#my very first fic!
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granolora · 6 months ago
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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Undertale (Video Game) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Alphys (Undertale), Flowey (Undertale), Endogeny (Undertale), Amalgamate(s) (Undertale) Summary:
"Why, why can't you do it!?"
A One-shot fic i made based off of something a friend of mine said on Discord about Flowey begging Alphys to remove his determination in one of his early runs.
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starry-bi-sky · 29 days ago
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FUNNIEST fucking shit that comes with making Danny eleven years old when he had his accident in "late at night, when the nightingale sings" is the implication following, that everything that happened in the show did too. And I fully intend on (mostly) keeping it like that. There'll be some changes (of which I need to figure out) but for the most part??? Yeah relatively the same.
Like I FULLY intend on keeping Dark Danny occurring 6 months post accident. Do you know how fucking HILARIOUS that is??? That Dan got his ass kicked by a goddamn FIFTH-SIXTH GRADER?? I'd never show my face ever again. Homeboy spent the last ten years being a one-man mass extinction event, only to get his ass beat by a kid who hasn't even lost his last baby tooth. That's hysterical. I'm losing my mind just thinking about it.
AND PARIAH DARK TOO. Imagine being an eons old tyrant capable of dragging whole towns down into your dimension, and you get singehandedly shoved back into your coffin in less than 48 hours by a kid whose bedtime is still 8:30. You didn't even have the time to expand your army! You were still trying to take over the city the kid came from!
And he just!!! Shoves you back in!! Insane! This kid hasn't even been dead for a full year yet! He's still growing in his ghost fangs! And he just knocked you flat on your ass in an oversized mech suit. What the fuck! It's like looking down and seeing a four week old kitten meowing very indignantly at you and trying to bite your feet, except that kitten is also actually a black-footed cat and they have a 60% kill success rate, and oops! Now you're dead. You took too long laughing at the kitten trying to attack you that it clawed up your pant leg and ripped out your throat.
COULD I, realistically, span these episodes out over the course of 2.5 years prior to Danny's family dying?? Yes I could! Do I think it's hilarious (and horribly traumatizing, which makes it twice as fun) to shove all of this into the span of (roughly) a year instead?? Yes. Because the show has such a skewed timeline that I've always just assumed that at the end of the show, Danny was starting his sophomore year in high school. So fuck it, lets go for it!
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soaked-doors · 1 month ago
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“Those two things can exist at the same time. Like you said, it's all—it's all tangled up together, you and me.”
double page spread for one of my favorite luzo fics of all time, poly philtatos (the most beloved by far) by my good friend - @swordsmans!
I knew I wanted to do a double page spread the second I finished this fic and I drafted abt a dozen ideas before landing on what would ultimately become this. There were so many snippets and moments I wanted to illustrate but I ended up doing more of an abstracted version of the fic as opposed to 1:1 drawings of scenes 
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funnily enough while the fic itself is told in zoros pov this spread is framed mostly through luffy’s eyes - his tears literally frame comp for their reunion, the moment he loses zoro, and the centerpiece of the first page which is this weird abstraction of him on the beach seeing zoros corpse-not-a-corpse in the waves just beyond his reach. 
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gyro put the crane wives’ never love an anchor on the playlist for this fic which i heavily used as inspiration in picking ornamental things for the spread (the anchor, the fleet of ships by luffy, and the nautical rope splitting the second page). also just like. overall really heartbreaking lyrics guys 
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there are smaller elements throughout the spread that are 1:1 references though (all i will say for these is if you know, you know hehe) i wish i had more time to do a lengthier piece for fanart for this fic bc it's one of the few luzo fics that have been rattling around in my brain forever now - once again please please please read poly philtatos if you haven't. gyro is a masterful writer and they deserve all the love! ok byeee
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ash-and-starlight · 6 days ago
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Sokka splashed a line of water through his path. The fire fizzled. Zuko’s eyebrow raised, then he forged on. The path zigzagged out of the constellation, hopped eastwards through the galaxy’s north. Hiss. Hiss. Sokka met him each time with a streak of water. Zuko pressed on, building rhythm with each star he joined up.
The Mercy of Magpies Chapter 4 out now!!
as always written by thee @ranilla-bean and betaed by @faux-fires
Chapter Post || Cover || Map and Characters || Ch2 || Ch 3.1 || Ch. 3.2
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choccy-milky · 4 months ago
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💖🎊the end, & thank you for reading!!🎊💖
im so thankful for all the support i got on this story, and i wouldn't have finished it if not for all of you, and for the love i got for seb and clora. so thank you again for giving me the motivation to write this 600k+ monster, and to see it through to the very end. LOVE YALL💖🫶 (ao3/wattpad)
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erabu-san · 6 months ago
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"It is okay to take our time. Please don't be hard on yourself"
+ DOODLES
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hinamie · 5 months ago
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hi!! I love your art and the jjk atla au has grabbed my brain in Ways That I Cannot Explain. i love them sm. also ty for the inuokko promise, bc trust they are my favorite ship ever (sorry itafushi, you guys are second place). i wish you well in the process and hope that everything goes smoothly for you!!!!
!!! thank u so much I'm happy u like my art and our little passion project <3 <3 <3
also. hm . inuokko u say :>
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pov u look up and u see this ^
jjk atla!au with @philosophiums
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bubblingsteam · 6 months ago
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captainkirkk · 1 month ago
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Fic idea: Aang is tasked with finding a missing fire spirit, only to realise that the spirit is needed for an important festival tomorrow
To buy time, someone needs to pretend to be the missing fire spirit. And who else to ask but a descendent of Agni himself? Whether the Fire Royals actually are/aren't direct descendants of Agni is debatable, but they smell different to normal firebenders, enough to briefly pull off the disguise.
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juniemunie · 8 months ago
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Its the kids turn!! ⸜(˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝
i put way too much effort in this
Don't worry they're still FAR from the conventional nuclear family lmao
PJ is by @/7goodangel
Gradient is by @/askcomboclub
Template by @/unu-nunu-art
Error and Fresh by @/loverofpiggies
Ink by @/comyet
Design notes under!
Design Notes for PJ:
-Error patches up the tears on his scarf! Very nice of him to do.
-All the art materials he has stashed on his belt are for food. He likes to snack on em often.
-Because of Error's..."tolerance" of him, he has more strings that he can use. He's got enough to form legs.
-Fresh gifts him magical ink durable Heely shoes! Instead of shedding footprints all over the place, he can instead heely/skate around and leave behind lines. He's creative on using it during battles. He would never admit it, but he appreciates the gift.
Design Notes for Gradient:
-I based his outfit off ye old web aesthetics like Cyber Grunge,,, I really liked the big pants look on him.
-I placed his scarf on his neck to match with his family, but also to match Template's scarf hehe, a little sign of his influence.
-You can't see it but his laptop bag has a ton of pins and merch of random dated internet references.
-His shoes looking old design Ink's shoes were complete accident but I liked it enough to keep anyway. Maybe Ink gave it to him and he spiced it up!
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jethrowest · 7 months ago
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let me see you stripped down to the bone…
- stripped by depeche mode
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congratulations! you’ve been hired as homelander’s entire glam squad! what an opportunity! now let’s try real hard not to let the fumes get to you, okay?
pairing : homelander/afab reader
word count : 5.6k
warnings : homelander in and of himself, toxic workplace environment, something akin to stockholm syndrome, fingering, smut. 18+, mdni
special thanks to @blindmagdalena @sehtoast @homeb0ys and @clockworkzeppelin for letting me scream at you about this!
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Homelander is an asshole.
That doesn’t bother you much. You’ve dealt with plenty in this field, which means you’ve learned how to make life easier for all parties. That particular learning curve includes when to stand out and blend in, at times concurrently depending on what variety of asshole they happen to be.
As a whole, the makeup artists and hairstylists at Vought take care of The Seven and go where they’re needed. And as a cosmetologist, you were hired to provide both services for Homelander and Homelander only, which you consider to be one of the most prestigious stamps one could add to their professional passport.
Before you became official, you were colorfully threatened by a Ms. Ashley Barrett, who, after the fact, had no qualms throwing you into the lion’s den to figure your own shit out.
In no uncertain terms were you told that if you fucked any part of this up, your sparkling resume would look best as something to sit her smooth, bare ass on while getting fucked on top of her desk. No lube or protection. It would then be tossed exactly like her salad.
Not an image you could have ever predicted crossing your mind. Honestly, you should have stopped her right there and walked your happy little ass out of her office toward pastures that might have not been greener (you were being handsomely compensated), but certainly not as toxic. While the red flags were a color you couldn’t quite ignore, you were also curious about why they stood out so much more than they did regarding previous employers.
None of this is to say you live under a rock. Anyone who has access to the internet is ambushed daily by these Supes’ personal lives. Homelander’s track record as far as choice in partners went hadn’t been ideal, so you understand that made him less popular at the time. That of course has nothing to do with you or your capabilities.
You opt to wear gray-colored glasses, seeing everything with a neutral blend of black and white. As much as possible anyway.
Nevertheless, curiosity killed the cat. But hopefully not your career.
The first day was awkward to say the least. Immediately, you knew you weren’t going to like your coworkers.
Glints of sympathy changed how they perceived you. A target, whether they intended for this to happen or not, was nailed to your forehead, and it made them buzz around you like avid, greedy wasps keen on seeing how rapidly the honeybee will be brutalized. You didn’t much care for going cross-eyed while staring at that target whenever you crossed paths. They didn’t know you, yet because of who you were working under, deemed you helpless. They didn’t give you a chance to establish yourself before branding you a victim.
Why should you respect them?
Small talk wasn’t entertained either, as their judgment tarnished any future encounters. They ostracized you once you showed no interest in engaging with them. That didn’t disappoint you. You weren’t here to make friends.
You do wonder how those before you fared: if they were jaded when they arrived or if they couldn’t help but succumb to the pressures of being at the top rung of a very unstable albeit sought after ladder.
Ms. Barrett quickly introduced you to Homelander, her parting gift before leaving the two of you alone.
You weren’t completely nervous in his presence. He wasn’t any different to you than the other celebrities you’d worked on, except he could rip you in half like a piece of paper if he was so inclined. But he’s the hero of this country’s story, so really, you should have nothing to worry about.
His demeanor, you noted, suggested arrogance, annoyance, and boredom. All things you’re used to. So you offered your hand to shake, which he eyed with a slightly upturned nose before grabbing, told him it was a pleasure to meet him and got straight to business.
Looking back, he was clearly expecting more out of you. Maybe not a display as excessive as getting on your knees and professing your undying love, but close enough. Somewhere in the middle, perhaps.
Part of you believes he might have also counted on fear. To you, he’s not anything or anyone unknown. Another big name in a fancy suit with impossible demands.
You were given a routine to follow and products to use. You did as you were instructed and found the process to be simple and, as Homelander’s expression revealed, uninspiring.
While you were utilizing a face brush to apply powder, he must have decided he was done enduring your lack of enthusiasm, because he suddenly asked, “What are you wearing?”
You stopped for a split second, no longer than, and continued. “The name of my clothing designer, you mean?”
He scoffed, waving his gloved hand at you, almost knocking the applicator you held to the ground. “No, your perfume. What are the top notes?”
You laughed and that seemed to confuse him. “Why, you want a bottle?”
“I don’t like it.” He sniffed sharply and cleared his throat. “Smells like you should be on the corner selling your used body parts.”
Ding ding ding. Alarm bells and red flags galore. You enjoy a challenge, however, and are a bit of a masochist, so you persevere.
“Well, what doesn’t smell like a cheap hooker to you? I’ll start wearing that instead.”
He cocked a brow, studying you. Trying to figure out if you were being serious or mocking him.
“It’s your first day.” A warning. “Are you on your best behavior, or can you do better?” He leaned forward in his chair, forcing you backward. “You should be working harder to prove yourself. Prove your worth.” He sat back again and shrugged. “Or maybe you really are worth as much as that dumpster juice you doused yourself in.”
At this point, he more than likely envisioned your happy little ass getting offended and storming out of the room. Breaking down, sobbing. Questioning why he was being so rude. One of those or, better yet, a nifty combination.
You’ve heard worse, unfortunately for him. Not always directed at you, but that doesn’t matter. You can handle it.
“You’re absolutely right,” you stated calmly, folding your arms across your chest. He looked at you with pretentious, petulant intrigue. “It is my first day, and I want to make a good impression. Which is why I’m asking you what you would like me to wear so I can continue to keep that good impression intact and, as our professional relationship develops, stay on top of it.”
Homelander’s mouth twitched. He sighed deeply and slouched in his seat, staring at the wall to the left of him. Then he deigned to cast his gaze back at you, resting his cheek on his index and middle finger. He tapped the arm rest with his other hand.
“Ugh, fine. Whatever.” A pause followed that lasted longer than necessary. Were you meant to guess? “Just wear something, I dunno, less. If you would have done your homework like a good little peon, you’d know I have super senses. Highly developed. Can you even imagine what that entails?”
Finally, he freed the canvas you were nearly finished with, and you flicked the soft bristles across the bridge of his nose. You smiled, more to yourself than him.
Felt rather on the nose, as the saying goes.
He didn’t comment on your grin. You didn’t give him time to. But he did huff like you were being obtuse on purpose.
“I can try. And my imagination is giving me some less-than-ideal scenarios,” you replied. Another pause. At least he was letting you do your job again.
You don’t know what compelled you to keep going, but something about his lack of a real answer made you carry on. “Do you have a favorite flower or baked good? Maybe a spice?”
Homelander almost glared up at you. You say almost because, for whatever reason, it didn’t seem like he was directing that harshness at you, though former words and actions proved otherwise. Something inside, perhaps. Or outside of this enclosed space.
“I already told you what to wear. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
You took the hint and remained quiet the rest of your session. Soon, you were done.
As you were packing and tidying up your station, he took it upon himself to stand behind you. He lingered over your shoulder, watching the scene play out like he was director and star and you were barely an ant on the sidewalk he acknowledged before squashing.
The heat radiating off of him was impossible to dismiss, a wall of it barricading your backside. He clasped his fingers underneath his cape and inched closer. You thought he was as close to you as he could get without touching you. He was that warm.
When you glanced up, he was staring at you through the mirror. As absurd as it was, you managed to get chills. Goosebumps broke the surface of your skin.
“Fresh chocolate chip cookies. Straight out of the oven. Like mom used to make.” He flashed an unnerving smile before turning to exit.
From there on out, even after you bent to his will and found a gourmand scent that matched what he described, Homelander tested you. Your work ethic, clothing choice, eating habits, and most of all, patience.
Your parents would ask how you were liking your job, how it was working alongside the Supes- not to mention the most famous of all- and you’d lie through your teeth. You felt you had no choice, Ashley’s threat ringing in your ears.
Resume, bare ass, tossed salad...
Oh yeah, it’s going great! They’re all super flexible. I couldn’t be happier!
At least that pun made you feel a little better about hiding the shame of what you’ve allowed yourself to take on.
This was all in the first few weeks. It started to get a little easier after that, which is surprising considering more was added to your to-do list.
You should have moved on before starting. But, for whatever asinine reason, you didn’t.
Every time you go back to your apartment and assess your appearance in the bathroom mirror, you wonder who’s making who up here. He’s changing your looks more than you are his. You’re like his human doll.
You’ve put up with a lot over the years, but this takes the cake and shoves it in your face. As fucked as it is, the flavor is growing on you. Like a fungus. Growing, nonetheless.
You can’t stop thinking about him.
It’s innocent enough, you try convincing yourself. Making sure you have the right outfit laid out the night before, the right lunch (no onions or fish or anything “freaky”!), etc. He is your superior, after all. You shouldn’t be viewing him in any other light.
He’s the most frustrating aspect of your existence these days, but he’s also the one you’re around the most. His penchant for workplace gossip and how unintentionally funny he is tends to make him palatable, which has regrettably become an understatement.
Months go by. You’ve witnessed how alone he truly is. How he has nothing outside of performing his tricks on Vought’s all-encompassing stage. And when he begins asking for your input, starts doing things for you that are so blatant it’s perplexing, you find your stress and vexation melting into cumbersome fascination.
It’s embarrassing. You don’t have the courtesy of enough time to dwell on your feelings toward the situation either, from beginning to whatever end you might be met with. You suppose that could be beneficial in the long run.
It also hits you when you least expect it; when you really don’t want it to.
Your body doesn’t wait until you finally have a moment alone. It decides, while you’re helping Homelander with his skincare routine that he insisted upon because you know more than these vacuous corporate douche-bags, to heat up without warning and slither from your head to your heart until it grasps you unfairly between your legs.
You try not to step into momentary paralysis. You understand to what extent his powers reach. It’s not like he doesn’t go on and on about them. About himself.
Whatever he notices, it’s not right away. A palpable tension fills the air between the two of you eventually. But it takes a more significant amount of time than you would have anticipated to permeate the natural flow of things.
Fuck, you can’t even be safe inside here, where your thoughts, whatever they may be, are yours. You can’t even have yourself. He has every part of you, and you are willingly relinquishing that control.
Your evening, once you can have it, consists of combing over every decision you’ve made leading up to this strange, disorienting space you find yourself occupying. All it does is leave you exasperated in a much different way than before and with an unsettling observation (or hallucination):
Was that the tail end of the American flag outside your window?
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You are unacceptably late.
Rushing around, you throw on the first top and bottoms you see from your closet and spritz some perfume on your neck and wrists. You don’t check your phone. You’re afraid of what will pop up on your screen. And, frankly, you don’t have the time.
Your only option for transportation is the subway, as you’re sure the special vehicle from Vought is long gone. Why would they wait for someone like you, even if you’re practically Homelander’s personal assistant? One of his only friends. You doubt he has more than Black Noir, and that isn’t as perfect as it appears to the casual viewer.
You dread what kind of explosion you’re without a doubt walking into once you show your miserable ass up. You’re going to smell like everyone on this train. He’s going to go ballistic.
The question remains: why are you continuing to put yourself through this? It’s not your circus, yet somehow, the monkeys have become your liability.
You know, deep down, what keeps you going back. It’s simply too ridiculous to admit aloud.
Making your way past security, hurriedly presenting your badge, you realize you forgot to brush your teeth, or at the very least, gargle some mouthwash. You thank your lucky stars when you open your purse to a pack of gum tucked away in one of the compartments.
It will have to do.
When you open the door to Homelander’s dressing room, you see a couple of employees standing near the counter where the bag of supplies has been opened and rifled through, looking like they might soil themselves, a frantic Ashley, and an extremely pissed off Homelander in the middle of it all.
Reflexively, you cringe. You attempt to wipe any trace from your features, but it’s too late. Ashley is glaring daggers at you and Homelander can hardly bring himself to look in your direction. The others don’t matter to you. They never did.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. I know there’s no excuse-”
“You’re goddamned right, there’s no excuse! I don’t give a shit if god and his whole fucking choir of angels came down from heaven and divinely called you to give them a makeover! What were you thinking?!”
You’re about to answer, though you comprehend her query is more or less rhetorical. She interrupts your slightly open mouth while gesturing wildly, proving your point.
“Oh, that’s right! You weren’t thinking at all, were you?! But I do believe you’ve thought long and hard about what’s at stake here. And you know damn well we at Vought don’t tolerate this kind of sloppy behavior. Not to mention the way you’re dressed! It’s adding insult to injury!” Her hand swipes at the air, the length of your outfit, and you glance down, recognizing how comically mismatched you are. Her correct observation affects you more than it would have months prior, stinging your ego- one of the many things that’s been shelved in order to accommodate the person who won’t even grace you with a glance.
A dramatic groan cuts short any further commentary from the redhead, perpetually stretched thin between her absurd duties.
“Jesus Christ, Ashley, why are your big fucking horse gums still flapping?” Homelander’s booming voice slices through your mind like a jarring, dense migraine. He pinches his brow between middle finger and thumb, eyes closed. “I want you and Tweedledee and Tweedledum t’get the fuck out. Now.”
Ashley is plainly dumbfounded, struggling to see where she went wrong (a pattern when it comes to dealing with the volatile leader of The Seven), mouth agape. She shakes her head. “But sir, are you-?”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about or doing. Clearly.”
Ms. Barrett turns a shade paler, staring at Homelander and blinking owlishly before snapping herself out of her stupor. She hurries her lackeys out of the room, shooing them along like a pair of misbehaving toddlers. She doesn’t give a final look, no further warning. She merely shuts the door behind her.
You also hear it lock.
What the hell does she think is going to happen?
You should have stopped this while you had the chance. You should have never taken this job. You should have stood up for yourself and walked out. You should have you should have you should-
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
His caustic tone sends shivers down your spine. It’s unlike anything you’ve heard come out of him. And you’ve heard enough.
Again, you open your mouth. It fills with blood, thick and metallic and more potent than the mint from your gum. You’re silenced by it.
He stalks toward you and grabs you hastily by the shoulders, swiveling you around so you’re face-to-face with the choices you’ve made. Your mirrored image is reflected back at you, exhausted and searching for any last shred of who you might be beneath his heavy palms.
“Look at yourself! Do you even recognize who’s staring back at you?” No.
“What kind of game are you playing, hmmm? Is this… humiliating spectacle you’re putting on for the money? Your pathetic career? Like it’s goddamned rocket science to pick up a can of hairspray and use it. Monkeys have hands.” He makes a noise that’s akin to a snorting horse, exhaling forcefully past his nostrils. “I mean, did you really think you could pull a fast one on me?” He clutches your jaw, squeezing it between middle and thumb. Every muscle in your body tenses, your heart picking up rhythm.
“Spit that fucking gum out. Don’t think I can’t hear you grinding it between your molars like a dumb animal. You aren’t a mama bird, are you? Y’don’t have cute little baby birds t’force-feed your regurgitated leftovers, do you? Eugh, gross.”
You take a deep breath and exhale through your nose. It presents you with a false sense of security. You do as you’re told, and it lands on the floor in front of your shoe, saliva dangling on a thread as withered as your sanity.
Suddenly fresh breath seems like the most insignificant issue, when Homelander himself once made it out to be something earth-shattering.
You’re such a fool.
He leans in and sniffs your throat. Your fingers lengthen and bend.
You’re so many things at once. Confused, angry, nervous, scared. And, to your dismay, warm. God you’re so fucking warm. He’s heating you up from the inside out. You clench your jaw, still held in place by a firm bind.
“Get rid of those ugly clothes. I don’t care what you have to do. I can’t stand the sight or smell of them.”
You shut your eyes. When you open them, all you see is red. The other emotions are smothered in favor of that brand of heat. What happens next is a blur. You temporarily leave yourself.
“Fine. Have it your way, Homelander. You always do.”
Breaking free of his fluctuating hold, you start tearing at what you’re wearing, tossing everything- including your bra and underwear- to the ground. Your shirt winds up with the gum sticking to its loose fabric. You even take your shoes and socks off, not paying any heed to where your belongings go. Just that they’re gone.
You don’t process the glaring fact that you made yourself naked in front of your boss. In front of the most powerful man this country, and possibly world, has known. You don’t care that things have escalated this far. That they shouldn’t have. They shouldn’t have. But guess what? They did. And these are the consequences you both have to deal with.
“You wanna know what game I’m playing?” You turn around, forcing him backward. “It’s funny, I thought you’d be able to answer that for me, considering all the hoops I’ve had to jump through to not only save my ass, but make sure you had someone to talk to at the end of the day! Who on your team can you say goes above and beyond like that for you?!” He blinks at you now, eyes wide. Features fall to the floor where your clothes reside. You have his full and undivided attention.
An impressively dangerous thing to have.
“What more do you want from me, Homelander? I practically live with you without any of the benefits that usually includes! You’re really going to stand here and berate me like I haven’t given you fucking everything you’ve ever asked me for? Because I made one mistake? I gave up my entire world, which I know doesn’t mean shit to you. But it does to me.”
You fold your arms over your chest. Nothing covers it. You have to know before you lose all dignity. So you ask once more, hoping it won’t get lost in this bizarre mess.
“What do you want from me?”
Nothing. He can’t stop staring at you. You aren’t aware enough to be ashamed, but you are aware enough to be upset.
His infuriating silence compels you to bend down and gather what was a barrier between the two of you. You are no longer needed if he can’t do what he does best, which is spout off, leaking bottled words everywhere like a broken faucet. It’s a pretty simple question, you think.
That’s when the glass behind you shatters.
You flinch, pause what you’re doing and slowly stand. Cautious in whatever your next approach will be.
Surveying the aftermath, you’re relieved to find that you’re far enough away from the mirror so no injuries were inflicted.
When you finally lock eyes with the source, you see red. The atmosphere surrounding you heaves like the distended belly of a rotting corpse; hisses like an overflowing tea kettle; pierces you like lightning.
Homelander’s expression is rigid. His jaw quivers. Irises are a bright, shining scarlet. If you try anything rash, you might be next. But, having been around him for so long, you’re more inclined to believe he’s having trouble processing his own emotions. And that might have been one of the only ways to release them.
You drop the top and pants you managed to reclaim. Your brain hasn’t fully recovered from the constant devastating hit it’s taken, so you don’t want to put a name to what’s pushing you forward. You don’t stop until you’re directly in his line of vision.
Swallowing, you carefully extend your hand. The ruby color begins to crumble and give way to the vast ocean you might have drowned in one too many times. You lost track, blocking what you could out. Too real and intimate to accept for a realm that thrives off of inauthenticity and misfortune.
Homelander inhales harshly and you retreat, pupils hooking themselves to his. Searching for any sign you shouldn’t be right where you are.
Of course there are several; unfortunately, you are currently blind to them. Blind to everything but him.
That’s how it’s been for awhile, hasn’t it?
He has a habit of not granting you the luxury of time.
Quickly, he snatches your wrist and brings your palm flat against his cheek. He exhales, eyelids fluttering, nuzzling into you.
It’s so simple, yet it disarms you in ways you aren’t accustomed to.
Homelander basks in this chaste display of affection, and so do you, in awe of how enraptured he appears. Soaking you inside of his pores.
In turn, your cognizance reappears. You nearly topple over, realization infiltrating every part of you.
You’re not wearing a stitch.
A knock at the door startles you both. You glance over in that general direction and hear from the other side, “You’re on in fifteen, Homelander, sir!”
Gazing back up at him, you witness that same fire expand at a rapid rate. You use your other hand to bring him back down to reality, to ground him. It rests against his chest, delving into and cracking his ribs, flaying him open.
What strikes you is how vigorously his heart is beating. How you can feel it through his uniform.
This is how much you affect him. (Can you fathom that you’re only privy to a fraction?) Having evidence of the tiniest reciprocation drains you of any unwanted discomfort.
His fury subsides. You breathe out. He does, too.
“Go sit in your chair. I came here to do my job, after all.” The tenderness with which you speak seems to ease him further, his shoulders deflating with each word.
That aside, you’re playing with a lit match. You’re unsure who’s going to set who ablaze, but you’re willing to go down with this entire building to find out.
He does as he’s told, watching you the whole way like a mutilated mixture of a snarling cornered animal and a man fervently in love. He almost trips into his seat, not an ounce of grace in his gait.
Sacrificing his entire image just to get a glimpse of you.
Whipping his cape to the side, he sinks into the cushion. You get things ready as you typically do, your movements a bit jittery from the adrenaline sending haphazard jolts to your limbs. Despite this, you’re focused. You are more focused than you remember ever being.
You work efficiently, keeping in mind the limit that’s been put on your time.
Homelander bores holes through you. He doesn’t need lasers for that. You’re exposed and vulnerable and he pries what he fostered apart until it’s distinguishable by no one else but him.
You relearn his perfectly manufactured features. Different lights shape shadows you either haven’t seen before or feigned ignorance of. You commit to memory how he looks, smells, feels, the side of your hand grazing his cheek and hanging on.
He’s invigorating, your excitement building to a crescendo you can’t neglect. The heat in your core disperses, most of it congregating low in your belly and behind your expanding rib cage. His pupils drink you in, urgently and violently.
Your arousal is heady. He licks his lips. A hint of a whine caresses your ears and it makes you dizzy.
How could you have ever denied yourself?
You decide to take further control, testing the waters to a greater extent.
It’s your turn to watch him the whole way down. You straddle him, easing yourself atop his taut thighs.
After a few moments of humoring yourself, of pretending to concentrate on your work, dusting his nose with powder, you straighten. Eye contact has not been severed.
You motion toward his hands, balled into tense, repressed fists at his sides.
“Take off your gloves.”
Initially, it feels like maybe you said the wrong thing, or said it the wrong way. He doesn’t budge. You’re patient, however, so you wait like you’ve always done, the warmth from your cunt mingling with the hardness beneath you. Your mouth waters.
At last, Homelander nods and removes his gloves, tugging on the index of each. He places them on the armrests and transfixes himself to you once more.
“Do you want to touch me?” you ask, voice and body staying impossibly still in spite of your nerves.
Immediately, he shakes his head, “Yes,” the first time he’s spoken since your outburst, and without hesitation, reaches for your chest. You close your eyes, falling into his snooping lifts and tugs and squeezes, giving yourself permission to become possessed by the inhibited imaginations of how selfish, how rapacious his touches might be. How smooth his bare hands are, how ardent each digit is.
Leaning into you, he sucks one nipple into his mouth and palms the other, moaning and vibrating against your flesh. He digs his fingers into the pliant softness of your hip, steadying you with disciplined pressure. You squirm, attuned to every minuscule shift.
The lit match is tilted toward you now, swift and stunning. Your fingers release the brush you’ve been holding. It aligns with the slit of the cushion, forgotten and purposeless.
You wrap your digits around the hand on your curves and guide him toward your throbbing center. He doesn’t fight you. Doesn’t stop your movements. Doesn’t scold or challenge you. Instead, he curls his fingers in a way that makes you unabashedly moan, cupping your folds and pinning his thumb to your clit, adapting to your anatomy.
Your wants.
It seems like breaking away from you is a daunting task, but he does for a moment, brow furrowed, more engrossed and invested than you’ve ever witnessed.
“Fuck.” The curse sounds downright edible, your new favorite flavor. Your name tumbles from his lips like he’s been practicing, a sweet, rich icing on top. You gasp, his tongue adhering to you again, swirling around your peak before lightly biting it.
Rocking your hips back and forth, side-to-side, you grind hard into his palm. He strokes you like he’s studied what pace you prefer, how much friction you crave. You’re so wet, even you’re thrown off by it.
Once he’s finished with your chest, he’s back against the seat, unable to peel his gaze from you. Your full, swollen, glistening breasts.
His mouth hangs open, obscene, desperate whimpers slipping from it. Pupils are like whirlpools that drive you under. Drive you mad.
Homelander adeptly slips two, three digits inside your sopping cunt, unrelenting in his intentions to make up for lost time. The voracity of his actions propels you forward, balancing against his chest. He grasps and pulls at your other hip, groaning loudly in your ear, confirming his approval of how close you are to him.
It’s still not enough.
Pulling you even tighter to his blinding sun of a body, he encloses his free arm around you and desperately bucks his waist. “I want… I want… I want…” he chants. Your nails drag up his neck and along his scalp, overwhelmed by his warmth, his scent, him. Your lips ghost the sliver of skin above his collar, making him growl.
You anticipate and dread and yearn for what’s been building for so long. You clench and release, clench and release, clench and release, body chanting with him.
You’re intuitively thankful for the chair’s sturdiness; however, if it would have collapsed, you’re honestly not sure you would have noticed. Or cared.
You hear him come first. Feel the temperature rise temporarily. It’s so sudden and all-consuming that you naturally follow, his name an instinct you can’t help but divulge. You haven’t come down from the turbulent emotions rushing through you earlier, and that combination catapults you over the edge.
Your orgasm draws more deliberate, vehement grunts and sighs of satisfaction from him, as if your pleasure is inexplicably the same or worth more than his.
You can’t crumple into a boneless heap like you want to. You just can’t. You have to look at him. Look at his bliss; the glazed, barren-yet-so-full-of-you expression, of what these months of working in close quarters have done to him.
What you uncover is not what you were picturing. There’s a mixture of that haze with something almost apologetic below the teeming surface. Clouds of red to skies of blue. Destructive in and of themselves.
Sliding his fingers from your wetness, he wraps his lips around each one that was inside of you and spreads them apart. Your slick sticks to his glossy skin and stretches between digits, a generous amount. You whimper at the loss- the emptying, hollow feeling- and watch, mesmerized and delirious as he savors you.
Swallowing you whole, Homelander sweeps his knuckles across the apple of your cheek and presses his lips hard against yours. He wastes no time inhaling your gasps and moans, licking your mouth and the faint taste of mint, stealing it from you. You ingest what you can of him as well, exploring what was open to you longer than you realized.
He then seizes your wrists. It’s a rough gesture that evaporates into gentle circles along your pulse points. Still, you know you’re going to bruise where he turned the key and locked you into place: wherever he is.
A visible sheen coats his lips.
“I want you to tell me I’m good. Great. The best.”
His breathing is labored. So is yours.
He kisses the inside of the wrist smeared with perfume, your fluids, his saliva; ends with your hand and rests his cheek against the slope of it.
“I want you to be mine. All mine. Mine alone.”
You’re shaking. He moves forward and pets your hair, twirls it; grabs your nape and holds his thumb to the front of your throat. Securing you. Keeping you there.
“You have to stay. Be mine and stay.”
You thrum with an ache he forced upon you. He’ll claim you were starving and he was the only one who could satiate.
You nod. You were never going to leave to begin with.
Homelander made you his. And you thanked him for it.
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a-most-beloved-fool · 5 days ago
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tos jim kirk is very funny to me because he is so bad with children. you'd think he'd be good with them, but he isn't. i think he probably likes them well enough, he just. doesn't know how to talk to them. not one bit. has no idea how to interact. kids can tell he's trying, but he's bad enough at it that they don't really like him more for it. type of guy who you'd hand a baby to, and he'd hold it out in front of him with stiff arms. like, um. what do i do with this. he could be coached on proper holding technique, but he'd still look visibly uncomfortable the whole time.
tos spock is Not Much Better. i think that he feels more clueless around kids than kirk does, but kids also like him more. he doesn't have it in him to be mean to a child ever, so all the awkward kids adore him, and he spends the whole time with them sending desperate looks to other crew members, being like, 'help, i am ill equipped for childcare' and everyone around him is like, 'nooo, you're doing great!!!' while the child has a blast and he is wishing desperately to be Anywhere Else. however, he does refuse care of babies. somehow, he is even worse with babies than jim is.
bones, though - he's a kid guy. he loves kids and babies. he adores them, they adore him, it's a win win. and he looks over at kirk and spock Struggling and he laughs and laughs and laughs. (the kids, of course, think this is hilarious, and they join in on making fun of kirk and spock, even if they don't really know what they're making fun of them for.)
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gomzdrawfr · 1 month ago
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content warning: blood
Loyal to a fault
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bonus + other versions:
Bonus:
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Alt:
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the words on Ghost's body reads:
LOVE (level of violence)
it takes a monster to destroy a monster (poorly cropped i apologize)
Loyal Dog
Vēnor (Latin verb for hunt, chase)
this is something very different to what I usually do I hope yall don't mind....also this was me when I was sharing this with my friends...because priceghost/ghostprice dynamic really gets a grip on me
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mewmewdoppio · 2 months ago
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Concept art for my AU I'm working on. I have over 6 pages of notes with plot points you guys wouldn't believe.
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feathercreates · 4 months ago
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"Old friend... I miss you so much. I'm so sorry."
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plagalkey · 4 months ago
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my lovely talented friend wrote an F1 AU fic focused on oikage's time at red bull racing!!!
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