#it’s as if homelander is being washed away

[vindickyoutive]

love touching upon the idea of Homelander’s natural hair color & the thought of him being a brunette. Butcher’s like.. well that makes sense because of SB’s hair color, but at the same time he’s surprised & very taken by it, he keeps catching himself staring at John & overtime it becomes something so special to him.

[cryptfile]

𖥨᩠ׄ݁ holy terrain!!!!!!, [ homelander x supe!reader ]

SUMMARY— based on a request aka when you arrive to vought’s tower covered in blood, you certainly don't expect to enjoy John’s comfort after feeling so numb.

WARNINGS — +18 minors dni, implied fem! reader, homelander is a warning himself, usual the boys content, mentions of murder, violence, reader matches homelander’s freak ngl, always wash your hands before fingering #PLEASE, blood kink at it's best, degradation (blink and you’ll miss it), dirty talk, porn without plot sort of?? lmao blame it on my hormones.

SIDE NOTES — hi there, this is a result of me going feral in this new season. English's not my first language, so please be kind, any mistake it's my own fault sorry in advance. Hate this mf but wont deny I wouldn't fuck him to calm him down. Please interact if you like this, reblogs, comments, likes, all means a lot to me!

The smell is under your nose.

At first it didn’t bother you to feel the warmth of it, you’re not disgusted by blood. But it’s everywhere. Fucking everywhere. Sticking in your face, staining your damn suit, pooling beneath your feet.

You can feel your own breathing, yet, you're numb to everything else. The screams of terror and the sudden silence of the killing are now something similar as a long-time-ago memory, a distant thought you cannot bring yourself to care about.

And when you came out of the elevator, you don't care about the other people looking at you either. The Vought personal that were always running in the floor, Ashley, or fucking Noir at the matter thinking you're Carrie or something, no one dares to talk to you even when you’re a mere sidekick, too afraid of your explosive personality to even demand to know what happened.

It's almost like you asked for it, to be left alone, to not deal with anyone but your own judgment.

So when you cross the hallway to your dormitory dreaming about a warm shower, you don't expect to see him inside, your relationship with Homelander being too sporadic to even catalog it as one. Yet he's there like it's his house, and you're too tired to even ask why he's there in the first place.

"There you are," he says, but you hear his voice like he's talking miles away from you instead of the couch where he really is. "Something was telling me you were having a rough day."

"Don't remember anything about inviting you to my room" he doesn't care about your tone as he walks closer to you, usually, when he speaks, he only seem to listen to himself. "Didn’t give you a key."

He's oblivious at your words, instead, he seems to be too lost in his own way of seeing things, just waiting for you to say something similar to what you’ve already said in his mind. To admit something like you missed him all day long, that you've been thinking about him as much as he's thinking about you, to fed his ego like only you can do after only a few times of sharing intimacy.

The air is thick, making it harder to breathe as he plants himself in front of you, blue eyes scanning your face as his fingers touched your hair, toying with the strands glued together with blood — Even if it’s gross, he don’t seemed moved by it, mainly, you think, because he’s been through the same too.

"Don't need a key to show up," he laughs like it's obvious, and you look at him like he's having a rougher time than you. "This is my building."

It's almost a reminder for you, that you're living under his roof and have a place on his team because he just wants to. Even when you always do the dirty job no one dares to do, if you save his ass more times you can count, he still remarks you’re living in his world.

“I know,” you fight the need to roll your eyes to the back of your head while responding. It’s something you remind yourself sometimes, how most of them are just plain stupid, always treating you like you were no better than fucking Deep.

The stink under your nose is annoying and your skin feels sticky at the touch so you’re almost begging for just ten minutes of privacy.

“I just missed you” he says in a low voice, almost ashamed of admitting something he would never even dare to say out loud, a sudden verge of vulnerability, strange raw honesty as he looks at you. “Didn’t you miss me too?”

You know the only way of really control him, how to make him do exactly what you want to do, so you let him. Let him act all needy and weird cause you want John wrapped around your finger, unable to think on his own. You want him to believe, whole-heartedly, that in the end he’s the one coming up with the great ideas when it's you every single time.

You don’t find it cruel, he’s the same with you and he deserves it, so when Homelander bites his middle finger to grab the fabric of his gloves and pull it off, you let him touch you, treat you like this lost-dove-in-trouble he loves to see — “Had an awful day. Just wanted to see you,” like that. The correct combination of words and he looks like he got fucking shot by a celestial force, mesmerized. “Always missing you, babe.”

He’s sold by the moment, that tone you use, that little nickname that gets him, the sound of your heartbeat slightly faster than before, not enough to catch you lying, but enough to show you’re indeed, happy to see him as well.

He's pleased, so the next is unexpected to say the least, and you hate every second of it when he carries you like you two are married or something similar, sitting in the sofa with you on his lap.

“What are you-”

He shushes you, and you cannot finish what you’re saying when he pulls you to his chest, the fabric of his suit against your cheek as he, weirdly enough, hugged you close, the sound of his heartbeat instead, loud against your ear as you can feel him breathing beneath you, an steady rhythm as the silence filled the room. It's weird sometimes, to think he's human as well before the compound V.

“Comforting you,” he says in a low voice. His bare hand now grabbing your tight enough to bury his fingers in the covered skin, squeezing it lightly as first, nothing you cannot control. And it's beyond doubt what he truly wants, the way his nose inhales the scent of your body like it's fuel, the blood mixing with your fragrance — "M' here now."

He likes it almost more than his own smell. Almost is the key, cause he cannot help but wish you'd stink like him after waking up next to him that very same day. The thought wakes something new in the alleged superhero, something that stings in his stomach, plaguing his mind with the thought of getting all that he wants, to mark you as his property as he has done before.

He cannot get enough. Of course he can't, he's used to have it all now, to never ask but take. That's why he bites your shoulder, why he didn't mind getting his hands dirty with you and your sticky suit, why he's not grossed out by anything, but instead, turned on by how much you needed him.

But in reality it's the other way around, cause Homelander's the one that pulls you closer, that kisses you like you're something heavenly, just like he is. He's not gentle, yet he knows you like it that way, that you're into that rough force he's used to and would kill any normal person in result.

"Who let you go on that mission on your own, huh?" He asks, concentrated in your suit, pulling it down slightly just to reveal the naked skin under the fabric, clean skin in contrast of all the red. "Seems like they all forgot we're supposed to work together."

You don't get why it feels so nice at first, why the hand on your hip moves through your body like you need some kind of reassurance after all you went through the day.

"I'm okay" you manage to say, the pure need to remind him you're good enough to make things on your own, some kind of memo that explains clearly that you want the same benefits he has. It's useless however, when he has you like that, making you tilt your head to the side, placing random bites in any sight of exposed flesh.

"You're hurt" he says, making you aware of your own body as he presses one hand against the injury on the side of your ribs. He's fucking sick for it, and it doesn't give you any time to react when his fingertips are pushing against the cut, your suit staining with your own blood as you mewl on top of him. "Clearly hurt."

He's drunk on depravity, lost on the face you make when the pain hits you all sudden, stealing the air from your lungs. He's suddenly hard beneath you and his hand's now rest on your hip making you move on top of him, hungry for anything he can get out of you, any little sound you make so focused on keeping quiet, trying so hard to not to fed on his bullshit.

The friction is unbearable, the fresh blood coming out of your now-opened wound, the slight force he uses to tear your suit apart like its nothing, giving him more space to work with as he seemed desperate to have you close. It takes you far from where you were first, the numb feeling that grew like a parasite your stomach swallowing it all, now instead, too sensitive to his touch.

Yes. You hate him for it, hate that it's too easy for him, the traumatized hero with too many issues, the world's strongest man that somehow manages to make a mess out of you just with something so simple as sitting on his lap.

He's so pleased when you moan, when you say his name and you forgot about mannerisms, he needs to pull out his other glove in response as his blonde hair falls over his face, throwing it to the floor as his bare hand is now able to rip apart your suit effortless. The warmth of his palm cups your now bare breast for him, and he leans into your chest, tongue flickering in circles over your nipple as you let out a strangled moan.

"Common, need you to use your words here," he demands for a moment, almost annoyed as you can see the traces of saliva that connected you to his mouth: Why does he look so good? Fucker. "Cause if you don’t stop me now I’ll reduce your suit to ashes.”

“Don’t care,” you know Ashley’s going to be pissed, yet it's not enough to say anything about it. "Fucking hate the suit anyway."

"Such a dirty mouth" you're tugging his hair, hand on your kneecap pulling it slightly to the side as he forces you to open your legs for him. "What can I do with you?"

There it is, the ripped sound of his hands tearing the rest of the fabric apart, the pliable desperation in his touch, grabbing, kissing, and palming the curves of your body as it's holy terrain, unstudied land. He's caught in the smell of your skin finally mixing with his, the way your hips grinded in need for a deeper contact.

He laughs at you, laughs at that sight of defeat when he finally slides the hand that was on your knee under the ripped leavings of your now-destroyed suit. Of course he fucking loves the way you're speechless all thanks to his efforts, that you're unable to keep still as you straddle him now confident he's not repulsed by your dirty nature.

"Did you get turned on by killing?" He asks, and you try to respond something like he's clearly dumb. "Been smelling you since you've got here. All wet, covered in blood."

He's far from lazering you, but you can feel the weight of his gaze almost trespassing you when his hand finally reaches that nice spot between your legs and feels your drenched underwear beneath his fingertips. He can feel it all, and you are aware of it.

He's driven by the sounds of your heartbeat, the way your skin glimmers with sweat, he knows you're enjoying every second of it, his fingertips fondling on top of the cloth moments before pulling it to side. The warm contact with your cunt is enough to make him lose it, enough to make him succumb beneath you as he explores the folds of your aching core, his other hand holding your hip just to keep you in place.

John seems to forget, always does. Cause his grip turns beyond bruising and you can hear the crack when he moves you against his hand, a new broken bone to added to the list as he's unaware to the sound it produces, the pain that makes you shake violently blending immediately with pleasure.

You can take it. You're tough and a big girl who's taken worse, so you don't whine about it knowing you must be healing already, instead, you let yourself be trapped in that haze he created, the sounds of your sex when he hits that very spot you overly-enjoy, digits slightly curving inside as he’s experiencing the velvety feeling of your walls colliding against his hand.

"That's it, keep the show for me.” He loves praising so much since you told him he’s doing good one time, he needs to do the same for you at the first chance he got while you offered yourself to him, riding his fingers. “Such a good slut.”

He’s concentrated in the way his fingers disappear inside of you, the intense smell of blood and sex that now fills the air as you moan out his name, the red droplets in your face much like freckles, far more wicked than pure marks on your skin.

“So nice, so warm,” he says to himself, the slick sound of your arousal filling the room, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin of your chest as he marks your skin like you’re all his.

He’s sure he’s alleviating your problems, sure he’s making you feel so much better, thumb tracing circles in your swollen bud as he stole cries of pleasure from your parted lips.

You don’t let him know you’re close but he can sense it, the slight change in your breathing each time more erratic, your heartbeats quickening their pace as you got closer to the edge.

And when you really finish, when you’re done riding your high, you grab the remains of your teared suit and look at him with that damn smile he loves. You know he’s expecting to receive anything back, any favor you’re willing to give in return.

But instead, when you got off his lap, you just caress his cheek gently before saying — “See you later, John? Kind of busy now.”

my masterlist

[hom3landr]

That Unwanted Animal

18+

Homelander x Soulmate!reader

You don’t love Homelander. Even when he looks like everything you’ve ever wanted.

Loosely based on this post from @blindmagdalena

His t-shirt is soft under your hands as you cling to him. The baseball cap shields his features from you as presses you against the alley wall. The blue fabric rubs against your cheek as he thrusts up into you. The both of you avoid eye contact and as you bury your face into his shoulder, the scent of his cologne nearly chokes you. You thought it would be easier like this. You’d believed that maybe without the suit you could pretend your “lover” was a normal man. Maybe the two of you had met at a bar, or a doctor’s office, or while walking dogs in the park. You could have been an ordinary couple with a soulmate story fit for a Hallmark movie.

But a change of clothes can’t distract you from the fact that this man, your soulmate, is the very man you’ve dedicated your life to bringing down. It’s a sick joke, isn’t it? You love your team. Hughie is always there with a shoulder to cry on. M.M. gives good advice. Frenchie and Kimiko have become almost like siblings to you. Even Butcher you hold fondness for, as infuriated as he often makes you. They’re your family and yet you’re here fucking enemy #1 in a filthy alley and he’s going to make you come.

You bite his shoulder to keep from crying out as he effortlessly holds you up. It would be easier if he was bad in bed. The soulmate bond would still suck ass, but at least you wouldn’t derive pleasure from it. He came so fast the first time you fucked him that you’d initially been relieved. It had been perfect until he’d spread your legs to lap his own come from you until you’d shuddered helplessly against his tongue. You’d gone home and cried after, despite the pleasure still pulsing warmly through your veins.

You can’t even say it isn’t consensual. Your bond causes you to ache for him viscerally. Hell, this time you sought him out. He didn’t even protest when you laid out your terms. He had seemed more amused than anything. When he showed up wearing civilian clothing like you demanded, you almost turned him away with tears pricking at your eyes.

He looks soft, human, like someone you could love, a real soulmate. Even as he pumps into you, the peek of blond sticking out from beneath the cap makes you ridiculously endeared against your will. If only he was anyone else…

Soulmates have always been romanticized to a ridiculous degree, despite everyone knowing a story of some person who is enslaved by their mark instead of liberated. There are many things that can tie two souls together besides love. Yet everyone still longs for the day they find their match, in hopes of the happiest of endings. You had been no different.

You whine and clench around him as he angles himself differently, his cock sliding even deeper into you until it feels like you're choking on it. Your mark burns and the empty pit in your stomach that lingers in his absence is washed away with each heated pulse. The nausea of being away from him finally subsides with each brush of your skin against his. He sighs happily into your hair, as the same sense of belonging envelopes him. This feels right and it makes you want to scream.

“Mine,” he growls against your temple.

“Yours,” your bond answers for you.

You only ever fuck him in comfortless places.

Your heels dig into his ass and you rock yourself into his thrusts. He nips at your ear gently…affectionately. He can’t distinguish between true love and the oppressive obsession that comes with a mate. You don’t love him. Things would be easier if you did.

Why couldn’t he be anybody else?

“Is this good?” He asks needily. He can sense your distraction. He wants to be good for you. He wants to please you. You flutter around him and one hand strokes the back of his neck tenderly despite the mental torment that you’re facing. No one has ever been so attentive during sex before. He makes you feel cherished. Even when you beg for him to make it hurt, he refuses. The same hands that have commited endless cruelties hold you like something rare and precious.

You don’t answer and you can feel his petulant frown against your skin as he waits for feedback.

He adjusts you effortlessly in his grip so he can stroke you exactly the way he’s learned you like it. You whine desperately as you leak all over his fingers and drip onto the ground below. He sighs at the feeling.

“I love you so much.” He whispers intimately into your ear. His sincerity makes you want to weep. “You’re everything I ever wanted.”

It doesn’t matter how many times you rebuke him or refuse his offer to take you home with him. He still believes that you feel the same. He believes that one day he’ll find you soaking wet at his penthouse door, having run across the city in the pouring rain to him, confessing how much it hurt to push him away. He wants the satisfaction of knowing that you abandoned your team from sheer want of him. He thinks of your situation as a romantic comedy that hasn’t hit the emotional climax yet.

It’s pathetic and delusional and you hate how close you know you are to fulfilling it. You don’t love him…but you know you could.

Despite how hard you try to resist, you come hard and you sob into his neck at the intensity of it. He whispers sweet nothings into your ear as he rubs you through it. You kiss him to shut him up and he groans into your mouth as he releases inside you. He kisses you back desperately, seeking whatever crumbs of affection you let yourself give him, using them as proof to fuel his delusional fantasies.

Once you’ve both ridden out your respective orgasms, he finally pulls back to look at you. The softness in his eyes belongs to a kinder man. Your stomach flips. His cap has been knocked slightly askew and he looks human. He frowns slightly and the hand he was using to bring you pleasure brushes something off your cheek.

“You’re crying.” He remarks, hand now cupping your cheek as his thumb strokes your skin in an attempt to comfort you. You want him to be rude to you the way he is to everyone else. You want him to mock you and make crass disrespectful remarks. You open your mouth to reply and a broken sob comes out. He hushes you softly and leans down to kiss the tears that roll down your cheeks

“I love you.” You confess finally, the truth is bitter and shameful in your mouth. You’ve finally stopped lying to yourself

“You say that every time. Are you actually going to follow through or are you going to deny yourself some more?” He asks dryly, cocking his head at you. His grip flexes as he continues to press you against the wall.

You both know the answer. Just like you both know that one day the answer will be different.

Your team better succeed before then.

[blindmagdalena]

Center Stage in a Gilded Cage (chapter six)

18+ 4.6k. homelander x f!reader. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, abuse, forced relationship, slow burn, eventual smut. gif credit | fic directory | AO3.

“You must never run from anything immortal. It attracts their attention. Walk slowly, and pretend to be thinking of something else. Sing a song, say a poem, do your tricks, but walk slowly.” ― The Last Unicorn

When he first moved into it, Homelander loved everything about his penthouse. He’d given extensive feedback to the interior design team, even going so far as to offer crude sketches of what he wanted.

He’d always had a specific vision for his home: spacious and open, but not vacant. Rich colors that wouldn’t strain his eyes. Windows and mirrors that gave and reflected as much light and space as possible. 

No white walls. 

Not a single blank space. 

He wanted art on the walls, but not just any art. He wanted historic portraits and moments of history. A face on every wall, the same way that the people on TV had pictures of people on their walls.

Pictures of their family.

He doesn’t have a family, so familiar figures from his studies would have to do instead.

His favorite place was his bedroom. The mirrors give not only the illusion of space, but company.

To this day the bed is as plush as it was then. It’s stacked with fluffy pillows, and the sheets are made of soft cotton. They’re always vibrant, always colorful. The staff washes them in gentle detergent instead of bleach.

He spent his first night in that bed with his face buried in the pillow just smelling it.

It smelled like home.

However, the longer he’s lived in his penthouse, the more the spaciousness of it began to feel like absence. The distinct lack of something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on right away.

It eased on the odd occasion that he had company, but as soon as they were gone, it was as though their presence had carved out holes in his home that he couldn’t fill.

He added statues. More portraits. He left the television running because the silence of his own isolation had become deafening. He started spending more time away. His home had gradually morphed from a place of freedom into a finely decorated version of the same horrible fluorescent box he spent his childhood in.

At least in the box he’d known there were people watching him. With him.

How he’d hated it back then. He hated how he could always hear the camera lenses adjusting as they monitored him from somewhere else.

It makes him sick to have missed it even a bit.

Thanks to you, he no longer has to.

There’s an inherent thrill to coming home that had been lost before you. Excitement starts to prickle up his spine as soon as he steps into the elevator and hits his floor. He can’t remember the last time he’s been so excited to go home.

Every day this week you’ve cooked for him, sat with him, laid in his arms, lived with him. In the last three days you’ve come a long way from the timid thing you started as, no longer jumping at his every move. You still tense at his touch, but he’s willing to bet a few more of those massages will remedy that.

Your presence can be felt even when he’s at work. He recently connected the hidden security camera on his balcony to his phone, ensuring he gets pinged any time you open that door. He isn’t worried about you going off unattended that way, given that it’s a hundred story drop.

It makes him smile to see you getting braver, occasionally stepping out onto the concrete to stare out across the cityscape. Soon he’s going to have to take you for that flight he promised. 

While he’s spent these evenings with you blessedly free of obligations, tonight will be different. He has to leave, and he won’t be able to bring you with him. At least not yet. You aren’t ready for that kind of exposure, nor what being revealed as his beloved would entail.

The media would eat you alive. He won’t subject you to them without proper preparation.

He isn’t cruel.

Vought’s hosting a gala that will serve as the early foundation of their campaign to move supes into the military, and as such, the U.S. Secretary of Defense will be in attendance, and it’s Homelander’s job to convince the man of the innumerable benefits of the operation. 

Ridiculous. He might as well try and argue the benefits of a smartphone to a fish.

If these people can’t understand why having honest to god superheroes in their military is a good idea, he doubts anything shy of a hand delivered miracle from God would sway the morons.

It’s just common sense, for fuck’s sake. War has only ever been a matter of who could bring the biggest gun. They will never find a greater weapon than him, much less a weapon that chooses to protect them.

However undeserving of it they may be.

He lets out a rough breath and shakes his head to knock loose the talking points that have been bashed into his skull over the course of the week, determined to leave work at the door. 

“I’m hoooome,” he sings as he steps in through the doorway, the mechanism locking behind him with a soft beep.

It feels good to know you’re safe here. While he doesn’t have enemies, per se, there’s no telling what some lunatic could be driven to do if they knew about you.

“Living room,” you call.

The familiarity of it makes him smile.

This is what coming home was always supposed to feel like.

He hums a little tune to himself as he walks, a slight bounce to his steps.

“Something smells good,” he says as he rounds the corner, finding you curled up on the couch under a blanket.

Cute.

On the table across from you is a neat little stack of glass containers full of food. He cocks his head, pausing to pick one up for inspection. “You meal planning out here or something?”

You slip out from under the throw and stand. Something is… off. He hears you picking your nails before he even looks at you, and when he does meet your gaze, there’s a subtle apprehension you’re clearly trying to mask with a cordial smile.

“It’s just leftovers from lunch,” you say, eyes flickering from the container of food back to him. “How was work?”

“The usual,” he says a little curtly. Due to your unusual demeanor, he’s forgotten the laundry list of complaints he’d saved up at work with the intention of sharing with you. 

In his experience, it’s rarely a good thing when people suddenly start behaving differently.

Especially when they try to hide it.

“Something wrong?” He asks, giving the penthouse a cursory sweep. Everything looks to be in order.

Your eyes widen a fraction, but you catch yourself from looking overly surprised at being caught.

Got’cha, he thinks. He’s spent his entire life reading the subtleties in people’s body language, seeking out ways to understand the things they say when they’re not speaking. The things they won’t say. Particularly to him.

“No, no, nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to… I want to ask you for something,” you say, hands falling to your sides, your spine straightening.

His brows lift, his curiosity piqued. “Sure. Fire away.”

You’ve been here for days, but you haven’t made any requests of him despite his numerous offers. There isn’t a thing in this world he couldn’t obtain for you. Hell, he doesn’t even care if it’s legal. It’s about time you took him up on a little self-indulgence.

“Do you remember my friend John?”

His head gives a sharp little tic of a turn, his brows furrowing.

John.

He hates the effect hearing you say that name continues to have on him. It isn’t as though he has a meltdown every time he hears the name John. That would be pathetic. It’s the most common name in America, for fucks sake. 

However, there’s something particularly vile about hearing you say it with such gentleness.

“What about him?” He asks flatly, hackles rising. He was hoping you’d ask for something fun.

“I’m worried about him,” you say, clearly fighting to keep your tone even. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your pants. 

He doesn’t understand why you’re so nervous. It makes him suspicious.  “And I don’t want him to worry about me. We’ve had a routine for months. So I thought–”

“Oh,” Homelander interrupts, setting the container of food back down as understanding dawns. 

They’re scraps for your stray pet. 

“No problem, I’ll have someone take this to him,” he says, gesturing encompassingly towards the food. 

“No,” you say, the firmness in your voice catching him off guard. “I want you to take me, and I want to give it to him myself.”

He bristles, needles of suspicion creeping further up his spine. “Why?”

Though you’re quick to swallow it back, he doesn’t miss the flash of frustration in your eyes.

“You said you’d take me anywhere I wanted to go. Were you lying?”

He lifts his hand sharply enough to make you flinch, his index finger pointing only inches from your face.

“Don’t you ever call me a liar,” he says slowly, fist curled so tightly that the leather of his gloves groans in protest. “I didn’t say no, I asked you why.”

Your eyes are wide, your heart drumming loudly in his ears. He hates that look of fear, the look that tells him you’re waiting for him to hurt you when he’s never done anything of the sort.

You have no right to look at him like that.

“Because I want to. I want to see him, and make sure he’s okay, and because… because I want–” You stop mid sentence and break eye contact, pressing the back of your hand to your opposite cheek. You take in a slow breath to compose yourself. 

With a start, he realizes your eyes are welling with tears.

“I want to say goodbye.”

At a loss, Homelander stares for a long moment. For the life of him, he cannot fathom how this little charity schtick could possibly be so important to you. Isn’t he enough for you?

You’ve been spending your days carefree in domestic bliss, yet here you are crying because you aren’t taking a box of food to some bum. It’s baffling enough to give him a migraine.

On the other hand, it was that persistent nurturing that drew his eye to you. If not for your diligent care, he may not have seen the same potential in you. He likes that you care. He just wants you to care for him.

He lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Don’t cry,” he says, voice full of his exasperated bewilderment. He lifts both hands in a placating show of surrender. “Fine, fine, I’ll take you, and you can do whatever it is you need to do.”

“Thank you,” you practically sigh. Your hand drops from your face and you look at him with palpable relief, your lips spreading into a faint smile. He likes your smiles. He likes being the reason for your smiles. That, at least, comes as a slight boon.

He clicks his tongue, observing you for a moment before he blows out a raspberry. He cups either side of your face, stepping in close to you.

“I hate it when you make me take a tone with you, you know,” he says, brushing the tip of your nose with his. Your breath catches. “You should know by now that I can’t say no to you.”

His thumb strokes your cheek. He’s been gentlemanly in your time here, accepting of your hand in his, your lips on his cheek. When he wakes up hard as a rock with your body pressed to his, he’s taken care of himself in the bathroom. Frankly he’s been more than a gentleman; he’s been a fucking saint.

“I’m downright pussy whipped, and I haven’t even gotten any yet,” he huffs through a little laugh, almost close enough to taste your lips. 

He hasn’t felt your lips on his since that night in your apartment. He wants them exactly as they had been. Pliant and without tension or fear, yet still you tense as he holds you close. You place your hands on his chest and though you don’t push him away, they’re braced to prevent him moving closer.

There’s a faint tremble running through you.

“Don’t tell me you’re still scared of me,” he says, offering you the sharp edge of a smile. He means for the words to sound playful, but even he can’t deny that there’s an underlying ache. Insecurity and impatience in equal measure.

Can’t you see how good he’s been for you? He’s had enough of having to beg for and pry every scrap of affection in his life from reluctant hands. All he wants is–for once in his life–to be freely offered tenderness.

“Your strength scares me,” you eventually admit, palms flat against his chest, stare focused on the backs of your hands.

He tips your head back, coaxing your downcast gaze up to meet his. The closeness of you makes your eyes look large and deer-like: a prey animal that recognizes its hunter. 

“It’s unreal, I feel like I’m not…I feel like I’m made of glass when you touch me.”

As a boy he snapped bones as easily as other children snapped twigs. He cradles your skull knowing exactly how much force it would take to crack it. 

You’re right to feel the extent of your own fragility in his hands.

“I won’t break you,” he says, the words little more than a breath.

“Do you promise?” you ask, your own voice barely a whisper.

“I promise.”  

All those that have come before you have taught him his limitations. And yours.

With that, the tension in your arms softens a fraction. He takes a mile from the inch you give, moving to encircle you in his arms. You slide your hands up his chest in turn, moving over his shoulders, around his neck. The way your fingertips settle on the nape of his neck feels like heaven.

Pressing his forehead to yours, he closes his eyes. He listens to the tempo of your heart gradually slow, settling like the wings of a bird finally accepting the safety and kindness of its cage.

Just then, ever so slightly, you tilt your head and lightly press your petal-soft lips to his. The shock of it knocks the wind from his lungs. Joy hits swiftly afterwards, sweeping through his body from his head to his toes. He kisses you in kind, his lips spread in a smile against yours. 

This–more than any kill or record breaking profit for Vought–feels like a victory.

He cups the back of your head as he savors you, branding the memory of your yielding lips against his into his mind. You move to pull back, but his yearning is a beast he cannot tame, and it’s the beast in him that holds you still, intent to relish the kiss just a second more, which becomes just a moment more.

Trapped, you slide your fingers up into his hairline, combing through his sheared undercut into the longer blonde locks. You send a jolt through him when your fingers tighten suddenly, pulling his hair taut between them. 

The sensation shoots through him like a bolt of lightning. His stomach flips, suddenly aflutter with butterflies. He makes a noise against your mouth, which regrettably makes you stop, your fingers going slack in his hair.

It doesn’t hurt–you don’t have the strength necessary to hurt him–but he can still feel it, and it feeds a gnawing hunger in him to be made to feel anything at all. 

“Do that again,” he says between fervent presses of his lips. “Feels good.”

To his delight you slip both hands into his hair and grip it, eliciting a low moan.

Fuck.

He could get lost in this. In you.

Your pulse has kicked back up, but so has his. Your heartbeats dance with one another as you kiss, drowning out the rest of the world. He moves from your lips to your jaw, your throat, peppering hungry kisses down your neck, ignoring the tension he can feel building back up in you.

He could make your whole body sing if you’d just let him.

Your hands move from his hair, pressing once more to his chest. With how weak you are, it takes him a beat to realize you’re actually pushing against him.

An impatient little growl escapes him. He holds you in place, too deep into it to let you go now.

You suck in a shuddering breath, pushing harder. “Homelander–”

His teeth graze your pulse point, and his tongue presses in to taste the rapid flutter of it. The taste of you is intoxicating, your skin salty-sweet.

Do you know his taste yet? Do you crave it the way he craves yours?

There’s fear in you but there’s desire there, too. He can feel it in the way your skin warms under his touch, hear it in the quiver of your breath, and smell it in the heat between your legs. 

“Wait, wait, just–would you just wait–” 

He exhales roughly and pulls sharply back, leveling you with a harsh stare.

“What? What! You kissed me, remember? So which is it; do you want me, or do you just want to be a fucking tease?”

He feels his desire like a longstanding hunger he’s only just become aware of. A painful, gnawing thing that demands he sink in his claws and rip, devour, relish. He’s been so good in all of this that one little taste was all it took for the feel of it to come crashing down on him.

For as badly as he wants you, he wants so fucking badly for you to want him, too.

The look of you is one for the history books. Flushed and wide-eyed, you’ve taken his words with a shock like you’ve been slapped. Your hair is mussed from his hand pushing against it, into it. Your lips are kiss bitten and shiny, plump with all that blood rushing to the surface.

It makes him want to bite them, bruise them, claim them. 

Those same lips open and close as you struggle to form a response before eventually settling on one.

“I’m sorry.”

He recoils from that, features twisting up in displeasure. 

No, no, no.

“I’m sorry, I just–”

“Shut up,” he snaps, letting go of you. He screws his eyes shut, not understanding how he got from where he was a moment ago to where he is now. 

All that sweet delicious heat is fading away, leaving him feeling emptier by the second, his skin prickling uncomfortably under his suit. 

He would be clawing at it if he could.

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” he says, hitting the word like a hiss. “I want you to–I want you–”

I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you.I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I want you.

He pushes his hands into his hair, gripping the short strands tight enough to ache, digging for pain so that it might bring him clarity and stop the terrible repetition his mind has latched onto. He can imagine so clearly how things should be, what you should be saying, feeling, and I’m sorry is nowhere in that vision.

He hates that word. It echoes in his psyche like a curse, dragging him back by the throat to the only stretch of time in his life he ever felt weak enough to say it.

Back then, in his days in the lab, Vought was always testing the boundaries of how human he really was. At one point, when he was still a boy–maybe eleven or twelve–they began to reduce his sleep by an hour every few nights.

Each day they would repeat the same grueling tests to see at what point the lack began to affect not only his cognitive abilities, but his powers. Given the sheer amount of Compound V in his system, there were some who wondered if he really needed to sleep at all.

It would have been miraculous if he didn’t. It would be one more aspect of his perfect design that they could pat themselves on the back for. 

Unfortunately for both him and them, it was not so.

When they realized the deprivation did affect him, they wanted to understand how badly. They continued to deprive him until they had reduced his sleep to nothing at all, keeping him awake by any means necessary for days. He begged for sleep. 

It’s a marathon, John, Vogelbaum told him. Eleven days. That’s the record for a human. You can beat that, can’t’cha, tiger?

Tiger. It always made him feel stronger when Jonah called him that.

Ultimately it was less about his perseverance and more about his endurance. He didn’t have much choice in the matter of whether or not he would fall asleep. 

Every time he started to doze off, an alarm would blare in his room, startling him back awake. 

I’m sorry, he would sob, riddled with guilt for the failure.

There was never any answer.

When it was over and neither he nor the scientists had anything to show for it–nothing but misery and a newfound insomnia–he decided he would never be sorry for anything ever again.

His temples are throbbing, his skull aching from the pressure of his own strength. 

Though his eyes are tightly shut, he can feel the searing heat of his laser vision pressing against his eyelids. 

It makes him want to scream, to run, to fly, to break apart everything around him, but he can’t. He’s too powerful to ever allow himself a physical outlet.

When the average man throws a punch to blow off steam, at worst they’ll put a hole in the wall.

Homelander could punch through to the core of the planet. 

Maybe he could split the whole damn thing in half. He’s never been allowed to find out.

Instead, he focuses it all inward. He swallows the feelings like bile and fights not to choke on it, on the tension of his own impossible power straining his muscles. He can’t hear your heartbeat anymore, it’s drowned out by his own blood rushing in his ears.

Or it’s not there at all.

You’ve fled, he realizes. His stomach churns, and still his mind is on a punishing loop of all the things he has ever wanted that he cannot accept he’ll never have. 

I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want.

Anger surges through him and the heat of it is painful, twisting all his already tautly wrung innards and flushing them with fiery rage.

She’s not sorry. She has no idea the fucking meaning of it. If she wants to know what it’s like to be sorry, then we’ll–

Arms slip around his neck, and suddenly his mind hits a deafening quiet.

What?

The feeling is so alien to him that it takes several seconds to understand that it’s you. That you’re here. That you’re… holding him.

Faintly he feels the tug of your meager strength, and he leans into it, his cheek coming to rest on your chest, head tucked under your chin.

He opens his eyes, the world still awash in the crimson glow of his lasers, and he feels you flinch at the sheer heat of them. He works to blink the light away, his hands resting on your hips, gripping at the fabric of your pants.

“You’re still here,” he says, voice frayed with confusion and steadily ebbing tension. 

“Yes.”

“I thought I was alone.”

“You’re not.”

Gently, you comb your fingers through his hair. He doesn’t need his super senses to know your heart is pounding. He can feel the hammering pulse of it against his cheek.

Your fear is so tangible he can practically taste it, but he wouldn’t know it existed at all if he went only on the way you’re holding him.

How is it you can be so afraid and yet feel so firm against him?

“It’s okay,” you whisper, a faint tremble in your otherwise firm voice. “You’re not alone.”

Tears sting his eyes. He moves his grip from your hip to the fabric at your back, your shoulder, his hands climbing your clothes with a clawing desperation to ensure every bit of you is real and within his reach. He envelops you in his arms and nuzzles you, exhaling another breath of the terrible miasma that had built up like sulfur in his lungs.

You move your other hand in soothing patterns between his shoulder blades–just as you had before–and with every repetition of the pattern he feels the rage, the pain, the fear, the misery of it all drip away, like a wet cloth being wrung dry.

The two of you stand like that for a long while, focused only on the sound and feel of the other. The burn in the back of his throat and in his eyes fades. By the end of it, he feels heavy with the exhaustion of holding back the weight of his own might.

Slowly, he lifts his head to meet your gaze. You’re somehow even more beautiful than you had been. Your edges are frayed, and though there is lingering fear, it doesn’t repulse him to see it.

Because you stayed.

Your fingers slip from his hair, moving to his face. It isn’t until your thumb moves through the wetness on his cheek that he realizes a tear had escaped the burn of his lasers and streaked down his face.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” you tell him, and to his own pleasure, he believes you.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. I know you didn’t,” he says, cupping your face in turn. He brings you forward and presses a firm lingering kiss to your forehead. 

He’s in control again, and he speaks as if that were always true.

“Just like I know you’ll make it up to me.”

He draws away with a crooked smile, the episode fading to a distant corner of his mind as he puts the fractured pieces of himself back into something cohesive. He strokes your cheek, admiring your features. Your eyes.

In hindsight, it’s strange to think that he’s always thought of you as the sweet, doting little rabbit to his wolf. 

Staring at you now, he’s sure he’s looking into the eyes of a fox. 

“C’mon,” he says, siding his hands down your shoulders so that he can take hold of your wrists, guiding you towards the balcony. “It’s about time I take you for that flight I promised.”

Wouldn’t want to keep John waiting for his meal any longer.

( chapter seven )

[superhero--imagines]

Being Sanji’s GF would include:

A/N: this is the ugliest banner I ever made I swear.

Tags: Female reader

* A man that is 6 ft +, can cook, and treats you with respect? I can’t believe we as a society weren’t simping for him before

* We already know that he loves pretty girls, so if you reciprocate his advances—he’s down hook, line, and sinker

* I feel like he’d fall hard and fast for someone a bit shy, with a soft form of kindness

* Sanji himself is so kind, even if it’s in these extremes depending on the gender of the recipient

* So seeing someone who kindness comes to so naturally, where it isn’t a flickering flame or a bright fire, but just a soft warmth that linger in all of their actions leaves him in awe

* “You’re amazing.”

* He’s still got a wandering eye though, so catch him randomly slapping himself or sitting with his face in his hands as he tries to restrain himself from ‘being unfaithful’

* “Hey Sanji?”

* “Hmmm.”

* “Have you ever thought about cheating on me?”

* The dishes he was washing clatters in the sink and he grabs your hand in both of his, kneeling in front of you

* “Never!” And he means it, he might look but he would never dream of being with someone other than you. “You’re the only person I want to be with.”

* I think as time goes on he gets a lot better at understanding why he feels the way he does, and eventually the flirtatious behavior cools down even though he’s still as kind as always because he realizes it comes from a place of craving validation instead of genuine love

* And honestly, now that he has you he doesn’t need it from anyone else anymore

* “(Y/N)-chan, can you get me the oregano?”

* You smile as you get it from the fridge, it’s not easy for him to ask you to do things

* He has the biggest goofiest grin on his face when you wrap your arms around his waist and rest your head on his shoulder

* Sanji would literally give you a romance as big as the world — or he’d try to at least

* “Sanji this is really lovely.” And you mean it, the candle lit dinner and all your favorite foods at the center of the deck

* “But um, I feel a little bad for Luffy.” It’s more than a little, there’s an entire waterfall of drool falling past his lips from his spot behind a pillar.

* His fingers curl under your chin, urging you to meet his gaze

* “There’s nothing to feel bad about, of course I would spoil the most important person in my life.”

* Your cheeks heat up from the words.

* “But Sanji—“ you look to the pillar seeing seven faces quickly duck, and a hand grab luffys still salivating head. “—they’re all staring!”

* If you could die from embarrassment you’d be six feet under

* “Let them stare, it’s because they’re dazzled by your beauty.”

* “Actually it’s because we’re hungry!” Luffy shouts, only to have his mouth covered by Nami.

* Sanji ends up making them a snack.

* His favorite hobby is pretending Chopper is your child when you guys go out

* “When are you guys going to stop pretending he’s your baby?” Zoro growls

* You look over at Chopper who’s happily sitting on Sanji’s shoulders, munching away on cotton candy

* “When he stops pretending to enjoy it,” You respond

* “That’s never going to happen!” Chopper shouts with a giggle

* He’s so greedy with you I swear

* You give him a kiss, he gives you back at least five

* You hold his hand, he keeps you glued to his side for the rest of the night

* “I know it’s ugly of me to get an inch and take a mile, but…around you I just can’t keep myself from trying.”

* He learns how to make all your favorite childhood foods, either from a relative or by studying old recipe books from your homeland

* And if you ever seem homesick or you’re feeling down he’ll suspense you with the dish

* “How did you learn to make this?” Your region is a far ways away from his usual French cuisine

* “I have my secrets.”

* Please cook for this man, just once, make a fancy dinner and have the whole crew pitch in as wait staff

* “You’re always taking care of us so this time we wanted to serve you!”

* He’ll eat half-burned pasta with tears of joy streaming down his face

* “This is the best meal I’ve ever had.”

* He’ll fall even harder for you if you have his wanted poster near your bunk bed

* “There’s a little red stain near my lips though—“

* “Ah, sometimes when I can’t see you at night I give it a little kiss for luck haha.”

* He’s dead. Sanjis dead.

* Cause of death: love sickness

* He died happy though

* He’s just such a simp for you man

* Like, take the shirt off his back and lay it over a puddle so you don’t get your feet wet, hear you’re craving a certain type of food and make it the next meal, buys you feminine hygiene products from the store with pride (along with some snacks he knows you like, kiss your hands and worship the ground you walk on type of love.

* Honestly what a dream

A/N: kinda wanna make a nsfw version too.

[who-knew-a-sheep-can-write]

hey there! you’re like the one of few blogs that still write for bigby! you’re single handedly keeping my obsession alive with him. do you have just any random head cannons about him that you can share!

I'm doing it just for you pookies >:) Ima give you some romance headcanons

If Telltale won't give me more Bigby, I will always deliver

Also FUCK i missed doing headcanons, please send in some ideas

🌙This man is fucking dedicated to you and only you. As much as he hates the jokes about being a loyal dog or even a lap dog, it's kind of true when you both get serious.

🌙He cuts down on his smoking as much as he can. Bigby often smokes to dull his supernatural senses just to avoid sensory overload. However, when you both got together, Bigby noticed something worked even better than Huff n' Puffs: Your scent. What's the point of smoking upwards of almost two packs a day when he can inhale that sweet sweet scent of yours?

🌙Bigby tries to make himself more presentable at first. He feels like he has to make a good impression despite you both knowing each other for centuries. He shaves more to keep his ever-growing stubble at bay, he keeps himself groomed and washed, he starts to use his cologne more, he even puts more effort into his laundry to get the ash and whiskey stains out of his shirts and pants.

🌙He is a sucker for kisses on his cheek. Whether you have to stand on your toes or bend down, you can find him faintly blushing and looking away sheepishly from the act of romance. If you kiss him on the cheek while he's smoking, the poor cigarette would burn up fast and Bigby would almost choke on the smoke.

🌙Bigby's love language is definitely acts of service. Bigby loves doing things for you, especially the little things that really drive it into him how much he craves a domestic life. Unfortunately, Bigby is sometimes too busy to be there for it to be quality time - but fuck if he doesn't absolutely love every minute he spends with you. He isn't good with words at times which has lead to very awkward moments and even funnier ones. Bigby never had an eye for gifts and has little experience with them, but he fucking loves whatever you get him even if it's a new tie.

🌙Bigby loves dates where it takes place in nature, especially at night when there are less people out and about. Walks through Central Park, night treks through botanical gardens, going down the boardwalks in Staten Island, resting on the cold sand of the beaches. There was one date you both went on at the beach at night where it was just the two of you along the balmly coast. You and Bigby were messing around near the waves when you both somehow ended up knee-deep in the waves. Bigby had you in his strong arms, holding you close as you both laughed and kissed before you playfully splashed water on him. It was safe to say you both ended up at his apartment soggy.

🌙If you ever wanna make this man blush heavily: Compliment him. And do not let up. Bigby likes the act annoyed at first, hiding his face by turning away and playfully scoffing only for him to break and flush at your sweet words. He loves it especially if you compliment him on the things that normally make people uneasy. His gaze, his strength, his wolf.

🌙Bigby, at first, was uneasy turning with you around. He was worried that you would be terrified of him, and that was something he couldn't handle at the time. Despite the fact that you knew what he was before and now after the Homelands and even seeing all of him, he still wasn't excited to show them at first.

🌙You're the only one who can say things that someone would say to their pet pooch, but only to a limit. Saying stuff like 'Good boy' however is a good way to rile him up, especially if you say it all sultry.

🌙When you hang around his office, he likes it when you put on a true crime podcast for Mundies. He had somehow crammed a couch into his office for you to lounge on as you both listened to how fucking crazy those Mundies could be, especially from the state of Florida. Some of the stories you both listened to were so outrageous, that Bigby stopped what he was doing and completely forgot about it because he couldn't believe what he heard as you cackled at his expression.

🌙Ever since you two started dating, Bigby finally started to use his bed again. His poor chair was left abandoned at night when you both would go to bed unless Colin passed out on it. There were times where you would pop in and see Bigby passed the fuck out on it still. He definitely sleeps like a victorian boy with the plague.

🌙Bigby loves going over to your apartment just to drown in your scent. He often doesn't want to leave your bed at times just so he can bury his head in your neck or in your pillow if you had gotten up. If he could, he would want to spend all day in the sheets just lying with you.

🌙Another one of your favorite dates to do if the weather is shitty out is snuggling up together on your couch and watch Mundy cop shows, especially the ones with bad acting and writing. You like to ask him what he would do in the cases shown and Bigby's usual answers have to do with punching the crook or sarcasm.

🌙If Bigby wolfmans out, he loves it when you stroke his fur and scratch at the raw skin beneath, especially around his neck. He can't really speak like this but he's sure to groan and growl in pleasure. He loves how your hands roam freely, without a trace of fear, around his hulking body. He loves it when you compare the size of your hand to his clawed one.

🌙When it's a full moon, Bigby gets a little weird. He's not forced to turn thanks to whatever spells the witches on the thirteenth floor put on him, but he does act differently. He needs to be around you, needs to have you in his sights and he needs to smell you or else he feels the beast inside of him go crazy. Don't be surprised if Bigby gets excited that night.

🌙He loves it when you look into his eyes when they're all wolfy and yellow. He can see the faint glow reflecting off of your eyes and it makes his chest feel so warm and fuzzy inside.

🌙If you're a fable that can change forms, you both often turn behind closed doors and drawn curtains for both fun and comfort. Sometimes keeping the beast pent up for too long can drive Bigby crazy and he knows it's the same for you. There have been times where you both would wrestle for fun.

🌙There have been times where Bigby would come home bloodied and bruised. He hates seeing you so worried for him and he hates it even more that you always clean and patch him up. You shouldn't have to do this, you shouldn't have to take care of him like this but you do. Bigby would sit on the toilet seat silently and watched as you worried over him. He hates making you worry.

🌙Bigby sometimes gets into these moods where he feels like you could do so much better than him. He doesn't even tell you at first when you gently ask him if he was alright, but he eventually breaks. He feels like you shouldn't be with a monster like him. You get shit for being with him and he hates that. His thoughts get shut down quickly by you pressing a firm kiss to his cheek and tell him how much you love him and how you'll always love him.

🌙Bigby loves it when you compliment his strength. He never thought about it before until he had to hoist up a truck to help Flycatcher with no problem. Just hearing you compliment his strength made him almost drop the truck on the poor frog prince below. Ever since then, Bigby likes to show off here and there just for you to coo and oogle over him.

🌙When you both sit together on the couch, he loves it when you either sit in his lap or have your legs stretch over his own with his hands stroking them. If you're in his chair, he loves it when you straddle him, pinning him back against his chair with the tv forgotten about behind you.

🌙Play with his hair. Play with his hair. Just do it, trust me. He will be putty in your hands if you play with his hair, especially as you're kissing. Scratch your nails gently against his scalp, twist his thick locks between your fingers, tug on it. You won't be sorry.

🌙Bigby loves it when you wear his clothing, especially his button-ups even if they don't close up. It started one fall when the temperature dipped below what was originally forecasted. Bigby saw you shiver once from a gust of wind and off came his coat. And that's when it started. He claims it's another scent thing, but just seeing you wearing his clothes really stirs something inside of him.

🌙When you two kiss, he loves it when your hands paw at his body. He loves it when they travel along his brawny limbs and dance across his broad chest and shoulders and crawling down his trim stomach. It drives him crazy as he snarls into the kiss. Oh, and if you sink your nails into his skin? Nip at his bottom lip? You're tipping him over the edge.

🌙He rests so much easier now with you by his side. He's never felt like this before with anyone, his little crush on Snow doesn't even come close to the love this man feels for you. The ring hidden away in his desk was proof of that.

[themeraldee]

Okay hear me out: to get Homelander really into the Vought Christmas spirit, you teasingly promise that you’ll always kiss him under the mistletoe no matter when or where. Of course, you’re picturing around his apartment or perhaps in an empty hallway. But no. Our boy loves a good promise and decides to carry a piece of mistletoe on him at all times, waving it above him whenever he decides he wants a kiss: in the middle of a meeting with the Seven? Sits back in his chair and waves it around like a bell. In the middle of a crowded elevator? Oh yeah, he pulls it out and clears his throat to get your attention and waits for his smooch. He’s such a dick about but you can’t bring yourself to give a fuck and will happily kiss him whenever he wants 😌

| 600 | Homelander x gn!Reader | Established Relationship. Fluff. Suggestive themes but nothing happens. Mistletoe kisses.

“Here, really?” You were giddy when you left the penthouse this morning, already high with the feeling of a hundred kisses descended upon your lips. Homelander shook the mistletoe right over the two of you right as you left for work. Knowing you had many more to come left you excited.

Now that you’re standing in the elevator, not so much. You quickly look around to note how many people are looking your way.

“You promised~” He says in a sing-songy tone, already way too drunk on this power you’ve presented on a silver platter. Taught to have zero shame, he’s not-so-patiently waiting for you to do your part.

You lean in for a short and quick peck and like the asshole he is, he asks for more. “Oh come on, that’s not very jolly of you.” You kiss him again, enough to temporarily tame his hunger for you and he relents with a pleased hum.

This whole setup puts Homelander in a great mood. A rare occurrence for the Vought tower employees. There’s a pep in his step with you on his arm, he’s whistling and boisterously exclaiming ‘Merry Christmas’ to any passerby. Of course, it’s less about spreading the Christmas cheer and a whole lot more about bragging.

But after the kind of Christmases he’s had, both corporate-washed and soulless, you can’t fault him for it. So you let him have it. However annoying he manages to be. 

In the middle of a meeting with the Seven, he whistles you over with a significant little shake to the wrapped bundle. Although it’s pretty embarrassing to kiss the head of the table while other people are talking he doesn’t relent and you still smooch his kiss-red lips for over a hundredth time today. 

You’d think you’d get annoyed by the shit-eating grin he throws you each time with a side of suggestive eyebrows yet you love him too much to care about how obnoxious the two of you are being. It’s starting to take the PDA levels to ones you’ve never seen from him before.

Nowhere is safe. Homelander doesn’t shy away from sneaking into a meeting you’re presenting in. Disrupting your speech and leaving you flustered and distracted for the rest of the hour. He kisses you in the halfway, by the printer, in the break room and by the coffee machine.

With the lead up to Christmas you’re really gonna need to invest in some heavy supply of chapstick.

When you finally find some peace and quiet in your office, you still smile when you see the door opening. Although the public kisses are fun, you much rather prefer indulging in private where nobody is there to watch the two of you get utterly lost in each other.

“Still haven’t had enough?” You crack a smile and lean back in your office chair.

“Of you? Nah, never.” Homelander walks toward you, you see the little bunch of mistletoe that at this point has really been through it. You start to get up at the sight of it but instead he wiggles his gloved finger in front of you.

You watch as he places the mistletoe right above his belt and you burst out laughing. “Leave it to you to make a cute Christmas tradition perverse.”

“Hey, it was your idea. I’m just playing by your rules. Kiss under the mistletoe, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

And well, who are you to take this newfound joy of Christmas away from him.

[writing0305]

PR Stunt.

Pairing: Homelander x F!Reader.

Summary: After being a little too nice to Homelander when you joined 'The Seven', Homelander became obsessed with you and managed to get Stillwell to put you two in a relationship for a PR stunt. Your fake boyfriend shows you just how serious he is about your relationship when he catches you talking to another man at a Christmas party.

Warning: Heavy swearing. Homelander!!!!! Murder and blood.

The second you joined the seven as one of the newest members, Homelander took a liking to you. Throughout a matter of a few days and weeks, his liking became an obsession. He was always around you, making sure you were partnered with him for every mission.

The worst mistake you could make was being nice to him. You didn’t want a single thing from him, you didn’t hide anything from him, you had his back. You offered him smiles and chatted with him. And it wasn’t because you were scared of him, he knew because he’d always listen to the rhythm of your heartbeat whenever he was around.

He went so far as to go behind your back and suggest Stillwell insist you two start dating as a PR stunt. He was the world’s greatest hero and you were America’s sweetheart. The fans adored you because you were always so nice and attentive towards them.

He managed to convince Stillwell that this relationship was what the seven and Vaught needed. He spun bullshit about the relationship showing that, despite your powers, you two were still human, with real emotions and feelings. And the relationship would bring together both you and his fans. Everyone loved a little romance.

You weren’t the most enthused about it when you heard what Stillwell was proposing, but you didn’t argue and you accepted it. And that was enough to satisfy Homelander. He could always make you love him if you weren’t going to come around to it on your own.

Now it has been two months and you still didn’t show the affection he wanted when you two were in privacy. But out there, in the public eye, you were the best girlfriend you could be. You were attentive and dotting towards him. And that only fueled both his obsession and delusion.

Vaught held an end-of-the-year Christmas gala. You were dressed in your suit like all the other supes. A suit Ashley had managed to get you to accept. It had long sleeves and that was the only modest part of it. The black leather clung to your body, your cleave bushed up with the black corset worked into your suit and your legs exposed as your skirt fell just above midthigh.

You walked around the party, your black ankle boots thumping on the floor. You offered kind smiles and exchanged a few pleasantries with a few people. You were more than aware of Homelander’s eyes on you as you walked through the crowds of people.

One particular man, named Josh, stopped you in your tracks. He was a lower employee from Vaught. No one special as he worked with the department that ran the Seven’s social media. You chatted for a while and you could almost feel the heat of Homelander’s eyes on your skin.

After departing from the man, you made a quick trip to the bathroom. As you stepped out of the stall, you caught sight of Homelander standing in the doorway of the bathroom. He looked completely pissed, his eyes dead and his jaw clenched.

I offered him a small smile. “Pretty sure this is the ladies' room.” You tried to joke with him as you approached the sink, washing your hands. You kept your gaze on your hands, feeling nervous about why the man was pissed.

“I know.” He muttered in a low voice. You listened to his footsteps and your gaze flicked up to the mirror, watching as he came to stand behind you, meeting your gaze through the mirror. “Came looking for you,” he told you.

“You found me.”You spoke up softly, your small smile remaining as a precaution to not piss him off further. You turned off the water and grabbed a few paper towels to dry your hands. “What’s up?” You questioned as you threw the paper towels away before turning to him.

He silently stared at you for a second, his top lip twitching into a snarl. “Who was that?” he questioned in a low voice as he quirked an eyebrow.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion as your head tilted to the side. “Who was who?” You asked softly, truly not knowing who he was referring to.

“Don’t play fucking dumb with me.” He snapped harshly and you gasped, startled by his sudden outburst. Since the day you met, Homelander always put his best foot forward and tried hard to push away this side of him. “We both know you’re a smart girl so use your fucking head.” He muttered in a low voice as he took a few steps towards you.

Your heartbeat sped up for a second and Homelander noticed. You slowly backed away, bumping against the sink behind you. “I don’t  know who you’re talking about.” You admitted softly as you shook your head.

He took a long stride towards you and grabbed your jaw in a tight grip, yanking you closer to him. That’s one thing Homelander enjoyed about you. You weren’t fragile and he didn’t have to be gentle. “The fucking man you were talking to.” He gritted out, his face inches away from yours.

Your eyes went a little wide as you stared at him. “I don’t who he is…he works for the social media crew.” You uttered all you knew about the man you had one brief conversation with.

“Josh.” Homelander gritted out, and you recognized it as the name of the man you were talking with.

A look of realization crossed your face as you stared at the tall and broad blonde in front of you, his grip still tight on you. “You were listening.” You muttered softly as you inhaled deeply.

“Of course, I was listening.” He snarled as he pulled your face closer to his. “Someone talks to my girl, I want to fucking know about what.” He muttered in a low voice, tilting your head back so that you could look up at him.

“He was just making friendly conversation.” You muttered softly with a sigh as you reached up to grip onto his wrist, your nails digging into his skin so hard, that if he was human, he’d have lasting nail marks.

His free hand gripped onto your hip, a hold that would bruise if you were a mere human. He shoved you back against the sink. “His cock was hard as a fucking rock while talking to you.” He gritted out, his nostrils flaring as he stared at you, searching for fear in your eyes but finding none.  You were careful, but not scared.

“We just talked.” You assured him softly as one of your hands moved from his wrist up to gently cup his cheek as you pursed your lips.

“You shouldn’t be talking to other fucking men.” He snapped as he let go of your jaw and waist and took a step back from you, his nostrils still flaring as he glared at you with cold blue eyes. But no matter how cold his eyes were, you were lucky they were still blue and not red.

“That is not your decision to make.” You muttered in a low voice as you shook your head. You ran a hand over your leather-clad waist and turned towards the door to leave.

Homelander grabbed onto your arm, stopping you right in your tracks and forcing you to turn around and face him. “Yes, it is.” He gritted out in a low voice as he glared down at you. “You are mine, not fucking Josh’s.” He spat as he yanked you against his chest, leaning down to smell your hair. He always loved your scent so much. It was intoxicating.

Your eyes squinted as you stared at him, your eyebrows also furrowing. “This isn’t a real relationship.” You reminded him softly.

“No!” he screamed as he let go of you once again, startling you as you jumped back. “It is!” he insisted in a firm voice. “It fucking is!”  He huffed before reaching out and grabbing your jaw again, pulling you an inch away from his face. “If I catch you near another man ever again…” he whispered, letting the warning hang in the air.

He turned around and walked out of the bathroom. You let out a huff of breath, running a hand over your hair as you briefly closed your eyes for a second. You ran a hand over your waist again before stepping out of the bathroom and rejoining the party.

Twenty minutes in, Homelander approached you as you talked with a rather large crowd of people. He had been gone since he stepped out of the bathroom and you were surprised to see him.

You didn’t bat an eye as he wrapped one arm around your waist, offering you a smile and kiss on the side of the head. You heard a few ‘awe’s’ and clicks of cameras as you adoringly leaned into his side, a bright smile on your face.

“Sweetheart, we should get going,” he informed you as he looked down at you. While everyone saw an adoring boyfriend being sweet with his girl, you saw a man forcing a smile with a look of warning in his eyes.

You let out a little chuckle as you turned a little in his hold and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Shouldn’t we stay a little longer?” You asked as your head tilted to the side, your voice friendly.

“No, we’re leaving.” He said with a shake of his head, his smile remaining on his lips. He took your hands in his and began walking. You followed for a second but stopped in your tracks when you reached the doors leading outside. “We’re leaving, Y/n.”  He repeated himself firmly and yanked at your hand before he began walking again.

You followed him outside, your smile returning to your lips when you were met with the paparazzi outside. You wrapped your free arm around his arm that held onto your hand, leaning adoringly into his side.

Your eyebrows slightly furrowed when he steered you in a different direction than the car waiting for you. “Where are we going?” You asked softly as you glanced up at him.  “The car’s that way.” You muttered as you pointed in the direction of the car.

“I thought we could fly.” He replied with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders before letting go of your hand and holding out his arms. “Come on.” He urged you on. You didn’t think about it as you let him scoop you into his arms, and cameras flashed like fucking crazy at the sight. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders as he took off, flying us a few buildings over. We landed on the roof and he put me down onto my feet. “Such a beautiful view, don’t you think?”

You followed his line of sight as he stared out into the distance. You were high up and could see all the lights of the city. You slowly nodded your head, ignoring the faint stench of tangy copper that lingered in the air. “Yeah, the city lights are beautiful.” You agreed as you took a few steps closer to the edge of the roof and the smell grew stronger.

He followed after you, clasping his hands together behind his back. His gaze was on you and a soft smile tugged at his lips. “Just not quite as beautiful as you.” He replied as his blue eyes lingered on you.

Your nose scrunched up as your gaze began to dart around. “What’s that smell?” You asked softly as the familiar stench filled your nostrils.

Homelander turned his head to look at you, a wide grin spreading onto his lips. “You know what smell it is.” he insisted with a slow nod of his head. “Can you smell that tangy copper hint in the air?” He questioned as he raised his eyebrows.

Your eyebrows furrowed and your eyes squinted at him. “What did you do?” You asked in a low voice.

“Go take a look.” he insisted as he nodded his head in the direction of the ledge, his smile growing ever wider.

You silently stared at him for a second before hesitantly walking in the direction he nodded in. The smell grew stronger and your eyebrows furrowed. You peered over the ledge, eyes widening at the sight on the balcony below.

It was a complete blood bath. Limps and guts were lying all over the balcony floor. The head of the man you were talking to, Josh, was presented on the glass patio table and turned to face you. He had a look of horror stuck on his lifeless face. “What the fuck…” You whispered as your lips parted in shock.

You let out a startled gasp when Homelanded placed his hands on your shoulders, standing inches behind you. “See sweetheart…that’s what happens to someone who wants what is mine.” He whispered in your ear. “I don’t share, Y/n.”

You slowly turned around to face him, eyebrows furrowed and lips parted. “You killed him…” You muttered in disbelief as you stared up at Homelander.

“And I’ll kill every other man who wants you.” He replied with a nod of his head as he reached out to cup your cheek. “Is that understood?” He asked softly as his thumb brushed over your cheek. When you remained silent, his hand moved from your cheek to grab onto your jaw. “Fucking answer me,” he demanded.

“Yes.” You replied softly as you stared up at him, coming to realize what a fucking big mistake it was to be so overly friendly.

“Good.”He replied as a soft smile tugged at his lips and his hand returned to your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin. He sighed softly as he shook his head. “We can’t let them ruin what we have, Y/n.” He said softly as his head tilted to the side.  “Don’t you agree?”

You silently stared at him for a second, offering a small smile as you nodded. “Yes.” You replied softly and he pulled you into his embrace. Your smile slowly slipped as your head rested against his chest. What the fuck did you get yourself into?

[mydearlybeloathed]

Helloooo! I enjoy your stuff a whole lot and I was wondering if I could ask for a scenario where a rescued reader is on the sunny/merry feeling really homesick so she shyly asks sanji if he could cook her up a meal from her homeland. Then when she bites into it she starts crying cause shes so happy? Im in a fluffy sorta sentimental mood (*⌒∇⌒*)

𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: after being rescued by the strawhats, you find yourself homesick one morning, and sanji has a foolproof cure.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: sanji x fem!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.5k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: food, smoking

𝐎𝐏 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Your thoughts were being more of a bully than usual. You suspected it was because of how you stood at the edge of the Going Merry’s afterdeck, staring out at the water with an air of melancholy about you.

You’re much too sad for a woman rescued, your thoughts would taunt.

But you couldn’t help it! Of course you were more than grateful to have been rescued from your captors by the crew of pirates known as the Strawhats.

You thanked them every chance you had, asked what you could do to help at every turn—most of the time they just smiled and told you to relax. I can’t, you would say. I’ve forgotten how.

So now you stood on the deck of the Going Merry, grateful even through this terrible sorrow washing through you.

The sea breeze reminded you of home. The gull’s cry reminded you of home. The sound of Zoro and Sanji’s bickering reminded you of home. Everything was a reminder of the little village of your childhood… and how you’d never get it back.

It was burned—slaughtered—by the very pirates that took you away from it. 

There was nothing left to return to. So yes, you snapped back at your thoughts, I’m homesick. If that made you ungrateful, so be it.

“You,” said a charmingly familiar voice, “look like you could use a friend.”

Sanji leaned on the railing of the afterdeck, nudging you with his shoulder. You ducked your chin and let your hair fall around your face, if only to conceal your grin.

“I could use a cigarette,” you mumbled, receiving that smooth chuckle of his in reply.

He complied, slipping his lighter and cigarette box out of his coat pocket, lighting one with practiced ease and handing it off to you. You didn’t try to ignore how he watched you take that first puff, something almost fond in the way he looked at you, before he followed suit in lighting his own.

He’s very fond of you, said your thoughts, to which you replied, He’s Sanji. He’s very fond of everyone.

That didn’t stop you from being very fond of him in return.

After some time in silence, he posed a question. “What’s on your mind?”

You didn’t have the heart to lie. “Home.”

“Oh.” He knew what had happened to your village. He was the one you’d sobbed to on your first night on the Going Merry, after he’d caught you trying to slip out on a dinghy in the night. Sanji had taken your hand and led you to the kitchen, letting you get out all your worries as he made you some food.

“Yeah,” you sniffled. “It’s fine, though. I’m okay.”

He stared at you for a long moment, before he turned his face away and said, “I know a cure for homesickness, you know.”

Skeptical, you side eyed him. “You do?”

“Mhmm.” He leaned into your ear and whispered, “Food.”

You laughed softly as he gently took your wrist and started to lead you away from the railing. Though confused, you didn’t fight, walking beside him as his hand slipped perfectly into yours. “Sanji?”

The man took you all the way into the belly of the ship and right to his workshop: the kitchen. You stood in the center of the room as he rounded the counter and turned to smile at you. “C’mon. What do you want? Let’s make it.”

Something about that let’s was powerful. Sanji didn’t just let anyone use his kitchen, especially with him. He had his own rhythm, and there had been countless times he’d snapped when anyone so much as slightly disrupted him.

He’d never snapped at you though, and you certainly had a knack for disruption.

For a good solid moment, all you could do was stand and stare. Sanji kept on smiling, the expression growing warmer and softer with each second. Softly, you told him your favorite dish from your hometown, glancing up through your lashes to find him fishing around for pots and pans.

“I think that can be arranged, madam.”

Some time later, the kitchen was thick with smells of a superficial kind of home—no matter how you closed your eyes and focused, you couldn’t bring yourself to believe you were actually there. You were always drawn away from your fantasy by the sway of the ship and the song Sanji hummed. 

And now you sat side by side at the table, the fruit of your joint labor plated before you, yet you could barely even look at the food. 

Your thoughts called you a coward while your heart mourned something you will never have again. 

But Sanji was so kind, and the food smelled really good, so you closed your eyes and took that first bite, all too aware of how Sanji eyed you like a hawk the whole time.

You melted as the flavors filled your senses—in an instant you were catapulted back to a simpler time, seated at the counter with your mother, grinning over a plate of food so similar to this. That countertop was gone now. She was gone now. Everything was gone, yet you remained.

You were the last reminder of the home you loved.

Tears started to stream down your cheeks before you could stop them, swallowing down the food as your fork clanked onto the table. You crumbled in your seat and prayed with everything in you that Sanji somehow wouldn’t notice.

It was a foolish wish; Sanji noticed everything.

“Love, what…” he couldn’t find the words, his whole chest seized as he caught sight of glistening tears. “Is it that bad?”

You laughed a broken sort of sound. “Please. Everything you make is ambrosia.”

Wiping at your cheeks and turning away, you didn’t expect it when Sanji reached for your hand and wrapped it up in both of his. You widely met his eyes instantly and wondered how a person’s hand could be so warm that it sent a wave of heat throughout your entire body.

Or maybe it wasn’t his hand. Maybe it was the way he lifted one hand to hold your cheek, thumb swiping away the last of the tears, allowing you to clutch his other hand so tightly. 

He observed you a little longer, then sighed. “Home?”

You squeezed your eyes shut and turned into his hand, another wave of tears spilling down. And then you were drawn forward, enveloped in his arms, hidden from the world. For some time, you sat there, awkwardly leaned into him as you both remained in your chairs, your hands ruining his neatly ironed dress shirt, his hands rubbing circles into your back. 

That’s when you found your thoughts to be unusually quiet. Now all you heard was your own heartbeat racking through your ribcage. Your face was dry and you felt tender and warm.

“I know we haven’t talked about it,” said Sanji rather out of the blue. “Other than the offhand mention of the best port to find work… what if… I mean, we all enjoy your company—some of us more than others—some of us being me—and I think…” He took a breath, pulling away with a little smile. “I think you should stay.”

A sniffle. A blink. A very long hesitation wherein Sanji felt more panicked than he had in a very long time. 

“Okay.”

Sanji huffed a chuckle. “Really?”

“I have nowhere else to go,” you shrugged. His head tilted just slightly, eyes prodding at you. “And I might enjoy everyone’s company too.”

Sanji wondered, “Anyone in particular though?”

You leaned back and cast your gaze back to the plate of food, probably cold by now. “Zoro isn’t too annoying.”

He scoffed. “Hate to disagree.”

“Liar,” you teased, barely able to conceal your grin. “Zoro’s also sort of boring after a while. I like talking.” Your cheeks dusted pink then, but you didn’t back down, looking up at him through your lashes. “I like talking to you.”

His smile could have kept you alive in the darkest winter storm. “Lucky for you, I’ve been told I never shut up.”

You rolled your eyes and shifted on your seat, taking up your fork and admiring the food. You’d made this together, and you could only hope it wasn’t the last time you joined him in the kitchen. There was something so softly domestic about it. So softly home, whispered your thoughts, back again for a fleeting moment.

“Thank you,” you mumbled.

He nudged you gently, inching his own forgotten plate toward him as well. “For what?”

“Being here.” All was still, contentment filling the silence, before there was a soft pressure on your temple; a kiss, you realized, turning a dark crimson as you whipped your head around to stare at the man beside you.

A thousand words threatened to spill from your lips, some incoherent and some so flirty you paled to think of them, before you let out a deep breath and felt your lips tilting up at the corners.

“Always,” said Sanji. His blue eyes bore into you and right through to your heart, which thundered once more. 

Your thoughts were silent, for all but one, a very loud and frightening and lovely thought: Sanji was starting to feel like home.

[lila-lou]

✨ His only exception - Pt. 19/? ✨

Summary: 12 months ago, Butcher went above and beyond to have you join his team. You had a simple office job at Supe Affairs. The same thing every day, working from 9 to 5 and watching Butcher and his team defeat one renegade after another. One evening, however, something changed.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 6456

A/N: This is part 19 of “His only exeption”.

English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

Despite the misunderstandings and the roughness of last night, Ben's touch brought a strange sense of comfort. You found yourself grappling with conflicting emotions as his hand rested on your thigh.

Despite the pain, both physical and emotional, there was an undeniable connection between you two, one that transcended words and actions. In that moment, you were torn between anger and longing, frustration and desire.

As you sat in silence, his touch serving as a silent apology, you wondered what the future held for you, whether you would ever find a way to bridge the gap between you or if you were destined to remain caught in this endless cycle of misunderstanding and pain.

Ben leaned forward slightly, his voice low as he addressed the group. "When are we going after Homelander?", he asked, his tone betraying the simmering intensity beneath his words.

Butcher turned to Ben, delivering the news. "The mission's set for tomorrow", he informed, his tone serious. Then, his gaze shifted to you. "Ben, today's all about training (Y/N). Tomorrow, she'll be at home, and she needs to be prepared for anything".

You glanced at Ben. You knew training with him would be intense, but you also trusted him to prepare you as best as he could for whatever lay ahead.

"Why do I have to sit back and be left out?", you questioned, your frustration bubbling to the surface.

Ben shot you an angry look, his jaw clenched with annoyance. "Because you're not ready to handle what's coming", he retorted sharply.

Butcher's expression darkened as he chimed in, his tone firm. "You need to sit down and listen, (Y/N). And you need to properly trained".

As Ben pulled away his hand, you couldn't help but feel a pang of irritation. It seemed like everyone was underestimating you.

"I can handle more than you think", you muttered defiantly, crossing your arms over your chest.

Butcher sighed, shaking his head. "Look, (Y/N), this isn't about underestimating you", he explained, his tone softer. "It's about being prepared for whatever comes our way. We need to make sure you're ready".

You bit your lip, feeling a mixture of frustration and determination swirling inside you. Despite their doubts, you were determined to prove yourself.

Frenchie chimed in, his voice gentle yet firm. "He's right, (Y/N). We're not trying to sideline you. It's about safety. You'll be better protected at home".

You sighed, feeling a sense of resignation wash over you. "I get it", you conceded, though a part of you still longed to be in the thick of the action.

Butcher nodded in agreement. "Good. We'll make sure you have everything you need to hold down the fort while we're gone".

As the discussion continued, you couldn't shake the feeling of frustration at being left behind. But deep down, you knew they were right. Safety was paramount, especially in the face of someone as dangerous as Homelander.

Ben finished his food, pushing his chair back with a grating screech against the floor. He stood up abruptly, his eyes flicking towards you.

"Come on, princess", he called. "Time for you to learn how to handle yourself".

You rolled your eyes at his remark, but reluctantly followed him to the practice room, knowing that you needed all the training you could get, whether you liked his condescending attitude or not.

Annie's gaze followed Ben and you as you left the room, a furrow forming on her brow. She turned to Butcher, concern evident in her expression.

"Leaving her alone with him for training again?", Annie mumbled.

Butcher let out a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand over his face before responding to Annie's question.

"I don't know what the hell they've got going on between them, and frankly, I don't wanna know anymore", he admitted gruffly. "But if it means she's safer at home tomorrow, then yeah, it's the best option we got".

Hughie chimed in, his voice hesitant yet earnest. "I still think Soldier Boy's in love with her", he remarked, earning snorts from MM and Butcher.

"Yeah, and I'm the Queen of England", MM retorted sarcastically, shaking his head in disbelief.

Butcher scoffed, echoing MM's sentiment. "Soldier Boy? In love? Give me a break", he remarked, his tone dismissive. "That guy's got ice in his veins".

Annie's gaze shifted from MM to Butcher, her expression thoughtful. "So, the plan to send Soldier Boy back to Russia after Homelander's taken down is still on?", she asked, seeking confirmation.

Butcher nodded grimly, his jaw set in determination. "Yeah, it's still on", he affirmed, his voice tinged with a hint of distrust. "I don't trust him as far as I can throw him. We just need him and Homelander out of the picture for good".

As you and Ben entered the practice room, he made a move to touch you, brushing his hand over your lower back and then grabbing your hips. However, you quickly blocked him, shooting him a glare filled with anger. Despite your resistance, Ben's touch lingered, his grip firm as he attempted to assert his dominance.

"Let go of me, Ben", you demanded, your voice sharp with frustration.

"Why?" Ben retorted, his tone challenging as he tightened his grip on your hips.

You faced Ben squarely, your eyes narrowed with a mix of anger and hurt. "What was going on with you yesterday, especially last night?", you demanded, your voice trembling with emotion. "You can't just handle me like I'm some kind of object, Ben. It's not right".

Ben's expression hardened, his jaw clenching as he met your gaze. "I don't owe you an explanation", he retorted sharply, his tone tinged with defensiveness. "You don't get to tell me how to treat you".

You bristled at his dismissive response, your frustration mounting. "I'm not just some plaything for you to use whenever you feel like it", you shot back, your voice tinged with anger. "I deserve respect, Ben. And if you can't give me that, then maybe we shouldn't be doing this at all".

Ben released his grip on your hips, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked down at you with a mix of irritation and defiance. "And what exactly do you think we're doing here?", he asked. “Holding your hand through everything?”.

His words stung, a sharp pang of hurt shooting through you. “That’s just cruel, Ben”, you shot back, your voice trembling with emotion.

Ben let out an exasperated sigh, his irritation palpable. "Calm down, (Y/N)", he said tersely, his tone edged with annoyance.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your emotions despite the turmoil swirling inside you. "I can't just calm down", you retorted, your voice tinged with frustration. "I'm still in pain from how you handled me last night, and you didn't even have the decency to apologize".

Ben's jaw clenched, his gaze hardening as he met your eyes. "I don't have time for this", he muttered, his voice low and gruff. "We've got work to do".

Ben pushed you back slightly, his movements firm as he directed you towards the practice area. You stumbled slightly, caught off guard by his sudden assertiveness.

"We'll talk about this later", he said dismissively.

You frowned, frustration bubbling up inside you. "No, Ben, we need to talk about this now", you insisted. "I won't just brush this under the rug like it never happened".

But Ben remained unmoved, his expression stoic as he gestured for you to start the training session. The tension between you hung thick in the air, unresolved and simmering beneath the surface.

As you began the training session, the atmosphere was tense, each movement charged with unspoken resentment and frustration.

“I can’t believe you’re just brushing this off”, you muttered under your breath, your voice barely audible over the sound of your footsteps.

Ben shot you a sharp look, his eyes flashing with irritation. “I said we’ll talk about it later”, he snapped.

You clenched your jaw, frustration boiling inside you. “Fine”, you bit out.

As you did some exercises to warm up, the tension between you and Ben lingered in the air like an invisible barrier. You focused on your pushups, trying to block out the turmoil swirling inside you.

Suddenly, you felt Ben's large, heavy hand on your lower back as he squatted down beside you. The pressure of his touch only added to the weight of the unresolved tension between you.

You struggled to maintain your composure, the pressure of his presence making it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand.

"Ben, please", you pleaded quietly, your voice strained.

He grumbled something incoherent under his breath. "Your weak-ass spaghetti arms aren't gonna get any stronger if you keep whining", he retorted.

You bit back a retort, feeling a surge of frustration and helplessness wash over you. Despite your best efforts to focus, the tension between you and Ben made it nearly impossible to concentrate on the exercise.

As you struggled through the exercise, Ben's voice cut through the tension like a knife. "Come on, (Y/N), give it all you've got", he urged, his tone firm and unwavering. "I'm not going easy on you today. I need you stronger, so you never end up in the same position you were with Homelander ever again".

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, a stark reminder of the danger you faced and the need to be prepared for anything. Despite the pain and frustration, you pushed yourself harder, determined to prove yourself and become stronger, both physically and mentally.

After an intense warm-up, you stood there, panting, your hands on your waist as you looked up at Ben, who grinned down at you.

"Now that's more like it", he said. "And hey, looks like I found a way to shut you up".

You shot him a defiant glare, holding up your middle finger in response to his teasing.

Ben chuckled, unfazed by your gesture. "Feisty, huh?, he remarked with a smirk. "I gotta say, I love that ass of yours in those little shorts".

You rolled your eyes, feeling a mix of annoyance and amusement at his comment. "Can we focus on the training, please?", you quipped, eager to redirect the conversation away from his flirtatious remarks.

Ben grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Oh, we'll definitely be focusing on something", he replied with a suggestive tone, earning an exasperated groan from you.

As you continued training, the intensity of the workout gradually increased, the air filled with the sound of heavy breathing and the occasional thud of impact as you practiced boxing.

Ben stood before you, his arms crossed, a playful smirk dancing on his lips as he watched you throw punches with determination.

"Come on, (Y/N), show me what you've got", he teased. "I'm not seeing enough fire in those punches".

You gritted your teeth, shooting him a determined glare as you redoubled your efforts, fists flying faster as you focused on the target before you.

Ben chuckled, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he observed your efforts. "That's it, let it all out", he encouraged, his tone laced with playful mockery.

As you kept punching against his stomach and arms, Ben stood his ground, his expression a mix of amusement and mild discomfort as he absorbed the impact of your blows.

"Easy there, tiger", he teased, his voice laced with amusement. "I'm not made of steel, you know".

You shot him a playful smirk, a glint of determination in your eyes as you continued your assault. "Just making sure you're still awake", you retorted, your voice filled with mock seriousness.

Ben chuckled, his laughter mingling with the sound of your punches. "Well, I certainly won't be falling asleep anytime soon with you around", he quipped.

As you continued to punch, Ben gently caught both of your fists, bringing your flurry of blows to a halt. "Good job", he praised, a hint of pride in his voice as he looked at you.

Before you could respond, he leaned in and planted a quick peck on your lips.

"Alright, let's switch it up", he said, releasing your fists and stepping back slightly. "Time for some crunches".

As the grueling workout stretched on for over three hours, you found yourself becoming a panting mess, your muscles burning with exertion. Finally, unable to push yourself any further, you collapsed to the ground, your eyes closed as you struggled to catch your breath.

Ben knelt down beside you, a mischievous glint in his eye as he observed your exhausted state. "Looks like someone's hit their limit", he teased playfully, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

You shot him a pissed glare, too tired to muster a response as you focused on regulating your breathing.

Ben pulled you up effortlessly with his strong arm, your body instinctively leaning against his chest for support. As you looked up at him, feeling slightly weak-kneed from the exertion of the workout and the intoxicating scent of his cologne, he met your gaze with a playful smirk.

"You look hot all sweaty like that", he remarked, his tone laced with amusement as he brushed a strand of hair from your forehead. "Almost makes me want to put you through another round".

You rolled your eyes at his comment and pushed against his chest gently, creating a bit of space between the two of you. Meeting his gaze, you took a deep breath, mustering up the courage to address the tension that had been brewing between you.

"Ben, we really need to talk", you said, your voice firm yet tinged with vulnerability. "About last night, about everything".

Ben let out a sigh of annoyance, his brow furrowing slightly as he considered your request. “Can’t this wait?”, he grumbled, his tone edged with frustration.

You held his gaze. “No, Ben”, you insisted, your voice steady. “We need to talk about this now”.

He hesitated for a moment. “Fine”, he relented, his tone more serious now. “But let’s do it under the shower. I don’t want anyone overhearing us”.

You raised an eyebrow, a hint of skepticism coloring your expression. "Just so no one overhears us?", you repeated, your tone laced with sarcasm.

Ben smirked in response, his lips twisting into a playful grin. "Hey, you never know who might be eavesdropping", he quipped.

"Alright", you rolled your eyes, conceding to his suggestion as you headed towards the bathroom together.

As you peeled out of your sweaty clothes, tossing them into the hamper, you felt Ben's eyes on you, his gaze lingering on your figure as you moved.

"You know, you look even better out of those clothes", he remarked, his tone low and husky as he leaned against the sink, watching you with undisguised appreciation.

You couldn't help but blush at his comment, feeling a rush of warmth spreading through you despite the coolness of the room. "Flattery will get you nowhere", you mumbled, shooting him a playful grin as you stepped into the shower.

As Ben quickly shed his clothes and joined you in the shower, he wrapped both arms around your torso, pulling you tightly against his chest from behind.

“You’re tense”, he murmured, his voice low and soothing as he pressed his lips to your ear. “Let me help you relax”.

You leaned back into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body enveloping you as his strong arms encircled you.

You closed your eyes, relishing in the warmth of Ben's embrace, but the weight of last night's events lingered heavily on your mind.

"Ben", you began softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I need to talk about last night".

Ben's arms around you tightened slightly, a silent indication for you to continue.

"I… I need to know why you didn't stop when I asked you to", you said, your voice trembling with emotion. "It hurt, Ben, and I felt like you weren't listening to me".

You felt Ben tense behind you, his silence weighing heavily in the steamy air of the shower.

Ben's grip loosened, and you felt him shift uncomfortably behind you. His silence spoke volumes, a tacit acknowledgment of the pain he had caused you. As the water cascaded down around you, he began to speak, his voice tinged with regret.

He struggled to find the right words. "I messed up, I know that", he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. "I should have listened to you, respected your boundaries. I don't want you to ever feel like I'm not hearing you".

You felt a pang of sadness mingled with a glimmer of hope at his words. Despite the pain of the previous night, there was a flicker of understanding.

Without turning to face him, you reached out and placed your hand over his.

As the water continued to wash away the remnants of the past, you both stood in silence, wrapped in the warmth of newfound understanding and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

Ben's lips brushed gently against your neck, sending shivers down your spine as his hands roamed over your breasts with a tender reverence. Despite the lingering ache of the previous night, his touch ignited a familiar fire within you, a primal desire that pulsed with every beat of your heart.

You leaned into his embrace, surrendering to the sensation of his lips trailing a path of warmth along your shoulder, his touch a silent apology, a wordless plea for forgiveness.

You whispered softly, your voice barely audible over the sound of the shower, "I can't, Ben. I'm still too sore".

Ben's movements stilled. "I know", he murmured, his voice. "I just want to feel you, to be close to you".

His words resonated with a tenderness that touched your heart, and despite the ache in your body, you found yourself leaning into his touch, craving the closeness and intimacy that only he could provide.

As the water turned off, signaling the end of your shower, Ben stepped out first, grabbing a towel to dry himself off. You followed suit, reaching for your pajamas, but before you could slip them on, Ben stopped you.

With a playful grin, he pulled his shirt over your head, the fabric enveloping you in his scent and warmth. "That's more of my taste", he teased, his eyes twinkling as he admired you wearing his shirt.

You couldn't help but chuckle.

As you walked out of the bathroom, wrapped in Ben’s shirt, you felt a sense of contentment wash over you.

Just as you reached the bedroom door, Ben’s voice, soft and tender, broke the silence. “Hey”, he whispered, his hand gently grazing your arm to get your attention.

You turned to face him, meeting his gaze with a curious expression. “What is it?”.

“I want you to sleep in my bed tonight”, he murmured, his eyes earnest.

You blinked in surprise at Ben's request, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. Yet, a warm smile tugged at the corners of your lips, a mixture of appreciation and affection for his gesture.

"Sure", you replied softly, a gentle warmth spreading through your chest. "I'd like that".

As you followed Ben into the room, you felt a flutter dancing in your chest. But as he let himself sink onto the bed, you weren't expecting him to suddenly pull you onto his lap with a firm grip on your wrists.

Your surprise was evident in the widening of your eyes and the sharp intake of breath as you found yourself straddling him, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Ben", you murmured, your hands instinctively reaching out to steady yourself against his chest.

Ben's lips met yours in a slow and intense kiss, igniting a fiery passion that seemed to consume both of you. As his mouth moved against yours with a fervent urgency, you felt a surge of desire coursing through your veins, the heat of his touch sending shivers down your spine.

Despite the surprise of his sudden actions, you found yourself melting into his embrace, surrendering to the intoxicating sensation of his lips on yours. His grip on your wrists loosened, allowing you to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened.

Time seemed to stand still as you lost yourself in the heat of the moment, the world outside fading into oblivion as you and Ben became entangled in each other's embrace. His touch was both tender and possessive, a silent declaration of his desire to hold you close and never let go.

As you pulled away from the kiss, a faint smile lingering on your lips, you gazed into Ben's eyes, searching for any hint of what he might be thinking. His expression was a mix of desire and something else, a hint of possessiveness that sent a thrill down your spine.

As Ben's lips trailed down your jawline, leaving a trail of fiery kisses in their wake, you felt a surge of desire coursing through your veins. His touch was electric, igniting a primal need that burned within you.

"I can't stop thinking about you", he murmured against your collarbone, his voice thick with longing. "You drive me crazy, you know that?".

"Ben…", you mumbled.

But before you could utter another word, he continued, his voice low and filled with a raw intensity that made your blood run cold.

"I couldn't even stop thinking about you when I fucked that little slut yesterday", he muttered.

Your heart skipped a beat as Ben's words washed over you, a whirlwind of emotions raging within you. With a shaky breath, you pulled back slightly, your mind struggling to process the magnitude of his confession.

"What?", you whispered, your voice barely above a whisper, the word hanging heavy in the air between you.

Ben's gaze softened momentarily, a flicker of frustration crossing his features before he continued.

"Yeah, it's fucking insane", he mumbled, his words barely audible over the pounding of your heart. "It's like you're always on my mind, even when I try to forget".

Your heart ached at his admission, torn between the pain of betrayal and the lingering affection you still held for him.

Tears welled up in your eyes, threatening to spill over as the weight of Ben’s words bore down on you like a heavy burden. With a trembling hand, you pushed his hands away from your body, needing to create some distance between you.

“Are you serious?”, you choked out, your voice wavering with a mixture of hurt and disbelief. “Did you really… sleep with someone else?”.

Ben’s brow furrowed in confusion at your question, his expression betraying his lack of understanding. “What’s wrong?”, he asked, his voice tinged with frustration and bewilderment.

Tears continued to well up in your eyes as you struggled to find the words to convey the depth of your pain. “I can’t believe you”, you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. “After everything…”.

But before you could finish your sentence, Ben cut in, his tone laced with a hint of defensiveness. “It’s not about the fucking part”, he snapped. “It’s about how I couldn’t get you out of my head”.

Feeling a mixture of anger, hurt, and betrayal swirling inside you, you couldn't bear to remain in Ben's embrace any longer. With a shaky breath, you gently pushed yourself up from his lap.

"I need some space", you choked out, your voice thick with emotion as you struggled to contain the flood of tears threatening to spill over.

"Why are you mad?", he asked, his voice tinged with frustration. "I told you because I wanted you to understand how much you're on my mind".

"I thought we had something special", you mumbled through choked sobs, the words barely audible as tears streamed down your cheeks.

Ben rolled his eyes, a hint of exasperation creeping into his tone. "Oh, come on", he scoffed. "Don't be so dramatic. It's not like you're the only one I've ever slept with".

"I just thought…", you started, your voice faltering as you struggled to find the right words.

But Ben cut you off, his frustration boiling over. "Look, if you weren't fucking special to me, do you think I would fucking treat you like a raw egg every fucking time?", he snapped, his tone tinged with bitterness.

Your heart clenched at Ben's callous words, his dismissive attitude cutting deep into your already wounded soul. Anger surged within you, fueled by the sting of betrayal and the sheer audacity of his arrogance.

"If I were special to you, you wouldn't have slept with anyone else!", you shot back, your voice trembling with a mixture of hurt and indignation. "You can't just treat me like some disposable object and expect me to be okay with it!".

But Ben's frustration only seemed to escalate. "I did it so I wouldn´t fucking hurt you!", he retorted, his tone defensive. "I need to get rid of that tension sometimes, and you can't handle it because you're just a fucking human!".

“You’re acting like you’re my girlfriend, like you’re in love with me or something”, Ben continued.

Your heart skipped a beat, a sharp pain shooting through your chest as Ben's words pierced through you like daggers. More tears welled up in your eyes, spilling over as his callous remark hit you square in the chest.

In the wake of his harsh words, you felt a surge of anger rising within you, fueled by the hurt and betrayal you felt. With a trembling voice, you whispered, "Fucking asshole".

Without another word, you stormed out of his room.

Ben raised his arms in disbelief, his brow furrowed in confusion as he watched you storm out of his room. He couldn't understand why you were reacting this way, why you couldn't just accept his explanation and move on.

But as he stood there, his frustration mounting, he realized that there was no reasoning with you in your current state. With a heavy sigh, he let you go, pushing the door shut loudly behind you before trudging back to bed, annoyance simmering beneath the surface.

As he lay there in the darkness, the echoes of your departure still ringing in his ears, Ben couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at him. Despite his attempts to justify his actions, a nagging sense of guilt lingered in the back of his mind—a reminder of the pain he had caused you and the fragile trust he had shattered.

Meanwhile, you lay in your own bed, tears streaming down your cheeks as you cried like a lovesick teenager. Your heart ached with the realization that you were not enough for Ben, and perhaps never would be as long as you remained just a human.

In the darkness of your room, Ben's words echoed in your mind, weighing heavily on your spirits. You couldn't shake the feeling of inadequacy, wondering if you could ever measure up to the Supes who seemed to capture Ben's attention so effortlessly.

It hit you hard: you were in love with Ben. Admitting it to yourself only made you cry even more.

The thought of loving someone who didn't seem to see you the same way filled you with an overwhelming sense of despair. You felt powerless, trapped in a whirlwind of emotions you couldn't control.

As Ben lay in his own bed, the sound of your crying echoing in the stillness of the night, he found himself unable to sleep. His Supe hearing picked up every tear-soaked sob.

He still didn't quite understand your reaction, unable to comprehend why his words had hurt you so deeply.

For him, what he had said about not being able to get you out of his mind, even while being with that Supe, was meant to be an explanation of his feelings for you. It was his twisted way of expressing how much he liked you, how much you consumed his thoughts and his heart.

But as he listened to the sound of your tears, Ben couldn't help but wonder if he had missed the mark entirely. Had his attempt at honesty only succeeded in pushing you further away?

In the darkness of his room, Ben's thoughts churned with uncertainty and doubt. He knew he had a lot to learn about love and relationships, especially when it came to understanding your feelings.

But for now, all he could do was lie there, listening to the echoes of your pain, and wishing he knew how to make things right.

It wasn't until 3 in the night that Ben finally mustered the courage to leave his own bed. With each step, he tiptoed carefully, mindful of not disturbing your slumber. As he approached your room, a sense of trepidation washed over him, unsure of what he would find.

Gently pushing open the door, Ben slipped inside, the soft glow of moonlight casting shadows across the room. His eyes immediately found you, curled up in bed, your tear-streaked face peaceful in sleep.

For a moment, he simply stood there, watching you, his heart heavy. He had never meant to hurt you, never meant to cause you such pain. And yet he constantly brought you so much pain.

In that moment, as he gazed upon your sleeping form, he realized just how deeply he cared for you.

Ben harbored a tender affection for you, one that he had been too blind to see until now. As he watched you sleep, a wave of tenderness washed over him, filling him with a longing he couldn't quite name.

In the quiet of the night, with only the sound of your steady breathing to break the silence, Ben made a silent vow to himself. He would do whatever it took to make things right.

With a soft sigh, he leaned in closer, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with gentle fingers.

The next morning, you were abruptly awakened by the sound of voices drifting from the living room. Confused, you stumbled out of bed and made your way to join Annie, Ben, and Butcher, who were engaged in a heated debate about how to proceed with the attack on Homelander, despite having already discussed the plan yesterday.

Annie's frustration was evident as she argued, "We've been over this already. We can't afford to deviate from the plan now. We need to stick to the strategy we agreed upon".

But Ben's determination was unwavering as he countered, "I don't care about the fucking plan. We need to take out Homelander once and for all. Killing him is the only way to ensure the safety of everyone".

Butcher interjected, "We can't risk a direct confrontation with Homelander. We need to focus on capturing him alive so we can use him as leverage against Vought".

Ben's voice rose in frustration as he continued to argue his point, his passion fueling his determination to see Homelander pay for the pain he had caused. "You don't fucking get it", he yelled, his voice raw with emotion. "Homelander hurt her, and he needs to fucking pay for it. We can't let him get away with what he's done".

But as the intensity of the debate reached its peak, the sound of footsteps drew everyone's attention. Turning, they saw you standing there, your expression worn and weary. Your heart clenched at the sight of Ben, the raw emotion in his eyes mirroring your own pain.

With arms crossed, you made your way towards Frenchie and MM, who sat at the table, working on their weapons.

Taking a deep breath, you joined Frenchie and MM at the table, ready to discuss your role in the upcoming mission. Frenchie wasted no time in pulling out his laptop, tapping away as he brought up the surveillance feeds and blueprints of Vought's facilities.

"We need to gather as much intel as possible", Frenchie explained, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "We'll use the cameras to track Homelander's movements and identify any vulnerabilities in their security".

MM nodded in agreement, his gaze focused on the screen. "Once we have a clear picture of their defenses, we can plan our approach accordingly", he added, his voice steady and resolute.

As you studied the images on the screen, a sense of determination filled you.

But as you delved deeper into the details of the mission, you couldn't shake the feeling of Ben's eyes burning into your back. His silent presence served as a constant reminder of the complicated emotions swirling between you, a mixture of pain, longing, and unresolved tension.

With a heavy heart, you pushed aside your feelings for Ben and focused on the task at hand.

As the discussion continued, Butcher's patience wore thin. He slammed his hand on the table, glaring at Ben with a fierce intensity. "Will you bloody well stick to the plan, or are you gonna go off half-cocked like some bloody lunatic?".

Ben's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he bristled at Butcher's accusation. "Watch your fucking tongue, Butcher", he snapped, his voice dripping with barely contained anger. "I know what I'm doing, and I won't let you or anyone else stand in the way of getting fucking justice for her".

Butcher scoffed, his expression unyielding. "Justice ain't worth a damn if it gets us all killed", he retorted, his tone sharp and unforgiving. "We stick to the plan, whether you like it or not".

The tension in the room was palpable as the two men locked eyes, each refusing to back down. It was clear that their conflicting ideologies would continue to clash, each determined to see their own vision through to the end.

Two hours later, you found yourself settled in front of Frenchie's laptop, your eyes focused on the surveillance feed from Vought's cameras. The tension in the room was palpable as everyone gathered in the living room, preparing for the mission ahead.

Just as you were about to immerse yourself in the task at hand, you heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Turning, you saw Ben entering the room, his presence commanding attention as he joined the group, just closing his belt.

Your knees weakened at the sight of him in his Supe suit, the fabric hugging his powerful frame in all the right places. It had been a while since you had seen him in full uniform, and the sight of him now sent a rush of longing coursing through your veins.

Despite the gravity of the situation, you couldn't tear your eyes away from him, captivated by his strength and determination.

As Ben's gaze met yours, time seemed to stand still. Your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, the weight of the world faded away as you locked eyes with him.

In that instant, a flood of emotions washed over you—longing, desire, and aching heartache all mingled together in a tumultuous whirlwind of sensation. His powerful presence filled the room, commanding attention and igniting a fire within you that you couldn't ignore.

Your heartbeat quickened, your pulse racing as you felt a surge of primal attraction coursing through your veins. Despite the pain and uncertainty that had plagued your relationship, there was no denying the raw magnetism between you and Ben.

As the team gathered their weapons, Ben stood there, his gaze fixed on you. There was a palpable tension in the air, a silent exchange of emotions between the two of you that spoke volumes.

Both of you wanted to say something, to break the silence that hung heavy between you, but neither of you dared to speak. It was as if the weight of unspoken words and unresolved feelings kept you rooted in place, unable to move forward.

You could feel the intensity of his gaze, a mixture of longing and regret that mirrored your own emotions but neither of you could find the words to express what you were feeling.

Instead, you sat there in silence.

Ben took two steps towards you, his mouth opening as if he were about to speak, but you shook your head, cutting him off before any words could escape. He sighed, a mixture of frustration and resignation evident in his expression.

Another tense minute passed before Butcher broke the silence with a gruff, "Let's go".

Ben cast one final glance in your direction, a silent apology lingering in his eyes. "I´m Sorry", he muttered softly before turning to leave with the rest of the team, leaving you alone in the apartment.

As the door clicked shut behind them, the weight of his apology hung heavy in the air.

It was a simple word, "sorry", but coming from him, it held a weight you had never experienced before. It was the first time he had ever said sorry to you, and perhaps to anyone else, and it stirred something deep inside you.

Despite the hurt, his apology sparked a glimmer of hope within you. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes about the complexity of his emotions.

In that moment, you couldn't help but feel a shift in the air, a subtle change in the dynamic between you and Ben. It was as if the walls that had divided you for so long were beginning to crumble, replaced by a tentative sense of understanding and forgiveness.

As you processed the significance of his apology, you couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps, just perhaps, there was still a chance for the two of you to find common ground and move forward together. But for now, all you could do was wait.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

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Part 20

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Taglist: @deangirl96, @thatgirljayy, @suckitands33, @deans-spinster-witch@mimaria420@kaz11283@uncle-eggy @jackles010378 @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @meowmeowyoongles @sarahgracej @zemosdarling228 @leila22rogers @mostlymarvelgirl @emily-winchester @blacknoirr @onlyangel-444 @seasonofthenerd @staple-your-mouth @artemys-ackles @selfdestructionandrhum @mystic-mara

[callahanisms]

inquisition companions react to the inquisitor missing half their arm

because bioware didn’t wanna give it to us, i decided i’d just do it myself. (insert thanos meme) even though i am like years late to the hype.

the game is like 9 years old at this point, but spoilers ahead.

do keep in mind this is my own personal interpretation of each character. it may not be accurate to your own interpretations. (also i know leliana is technically not a companion in inquisition but i included her anyways)

cassandra pentaghast

if cassandra could plunge a knife into the heart of solas, she would. she would not let him get away with betraying you and taking the anchor along with your arm. you had basically fallen into her arms when you emerged from the portal and she had to carry you back to halamshiral. for the days you were unconscious, cassandra was anxious and extra prickly. there were many times where cullen would have to talk her down from her anger. even varric did too.

dorian pavus

the first thing he did was crack a joke. the atmosphere was tense and it just slipped out. “i asked you to come back in one piece, not missing one.” safe to say, the other companions did not approve of his joke. dorian was set to return to tevinter after being notified of his new position as a magister, but he delayed the return to his homeland for you. he sat in your room as you lied unconscious, barely breathing, leg anxious bouncing up and down. when you awoke, you were immediately met with a large and tight hug from him. he knocked the air out of your lungs from that.

blackwall

blackwall admires you. in fact, everyone would go so far as to say he adores you. he thinks of you as strong, capable, almost infallible. you closed rifts, you closed the big green tear in the sky, and you defeated corypheus! what couldn’t you do? all your feats proved to him that you were the strongest leader he could ever know. and yet, you were still mortal. you left the eluvians mortally wounded and exhausted beyond belief, your eyelids so heavy and ready to close so you may drift off into the black void of sleep. blackwall would not let you, not until you were taken away to be cared for. you found him sitting besides you, awake and on guard. your mortality was his reminder that you and him were the same, even if your lives appeared to be completely different. and he understood that the world would need a leader like you and that is dangerous.

iron bull

the bull could feel a stronger kinship with you that day. it appears that the both of you lost something. he betrayed the qun for the inquisition, thus losing a part of himself, his people. you lost a literal part of yourself, something you had to come to terms with after having the anchor for two years. to say iron bull was shaken up would be an understatement. he was getting cassandra to hit him with sticks for days on end while you lied unconscious. he wondered what would’ve happened if he was with you, if maybe...he could’ve stopped solas. but reminiscing never did anyone any good.

cole

as much as he wanted to help you, cole couldn’t. he also understood that you wouldn’t accept his help, no matter how much he insisted. so instead, he did the best thing he could do: help tend to your injuries. what was curious was that he could feel very little of your pain. when he felt your pain two years ago after forming the inquisition, it was concentrated in your hand and forearm. with it gone, you felt at peace. the primary source of pain for you had been washed away. perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, he thought.

sera

sera’s immediate reaction is, like dorian, to crack a joke. everyone is used to her eccentricity. but it felt different this time around. while you laid unconscious, recovering from the long battle, she occupied herself. she had to busy her hands and her legs, keep moving, keep her mind busy. because if she sat too still for even a second, then her mind would think about the worst outcome. she would get images of you, dead, because solas had betrayed you, betrayed her, betrayed the inquisition. hell, he betrayed the world! that knob! thinking he knew what was best! sera’s all the more relieved when it’s revealed you survived. she bursts through the door to see you and hug you tightly, complaining about how much you scared her.

varric tethras

in all honesty, varric should’ve been more prepared to expect...well, the unexpected. he had expectations of you coming out unharmed, untouched. obviously, that was not what happened. and he wondered if he was responsible for this. he had been one of the many people to support you as the inquisitor two years ago, suggesting it. he wondered if he made the wrong decision. but also, part of varric was relieved. he lost someone close to him two years ago. he didn’t know if he could handle losing you too.

vivienne de fer

the court would devour tales of the eluvians and how you managed to survive. that was vivienne’s first thought. people would be talking about you for centuries to come, certainly. and yet, she knew in her soul that was not what you would want. she does her best to minimize what rumors spread when you first emerge from the eluvians and help give you privacy. behind closed doors, vivienne checks on your injuries. part of her is amazed that the anchor was removed so cleanly.

josephine montilyet

josephine has seen many things ranging from serious to just plain absurd. when she was alerted that you had returned with many serious injuries, including the loss of half your arm, she sent messages to get the best possible doctors in all of orlais to help attend to you. the woman was definitely stressed beyond belief. but when she wasn’t trying to get everyone from backing off from you or getting people to look at you, josephine was attending to you herself. you awoke to find her wiping some sweat off your face and when she noticed, she muttered about how great andraste was and embraced you tightly.

cullen rutherford

your knight-commander appeared to take the news very well, much to the disapproval of cassandra. but the moment cullen was alone, in private, he flipped a table, causing everything to crash. all he could feel running throughout his body was regret, guilt, and anger. regret and guilt for not having gone with you. he should’ve. because if he did, maybe you would have came back alright. anger directed towards solas because the apostate had betrayed you, the inquisition. and everything you and him had worked towards was going to crumble. all of his hard work, leliana’s, cassandra’s, josephine’s, it’d all be for naught. cullen ends up spending a lot of time alone while you’re unconscious. he prays to andraste and the maker to distract himself from any wandering thoughts going towards lyrium. certainly the new mabari hound he decided to adopt on a whim helps with distractions at least.

leliana

the woman has seen many things in her lifetime, having experienced the fifth blight itself and been part of that fight against the archdemon. still, things aren’t easy when you come back from the eluvians missing half of your arm. even if it goes against all her duties, leliana stays with you until you wake up to make sure you’re alright. you’re the inquisitor after all and it’s vital that you’re still alive.

solas

he’s the one who took it. you think he cares?

in all seriousness, it gave him no pleasure to remove your arm for the anchor. even if his plan was...well, shoddy we should say, the anchor was going to kill you. he had no choice. carrying your hand and forearm around felt heavy. he could carry it just fine but what made it heavy was the burden that came with his plan to tear down the veil and bring doom upon the world in a desperate attempt to bring it back to what it once was. and also, the burden of having harmed you.

[elvensixpm]

Vengeance Saga spoilers!

For Six Hundred Strike, I don't imagine Odysseus using Poseidon's trident against him, actually. Mostly because my idea of Poseidon is that he is much larger than Odysseus— a giant, terrifying vision of the sea, no, he is the sea.

There is no clear differentiation between the sea and Poseidon— the waves his spilling hair, the sea foam his skin, the mist his robes.

Imagine this:

Odysseus using the trident to wash Poseidon and himself to the rocky coast of Ithaca, his homeland, rugged and worn as he himself is. Birthplace to six hundred men gone to Poseidon's cruelty, he doesn't use Poseidon's own weapon against him, no, that would be too simple.

He wants his Ithacan brothers to drink their fill of revenge as well. He raises the trident and commands the water to his will, fighting the brutality of the storm whose winds force against his arm, as if warning him not to do anything rash.

His gaze finds the sharp, jagged edges of shore— large rocks like spikes that jut out of the sand like a palisade of swords.

That will do.

The god of the sea smashes against the rocks as Odysseus strikes the trident down onto the sand. Poseidon ebbs away before forming back, like how broken waves regenerate. Odysseus strikes.

Again. Again. Again.

He watches Poseidon splinter against stone before immortality melts him back together again. The golden blood that sprays in his face as Poseidon smashes against the bank leaves him with a greater satisfaction than any gleam of treasure ever would.

The storm's wind whips and howls in his face like a shrieking banshee— he uses it to pretend not to hear the god.

Odysseus' screams for venegeance, for retribution and for the god to call off the storm, drowns the other's pleas for him to stop. This was payback for his crew; does Charon accept gods' blood as payment? It was gold, after all. As it seeps into the waters, Odysseus hoped that it would reach his crew— so that they could finally cross the river Styx. So that they can finally, finally stop their aimless wandering.

Poseidon gurgles out that Odysseus is a monster. Like Charydbis— Odysseus spews back the gods' teachings in his face: Ruthlessness was mercy, was it not?

Poseidon... relents. The trident slips from Odysseus' hand and clatters on the ground. The storm subsides, and the mist lifts.

Odysseus' eyes set upon rocky Ithaca once again. He doesn't look back at Poseidon— there is no need to turn back to the sea now that he's home again.

The King of Ithaca has returned.

Yes, I replaced treasure Odysseus brought home in the book with Poseidon's blood LMFAO! I really thought the treasure part was important in the book, so I wanted to give Epic!Odysseus something of the sort as well.

I also used Charydbis as a likening of sorts because... well. Wasn't it the book— so I just had to incorporate her somehow! How'd I do?

This is how Ithaca's shore look like in my mind while I was writing. Probably not accurate. I just wanted there to be a connection between the place of birth of the crew VS poseidon being their cause of death.

I always have nightmares of smashing against there, because they look so sharp:

But facing outwards, so it makes more sense, haha. I'm just thinking about how Epic!Odysseus is a certified religion betrayer now. Whoops!

Also I just learned that Palisade is an ancient greek thing? I thought it was a Biology thing LOL. I keep running into these coincidences!

[skyward-floored]

Whumptober Day 10: Passing out from pain

I’m soooooo glad I had this prewritten guys you have no idea. Who’s ready for a Hyrule blood curse fic? 😈

Warnings: blood and severe injury, brief body horror, uncertain fate of a character

Ao3 link

Continuation (day 18)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The blade sinks through his chest, and with it, seals Hyrule’s doom.

He can’t even scream anymore, his voice raw from threats and defiance and previous cries already torn from his throat. Ropes keep him from moving anything except for his head, and even if they weren’t, he’s so exhausted from the lack of nourishment and every last-ditch escape effort he’s made in the past couple days that he couldn’t move even if he wanted to.

So when the blade rips through him, right below his ribs, all that comes out of Hyrule’s throat is a breathy whimper.

It changes to a keening whine when the sword is twisted in his gut, the sound thick with agony. Blood gushes when the sword is pulled back out, and Hyrule lets out a weak cry, watching through blurry vision as his skin turns red with it.

Blood pools below him in a slight indentation in the stone, the rock cut precisely for this moment. It trails down the side, and Hyrule forces himself to watch as it lands in a large bowl with a pile of ashes, which immediately begin to smoke.

An angry sob tears from his throat as more of his blood spills, howls of victory and glee a cacophony in his ears. He fought tooth and nail against this ever happening, yet here he is, like a lamb at the slaughter, his blood spilled and Ganon’s return imminent.

And nobody comes to help him.

Hyrule closes his eyes then, shaking in pain and grief. He’d fallen through a portal alone, right into a near army of monsters in his homeland. Caught off-guard and dizzy from dark magic, he’d given the fight everything he had, but it hadn’t been enough. He’d been hit over the head and dragged away, and despite his endless attempts at freedom, nothing had worked.

The others had never shown up.

Goddesses if nothing else, send them to fix my mess, Hyrule pleads as he hears an unearthly squelch come from the ashes, and the monsters roar in excitement. Even if I have to die, help them stop him, don’t let my land be destroyed because of me.

A hissing sound is coming from the ashes now, dark magic coalescing and feeding off of Hyrule’s blood. It’s like ice in his veins, sharp and deadly cold, and Hyrule sobs again, giving a weak thrash against his bonds.

He can’t let them win. He can’t.

He can’t.

The dark magic is leeching off of him like a parasite now, feeding off of his blood and magic, stealing his energy and very lifeblood to use for its own purposes. The chanting around him speeds, excitement thrumming in the air. Hyrule hears something move beside him, drag itself through the ashes, and if he’d eaten anything in the past few days, it would be coming up now.

“More,” a voice rasps, phlegmy and horrific, and more tears born of pain roll down Hyrule’s cheeks as the blade sinks through him in a different part of his chest. He chokes, and it’s pulled out and slashed at his sides and arms as well. By then the pain is blocking out so much of his world that Hyrule doesn’t realize it at first when the blade is dragged from his shoulder straight down to the opposite hip.

He would scream, but what energy he had is being siphoned away from him, and all he can do is shudder with a cough that tastes like blood. His whole body feels soaked with it, and an almost hilarious thought drifts through his mind that it’s a good thing the monsters stripped him of everything but his shorts, otherwise he’d be washing bloodstains out for months.

As if I’ll live that long.

He convulses with another wracking cough, and blood spatters up with it, pain dulling so much of his world. For some reason the only clear sense he has left is his hearing, and his ears are filled with his own agonized breaths, chants and cheers of monsters, the gut-churning sounds of bones popping together and skin forming over flesh beside him.

He’s shocked he isn’t dead yet, but the dark magic probably has a hand in that. It’s siphoning even more greedily now, and Hyrule feels it increase and increase and increase until all he can do is shake and gasp from the pain it leaves him with.

It abruptly triples and rips a broken scream from his throat (apparently he is still capable of such noises), making his back arch and vision go red with agony. It only lasts a few moments, but they’re like a lifetime.

When it eases and Hyrule finally falls still, all he can do is drag in a trembling, wretched hiccup.

And then the laughter starts.

It begins at first weak and croaking, as if it has to remember how to make such a sound. But as the minutes tick by, it grows louder, and deeper, and so familiar that Hyrule nearly wails with the weight of his failure.

He’s back.

Oh gods he’s back.

Hyrule keeps his eyes closed as the laughter continues, his body finally gone limp. It’s the one comfort he has left, and the darkness behind his eyelids is getting deeper at the edges, the kind Hyrule only ever sees when things are really bad. But the moment he begins to drift into its edges, the stabbing ice of dark magic drags him back, wracking him with another bubbling cough.

Footsteps trail closer to him, different then that of the monsters who’ve been prowling around the stone. Fingers—claws abruptly grab his chin, tilting his face around, and Hyrule feels blood drip down his face.

“I know you live, Hero. Look at me.”

The voice is familiar and not, booming and smooth, yet holding an inhuman growl, one that makes Hyrule involuntarily shudder.

The claws grip tighter when he doesn’t obey, breaking skin. Despite how Hyrule doesn’t want to do anything that voice tells him, let his final act be one of defiance, his curiosity of what his failure has done gets the better of him.

He drags opens his eyes, and sees a monster.

Ganon isn’t a beast like when Hyrule fought him— but neither is he entirely a man. He’s some sort of mix of the two, claws rather than fingers, hooves instead of feet. His hair is more of a mane than anything, and where there isn’t fur, his skin has a blueish tone to it, one Hyrule wishes he didn’t remember so well.

Ganon’s face is largely human, though the features aren’t quite right, a snout-like nose, sharp teeth... especially the red eyes, shot through with a terrifyingly intelligent yellow. Those eyes study Hyrule in silence, the laughter subsided.

He tilts Hyrule’s head side to side, and Ganon leans so close to him that Hyrule can see the flecks of black in his eyes.

“This is the child who slew me?” he growls, digging his claws even tighter into Hyrule’s jaw. Hyrule can’t control the way his breath hitches in pain, and a smirk pulls at Ganon’s mouth, revealing fangs so large they’re almost tusks. “Pathetic.”

Ganon abruptly drops his chin, scoring marks along his cheek, and Hyrule can only watch as he studies the crimson on his hands, leaning forward to sniff it. A grin pulls at his lips, and he suddenly drags a clawed hand across Hyrule’s chest, coating his palm in blood as Hyrule chokes back another whimper of pain.

Ganon raises it up for the crowd of monsters to see, fingers dripping with red.

Then presses it to his bare chest, and the monsters roar at the handprint of blood left there when he removes it.

Ganon raises his hand to his mouth then, his tongue flicking out as he licks the remaining blood off his claws, and Hyrule chokes back bile. The monsters around them continue to roar, watching as their master licks their enemy’s blood from his hand, but they fall silent as he finishes, and raises a fist.

“Hyrule will be ours!” he roars, and the monsters roar with him, blin and poe, wizzrobe and daira, all ecstatic at the return of their master.

Ganon probably gives more of a speech of some kind then, one that whips the monsters into a near frenzy, but Hyrule doesn’t hear any of it, lost in his failure and brokenness. Blood still drips from his wrecked chest, sticky and hot against his freezing skin. His whole body is pain, his world is that of darkness and blood, and he doesn’t know why he isn’t dead yet.

Am I not even granted that release?

Something wet falls down his cheek, and Hyrule doesn’t know whether it’s blood or tears.

Just breathing is agony in its purest form, and Hyrule’s wet rasps grow weaker with every gurgling exhale. Claws grip at his chin again after a bit, pressing until his eyes open, and Hyrule sees Ganon leering at him mere inches from his face.

“Not yet, little hero,” Ganon growls, victory glinting in his eyes. “As much as I’d like to watch you drown in your own blood, I have use of you yet.”

Hyrule glares through the pain and his tears, rage at the beast in front of him granting him just a bit of energy. “G... g-go to... hhh—”

His chest convulses and blood spurts from his mouth in a weak cough again, making Ganon laugh.

He abruptly slams a clawed hand down on Hyrule’s middle, and his world explodes into white and red, swirling with stars that bleed almost as much as he is.

If he screams, he doesn’t hear it.

He can’t breathe, not through the pressure and pain in his middle, his throat full of liquid he’s too weak to expel. Hyrule gags and writhes, tears slipping down his nose, all while Ganon watches with a delighted smirk.

“Bring him,” he hears faintly, and Hyrule wants to do everything he can to stop that voice. He wants to scream and fight and protect his world from the monster he’s created, steal a sword and drive it through Ganon’s chest before he can do anything else, but he’s too drained. Too powerless.

Too weak.

All he can do is sob one last desperate prayer that his brothers will do what he couldn’t, and then his vision spirals from red to black.

[esouliie]

- TEARS ON THE GRAND PIANO

– pairing: wanda maximoff x fem!reader (mini series)

– synopsis: moving on from the only person you’ve ever loved is proving to be hard… so hard that hiring an escort seems to be the only way forward.

– warnings: a lil angst and comfort to start us off, welcome to the prologue, hope you enjoy!

2ND AUGUST 2016

All is quiet in the compound.

In the middle of the night, you find yourself seated at your piano, bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp. Your fingers move wearily across the keys, trying to breathe life into the notes of a song that has been evolving in your mind since the day you met Wanda.

The melody is your escape, a sanctuary from the weight of the Sokovian Accords and the chaos that seems to envelop your world.

Exhaustion clings to you like a heavy cloak, but the song demands to be finished. Each note is a release, a fragment of emotion woven into the fabric of the music.

Ever since that ill-fated mission in Lagos, the Avengers' world has been turned upside down. The compound, once a haven of camaraderie, now echoes with the tension born of differing opinions on the Accords. It's torn your makeshift family apart, leaving you grappling with your own stance on the matter.

It is expected of you as a super-powered member and also as the reason for Lagos being a failure. The plan had gone awry, and in the chaos, you deviated from the carefully laid out strategy. Overwhelmed by the enemy, your powers were not enough. It was Wanda who came to your rescue, a selfless act that saved your life but led to a devastating consequence.

The explosion in the building, full of innocent people, sat solid on your conscience. And now the weight of responsibility hangs heavy on your shoulders as you try to find solace in the music you create. The piano, an old friend, is both a refuge and a confidant in these trying times.

You're so engrossed in your composition that you fail to notice the subtle creak of the door as Wanda steps into the room, her silhouette framed by the dim light.

She watches you for a moment, concern etched on her face.

“Why are you still awake?" she asks, her voice soft and filled with genuine worry.

You don't immediately respond, caught in the grip of your creative trance.

"Couldn't sleep," you admit, the weariness evident in your voice. "Needed to get this out."

Wanda's gaze softens, understanding the therapeutic power of your music. But her concern doesn't wane.

"And you? Why are you up?" You inquire, curious about the restlessness that brought her into your space.

A hint of sadness crosses her features as she confesses, "I had another nightmare.”

That hasn’t happened in a while, only on a rare occurrence since she started to heal from the events in Sokovia. Her war-torn homeland.

The pain of her brother's death used to haunt her dreams frequently, the agony vivid and raw in her memory. You remember when she first told you how it felt that day, the overwhelming emptiness as she felt her brother’s life slip away as if it were her own.

That was the first time she lost control of her powers.

A surge of empathy washes over you, and you instinctively reach out to touch her hand.

"I'm sorry.” You whisper, your own exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

She manages a small smile, her eyes lighting up.

“Well, I was thinking," she begins, her tone almost conspiratorial, "maybe you could come sleep in my room tonight. You know, like a sleepover?”

You can't resist the charming plea in her eyes, even though you know it’s all fake. Laced with fear of falling asleep just to end up back in another nightmare.

Usually, the sleepover ends with her clinging onto you tightly, whatever movie you both decided on long forgotten, as she sleeps peacefully. The nightmares suddenly gone as soon as you're around.

“Alright." You agree, setting aside your messy sheets. "Lead the way, m’lady."

The piano sits in silent anticipation as you follow Wanda out of the room, leaving the notes hanging in the air.

Later into the night, you both settle into her bed, the warmth of shared dreams replace the chill of nightmares. Wrapped in the comfort of each other's presence, you both drift into a peaceful sleep, leaving the half-finished melody to linger in the stillness of the night and challenges that await with the morning sun.

That was the last time you slept with Wanda.

[sehtoast]

Can I request a homelander x single mother reader

Hl meets struggling reader with her newborn child. At first he watches her taking pleasure in how pathetic she is but eventually falls I love with her 🙏

So unfortunately one of my things with being a trans man is it’s very very hard for me to be able to envision this perspective and go too in depth with it, because it does end up inducing some weird bubblings of dysphoria (the mother role, not the having a kid thing), but I’m good to go surface level and just sort of headcanon it out if it’s all the same to you anon <3

He actually had no intention of fixating on you whatsoever. Not only were you normal– you were boring.  Just some human mud living your human life.  Not his speed at all.  At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

See, he could smell it.  He practically salivated the second he got a whiff of your body producing milk.  You were just some desk jockey finally returning after maternity leave, but you caught his eye in mere seconds.

Then he started really paying attention.  Watching through the walls, following you home, watching you pick up that sniveling beast that you fawned over so dearly no matter how loudly it screeched in the middle of the night.  How you didn’t leave the thing for the wolves after the first explosive diaper was beyond him, but the soft, nurturing, kind side of you ensures the wee thing is put back together and content before even once worrying for yourself.

After a while, he can really see it in your eyes.  You’re exhausted.  Barely making ends meet, barely affording the babysitter, barely keeping from keeling over.

He smirks when you miss your stop on the train.  You don’t know he’s sat on the connector between cars, mere feet away, but you don’t have to know that.  You don’t have to know anything like that.  You just need to sit pretty and let him watch.

Just like you really don’t need to worry when you’re cornered in an alley by some filth reeking of alcohol.  You don’t need to fret, because he’s there in a heartbeat, lasering that worthless fuck in two and sweeping you into his safe, strong arms.

Your tears leak against his chest and he swears to hell and back he’ll never allow the costume department to wash away your scent.  He brings you to a roof, makes small talk while you calm down.

“Say, you work at Vought, don’t you? I think I’ve seen you around.”

He thinks he’s so smooth about it.  Like it’d be a mystery the next day when you’ve got a whopping promotion to be his new assistant, complete with a full benefits package including childcare and a salary that nearly has you falling to your knees.

The flowers on your desk are only the start…

I do also want to apologize that my requests have taken so long to start. I had an absolutely insane workload for school over the last 12 weeks, but thankfully I've got a little break now. That said, my requests are open once again <3

[hughiecampbelle]

Kimiko Getting Attached To You Would Include:

Requested: Heeeeey! Could I request some fluffy familial headcannons please for Kamiko from the boys being like a twin sibling figure to reader? Like r is apart of the boys and Kamiko grows attached to them like a sibling and just looks into their dynamics? - anon

A/N: My love for Kimiko is *unmatched*!!! Thank you for requesting my love! I hope you like it! I'd love more headcanon and preference requests for The Boys!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Requests are open! 🔮

Kimiko was wary of everyone from the beginning

You were careful, not wanting to scare her away, so you kept your distance

You think everyone's out when you play your music, humming and singing along, when she appears out of nowhere

Everyone hated your music. They hated it even more when you sang along. So, you only did it when you were alone, blaring it loudly. When you notice Kimiko you jump, apologizing for bothering her

She just shakes her head, finding the nearest pad of paper. "I like it" she writes and smiles

It's the first show of humanity she's seen from any of you. Butcher was violent and M.M. worried too much, Frenchie had a crush on her and Hughie was pretty subservient. You were different. You weren't scared of her, you weren't intimidated, and you didn't look at her like you wanted to kiss her. You have interests and passions outside of murder. It's new and strange

You show her more from your playlists. It's your only talking point, so you sorta run with it. She gives you thumbs up/down, makes faces when she especially likes or doesn't like them. You try not to nerd out when your favorites play, but you just can't help yourself

When everyone comes back you turn it off, but the connection you made stays

Slowly, she starts to show an interest in you

At first it feels like light stalking: watching you and following you. She's getting to know you, know what makes you tick and smile and laugh

She learns you have poor taste in movies, but excellent taste in music. Puns make you laugh more than they should. Aside from your personal history with Vought, you wouldn't hurt a fly. She decides, in that moment, you'd make a good friend. Ally is the first word that comes to mind, but what she really means is friend

You pick up on her sign language as fast as you can, relying on writing pads or texts when you can't understand

Joking around with her, trying to get her more comfortable around you

"You think Butcher ever washes that coat?"

"Never."

When you really get to know one another, she tells you about her childhood and her brother

In return, you tell her your history with Vought and The Seven and Homelander

Neither of you are particularly proud of what you've done, but you recognize it was out of survival

Always being paired together

With her abilities and your intelligence, you're an unbeatable duo

The Boys start referring to you as Bonnie and Clyde. You're rarely seen without the other

Kimiko does everything she can to protect you. You weren't given V, you're smart and witty and you can get yourself out of a tough situation, but you're human. You're fragile. The thought of being without you would kill her

When you do get hurt she panics. She "yells" at the others to save you, to help, and they do, but it's never good enough for her

"They botched your stitches."

"A scar isn't the end of the world."

You never get used to seeing Kimiko all torn up or bloody. You know she'll get better, but it still makes you sick to your stomach to witness

You know exactly how to make her smile, even when somethings happened and she retreats into herself. She does the same with you

When no one can reach either of you, your friends are at a loss

Going under cover and pretending to be a couple. Neither of you are interested in the other like that, but it's always fun to put on a show

You definitely make fun of her when she wears a dress and heels

"You look like an actual girl!"

"Shut up!"

You never go anywhere without telling the other where. The rest of your friends just assume you've run off, but Kimiko will always know where and why you're leaving

"Where's y/n?"

"I don't know."

"Liar."

"I won't snitch."

When you or her have nightmares, you know you can go to the other

"Bad dream?"

"Yup."

Listening to music together, hoping the images of the nightmare will go away

She likes when you sing. It's off key and not very good, but she finds a lot of comfort in your voice

Encouraging her to go to speech therapy. Not for you or anyone else, but because it would be good for her

Kimiko doesn't ever get sick, but when you are she's incredibly attentive and extremely worried

"You're burning up."

"I'm okay, I promise."

Coming to one another's defense when others get in your face. She's the first to start "yelling" at them when they criticize you

Being asked if you like-like one another at least once a week. Annie assumes you secretly have feelings for one another and Frenchie gets pretty jealous of your relationship, but it's just not how you see one another

She's your twin flame. Not a girlfriend, but you do love her. You love her more than anyone else. You understand one another better than anyone else