#but I have to finish chapter 4

[lunarsands]

The urge to write is strong but the ability to focus isn't quite there yet

[funkle420]

Turbo Granny blunt rotation WIP

[blindmagdalena]

Center Stage in a Gilded Cage

18+ 3k. homelander x f!reader. pre-s1. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, forced relationship, slow burn, somnophilia, drugging, eventual smut. gif | AO3 | fanfic directory

Homelander was born with only one terrible poverty: loneliness. He's been starved of love his entire life, made sick by his hunger for it, but he believes you might have the cure. If you want to survive, you'll find a way to give it to him.

Homelander has never been able to understand people who bird watch. Of all the things a mundane person could do with their abysmally mediocre life, why devote what little free time they have to observing a creature even more dull than they themselves are?

Perhaps it's the gift of flight. By far, it is the ability of his that garners the most attention. Or maybe it's the power trip one experiences when observing something simpler and weaker than yourself for sport. The novelty of becoming endeared by their strange little behaviors and quirks. It's this line of thinking that eventually walks Homelander down the path of people watching. During his downtime, in the quiet moments he spends perched atop skyscrapers and apartment complexes, he finds himself watching the people miles below him scurry about like insects through a colony.

Over time, he begins to recognize regulars. People moving back and forth, day in and day out, no different than ants moving grains back and forth. He has to laugh. It's no wonder god abandoned man. Man is fucking boring.

Even the god they made for themselves thinks so.

To ease the monotony, he concocts little stories for the ones he recognizes. He imagines the kinds of lives they live outside of their commutes and the routines he observes. He names one of them Peter, and every day he invents a new reason Peter is yet again running late for his train. Because he's always late, Peter never stops for the woman selling street meat on the corner across from the station.

Homelander imagines that the meat she peddles is people, and that she's got her eye on that speedy little rabbit, Peter.

And then one day, he notices you.

It isn’t that you’re especially beautiful or noteworthy. Just like all the other busy little bees, you go about your same routine each and every day of the week. Sometimes you're in a rush, other times you enjoy your stroll. Regardless, you always find time to stop and give money to the same homeless man occupying one of the few alleyways protected by an awning. Sometimes you linger to chat, other times you can only stop long enough to drop something into his hands.

It isn't always money. Oftentimes you have food for him packed neatly into a little take-out box. Despite the packaging, it looks homemade. You always have a warm smile for him, even when you’re obviously frazzled.

To the rest of the world, this man may as well be fucking invisible, but here you are handing him a box of home cooked food like he's someone who matters. Homelander is the world's greatest hero, and yet some bum on the street is being fed with more love and attention to detail than he ever has.

It's a goddamn joke. More and more, it becomes apparent to him that you’re pathetically lonely. After a few days of observing you amongst the others, he starts trailing you more actively, forgetting all about Peter and his eventual butcher.

He wants to know more about you.

You live alone, working and cooking for only yourself and your stray pet. Sometimes you cook for your coworkers or the odd friend who stops by before leaving you alone all over again. He watches from a distance while you toil away, cooking more food than you’ll eat in a week for people you see for a fraction of each of your weekdays. It couldn’t be more obvious that you’re desperate for someone to take care of.

In a way, he can relate. 

Maeve has been more distant than ever, choosing to engage him only when there’s a camera present. When it’s only the two of them, she just drinks until he barely recognizes her. Madelyn has begun her “fertility journey,” words that set his teeth on edge, and has barely had a real moment to spare him as of late. The rest of his team doesn’t help abate his loneliness either; Marathon is a washed up hack who can barely sprint these days, Lamplighter is only ever interested in clubbing, the Deep couldn’t hold a conversation in a bucket, and Noir is a mute.

And so he soothes his solitude with thoughts of you. When he isn’t with you, he daydreams about it, imagining what life would look like if your worlds were to intersect. The more he learns about you, the more vivid his fantasies become, and the more intensely he aches when he still finds himself alone in his bed at the end of each night.

It spurs him to visit you more and more.

One particularly warm summer night, you leave your window wide open. He takes it for the invitation it is, drifting towards it under the cover of dark. Your screen is loose and pops out noiselessly. Not exactly safe, even if you do live on the fifth storey.

You just never know what might come lurking out of the shadows.

Slipping into your living room, he’s met with the sound of white noise playing from your bedroom. Is it the sound of the streets below that bother you? You’d never hear it from his penthouse a hundred feet in the air. You could leave the windows open all you like and hear only the roar of the sky, not unlike the ocean waves your phone is poorly mimicking.

He could take you to the actual ocean. A beach house far away from the buzzing neon lights and incessant honking and revving of traffic. Walking through your apartment, he makes his way to your tiny kitchen. The one in his penthouse puts yours to absolute shame, and yet the only thing in it that’s ever been used is the fridge. He’s certain he’s never opened the double oven or so much as turned on the gas range. Meanwhile, your kitchen is riddled with use, each cupboard stuffed with mismatched cookware and the like. It smells of grease and spices and love.

The sad irony of it is almost too much to stomach. You don’t belong in this cramped little sardine can. You should be in a proper kitchen. 

You should be cooking for him. The thought comes to him like a flash of genius. Of course. That’s the answer that will solve both of your little dilemmas. If he is a bird watcher then you’re a songbird snared in a net. It would be inhumane of him to leave you to die before you’re ever appreciated–ever seen–by anyone who matters.

You would worship him for rescuing you. His wealth and power would see each and every one of your material needs met with ease. You would never work for anything again. All you would ever have to concern yourself with was being loved and loving him.

He walks to your room with a hand pressed absently over his heart, cradling the anxious little bundle of nerves that have gathered there. He can tell by your breathing that you’re deep asleep, and yet he finds himself uncharacteristically nervous as he approaches.

His first time being so near to you after weeks of simply observing.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he steps towards you. The sound of him is masked by the ambient noise spilling from your phone, not to mention the fan you have pointed directly at your bed in a desperate attempt to save yourself from the summer heat.

You clearly weren’t built for this paltry life. Mary was no one before God chose her for greatness. Is that not what he’s about to do for you? It’s the will of a god that elevates you.

He kneels by your bedside, bringing himself face to face with you. Your breathing is even, each huff smelling faintly of mint. Your lips look soft, slightly parted in sleep. Everything about you is gentler, more relaxed than you ever are in the day to day grind of your life.

You could look like this all the time without it. He has the power to change your entire life with nothing more than a couple of numbers shifting from one space to another. Money has always been inconsequential to him, so abundant that it hardly means anything anymore. You, however, are ruled by it.

For the first time in his life, he recognizes the power in his wealth.

He brushes the tips of his gloved fingers along your cheek, down your jaw. He’s never used his hands so tenderly as when he traces your sleeping eyelids with his fingertips, imagining what dreams chase behind them and make them flutter.

You don’t stir. 

Emboldened, he follows the curve of your bottom lip with his thumb, imagining how soft you would feel against the bare pad of his finger. Leaning in closer, he indulges in the warmth of your breath tickling his lips. You’re a sound sleeper, the thud of your resting heart beating steadily in his ear.

Closing his eyes, he bridges the distance between your lips, pressing his own lightly to yours. For a second, he thinks he’s woken you, that you’ve caught sight of him and your heart is drumming loudly in his ears. He draws sharply back, but sees that you’re still deep asleep, your features peaceful.

It’s his heart that’s racing, a thundering sound that blocks out every other noise in the room. He’s breathing shallowly, excited in a way he hasn’t been in a long time. There’s a flush crawling up his throat, and it’s at that moment he breaks out into a wide, wondrous smile.

There’s no question of it now.

He has to have you.

The plan to acquire you ends up requiring very little setup. If Madelyn cares why Homelander’s suddenly spending so much, she’s yet to make a comment. 

Bitterly, he thinks it likely that she’s glad to see him distracted. 

He starts preparation by appropriately stocking his kitchen; you’ll appreciate the supply of ingredients, he knows. The quality of what he obtains for you is leagues above what you can afford, as is the cookware. He buys you new clothes, jewelry, imagining every step of the way how you’ll look in each piece. How you’ll look as he takes them off. He’s seeking to upgrade your life in every conceivable way, like bringing a cat home from the pound and teaching it the meaning of luxury.

You’ll want for nothing. You’ll be so grateful to him. And you, the sweet and perfect little thing that you are, make yourself painfully easy to ensnare. You come home under the cover of dark like clockwork, perfectly oblivious to his approach. You’ve just managed to fish your keys out of your bag when his hand closes a kerchief over your mouth and nose, stifling your cry. His other arm slips around your waist, holding you steady. The cloth smells overly sweet, ether-like, and though that scent has no effect on him, you respond to it almost immediately.  “Shhhhshhshh,” he soothes, letting the anesthesia do its job. Fuck, you feel good in his arms, back held tight to his chest, your delicate hands prying at his wrist as you kick, claw and scream–albeit muffled–into the cloth. He holds you with ease, keeping you close to his body, angling you in such a way that you won’t hurt yourself.

Despite your tenacity, you fight a losing battle. Your efforts grow weaker and weaker as you lose your grip on consciousness. He hushes you all the while, encouraging you. “That’s it, let it go. I’ve got you, I’ve got you...” Finally your head falls back against his shoulder, your face lolling into the crook of his neck, the rest of your body falling slack in his arms. He pulls the cloth away from your mouth, tucking it into your bag for now. He turns his head to yours, lips barely ghosting along your forehead. He takes in a deep breath of you, his eyes falling shut. Beneath the sickly sweet smell of the chemical mixture he knocked you out with, he can smell the remnants of your perfume. It’s not his favorite fragrance, but the underlying warm scent of you is intoxicating. He’ll collect whatever belongings you decide you want with you when he returns, if anything, but he doubts you’ll miss much. Your stuff will seem like a heap of rags and garbage by comparison. He’s looking forward to how the perfumes and lotions he’s bought you will smell on your skin, and how you’ll look in the clothing he’s picked for you. He adjusts you into a bridal carry in his arms and gently kicks off from the ground, holding you firm to his chest. The city is beautiful at night, a landscape of stars mirroring that of the sky above it. He’s always loved it here, and yet he’s shared it with a painful few.

Madelyn never lets him take her to the skies. Maeve had been wowed initially, but she had quickly grown disillusioned with it. With him.

You’ll be different. The trip back to his penthouse feels agonizingly slow, but he maintains a lesser pace to keep the wind from rashing your skin, savoring the featherlight weight of you in his arms at last. He lands deftly on his balcony, stepping through his open reinforced glass doors. After laying you down in his bed, he takes a moment to slip off your shoes, setting them aside. He eases your purse off of your shoulder, and places it on the nightstand. After sprawling a thin blanket over you, he takes a step back and puts his hands on his hips to admire the perfectly domestic scene he’s set.

Slowly, he breaks out into a smile. His bed swallows you up, makes you look small and lonely. He’s the missing piece, of course. He’s already looking forward to seeing himself complete the picture in the mirror above you. He imagines coming home to you like this, curled up in his–no, your shared bed, blanket pulled up over your shoulders to block the chill left by his absence.

Oh, how you’ll miss him when he’s gone.

You’ll have nothing and no one to concern yourself with except for him. No burdens, no dread, no stress. You’ll live in peace and security the likes of which you can scarcely imagine, spoiled rotten by the bounty of all that he is.

Neither of you will ever be lonely again.

Tilting his head slightly, he listens to the sound of you. Your breathing is shallow, the beat of your heart steady. Normal people don’t realize it, don’t have the capacity for it, but a heartbeat is as distinct as a fingerprint. Over the years, he’s learned to read them as such. He’s memorized yours. There isn’t much for him to do in the time that you’re asleep. He knows precisely how long you’ll be out; the anesthesia blend he gave you was straight out of Vought’s lab, and the dose he gave you leaves him with at least an hour before the two of you meet properly. The anticipation is enough to make him giddy. For all that Homelander knows about you, there is plenty he does not. The externals of your life have only provided him so much, but that will come in time. He didn’t bother with perusing your social media accounts, not being particularly proficient in them himself. 

Besides, he wants getting to know you to be an organic experience.

He remembers to take your phone out of your bag and dispose of that rag he used to dose you while he’s at it. He unlocks your phone the way he’s seen you do a dozen times before, and spends some time ensuring that no one will be expecting you anywhere any time soon. All it takes is one quick email and you no longer have a job. A few social media posts later, you’ve informed anyone who might think of you that you’ll be enjoying an impromptu sabbatical in Europe.

The power of technology. After that, he pops your phone into the safe behind one of the dozens of portraits on his wall.

When he hears you starting to stir, renewed butterflies start fluttering about in his stomach. You have no idea that your entire life–no, your entire perception of reality–is about to change. No more dodgy commutes, no more living paycheck-to-paycheck. You’ll be free to admire the world from the lap of luxury–his lap, to be specific. You make a quiet moan, the chemical fog wearing off gradually. He moves swiftly to your bedside, primed with a welcoming smile, hands on his hips. “Riiiise and shine, sleepyhead,” he coaxes, leaning forward at the waist. Still disoriented from the drugs in your system, you stare at him as if you’re dreaming. He doesn’t blame you. In almost every other reality, there’s no explanation for the fact you’re seeing America’s favorite hero, the Homelander, standing above you. He knows the side effects of the drug have left a strange buzzing in your ears, and that your tongue likely feels heavy and cottony. He’s already got water for you on the bedside table. “Home…lander?” You manage to get out. His smile broadens. That’s the first time he’s heard you say his name. You look cute like this, bleary-eyed and needy. He’s grown accustomed to seeing you as a put together provider, self-sufficient and tending to the needs of those around you, but rarely your own. Seeing you unraveled feels like a secret intimacy for him alone. “The one and only,” he preens. Now that you’ve seen him posed valiantly by your side, he takes a seat on the bed next to you, reaching out to brush his gloved knuckles along your forehead. He attributes the slight flinch to your drug addled confusion. Poor thing. If he’d had an alternative to using a sedative, he would have preferred that.

Not that it matters now. You’re finally here.

( chapter two )

[felidaeng]

been thinking about it

[somekindofhat]

Scrunkly is sleepy 🥺

[greenheartart]

A new chapter appears!

Anxiety is hard. Trust is harder. Everyone is just trying to do what they think is best, with mixed results.

[pillowspace]

Chapter 3: A Much Kinder Gold

You request just a simple, familiar day for your own sake for now, and Sun has no complaints with that. At least you have a friend for the first time in awhile.

Chapter word count: 8,423 | fic total so far: 28,644

[mandrellaeffect]

So basically at various points through the Wizard Witch Wild One campaign from Worlds Beyond Number, I have felt various amounts of horrified abt events, but there's something so special about a one-shot (WWW #2 The Clearing) that is committed to being violent against its players for world building reasons. These people were never meant to be there. Guess what that means for them [sparkle emoji] [crossbones emoji] [heart emoji]

[sharkji]

I will use my poor photoshop skills for evil.

Based on this conversation I had with my friends about Yuwu.

@whompmwhomp

[stayinggoldforpony]

the outsiders but ponyboy has to take a music class as one of his electives (because everything else he wanted to take was full) and the entire thing is about him writing the outsiders musical

[kyouka-supremacy]

I think we should just bring back Wungo Wednesday and start a fandom collective anime rewatch

[haledamage]

Bag of Tricks Books is one of Port Townsend's best kept secrets. It's located on the ground floor of a two-story red brick building, on one corner of a crossroads at the southern edge of town. It shares a wall with a newly-opened tattoo parlor--both shops also share the underutilized second floor, as well as a door directly leading from one shop to the other--and shares its intersection with a florist, a bed and breakfast, a new age store, and a butcher shop that gets steady business regardless of the sign claiming that it's been closed for renovations for nearly nine months now. Despite advertising itself solely as a used bookstore, Bag of Tricks is equal parts bookshop, coffee shop, and flea market. A constant rotation of items are available for sale or barter, if one has the diligence to find them, scattered about the counter or in the labyrinth of mismatched shelves. Anything from priceless antiques and rare first-edition books to obscure records by forgotten musicians to kitschy knickknacks and out-of-season decorations. All you have to do is name a price that the proprietor agrees to or bring an item of your own that you can convince him is of equal value. It is Edwin's favorite place he's ever been to.

for Day 14 - AU of @deadboyween ❤💙

took a bookstore/coffeeshop au and a florist/tattoo artist au and scrambled it all around. Charles owns a bookshop, Edwin is a tattoo artist, Crystal runs a B&B, and Niko is a florist 😁 Mick, Jenny, the Night Nurse, and the Sprites will also make appearances

[taradactyls]

Progress Update: Trying to Tread Water

TLDR: Hopefully an update tomorrow night.

I was so certain I was going to get SOMETHING out tonight, but the toddlers decided tonight was the first time in weeks that they would not go to sleep. It's 10pm. We just got one to sleep. The other remains awake.

IMMEDIATELY after writing that the awake boy climbed over the bed head and tried to do a somersault on top of his sleeping brother. Sleepy boy somehow slept through it, and fingers crossed the awake boy will allow himself to fall asleep this time. He's SO tired every time we go back in to resettle him but he just isn't having it tonight.

Which is about how the last few hours have gone. I haven't even been able to do one full proof read without having to stop a child trying to climb the blinds, pull their mattress off the bed, or escape their room.

So, basically, keep an eye out for something (not as much as I had hoped) tomorrow night.

[ddejavvu]

this is just a readout of my inner thoughts towards writing at the moment, it's not a declaration of change to come and it's not a withdrawal from tumblr, it's literally just me letting you know how writing is working for me right now:

i do enjoy writing shortform content like blurbs/drabbles, but after writing 2 a day for 2 years, I'm a bit burnt out on that posting schedule. i knew that i was going to stop pushing myself that hard because it was impossible with my work and school schedule, however lately it's been hard for me to get any out at all. i write them when i can, but oftentimes I can't, and that does not by any means mean that I'm 'quitting', or 'going on hiatus', it just means that some days are better than others; some days i will write and some days i won't be able to. aside from that, my interests have veered strongly into longform content, like series or long fics. of course, those take much longer to write, and do not possess the instant gratification of shortform content like blurbs, which I do appreciate because it helps motivate me to write more. this means that I'm highly motivated to write a series (i have several thought out, though i'm only working on one at a time (spring fling)), however, in order to keep up my presence on this blog, and cater to those who aren't interested in whatever series i'm working on, i want to keep up with my shortform content as well. that is where my problem arises. i don't want to devote all of my energy into a longer piece, ex. disappear for nine months and then come back with a finished series, it would break my heart to be absent for that long. i also don't have enough writing time in my schedule to split it even close to evenly between short and longform content. short usually wins out because of the instant gratification component; i think 'well, let me just get a few blurbs written and queued to keep up with my blog, then while those are being posted I'll have time to write more of __ series'. spoiler alert, that never happens. it takes me so long to write the blurbs that i never get any series writing done, or i don't have writing time again until after the blurbs have long since been posted and everyone is waiting for more again.

i am truly grateful for my readers and i would never want to insinuate that this is a negative thing; i am honored beyond words that you wait for my writing. i only want to be honest with you as to why you may have to wait for my writing. if i don't write blurbs for several days, it's probably because i'm working on a chapter for a series. if i'm writing a lot of blurbs, know that that was my writing time for the day and that you may have to wait for the next chapter of my series. please just understand that, even though i want to, i don't have all the writing time in the world. nothing is forgotten, nothing will rot away and die in my drafts, i am working on everything. i just can't do two things at once, and I struggle to find a good balance for my writing efforts that works best for my blog.

i wanted to say this to answer any questions you might have for me like 'when is the next chapter of spring fling coming out?' or 'when will we see more james content?' or 'when will my anakin request be posted?'. i don't know. everything is a balance and sometimes I have to choose between writing one thing and writing another. i will write what i write when i write it, and rest assured everything will be written. i ask for patience from you as i try managing my time to best suit both your interests and my own.

[frootbyethefoot]

the scorpion lives

[ID: two digital drawings of gonta gokuhara, and kokichi oma from danganronpa v3: killing harmony. kokichi is on his tippy toes, covering his mouth with his hand and whispering to gonta. gonta is staring down at kokichi, shocked by what he's saying. the background is bright red. kokichi is bright purple, while gonta is bright pink.

the second drawing shows a bright purple scorpion, sitting on top of a bright pink frog. the background is pure black. END ID]

[min0uet]

death mark 2 would be a substantially better game if it understood that i absolutely fundamentally do not give a shit about those two student council girls trying to get inappropriately close to yashiki at every turn

edit: finished the game