#OOPS MY HAND SLIPPED --

[louisferrignojr]

when we said it's nice buck is looking so youthful this season with his free range curls and zillennial loose fitting clothes we didn't mean he should be treated like a fucking child by all of his friends and coworkers

[knockknockwhosthereartistism]

I’m sorry I’m not him

[loopyart]

Vox ‘n Val✨

LoopyArt

[kata-kemi]

Mighty Rito Warrior, Asusteus and a Zonai Oracle, Eruyleusa

[swordsandholly]

Keep it Casual

NSFW | MDNI

John ‘Soap’ MacTavish x fem.plus size.Reader

cw: injury mention, death mention (in passing - no character death), brief weed smoking

Word count: 3.7k

One-shot/Drabble

Boy loves girl, girl loves boy. They’re not allowed to admit it, though. It’s good, right? All the benefits without any of the commitments. It’s what they both want, right?

Johnny MacTavish is an enigma to you in many ways. You’ve known each other for years - ever since you came over to the UK for Uni. He was in basic training then, out drinking when he approached you. His buddies were brutish and rude, only looking to add a soft American to their list of conquests, but Johnny… he spoke to you differently. Looked into your eyes, listened intently, gave you his full attention and nothing less.

You’ve been thick as thieves ever since. Beyond that, even. You and Johnny are entirely indivisble. Even when he’s gone for weeks, months, at a time, you’re inheretnly interlinked. Whether by phone calls or the matching tattoos you got on your ankles one drunken night, you’re connected.

There aren’t any labels for it. When people ask you default to best friends, but that doesn’t quite encapsulate it. There isn’t a word in the English language for what you have. You’re not partners - you’ve both had plenty of those each, however briefly. Even those always end. You and Johnny can’t be torn apart, though.

You know what the problem is. The reason you both keep it this vague, amorphous thing between you. Labels are frightening. Labels make things real. Labels mean you have to tell other people what you are, that suddenly there are expectations to live up to.

Labels feel like a death sentence in his line of work. Too many lost husbands, partners, lovers.

You lay on your belly in bed, legs kicked up in the air as you engross yourself in a book when the door knob clicks to the side. Johnny has a key to your place, of course, just as you have one to his. You don’t bother to get up. The chain always hangs loose when he’s gone - knowing he’ll come around at any moment. The door would stay wide open if it could, just for him.

You hear a thunk as as he drops his duffle on the ground. He didn’t go home yet, just came straight here. His boots fall on the floor next, then his jacket drops quietly in the hallway as he slowly makes his way to your room - to you.

“Bonnie lass…” Johnny greets, crawling across the bed toward you. He managed to get down to just his standard issue t-shirt and boxer briefs before climbing in. He knows you hate outside clothes on the bed.

“Johnny.” You smile, rolling onto your back as he climbs over you. Your fingers card through his mohawk, tugging gently on the strands curling at the base of his neck. “Need a trim there, bud.”

“Aye.” He chuckles. “Was waitin’ tae see ye. No one does it as good as my girl.”

His girl. Your boy. That’s the closest either of you ever get to tempting fate.

You hum. “How was work?”

Work. That word doesn’t even come close to what Johnny does. You can’t say more - can’t utter the word deployment. Coward.

“Ach no’ tha’ bad this time. Go’ my heid knocked around a bit.”

“So the usual?”

“Oi.” He scoffs in mock offense. “Donnae be rude.”

“I’m never rude.” You snicker, turning over and reaching for the top dresser of your nightstand. “Do you want to roll or me?”

“I think I’ve earned some princess treatment.” Johnny flops back on the bed, a finger hooking in the hem of your cotton panties as you sit up. He always does this when he first gets back - has to have some part of him touching some part of you. Not that you’d ever complain. You need it just as much as him, though you’d die before admitting to it.

Those blue eyes bore into you as you roll. It’s tradition - a celebratory joint when he gets back. Then you’ll binge all the TV shows and movies you saved up while he was gone and order an ungodly amount of take out. Indian. His favorite. Sometimes Johnny will go back to his apartment the next day to get some quiet time, maybe visit his parents, before he has to go back to work on the base but other times he’ll stay with you his whole time back home. Just taking up your space and being so domestic it makes your teeth hurt like too-sweet candy.

You always hope he stays.

“First hit for the guest of honor?” You smile, holding the joint out for him.

“Och, yer a blessing, hen.” His hand is warm as it brushes yours when he takes the joint from you, eyes locked on your own. There’s something intense in his stare that you aren’t used to. It makes you look away, almost shy under his gaze. He coughs suddenly, a harsh burst of smoke puffing from his lips.

You can’t help but laugh at him, “Getting weak lungs, soldier boy?”

“Oh, feck off.” He elbows you gently.

Somehow you’ve already got the giggles. It’s just something about being around him that makes everything feel better - brighter. More lively. Even the colors of your ugly little ashtray (the one you painted terribly when Johnny’s niece insisted the three of you go paint pottery while babysitting) feel so much more clear with him near.

“Oh!” His brows shoot up suddenly, as if he just remembered something direly important. “I got somethin’ fer ye. Be right back.”

You watch him jog down the hall - definietly not staring at his butt, no ma’am - and listen to the sounds of Johnny rooting around through his duffle bag. Your lips quirk up into a smile when he lets out a distant “aha!”

He comes back with a small, velvety box, flopping back into bed beside you and criss-crossing his legs. “There was this little artisan shop in a town we stopped through. The Captain wanted tae get his wife somethin’ an’ I saw this an’ thought of ye.”

The box slips into your hands. It’s small and light. You roll it between your palms a couple times before shaking it with a grin. Before you can make one of your usual silly quips about what might be inside, your eyes meet Johnny’s. They’re on fire, sparkling with anticipation for you to open the little gift. He’s gotten you things before (you actually have a shelf dedicated to his nicknacks from around the world) but this seems… different. There’s a heaviness to his expression that you’re not used to.

You glance between him and the box briefly - opening it slowly. Your eyes turn to saucers as you come face to face with a finely crafted silver necklace. A little four pointed star with a sparkling gem in the middle that looks the same icy blue as Johnny’s eyes. Little flecks of pink and green catch the light as you turn it between your fingers.

“Johnny-“ You gasp, at a total loss for words.

“Ye like it?” He asks with an uncharacteristically nervous pitch to his voice. His palms rub together absently as he glances between you and the necklace in your hand.

“I love it.” You smile softly, heart fluttering as Johnny breaks out in a grin of his own. “Put it on me?”

“Course.” He whispers, pushing your hair to the side and locking the clasp with deft fingers. It hangs perfectly underneath your clavicles, resting between the other jewelry you wear daily.

Those hands linger for a moment, before both slowly brush down over your shoulders. Rough, calloused fingers glide across your skin and leave an electric current in their wake as light kisses trail up your neck. “Missed ye, bonnie.”

You sigh and lean back against his broad chest. “Missed you too.”

Teeth sink into the crook of your neck, pulling a gasp from your lips. Large, rough hands grab and knead your tits through your thin tank top. He plucks at your nipples - rolling them between his fingers as he sucks deep marks into your neck.

You open your mouth to complain about leaving visible hickies but all that comes out is a breathy moan. You run your hands up his thighs on either side of you, dragging your nails across his skin in the way that always leaves him panting.

One hand travels down, grabbing onto the softness of your belly appreciatively before continuing. His fingers glide over your covered pussy, teasing you to gasp and squirm under him. Rough fingers continue to pluck at your nipple, eventually pushing their way under your tank top for better access. A low hiss escapes Johnny’s lips as your breasts fall free of the camisole.

“Fuck, bonnie. Can I taste ye? Please? Need ye so bad.” Johnny groans in your ear. “Please.”

How could you ever say no to him? He doesn’t even have to ask, really.

He repositions you on your back, tucking a pillow under your hips. Ever the considerate type. His fingers hook in your panties, a low, pleased rumble echoing through his chest as he shucks off the soaked fabric.

No matter what he’s doing, Johnny’s eyes always find yours. He could be across the most crowded room in the world and, imminently, they’ll find yours. They crinkle at the sides with his smile that pulls the scar on his chin.

“So pretty fer me.” He murmurs, lowering himself between your thighs as he bites and kisses up the soft flesh between your legs.

Johnny is a lot of things, and a total much is easily near the top of the list. Maybe number one, even. He presses his face into your cunt - mouthing over your clit and dragging his tongue down between your lips. It’s almost more for him, you think, the way he drags his tongue through the crease between your thigh and pussy. You can’t complain - you would be a fool to with the way he absolutely worships your body.

A harsh suck to your clit as your back arching. Strong arms wrap around your thick thighs to hold you down as he devours you.

“Taste so good, lass. Sweet as fuckin’ candy.” He moans against your cunt.

“Johnny!” You gasp, hand tangling in his overgrown mohawk. A low moan pulls out of you as he licks from your back hole to your clit before stuffing his tongue as deep in your pussy as he can. Chants of obscenities and pleading and oh, god, Johnny please you’re so good fall from your lips.

You know better than to try to hide your sounds. If he could he’d devour them just as much as he already does you - inject them straight in his veins to live there forever. Two fingers push into you, the stretch causing you to gasp. Johnny chuckles as you buck into the touch. The fingers curl directly up into that spot inside you as he nips at your clit.

Your climax hits you like a train - stars blooming behind your eyes and your back arching sharply. You’re always so sensitive after he’s been gone. So ready to have him again.

“Thassit, tha’s my good girl.” Johnny kisses up your thigh, working you through your orgasm with his fingers. “Ready fer me, baby? Missed this pretty cunt so bad - thought about her every day.”

You nod excitedly - mind too fuzzy and content to come up with the words to respond. Lazily, Johnny reaches over to the nightstand to grab a condom. He knows your home, like you, inside and out. Every nook and cranny might as well be his.

It could be his.

It should be his.

Johnny cups your cheek, kissing you slow and deep. His tongue parting your lips gently before exploring every inch of your mouth. Those rough hands trail down your body with reverence. One going from your cheek, to your sternum, over your belly to sink into the softness of your waist. The other holds tight on your hip as he lines up.

You gasp and moan against each other as he pushes in. The stretch is delicious. Your nails sink into his strong back.

“Practically made fer me, bonnie.” He groans as he moves. It’s slow, languid.

He’s so beautiful. Always has been. No matter how he changes - new hair, new scars, new tattoos - he’s still beautiful. The prettiest man you’ve ever met. You run your fingers through the downey layer of dark hair over his chest - tracing the outlines of his muscles, up over his thick shoulders to cup his cheek.

Your bodies move together easily - a well practiced dance that you’ve perfected over the years.

“Christ.” Johnny gasps into your ear - strong forearms bracket your head, burying you under him. “I lov-“

You turn your head, catching his lips in a kiss. It’s terrible of you, you’re sure, but there’s nothing those words can communicate that a well timed gasp or a perfectly placed caress can’t say better. His nose knocks against yours, your hands travel all over him, seeking out any purchase they can find.

It turns desperate. A clawing need as you rediscover each other for the millionth time. Wet, open mouth kisses against each others skin and bodies moving perfectly in tandem. The light high from smoking leaves your skin warm and buzzing with electricity. It borders on overstimulating - just barely this side of too much.

“Johnny…” You whine, tilting your head back.

“Aye?” He pants, laving at your clavicle. “Gonnae cum f’me? Cream all over my fuckin’ cock?”

All you can manage is a keen, teeth sinking into his shoulder to hide you face form him. A hand tangles in your hair, pulling you down to stare up at him.

“Eyes on me, hen. Want - ah - want ye lookin’ at me when I make ye cum.”

It’s too intense. It always is looking into those baby blues. As if they can see right through to the most buried parts of yourself. Johnny shifts your hips up ever so slightly, the new angle bullying his head against your g-spot with each thrust. Your nails claw across his shoulder blades.

It doesn’t take long before you’re careening over the edge with him, bodies tensing against each other. Clenching down around him like a vice while you gasp for air.

“There she is. Tha’s my girl.” Johnny murmurs against your lips, still rocking into you in short, sloppy motions. Just to drag it out a little longer until you whine at the overstimulation.

You let yourself lay back to catch your breath, floating back to earth while Johnny disappears to toss the condom in the trash. He’s back nearly as fast as he left, pulling you against his chest and burying you both under the soft sheets of your bed.

“Shower?” Johnny whispers into your hair, eventually. You nod against his chest, slowly peeling yourselves apart. Your fingers remain tangled all the way to the bathroom.

He whirls you after you turn on the shower, kissing you slow and deep as you wait for the water to warm up. A warm hand splash across your lower back - keeping you close. You’re left breathless when he finally pulls back, pupils blown so wide in the low evening light that you can hardly see the blue of his eyes.

You sigh to yourself as you step into the shower, grateful that you splurged on the apartment with the especially large bathroom. It definitely wasn’t with Johnny in mind. You’d never make your decisions based around such a nebulous relationship.

Not the size of your bathroom - enough to fit both your wide frame and his broad shoulders.

Not the location of your apartment - only a few blocks from his.

Not keeping his favorite snacks stocked at all times just in case he comes home early.

Not referring to your apartment as his home.

“Lean down a bit.” You smile, pouring a glob of shampoo into your hand for him. Johnny’s always been picky about his hair care. You always make sure it’s on hand in your bathroom.

He does the same for you, of course, when he can, but somehow you both always end up at your place instead. Not that you’d ever complain. You like your place. It’s safe. Warm. A cocoon away from all the parts of the world that have scarred you so deeply.

Johnny groans happily as you scratch his scalp, the quality shampoo cleaning far more deeply than any of that standard issue stuff he gets on deployment ever could. You watch the suds slowly drip down over the lines of his back, breath catching as your eyes settle on a nasty, raised patch of skin you hadn’t seen before.

It looks like a chunk got ripped out of his back, right under his ribs.

“Johnny.” You gasp.

“Hm?” He looks over his shoulder at you, brows raising as he realizes what you’re looking at. “Oh tha’? It’s nothin’. Just go’ a bit knocked around, remember?”

You bite your lip, tamping down the rising fear in your gut. “D-does it hurt?”

“I’m fine, lovie.” Johnny turns, giving you that sparkling, million dollar grin. He knows it scares you, shakes you to the core.

You’ve already lost everyone else in your life, having the ever present threat of losing Johnny as well is too much to handle sometimes. It keeps you up at night, when he’s away, imagining all the worst that could happen to him.

How easy it would be for a simple bullet or knife to shatter your world.

That’s why the two of you keep up this little arrangement. This song and dance at arms length. To spare you. Both of you. Either when he doesn’t come back or you break and run.

You won’t run, though. As much as it hurts, the good is too good to give up. You’ll stay through it all, with just enough distance to keep your sanity.

“Ye with me?” Johnny asks gently, slowly pulling you out of your thoughts and back into the moment.

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry. Long week.” You lie, leaning up on your tip toes to plant a small kiss in the corner of his mouth.

He hums, turning to meet your lips. You let yourself fall into him, fingers running through the hair on his chest, up to the back of his neck. He just feels right under your hands. Perfectly molded to press up against you - hard muscle to balance out the softness of your body. Angles and curves. Push and pull. Sun and moon.

Holy hell, you’ve become a sap.

“Sit.” You point to the chair you drug into the bathroom and Johnny happily plops down - big, fluffy towels tied around your chest and waist respectively. A content smile settles across his face as you slowly work your way across his scalp with the electric razor. You let your fingers to scrape along after you just the way he likes.

When you were young, you watched your mother cut your fathers hair. It seemed so subservient to you. Shameful, almost. You said you’d die before doing that for any man.

You carefully raise each section of his mo-hawk, cutting it down to the exact length Johnny likes to style it. A little on the short side, actually, so that it has time to grow before looking messy. Shearing the sides and taking extra care around his ears. He doesn’t need any more nicks or scars.

Johnny suddenly looks pensive as he watches you in the mirror - carefully taking in each of your movements.

“You’re worrying.” You murmur.

“I-“ He sighs. “It’s nothin’.”

“Johnny.” You level your gaze on his in the mirror, he looks off to the side.

“I’m just- I cannae-“ He sighs. “I miss ye.”

You snort. “I’m right here.”

Johnny shrugs. For once, he stops talking. You hate when he does. It’s the only true hallmark that something is wrong.

“Johnny-“

“Do ye want tae hear a new Ghost joke?” He interrupts. It’s an out. You’ll let him have it.

“Lay it on me.”

“Whit’s the difference between the bird flu and the swine flue?”

“What?”

“One requires tweetment an’ the other requires oinkment.”

A huffy laugh escapes you despite yourself. “That’s terrible.”

“Aye. Imagine listenin’ tae that in a life or death situation. Could be the last thing I hear!”

You giggle, finishing up with shaping the edges of his hairline. “How is it?”

Johnny stands, leaning close to the mirror and running a hand over his hair. Your eyes lock onto that newly forming scar again. It makes your throat feel tight.

He stretches his arms way over his head with a groan. “Think it’s time f’some proper lazin’ about.”

The rest of the night goes by as they usually do when he gets home. Indian take out, a romcom in the background, another round of fucking. Or two. It’s near eleven when you finally settle into the sheets, Johnny long asleep beside you. Comfortably snoring with that angelic peacefulness you only ever see in his sleep.

Will he look that peaceful if he dies?

The thought makes you want to throw up.

It takes all your mental fortitude to push that train of thought away. Opting to lay beside him, eyes flicking across his features as you attempt to memorize them all. The curve of his strong brow, the arch of his nose, the slight part in his lips as he sleeps. Your thumb traces the scar on his chin while you cup his cheek. As if sensing your current state - and, if you’re honest with yourself, you’re sure he can - a strong arm wraps around you to lock you against his chest. You let your legs tangle, breathing him in and following the pattern of the rise and fall of his chest. Real and tangible under your hands.

You’re just so glad that, at least right now, he’s home.

[senkiworks]

[ivoreene]

you’ve changed, megumi

[the-little-librarian]

Two days after leaving the Observatory, Lucy’s Pipboy catches a stray signal: My name is Norm MacLean. I’m trapped in Vault 31.

It’s a nasty fight to get the Ghoul to agree, and he grabs her arm and yanks, hard enough to send Lucy stumbling forward. He slaps at the Pipboy until the volume drops.

“Your family ain’t looking too trustworthy right now,” he says coldly.

This close, the light from her Pipboy just begins to cast shadows on his face. The truth of the world is carved across his skin, and Lucy feels that horrid bit of doubt before she wrenches herself away.

“He’s my brother,” she says. “I have to try.”

The Ghoul glares. Lucy cranks the sound up and waits, but he doesn’t move. She looks at the broadcast coordinates, turns her back, and marches towards Vault 31.

“Sidetracked by bullshit,” he calls.

Lucy puts on her brightest voice and yells back, “Every goshdarn time!”

The dog runs after her.

Lucy smiles.

[trashyshrew]

[bluishfrog]

[louisferrignojr]

picturing tommy tying buck’s hands around the slats on his headboard, fully naked and spread out on the bed while tommy’s still dressed in his sweats and his tank top that shows off his arms.

tommy taking his time with buck, sucking him off gently, lazily, savouring the taste and weight of him in his mouth; when he said he wanted buck for desert, this is what he meant. he’s not teasing, he’s simply going at it at his own pace. he’s taking what he wants, and buck knows it, he's trying to be patient but he keeps squirming underneath him and tommy has to grab his hips and pin him on the mattress until buck stops moving, and tommy smirks and throws in a “good boy” just to hear him whine oh so desperately.

tommy getting up to slowly strip out of his clothes, lowkey wishes he had more layers on to drag it out a little, because the way buck is staring at him is driving him crazy, like he wants to devour tommy whole. he kneels on the bed and does a 180° before he reaches between his legs and pushes lube-slicked fingers in his hole, two at a time, biting down on his bottom lip so he can keep quiet so he can hear buck’s drawn out moan, his breathless, “oh, fuck, tommy,” echoing within the walls of his bedroom. he gets some sick pleasure from making his boyfriend watch as he fucks himself open on his fingers, knowing how much he's pulling against the restraints, wishing it was his fingers in tommy’s ass, his spit mixing in with the lube to get him good and wet.

but then tommy turns around and straddles buck, wants to see the look on buck’s face as he wraps his hand around his achingly hard cock and slowly sinks in on it, wants to watch the way his beautiful chest is heaving because he can't catch his breath as tommy starts moving, setting a maddeningly slow rhythm, enjoying the ride. and buck starts babbling as he always does, the only outlet he has that can temper his desire to lift his hips and fuck back into tommy, “oh god, oh fuck, baby, it's so good, you feel so good, i fucking love it, tommy, i love you, i love you so much,” and tommy would be lying if he said he was unaffected. there's always so much love pouring out of evan buckley, and being on the receiving end of it feels like a drug, an addiction, he's so fucking needy for it, he's gone without his whole life and he's drowning in it.

until buck sucks in a sharp breath and says, “wait, tommy, get the ring, please, i’m gonna-” and tommy growls and picks up the pace, “come on, come in me,” and watches buck’s face for the tell-tale signs, clenches around him when buck’s eyes roll to the back of his head and he pulls against the restraints, arching his back towards tommy as he explodes inside him, making a noise like a wounded animal when he comes.

tommy doesn’t stop, either, keeps fucking himself on buck’s dick, still hard inside him, and god, tommy loves it like this, messy and wet, taking everything buck will give him and still wanting more, more, more. he gets a hand around himself and starts jerking his leaking cock, feels the way his orgasm starts building in the pit of his stomach, and in the end it's the way buck closes his eyes and opens his mouth, hungry for it, that sends him over the edge, shooting off so violently that buck gets a taste of it, grinning as he licks it off his pouty lips; the image alone is enough to get tommy horny again, but he collapses breathlessly against his boyfriend, burying his face in buck’s chest, so utterly spent that all he can think about is passing out right there and then.

“i love you,” buck whispers in his ear, brushes his lips against the sweaty mess of curls at tommy’s temple.

“i love you, too,”

buck hums, considering. “enough to set me free?”

“smartass,” tommy laughs and gathers himself, sits back and unties him so that buck can wrap his arms around tommy’s shoulders and pull him down to hold him so tight. they’ll get out of bed and clean up in a minute or two, but for now, this is all they want to do, stay wrapped up in each other, warm and content and so in love.

[tuna-fishh]

"you're a good person. And you're not broken anymore, alright? We'll fill in each other's gaps. We'll be the glue"

-Vex to Percy

[khickuwa]

to more tomorrows.

[handofmidas-writes]

I didn't hate season 4. Or the love triangle. Let me explain.

Okay. Listen. Listenlistenlisten.

I know everyone is pissed about season 4. I hear you. I get it. I don’t think anyone is thinking that this was a well-executed season. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

But hear me out.

The bones of the thing are good in principle. The arc makes sense at the heart of it. Again, hear me out.

MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

The entire series is about saving the world by stopping the apocalypse. And as all the Fives in the deli have shown, the apocalypse is due to the Hargreeves siblings’ very existence. Reginald has fucked over every iteration of the kids to bring back his wife who died as a result of her own actions in creating marigold. He couldn’t give her up, and he was willing to rip universes apart to get her back. Five has tried time and time and time again to save his family, ad infinitum. He knows how to solve the problem, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Until this Five. They are, as we here on tumblr love to say, doomed by the narrative.

Five also says the universe loves balance. We saw this in season 3 with the kugelblitz. They were an impossibility in the universe and the kugelblitz formed to solve the problem by eliminating them. Impossibility for impossibility.

One of the Fives founded the Commission to solve the problem. It happens every time.

Abigail’s purpose through the whole season is to ensure the Cleanse, to reset the universe to the correct timeline. She shouldn’t be there. The kids shouldn’t be there. They are a direct result of Reginald releasing marigold into the world to enact his plan of resurrecting Abigail. The universe is trying to return to homeostasis, balance itself. And in every iteration, it needs to rid itself of the marigold, the substance that shouldn’t exist in the first place.

Ergo, the principle is sound, in my opinion.

The execution was shit, as I’m sure we all can agree.  I don’t like that they cease to exist, necessarily, and I think there were other avenues they could have taken to avoid that. But I can stomach it.

The shit storm is certainly in the characterizations. They did almost everyone dirty in some way or another. I think it could have been saved with a few more episodes, but we know that Netflix sucks like that and the season definitely suffered after the strike. I won’t be going into all of the characters just now since I’m apparently a loquacious bitch and don’t have the space. (And I know this is all being screamed into the void anyway. None of y’all will be reading any of this lol.)

Here’s where I’m going to ruffle feathers. I buy into the whole Diego/Lila/Five thing. And here’s why. (Cut here because this bitch got real long. Like 1.5k words long. Oops.)

The first episode is called “The Unbearable Tragedy of Getting What You Want.” Is it a slightly contrived Now That We’re Not Superheroes Our Normal Lives Kind Of Suck thing? Absolutely. Has it been overused in basically everything ever? You bet. Does it kind of work here? Yeah, actually.

These people legitimately don’t know what to do without powers. They’re coming fresh off the heels of trying and failing to save the world 3 different times. That takes adjustment. A lot of adjustment.

Lila and Diego fall into parenthood, which is a huge thing in and of itself. It’s not surprising that Diego turns into the stereotypical suburban dad, the breadwinner because that’s what he thinks his role should be. It doesn’t fully make sense that Lila turns into a housewife, but I can see her trying to throw Diego a bone and trying to make up for how she’s treated him in the past. Not to mention proving herself as a mother.

It makes sense for Lila to want to get out of the house and do her own thing, without her kids and her husband. It makes sense for Diego to resent his low level job when all he’s wanted to be is a badass and a hero.  Their frustration about their family life is understandable. Being a family is a lot of effort. There’s a loss of freedom when people become parents. And these are two headstrong people who have things to prove to themselves, to make sure they show up for their kids. Which leads to breakdowns in taking care of themselves and their relationship to each other.

Now, the sticky bit comes in with the whole love triangle. I know folks hate the subway subplot. Here’s the thing, despite how it was executed, it makes sense, too.

It’s an interesting way to portray the Many Worlds Theory and it’s plausible enough that Lila and Five connect in this way because of their shared knowledge of the Commission. It makes sense that they explore it together.

Which leads me to this: Five is incredibly lonely. He spent 40 years alone in an apocalypse and tried everything in his power to get back. He fell in love with a mannequin because she was the only thing keeping him tethered and sane-adjacent (sweet Dolores, we’ll never forget you, queen). He was desperate and alone and persisted because he had to.

He joined the Commission to try and stop said apocalypse and then inadvertently ended up in another. He’s tired of trying to save his family over and over and now he’s not sure there’s anything he can do to save them this time. And now here he is, stuck in the labyrinthine Subway of Fuckery with Lila and they can’t get out. Lila who has the same training as him, the same knowledge base, who went with him to the remnants of the Commission in season 3 and tried to save them all. Let’s call them frenemies, I guess.

And now here they are. Stuck together and feeling helpless. Enduring every fucking thing under the sun, watching each other’s backs, and they only have each other. And they’re tired. They’ve been searching for a way home for six fucking years. So, they decide to stop running and catch their breath. I won’t say it’s an inevitability, but Five is so lonely and scared. And Lila is lonely and scared and without her children. But they’re safe with each other, and they take comfort in each other, and it’s so easy to blur those lines.

So yeah, they end up together in the now infamous cottagecore greenhouse with the strawberries. And they try not to think about Diego. Is it right of them to do this? Well, no. But are people messy as hell? Yes. And are their actions understandable? Also yes.

So, to me, when Five finds the notebook and keeps it hidden from Lila, it tracks. Because he’s so fucking scared of what’s going to happen now. What if they still can’t make it back? What if they can’t save the world this time? What if it all comes down around his ears again? So he hides in easy domesticity and thinks about the solace they’ve found in each other.

And Lila, understandably, blows up when she realizes Five has hidden this from her. Because for her, this was a way to cope. To survive, as she says. She loves her children. And she loves Diego. She didn’t stop loving them. She couldn’t stop loving them. But she might just love Five, too. And isn’t that scary as hell?

People are many faceted, my friends. Does it make what she did morally right? Of course not. But does it make sense? I truly think it does.

The limited number of episodes is one of the largest contributors to the half-baked-ness of it all. There’s not enough time to flesh out a proper resolution to the whole thing. Which led to Diego’s hunch from episode 2 of Lila cheating with Greek guy/Five accidentally being correct foreshadowing. Which then resulted in a heavy confession from Lila in front of the entire family (which I was digging, just like the siblings, tbh). And then the boys started throwing punches and the whole love triangle thing went completely down the shitter (a dubious and debatable statement, I know).

So, that leaves us with Lila who is now in the middle of two brothers. Said brothers are now physically fighting out bad blood and pent up frustration. And only part of it is due to Lila.

Diego’s character is criminally underdeveloped. He was always halfway between the underdog and class clown and his characterization in this season falls spectacularly flat in all aspects. He’s a character who has fought to prove himself over and over again, and is still trying to do that here, but nothing really lands. Diego and Luther are comic relief mostly. And Diego’s role, unfortunately, ended up being a stick in the spokes of a sloppy love triangle and pretty much nothing else.

Five is obviously the favorite in Blackman’s eyes. Five is knowledgeable. Five always has an idea. Five is the one the family looks to for answers, more often than not. Five is the one who almost always opts to save his family in some way, shape, or form. And this has resulted in Five being sad and helpless, in a way. He has been building this emotional bomb for decades and across timelines without any real release or acknowledgement. So Blackman chose to have Five get his emotional release in the form of “a love story” with Lila. Doing it this way, with the limited number of episodes, left Diego’s part woefully inadequate.

No resolution really takes place here. Diego kind of “wins” insofar as he convinces Lila to take their family to the subway and she takes his hand first when they all say goodbye. Five gets the teary “I hate you for this,” after she ends up choosing self-sacrifice with the others, which we know means “I am so incredibly sad and I hate that you told us the truth because it means everything ends for real this time and I’ve had to let my family go.” Then she holds his hand, too, showing that all is forgiven, here at the end of all things.

There’s definitely not a resolution for Diego, and it can certainly be inferred that he still pretty much hates Five’s guts. I get the feeling that Five is just resigned to finally ending the cycle. He knows he’s hurt Diego badly and I think he does feel bad for it, but it’s not translated into the final scene, which leaves the whole situationship hollow and earned it the well deserved hate for hilariously poor execution.

So that’s it, friends. That’s my unpopular opinion and way too many words justifying it. I surprisingly have more I could blather on about, but I’ll spare y’all from including any more in this post. Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk.

And for a final palate cleanser for those of you who do not care about any of this: I think we deserve a side plot of Five and Derek the Twink from the CIA. The true OTP. (Also Brisket Five, who is the real MVP.)

[turpalauri]

Roevember 2024, Day 7: Crowd

Ena's friends were all worried about her after her literal out-of-body experience. She was utterly horrified herself: she had barely made it in time to save her friends, after all. However, no one could understand her terror quite like Thancred.

[blindmagdalena]

Okay so on the topic of John being so fast to cum, I like to think he’s got a thing for overstimulation. So, realistically it’s not an issue if he cums fast because he’s certainly going to make up for it. It literally lights my brain up to think about him coming in you and fucking you through it. Just imagine the faces he’d make. It could definitely go hand in hand with his need for praise. He’d be practically sobbing by the time you were done 🤤 I am a whore for desperate, unraveled Homelander

18+, overstim, oral sex, praise kink, sublander.

By the time Homelander sinks into you, he's already on the verge of losing it. He's been waiting for this all day, edged by your promises of what was to come. It started with just a suggestive text this morning, and snowballed into you sending him photos that had him clenching his fists tight enough to split the leather of his gloves. Even now, your breath is hot in his ear, whispering filthy praises.

"Faster," you moan, arching into him. "I wanna come on your cock. Can you do that for me, baby? Fuck me until I come?"

Homelander keens through his teeth, head bowed to your chest, face locked in concentration. "Y-yeah, I want-I will, I'm-" He wants to. More than anything, he wants to pound you senseless, but he's been so worked up all day, if he moves any faster he knows he's going to come. You're doing nothing to help his cause, tangling your fingers in his hair and speaking so sweetly to him. He hates the way it makes him whimper.

"I'm gonna come," he finally confesses, face buried in the crook of your neck, the shame of it thick in his voice as he stops, buried deep, throbbing from his head to his toes. He wants so badly to be good for you.

Without missing a beat, you tell him, "It's okay, baby. Come in me, but don't stop until I come, too."

Bracing your feet on the bed, you thrust up against him, shocking a needy little gasp from him. Grabbing a handful of his hair, you kiss and lick at his ear, rocking your hips, egging him on. "Go on. It's okay. You're gonna be so good for me, aren't you?" You ask, like you've yanked the thought straight from his mind. "Yes," he moans, rutting against you, fucking in such shallow bursts he's barely leaving you, turning frantic as his orgasm immediately swells back up to a near peak. "Yes, yes, yes, fuck, nnngh!"

Everything turns white hot. Homelander screws his eyes shut, slamming his load deep into you on a final thrust. He's still like that for a couple of seconds, gasping wetly against your skin, but a sharp tug at his hair brings him back to reality. "Don't stop," you tell him, your own words breathy and thin with desire. "Fuck me, sweetheart. Fuck me messy." Without a thought, Homelander begins thrusting again, holding you to him as if for dear life. Sensitive, he makes a wounded noise, riding the razors edge of too much pleasure. The sound of it is obscene, sloppy wet and fucking delicious. His come is dripping out of you with every deep thrust, coating your thighs and your ass, the slap of your bodies loud and wet. Homelander's expression twists in exquisite agony, more and more of those simpering noises escaping the back of his throat as he fucks you with increasing urgency. Where most sensations, like pain, are dulled to Homelander's super senses, pleasure in the extreme is not. You've quickly learned how to use this to reduce him beyond words, strip him down to nothing but a needy little pet, desperate to please you. "Oh, there, that's it, don't stop. Just like that," you pant, arching your back. Homelander grabs hold of the headboard, gritting his teeth, watching you through half-lidded eyes. The whole bed slams into the wall with every thrust. "Harder, oh god-"

Your body locks up like a vice when you come, wringing a choked noise out of Homelander. It hurts so fucking good, makes his skin tingle all over, but he doesn't stop. He fucks you as you come, even as you squeeze him through your orgasm. His eyes are bleary, and he feels every ripple of your pleasure. It yanks a second orgasm from his core, an eruption so intense and unexpected he hits an abrupt halt, muffling a noise against your neck that's nearly a sob. The two of you lay like that for several moments, you basking in the aftermath while he recovers with shaken breaths, his weight warm and heavy against you.

"Sweet boy," you murmur eventually, stroking your hand up and down his back. "You were incredible. Made me come so hard," you praise, words slightly slurred as your fingers move to his hair, stroking along his scalp. He may not have broken a sweat, but you can still feel his heart racing in his chest from sheer overwhelm.

"I came again," Homelander says quietly, almost sheepish. "I know," you say with a smile, curling his hair around your finger. "That felt good, too." "I'll do better-" "Sshhh," you interrupt, combing his hair back. "You did exactly what I asked. You were perfect," you assure, earning a contented little sigh from him. "But..." Homelander's gaze flickers up, lazy and worn out, but a slight furrow between his brow. "You made a big mess, my darling," you say, drawing your words out languidly. With a smile, you flatten your hand atop his head, and give a guiding push down. "I want you to lick it up."

Without an ounce of hesitation, Homelander goes down, eager to make up for this perceived imbalance. He shoulders his way between your legs and nuzzles in between your thighs, immediately lapping and sucking at you. He doesn't miss a drop, dragging his tongue from your thighs to your core. He uses his fingers, pumping them in and out, licking up whatever mess drips from them, savoring the taste of his own release on your skin.

Inside and out, you're his.

Relaxing against the bed, you continue to pet his hair, sighing your pleasure as you rock your hips, grinding up into his mouth and down onto his fingers. He's gotten good at pleasuring you exactly the way you like it. You barely have to instruct him, holding his hair more for encouragement than guidance. Your second orgasm rolls in slow, building up until it crashes down on you like a tidal wave while Homelander continues to lap at you like the ocean tide against the shore, chasing your pleasure through the aftershocks. Homelander pushes his fingers in deep, nuzzling at you until you finally push him away, whispering his name breathlessly.

Crawling back up the bed, he settles heavily down against you. You kiss him, licking your mingled taste from his lips, sucking it from his tongue. The two of you spend awhile just kissing, bodies slotted together like they were made to fit. You whisper reverence between presses of your lips, and he soaks it up like rays of the sun, coiling his arms securely around you.

Sleep follows easily, the reprieve thoroughly earned.