#being perceived and acknowledged and just

[tashtush]

We Ask for Your Discretion (Chapter 3)

⚠️ Warning: This chapter contains explicit, kinky, and trauma-forward noncon. Peep the warnings below.

18+ 9.8k - Homelander/queer female reader, noncon, praise kink, rough sex, manipulation, homophobia, trauma, sexual coercion, vaginal sex, anal fingering, degradation, humiliation, spitting, facefucking, throatfucking, choking, vomiting, overstimulation, dissociation, crying, dacryphilia, sadism, breathplay, hair-pulling, reader doesn't fight back, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, creampie, aftercare (but it's demented aftercare)

Note: This was supposed to be the final chapter, but I have more emotional ends to tie (involving Madelyn, of course). Hope y'all enjoy—please don’t institutionalize me!

AO3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

You decided to take PTO.

Your body knew that you were better off spending the day in bed, clutching your phone like an anchor keeping your thoughts firmly in place. Deep in your gut, you knew that you couldn’t let your mind wander.

A notification flashed across your lock screen, and you rolled onto your belly, elbows propping you up as you scanned its contents.

Vought International tagged you in a post.

You felt something gnaw inside of you, a sensation that you weren’t quite ready to acknowledge. But curiosity dominated discomfort, and nothing was going to prevent you from tapping your screen.

And there you were. With him.

You looked lovely in your black dress, offering the camera a closed, unassuming smile. Homelander was standing to your right, wearing his trademark grin that crinkled the corners of his blue, All-American eyes. They radiated what you once perceived as genuine, magnetic goodness.

You both perfectly put on the act that his hand wasn’t aggressively groping your ass. That he hadn’t just fucked you minutes before.

You read the photo’s description:

voughtintl @Homelander, America’s favorite LGBTQIA+ ally, has honored Vought’s Super Sexual Alliance (@​vought.ssa) with a generous donation of $50,000! Let’s slay 💅✨homophobia!

You instinctively tossed your phone to the other end of the bed, pulling your covers over you to nap the feeling away.

—

Your first day back was more challenging than anticipated. After a subway ride that felt twice as long as usual, you mustered up the nerve to walk through Vought Tower’s lobby entrance. It was just another day. The gala was over. The game they played with you was over, and they had their fun.

And you had yours, right?

Your chest tightened as you waited in front of the elevator doors, imagining them parting to reveal Homelander’s imposing silhouette, his teeth sharper in your memory. You could almost feel in your body that he was nearby, and you braced yourself as you heard the dreaded “ping”. The doors slid open, and two nervous interns, probably rushing to get their bosses’ hyperspecific coffee orders, tumbled out. You exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Despite the hedonistic events of the gala, you still felt uneasy at the prospect of being in his presence. He was essentially a god, and no amount of positive attention from him would ever be enough to put you at ease. The perception of his “kindness” had changed shape in your mind, and that unknown made him more unpredictable.

You made your way to your desk and sat down, grateful to be moored by its mundane familiarity. You easily fell back into the rhythm of your morning routine: half-reading VChat messages while sipping your fancy corporate cappuccino. It wasn’t long before a gaggle of coworkers flocked around you, pressing for details about your experience with the rich and (literally) powerful. You played the part and animatedly recounted the glitz and acrobatics, gesticulating every time you mentioned a supe you had recognized. You managed to gloss over the night’s inarguable main event, remembering the genuine exhilaration you had felt before it. That is, until the inevitable question was asked.

“What was it like to meet Homelander?” Ami asked excitedly, leaning forward in her seat for intel that she would never receive. 

You felt that familiar twinge in your chest, and your smile dropped for half a second before it snapped back into place.

“Oh, god, he was so nice,” you said, shaking your head in exaggerated disbelief. “Honestly, I was in starstruck autopilot mode, so I barely remember what it felt like to be onstage.”

After storytime was officially over, the hungry swarm dissipated, leaving you to swivel back to your desk and resume your day. You replied to emails, ideated on your team’s newest feature for stressed out families—Power Parenting—and comfortably lost yourself in the dull embrace of corporate boredom. It was like nothing had happened. 

Then, as if seeing a vision, your mind flashed to his face.

It was nestled between your thighs, and hungry moans underscored the vulgar, wet sounds of his tongue flicking against your clit. Stillwell was watching you, composed with her unnerving aura of professionalism, the kind that could barely conceal the fact that she was fucking you with her eyes.

You ached beneath your desk, unconsciously crossing your legs in an attempt to contain the intrusive sensation. This was the last thing you needed when you still had two hours left to kill, so you decided that a break to clear your mind was in order.

You stood, stretching your shoulders before heading to the nearest café for a nerve-soothing treat. On the way there, you felt your phone buzz in your skirt pocket, so you stepped to the side of the hallway to see if any more photos had been uploaded. You saw that you had been tagged in another post from Vought’s account, so you clumsily slid your thumb as you tried to unlock the notification.

That is, until you felt a large pair of hands firmly grab your shoulders.

You yelped a shocked, squeaky sound, and you were sure your feet completely left the ground. You heard a rugged laugh behind you, and embarrassment quickly replaced your shock.

Of course.

You turned to face him, trying to relax your shoulders when you realized they were still raised.

“Ooh, jumpy," Homelander teased, reaching out and wiggling his fingers. "It's just little ol' me."

But he knew he was anything but.

He stood before you, his suit as lofty and unnaturally clean as ever, his handsome face turned uncanny. His cheekbones were sharp, skin stretched too tight, his once-boyish-looking hair now a harsh contrast to his piercing eyes. He was beautiful, but a beauty that threatened to distort, like when you stared into a mirror for too long. 

"Oh! Oh my God. You scared me," you laughed, hoping that the sound would obscure your trepidation. It did the opposite. 

His playful smile widened before it fell just slightly, and he stared at you. You felt your heartbeat quicken, hoping that he would spare you the humiliation by not commenting on it this time. 

He grinned wholeheartedly as he finally broke eye contact, reaching to rub your bare upper arm before patting it. The almost fatherly gesture, combined with the sensation of leather, sent goosebumps rippling across your skin.

“I noticed you didn’t say goodbye the other night,” he said suddenly, hands now behind his back as he paced in front of you. His voice took on a strange, low, chiding cadence that you couldn’t quite place. 

“I gotta admit,” he said as he turned to face you again, eyebrows furrowed. He theatrically pressed a palm to his chest. “That hurt a little.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” you said, sheepish, as you had sincerely hoped that he wouldn’t notice. “I didn’t mean to. It was just so busy, and you were so busy, and I needed to get home before it got too late–”

“Relax,” he said, laughing as he waved his hand in dismissal. “I’m just messing with you again. It’s no big deal.”

You laughed awkwardly, clutching your phone in your hand. He considered you for another moment before his expression changed, resolute, as if an idea had settled in his mind.

“I think,” he said, pointing a gloved finger back and forth between the both of you, “you and I have some talking to do, little lady.”

“Oh,” you said. Where was he going with this? You felt something unpleasant expand within you, like a rubber band was being pulled taut across your ribcage. You hesitated, wondering if you should even broach the elephant in the room. 

“About… what happened at the gala?”

“Hm, yes,” he said thoughtfully, gesturing with a hand down the hallway. “Come with me. I think we need to clear the air about our little rendezvous. I want to make sure we move forward respectfully and professionally—don’t want to make you uncomfortable, do we?” 

You paused, struggling to find words.

“Okay?” he said softly, his hand back on your shoulder. He looked genuinely concerned, and something inside of you softened.

“Okay,” you said, a small smile growing on your face. Maybe you had no reason to worry. You had the opportunity to sleep with him, and anyone would have killed to be in your shoes. Yes, you felt weird about it, maybe more than you expected, but perhaps an honest conversation could alleviate your concerns. You ignored the small warning that chimed in your head, chalking it up to an overreaction from your heightened nerves.

You let him lead you to a conference room around the corner, hands clasped behind his back and under his cape as he strode in front of you, looking straight ahead. You followed him quietly, still tense, but the promise of closure made you follow. That’s what you told yourself, at least.

He stopped in front of a door and pulled it open for you, and when you entered, you were faced with a run-of-the-mill conference room. There was a long table surrounded by chairs, a monitor affixed to the wall, and a whiteboard covered in unintelligible scribblings. He followed behind you, and you heard the distinct sound of the door closing in a loud punctuation. Something in your throat tightened, but you swallowed it.

“Sit,” he said, pulling out a chair. You obeyed, and he lowered himself into the seat beside you.

The moment he sat down, something in his energy shifted. It was the way his hand clenched before he tapped his fingers against the table’s wooden finish, how his thin lips twitched as he tilted his head to regard you. It was as if he were searching for something.

“Do you think Madelyn—” he paused, a look of frustration dawning on his features, “—owns me?”

“Excuse me?” you asked quietly. You lifted your shoulders again, unprepared for whatever he would say next, and he scoffed with a bitter, amused sound. He leaned forward, eyes now boring into you without any trace of reservation.

“Do you think Madelyn can stop me from doing anything I want?”

“I don’t understand,” you replied cautiously. The warnings were blaring in your head now, and you were acutely aware of the fact that he was between you and the door. 

The mood in the air was becoming exponentially more tense with each passing moment, and you struggled to hide the unease on your face. His lips spread into a tight line before he stood from his seat, cape swishing behind him as he began to pace. He idly looked around the room for a few moments before he stopped to examine the scrawl on the whiteboard. 

“I remember meeting you like it was yesterday,” he said. There was a hint of fondness in his voice, as if he were relishing something personal and nostalgic. You didn’t know what to say, so you chose to remain silent. He then turned his head toward you again, and when he looked into your eyes, his expression softened.

“Oh, you were such a cute, shy little thing,” he said, gesturing his hand affectionately down the line of your body. “Playing pretend like you weren’t flirting with the most important man in the world.” 

His eyes dropped to your chest for several moments too long, his mouth parting as he licked the inside of his lips. 

“Your tits looking perfect in that slutty little sweater.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks.

You looked off to the side, wrapping your arms around yourself. You hadn’t imagined his look in the elevator that day, but now he was unambiguously leering, and it was becoming more challenging to maintain eye contact.

“I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more desperate cry for my attention,” he said as he began to step toward you, his voice low in a way that made your heart quicken. He stood in front of you now, arms planted on his hips, looking down at you like you were something shameful and small. “And believe me, I’ve seen it all.” 

Your face burned with confusion and embarrassment. You were just meeting your hero. You tried to make a stupid joke. You hardly understood how the existence of your tits constituted a “cry for attention.” 

“Well, you know how us men get when we see a pretty gal,“ he said softly, reaching down to cup your cheek with a gloved hand. “We get a little curious.” 

“So, I followed you back to your apartment…“ he said, his palm now caressing your skin, as if he were soothing the nauseating realization that dropped in your stomach. “I saw you all comfy in your little bedroom, surrounded by sweet little string lights and knick-knacks. You rubbing your clit raw while you—well, while you were obviously thinking about me,” he said cheekily, looking at you with an arrogance so enormous it affronted you.

“God, the way you have to put a towel on your bed. Like the thought of me would make you too wet for your cheap little IKEA sheets to handle.” A husky chuckle tumbled out of him, and you couldn’t move, couldn’t think.

“And that sound you make when you come?” he laughed in disbelief before whistling a low, humiliating sound. “Let’s just say, I had a lot of good material for ‘me time’ last week.”

Your stomach churned.

He reached to coax his thumb between your lips, and you took him in, allowing him to probe inside. You didn’t know what else you could do. 

How long had this been going on? All of those creeping moments of feeling watched were completely founded, and you searched your mind for everything you had done in “private” over the past week. 

Your horror ebbed as embarrassment pooled deeper in your belly. The times you’ve masturbated were projected in your thoughts like a filthy porn compilation. And you masturbated. A lot.

He pushed his thumb deeper into you, the earthy taste of leather filling your mouth as he stroked your tongue. You had to consciously stop yourself from swirling it over him, a confusing instinct that you didn’t want to understand.

You remembered yesterday, when you had spent the entirety of the evening grinding your pussy against a pillow. You imagined Homelander’s hands hungrily groping you all over—your hips, your belly, your tits���all while you whimpered and rubbed yourself against the soaked pillowcase like a desperate animal. 

He slowly pressed in a second finger, stretching your mouth wider as you tried to stop yourself from drooling.

When you touched yourself, you were trying to channel your conflicted feelings by remembering the threesome as the pleasurable experience that it was. To fuck away the discomfort and turn it into loud, powerful orgasms you were in control of. The heat from the sense memory bloomed deep in your belly, and it was a strange, potent combination with the sinking feeling that existed beside it.

But that was for you. Not him.

You felt yourself stiffen as he finally slid his thumb out of your mouth, languidly running it down your chin and neck. He stopped at the neckline of your top, stroking the exposed skin above it.

“Madelyn can try to ‘leash’ me all she wants,” he said, voice sharp enough to cut through your unpleasant recollection. “But really, she just refuses to get this into her stubborn little head.”

He leered down at you, his upper lip raising in a lopsided snarl. 

“I can fuck whoever I want to fuck.”

It was then that true, genuine fear flooded your system, and you knew you had to say something. You had to try. He was Homelander. He helped people. Saved people. You needed to believe that a part of him was genuine to the man you had admired for most of your life.

“Uh, wait, wait,” you said hurriedly when he began to gently palm the curve of your right breast, tension now coiling tightly in your gut. His hand stilled, but stayed.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice coming out higher-pitched than expected. You resisted the urge to avert your gaze, opting instead for courage. “I’m honestly, truly very honored that you’re interested in me, but… I’m sorry. I don’t think I want to do this.”

It was difficult to believe that you were living in a reality where you turned down Homelander. A different version of you might have found it funny, maybe even a surreal source of pride. But in that moment, all you could think about was how deeply challenging it was.

He paused to look at you, his expression thoughtful as if he were honestly trying to digest what you had said. And then he laughed.

Your heart sank.

“Oh, you see, that’s not the picture I’m getting,” he said, his too-wide smile not quite connecting to his eyes. “Your heart is racing,” he slid his hand from your right breast to your left, patting the skin above it. “Your pupils are wide, and… well,” he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, “I can smell you getting wet, sweetheart.”

“I mean, and that night?” he said, his low, masculine voice barely above a whisper. “I know you’ve been thinking about it, the way you’ve been fucking coming all over yourself for the past week.”

You exhaled a shaky breath in a pathetic attempt to calm yourself, but it only made you feel more vulnerable.

“And don’t forget how you moaned my name every single fucking time.”

He drew himself back from your ear and moved his attention toward your lips, taking them in a kiss that was as invasive as it was passionate. He made a hungry, growling sound as his mouth hung open against yours, savoring your taste like he missed it. He tasted hot, almost sweet as he explored yours, which somehow made his complete disregard for your boundaries feel even worse. You closed your eyes, trying not to respond to the deft movements of his tongue against yours, hoping that he would eventually get the sincerity of your message. He finally released his hold on the back of your head, and you broke free, gasping softly before attempting to protest again.

“I-I don’t want–“

You shut your mouth when you felt him slide his palm against the front of your neck, stopping to gently massage your throat with his fingers. You remembered one of his more spectacular interview segments, where he “humbly” crushed a concrete block like a can of soda in front of a studio audience.

The words evaporated in your throat.

“Shhh,” he cooed into your ear, his warm breath tickling your skin. “I know you’re nervous, but it’ll feel good. Promise.”

The harsh reality of the situation crashed over you like a cold, brutal wave. 

He slid the hand that was around your throat to the back of your neck, pulling you up to stand from your seat. You now had no concept of what he was capable of, and your legs felt weak under the weight of the suspense. He watched you for a moment as you silently stood in front of him, searching your eyes as if he were waiting for something. 

“Well, c’mon!” he laughed joyfully, nodding his head toward the space behind you. “Hands on the table.”

You began to tremble when you fully comprehended what he was asking you to do. You turned slowly and planted your hands on the smooth, wooden surface, still doing your best to stand tall. A small, delusional part of you still hoped that you could change the outcome of what would happen next. 

He chuckled before he pushed down on your back with the strength of hard, unyielding steel. He roughly pressed your face into the table’s surface, and you whimpered in unadulterated fear as a pen dug painfully into your cheek. But that didn’t stop him from hiking up your skirt and exposing your bare skin to the cool, conditioned air of the conference room, and it wasn’t long before his hands followed. He roughly caressed and squeezed your ass, handling it like it was his to play with.

“I have a feeling that you’re going to take me like a champ,” he said mockingly, and panic rushed through you when you heard the telltale click of his belt being unbuckled. Suddenly, a thought occurred to you—one last Hail Mary.

“Um… Homelander?” you asked softly as you looked at him over your shoulder, hoping that a more compliant, sweet approach might appeal to his generosity.

“What’s that, sweetheart?” he asked, half-distracted as he tugged your panties down your thighs. You pressed them together in an attempt to shut him out, hiding from him what you knew you ultimately couldn’t. He easily forced his glove between your legs, and he slid you open with long, entitled strokes of his fingers. You tensed as he continued to tease your traitorously swollen pussy, forcing you to bite your lip to repress the soft, needy sound that you refused to let him hear.

“Do you have a condom?” you whispered, too breathy, too quiet. He would hear you all the same.

When he didn’t respond right away, you knew that you had said something wrong. Even though he was silent for only a few seconds, it felt like minutes, and you heard your own heartbeat through the table. He suddenly gripped a handful of your hair, tugging just sharply enough to elicit a stuttering gasp out of you.

“Not this fucking time.”

You held your breath.

“Now, while I’m doing this to you, I want you to remember why,” he said while taking position behind you. He smacked your ass with a heavy thud of leather, hard enough to hurt, and you cried out in pain and surprise. He trailed his fingers against your warm, stinging skin, setting your nerves alight with an agonizingly light touch.

”Because no one, not even fucking Madelyn, can stop me,” he hissed.

You felt the hard head of his cock rub against you, slide against you, and the vulgar sound of your wet flesh now accompanied your pounding heartbeat. You braced yourself, trying to ignore how your clit throbbed when he teased against it, as if to mock you, to coax your shame.

You felt him press against your entrance, sliding just the tip of himself in, out, as if he were teasing himself with your pussy. You were breathing a little faster now, losing the will to conceal how your body was reacting to his aggressive touch.

He then forced himself inside of you with one heavy, harsh thrust of his hips.

You made a high, strangled sound, not given even a single moment to adjust to his intrusion. It was when his hips pressed against yours, cock filling you completely, that you felt a bead of your wetness roll down your thigh.

This wasn’t happening.

“Oh, fuck yes,” he groaned with a hint of laughter, as if he were pleasantly shocked. “That’s it,” he growled, locking your hips in place while you squirmed beneath him. “Thaaat’s a good little girl.”

He lowered his chest and flattened himself against you, his face now directly beside yours. His scent was close, all sweat and masculinity, a heady reminder of how deeply you were entwined.

You gripped the edge of the table, wondering when he would finally get it over with. It was like he was staking a claim inside of you, and you were utterly helpless as your pussy contracted around his too-thick cock.

“Oh,” he whispered into your ear, the amused breath of his voice prickling your skin. “I definitely felt that.” You inhaled shakily.

“You know, this whole ‘queer’ thing you always go on about,” he began, his tone dripping with barely-concealed disdain. 

He pulled back, then roughly slammed himself into you again. You cried out, but the clamp of his hand quickly muffled the sound.

“You seem to like cock a lot more than you give yourself credit for, missy,” he taunted, his voice low and cruel.

You whined into the leather of his glove, and he tightened his grip over your mouth.

“No, no, no,” he chastised, finally beginning to rock his hips in a slow, torturous rhythm. “You’re going to stay quiet for me, aren’t you?” 

You tried to focus on the sensation of his cape repeatedly brushing the backs of your thighs, reaching for something, anything, to ground you. Anything but the heavy, aching feeling of his cock stroking you from the inside, his free hand digging into the flesh of your hip.

“Unless…” he said, moaning softly before he continued, “you want your little work wives to gossip about what a slut you are in the breakroom tomorrow?”

You shook your head, defeated. He freed you from his hold.

“That’s what I thought.”

He paused and stood tall again, cock still buried as he freed you from his oppressive restraint. You almost felt a weak sense of relief, but it was quickly washed away by the sight of him setting his gloves down on the table in front of you. He buried his fingers in your hair again, yanking your head back as he began to fuck you in earnest. 

There was no restraint, no safeguard, no Madelyn. He fucked you hard, making it impossible to focus on the feeling of his cape anymore—just the sensation of him repeatedly splitting you in two, punctuated by the sharp slap of his pelvis against your ass. His bare hand squeezed your thigh with little consideration for your comfort, and you were sure that it would leave a nasty bruise.

You needed to distract yourself again. You needed to try.

He slowed his thrusts again, and your breath hitched as you felt his hand roughly grab your right ass cheek. He spread you open, and you were hit by a wave of repulsion when you heard the crude sound of him spitting. Your fists clenched as you felt his warm saliva hit your asshole, his thumb now spreading it all over your tight ring of muscle, easing the tip of it in before sliding in completely. You cried out in pain at the too-sudden, sensitive stretch, your pussy leaking in response.

You hated yourself for it.

With every thrust of his cock and finger, a sickening pleasure swelled in its wake. It was stoked by him, tainted by him, and it was hot and relentless. The more you tried to dissociate from the feeling, the stronger it felt, and an airy whimper was ripped from your throat before you could stop yourself. You began to pant steadily as he fucked both your holes, wanting to disappear when quiet moans floated from your lips like little betrayals.

“Oh, that’s fucking right,” he moaned, his free hand on your back as he pinned you down again. “You were fucking made for me.” 

Instead of focusing on the way his cock and thumb pressed against each other as they moved inside of you, you turned your attention toward the potted plant in the corner. You studied the shape of its expensive, synthetic leaves, trying to commit every detail to memory.

You felt both his cock and thumb slip out of you at once, and your holes flexed at the sudden withdrawal. He grabbed your hips and flipped you over, and the movement was so rough, so careless, that you had the wind knocked out of you when your back landed on the table. As you tried to recatch your breath, you hesitantly looked up to see his face for the first time since he started fucking you. His eyes were half-lidded, dark, their gaze penetrating you with drunk lust.

In your mind, his face softened into the golden, kind-hearted expression you had once associated with him. You remembered his beautiful smile, the one that had belonged to the man who appeared in every public service announcement, who regularly donated his wealth to charity. That was not the man who was above you.

He roughly yanked up your shirt and bra to expose your breasts, and you didn’t even attempt to cover them. You had now accepted that there was no hiding from him.

“God, the way you look right now,” he said, almost like a lover. He drank in the sight of your heaving, vulnerable flesh, and you felt truly stripped bare.

He groped your tits, your stomach, your hips, and it felt so, so different from the fantasy that played in your head on repeat for the last week. He trailed his index and middle fingers down your belly, turning them over before gently stroking your aching clit.

You almost preferred it when he was rough.

He reached down and pressed his cock against you again, teasing at your entrance before sliding back in. He grunted as he began to take you in another fast rhythm, brutally fucking high, pathetic sounds out of your mouth. You hazily realized that the table was rocking beneath you.

The more devastated you became, the more aching pleasure you would feel throbbing between your thighs. It was as if your body were punishing you. As if he were punishing you.

His fingers pressed a little more firmly, swirled a little more quickly, and the wet sounds of your pussy responding to his touch made it impossible to hide your arousal. You felt heat mount inside of you, your quiet moans taking on an undeniable color of pleasure that filled you with shame.

This only seemed to fuel him, and he pulled you down onto his cock right as he fucked into you, burying himself so deep like he wanted you to remember it.

You couldn’t bear to look at him anymore—his gaze penetrated you with an expression so hungry, so soulless, that your eyes mechanically shut tight. It was as if your body was deliberately sparing you from another sense.

It was only a moment later before you felt his large hand wrap around your neck. Your eyes popped open.

“I want you,” he growled, beginning to snap his hips in a hard, feverish stacatto, “to look into my eyes when you fucking come.”

You looked up at him, your mouth hanging open in a pleasure so shameful, it cut through your terror. His normally kempt strands of golden hair were askew, his jaw and teeth clenched as if he was barely holding himself back. And his eyes, eyes that were now forever tainted, looked down at you. Hungry, angry, like he wanted to hurt you for making him feel this way.

He squeezed, and you made a pitiful, frightened sound. Your blood began to rush, your body tingling more with every frightened, shallow breath he rammed into you. Your vision blurred until you could only see a haze of red and blue moving above, and all you could feel was him.

You were honed on his fingers rubbing your clit in firm, wet circles with a persistence that made your hips jerk, trying and failing to move away. The relentless sensation of his cock stretched you, his balls slapping against your skin in an intimate humiliation. However, it was the way he murmured low, terrible things to you that finally sent you careening toward the edge.

“You take me so fucking good.”

You strained a whimper, feeling heat rise dangerously inside of you.

“I know you want to come all over my cock, you stupid fucking little slut.”

You held back—no, you tried to hold back, but you were too weak and lightheaded to save yourself.

“Come. Right. Fucking. Now,” he snarled.

Your orgasm was ripped from you, and he didn’t need to cover your mouth because you couldn’t make a sound. You grabbed at his squeezing hand around your neck, feeling heat and pleasure spread through your body like an assault, and trying to free yourself from the feeling only made you come harder. And when the sensation didn’t stop, blooming into another powerful wave in its wake, you came a second time. You felt humiliated as your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your body no longer yours.

“F-fuck,” he stuttered a moan. “Oh, fuck, you’re a shameless little whore, aren’t you?”

He released his grip on your throat, and when you gasped precious air into your lungs, you were filled with an incredible sense of relief and repulsion. A gratefulness to live, made ugly by the still-aching throb of your pussy.

You struggled to catch your breath as he continued to fuck you, papers and pens long-knocked off the table by the force of his thrusts. It was soon after your second orgasm that his moans grew louder, more desperate, and it occurred to you how he never hid how turned on he was. It was as if every decadent, noisy moan and filthy word was to spite you. It was sadistic. 

“Wait, pull out,” you gasped, harshly dragged from the surface of your orgasm.

But he kept going. And you felt as if you were being strangled again. 

“Please,” you begged, weakly sitting up to reach for his chest. It was as if you were pushing against a wall, and it only seemed to make him groan louder.

“Plea-

He came with a low, guttural sound, animalistically grinding his hips deep into you in a brutal rebuttal. It was devastatingly cruel, but you still ached, still felt hot as you pulsed and cried out beneath him.

His eyes were still shut as he moaned softly with each aftershock, squeezing your thighs in tandem with each jerk of his hips. When he opened his eyes again, he was still panting, looking down at you with a chilling smile.

“See?” he laughed, cleaning your come from his fingers by wiping them against the soft flesh of your stomach. “Told you I’d make it good for you.” 

You didn’t respond.

You finally felt him withdraw, and you just lay there on the conference table, skirt still bunched around your waist. You were afraid to sit up, because when you moved, you had to find out what would happen next. How your life would irrevocably change.

“You can get up now,” you heard him say, voice light and amused, as if nothing of note had happened.

You inhaled deeply before you sat up and dropped to your feet, trying to look anywhere but at him. Your panties were nowhere in the immediate vicinity, so you opted just to pull your skirt down to cover your thighs.

He lazily tugged your shirt and bra over your breasts, patting your shoulder as if he were congratulating you for a job well done. He then tucked his softening cock back into his suit and hiked up his pants.

”Well,” he said, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “That was fun, wasn’t it? Can’t believe Madelyn wanted to deprive me of those sweet fucking sounds.”

You smiled weakly, trying to come back to your senses as quickly as possible so you could leave.

“Yeah, um… thank you,” you said, and when you heard the words leave your mouth, you felt sick to your stomach. “I really should get going, though,” you said, not even finishing your sentence before turning to make your way toward the door.

You just had to leave. You just had to leave. You just had to leave. You just had to leave.

You felt a firm hand grab your shoulder before you could get very far. You stopped in your tracks, and you obeyed as you turned around to face him. He tilted his head at you, eyes blinking in rapid succession.

“And where do you think you’re going?” he asked with a bemused smile.

Oh no. Please, no.

“I have a meeting–”

“No you don’t,” he said dismissively, waving a hand as if you had just said something banal. “I checked your schedule today. What’s the rush?” He looked around and found a chair that he had knocked over while fucking you, pulling it upright before sitting down again. He did a come-hither motion with his finger. “Come. Sit with me.”

You felt your stomach sink. What more could he want with you? When you moved toward the chair beside him, he grabbed your arm again.

“Nuh-uh-uh,” he said. He patted his lap. 

He couldn’t help himself.

You reluctantly lowered yourself onto his thighs, shutting your legs tight as your heart ceaselessly pounded. It wouldn’t be long now, you told yourself. He was surely too busy to spend much more time with you. Didn’t he have someone to save? Some red carpet to strut down?

“So,” he said, drumming your knee with his fingers, smile wide and friendly as he leaned his face close to yours. “Tell me about yourself.”

You felt a new kind of unease unfurl within your chest, and you weren’t quite sure how to respond.

“I�� um…”

“You don’t have to be shy anymore, silly,” he said, playfully tapping his finger against your nose. “Can’t a guy want to get to know a girl better?"

‘Okay, well,” you began tentatively, playing with your fingers in your lap. “I’ve worked for Vought for about a year. I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, but I seem to be getting by well enough.”

Maybe a sincere conversation would humanize you. Perhaps he would realize that he had made a terrible mistake, recognize you for the vulnerable underling you were, and leave you in peace.

“I like watching movies, getting the occasional massage… uh, is it true that there’s an executive spa somewhere high in the tower? That rumor’s been going around forever on my floor.”

“It’s not,” he said, letting out a small laugh. “You might want to check your sources.”

It was working—the mood was devolving into something more calm and casual, despite everything pointing to the contrary. You tried to speak as if he were anyone else, as if he hadn’t just done what he had done to you.

“I also like going out dancing. Um, there’s a place nearby, a bar I pretty regularly go to with some friends. The cocktails are pricey, but sufficiently poisonous.”

“Hmm, a real city girl. I like that about you,” he said, still smiling. “I saw you stumble out of that little dive the other night. The way you were spilling out of that black dress… wish you were wearing it now, to be honest.”

You nervously twisted the hem of your skirt, and he placed his hand over yours, taking over in playing with your fingers.

“You’re cute when you’re drunk, you know. Even if you’re a little sloppy.”

You shifted in his lap as he stroked your thigh slowly with the palm of his hand. It was as if he were trying to physically contain you, and the claustrophobia you felt had set back in. 

“And… your friends,” he said slowly, emphasizing the word like the very concept itself was a nuisance. “Did you tell any of them about us?”

Us.

“No,” you said. And you never would. Not if you could help yourself.

“Good girl,” he said, satisfied, as if he intrinsically knew that he had secured your silence.

He looked at you for a few moments, as if you were a precious thing. You didn’t know what it meant. You despised how unpredictable he was.

“Were you always a fan of The Seven? Have little posters of us in your bedroom?” he asked, his voice hushed and playful, as if he were sincerely trying to tease you. It was confusing, but you preferred it over his cruelty. 

“Yes,” you admitted with a weak smile. “Just like everyone else, I guess.” 

“Thought so,” he said. “So, let’s hear it: which of us was your favorite? Whose action figures did you collect… and who did you hump your little pillow to?” He winked, and your face grew hot with embarrassment.

“...You.”

Even if it had not been true, you wouldn’t expect him to appreciate any other answer.

“I like you when you’re honest,” he purred. He stroked your face affectionately, running his thumb gently over your bottom lip.

“You wanna know what else I’ve been wondering?” he asked, voice dropping in a low flirtation.

You genuinely didn’t want to know. But judging by the sound of his voice, you knew that you wouldn’t like whatever he was about to say.

“What?” you asked quietly. 

“About what that ‘queer’ little mouth can do.”

You couldn’t do this anymore. This was your limit. You had to leave. You had to try.

“I’m sorry, I really should be going,” you said, quickly standing from his lap. “It was fun, but I—”

You felt him grip your hips before he immediately yanked them back down. You were now facing opposite him as he moved your ass over his lap, rutting into it as he hardened beneath you. The extent of his durability was a cruel joke, and a super refractory period was the punchline.

“You always seem to have somewhere to be,” he tutted. He pulled you against his cock a few more times before lifting you to stand from your seat. He released his hold on you, but you knew you weren’t free.

He stood behind you and reached for your lower back, running his hand up your spine to press it heavily on your shoulder.

“Get on your knees, sweetheart.”

You knew there was no use in fighting him. You turned and sank to the floor, the feeling of your bare knees hitting the carpet a harsh, sensory reminder of his hold over you. He rewarded your compliance with a warm, satisfied chuckle.

“That’s right,” he breathed. “Oh, you’re being so good for me.”

He stroked himself lazily through his pants, then pulled them down just enough for his cock to spring out in front of your face—large, heavy, with a drip of precum leaking from his tip. He seemed to relish the nervous way you looked at it, and you felt worn down and helpless.

You glanced up at him, and it was clear that he was savoring your expression. He had a look on his face that was so smug and unbearable, like he was daring you to touch him, to make the first move.

You needed to survive this.

You hesitantly reached for him, hand wrapping around the thick base of his cock. His shaft felt warm and full in your hand, and when he twitched against your palm, you felt sickened by how effortlessly he took pleasure in this.

“Mm, that’s my girl,” he murmured as he lovingly caressed your scalp.

You began to stroke him slowly as you took the head of him into your mouth, suckling on his smooth, taut skin. You tasted yourself mixed with the salt of his precum, and he felt hot and heady against your tongue in a way you didn’t care to dwell on.

You needed to make this good. You needed him to finish fast. Then he could finally get you out of his system, and you could be on the subway home before anyone noticed there was something wrong.

“Oh, oh–fuck,” he hissed, biting his lip. You looked up at him with wide, performatively sweet eyes, and he groaned, lips parting as he watched you with what could only be described as fascination. You took him in a bit deeper, compartmentalizing the wetness between your thighs as your tongue slid against his skin.

Without warning, he thrust himself into your mouth, pushing a bit farther than you intended to take him. You gagged and withdrew on instinct.

“I’m sorry, I-I can’t,” you said, the meekness in your voice eroding your resolve. “I have a bad gag reflex.”

He couldn’t even let you lead. Let you claim any semblance of agency. Not a shred of it.

“Sure you can,” he said, his voice deceptively kind while he massaged both sides of your head. “Just takes some getting used to, is all.”

He held your head still as he gently pressed his cock against your lips, until you succumbed and let him in. He pushed himself deep inside you again, and you swallowed another gag as he began to slowly fuck your mouth.

Just get through it.

You gagged again, and this time, a tear rolled down your eye.

“Oh, you’re so pretty with your mouth full,” he crooned. He grabbed your hair again, pulling it tight, and you whimpered helplessly around his cock. His moan fell into a low laugh.

Your nose pressed against skin and coarse hair as he buried himself completely, holding you in place as you choked. You gagged harder this time, trying to suppress the urge to vomit.

Just take it and you can leave.

He picked up speed, rolling his hips as he truly fucked your face. He roughly pushed into your throat like it was his to use, and intermittently pressed himself inside and held you in place, as if he wanted to luxuriate in the full reach of your surrender. 

You couldn’t breathe, so you desperately tried to focus on inhaling through your nose whenever he withdrew long enough to allow you to. Drool and tears slid down your skin, and you held onto his thighs for support, something to steady yourself. A distant part of you worried that it could be mistaken for interest.

His groans grew louder, and all you could feel was the hope that it might be over soon. He gripped your head hard and pulled you onto him as he throatfucked you, and you gagged violently, horrified by the visceral rise of bile that was ejected from your esophagus. You quickly tried to swallow it.

“Your–fucking–mouth–is-mine,” he growled between hard snaps of his hips. Your throat burned, suffocated by him, until he finally pulled out.

You started to cough, but before you could fully recover, he let out a low, strangled sound.

You felt hot ropes of cum streak across your face, your cheeks, your lips. He groaned low and deep, squeezing your mouth open so he could stroke the last few drops onto your tongue. He tasted bitter.

You fell back onto the carpet and sat there, stunned.

That was it. He needed to let you go now. You made him come twice. 

Instead, he tucked himself in and sat back down again. You trembled.

“Mm. Fuck, you are good,” he laughed, watching you as you remained shocked on the floor. “You know, the way you started… well, I guess you’re a little more enthusiastic than you’d like to let on.” He plucked a tissue from a box on the table and nonchalantly handed it to you. You reached out to take it.

His smug expression was gut-churning, and as you wiped his sticky mess from your face, you knew that you hated him.

You were horrified that that was his interpretation. You were just trying to appease him. Trying to help him finish so you could finally leave. So you didn’t have to keep thinking about how hot and thick his cock felt as it was sliding in your mouth.

You stood up then and waited in front of him, a shell. 

“Okay, I’m going to let you go soon, I promise,” he said, raising his hands in a peace offering. I just have one more question.“

You nodded, but you had long lost hope that he was telling the truth.

“Where do you see yourself here? At Vought?” he asked, eyes shining at you. 

You had forgotten you were still at work. Everything was a blur, but you still responded.

“I want to be a lead for VoughtMind.”

You kept your contribution curt this time.

“Mm, now there’s some ambition,” he said, tapping his temple. “Real cute. Girl power, right?” He pumped his fist in condescending encouragement.

“Yeah.”

“You know, now that we’ve gotten properly acquainted, maybe I can help you with that. Pull some strings. There are some benefits to fucking the big guy, right?”

You paused. You didn’t like the implication that there would be more encounters after this. That you would be “fucking.” That he could put you through this again. And again. 

He glanced down between your thighs, and another wave of dread overcame you.

“Hm,” he said, regarding you. His eyes flickered between your tits and your hips, as if he were rolling an idea around in his head. “Maybe I’m not done with you yet. I mean, God,” he purred, as if he were observing a phenomenal work of art. “You get me hard like that,” and he snapped his fingers on the last word.

You didn’t say anything. You just watched him, utterly devastated, as he pulled himself out again.

He curled his arms under your thighs and lifted you with ease, as if you weighed nothing at all. You gasped as he hoisted you up by your ass, lining you up just right before he lowered you back down onto his perseveringly stiff cock.

He fucked you again, right there in the middle of the room, your arms braced around his neck as he continued to use you. This time around, however, you quickly zoned out. Everything slowed to a surreal blur, but you experienced flashes of moments in your consciousness.

Him growling something cruel into your ear. The aggressive way he bounced you onto his cock while his fingers dug into your ass. It was almost as if you were a human fleshlight, and a part of you almost wanted to laugh, even if it conflicted with the hot tears that were now falling down your cheeks.

You felt yourself grow hot, throbbing, and you were shocked out of your numb reverie to the feeling of his cock ramming against you at an angle, his pelvis grinding against your clit. Your pussy was so swollen with overuse and stimulation from your previous orgasms, that you no longer felt any pleasure.

You hated how good it felt at first. How freely your body responded, how the feeling of your skin connecting with his pulled you into a dark, repulsive spiral. Now, all you could feel was a pulsing hurt.

You started to wail as you were overstimulated, whimpering in half-pain, half-humiliation as he fucked you through each weakening contraction of your pussy. He didn’t even try to cover your mouth this time.

Time seemed to shrink as you became even less present in yourself, hazy in the specifics of what was happening to you. You had the feeling that you were on your knees, or maybe on the floor, legs pressed back near your head. Something hot and sticky landing on your stomach. 

You were sitting on his lap, quiet, not making out the words he was saying. The sensation of teeth digging into your neck between hot, wet kisses. 

When you returned to your body again, your cries were arriving at an apex you didn’t remember climbing, your back pressed hard against the wall as a brutal ache tore through your body. He filled you again, moaning, pressing his forehead against yours as he jerked violently inside of you. You couldn’t stop yourself from twitching and whimpering during his hard aftershocks, and the sounds of your moans combined—yours frightened and his pleasured—wracked you with surges of indignity.

He laughed like a man in love, forehead still pressed to yours in an unearned show of intimacy. He lifted you off of his cock and set you down to stand before him, grabbed your hips, and pulled you against his front.

“Mm, baby, I don’t think it’s possible for me to get tired of you,” he said, grinning down at you in twisted adoration. “I could keep you here all night.”

It was then that you broke.

You hunched over in a sob, your shoulders heaving as every feeling inside of you overflowed from your body. It was as though every inch of you had finally acknowledged what you had experienced, and there wasn’t enough space for you to persist anymore. 

You were unbelievably sore. Your entire body ached, and your legs threatened to give out under you from the sheer intensity of your trembling.

You stuttered an ugly, vulnerable sound as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer in his embrace.

You resisted leaning your head against his chest, even though this would typically be your instinct. But when you felt him lift your chin with two fingers, you opened your wet, glossy eyes to look at him. You knew you didn’t have a choice.

He returned your gaze with an expression that felt different than all the others you’ve seen before. Something unpleasantly sincere. 

He looked at you for a few moments, his crystalline eyes examining you as if he were considering your feelings for the very first time. He leaned in close and kissed you, his touch slow and unnervingly gentle. It almost felt chaste, until you felt his cum slowly dripping down your thigh.

He broke the kiss with a soft “mm”, and when he was stroking your cheek, you realized that the look on his face was worry.

“Hey, hey…” he said, his voice low and soothing, fingers stroking the back of your head. “That was a lot, huh?”

He gave you a few more tender kisses—on the corner of your lips, your cheek, and below your eye where your tears were still falling.

“It’s normal to feel overwhelmed after being fucked right for the first time,” he said gently. “You did so well for me. So perfect for me.”

You continued to whimper and sob, but relief didn’t come. He kissed the top of your head.

“You’re okay,” he murmured into your hair, rocking you gently in his arms. “You’re okay.”

As if he didn’t do what he did to you.

And what disturbed you more was that you felt yourself leaning your head against him, burying your face against the textured fabric of his suit as you cried.

You just needed to be held. And he was the closest one who could do it.

“I’m going to be good to you from now on, just you wait,” he said, cupping the back of your head with his palm. He held you like that for another minute until your sobs began to slow, your gasps for air settling into the occasional exhausted sniff. He released you from his hold, and you backed away from him, wiping your tears with your fingers.

How long had you been there? You didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know how to behave. You reached for your phone, but it was no longer in your pocket. 

You turned to look at the clock on the wall for the first time since you entered the room. It was 6 PM.

It was as if you had traveled through time. You felt profoundly disoriented, as if you had woken up from a long, restless sleep.

“Let me take you home,” he said softly. He handed you your phone.

You nodded, tears still steadily rolling down your cheeks when you took it from him. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t fight. 

He led you out of the room to the nearest elevator, and you were grateful that the halls were quiet. You couldn’t bear to see anyone.

You stood there together as he entered a code into the elevator’s console, his arm around you the entire time. While your mind was empty, you registered your own confusion when the elevator began to ascend.

You rode together quietly, and when the doors slid open, he led you up a smaller stairwell, which led to another door. He opened it and held it for you, and when you walked through, the cool night air hit your skin.

He had taken you to the roof. The view would have been beautiful under any other circumstance, but you felt a creeping dread when you realized how high up both of you were. How you had no idea what his intentions were.

He hoisted you into his arms for the second time that night, bridal-style, the same way he held the people he saved on the news. You didn’t fight it, but you startled as he began to move toward the edge of the roof.

“Wait,” you started, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck. 

“Hold on, I’ve got you.”

You were temporarily snapped out of your numbness when you felt wind suddenly rush past you. He was flying, and when you looked down and saw that the city was thousands of feet below you, you squeezed your arms around his neck so tightly that you were afraid he might drop you to your death.

“Relax, I won’t let go,” he yelled over the din of fast-moving air. You simply screwed your eyes shut until it was over, trying to bear the cut of the chilling altitude.

After a few primal, terrifying minutes, you gradually felt the world slow down, the rush in your ears quiet, and the cold of the evening settle against your skin. Your shoes made contact with solid ground, and when you staggered away from him, dizzy, you opened your eyes. You were standing on your apartment’s living room balcony.

“Mind if I come in? No more funny business tonight, I promise,” he said, arms raised in the air in modest surrender. “I just want to hold you.”

His expression was so convincingly sincere that you almost believed him.

You nodded blankly, opening the sliding door so he could follow you through the threshold. You never kept it locked, and it occurred to you that he must have known this already. As you entered your living room and kicked off your shoes, he made his way toward the kitchen, and you heard the sounds of him searching through cabinets. He returned with a glass of water, and you took it from him and drank, allowing him to settle his arms around your waist before he leaned to whisper into your ear. 

“Need to rest?” he asked, his voice soft and confusingly attentive. 

“Yeah,” you replied. You were too exhausted to form a thought. Too whittled down to shrink away when he pressed a light, tender kiss to your shoulder.

He let go of you then, and you padded away toward your bedroom.

You stripped off your clothing, suddenly feeling suffocated by them, and crawled beneath your sheets. You curled yourself onto your side, shutting your eyes so sleep could take you before your mind returned.

In your half-conscious daze, you heard the sound of footsteps entering your room, followed by a click and rustle of fabric dropping to the floor. Your mattress creaked as it sank beside you, and you felt an arm wrap around your middle.

Homelander’s skin was bare and warm against yours, the soft hair on his chest pressing into your back. He nuzzled your neck, sighing into you as he stroked your belly with slow, affectionate caresses.

In that moment, you were resigned. It felt comforting.

Tag list: @themeraldee @heloixe @rainbowangel

[siren-of-fire]

So one thing I think I am a little certain about is Ace views the past memories made by Pili 1 and Pili 2 is a third person perspective. The way he perceives them all is interesting. Empathy, Sympathy, Understanding and Compassion all differ and and in regards with Ace all of them apply in different degrees and time. While before when the merge with Pili 2 still existed the line was falling somewhere in the empathy-sympathy area (because Pili 2 was adding his own things to the merge) but now its a mix of compassion (less influencing) and understanding (more influencing) and maybe something else as well :smile:

Talking more in context of the Realm lore and relationship with Pangi and Lukey atm. Like i said in a previous post Ace sees the bigger picture because he has vast memories and seen different sides of each person on this Realm plus he is logically very smart...and selfish and egoistic but he wears that like a crown.

Pangi and now even Lukey gave Ace a very flawed and selfish logic and Ace quickly picked up on it. They both wanna play the good guy but also wanna dabble in chaos/revenge, but playing both sides is not really possible and they both want Ace to do the dirty work, yet both of them manage to act like they are doing Ace a favour by letting him do this.

Who really needs to who here here? Who has more to lose here? Because the answer isn't Ace.

Just like Ace said if you wanna play the villain atleast have the balls to do it out and about, commit to it. Both Pangi and Lukey are just wanting to be in the middle of the gray area never fully wanting to lean towards anything, and in a way that's selfish because there want of not leaning towards either black or white comes with the cost of Ace being used. He is the one taking the blame and leaning on a side so they both don't have to. Pangi and Lukey both are playing the puppeteer, or atleast that's what they think. Too bad the puppet is Ace who is playing the entire game of chess in which they both are the pieces.

"I care about people, but I am also working on destroying and ending the same world the people I care about live in" two contradictory things

"I want to get revenge on keepers but not all keepers because there is one who i care about" so how do you know that the keepers that end up getting hurt are bad? How do you know all of them wronged you? What about the ones that never wronged you? Sounds like flawed and selfish logic

"I am destroying the world but I also don't want the people i care about to find out" "I wanna get revenge and hurt the keepers for what they did to me but I also don't wanna get my hands dirty" so they both wanna play villains from the dark and Ace gets used yet they don't trust Ace and are angry at him. And when he shares his plans of wanting to corrupt the world it is somehow more wrong or asking in return to "beg for him it" then is turned down.

Why does Ace need to help them? With Pili 2 it was the feelings but that's not the case here. Does Ace really need Pangi to be a villain when he already had 3 really powerful people behind him who can do that for him. The "Pili can't do shit without me" argument doesn't really stand when he has been doing fine even without them for months now.

Does Ace have friends he is scared to lose? Does Ace have any problem with picking a side like they both are having, no he is very upfront about everything. So if Ace is the one getting used here and getting clearly nothing in return then that is already not fair. Ace hasn't even directly done anything to them yet but they both are refusing to acknowledge him as a equal in there plans, wanting to treat him like a card in there games. Just because goals aligning of wanting to end the word or wanting to hunt the keepers isn't enough for Ace to start working with them. If he is getting his hands dirty shouldn't he get paid and get his fair share of return?

Wanting to be the good guys when they both know they are not, they are equally twisted as Ace. Yet the refusal to acknowledge him as equal and just treating him like a pawn in all this hasn't stopped... atleast so far.

[more-than-a-princess]

The Royal Council, Sonia knew as she carefully removed her hand from his once more, was concerned primarily for one thing and one thing alone: that she would remain alive long enough to produce the next, hopefully male, heir to the throne. The Council was made up entirely of men, men who doubted a woman's ability to lead the country without being overwhelmed by her emotions, her inferior physical strength, her motherly duties. She had a hunch that even if she became physically scarred and horribly disfigured, as long as she could reproduce and they could find a man of a suitable upbringing to impregnate her, all would be well. Only her mother would panic, as it was the focus of her life for her daughter to obtain the most advantageous marriage possible: despite being the crown princess, she was sure that her daughter needed to retain her beauty for as long as it took to secure the union.

She used to be more optimistic about the aristocracy that made up the Council and even her own parents: but the war changed things, and Sonia couldn't share in Reinhard's optimism that they actually gave a damn about Princess Sonia as a person. No one really did, barring her cousins and occasionally her father. Her value to the world, as she knew it, was in her power, wealth, and beauty, and little else. If she wasn't so determined to leave her mark on the world, it would have been easy to ask Capella Emerada Lugunica to simply finish her off, or at least make her so undesirable as a princess that the world would be forced to acknowledge her as a person, with her own thoughts, her own feelings, her own values.

"I think moving me to the mountain chalet will at least turn their focus away from the capitol," Sonia offered between bites of stew. If anything, she needed to finish her meal in order to begin regaining some strength. "Besides: the snow will have begun to fall by this time of year. I doubt that some of the Witch Cult will want to bear the frigid temperatures for too long unless they have sufficient amounts of magic. Still, it is rather removed from the closest town: if their goal is to obtain my head, I would rather they try to achieve it without innocent people being caught in the crossfire."

She was in many ways innocent herself, but the unfortunate reality of being heir to the throne made her a target: those who sought control and the means to exert it, those who didn't believe in the idea of monarchs. All of them could, and did, target their ire towards her family. Magic abilities aside, Sonia would be hard-pressed to say which group was more lethal: her fellow aristocrats tended to doubt the lower classes' strength in numbers and their ability to bond over a common, perceived enemy.

"I wonder why they haven't gone for my father first, not that I would ever wish it," She continued, setting down her spoon when the bowl was empty. "Novoselic isn't like Lugunica: there is no dragon poised to make a pact with the maiden looking to become the new ruler: my country has one, and one the public is rather fond of. Going after me, it feels like the Witch Cult believes Novoselic in some way functions similarly to Lugunica, which is far from the truth." There was no group of magic-wielding knights, for example: just normal humans trained in combat and having pledged loyalty to their king. Reinhard in many ways was the most odd amongst them all: his oath to her life, and not her father's, was only one of the particulars, though it was one her father clearly valued by permitting him to stay.

"But I'll make the arrangements as soon as I-ARGH!" Sonia had continued before cutting herself off with a groan: she'd attempted to shift her weight to sit further up in bed, but her torso wasn't having it: not without shooting pain in her ribs that she couldn't even apply pressure to. That only made the pain worse. "...I am able to leave this bed." She concluded, torn between feeling dejected and feeling annoyed. She didn't handle feelings of uselessness well, and being bedridden certainly counted as such.

She also didn't handle his intense stare. The Knights of Novoselic knew better than to hold the gaze of their royals for longer than a moment: a prolonged stare was most inappropriate, though she wasn't surprised that such rules had either escaped Reinhard's notice or he simply didn't care. Sword Saint and all, she wondered if any rules applied to him or if he simply did as he liked: if he ever decided to defend a Sin Archbishop, it would truly throw the world into turmoil.

Sonia looked away, reaching for the glass of blue liquid on the tray: the one thing she hadn't sampled, and she doubted he'd give her any solitude until she did. "A-anyway, I am curious as to what identity you will take on during the journey to the mountains. Will it come with some sort of disguise? Your appearance, after all, is rather striking." She paused, realizing that he could interpret it as a comment of his physical attractiveness and not simply his features. "As the Sword Saint! Your family does have uniquely red hair, do they not? Like mine, and all of our blonde shades." She took a sip of the blue drink before grimacing, her brows knitting together in discomfort before forcing herself to swallow. "Oh, goodness, FUCK that is awful! This must be like the poisoned cake from before, to taste so terrible! Quick, you must watch for symptoms!"

He kneeled down before her and reached out as he would take her hand into his gloved hands and hold it for a moment, to comfort her and make sure she was not worried. The knight's grip on her hand tightened slightly at her words, and he took a moment to consider her question. The castle was indeed in no condition to serve as a bastion of protection for her. "Your Highness, I believe the mountains may be the safest place for you to recover and rebuild your strength." He said at last. "The air is cleaner, and the witch cult will not expect you there. It would be an ideal location for you to stay until the situation is more stable."

He had dealt with the witch cult beasts here, anything the sin of lust had created, in these three days he has hunted them down and eliminated them, it takes a monster to hunt a monster, and only he could do something so dangerous and walk away without even a mark on his body, but it was not the end of it, they had tried to kill her, they would try again and the second time they would not mess around, if they wanted her dead, they will stop at nothing in order to get it.

He knew that leaving her behind while he continued the fight was a difficult decision, but it was one that had to be made with the greater good in mind, as he was thinking over the choices. "The Royal Council is right to be concerned." He continued, his eyes never leaving hers. "The witch cult will not rest until they have you in their grasp. They will target your family, your people, and your lands to get to you. By moving you to the countryside, we can draw the focus away from Novoselic and give us time to hunt them down."

The thought of her being used as bait was repugnant to him, but he also understood the strategic advantage it could provide. "However, I do not think that you should be used as bait, Your Highness. That is not what you are to me, nor to your people." His voice was firm, his jaw set. "You are the beacon of hope and the future of this kingdom. Your safety is paramount."

He paused, his gaze intense as he searched her eyes. "But if you wish to accompany me, I will not stand in your way. You are more than capable of making decisions for yourself. I am here to serve and protect, not to dictate your path." He knew that she had the right to choose her own destiny, even if it meant placing herself in harm's way. “But my advice is for both of us to leave.” He would go with her, his oath was more to her life than all others, as he nodded.

“I doubt they will come anywhere close to you if they know I am with you.” As he shakes his head. “I have another identity I can use while we travel that will make things easier.” A role not of the sword saint, but of someone else, the witch cult will not go anywhere near her after what he had done, he had soundly defeated a sin of the cult and her entire chapter by himself, they will not risk another attack if he was there, only a fool would fight the sword saint in combat, so he would merely have to remove the sword saint from the picture then to ensure they will leave this kingdom and begin to look for her.

[turtleblogatlast]

i see your post about leo being relieved that hes trans because he learned his stripes would go away and i raise you: leo, who spends his entire childhood in fear because donnie told him that he will lose his stripes when he is younger, only for them all to realize hes trans when they dont

Oh…Leo having so much value in his looks and especially his stripes because they’re what make him stand out the most, and in turn it helps solidify himself a role in the team as the “Face Man.” Sure, he absolutely thinks himself good looking with or without the stripes, but his stripes are striking and he knows it, and they mean more to him than just looks anyway. Knowing all this time that his stripes were going to fade and yet still taking on his title and still being as confident as he is - imagine he’d already come to the conclusion that his worth on the team, in his family, was always on a timer.

Then that timer goes away. And he’s left with relief and tells himself that hey, he’d have been just as cool looking without the stripes anyway! But…he’s glad to keep them. Even if his role isn’t quite just “Face Man” anymore, his stripes are a part of him.

And it’s been really scary to think that someday he’d look in the mirror and see a part of himself missing.

[fromtheseventhhell]

Another reason that Stansas hate the idea of Arya and Dany being friends (outside of them wanting to demonize Dany) is that they've convinced themselves that Dany and Sansa are the only main female characters, so if a Stark sister is going to have a significant relationship with Dany it has to be Sansa. Arya being constantly downplayed and treated like an accessory to Sansa has generally led to the consensus that her relationship with Dany will be defined by whatever Sansa's relationship (positive or negative) with her is. That's why Arya is always being left out of the "we were robbed of [x] female character friendship" conversations and why theories about Dany/Arya getting along are treated as Sansa hate; Arya, as a character, is seen as secondary to Sansa by a lot of people

[huginsmemory]

I think whats so compelling about Sanji is that he's so terribly self conscious about being masculine that anything that performs masculinity better than him (ie, Zoro, obliviously, minus the women-fucking part), or skews masculinity, is a threat to him. Which makes him rampantly homophobic and transphobic. And as he also believes masculinity needs to be focused around being horny for women makes him also rampantly misogynistic cause he can't actually see women past them being a sexual object. Anyways it all culminates in you the audience being fairly certain that this man cannot be straight due to this terribly obvious fragility around his masculinity, and that if he ever got dicked down, it might solve all these issues.

[malt-rants-and-stuff]

sasaki shuumei we WILL be finding you a therapist to talk to about how your feelings of inadequacy and need to be perceived as non-threatening have impacted your ability to live laugh love fully as your depressed queer self. Mr. finds appeals in the men in his life so he can put himself down but also doesn't adress the fact that finding them appealing in the first place, especially when they aren't miyano, is something he has yet to let himself touch on. why are you thinking about hirano and his roommate like that sir. guy who is scared of being rough and real in his romantic relationship due to prior incidents but also can't acknowledge that his other relationships work just fine when he is rough and real.

and alsooooo the damn gap. the gap between them. living separate lives having separate friends being separated. hahaha. everything is fine. sasaki being jealous that other get to live their lives alongside miyano seeing parts of him that he'll never get to, though the same goes both ways. that's what's been made bigger by this whole situation. because before when they were in one place they could ignore it. for the most part. or they could deal with it, spend more time together, something. but they're not schoolmates anymore, in different stages of life that leave both of them a little more off-balanced than ever. and he's right that they're bound to work it out, but I don't think he's ready to face what he'll have to reel in on to get the balance they need. I evilly await when he has no choice but to face it.

something's here

hello everyone. this is a sasaki POV version of something there! for anyone wondering what that means, it's sasaki and shirahama having a conversation, which means a whole tangle of shiramiya and sasakagi and shirakagi. you may know this from its wip title of something here (yes, I adjusted my title very minimally. it's for good reason.) you can read on ao3 or right under the cut

.

When he first catches sight of Shirahama, Sasaki’s mind pings an instinctual disappointment before his first real thought coalesces: It’s Miyano’s friend. That in mind, he says, “Close it quietly. He’s sleeping.”

“I just… came to check in on him,” Miyano’s friend explains.

“Thanks for looking out.”

Sasaki isn’t sure how to handle him, here. Miyano’s friend is tall—almost Sasaki’s height—but gangly, with limbs graceless enough to conjure up memories of middle school growing pains and botched dye jobs. He wavers at the entrance like a legless deer, his presence weighty enough to tell Sasaki he should be doing something, but too frightened to communicate what.

Kuresawa or Tashiro would be much easier—they wouldn’t be here. Kuresawa would have been tactful enough to leave them alone, and Tashiro would’ve been too busy flitting around everywhere to pop into the nurse’s office. But Miyano attracts good people—people like him, with open, careful hearts—and so his friend is standing here, hair shining with meticulous upkeep and gaze cast to the ground.

Sasaki thinks of Miyano, his face scrunched up but peaceful in sleep, and the flitting nervousness threaded through Shirahama’s body like a live wire, and suddenly remembers the way he’d flinched, full-bodied with terror.

“Ah,” he says, mostly involuntarily. “You're on the basketball team.”

Shirahama jolts in recognition. “You remembered that?” he asks, skin reddening, and then adds, nonsensically, “Sorry!”

He shrugs. “Just happened to.”

The curse of height was twofold in its pains, and Sasaki despised its obligatory question: you’re so tall, so why don’t you play basketball? Like it was natural for anyone with his height. Like he’d ever wanted anything.

Hirano was different. Hirano believed that playing basketball meant you needed focus, and drive, and spirit, all of which Sasaki sorely lacked, he’d said.

…Well, maybe not in those exact words, but the way Hirano had looked at him then, and the way he looked when talking about that “Kagi-kun” of his—they were worlds apart.

Sasaki was different these days, too. He couldn’t put words to the why or how of it, but at some point he’d looked in the mirror and become someone else. It wasn’t like every ugly and unlikable part of him had disappeared. It was just that new parts had appeared, each piece grafted to his skin until he’d been transformed.

Shirahama makes a noise of realization. “…Kagiura, right?” he asks. “You were looking for him.”

The words rush out, too quick to be tempered. “I don’t know him.”

Looking implied effort. He could admit to having seen Hirano’s roommate; a brief moment had been enough to recognize the kindred spirit—the flash in Kagi-kun’s eyes, the twist in his mouth—of jealousy. To Sasaki it was a familiar, grounded ghost, pinning his limbs as it settled in the yawning concave of his chest. Even as a reflection, it remained heart-stabbing and all-consuming, but played over the lines of Hirano’s roommate’s face, it no longer locked Sasaki in place.

And then Hirano had gone running after him. No point in doing anything, after that.

“Kagiura,” Sasaki confirms slowly, mind drifting towards the ring he’d spotted on Hirano’s finger. “I just… knew of him,” he clarifies. “Was just curious.”

Wearing it like that—they had to be pretty happy. 

Shirahama grumbles, “He does always get a bunch of confessions on Valentine's Day. Not that—”

“He's popular?” Sasaki cuts in.

Shirahama raises a brow. “…Yeah?”

Hirano’s roommate is tall, and he plays basketball, and he plays it well, and his face looks like that, sweet even in frustration, so it’s—natural, Sasaki supposes. But he hasn’t thought of it past the way Hirano looks at him, and it’s odd to think of girls looking at him like—

Like—

He can’t think about it; noise starts from the bed and Sasaki clamps his mouth shut.

Miyano’s friend locks onto him with his wide, doe eyes, and whispers, in quick succession, “I’ve still got to help out with the festival—just thought I’d check—I’m sure you have it handled—I’m going to—I'll go.”

Before Sasaki can respond, Miyano’s friend flees.

He’s forgotten to keep his voice down, Sasaki realizes. He’d gotten too caught up in everything else here, and now Miyano was going to wake up. But when he peels back the curtains, he finds his boyfriend still dozing, having just curled closer into the empty space Sasaki had left. Wrong-footed and unsure of his sense of belonging, Sasaki sits back down on his side of the bed.

Miyano’s friend is right about one thing—he does have it handled. He’s always known that the year of difference between Miyano and him presented a chasm, and now that they don't have a school to share, the gap has simply been exacerbated. In time, it'll close, he knows, but while those walls between them still exist, he can’t help but turn over old stones. If he’d looked around more—if he was missing something—

And so here it was, again, bubbling under his skin, that familiar, handled feeling, the parts of himself that could be covered but not fixed, warping his guts, dulling his hair, and twisting his face—jealousy. 

[t-u-i-t-c]

he's so real

[xxplastic-cubexx]

just read the new mutants issue where Charles chose to stay behind in space and my god the juxtaposition between Charles trusting Erik and Erik joining the hellfire club and wondering at his own trust worthiness. I wonder how much of Charles decision was him ultimately trying to avoid the fact that his first class had seemingly betrayed mutant kind and not be willing to face them and how much of it was Dani and Illyana's reaction to him having Karma mind control Illyana. the fact that Illyana was depending on him to ease her mind through limbo and in choosing to stay he forced karma to do it instead, probably fucking up their relationship in the process.

I love him, this is crazy, how much of this is him trying to runaway and how much is this him not trusting himself to fix things and how much is it just him trusting Erik?

i keep trying to put into words my exact thoughts about the sitch but there really is a lot for one issue aintit... oh charles you and your brain...

[thefleshyougoveggie]

getting correctly gendered by someone who doesn’t even know you’re trans is so euphoric to me

[ratgeneralarmageddon]

The urge to comment on everything and just say "good soup" but I'm scared of people perceiving me when it's not just by chance or sum idk

[hysterical-random-things]

I GOT YOU So with your Narinder then, how would you describe how his characterization and/or role has evolved in your AU? And also for bonus points, what would you say you're most proud of regarding this evolution? (No matter how mundane it may seem!) 💘

So my biggest thing that ive been really focusing on is trying to develop narinder (and by extension the lamb also) as his own person. He's angry and proud and bitter but like a big thing to me is Narinder is patient, almost to a fatal degree imo. He's not fast to act and prefers to wait and watch before interacting. However he does have a bad habit of making assumptions about how the people he "know" will act preemptively and getting really through off when they do anything different that what he expected (his original betrayal, the lamb deciding to fight for their crown, the lamb banning him from leaving etc)

(i am going to fully admit i pull some of his character quirks and behavior from my own cat nugget, girl has... Issues but isn't aggressive unless really pushed she's just kinda a mess and I've decided my narinder deals with issues the same way)

When he is through off he gets very defensive. Not violent but extremely guarded and not quick to trust again. Even if he knows he's "safe" he doesn't care.

This entire thing has become a big Thing for me. And I'm vaguely proud of how my narinder has shaped into a something I can kinda being accurate.

He's collected, he's put together, he's not even really rude but he will do the bare minimum for you if you've hurt him. He won't go down to your level and hurt you back but he makes sure you are Very aware he's not forgotten and at least for now he hasn't forgiven.

The biggest like choice i think I made with him was giving him more compicated relationships outside of the lamb and his siblings, he makes choices for himself, that are only for himself and doesn't care what others think.

[starseongs]

.

[drsantosgf]

•°•

[zymstarz]

yeah sure that's how i'll [re]come out

[cynda-queer]

well-meaning plumber who my landlord keeps calling to fix our leak and he doesn't: Good morning, Ms. [Redacted]

me, who is fine with my name, but is having a VERY NORMAL ONE about being constantly gendered female: .........what do you want, Doug?