea that he's more experienced that ripeter, but hasn't gone through as much as peter b. he spends most of the movie being broody ("moral ambiguity of your actions!", "matches burn down to my fingertips", etc etc), or snarkier than you'd expect ("it's that easy" "who are you again?" "you gonna fight or are you just bumping gums" etc etc). he also very sweetly tells everyone that he loves them before he leaves !!! i feel like it can in fact be in character for a peter parker in his late 20-early 30s, distanced from his tragedies in his own world by time (he doesn't forget them, that's different !) being able to look out for the spiders around him.

okay now we are VERY deep into hc territory, but it makes him able to balance out the rest of the itsv spider-gang as an older-brother figure who's able to guide peni, miles and gwen but also be able to act as a voice of reason for peter b. and ham if the sitauation calls for it. that being said noir is still peter parker and is therefore capable of spider-esque tomfoolery, which can lead to him misjudging the need for a snarky one liner ("this is a pretty hard core origin story"). my characterisation of him is also very inspired by heyitsspiderman, the itsv fic that changed me for the better, and noir isn't even in it that much LOL

veering back into itsv!noir's age and your actual question though: he's always read older in the movies, and not at all 17-19. noir is always going to be around 30 (32 if i have to give a number) to me!! if anything, he did go through the same kind of 'canon events' as comics noir did, but is an older and more experienced version of him, with tweaks to the backstory (like a radioactive spider instead of a spider-god, and webshooters instead of organic webbing). there are reasons ofc to see him being younger (egg creams are non-alcoholic, and that if it's 1933, his comicsverse self would be 18-19 too) . however you must consider that sony didn't expand on this and therefore it's up to fan interpretation and also that

[i-wiggle-i-squirm-bc-i-am-a-worm]

Unnecessary discussion about Chat Noir and the Drums

There’s something I love so much about Chat playing the drums in Horrificator. This is something that’s been on my mind since I was 13, so hold on here.

First, obviously, Adrien also plays the piano - which obviously still has a lot of meaning!! - I’m not here to diss on the piano, there’s a lot of freedom of expression in every instrument type and music expression in general, but there’s a reason why some people are more inclined to different instruments, and I think there’s a lot more to it than just sound, but feeling as well. The role you play. How it feels to play it alone vs. playing it with others, if it’s typically something that you can play alone vs. in a group.

So first, the piano, and how I think it relates to Adrien’s character, plus how it relates to those points.

The piano, let’s be real, is something that a lot of us were forced to take lessons for at some point. It’s something that has ties to high society (there’s a HUGE discussion and so much more to say about that, but let’s not go there) and honestly?? I think it works pretty well with symbolizing the obsession with perfection that Gabriel shoves onto him. I’ve known many piano players, and while some genuinely loved playing it, it was always easier to somehow stumble onto someone with a deep hatred for it after being forced into lessons. Whenever I asked them why they hated it, I got almost the same answer every time: “I need to be perfect.” (Along with people saying that they were forced to lol)

Then there’s the role you play. You can play with people in a band, an orchestra, as an accompanist, a duet, at a bar with a bunch of people singing - whatever - music has many forms, and many different connections. But the piano is something you can play solo, no need for anyone else. It isn’t what you can do with other people that I’m focusing on for this, it’s the fact that you don’t need anyone. You can play alone, and it’ll still be fine. You can be alone, and you’re still fine - perfect even - which is something that Gabriel shoves down his throat, resistant to him playing with his friends by touching on this ideology.

Which is a glimpse into how he sees Adrien, and how Adrien experiences life. He can be alone, in fact he’s more perfect when he’s alone. And when other people are added, the attention to his perfection is taken away bit by bit, until he’s not good enough. He has to play solo in concert halls, on stage for everyone to watch, not in the back of a bar, playing with his friends.

Alright, so now we move to Chat Noir and the drums. The main play of this fake essay. 

It would be so easy to just ignore everything and just go “haha, he’s the energetic one, so ofc Ladybug gave him the drums! And they’re an easy instrument to play, etc.” but that’s far from the truth.

Ok, so I’m not a drum player or percussionist in any way, but I am a bass player, and genuinely love the drums so much because they’re incredibly important, and here’s my cheesy analogy: the drums are the heart of the band, keeping everyone on beat, it’s what you feel at the centre of it all. The band is nothing without the drums, without the percussion (The bass is what connects the band to the beat of the drums, kinda like the blood vessels, but sadly this ain’t about bass).  Like do you know how easy it is for a band to fall apart if they don’t have a drummer??? You need a drummer. You literally can’t survive without a drummer, because even if you manage to work together, use the bass as a backing, whatever you try, there’s still not much of a heart left.

But besides that, do you know how hard it is to play the drums??? You can’t just throw someone crazy, or energetic there just because “crazy drummers lol” you need someone who listens. Who can set the beat. Someone you can rely on, because they are the person in control, even if they aren’t as flashy as the guitar player. Reliable is the word that comes to mind. The drums can make or break a band.

And wanna know who that reminds me of?

Yeah. I highly doubt that the writers put this much thought into a random five second scene in an episode of season one, but it fits with Chat Noir SO well. 

Unlike the piano, the drums are almost solely played in a group setting - you need other people, and other people need you - he needs other people in his life, his friends are needed, but they also need him. Ladybug needs him, along with all the other heroes in Paris, whether he sees it or not. He seems to get in a state of thinking he’s not needed, but i do really think he’s the emotional glue that keeps the team connected, the heart that keeps them beating. If he’s isolated, he can’t quite reach his full potential that he can when he’s allowed to be around others, just like they can’t reach their own without him.

But on top of that, I think the stereotypes of the drums actually works in his favour for the next part. 

Breaking free from his dad, and being his own person, letting that fame go and embracing what he wants... well, to some that would look stupid. 

Relating it to music, the piano is flashy, you can play it solo, it sounds impressive, looks impressive, and people won’t think you’re just hitting pots and pans in the garage when you say you play it. But the drums are underestimated, a lot of people think you don’t need much practice, that they’re just the guys who sit at the back of the stage, not doing much, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Just like Adrien finally being who he wants wouldn’t be stupid, it could never be stupid, but there’s a stigma. But letting go of his flashy, solo life, and being the heart of his friend group is something that I think makes him truly happy as Chat Noir, and hopefully he gets to be like that as Adrien too.

Like Plagg said, Chat Noir and Adrien are both the real him, and I think the drums capture that perfectly. The heart and freedom, the meticulousness (rather than perfection) and steadiness, those are good qualities of a drummer.

I dunno, I just think it fits.

(sdfghjklkjhgf again I should state that acoustic versions of songs exist, and you can play songs without a drum and it sounds fantastic, but I’m not going into that today. Just talking generalization, and playing in a group setting). 

[foolsocracy]

hi!! Your spider-man noir art + posts are very cool and interesting to me! I would love to start learning more about them and read some of the noir comics. I saw there was a 2009 run and a 2020 run; which comics would your recommend? :]

Hello!!! I’m glad u like my noir posts :,]

2009 is 1000% the way to go. I’m sure there are some people out there who like the 2020 run, but I think they attempted to do a mix between the 2009 run and the spiderverse noir characterization and it kinda falls flat imo. They are entirely different people. Every one of my noir posts are from the 2009 & 2010 runs! At least for the most part.

I’ll give you a heads up that they’re pretty dark and depressing, and if you think 2009 is bad.. well wait til u read Eyes Without a Face. Like all comics they’re a bit questionable at times but that comes with the territory. There’s good bones there I swear. Me and the 6 other noir fans can testify

[mikkeneko]

felt like going back and reading my Dragon Age Noir AU fic again and you know what. this one was pretty good

[shy-sapphic-ace]

The downside of listening to Juno Steel s5 after putting it aside for soooo long is that it’s making me remember I really love sci-fi detective stuff! so my brain is telling me unreasonable things like “hey you should pick up that vague draft you had for that cyberpunk neo-noir fae novel you wanted to write… wouldn’t that be fun…” and I have to say “no brain you need to work on your robin hood mechs album!! and your other ongoing 1940/50s detective story!! get back to that!!” and my brain only says “yeah but wouldn’t that be fun to write?? a sci-fi noir with faeries? and lesbians??” and then I go you know what brain. I think you’re right. I should work on that. and I am once again sidetracked from my already existing writing projects :(

[regicidal-defenestration]

If I had a pound for every Beowulf musical adaptation which had themes of Beowulf living forever through the stories told and also forcing Beowulf to confront the similarities between him and Grendel I'd have two quid which isn't a lot but it's odd it's happened twice

[miraculous-floconfettis]

🐞 LE BATTEMENT D'AILES DU PAPILLON 🐾

Le chapitre 24 de la fanfiction est en ligne !

Lire sur ao3

Lire sur fanfiction.net

Lire sur wattpad

Pour lire la fanfiction depuis le début, c'est par ici :

Le battement d'ailes du Papillon - Chapitre 1

[yourworldiseternallycomplete]

compiling sources on disco elysium and suicidality and absurdity like a squirrel hoarding acorns for the winter

[jupitermelichios]

Gotham is a pocket dimension, I will die on this hill

Over time the doorway gets bigger, more and more people can get in, but to begin with, only the weird and the magically inclined can enter, and their descendants are the ones who shape the city (ask me how Gotham and Klarion the Witchboy are connected, sometime). But even now, if you're solid and sensible and real enough, it's entirely possible to leave Metropolis on the New Jersey road and find yourself in Bludhaven without even having seen Gotham. You can pass right by the most densely populated city in the USA without even noticing, because leaving reality, stepping through the bleed into a new dimension, takes a special kind of person.

Which is a long winded way of saying I adore this idea, but I would like to suggest; this only happens in their home dimension. When the Robins are with the Titans, they're just people with a lot of training. The things they can do are impressive as all hell, but not superhuman. There are Olympic athletes who are bendier than Dick, thieves who can blend into the shadows better than Tim or Bruce, soldiers and martial artists who can shrug off more damage than Jason. Other non-powered heroes like the Arrows who can do all the things they do. Outside of Gotham.

"They're different in Gotham," is a common talking point on any team with a Bat on it, especially the Titans. And people who've never been think they know what that means. Everyone's different on hom turf. If you're one of the heroes who's primarily solo and only a team member on the side, missions with the Titans or the Outsiders or the JLA are basically field trips. Of course your attitude is going to be different.

Sometimes someone older, someone who's known the Bats longer, will say, "No, you don't get it, they're different," but they never want to elaborate, and most people don't notice.

And then a mission will take them into Gotham (superheroes, being naturally extremely strange, never have any problems passing through the dimensional gateway, although it sometimes takes Barry a couple of tries) and usually they don't notice the difference at first. Yeah the Bats are different, but only in the ways to be expected. They know this city, care about it. Of course they're different here, it's in their blood.

It's in their blood.

Some heroes never notice the difference. Some chalk it up to imagination. And some, the ones who know the Bats best and the ones who know magic and dimensions and weird best, well...

Bruce is very very good at fading into the background anywhere in the world, or finding a shadow to lurk in, good at timing things just right so you're always looking away when he leaves a room. But once you know what he's doing, it's easy enough to spot. Supes and the Flashes watch him leave. The Lanterns make a game out of maintaining eye contact to see how long it takes for him to cave and just walk out in plain sight. But in Gotham, it's like he can teleport. No matter how high up your meeting, he drops from above. Even when there's nothing above you but clouds. No matter how closely you watch, he disappears, like instead of waiting for you to turn away, he vanishes between eyeblinks.

Dick is an incredible gymnast and one of the best aerialists in the world, but every Titan has seen him fuck up and faceplant at least once. Every flying Titan has had to carry him across gaps too wide for every him to jump. They've all helped him ice at least one strain from jumping too far and too fast with only human shoulders to take the weight. They've all wondered how he still doesn't seem to fully know his limits, after twenty years of practise. And then they follow a lead to Gotham, and it all makes sense, because in Gotham, Dick and gravity have an understanding. In Gotham, Dick opperates on cartoon physics, child logic. In Gotham, as long as he shoots his grapnel before he hits the ground, there's no drop too far, no gap too wide. Every child in the city believes Nightwing can fly, and in places like Gotham, belief has power.

Jason once said that being Robin gives him magic, and maybe that's true, because people who've patched up his wounds in the real world, who've seen him bleeding and delirious and in pain out there, have also seen him shrug off injuries that should have laid him out when he's on home turf. Everyone in the Burnley and Robbinsville districts Uptown knows Red Hood can't be killed, and maybe they're right. Maybe the way Roy just shakes his head and refuses to make eye contact when anyone asks him about it means something.

All Tim's friends will tell you his brain works a little faster than other people's, that he's crazy smart and spent his formative years learning to keep up with speedsters and that's maybe fucked him up a little bit. Former YJ members will roll their eyes and tell you how he loves to bitch about how much sleep he needs on missions (he must be so stressed with Batman breathing down his neck, it's no wonder he doesn't get enough rest at home) and how there's only 24 hours in a day. Kid Flash!Bart hears him complaining about how time moves so slowly and thinks foldly that hanging out with Impulse really did a number on Baby!Tim's brain. And Kon never talks about why he doesn't like visiting Gotham, about the way 24 hours with Tim there can feel like it's lasting a week (he shouldn't need to eat that often in just one day, tells himself they're just naps but knows he's slept at least twice and yet somehow it's still Tuesday), doesn't talk about the mission they did together that took three hours, only once he was far enough out of Gotham that he could see NYC, suddenly his phone was blowing up with messages from Ma and Pa wanting to know what the hell he was playing at, skipping two days of school.

Jon likes to tease Damian about the way he expects the world to obey him. The way he'll say things like 'that bad guy should trip and fall' and be amazed when it doesn't happen. But he's met Batman, and his dad has told him a little about Talia, so it's not exactly surprising. His mom is basically royalty, and his dad regularly bosses around entire rooms full of people who could squash him like a bug if they wanted. Obviously that's going to rub off on their son. But then again, maybe it's the way that in Gotham, things always seem to work out in Damian's favour. Nothing huge, nothing life changing. Nothing that isn't deniable. But the vital information is always on the first computer he checks. There's always a convinient pile of boxes at bottom of every drop. His distractions always work, and when he tells the bad guys to listen to him, it's like they can't help but pay attention.

Barbara remembers everything she's ever seen, and she trained herself to pay attention. When she gets back from Belle Reeve, she notices that the Clocktower's computers respond to her in a way Waller's hadn't. Notices that she can always intuit hardware problems that ought to take her months to fix, crack encryption that ought to be impenetrable. And she notices all the other things too. Notices the way Bruce comes and goes, and the fact that he can see in darkness that ought to blind a mere human. Notices that Dick moves like flowing ink not flesh and blood. Notices every time Jason walks off an injury that should have laid him out, every coversation with Tim that lasts a day or no time at all, every time Damian solves a problem with tools that hadn't been there a minute ago.

And because she remembers - because no matter what Gotham does to her that will always be her real superpower - Barbara is the one who takes the train to Uptown, to the street now called Crime Alley, and it's Barbara who knocks on the door of Jason Blood. Barbara who asks the question, and listens carefully to the answer, and goes home with a bag full of borrowed books on dimensional travel and magical radiation and how even the most magical beings are bound by the rules of the dimension they find themselves in.

(The books raise more questions than they answer, but it does at least make sense of the way her dad used to loose all sense of direction any time he went on holiday and take three tries to find the Gotham turn on his way home. And why that doesn't happen nearly as often now as it used to).

And so, when Cass begins talking about working with Batman Inc, about seeing Hong Kong, learning a new city, it's Barbara who sits her down and explains that it will be different there. That she'll always be good, but reading people doesn't work the way she's grown used to, not out there. That she needs to be prepared for the fact that she'll be fighting deaf and blind compared to what's become her normal on home soil (and no matter where she was born, Gotham is Cass's home soil, she and the city were always meant to find one another).

Cass still goes, because learning to fight at a disadvantage is a useful skill to have, but Barbara's right.

There are pieces of her, pieces of all her family, that never make it past the city limits. Pieces of themselves they have to leave at home, waiting for to come back to the place they belong.

Because the Bats are different in Gotham.

I love the headcanon that none of the Bats are supers, but over time? Gotham is slowly messing them up, one by one.

Bruce smiles at Clark one day in the Cave, and his eyes reflect the light back like a wolf's

Jason suddenly has tiny fangs, but nobody has the nerve to mention it

Alfred literally doesn't die

Dick can jump higher and faster than ever before, but barely notices it

Tim is awake for three days straight and doesn't blink

They're all subtly, but noticeably different. Gotham-blessed, or cursed, or something in between.

[thomine]

today is a very busy day and i dont think i can finish writing something... but i will try...

[hamsternamedmarinette]

Realcat!plagg AU idea except I don't have the energy to draw a comic of it so you have to read a wall of text instead.

There is still magic and there are still kwamis. Kwamis can take a variety of forms. Tikki prefers to stay in the regular little sprite form we're familiar with on the show. Marinette gets her miraculous the same way she does in canon. Nothing on Marinette or Tikki's end deviates from canon, actually.

Adrien, on the other hand, gets his miraculous after a ratchet stray black cat wanders into his room carrying a strange jewelry box. He's mainly concerned with trying to get this cat out of his room without his father noticing, but after a while of trying and failing to capture it, he resigns himself to fiddling with the jewelry box and the ring inside of it. He discovers by accident that it's a magic ring that gives him superpowers. He forgets about the cat in his room (which is no longer in his room but in his ring) and goes off galavanting as a superhero the way he does in canon.

He's smart enough to deduce that the ring and his new fugly little cat are connected (since the ring gives him a black cat persona), but he has no reason not to think that the cat, now named Plagg (after the sound of him throwing up a hairball as per @buggachat 's comic, but also happening to be Plagg's actual real name, which Plagg finds hilarious but is also a little offended by) is anything other than a normal but very shady cat. Yeah, he's somehow connected to this magic ring, but he's just a normal, lazy cat who does normal, destructive cat things and shows no signs of higher intelligence. Adrien's conclusion is that as a counterbalance to becoming a superhero, he also now has to take care of this weird fleabag as a way to keep him humble. But he doesn't mind after a while.

Ladybug and Cat Noir don't talk about their kwamis that much at first. They're still getting the hang of the superhero thing and figuring out what's safe for them to talk about. But slowly they get more comfortable talking about different things, and that's when Cat Noir brings up the origins of their powers.

"So what happened when you got your miraculous? Was it just one ladybug bringing you your earrings, or like a whole swarm?"

"...What? It was my kwami."

"Your what?"

Adrien goes home that night and immediately demands answers from his cat. Plagg gaslights him for a while by remaining a normal, oblivious cat. Adrien eventually falters, thinking he's losing his mind, and ceases throwing accusations at his cat. And it is at this point that Plagg finishes the bit, finally transforms into his canon kwami form, and laughs at Adrien, who is screaming

[snipstheskeleton]

the reason i like your stuff so much is because it feels like the characters in the show. i’ve read multiple different ml fanfics and i like yours the best because i feel like you write the characters perfectly especially adrien in open my eyes. based off of what i’ve read depressed adrien is difficult to get right but you do and that’s why i love open my eyes so much

“I like the way you write the characters, it’s sooo much better than that shit way the writers of the show write them” is a compliment that’s very confusing to receive as someone who likes the way the characters are written in the show and is trying to mimic it

[blindmagdalena]

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter four )

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He receives none. 

Not that he would accept them if he did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ll come.

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

No sign of you.

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

Then you’ll come.

He waits.

Lunch long since over.

He waits.

The day is winding down.

He’s fucking tired of waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You kiss him.

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

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

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

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

His brows pinch. “But… That night–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck yes.

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

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

That won’t do.

He wants to hear you.

He wants the whole fucking Tower to hear you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He quirks a brow. “What’s that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All of the pleasure, none of the guilt.