#and the itch was real I HAD to scratch it

[catfern]

─ restless dreams.

in support of palestine ∙ the reality of tlou ∙ resources

pairing: ellie williams x fem!reader (?)

music: a world of madness - akira yamaoka

word count: 2.3k

summary: you're dead. with how ellie's been coping, she might as well be. that is, until she sees you, or rather, a woman with your face.

WARNINGS: heavy discussions of grief, illness, death. implied hallucinatory sequences, general themes associated with silent hill 2. smut, oral (r!receiving).

cat says ⎯ were ya'll waiting for pyramid head to show up?

if i could be … her.

but i’m not her

and she’s not me.

and you’re somewhere different.

on a different planet.

cold.

the merciless descent of winter had done nothing but bury ellie in a fog. a blur of forgetfulness, of numb reaction.

everyone had told her it would become easier. the festering pain in her joints would fade, the endless congestion in her head, like a dragnet of her slowed thoughts, would release.

“grief is just one of those things that you have to learn to live with.”

ellie wasn’t sure if she was learning. if she knew what that even felt like. what was it, to learn to love an absence? a gaping chasm, in one’s soul?

plagued. the sweetness of your voice lingered like stubborn molasses in her ears, a ghosting touch, nails scratching at her scalp, she could feel it. at least, for a few fleeting moments. in the sticky dark of her bedroom, memories of you clung to her back.

the pavement, slick with thin ice and dirty snow, echoed the song of her footsteps in the empty streets. she needed milk. a sick darkness had descended on the small space of her apartment, and her fridge stunk of something sour.

the hairs on the back of her neck prickled in the bitter wind. she hadn’t been sleeping.

she had thought, maybe, the chill in the air would help her. that the light would snap her from this daze, bring her to see this delusional miasma for what it was. but the wet sun, shrouded in grey, granted no such reprieve. she still saw you everywhere.

the shine of the linoleum tile seemed blinding in artificial light. ellie squinted in the change, her skin dry, pale and discoloured from weeks inside. 

she can feel the clerk’s gaze burning her through her clothes. she shakes the dusting of snowfall off her shoulders, and sees the tracks of mud she’s pulled in from outside. oh.

she scrapes the soles of her sneakers along the peeling grout of the tile, and shuffles her way along the aisles. the rows of fridge doors buzz in the dim silence of the store, there’s something metallic in the air.  

it was a dying habit, beelining for the skim milk. something you had put her on to, with your endless buzzing about dairy. it was comforting, following a path well-trodden through the small grocer, one she had so often taken when she had a softness to return to. her footsteps fell, heavy and loud and ringing her ears, empty.

ellie grunts a hoarse ‘excuse me’ to the woman standing in front of the milk fridge. she wasn’t grabbing anything, just standing … watching the milk as if waiting for it to move. so, ellie figured it was okay to push past. the woman moved back without a word.

the jug felt cool, and almost anchored, beneath ellie’s fingertips. something to latch on to, tangible in this maze of wretched passing time.

“sorry! i didn’t see you there.”

ellie bit so hard into her cheek it drew blood. warm, foreign in her mouth, an iron taste.

your voice was not an uncommon ringing in her ears, in these hellish pastimes. the open world teased her, so often she heard you in a gentle ripple of water, the humming engine of a passing car. but this …

it was you. ripped from fresh fucking dirt.

well, ellie wasn’t sure. a ghost in the corner store was not something she was eager to find, if that’s what this woman was. what you were. she could feel her hand twitching in her jacket pocket, an obsessive itch to reach out, to feel the tangible, the absent real.

your name slips past her lips like a familiar groove in her tongue, and the woman laughs. it’s deeper than yours, jilted, not sweet.

“are you confusing me with someone else?” she asks. no, no, she can’t be. it’s your face, every mapped detail from the haze of her dreams, ripped from your coffin and supplanted here. on this body, obscure.

it could be a mask. ellie could dig her fingernails under your pretty, unblemished skin and tear it off this creature, this … offence. would you bleed the same?

“i-“ the milk jug suddenly felt too cold, burning into the skin of her palm. she hesitated, joints locked, body aching. whatever frantic obscenities ellie had wanted to hurl at her, at you, for the affront of your very existence, dripped back down her throat, made her choke.

the woman tilts her head in anticipation. you don’t do that, you didn’t do that.

it’s not you.

“ellie? you told me you weren’t coming today.”

she can still hear the wheezing undercurrent in your voice, a haunting possession of the brilliance in your body. you weren’t meant to exist somewhere so … clinical.

“i .. wanted to see you.”

your hand ghosts her cheek, the prickling of neglected texture along the bone. she refused to touch you. not like this.

ellie’s breath comes heavy in the heady air of her apartment. she can smell the stale rot in the walls, consuming her with every struggling heave of her lungs.

she had left the fridge door open when she left, the flickering cold light leaving a staggering crack along the darkness. she slumps against the wall of her kitchenette, pressing her hands into her muddy hair, as if trying to hold herself together at the seams.

she was going crazy, wasn’t she?

you’re haunting her. ellie supposes that she knew you would. a spectre, a shadow tethered to her feet. she had hoped, she could push past it, cradle your tenderness close to her heart, lock away the rest. naive.

she had become too complacent with the shell of you that malady had created. she’d forgotten how angry you could get. even from beyond the veil of death.

but it wasn’t you. no, no, ellie reminds herself. that … woman, was a coincidence. a trick of the flickering, sickening lights. her grief had muddled her mind, made her see things that weren’t there.

maybe she so desperately wanted to see you. deep within the dairy aisle. maybe, she no longer had the strength to turn away from you, like she once had. maybe, she just craves something you can no longer provide.

three raps knock the wood of her door, and ellie shakes. visceral.

she doesn’t remember answering, but the threshold was there, her hand warming the cool bronze of her doorknob.

this was just cruel.

“oh! it’s you again!” her smile is a wicked caricature, something hollow. snow sits in her hair, and ellie is blighted with your warmth, ghostly in this empty winter. “sorry, my phone’s dead. i’ve been asking around, is everyone on vacation? you’re the only one that answered the door.”

“wh - what?” ellie couldn’t listen. 

you had broken your nose, as a child, a detail never lost on her in the intimacy of your nights together. she would trace her fingers over the bump the accident left, the irreverent flaws that endeared her, magnetised ellie to your person.

she studied this woman, her … perfections. the faultless slope of the bridge of her nose.

so … she was different? this wasn’t you. ellie wasn’t sure if the constant reminder was her anchor or her chain.

“can i use your landline?”

the question was simple, and ellie ached to oblige. invite her in.

“uh, sure.” it was a hoarse, quiet agreement. she shuffles to the side, carves a path for the stranger, who smiles at her sweetly, tight-lipped, in thanks.

her perfume was different. heavier, something darker. red fruit and earth. it caught in ellie’s nose, unwelcome. your name is a phantom on the dry ridges of her lips, and the woman snickers, the fur collar of her snow-dusted coat ruffling as she turns to meet ellie’s foggy gaze. the glory of what was once your gaze, now shared, was lost on this cheap copy.

“you keep calling me that. what, do i look like your girlfriend?”

ellie chokes on something that is not there.

“n-no, my late wife.” ellie could feel her gravity changing, re-centring. she crosses the floor slowly, listening to every creak of the old floorboards. reverent steps. “you … you could be her twin.”

she laughs, distant and deep, like a joke. like she couldn’t see the lines of desperation, of reaching hope that haunt the withering skin of ellie’s face. couldn’t she see? was she not aware of her own part she played in ellie’s torment?

or was she seperate from it all? was she simply passing through, a tourist in this purgatory?

the woman hangs up the receiver of the phone, having never called anyone. her eyes splay pity on this platter between them.

“i don’t look like a .. ghost, do i?” the teasing lilt in her voice was familiar. it was yours. she purses her lips. “maybe i shouldn’t have come. you’re clearly going through something.”

ellie’s hand darts out to ground itself on her skin, pressing into the bone of her wrist, the base of her body.

“ellie.”

she shook the molasses of your voice from her ears, pressed her eyes shut in beseeching of something free.

“please.” her voice was barely there, small in her throat, but enough to hear in the absence of wherever this was. wherever she has ended up. “you have to tell me who you are, if you’re real.”

the woman pouts, the way you did when you wanted something. her touch is soft, leading, like yours was, as it slips from ellie’s rusting grip and falls back, unceremoniously, onto the leather armchair in the living room. plumes of dust greeted her, only added to the stench in the air, the musk of unforgiving.

“it doesn’t matter who i am.” she says, and ellie almost stumbles after her, her knees aching as she falls, devout, ready to worship, if only this spectre gave her answers. “i know what grief’s like. and … i’m here for you.”

ellie breathes unsteadily, her hands shaking, cool sweat dripping down her back. the woman reaches out in the growing silence between them. her nails were bumpy, bitten down to the quick, covered poorly in thin, pink nail polish, as they scratch gently along ellie’s cheek.

“see? i’m real.”

an illness lined ellie’s stomach. wanton belief … this was real. there was a simplicity in this, in the dream that you had come back to her, after all. flesh warm and alive beneath her fingers, untainted.

“don’t you want to touch me?”

the image of you, of her, bleeds in ellie’s brain. you were asking with a sweetness you knew she could never ignore. temptation rots the soul, but hers had died with you. in your final breath, you had clawed it out of her.

there’s a certain cruelty to her touch, the way ellie splays her decay of passion upon this blank body. control is lost to her here, although a mirage of it echoes in her grip on your thigh, her nails ripping into the stranger’s skin, hoping to study whatever is beneath.

“please, please…” ellie’s voice is soft, chasing a dead docility up the woman’s inner thigh, her tongue pulling a cotton trail into familiar warmth. “i’m sorry…”

your head falls back against the edge of the armchair, soft, sweet whines dripping from the woman’s lips like honey, ellie’s nose pressing into the silk of your cunt, her tongue dazed and ever desperate to taste you. to feel you like you once were, broken, made whole again in the creeping twilight of an oncoming snowstorm.

a low rumble pulls through both of you, her lips a current on your clit, a tremor in the key of her voice. she has to pull herself up on her knees, push herself into your presence, to keep herself there, within this second chance. her body shakes beneath yours, in wait, for something that had long since disappeared.

she groans, something deep and distant below her throat. her tongue dances along the warmth inside you, painting her apologies, her dying grievances along the soft expanse of whatever lay inside, forever unheard. her fingers grip bruises into your stolen skin, a rough yank pulling you towards her.

you had hated when she was rough with you, but were you really here to complain?

“please, i…” her voice is something dark, muffled against your skin. “i need you, i.. you shouldn’t have left me. i’m sorry.”

“that doesn’t matter now.” firm and bitter, dry, calloused hands pull ellie up from her home between your legs. she could nearly whine at the absence of warmth, if the vitriol freeze wasn’t something she had so long deserved, so duly needed. ellie’s touch softens.

“nothing matters now.”

your gaze, her gaze, is scrutinising, painful to hold in her eye. but she needn’t look away, she shouldn’t. otherwise, she was sure you’d disappear. she couldn’t let you, never again. she could keep you alive, deep within the ire of her eye, she could, she was so sure.

something stings within her. feeling, it prickles back into ellie’s body like she’d been long asleep.

“i miss you,” ellie’s voice breaks against the cool, unwavering hand of the strange woman, the absence of mercy she so desperately sought. a sob shakes, sore in the column of her neck. the pain was welcome. “so, so much.”

tears run hot, her spine crooked as she falls back, looking up at you with a newly discovered vulnerability. you look at her, your eyes cold with pity and hate.

“i love you.” she chokes, begging like you’ll listen. “come back to me, i love you still.”

you shake your head. you won’t. ellie doesn’t deserve that kindness. no longer, anyway.

your wife slumps forward, pressing her face into the softness of your thigh like that would mean forgiveness, like that would bring back the innocence she had sorely stolen from you. your hand, with jagged nails, runs through ellie’s hair. brick wall comfort.

when you speak, your voice lingers in her ears like a bad hangover. it’s not yours, not anymore. whatever was left of you was rotten, spiteful.

“are you afraid?”

ellie sobs, loud in the impending silence.

there was something here. it’s gone now.

tag list: @r3starttt

[the-kr8tor]

it you're still taking requests, can i have a hobie with a spider!r who is almost comically serious all the time? i'm talking like r never speaks to anyone, never smiles, only gets the job done as soon as possible; but when they're alone r is the most sweetest, gentlest touch starved person in the whole universe and refuses to let go of hobie

i've been thinking about it for weeks and i can't stop thinking!! thank you in advance and have a great day!! 🪻

Thank you for requesting! I hope you like it ❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.2k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, cw brief injury mention, spider! R, established relationship, lovestruck! Hobie, fluff.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

Lizard or better known as doctor Connors, lays on the concrete with his scales slowly fading away as green smoke envelopes his shrinking form. He hisses quietly, a deep rumble that is akin to relief; as if he had a deep splinter in his finger that has finally been extracted after weeks of torment.

Hobie sighs, hands gripping the neck of his guitar, knuckles shaking as he makes his way towards the green fog. He waves the smoke away with one hand, coughing as the smell of burning plastic itches his nose through his mask.

“Love?” He knows you're amidst the fog, hearing your steady breaths above the hissing and groaning from the former lizard.

It takes you a few seconds to collect yourself, hand stinging from how tight you grip the serum you've just injected into Connors scaly neck.

“Here.” Your tone is smooth and stable, as if you weren't just tossed aside by a large tail.

Hobie follows your voice, the green smoke finally revealing you standing over the now healed scientist. He approaches you slowly, and you immediately look over your shoulder to meet with the eyes of his mask.

“I'm okay.” You don't wait for him to ask, already knowing what's going through his adrenaline filled mind. “Are you hurt?” Your cool and unbothered lilt wavers for a moment, replaced with worry for the man before you.

He reaches for your shoulder, gloved hand sliding in between your shoulder blades, letting his warmth soothe you through your suit. Without another word, you lean against him, head tilting to the side so he could cup your cheek better.

“‘m fine, jus’ a few scratches—” The hoots and hollers of his fellow spider people interrupt you both. The puffs of smoke has completely cleared, and as he looks over to the source of the exhilarated yells, he glances back at you to find that you're already a few steps away from him.

You're punching in the codes on your bracelet to transport the now human doctor Connors trapped in the orange glow of the capture machine. Gwen and Pavitr run towards the two of you, suits tattered but with only a few gashes on them. Gwen clasps Hobie's shoulder, laughing and jostling him in place.

“You came in clutch with that guitar bash, Hobie!” Pav gushes at him, still heaving from the fight.

“It was a combined effort. Right, love?” He asks you, seemingly unbothered by the ruckus.

“Oh shit, yeah! You flew with that serum real quick!” Gwen leaves his side, practically bouncing on her feet as she bounds towards you. “Good job!” She reaches towards you with a fist bump, waiting for you to bump your knuckles with hers. “C’mon then!” She encourages you, lopsided smile never fading as she patiently waits.

You stare at her fist, then to Hobie. He shrugs, and you swear you see an outline of his smile from under his mask. With a sigh, you gently, and slowly bump your fist with Gwen's.

“Hell yeah!” Gwen jumps for joy, you guess that the adrenaline is making her giddy. “See, I told you that she's warming up to me!”

“Sure, Gwen.” Pav huffs, “You're not the one having afternoon chai with her in my dimension!”

“You what?!” They argue with each other, both trying to one up each other by saying who's closer to you. In their minds, you're an unstoppable, unmoving and nonchalant boulder that no one can ever beat. They seem to think you're the coolest spider woman there is, Hobie thinks so too without a doubt.

Hobie chuckles, putting his guitar on his back as he makes his way over to you. His hand sneakily snakes over your waist, brow raised when you sigh at him blatantly. The orange hue from the opened portal shines on your mask, bathing you in its warm glow. He thinks you look marvelous, incredibly fit in his own words.

“What?” He asks innocently as he squeezes your hip. He swears he saw you roll your eyes behind your mask as you both enter inside the portal.

—

Your legs are intertwined with his while you're both lounging on Hobie's patchwork couch. His arm is around your shoulder while you continue to dab the cotton ball full of antiseptic on the slash right next to his elbow. His fingers play with your hair, calloused pads twirling the strands around his fingers. His head is resting right beside your bicep, eyes glued onto your cute expression while you patch him up.

Your eyes glance at his lovestruck expression, smile slowly curling on your lips as you see him wink at you sluggishly. “Careful, it might stay like that forever.”

“Don't want that,” he pats your knee before cupping it in his warm hand, thumb etching little hearts around your soft skin. “You might think ‘m winkin’ at everyone.”

Chuckling, you shake your head at his antics as you feel him gently tug at your hair. Completely dotting on you whilst you pamper him with antiseptic and bandages. “That could be a problem, people might think I'm back on the market.”

“Then we really can't have that.” He mutters through his own smile. He can't help but adore you and your rare laugh, which makes it worth more than gold to him. “Is it true about you havin' tea with Pav?”

“Why? You jealous?” You finally finish up his arm, fingers smelling like alcohol and antiseptic. He straightens up enough for him to lean against the sofa, nose all scrunched up from your comment. “You are!” Poking his chest, you twist in your seat to lay your head on his lap, which he welcomes wholeheartedly with his hand immediately flying towards your head to cradle your smiling face.

“‘m not, lovie. Trust me, I know you two are gossipin’ together with his aunt.” It's his turn to poke your cheek as you continue to beam at him through your giddy look.

“We're gossiping about you by the way.” You scooch impossibly closer to him, arms enveloping around his waist like he's made out of honey and you're a very hungry bear. Your cheek is pressed lovingly on his lean stomach whilst he caresses your hair. You hear and feel him laugh, slightly bouncing you up and down from his chuckling.

“‘Bout what, hm?” Hobie lifts his legs up on the couch to cage you in, he feels your smile against his shirt.

“About how you keep forgetting to put the toilet seat down.” Your muffled voice reverberates through him. He feels warm and fuzzy inside when you lift your face up from his stomach with a wide smile that reminds him of a gopher peeking its head out cutely from the burrow.

“It was one time, love!” Your giggling can be heard throughout the houseboat. “And it was in the middle of the bloody night.” He pats your behind as you continue to laugh at him and his excuse.

“One time too many, love.” You copy his tone, effectively teasing him. “Besides, I still can't get your face out of my mind when you jumped out of bed from how I screamed.”

He remembers how he leaped up from the bed with such ferocity that he hit all of the corners he passed to get to you. “And I can't get the image of you stuck on the toilet.” He mirrors your smile, and you can't help but poke his dimple.

“Still looked fit though, right?”

Hobie leans against your hand, “bloody fuckin' fit, lovie.”

[hom3landr]

Writer’s Block

18+

In which Homelander thoroughly enjoys a quiet night in, his hand, and some ao3.

CW: Selfcest adjacent, Anal play, Masturbation,

“His hand wraps firmly around your throat as he bends you over your desk with a low groan. The hard bulge in his costume grinds against your ass and each filthy thrust causes your hips to bump painfully against the wooden edge. The various knick knacks and office supplies decorating your space rattle with the movement. His hot breath causes you to moan as he whispers into your ear.

“I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

Homelander groans low in his throat as he strokes his cock languidly. The leather of the couch that was cool at first is now growing warm from the heat of his body. His cock twitches in his hand and a drop of precum drips down his knuckles onto the cushion. He’s taking it slow tonight. He intends to draw out his pleasure now that he finally has the entire space to himself for the night.

Now that he has a son to raise, he’s had to stop being so bold about where and when he decides to take a load off and relax. Luckily he was able to pawn Ryan off on Victoria and Zoe for a sleepover. Vicky wasn’t happy about the surprise but he isn’t sure why. His son is a fucking delight. He plans to make the most of his free time as he reclines lazily and uses the remote in his free hand to scroll through the fanfiction on the screen.

He had found the stories maudlin and pathetic at first when he first stumbled onto the online community dedicated to writing about him. They made him laugh at how desperate and pathetic they were. Even the ego boost wasn’t enough to erase the disdain towards the nobodies of the world who deigned to think that he would ever want to fuck them. He’s so pristine in the stories. A white knight handsome savior to sweep them away from their problems. If only they knew the real him and not the puppet Vought made him into.

But that was when he had Stormfront on his arm. A perfect goddess to chase away the pangs of loneliness and who any ordinary mud person would pale in comparison to. When he lost her, he began to see the value in such pathetic fantasies. As he lost more and more control over his surroundings, it was comforting to disappear into this place where the world still revolved around him and he could see proof of devotion that wasn’t just the steadily dropping points tacked to his name.

People still wanted him.

And sure, things might be looking up for him now. He’s head of Vought and he finally has his beloved son by his side. He has an army of mindless fans ready to fight for him. But his bed is still cold and a man has needs. There’s an earnest quality to the writing that scratches an itch that isn’t satisfied by the subpar porn Vought churns out. This is personal.

He grips his cock a little firmer and he twitches as he runs his thumb over his sensitive slit. He continues to read.

“He can smell your arousal. It coats the back of his throat and he can taste it on the roof of his mouth.”

Homelander unconsciously licks his lips. It’s not hard for him to conjure up the smell of sex in his mind. His own pleasure is already heady in his own nose. He whines and brings two fingers up to his lips and sucks. The salty tang of his own slick is filthy and his whole body throbs. His hipbones ache as he imagines what it would be like to be bent over, to lose himself to pleasure completely, to have all the worries and concerns knocked out of his brain. He can understand why this fantasy would appeal to someone so insignificant as the author. It’s not a perspective that he would normally ever indulge in but there’s something so tempting about it.

“You struggle to catch your breath and muster any kind of defense as he continues to take up more of your space. One hand wraps around your throat and squeezes, cutting off your airflow even further. He can hear you clench around nothing and a smug smile spreads across his face.”

Still sucking on his fingers, his other hand drops the remote and wraps itself around his neck. He presses down cautiously and the restriction of his own airflow causes a wave of heat to flow through his veins. He bucks up into nothing with a low grunt.

“He presses hot and hungry kisses against your jaw as his free hand grabs the waistband of your work trousers and tugs. The fabric rips easily and you can’t even gasp in surprise as his fingers delve under your underwear to press against your hole.”

Homelander follows suit, taking his spit slick fingers out of his mouth and reaching down to tease around his rim. He gasps, sensitive. He’s no stranger to touching himself here but it’s like a shock every time just how nice it feels. He wonders what the inbred brain dead hicks who worship him would think if they knew their fearless hero liked a little ass play. Would they still grovel? Would they keep him on his pedestal? He laughs bitterly at the irony of his power over people still being reliant on fitting into the narrow insipid boxes they feel like putting him in. He has everything he’s always wanted but he’s still fucking trapped.

Tears prick at his eyes. He’d started this just wanting to feel good but now his stomach is uneasy and his erection is already starting to flag. Even alone, he can’t escape people’s expectations of him. He removes the hand from his throat and wipes at his eyes, self loathing building tight in his chest at how pathetic he is. He can’t even get himself off properly and now he’s crying over it. He grabs the remote and goes to turn off the screen in self pity but his eyes catch the next words.

“Tears prick at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of the situation. Everything is happening so fast and so much.

“Shhhhh” He whispers in your ear. “You might as well just let it happen. Let yourself feel good. It’s not like you have a choice.”

“It’s not like you have a choice.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He can hear his own voice echoing in his head. It’s familiar and he follows where it leads. He brushes reality aside as he allows himself to sink back into the fantasy. He thinks about the ache in his hipbones and a body pressing him down and forcing him to relax. He puts his hand back on his throat, this time pressing harder until it borders on the hint of pain as his head swims. Idly he wonders where this written version of himself came from. How one measly author amidst the rush of saccharine romances managed to capture this raw real side of him.

He opens his eyes and squints so the world is a little fuzzy. The words on the screen blur but are still readable and as long as he has those he can block anything else out.

“Your body goes limp against the desk, becoming little more than a doll for him to play with. He dips his fingers into you, stretching you just enough to make you gasp before pulling back. He’s gentle but inescapable and there’s nothing that you can do except succumb to his touches. You moan pathetically as he finally takes pity on you, two deft fingers finally pressing in fully as they twist and curl until they find the spot that makes your legs tremble and shake.”

He whimpers as his fingers delve inside. It’s been a while since he’s had the opportunity to do this and he’s tight. He huffs and he can feel the bobbing of his adam’s apple against his hand. He can’t move yet as he focuses on relaxing his muscles until he’s no longer at risk of pushing his fingers right back out. The stretch feels good and his cock quickly swells back to its previous hardness. He’s torn between reaching down to stroke himself or staying put and following along with the whims of the story. He crooks his fingers slightly and a strangled yelp leaves his lips as lightning shoots up and down his spine.

“Touch yourself.” Homelander instructs as he continues to scissor his fingers and stretch you out properly. “C’mon, don’t make me do all the work.”

Homelander wastes no time. He’s eager now that he has permission. He wishes that there was a way to keep the pressure on his neck but he’ll have to think of something for next time. His cock throbs under his palm as he begins to stroke himself. The room fills with eager wet sounds and it allows him to sink deeper into the fantasy. He reads on, eager to know what he’ll do next. It baffles him why anyone would want to leave him now that he knows how good being with him feels.

He’d had an opportunity before, with Doppelganger. But it was wrong. It wasn’t him. It was just a pathetic needy imitation. So ready to please that it reeked of desperation. He’d seen something in “his” face that day that turned his stomach. He’d needed it gone.

This is different. This fictional version of him is perfect, strong, determined, and willing to just take what he wants. He’s perfect, like marble.

Homelander moans echo through the penthouse, filling up all the open space and desecrating the ears of the founding fathers. He has no need to be shy now that he has the place to himself again for the night. His cock is leaking all over his hand and dripping down onto the leather. The wet sloppy sounds of him working himself over are practically deafening to his sensitive hearing.

“That’s it, Sweetheart. Doesn’t it feel good to take some initiative. It’s a good thing the rest of the tower doesn’t have my hearing.” He goes quiet for a moment, allowing the sloppy sounds to echo through the empty room. “You would not believe some of the things I’ve heard go on around here. For example, do you remember fucking yourself in the bathroom after I surprised you in the elevator the other day?”

A wave of shame and panic floods through you as the memory of the elevator comes back to you. You were too flustered to say anything then. You had been surprised that he would bother with an elevator at all. The masculine vetiver scent of his cologne was subtle but in the confined space it seemed almost suffocating. You hadn’t said anything and he didn’t bother to even acknowledge your presence. He didn’t even look your way. Still, the strange intensity of the encounter had you running into the empty bathroom to relieve some stress. You wouldn’t have been able to concentrate otherwise.

“Nothing? I could practically smell you during my meeting. I could definitely hear you rubbing away.” He leans down to nip at your ear.”

Homelander briefly lets go of his cock to massage his balls, groaning loudly. He wants to prolong this but he can feel himself reaching the end of his rope. His abdomen is sore from the clenching of his muscles and he can feel his heartbeat in every fiber of his body. His lungs can’t seem to get enough air as he gasps at the wave of arousal.

Something prickles at the back of his brain. The story ignites some synapse that sparks an unimportant memory. It’s not enough to draw him out of his fantasy but somewhere in his hindbrain he logs it.

He imagines someone hearing him right now and his cock twitches. He gives a comforting squeeze as he wiggles the fingers inside himself again.

Fuck

“The combination of his filthy words along with your eager rubbing has you coming undone before he even fucks you. You feel truly visible for the first time.. Homelander saw that embarrassing needy part of you and he wanted it. He tracked you down once the rest of the crime analytics team had left and bent you right over your desk.

“There you go. Doesn’t it feel better to come on my fingers instead of your own?”

FUCK

Homelander’s vision goes red and hot as his fingers hit the spot inside him juuuuuust right. He tenses, entire body locking up, balls tightening, toes curling against the floor. He hangs weightless for a single moment before the storm of pleasure hits like a tidal wave. Hot ropes of come splatter all over his thighs and chest as he frantically strokes himself, milking himself of every last drop of pleasure. He bears down on his hand as he rides himself through it. He can hear his own voice ringing in his ears, the perfect voice of his best self.

“Doesn’t it feel better to come on my fingers instead of your own?”

In his mind he’s bent over the desk with a warm body against his back. His hips are sore but his muscles are pleasantly relaxed for once. He feels safe and protected. A strong hand grips his hip to hold him steady as the other Homelander removes his fingers with a soft wet noise.

He slumps into the leather, pleasantly sated.

Once he’s regained his senses a bit, he reaches for the remote and clicks off the tv. He’ll have to remember to finish the entire fic later when his cock has recovered a bit. The black screen reflects his face and Homelander is surprised to see the pleasure drunk smile on his face. He can’t remember the last time he smiled like this. Probably not since… He quickly shakes his head and shoves all thought of her from his brain. He doesn’t need anyone else to get off. He’s just fine on his own.

The little brain worm from earlier returns now that the room is quiet and distractions are gone. His mind still itches. Homelander clicks the tv back on and scrolls back up with a frown.

Crime analytics?

Most of the fics he reads are mindlessly generic. Most depict a banal office atmosphere when the setting takes place at Vought tower. It’s very easy for him to tell when the author is an outsider. Name dropping a specific department is new. Not to mention, the way the office was described in the beginning was eerily similar to the large room where the crime department is located…eerily similar.

Homelander’s heart pounds as he puts together the pieces. The author works at Vought and he knows in which department. The author has likely crossed paths with him. In fact, Homelander’s stomach tightens as he skims the fic, the author has probably shared an elevator with him.

He checks the upload date.

One week ago…

The unimportant memory floods back.

One week ago, he’d frightened a mousy crime analyst when he’d stopped the elevator for a ride. The little analyst never even looked directly at him. It was typical and not even worth the effort to get annoyed by. The sound of a fluttering heart and the scent of adrenaline were common occurrences no matter where he went. The moment he exited was the moment he’d already begun to forget.

Homelander sighs contentedly as he closes his eyes and lets himself bask in the afterglow. Curiosity sated, he lets his mind wander. Maybe he’ll surprise his little writer tomorrow and let them properly enjoy the fantasy this time. It’s the least he can do.

He reaches down and touches his hip, the phantom soreness still lingering.

After all, he knows just how good it feels to be fucked by him.

[beautifulsavagegarden]

Daniel had thought he knew what he had wanted in his life. He thought he'd known what the pinnacle of his existence would be; a phenomenal work of journalism on some twisted fucker like Gaddafi and then the Pulitzer would be his. Daniel had dreamed of it in between hard drinking sessions and rolling from drug den to desk and strip joint. It wasn't the classiest existence and he assumed it wasn't what his parents would have wanted for him. He had to assume because they hadn't been around to give a shit in the first place and so his philosophy was fuck them. Then, as he had grown up a little more and realised that he was far too inclined to spit in the faces of others to get that award, he had shifted his focus to capturing the lives of those who society had shit on over and over again. He had found a touch more fulfilment in that but it wasn't quite enough. He had heard the most amazing, depressing, fucked up stories and it still wasn't enough for him. There was an itch deep within him that burned and he didn't know how to scratch it. He didn't know what would bring him relief.

Then, he had met Louis De Pointe Du Lac, and that was the beginning of the end. After Louis had left him clinging to life, Daniel had been possessed by the fire of this world that he had never known, the beauty underneath the pain and bleeding wounds of the world. Vampires were real and he had the puncture marks in his neck to prove it. He had to find Lestat. He had to find him and convince him to give his own account. He had to know the story from his perspective and then Lestat would turn him into a vampire. That was going to hit the spot sweeter than any drink or drug possibly could. He was convinced, and so he had staggered out of the building with his tapes and had made his way to New Orleans. It had all been so perfect on paper but it didn't go the way he had planned. Daniel had failed to consider that Lestat wasn't the only vampire in Louis' story.

Armand was in New Orleans.

He could have died for a second time in that basement room but Armand let him go with the sword of Damocles reassuring him that he was on notice, that his life was never going to be his own again. Despite Armand appearing pretty much everywhere Daniel went, he had only ever been frightened of him once for what was probably only the briefest flicker of a moment for the vampire.

Daniel exhaled at the thought of it all, watching as the smoke drifted away from him. Cigarettes were one of many vices that Armand indulged him in. It was hard to think that he had been in a relationship with arguably one of the most dangerous creatures on the earth for 3 years now. It had been on and off in the sense that Daniel told Armand to go fuck himself and left in anger and the misapprehension that he could live his life without the devious little monster. He failed time and time again, but he couldn't feel too badly about that one. One look at Armand and memories of their conversations, of their tangling in the sheets and kisses and caresses and those fucking fangs... well, that said it all.

Daniel took in another drag of his cigarette, his whiskey glass empty on the table beside him as he watched Armand staring intently at this stupid parakeet that he had insisted they needed for their apartment. Daniel had told him that they didn't need a bird and if he really wanted one then why did it have to be a parakeet. Armand had simply shrugged one shoulder and shoved a cage into Daniel's arms, saying quite simply "I desire it." Daniel had waited, knowing that there would be a mental communication to follow and he was not left waiting long.

And I always get what I desire, don't I beloved?

Daniel had sighed in exasperation and grumpily bit out the single word 'fine', and they'd brought the parakeet back. Daniel didn't know how long the bird was going to be with them because the length of Armand's fascinations were variable and inconsistent. He really kept him on his toes. Daniel's gaze briefly shifted to the parakeet, exhaling smoke again.

I don't fancy your chances lasting out the week here buddy. Tough breaks.

Armand didn't move an inch, just continued staring at the bird who was starting to get a touch unnerved.

Don't be so pessimistic beloved. Danny will be fine.

Daniel squinted at Armand for a few moments as though trying to assess if Armand was serious before tipping his head back and laughing. It wasn't exactly a joyful laugh, more a mixture of astonishment and resignation because of course Armand had seriously named the bird after him. That didn't mean the bird was going to be a permanent fixture though and Daniel knew that when Armand grew bored of the bird and moved onto the next thing, Daniel was going to have to take him to the animal shelter while Armand was sleeping wherever he'd secreted his coffin.

"Do we have plans tonight or can I take off my damned shoes?" Daniel asked, a touch grumpily even to his own ears. Armand didn't look away from the bird, but Daniel could see the slightest upward curve of his lips and then he was staring at Armand's lips and remembering exactly how those lips made him feel in certain places and that led to thinking of those fan-

Shoes, shirt, pants, all of it, and if you're a good boy then I will do all that you wish and more with my lips and tongue and teeth.

Daniel couldn't prevent the shudder that ran through him and he stubbed out his cigarette, cursing under his breath at his cock that had hardened as soon as Armand had whispered the words 'good boy' into his mind. It was at that moment that Armand turned his head, the parakeet forgotten and smiled at him like the cat that got the cream, and started to count down from five.

The game was on.

[seagull-scribbles]

Love her even though I’m not supposed to ❤️ she keeps me up

[becca-e-barnes]

The need that I have for early morning, tender sex with Dbf!bucky that gets a little frantic and really passionate 😵‍💫

Especially if you tend to drift apart in your sleep. It feels so much nicer to curl up against him again the next morning, stealing some of his heat and enjoying the way that he smells so familiar to you now.

You can't help but feel a softness in your chest when he sleepily pulls you closer, placing a gentle kiss on the top of your head with his eyes still closed. If nothing else, you feel incredibly safe with your bare chest pressed to his and your limbs tangled together comfortably.

The sunlight has just managed to creep through a gap in between the curtains, illuminating the few grey hairs peppered across your partner's hairline and you swear he's never looked more beautiful.

He's more awake than he'd lead you to believe though. His eyes are barely even open before he's tilting your chin up, making it easier to capture your lips with his.

"Good morning." He mumbles in his deep morning voice when his lips part from yours.

"Hi." You can't help but smile, wiggling your body against the bulge in his underwear. "It's a great morning."

He can't help but roll his eyes at your enthusiasm.

"Didn't I take good enough care of you last night? You still want more." He pretends he's insulted but secretly, he's pretty damn pleased. You want him; plain and simple. You don't dress it up or play it off. Don't we all want to be wanted?

"See, that's the problem. You were too good to me last night. And now. I'm all worked up." You slip kisses to his neck and shoulders in between your sentences, hoping that it really drives your point home.

"You're a handful." Bucky teases, tilting your chin up once more, letting his lips collide with yours before allowing his tongue to do the same. It feels like his hands are all over your body at once, teasing and rubbing and gripping you, getting you even more worked up.

It's not long before he's got your leg hooked up over him and he's slipping his cock into you. The glide is that much easier given that he finished inside you just a few hours ago and the thought of that alone makes you even wetter.

Bucky's low groan as he slides into you is addictive. He's clearly still sensitive but it feels too good for either of you to stop now.

"Such a good girl. You take me so damn well." He's babbling already, eyes rolling back as he presses as deep inside you as possible, giving you a chance to take a breath before he starts to work your body in a way that no one else has ever managed.

[angelofalls]

"Who's behind the art?" Well this is me, if you cared.

[autism-alley]

ik it’s been forever in internet time but i’m gonna die mad abt the way the live action atla show got a good amount of backlash and criticism from the fanbase meanwhile the pjo show was THAT horrendous and the fanbase treats critics like they’re out to kill their mother. as someone in both fandoms am i crazy bc i keep fucking seeing people say yes 💀 like!! these shows, whose original series were both about a 12 year old boy born with godlike powers going on quests with his friends to save the world, released in the 2000s, and had a shitty movie adaptation, now reboots released within weeks of each other, both committed nearly identical crimes of character assassination, exposition dumping, dumbing down their source material, sanitizing “problematic” elements (that the characters originally had to overcome), and wasting actor potential (also at least live action atla had good action scenes CANNOT say the same for the pjo show)—and i’m seeing like mainstream(ish) social media coverage of new atla show critique by people with millions of followers all across different sites, but nothing even close to that for the pjo show?? if that coverage exists for the pjo show somebody fucken send it to me bc like!! the pjo series is Not an unpopular series, i get it’s a book series and not a tv series so i didn’t expect the popularity to be exactly the same, but Damn! i feel like i need an hours long video essay comparing the two audience reactions to these series’ first season releases bc they were WIDLY different

[babbling-starling]

[bluebellhairpin]

When you have to write the fic you want to read.

[overleftdown]

4th and final part to my farleigh analysis. most of this one is just ranting, since all of these scenes are fairly self-explanatory. i am plagued by thoughts and emotions.

[1:12:45] farleigh: i wouldn't do this! elsbeth: james is very upset. farleigh: you know that i... why would i do this!? elsbeth: i don't know! farleigh: i swear to god, this has to be a- elsbeth: enough! farleigh: there must be some kind of mistake, here.

oliver really did hit farleigh where it hurts, i suppose. farleigh remains committedly in control of himself; he knows when and where to say something, how carefully he needs to act in saltburn. he toes a line, but he somehow manages to stay on the right side of the cattons' affection. this, however, was a breach of that line. oliver attacked the cattons' trust in farleigh, in their confidence of his ability to remain compelling and non-threatening. maybe oliver was expecting this particular offense to be the end of their good graces towards farleigh, although it clearly wasn't.

[1:37:17] felix: i mean, the idiot! he had to have known that dad went to school with the chairman. venetia: i mean, talk about biting the hand. and mum and dad would give him anything he asked for. felix: yeah, well. obviously, he got sick of asking. venetia: that's ridiculous. he's more spoilt than we are. felix: i mean, come on vee, you have to admit. it's a little bit dark, him having to go to mum and dad with a beginning bowl. venetia: oh, boo-fucking-hoo. felix: already yes, fine, it was incredibly fucking stupid.

again, the irony of this situation is that farleigh really would never do this. it's interesting, how nobody questions it.

i also think it's important that venetia assumes the money would be for farleigh himself, and felix neglects to correct her. the conversation he references by specifically saying "begging bowl" had everything to do with farleigh's mother. the lack of familial privilege farleigh has is, also, a supposed racial bias. felix also neglects to mention this. the idea that farleigh could be implicitly discriminated against within saltburn is so deeply uncomfortable, so offensive, that felix can't even mention it as an objective discussion he had with farleigh. that's not surprising, though.

[1:25:30] oliver: have they seen you, yet? farleigh: not yet. oliver: yeah, they'll go ballistic. farleigh: i doubt it. they invited me. oliver: ohhh. farleigh: mmm... mmm. god, the look on your face. oliver: they can't have invited you. farleigh: oh, oliver. you'll never catch on. this place? you know, it's not for you. it is a fucking dream. it's an anecdote you'll bore your fat kids with for christmas. olivers once in a lifetime, handjob on a hay bale, golden big boy summer! and you'll cling onto it, and comb over it, and jerk off to it, and wonder how you could ever... ever, ever, ever get it back. but you don't get it back. because your summer's over. and so you... oh... you catch a train to whatever creepy doll factory they make olivers in. and i come back here. this isn't a dream to me. it's my house. so whatever happens, i always come back. try harder next time, baby.

god, this monologue. so much for me to chat about.

"this place? you know, it's not for you." farleigh has this obsession with the fact that oliver is an outsider. it's intentional, it's instinctive, because farleigh is an outsider all the same. it's strange, though, because this is still farleigh's family. this is his aunt, his uncle, his cousins, and the house he's lived in for at least a couple years. he shouldn't, reasonably, be an outsider. yet, he's treated as one. something kills me about how hard farleigh is fighting for a place to belong. and sure, the money, the lavish lifestyle, it's all great. i don't disagree that farleigh is motivated by the fact that he's never experienced the life of lesser wealth that he fears so much. but there's also so much love for felix and venetia and i'm sure, for elsbeth and james.

this makes the final portion of farleigh's monologue so relevant. this is that kind of foreshadowing where a character implies a happy ending before receiving the opposite of that. farleigh says "this isn't a dream to me. it's my house. so whatever, happens, i always come back." and he... doesn't! he does not come back, at least at the invitation of elsbeth or james. this was a dream for him, too. oliver just had to prove it, how easy it is to destroy everything farleigh has worked for since arriving at saltburn. the pocket in time that farleigh runs to when he doesn't want to go back to america and his mom.

[1:35:58] (they find felix's body, in the maze). farleigh and venetia destroy me, in this scene. the way farleigh reaches for her hand and pulls her into him. at 1:36:56, he pulls her into him again. they cling onto each other. sometimes i think about how much farleigh must have loved them and grieved them alone. how in the world do you cope with that?

[1:37:12] (pre-curtains closing) it's the way farleigh glances to felix's empty chair. it's the way that, even now, it's farleigh sitting next to felix's ghost. and he's trying his hardest, in this moment, to be very english about his emotions. great effort.

[1:39:28] farleigh: oh, my god. may i be excused, please? james: no. we haven't finished lunch. farleigh: the lunch is cold! what, you want me to just eat it like nothing's happening? elsbeth: what else is there to do, darling? farleigh: anything! anything! james: farleigh! will you be quiet!? sit down and eat the bloody pie! just eat it! eat it and shut up! eat the bloody pie! you're not the only person here with feelings. none of us wants your bloody american feelings.

i don't know if there's any singificance to this, but the same moment that farleigh cracks is the same moment that the footman behind him cracks.

of course, english repression vs american... normal...ness. "none of us wants your bloody american feelings" is, again, such a strong indication of how differrent farleigh is. he's family, yes. but he's different for a multitude of reasons. i also find it heartbreaking, how elsbeth speaks to him in this scene. she is visibly trying so hard to keep herself together and maintain a calmness while speaking to him. i really do wonder how close they were.

[1:40:10] farleigh: what the fuck are you still doing here? what, does no one else find it weird? no one else finds that weird? oliver: i wouldn't throw stones if i were you, farleigh. farleigh: excuse me? venetia: please, stop. james: what is he saying? farleigh: i, i have no idea. oliver: what i'm saying is, i would feel guilty, too. farleigh: guilty? oliver: if i was the one racking up lines on the night that someone died. farleigh: fuck you. oliver: that's not a denial. james: is that true? search farleigh's room. farleigh: no- james: get out. farleigh: no, wait- elsbeth: what's happening? farleigh: aunt elsbeth? elsbeth? james: don't you dare look at her. get out. i won't mention to this to the police, but that's all you'll get. nothing more, ever again.

and here is all it took to ruin farleigh. archie's acting in this scene is so potent it's kind of vomit inducing. the way he fidgets with his sleeves, the way he flinches and his lip quivers. farleigh is buried in a sweater. now, more than anywhere else, he looks so young.

for the first time in this movie, farleigh refers to elsbeth as his aunt. gah. not that elsbeth seems any more motherly than what i imagine farleigh's own mother to be, but goodness, he's begging for affection. i realize there's not much else to say about this scene other than how heartbreaking it is. i'm basically writing this post for my own self benefit; i gotta rant somehow! i wonder if farleigh did feel guilty for his actions that night. if he regrets sticking to his own agenda, avoiding felix and the rest of his family like the plague. if he regrets the competitive nature of it all; how quickly his need to be accepted took precedent over the genuine connection he had with felix. there's something so hopeless about learning how to lie.

i think, out of all the cattons, farleigh understood how much it all mattered. the money, the ease of summer, the companionship during school. just like oliver, he knew how to work, in his own way. farleigh knew what it felt like to be loved and ignored by the cattons, and by his own family in america. rararararararara.

[floral-hex]

woke up at 4am feeling the weight of my life crushing me, so I’ve been sitting out in my car for the last couple of hours because I just need. to. be. somewhere else.

[doctorwhoisadhd]

there's a certain quality the harmonies of like... early to mid 2000s alt rock has. which i am obsessed with... like i wanna do that. i NEED to figure out how to write harmonies that sound like that

[yappacadaver]

BROOOOOO I CANT TAKE IT ANYMORE I JEED MORE RAYMOND CONTENT THIS FANDOM IS SO DEAD

AAAAAA i feel you u_u been trying to convince more ppl to draw my blorbo haha

I've personally still got a long list of WIPs and planned art/fic chapters, but unfortunately my pace has slowed way tf down thanks to my chronic pain and lack of income/job search :( Still keeping at it tho! Just posted my most recent chapter last night, and my latest art was a couple days ago too :')

in the meantime, my commissions are open for anyone who feels similarly and wants to see something specific! And if it's something you're passionate about, I'd be so happy to see whatever Raymond content you'd want to bring to the table, art, fic, hc, or anything else!

[crescentfool]

bonerattle arena fucks severely. i was not expecting it to rival my love for jammin' salmon junction, but wow. this map feels like a love letter to people who love and enjoy salmon run. (i ended up playing the rotation for around 3.5 hours... which you can watch here if you like!)

the map's circular shape on normal/high tide effectively makes the spawns from this map come from every angle. it's a test of awareness and movement skill- and the walls + inkrails really, really make rotating around the map feel so fluid and easy.

and low tide's hexagonal two-ring design is so fascinating too! instead of testing movement, it tests your team's ability to make judgment calls on luring and making sure you don't overwhelm basket from luring too much.

i also feel that every special in salmon feels really rewarding to use on this map- even reefslider! i've played enough to see that most specials bring so much utility and value, and i just love that no special feels like it's "useless" on this map.

there's also a few flyfish tech on this map that echoes the bomb tricks on jammin' salmon junction and spawning grounds (and i guess gone fission too), it feels really intuitive on what spots can pop two baskets at once (it's the grates and the rails) and i just? feel really rewarded for playing as much salmon as i do.

i feel that the map's inclusion of the ink rail mechanic evokes a lot of similar vibes to ruins of ark polaris- and i really liked that! there's definitely some things i want to fine tune and understand better about them, but they're really fun.

i still need to see how other weapons feel on this map, but it feels like both mobile and stationary weapons can exceed here- there's nice perches for long range weapons, lots of walls for quick weapons to use to escape situations... it's so swag...! a very good final map, i think!

[the-silver-stone]

watched the book of eli last night. yep this one is going on my fave apunkalypse aesthetic movies list. danngngngn. ghngnhghghghhhh