#homelander keeps getting assigned golden retriever and like

[smallhatlogan]

people on this website are so bad at assigning dog fursonas to fictional characters, not every blonde man is a golden retriever

[evilbabysmol]

Homelander age regression headcanons. Caregiver!Reader.

DNI if you ship him with anyone, especially Ma.delyn/Ma.eve/Stor.mfront/Fir.ecracker/etc. DNI ag.eplay/nsfw/kink/abdl/kink/pr.oship/etc.

I use my own personal version of Homelander, I do not support the canon version nor his actions.

-Baby regressor, 0-1 in age. Sometimes toddler regressor, 2-4. Mostly makes noises, can speak but chooses not to.

-Trauma regressor, oftentimes regression isn't voluntary. He tends to regress when he gets stressed out. He locks himself in his penthouse to calm down.

-Before you, he usually stayed in his costume. But after you graced his life, he lets you spoil him with regression items. He gets a fluffy footed onesie to keep him warm, baby blue fabric with little yellow ducklings on it. He still chooses to wear his cape, as it's a comfort item for him. He'll use it as a blanket.

-He's often fussy and demands attention from you. Tends to cry out of frustration. He can't quite help when he cries, as regression is when he can finally allow himself to feel his emotions. The best way to help him through it is to hold him and let him cry it out. Rock him back and forth and remind him that he's a sweet baby, your sweet baby.

-Chooses to stay in one spot assigned to him by caregiver. He cries when something is out of his reach, even if he can scoot over to get it- he wants constant attention, after all!

-His favorite items to regress with; a custom decal binky (pacifier) with 'Babylander' printed, a golden retriever stuffed animal (named Lucky), his fav onesie above, and a box of tissues (out of necessity, really).

-Does occasionally wear diapers but doesn't use them. He's still very shameful about it, as he works through his trauma. He tries to hide it from you but with gentle encouragement, he becomes more open about it.

-His favorite snacks; graham crackers, dry cereal, yogurt, plain potato chips, french fries/tater tots, and baked potatoes.

-His favorite meals; Mac n cheese with hot dog slices, any kids meal at a restaurant (pretends to hate fast food but secretly loves it. Make sure he gets his toy!), tray dinners like these, cheese pizza, and spaghetti.

-His favorite drinks; chai tea, hot cocoa, angel's milk (recipe), flavored water, lemonade

-Loves taking baths! You deck him out with products for his bathtime- bath crayons, fizzes, rubber duckies, and special shampoo. He likes using baby lotion afterwards and will appreciate your help getting spots he can't quite reach. It's important to care of your baby's skin!

-After a bath, he wants to be tucked in his outfit with his puppy toy and his binky. He wants to be cuddled by you and spoken to, either telling/reading a story or singing a song. He appreciates your voice grounding him and reminding him that he's safe and loved.

[az-5-elimgarak]

#TeamWillow

Fictober19

Type: Fanfiction

Fandom: Homeland (TV Show)

Prompt #24: Patience... is not something I’m known for

Rating: G, No warnings apply

Characters: Peter Quinn, Willow (seizure response dog)

The story and the tags after the break-line. Lemme know if tagging bugs you. Or if you’d like to be tagged in the future. And thank you. ❤

The first time the mystery object brushes against the bottom of his jeans, it barely registers. Given how easily he gets distracted on an average day, he promptly dismisses it as another one of those sort-of-phantom-but-not-really-because-Andy-says-it-can’t-be sensations his affected side whomps up on occasion.

The truth is, he’s just too tired to look down. Fifteen years of covert operations, life in the shadow of days, weeks, even months of sleepless nights at a time, and he can honestly say he doesn’t remember himself feeling as worn to a frazzle as he does now.

Since he started on Prazosin the nightmares have gradually gone away. Not entirely, of course, but he hasn’t had one render him borderline catatonic in months. He’s been doing better. Not great - he’s not sure it’ll ever be ‘great’, or that it ever was, for that matter - but definitely better. 

It wasn’t until Kim asked him during one of their sessions if his being ‘busy’ - as in ‘How’s it going?’ ‘Um… Busy, I guess’ - was a good thing that he realized, to his utter astonishment, that it was. That amongst hundreds of briefings, debriefings, missions, drinking himself into a near-stupor between missions, he doesn’t remember a single day that was, simply, busy. And that, even though between his job and the neverending succession of therapy, physiotherapy, speech therapy, and every-other-fucking-kind-of-therapy-known-to-man, he sometimes feels thin, like butter scraped over too much bread (to quote Bilbo Baggins),  he wouldn’t trade a single moment of it for the world.

In fact, right now, following a night shift at the Center and a particularly grueling physiotherapy session, he’s going on thirty six hours without sleep. His brain, fretted and discombobulated on a good day, feels like it’s barely holding structural integrity, let alone that of coherent thought. He’d tried to reschedule the interview, even considered giving it up altogether, but, in his condition, passing on an opportunity like this just wasn’t an option.

He struggles to keep his eyes open, not to mention follow the questions that seem incessant - a slow, systematic torture that’s starting to make the infamous 2003 interrogation in an Iraqi prison look more and more like a walk in the park. 

“...currently involved in any illegal activity? Or were in the last year?”

Now this piques his interest. “Anyone ever answer ‘yes’?”

“I’m sorry, Mr Hayes. I know this is…” A bunch of meaningless, bureaucratic crap? “...tiresome. And may seem redundant.” No shit. “But I’m obligated to ask. And, if you’re hoping to be in the program, you need to answer.”

“I was not,” he concedes. Not in the *last* year. So not *really* a lie.

She’s right, he knows, this woman across the table whose name, for the life of him, he cannot recall. He needs this. In fact, he should’ve applied a lot sooner. Not just because having a seizure response dog may, at last, allow him to hold a legitimate driver’s license. And not just because it didn’t help his rehabilitation process when six months of work to improve the range of motion in his left arm went down the crapper following a nasty seizure-induced fall that shattered his left humerus in two places. But because if he doesn’t, one of these days the neighbor recruited to check on him several times a day will be too late. At which point, ironically, having survived being shot, stabbed, and gassed, he’ll finally meet his demise on the kitchen floor, drowned in his own drool.

“...the program is very intense, and, as such, can be quite demanding. Training takes time. Weeks. Months, in some cases. We can’t promise you quick results. But we guarantee that, provided you put in the due time and patience…”

Patience…  is not something I’m known for.  

Hot on the heels of the thought a wave of anxiety follows. He fucked it up. No, not past simple. He HAS BEEN fuckING it up, for as long as he can remember: every chance he was ever given, every iteration of ‘normal’ he ever had. What if…  

Breathe, Kim’s voice whirs in his head. He swallows, counting to three before gradually letting the air funnel out. Then again. And once more. Until the numbness washes away and he’s prickling all over. You haven’t fucked THIS one up. Yet. So… shuddup and fucking BREATHE. 

“...we highly advise those who eventually qualify make the necessary arrangements allowing them to actively participate in the process. Training an SRD is goal- and need-oriented. We can’t just tell a dog what to do when you have a seizure. And, as you probably know, seizures differ in frequency, type, and intensity. Once the training is complete, your SRD should not only be able to warn you of an upcoming seizure, but also provide assistance, or even call for help if necessary. So, obviously, the training cannot be done unless you’re a full participant for the entire duration of the program…”

There’s that same brushing sensation again. Except, this time it’s not against the sleeve of his jeans but lower, on top of his foot. And it’s not so much brushing as it is… stirring?

He looks down, eyes widening in awe. “Um… Miss…” What *was* her name?

“Yes?

“It’s… There’s a p-p-p…” A sure sign of his brain initiating the shutdown process.

“Problem? Look, I know this all sounds quite overwhelming. But I assure you, if you put in the necessary effort—”

“No. No. There’s a p-p-p…” he motions under the table, unable to stop grinning. “P-p.. small dog.”

With some effort, grabbing the side of the chair with his right hand, he shimmies away from the table. The ball of creamy-gold fluff on top of his sneaker stirs again, sleepily rearranging the tangle of chubby paws around his braced ankle.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Judi! Judi! Why is there… I’m sorry, could you give me a minute? Judi! There’s a puppy in the reception room!”

“That’s alright. I don’t mind,” he tries, reassuringly.

“It’s not that, sir. Judi! I’m so sorry, they’re not supposed to be here. They’re not even house trained yet. Oh my God, did it…?”

Finally, the side door opens and, mumbling apologies, Judi - he presumes - rushes in. 

“Willow! My goodness, how’d you get in here, girl? I’m sorry, she’s a bit of a… here, lemme take her. Excuse me… Sir? Could you…? Your foot?”

“Oh. Sure.”

He moves further backwards. His foot, sliding from under the snuggly weight, causes the puppy to roll over with a soft, startled yelp.

The amusedly exasperated “There you are, you mischievous scamp” is followed by an abrupt “No! No! C’mere! Willow, you...! Oh, for God’s sake… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Sir… do you mind?”

Bending down, he awkwardly reaches with his right hand behind his left ankle where what appears to be the feistiest golden retriever in the history of the breed is engaged in an out-and-out battle of ‘catch-me-if-you-can-bitch’ with her irked-out-of-her-mind keeper. 

“Gotcha,” he smirks, deftly hooking his palm under the plush belly and emerging from under the table with a wriggling jumble of ears and limbs. 

Held in front of his smile-dimpled face, a fierce twinkly-brown stare locked with his steely-blue, Willow lets out the tiniest, most defiant squeal of part-bark, part growl, part something-too-adorable-to-not-have-a-name he’s ever heard. 

“Wow. Consider me scared,” he nods, genuinely impressed, tightening his grip as she wiggles harder, earning a narrow-eyed shake of his head. “You just don’t give up, do you?”

Something in his calm, measured tone renders her still for a moment. Moisture-sleek, pitch black nostrils flare. Once. Twice. And then, he feels her go limp in his palm, paws and earls slacking, head cocking puzzlingly to the side. 

He lowers his voice. “That’s more like it. Now: care to say hello like a proper lady?” 

Slowly, he moves his hand to his face until they’re nose to nose where, following a series of cautious sniffs, his gesture of good will is rewarded with a torrent of slobber so generous and enthusiastic, he’s forced to laughingly gather her to his chest instead. 

“There,” he whispers, cradling her in the stiff, motionless fold of his left elbow and soothingly running his newly freed hand from the top of her head to the tip of her shimmering tail. “It’s nice to meet your acquaintance, Miss Willow. I’m Noah,” he adds. 

And, for the first time since he was handed his new identity papers, the name he thought he'd never get used to folds on his tongue just right.

 ______________________

The woman across the desk blinks rapidly, as if trying to decide whether or not he’s joking, and, in case he’s not, which part of the protocol her job is outlined by should’ve prepared her for this.

“Mr Hayes, I’m sorry. But that’s - what you’re asking -  it’s out of the question. It just… doesn’t work like that. We don’t - we can’t… you don’t just choose an SRD. At this age, we don’t even know if they have the ability. And even if we did, pairing an epilepsy dog with a potential candidate is an intricate process. There are factors that—”

“That what? I mean, how compatible do we have to be? It’s not like I’m asking you for her  bone-marrow.”

She exhales in an attempt to regain her composure. “I realize that, sir. But, nevertheless, there are things to consider. Things that our specialists have been trained to take into consideration. I’m sorry. This is— unprecedented. The candidate can’t just walk in and choose a puppy. Which is why we usually…” shooting an accusatory glance in Judi’s direction, “...don’t even let the candidates see the dogs until one is assigned.”

“Fine. But how about a puppy choosing a candidate?” he quips, pointedly scratching behind the ears of the aforementioned puppy snuggled sleepily in the crook of his neck.

“A pu…? Mr Hayes, you can’t be serious.”

Quinn leans back, tilting his head so as to rest his cheek on top of the plush bundle. “Look. I understand. So, say she doesn’t have the… SRD gene, or whatever makes them qualify. Or we don’t… work together. It’s fine. I mean, it happens, right? Even with the “selection process”, it must happen on occasion. What do you do then?”

Finally back on familiar territory, Christie - it *is* Christie, isn’t it? - nods.

“Sir, we’re a private facility. One of the top in the world, as I’m sure you know. Candidates who choose our services are guaranteed a functioning SRD. Of course, like you say, it’s not an exact science, and some pairings don’t stick. Which is another reason why the selection process should be left to people who are qualified to perform it. But, if the pairing is unsuccessful, we offer a client a chance to repeat the process.”

“Which costs you money.”

“Yes. But that’s far from being our main concern. Like I said, the training program is quite demanding. Doing it twice is not in anyone’s best interest.”

Disregarding her last remark, Quinn presses on. “And the dogs? Those who don’t qualify?”

“Well, they are all purebred, so, we offer them up for sale to individuals or elite breeding houses.”

“There you go. I’ll make you a deal. I get Willow, right now—” Christie opens her mouth to protest but he raises a hand to stop her. “Just... hear me out. I get Willow. And, if it doesn’t work out, for whatever reason, I’ll pay for her. And I’ll pay to repeat the program.”

“Sir—”

“I fail to see the downside. I really do.”

“Well, for one, Willow is too young to be trained. Or even tested. It’ll be at least another six weeks.”

Quinn smiles.

It never ceases to strike him with awe how, sometimes, his fretted, disjointed, swiss-cheese of a brain just... snaps back. As if resetting to some kind of safe point, all of the stroke and sarin splintered parts shift and reshuffle, and, suddenly, every word he needs is just where it ought to be.

“Miss, I’ve applied for the program over six months ago, and have been on the waiting list for the past three. I was diagnosed with refractory epilepsy a year ago having tried every combination of anticonvulsants known to modern medicine; and a bunch of experimental ones. I’ve had two, three, sometimes up to five grand-mal seizures a month for almost two years now. I’m pretty damn sure I can wait six weeks.”

 __________________

With Christie excusing herself in order to run the ‘this is highly irregular, sir, it really is, but I’ll see what I can do’ deal by her supervisor, and Judi retreating back to the breeding chambers, the room has grown quiet at last. It’s just the two of them now: Quinn, slumped back in the chair, eyes closed,  and Willow, passed out on his chest, her wispy, feathery breaths tickling the side of his throat.

He feels himself melting away, losing cohesion. He could fall asleep like this, his cheek resting against the velvet of flopped ear, fingers buried deep in the thick of her fur. And, given the bargain he just made, he probably should. 

Whatever it takes, he thinks, his mind skidding down the slope of exhaustion. Whatever it takes. 

Like a pebble skipping across the lake of his memory, he’s suddenly at the Center, chatting with Jessie, last night’s admission: a fourteen-year old turned over to CPS by her case worker following a late night raid the DEA made on her fifth foster home in two years.

“Ok, I can tell you. But it’s like a total spoiler.”

He arched a skeptical brow. “#TeamLannister? A total spoiler?”

“Hey. It’s GoT, alright? Everything’s a spoiler.”

“Fine. Spoil away,” he sighed, tossing her a new set of bed sheets.

She went on to tell him a long, elaborate story of a big battle involving dwarves (or was it just one dwarf), dragons, “dragon-wasting” ballistas, some “BAMF” knight called  - he wants to say James(?) - and, well, a “buttload” of other spoilers of which he understood very little; and remembers even less. Not to mention the fact that he never did get the answer as to what #TeamLannister - printed in block letters across her t-shirt - means.

“Hey, we’re a team now.” He nuzzles the wisp of spikes just above Willow’s ear as she stirs and burrows deeper into his neck. “#TeamQuinn?” A snort. “Ok. #TeamHayes?” A sleepy whimper. “What? #TeamNoah?”

Suddenly, there’s Christie’s voice in his head again. “...provided you put in the due time and patience…”

Patience… is not what I’m known for, he remembers thinking. And he shakes his head, smiling. Not something Peter Quinn was known for. Nor “John”, or “David”, or “Nathan”, or any of them, for that matter. 

Noah Hayes, though? He chuckles. The jury’s still out.

Jolted awake by the bounce of his chest, Willow emerges from under his chin, big, droopy eyes blinking in sleepy daze. 

“Hey you,” he laughs, poking the tip of her nose with the tip of his.

And, as she scrambles higher, curling her head in the crook of his neck with a long, joyful sigh, he just knows: for as long as it takes, wherever this road leads, and whatever the cost - from now on, it’s #TeamWillow.

@valerafan2 @hidingupatreeorsomething @awariasuit @tenar-of-atuan @potter012 @johnlockismyreligion @boisinberryjamarama