#shrill season 3

[ssahotchnerr]

omg could you maybe write something about reader going to one of jacks soccer games and all of the moms are jealous of her bc she’s with hotch

not so friendly competition

omg i absolutely can cw; fem!reader, jealous suburban moms, one tries to make a pass at aaron, established relationship, small angst?, pettiness, aaron being adorable <3 wc; 1.3k

from the moment you arrived - a hand clasped in aaron's, jack excitedly sprinting ahead the two of you - you could feel the target on your back.

the warm, refreshing morning suddenly felt quite stuffy. as if strangely enough, there wasn't enough air to go around. the feeling especially solidified when aaron gave you a sweet, parting kiss - him off to uphold his coaching duties, you off to find a spot on the grass to set up your chair.

you half expected it, the feeling out of place and self consciousness; this was jack's second season playing soccer, aaron's second season coaching, and most of the players had returned from last year. long story short, and entering a relationship with aaron only a few weeks after jack's season had concluded, you were the new face.

not only that, you were missing a common trait amongst the others. you weren't, by definition, jack's mom.

it was a silly, technical notion, and it was quite possible you weren't the only outlier, but you simply wanted to belong there just as much as the others. to feel as if you belonged.

and that's definitely not how you currently felt.

despite your perception - hoping you had falsely and quickly misjudged the atmosphere - you offered the moms a smile and a hello as you got settled. you got maybe one, two responses in return, before they resumed their ongoing conversation without you. any hopefulness that remained, deflated as you sat there silently.

and while you weren't exactly listening to them, you could still make out bits and pieces of their conversation. however, your ears fully perked up at the mention of aaron. which also brought you into the discussion.

"you're with the coach?"

her question wasn't based on genuine interest, a getting-to-know-type basis, a friendly conversation starter. but, it was rather accusatory, as if you'd done something detrimentally wrong.

you nodded, your eyebrows furrowing briefly in confusion. "yes?"

"like... with him?"

oh.

the standoffish environment wasn't due to you being unwelcome, or, at least not in the way you had previously anticipated. it was jealousy, plain jealousy. they must've spent all of last season ogling aaron, and here you were, getting in the way.

again, you nodded in confirmation. a few grimaces were produced amongst several faces, igniting something deep within you, suddenly feeling very protective of aaron and your relationship.

you casually shot back, relentlessly, "why, is that a problem?"

the mom shrugged, pulling her eyes from yours annoyingly, as if you'd done her an injustice.

she didn't stop there though, uttering something under her breath. while you didn't hear what it was exactly - the low tone definitely indicated she had just insulted you in one way or another.

and choosing to remain on the civil side, you held your tongue.

the whispers continued sparingly; as much as it stung, and as much as the red-hot feeling that had settled in your body was uncomfortable, why should you let it affect you? they weren't a threat, they were suburban moms - probably peaked in high school, probably relied off their husband's salary, probably thought they were better than each and every person they came across.

you could be annoyed, but you weren't worried. the bigger picture, you had what they wanted; you had aaron. you've already won, despite any fights they attempted to pick.

"i need to stretch my legs." the same woman abruptly said, loudly to gain your interest.

she promptly rose, walking towards the team's bench. or more specifically, right up to aaron.

she was quick to strike up a conversation with him - overdramatizing her already-shrill laugh, displaying open body language, the sweetest smile she could muster up.

what did you in, a 'friendly' touch to his arm before she retreated, whenever she finished saying whatever the hell was so important she had felt the need to interrupt his coaching for.

and throughout such, aaron appeared as his typical friendly self as he engaged with her, as expected. although a look of confusion did flash across his face when she graced his arm.

your jaw clenched in anger, but you kept reminding yourself: her actions were just to spite you, just to piss you off, and you refused to give her the reaction she seemingly so desperately craved.

so when she returned, with an awfully smug look plastered on her face and dropping into her chair with a sense of pure satisfaction, you kept your focus forward. you came to watch jack's game, and that's exactly what you were going to do.

but during the mid-game break, once aaron had finished talking with the kids and they sprinted back onto the field to practice some goals, did you approach him.

"hi sweetheart," aaron mumbled into your skin as he kissed your temple, one of his hands comfortably finding your back. "enjoying the game?"

you nodded, offering him a timid smile.

"what's wrong?"

"nothing." you lied, tucking yourself into his chest. you took a deep breath and sighed, smelling the traces of light sweat and grass clinging to him.

"you don't think i buy that, do you?" he asked, a gentle, almost comical tone to his words - all to lighten up your present tension. "what is it?"

you shook your head, "i don't want to talk about it..." your eyes shot over to your new best friends, whose eyes were glued to the two of you. "here."

aaron glanced over at them, profiling immediately. "are they giving you a hard time?"

after a moment's hesitation, an annoyed huff escaped you. "let's just say they're not too happy that the coach is taken."

"what?" aaron laughed breathlessly, his face scrunching the smallest amount in confusion. "half of them are married."

"clearly that doesn't matter, they're still over there undressing you with their eyes." you arched an eyebrow, the scowl on your face only deepening.

"c'mon, you're too pretty to make that face." aaron lightly teased, kissing your pout gently. at the touch, your face did relax, the ends of your lips itching to turn upwards into a smile.

"oh they're gonna hate that you did that."

aaron shrugged, kissing you again. "let them."

you surrendered yourself to your smile, but you still frustratedly crossed your arms in front of your chest. "it's ridiculous."

aaron was quick to untangle your hands, holding onto them and applying a gentle squeeze. "you know you don't have competition. you have me."

"i know. that's why i feel so stupid i'm letting it bother me." you gritted through your teeth. "what did that one woman even say to you?"

"truthfully, i couldn't tell you. i wasn't paying attention." he answered honestly, his eyebrows drawing into a line as he even attempted to mentally recall it.

you couldn't help but laugh, pressing yourself more into him. "you're insufferable."

"i try." aaron joked, but his expression switched tactics, to genuine concern as he moved in front of you, "in all seriousness, are you going to be okay?"

"yeah." you brought your hands to his chest, running your thumbs against his pecs affectionately. you already were. "i have you, don't i?"

"and you could always stay here with me." aaron playfully, but earnestly offered. "and be my beautiful, thoughtful, astounding, beautiful assistant coach."

"you drive a hard bargain," your eyebrows rose, feeling his chuckle underneath your fingers. "but it's okay. i'm not gonna let them think they're running the show, or that they can step on me like that." you shook your head. "and as needed, i might have to flaunt you around."

aaron grinned, proudly. "that's my girl."

[vampiefemme]

a soft n smutty piece for fall coziness… <3 the changing seasons always make me feel melancholic and i feel like ellie would take care of r if she was the same :)

tw: depression, nsfw, 18+ only

the sun filters into your bedroom through the half-drawn curtains, a warm glow that paints everything golden. you stretch out under the covers, hand reaching for sunlight, palm open against the blankets as warmth envelops your fingers. numb with cold, you defrost.

even as your hand soaks in the warmth of the sun, guilt twists inside you, ice cold. the phone in the kitchen has rung out three separate calls today, shrill and blaring in the silence of your apartment; you've melted too deep into the mattress to answer. the kitchen may as well be miles away.

she’s probably worried, you fret. what if she thinks i’m dead? i need to call her back.

but as much as you want to force yourself to leave the comfort of your duvet, the you-shaped crater in the bed, you can’t do it. you just can’t.

you’re not surprised when you hear the sounds of your girlfriend’s arrival, ellie’s key scraping the lock before she swings the door open. you’d given her your spare key months ago. she’d only used it on days like this.

you hear the rustle of plastic, the harried zips and thumps of ellie removing her boots at the front door. and then she’s appearing in your doorway, her face twisted with worry; brows drawn together, lips turned downward. she looks heartbroken.

“baby,” she says, voice tinged with a cocktail of equal parts relief and concern, “god, i thought you were—”

“dead?” you interject. your voice softens when you add, “i’m okay, el. i’m sorry i didn’t pick up the phone.”

“no, it’s okay, don’t worry.” she pads over the worn carpet, plastic bag crinkling at her side as she approaches you on the bed. “i brought breakfast.”

she holds up the bag for emphasis; you can see three to-go boxes inside. the smell of hash browns and scrambled eggs and pancakes wafts out towards you, and you hate the way it makes your mouth water. she knows breakfast is your favorite. you can hardly resist it, even this late in the day, as the sun sets outside your window.

“thank you.” you smile up at her. it’s forced—it doesn’t meet your eyes. she notices, because she always does.

“you don’t have to eat right now,” she clarifies. hazel eyes swoop over the bed, appraising the blankets splayed out over you in disarray, and she hesitates. you hold out your hand for her in encouragement. “come here, ellie.”

so she does. she sets the bag of breakfast food on the nightstand, then climbs over you with a clumsiness that seeps through her caution. you smile. genuinely. and then she’s kissing you, soft lips pressed to yours as her auburn locks tickle your cheeks. the kiss is gentle and languid, slow and soft and encouraging. she tastes like home, and you realize you’ve been aching for this feeling all day, body numb in the confines of your bedroom. you lose yourself in her kiss, sighing deep through your nose. her tongue is warm and wet against your lower lip; she works your mouth open and licks into you, sending heat rushing to your belly where it pools like molten gold.

you’ve found yourself in a haze lately: a fog so thick that it blurs out all feeling, leaving you spent in the silence of your apartment even after days of doing nothing. days of just thinking.

but ellie breaks through the fog as her hands cup your face, thumbs brushing soothingly over the apples of your cheeks. her tongue slides deliciously over yours and you moan without thinking. she freezes for just a moment. she draws back and you nearly whine, eyes barely opening to peer up into his.

“we don’t have to do anything,” she assures you as she leans forward to kiss the bridge of your nose. “not if you’re feeling down.”

your heart swells with affection for her: her disheveled hair, her soft gaze, her flushed lips swollen from kissing. her consideration for you. her love.

“but i want to,” you breathe. “i want it, ellie.”

so she disappears into the crook of your neck, the warmth of her mouth sending a shiver rocking through you as she presses kisses to your sensitive skin. each kiss gets more heated, her lips parting to suckle on the flesh right over your pulse. you moan and she pauses before murmuring against your throat, “are you sure?”

you nod almost frantically. “i’m sure, i’m sure.”

it doesn’t take long for her to undress you, which you’re grateful for. she works your shirt off and rolls your panties down your thighs, her hands smoothing back up over the supple skin.

on days like this, when you’re hardly afloat in the tidal wave of your melancholy, she tends to hold you with gentle wariness, as if you’d shatter if she moved too quickly. and you love it. the obvious adoration in her gentleness, in the need to take things slow.

but you decide you don’t want that today.

when her face is within reach again, you pull her in for a heated kiss. it quickly evolves into all tongue and spit and teeth, your lips smacking audibly as you trail your hands down her sides. you grip the soft cotton of her shirt and slowly pull it upwards, exposing inch by inch of pale, freckled skin, and when your fingers brush over her ribs, you feel the slow shudder that afflicts her. her body responding so instantly to your touch makes you dizzy with arousal; that pool of heat in your stomach grows ever-larger. it doesn’t help that she’s touching you too, the calloused pads of her fingers delicious against your skin. she grips and squeezes you in all the right places, drawing sharp breaths and high moans from your throat as her hands explore every inch of you.

suddenly, it’s hard to remember what came before this. the haze that had lingered over you for days. all you can think about is the feeling of ellie’s body against yours, her jeans scratchy as she rocks her hips down to yours. you hook your legs around her waist, bare cunt desperate for friction, even through a layer of denim.

you pull back from rushed, sloppy kisses to gasp at the sensation—you shamelessly rub yourself against her through her jeans, unable to find it in you to worry about the mess you’re making. ellie watches you in awe, your eyes half-lidded as your hips roll upward, your pretty lips parted in a delicate “o” shape.

“fuck it,” she rasps, and she’s lurching back to sit up on her heels, ripping her clothes off in a blur of fabric. her shirt falls off first, and then she works her way out of her jeans, so eager she stumbles a few times. you beam at her, eyes clouded with lust, and when she finds her way back between your legs, the feeling of her bare skin against yours has you gushing impossibly wetter. you find yourself in the same position as before, only now without the barrier of ellie’s clothes between you. you grind yourself up against her, twitching and gasping each time her pelvis glides over your clit; you can feel how wet you are, how messy you’re leaving her. and she can feel it, too, evident each time she moves her hips against yours and moans with her head tucked against your shoulder.

your impatience is a balloon that’s been filled and filled and filled, and it finally pops. you reach between your writhing bodies to ellie’s cunt; her teeth close around your shoulder when you give her clit a few slow strokes, fingertips pressing hard into the bundle of nerves. she soothes her bite with her tongue and then laughs under her breath, uttering lowly, “i’m sorry, fuck, just feels good.”

you hum in response, pausing to reach into the nightstand drawer, where you keep a harness and strap for situations like this. she draws in a shaky breath, turning her head to kiss your neck again, tongue circling your skin before she pulls back to slip into the harness. then she’s back on you, pulling you in for another heated kiss as she drags the tip of the strap through your folds and up to the bud of your clit. you’re soaked everywhere, and her cock feels so smooth as it glides effortlessly over you; you’re barely breathing.

ellie’s voice is in your ear, quiet but thick with lust. “let me eat you out first.”

and it sounds amazing, it really does. any other time, you’d relent, let her mouth at your cunt for hours until you’re so fucked-out you can’t think straight. but that’s not what you need right now.

“i need you inside me,” you tell her, voice low and sultry, almost unrecognizable from its usual timbre. ellie hears it, too, the husk in your tone making her grit her teeth with a low, gravelly moan. “shit, baby—can’t say no to that.”

she slides into you so easily, your cunt opening smoothly around her as she pushes in to the hilt. you both sigh in pleasure, you at the feeling of being so deliciously full, her at the satisfaction of watching your expression dissolve into pure bliss.

“so fuckin’ wet, goddamn,” ellie murmurs. she draws back only to fuck into you again, and you whine when she brushes up against the end of you. the spot that only she can find. that only spurs her on—she starts fucking you in earnest without much buildup, too pent up to be patient and slow and intentional. she knows what you want, you realize, flooded with arousal as her hips slam into yours. her strap drags perfectly through you, so deep you see stars behind fluttering eyelids.

“ellie,” you moan, brows pinched together, mouth hanging open.

she doesn’t slow down, skin smacking against skin as she fucks herself into you. “what do you need, baby? i’ll give it to you. i’ll give you anything.”

another moan tears out of your throat at her words, your arms moving up to snake around her neck and reel her in for another sloppy kiss. “more,” you gasp, your foreheads pressed together, slick with sweat. “more, please, more.”

ellie gives you one last, searing kiss, then pulls back to readjust. she stills inside you while she grabs hold of your legs, palms squeezing the doughy flesh of your thighs before she pushes them toward your chest. your knees are up by your shoulders like this, and you reach your hands around to support yourself, though your own touch can’t rival her. “good girl,” she praises when she notices what you’re doing, allowing your hands to replace her. she instead brings her attention to your hips, holding them still while she pulls almost all the way out and fucks back into you. and it’s rougher, now, more intentional. ellie moves faster, harder; you cry out a blissful oh my god, tears burning in your eyes from the sheer pleasure of it.

this is it—this is what you needed. and ellie gives it to you exactly how you want it, her body smacking against your ass and the backs of your thighs, her cock hitting that sweet spot within you so rhythmically that you find your brain is entirely empty. the ceaseless noise in your head has quieted, in its place is sheer pleasure.

your release sneaks up on you; you’re not thinking straight, overwhelmed with lust and the warmth it floods through your veins. you come suddenly but with so much force it nearly knocks the wind out of you. squirming and shaking under ellie’s towering form, your cunt spasms around the silicon cock and she groans out in delight.

spent, ellie lowers her weight on you, still careful not to crush you beneath her. you’re both catching your breath, but she can’t drive away the urge to kiss you. slower, this time. more loving.

“hey,” she says, “i love you.”

you smile against her lips, giving her another few pecks before you tell her, “i love you too.”

her arms are warm, lithe, and strong around you, holding you as close as she can. but when you start to wiggle underneath her, she groans in disapproval.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i just—i really wanna eat some pancakes.”

[helaintoloki]

Keep Your Enemies Closer

pairing: sparrow!ben x reader

warnings: language, angst, suggestive content, minor spoilers

notes: the new season has brought me back from the dead so pls send in any tua requests you have <3 also this technically could be read as a sequel to relenting

summary: attending Grace’s birthday party forces you to confront the man you’ve been trying your hardest to avoid

The scent of pizza and spilled soda invades your senses as you help continue to set up birthday decorations in Lila’s absence. You have no idea where she’s run off to now, but you hope that taking over the rest of the work load will ease some of the stress from the tired mother’s shoulders.

The party center is loud, shrill shrieks of kids and music blasting from the arcade games splitting your ears and giving you a headache, and you’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t rather be anywhere else but in some children’s play place. But, you are Grace’s favorite aunt, and you firmly believed in always showing up for family, so here you are.

Just as you finish setting the last place mat on the kid’s table an overly excited voice calls your name from the back of the room. A smile creeps upon your lips at the familiarity, but it immediately drops when you see that it’s not just Luther heading your way but also the man you loathe with your entire being.

“Hey, you made it!” Luther cheers animatedly before pulling your tense body into a tight bear hug. “It’s so nice to see you, y/n.”

“It’s nice to see you too, big guy,” you agree with a dry laugh and awkward pat to his back. You can feel the daggers being burned into your skull, so you have no choice but to acknowledge Luther’s companion for the day. “But you do know you’re supposed to leave the trash outside, right?”

“Like I haven’t heard that one before,” Ben scoffs with an indignant roll of his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be at the hospital ‘saving lives?’”

“Shouldn’t you still be in jail?” You fire back with ire, and if not for Luther keeping you both apart you’d probably be fist fighting in the middle of the ball pit right now.

“Uh, Ben got out early on probation for good behavior,” Luther explains with a nervous chuckle while attempting to keep the peace as best as he can without losing an eye in the process. “And now he’s here to spend time with us as a family.”

“Yeah, let’s see how long that lasts.”

“Hey, I technically am family,” the Sparrow boasts with a taunting smirk, formulating just the right insults to get under your skin. “You were a late addition added to the Umbrellas to pick up the slack Viktor left behind after Dad suppressed their powers. You’re not even a Hargreeves. Isn’t that right, Luther.”

“W-Well, I wouldn’t say that,” the man is quick to defend only for you to speak over him.

“Fuck. You,” you snarl through gritted teeth, palms clenched tightly at your sides as you adamantly work to not let him get the best of you. “Ben was family, and you’re not him. You’re just the shitty replacement we’re stuck with.”

“And yet when you thought the world was ending you still slept with me.”

The smug smile on Ben’s face is immediately wiped off by the impact of your open palm colliding with his cheek, and the sheer force of your hit as him tumbling back into Luther. Your assault earns a few bewildered gasps from a nearby table of parents, but you couldn’t care less about what a group of wine moms thought of you in that moment. Your chest is tight with rage, but you will yourself to walk away before the situation can escalate further and ruin the party.

“What did I miss?” A curious Five notes after arriving to the scene, but he soon finds himself forced to match your brisk pace as you grab him by the arm and drag him with you to the bar.

“I need a drink.”

~~~

You do your best to avoid him for the rest of the night, but eventually Ben is able to corner you by the gift table where you sit nursing a spiked lemonade.

“Drinking at a kid’s party, huh?”

“Did you come here to get slapped again?” You retort with a wry chuckle before taking a quick swig of your drink.

“Actually,” he starts, hesitating as he struggles to get out the words, “I came to… apologize.”

“You? Apologize? What, is the world ending again?” You scoff in disbelief before finally settling your gaze on the shaggy haired man before you. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but you think prison might have made him hotter, and the fact irks you to no end.

Obviously annoyed by your defensiveness, Ben shakes his head and says, “I don’t even know why I bother. I only came here for Luther’s sake because he wouldn’t shut up about making ‘positive changes’ now that I’m out of jail.”

“‘Don’t even know why I bother?!’” You repeat in indignant disbelief. “I gave you so many chances to prove that you weren’t a complete asshole and every time you screwed me over! You are not the victim in the situation.”

“Oh, spare me the sob story,” Ben remarks dismissively with a roll of his eyes. “I lost someone too, you’re not the only one that has to deal with the fact that you’re stuck with a completely different version of your dead partner. At least I’m trying to make the most of what the universe has given me.”

“By getting yourself thrown in jail over some stupid crypto scheme?”

“Jesus, by trying to make something with you!” Ben cries out in frustration. “You won’t even try to just play along!”

“I already told you, I’m not your y/n. She’s dead,” you remind him harshly. “Sleeping with you was just a moment of weakness and a mistake that shouldn’t have happened.”

“Really? Because if I remember correctly you seemed to really be enjoying yourself,” he taunts with a suggestive smirk that has your face immediately growing hot.

“God, you’re so insufferable! I could just-“

“Kiss me?”

“-choke you!”

A heavy silence falls between you both as you stare at each other in bewildered shock. It takes you a moment to recover from Ben’s words as you swallow harshly and ask, “What did you say?”

“What did… you say?” He retorts in an attempt to remain as inconspicuous as possible. The tension between you now is so thick you could cut it with the knife sitting by the birthday cake, but instead you just sit and stare at each other.

“Does your car have tinted windows?” Ben asks suddenly, prompting you to raise a brow.

“Yeah, why?” You reply with an inquisitive raise of your brow, but when Ben gives you a pointed look you’re then quick to catch on. “If we go now we’ll be back in time for cake.”

“Let’s go,” he says, eagerly rising from his seat so fast it almost knocks over the presents. Anxiously taking your hand in his, you both scan the room to make sure no one’s eyes are on you before bolting towards the exit.

You know you’re going to regret this, but in the moment you couldn’t care less what consequences would come from your romp in the backseat of your car with Ben.

Because as much as you hate to admit it, you’ve really missed him.

[themeraldee]

The Lucky Winner - Part 3

[Masterlist] [Part 1] [Part 2] | [AO3]

18+ Only | 10k | Homelander x fem!Reader | Early Season 1. Voice kink (very mild mention). Awkward first dates. Awkward dialogue. Messy timeline. Established Relationship. Love confession. Emotional sex. Unhealthy Relationship.

Summary: Your life turns upside down, again, when Homelander reaches out to you asking you out on a date.

Author’s Note: This is set between the events of Part 1 & Part 2. It really is just a self-indulgent excuse to explore some relationship building and dynamics. Lot of awkward dialogue so be warned.

The next time Homelander contacts you it catches you just as off guard as the first time. Maybe even more so. You never expected him to turn up in the first place, let alone be interested in seconds.

Your phone is ringing on the bed and ever since the development from a week ago you’ve been on edge anytime your phone rang. You drop the towel you’re folding back on the pile of unsorted laundry and you nearly dive onto the bed, reaching for your phone. In the panic you drop it about three times, your shaky hands inadvertently playing hot potato.

“Hello?!” You yell into the phone, panicked. You don’t actually end up checking who’s calling, too worried about not accidentally hanging up. Plus it’s not like you could have saved Homelander’s number from a week ago anyway. It showed up as blocked on your phone’s call logs so you had no way to recognise his number.

“Hello there! Nice of you to pick up.” You squeaked in surprise and the voice on the phone turned from chipper to confused. “You okay? You sound a little—” And oh my god, it’s him! You’re talking to Homelander, again. Okay, okay, now it’s time to try and keep calm.

His voice is still gloriously rich and sweet in your ear and here you are about to most likely embarrass yourself again because for the life of you you’re incapable of coming across as calm and collected.

“I’m fine!” You immediately cut him off, your voice shrill and strained. He does not need to know the ins-and-outs of your internal struggle. But either way you’re already doing terribly. Who are you to cut Homelander off mid-sentence? Where are your manners? 

“Why are you—um—I mean, is there anything you need?” You clumsily make your way through your response. Definitely not how you wanted to present yourself but it’s a lot better than barely being able to say a word like last time!

“I’m taking you out on a date. Get ready for 7 today.” You heard it. You’re pretty damn sure you heard that right, yet not a single part of you believes what he said.

“Sorry? W-w-what do you mean?” You sputter in confusion, your brain simply not capable of computing this news. 

“I mean that I’m taking you out for dinner. What’s hard to understand?” He sounds irritated and your heart is pounding. From so many things at once. How are you meant to process that Homelander contacted you again, is asking you out for a date and now you’ve managed to irk him?!

Before you manage to apologize, following your typical spiel, Homelander continues. “Maybe you don’t know this but it’s kind of what men do when they want to get to know someone. You following yet?” 

You ignore the condescending remark and instead you focus on what he’s actually saying.

There may as well be steam coming out of your ears, you genuinely feel like a blushing teenage girl talking to her crush. You’re hot bright red in the face and you feel the literal heat coming off your face.

“Yeah but you’re not—well of course you are—but also you’re not! Y’know, just an average Joe.” How do you go about explaining that you don’t feel worthy of that kind of attention?

“Doesn’t matter, you’re missing the point. Is that a no?” You’d think he would be pissed saying that, who in their right mind would refuse going on a date with Homelander, but he sounds amused more than anything. 

Again with the reading you like a book. Because you barely manage to let out a barrage of “No! No no no no— that’s not!” before Homelander starts laughing.

“Alright, I’ll pick you up then.”

“No, wait! I can’t—I can’t do the public thing. You’re you! And as soon as I show up in public with you I won’t be left alone. I know that’s normal for you, but my life isn’t like that. I’m just… me.” You’re just a nobody. You don’t have a social media presence. You don’t bring attention to yourself. And you like to keep it that way. Going on a public date with America’s golden boy himself? You would be ripped apart by the online vultures. 

You all but freak out on the phone and for a second you think he disconnected because you can’t hear a thing over the line but he suddenly speaks up.

“Oh well. We can’t have that, can we? You better have dinner ready at your place instead.” You don’t need to see him to imagine him with the biggest satisfied grin on his face. “I’ll be there at 7. Catch you later!”

Homelander hangs up on you and you hear the disconnected tone ringing in your ear as you stand there like a fish out of water. Mouth gaping open, letting out disbelieving stutters. 

You pull the phone away from your ear, looking down at it as if it offended you. It’s then you notice the time. Shit shit shit. You have less than four hours to make your place and yourself presentable, go on a grocery run and start cooking for Homelander?! What just happened!

“Oh no no no no. This is not happening.” You rub your hands over your face as if to wipe the shock off your face. You’re so overwhelmed with the rollercoaster of emotions that you don’t know whether to have a panic attack, laugh nervously or downright cry.

Okay, first of all the pile of laundry is gonna have to wait. You don’t have the time to meticulously fold your t-shirts and panties. You gather up the clean and dry laundry into your hands, haphazardly shoving it into the closet before closing the door on what will be an avalanche of laundry for your future self to deal with.

With pure panic-induced energy that you haven’t felt in a long while you manage to just about make your place presentable within an hour. Finally managing to gather and clean up the mugs and glasses that have been cluttering up your surfaces, making your bed all neat and tidy—just in case—and shoving all unnecessary clutter into cupboards. It’s not like Homelander would use his x-ray vision to judge the inside of your cabinets, would he?

Speeding your way out of your apartment you make your way over to the closest shop. Standing in the fresh produce aisle you suddenly realize you don’t actually have a plan. What the fuck are you meant to cook for Homelander?! Even after all the content you’ve consumed you’re pretty sure there’s not a single mention of his favorites. At least ones he’s not been sponsored to promote. Sure, he’s on many products, ranging from frozen peas to whole milk but that doesn’t mean it’s something he genuinely endorses. After all you want to get to know the man behind the costume, a date is not meant to be just another PR interview for him!

You’re starting to look strange. People are passing you while you’re internally panicking over what to buy. What if he’s allergic to something? What if he goes into anaphylactic shock and fucking dies! Even if you had an EpiPen or he carried it on him you wouldn’t be able to stab it into him anyway. And suddenly you’ve killed the world’s most beloved superhero and you’re spending the rest of your life in jail with Vought most certainly making sure you pay your dues. Even if all of that was true you had no way of knowing. It’s not like Vought would ever leak that kind of information. Not very good for their brand to tweet that their best superhero is allergic to fucking nuts!  

You shake your head a little, snapping yourself out of your dazed state. If Homelander’s brand is anything it’s that red-blooded American male perfect standard. Surely he wouldn’t complain about some steak dinner right? Men love steaks! You just make sure to avoid most common allergens. You pick up some potatoes and other vegetables to roast along with a good pricey cut of steak that was easily out of your budget.

You get home just as fast and with each passing second you’re more and more on edge. You don’t know whether it’s the anxiety coiling in your guts or the so called ‘butterflies’ but you’ve never been this nervous before. With the clock ticking and the food cooking you’re suddenly more and more paranoid over everything. From your insane Homelander merch collection to even just the furniture you’ve got! Not that that’s anything you can change in the next hour but your mind is running at a hundred miles an hour and you’re trying to account for everything. 

Just before it gets to the agreed time you change into something nice but casual, straight after shoving the laundry avalanche back into its place. You even leave the balcony door open, doubting he’s gonna knock on your door like a normal person. 

And while you’re there focusing on platting up your best attempt at steak and roasted vegetables, you hear the familiar sound of Homelander’s landing. You whip your head towards the wall clock with such urgency it’s shocking you don’t give yourself whiplash. 

Shit. It was literally 7pm. You wanted to set the table all pretty and prep it perfectly but you got so preoccupied with the place looking as good as it can that you lost track of time. You’re sure he’s used to luxury and perfection. You want to do your best to replicate that!

“Homelander!” Comes out of you with a little gasp. You tilt your head to look at him. And what you see makes your heart skip a beat. 

There he is, in his suited-out glory per usual, except this time he’s holding a bouquet of roses with a dashing smile on his face that quickly turns into a self-satisfied grin as he immediately notices your panic at his presence. Even after he thoroughly reduced you to a puddle of goo just last week you were still such a skittish uncertain thing around him. 

“Wow, smells delicious in here.” He looks around taking it in while inhaling the mouth-watering smell of sizzling steak.

Homelander steps closer with calculated steps, checking you out without an ounce of shame. You don’t know if it’s just the pure intensity in his eyes that has you feeling on edge or if he really is undressing you with his gaze. “These,” he frees your hand, prying your palm open with his gloved hand, “are for you.” He places the bouquet of roses into your palm, squeezing it shut around the wrapped stems.

In a way you’re paralyzed. The reality of the situation finally hits you and you realize you’re really here about to have a dinner date with Homelander. Who just brought you expensive, gorgeous flowers, because that’s something that totally happens to people like you.

You’re standing there, staring at the deep rich red of the roses that actually ends up matching the cardigan you put on for this. Your little attempt at complimenting the suit you knew he'd show up in. 

Your mind is going a million miles a second and your other hand squeezes a petal in between your fingertips. There’s droplets of water on the velvety surface. You didn’t realize it was raining at the time. You look past him through a window as if you could make out the weather through the darkness of the evening.

Looking at the roses now, they look beautiful, pristine. He flew here right? How did he manage to keep them in one shape with the speeds he flies at.

“H-how did you fly with—” You don’t even finish the question before he’s answering.

“I don’t have to fly at super speeds all the time. You’d think my most loyal fan would know that.”

“You can read minds too?” Falls out of your mouth before you even think about what you're saying.

“No. You’re just very easy to read.” He places his hands on his hips, naturally defaulting to his superhero pose. 

And sure, maybe the way your eyes move in between the window, him and the flowers is a dead giveaway but you still don’t think it’s that easy to figure out exactly how your thought process works. 

He seems unhappy with your lack of enthusiastic response. He probably expected you to jump at him, wrapping your arms around him in pure glee that he’d do such a romantic thing. 

He nodded towards the bouquet, raising his eyebrows.

“Anyway, your flowers. You might want to put them in some water. Unless you plan on fondling each petal all night.” You don’t know whether he said it that way on purpose or if your absurd attraction to his voice is reaching new heights but the imagery that conjures is not one that would belong at a dinner table. There’s a different kind of petal-fondling you have in mind for later.

“Sorry! I’m sorry. And thank you. Really, this is very kind of you. They’re beautiful.” Finally, he’s satisfied with that response, his shoulders relax a bit, his chest puffing out as he sees you hold the flowers closer to you.

You’re all over the place and your movements are in no way elegant or thought out as you awkwardly stumble around, pulling out the biggest glass you could find. This ends up being a large glass measuring jug which you admit looks rather strange, and you don't miss the way he raises his eyebrow at the display. 

Well, it was a lot better than if you used the bucket you keep under the sink for cleaning. It’s not like you have a perfect pretty vase ready for this occasion. Until now you didn’t have anyone bringing you flowers and you never really bought any for yourself.

He doesn’t comment on the miserable display. Instead he focuses on how wound up you are.

“Jeez, you’re even stiffer than last time. You know I usually fuck my dates after dinner, but if you need me to loosen you up…” His crude attempt at humor and breaking the ice just has your brain screeching and halting all actions. 

“What?! No, nonono. That won’t—That’s not. I’m sorry. I’m just surprised. That you’re here.”

“I did tell you I’d come. And I’m pretty sure you’re not plating up two plates for yourself there silly.” He shakes his head while clicking his tongue, as if disapproving of your doubt. 

“I mean, I’m surprised that you want to do this. With me.” 

“Why wouldn’t I? I’m here aren’t I? Last time I checked I asked you out, not the other way around. And trust me sweetheart, I don’t do shit out of pity.” He walks closer to you, his hand patting the side of your arm, settling his hand there and sliding it up until he reaches your jaw. The leather of his glove is cold, some raindrops still stuck in the crevices.

Although your heart rate picks up, you smile genuinely. Getting the straightforward confirmation that he wants to be here with you warms your heart. “Alright.”

“I’m sorry I don’t have everything ready. I lost track of time. Do you mind just sitting down, I’ll finish up in a second.”

“Yup, can do.” He sits down at the small table slapping his palms on his thighs as he does so. Already peeling his gloves off, discarding the gloves at the edge of the table. 

You finish up the plating, trying to make it as neat as possible. You bring the plates over, one in front of him the other right opposite. “Um, do you drink beer? I got some in case you do. I know you do endorse some but I’m sure that doesn’t mean you have to consume it in your free time.”

“No thanks, never got the taste for it. Have you got milk?” 

You blank a little at the request. It’s not the typical pairing by any means but who are you to tell him what to like. Instead you comply, tucking away the little preference into the corner of your mind where you keep all your knowledge about him.

“Um, yeah. I do. Again, I got one you’ve done marketing for, just in case you did like it. I wasn’t really sure. Believe it or not there’s a lot I don’t know about you.” You admit. It’s not like everything that his Marketing team puts out is all real. You're sure they leave out any of his actual preferences so future advertisers don't clash with any competition.

“With this logic I’m surprised you didn’t buy the entire store.” 

“I was close to it.” You take the carton out of the fridge, shutting the door with your hip. “Do you want it warm or cold?” 

“Cold is fine.” You nod, pouring some into a glass placing it in front of him.

As a last touch you take two roses from the huge bouquet, popping them into a narrow tall glass filled with water and you place the romantic decoration to the side of the table before sitting down.

He strangely smiles at the gesture, something about it feeling awfully domestic. It may not be perfectly manicured but it's real and it does the job just as well. It's not a perfect setting made for a photoshoot. You're just trying to impress him with what you've got. All for his enjoyment only. And that alone makes it a lot more special. 

Suddenly being right across him really set the reality of the situation. You feel a little awkward about the setting. But there is really only so much you could have done with your small apartment. And it’s not like he hasn’t been here before. He knows what you're working with.

You watch as he cuts into the steak, stabbing it with his fork and bringing a piece to his mouth.

“Wait! You’re not allergic to anything right?!” You suddenly panic, feeling cold sweat pour over you at the thought of your irrational thoughts from earlier coming true. 

He looks thoroughly amused but he doesn’t answer and instead just takes the bite. 

“Are you always this worried on dates? Or do you get them to fill out a questionnaire beforehand?” He seems to enjoy throwing all these little jabs highlighting how much of a nervous mess you are in his presence. 

“I don’t usually cook for my dates on the first date. There’s usually nothing to worry about.”

“I did ask you out for dinner. This is your own doing missy.” He waved his fork at you, pointing at you being the one to blame.

“You think I’m—oh. I’m not complaining about this, oh my god! I just didn’t really know what you like! Surprisingly not a lot about that online. They really know how to keep you a mystery. And even superheroes have allergies! How was I to know whether you’ve got one or not? But even if you did, it’s not like Vought would release that information.” You ramble on, trying to explain yourself but you’re really just digging yourself a deeper hole. Not that Homelander looks particularly put off. If anything, the amused grin spreads to both corners of his mouth.

“You know I’m not here for the food right? Though this is not too bad. Didn’t think you had it in you.” He raises his eyebrows in appreciation. 

“I live on my own. I don’t know why you’re surprised to learn that I can cook for myself.” You said feigning offense but inside you were squealing at the compliment.

“When’s the last time you’ve had a date?” He changes the topic, with each passing moment he’s less interested in the food and a lot more honed in on you and what little secrets you can let him in on. Though he’s still happily nursing the glass of milk. 

“It’s been a while, I guess.” You’re overcome with this anxious feeling in your gut. Is it meant to be a dig at the date you’ve prepared? Is he saying that you’re not desirable enough to be dated?

He catches you off guard with his smug little smile. “Thought so. Guess you’re too busy being my biggest fan, huh?”

You nearly choke on your food, surprised and flustered by his words. The tell-tale sign of heat creeps up your neck and to the tip of your ears in embarrassment. He’s hard to read and you can’t tell whether he’s trying to humiliate you or if he genuinely enjoys the reminder of having someone fawn over him right there and then.

You put your cutlery down, softly clinking it against the plate. “Look, I’m really sorry about all that. I’m a fan but I’m not crazy.”

“I didn’t say you were.” The corners of his mouth comically pull down feigning innocence with a shrug.

You playfully roll your eyes. “You insinuated. I’m just saying I wouldn’t have all this stuff out if I knew you’d ever see it!” You wave your arm in the general direction of the rest of your humble apartment. Still littered with Homelander merch. If you had more time to prepare for the date you would have maybe even taken some of it down. Replace some posters with photos of friends or family, making you appear a lot more put together. But alas, your guilty pleasure is still blatantly obvious and out for anyone to see. It's all the worse that in this case it’s being seen by the featured star of your guilty pleasure himself.

“There’s no shame in being a fan.” 

“No, but it’s different to collect memorabilia and merchandise of a beloved superhero that you don’t ever expect to witness the madness and to actually have him see it all and feel objectified. As if all there was to him is just the plastic he can sell with his face on it.”

You don’t know why you’re getting into the heavy-duty topic of someone’s worth and value but maybe part of you just wants to present yourself as someone who cares. Someone who looks beyond the obvious. 

Homelander is similarly perturbed by your words. Clearly not used to fans taking such direction with him. Thinking about it you doubt he hears more from them beyond a predictable can I have a selfie?

He furrows his eyebrows for a second tilting his head. As if he’s trying to look into your brain to read your mind. And sure he can literally see inside your skull but it doesn’t help him understand your thoughts. So instead he digs deeper. Putting the glass of milk down he looks you straight in the eyes. 

“You don’t think that’s it?” 

His resolute question makes you pause, feeling as if you overstepped. And even if, there’s no way to backtrack anymore so you continue. “O-of course not. I know you’re more than what Vought puts out there.”

You’ve spent countless hours following the content Vought markets out to the public. All of it manicured to match his perfect brand and profile. They’re slick enough to control even the content fans put out. From conventions to random street encounters. You remember following a thread of an anonymous fan sharing their experience of getting barraged by Vought’s lawyers after they shared a post about a poor experience they had meeting one of their superheroes. You haven’t heard an update from that story in a while, god knows what happened to the fan. Maybe Vought’s lawyers managed to get their anonymous account too. 

“How would you know?” Irritation seeps into his tone, shoulders tensing, feeling exposed right before he slides back into his normal casual tone and body language as if remembering that he’s meant to be talking to a date and not some nosy interviewer trying to get the next scoop.

“I mean who hasn’t put up a face to show the world their perfect self? Whether it’s on dates or in front of friends. I just imagine that doing that in front of the whole world means there’s a lot you feel like you have to hide.” With each word you feel like you’re digging yourself a hole, ruining any chance of another date. But you’ve started saying your piece and when else are you gonna get the chance to tell the man exactly how you feel?

So you continue.

“I just think it has to be exhausting. Your entire job, your life is existing in the public eye and you can’t ever slip up? Not super-abled celebrities deal with that already but for you there’s the added burden of being seen as the superhero right? ‘Here to save us all’. I just mean, do you ever get to be yourself?”

You mean to be sympathetic, not that you could ever imagine what it’s like to be in his shoes. Being as obsessed as you are, you've watched all the footage with him. You notice how often the same lines repeat, how well he’s perfected the mask of a perfect hero. The fake humble you’re the real heroes being repeated in every video and appearance. If it was you, you know you’d have enough a while ago now. The daily grind of a job is exhausting enough but to do that all under the public’s scrutiny? You couldn’t even imagine. 

You were so lost in your little monologue, spilling all the little thoughts you had about him and his persona that you miss how his casual demeanor has once again shifted into something else. He’s less irritated but he’s tense. Even more so than before. He wears an expression you’re pretty sure you’ve not seen on him before. His jaw may not be dropped but his surprise and confusion is evident without it. 

He’s speechless. Thinking about it now, has anyone ever spoken to him in such manner before?

You watch his body language and the way he’s squeezing the fork so hard you’re sure he’s bent the metal. 

“Oh god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep. It’s just once I get going I can’t stop!” 

He lets out a breathless little laugh. His shoulders release in tension. He stops gripping the cutlery and sure enough it has a bend that definitely wasn’t there before but you don’t care. He’s not pissed. He raises his free hand waving you off and stopping you from apologizing any further. Something you’ve managed to do about a hundred times since his arrival. 

“No. No, it’s fine. You didn’t.” He shakes his head a little, looking at you with a different look in his eyes. No longer just looking for a little bit of excitement, now he’s truly locked in. What else can he get you to say? “Well maybe you did a little, but color me intrigued anyway.” 

He looks at you in a way that makes you feel small. You feel like you’re on your knees praying for your god to hear out your prayers knowing it’s unlikely for him to even notice you.  

“Can't say I've heard any of that before.” He concludes, slumping back into the chair now that he's relaxed again, having lost all interest in the food you've served up.

You’re embarrassed by the call out. It’s like all your efforts to not appear like another crazy fan have been pointless. He might not seem angry but that doesn’t mean he’s about to jump at the thought of another date. You may have ruined your chances at this being anything more than mild entertainment to him so you try to save yourself. “I just mean. I have always wanted to get to know you. The you without the cameras.”

“You already have. I don’t go on dates with many fans, believe it or not. And I gotta say you’re a lot more interesting than I gave you credit for.” 

And maybe it wasn’t such a lost cause yet. Have there been many people that Homelander has ever found genuinely interesting? You wouldn’t know but at least you’re one of them.

“Oh…ah-hah thank you.” You fluster under his heavy gaze. His words make your heart skip a beat. There’s very little that can match the euphoria of your hero, the hero really, saying he finds you interesting. It’s hard to calm the pounding of your heart at the thought of a man of his caliber seeking your company out.

After all you’ve managed to blurt out you feel more at ease. It’s not awkward like you expected it to be. In a way you’ve broken the ice you didn’t know was even there.

With you both losing interest or having had enough of your meals you move to the small but comfortable couch. And like any good dinner and movie date you put on the first title that gets advertised to you on the main page of the Vought+ streaming platform.

In reality the movie doesn’t get watched. Either you let it play in the background or you pause on sections just so you can continue the conversation between the two of you. And somehow it’s still mainly you literally just rambling on about him. It’s not that he doesn’t talk or doesn’t ask questions about you but you see the way he preens at all the enamored praise you send his way. 

The only parts that do get watched is the small cameo Homelander ended up having in the title and the conversation steers back to him. He gives you all the details you ask for, more than happy to talk about how great of an actor he is. 

With each minute of sitting close to him you feel your body respond to him. You feel hot. Too warm for the cardigan you’re wearing but you don’t want to seem too forward by taking it off. Especially after knowing what kind of trouble he could get up to in between your legs it makes it very hard to accidentally brush against his thigh and not spontaneously combust.

Homelander turns around to look back into the room while you’re dealing with your internal turmoil. Would it be too unseemly for you to initiate?

Your thoughts are interrupted when his bare hand cradles your jaw, bringing you in for a kiss. The whimper you let out is embarrassing but you quickly lose track of anything that’s not his hot lips melting you into a puddle. Just as things are about to get good, just when you’re about to pry his lips open with your needy tongue he pulls away. He doesn’t go too far. You can still feel his hot breath while he rests his forehead against yours. 

“I’ll have to set off. I need to get back to Vought tower.” He hums so close to you that you get goosebumps from the way his voice turns all low and hushed. Even though the words he’s saying are anything but good news, the attractive sound still soothes you.

“Oh-kay.” You nod. A little sad but understanding that he’s got things to get to. Every part of you is holding back from pulling him in for more but as much as your fingers twitch for him you restrain yourself.

“Come on now. Don’t sound so upset.” He gives your cheek a soft little pat before placing another peck on your lips with a chuckle from behind his closed lips.

The taste of your lips pulls him in anyway and he holds you close for a few more indulgent kisses. Upon separating you’re warm and flustered. His touch always seems to have that effect on you. 

“It's just… I had a lot of fun today.” And you don't want it to be over or for it to be the last time you see him. But how do you ask him out? 

While your limbs still feel like jelly, having melted into the couch, he stands up, walking over to the little dining table where he left his discarded gloves, pulling them back on.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, I’ll be back.” He clearly reads your expression and watches as you stumble while getting up, clearly wanting to see him out before he flies off.

His words alone are good enough to lift your spirits and you let yourself show that joy outwardly.

“Thanks for today.” When’s the last time you’ve ever felt this in the moment? Even if he never came back this moment would easily be a highlight you look back on.

“Well, aren’t you sweet?” As if he couldn’t restrain himself his eyes snapped in between your eyes and lips, his eyelashes fluttering, lips parting as he took in the sight of you. So eager to please and be there for him. He wets his lips and your stomach flips at the display. The pink of his tongue disappearing as quickly as it appears.

His eyes soften, lips stretching into a lazy lopsided smile.

“Do I get a goodbye kiss?” 

And just like that with one last kiss he’s off again, returning to his duties.

This isn’t where things end with you two. If anything, your life takes a massive turn. It’s not been the same ever since you’ve won that silly competition. And it strangely makes you want to send a gift basket to whoever organized it, no matter how much you dislike Vought itself. 

At first he comes back to you seeking comfort.

He strolls in through your balcony door which you’ve gotten into the habit of leaving unlocked—just in case. It’s not like there’s anyone else eager to fly into your home. You awake at the disruption, eyes bleary and straining in the harsh light of the nightstand lamp you’ve turned on to see what’s going on.

He doesn’t explain himself as much as he just vents to you about how he’s not being respected and taken seriously. It’s the first time he’s been back since your date and you’re surprised to see him so emotive. So unlike the perfect persona or even the carefully charming guy he presented himself as during  your date.

He’s already pacing back and forth, the thud of his boots bound to disturb your neighbors below. Not that either of you care. He’s too preoccupied with being angry. And you’re too frazzled by the thought of something upsetting your hero to this degree.

You see the angry tremor in his hands and the sharpness of his teeth, highlighted by the yellow night light. You snap out of the sleepy daze and you catch his gloved hand when he paces in front of you. 

You pull him down next to you, cooing supportive words and showing your own anger at seeing him be so disrespected by Vought. You believe they don’t know how lucky they are to have someone like him. They should revere him, yet the things he lets slip in his anger make your chest tight, fueling the rage simmering inside you. 

It’s like seeing you riled up at the way he’s being mistreated is enough to calm him down. The more you seethe the more he cools down, the energy exchange working in between you perfectly. He’s pleased to have someone in his corner. Preening at how much you parrot the words he’s saying without needing to nudge you in that direction.

Swoop-in visits like these happen more regularly. Either he comes in irritated wanting to get some frustration and anger out, fucking you throughout the night until all he can think of are your moans and cries telling him it’s too much.

Or he comes in happy, excited to share the news that his numbers are up or that the public and the on-scene reporters couldn’t stop praising him after his latest save. Those days he comes in for affection and a cuddle, wanting to hear over and over again just how well he’s done since you’ve last seen him. Treating you less like a stress ball and more like a teddy bear he’s hugged against his chest in comfort. 

You start thinking how lonely he must feel. The thought that there aren’t any people around him showering him with genuine love and friendship hurts you and suddenly you want nothing more than to keep him here with you, making sure he knows just how special he is.

As much as you’ve always been devoted to this god-like being and the idea that he represented, you never got to love the person. Until now. Now the ideology alone has seeped into your never ending love, fueling the suffocating adoration you hold for him. So strong it’s eating away at you anytime you don’t get the chance to scream how much you love him.

You used to see these late night visits as something he does for his own benefit. With you always being the easiest and most effective balm to his troubled soul. You didn’t think he was serious with you. After all, this is the Homelander you’re spending every other evening with. 

So when he sends you flowers out of nowhere, effectively courting you, you start thinking that this might be turning into something real.

It starts with the first delivery at your door. A gorgeous bouquet bursting at the seams, tagged with a note saying it’s from Homelander. Since then he’s made sure to supply you with the most beautiful bouquets as if to keep a reminder of him on a daily basis. You finally invest in a pretty vase, knowing it’s going to be thoroughly used and displayed.

Your home always had touches of Homelander throughout it—some might even say too many. However, as your relationship grows you come to a realization that those really only represent Vought. It’s these new touches that really represent Homelander’s presence in your life. Like how he times the flower deliveries just right so your place is never empty. Always there to remind you to keep him at the forefront of your mind. Never wavering. 

You two haven’t officially said that you’re dating throughout these nighttime visits but it’s at the tip of your tongue each time he comes. You want to voice the love you carry for him like a burden. Overflowing from your arms with nowhere to go. And it feels like each second you don’t say it, it’s being uselessly spilled on the floor like sand falling from in-between your fingers.

Homelander has his own way of showing affection. Seeing as so much of his life has been in front of some sort of camera you wonder if thinking in advertising scripts and photoshoot visuals comes to him more naturally than casual and real gestures. As ever since he started with the flower deliveries he’s been showering you with gifts upon each visit. As if everyday had to be Valentine’s day and he had to bring something to symbolize the reason for his visit.

You call him out on that one day. 

“You know you don’t have to bring anything right? You don’t need to bribe me.” You chuckle at the gift box he brought with him. You’ve got dozens of similar gift boxes and bags that you feel reluctant to get rid of mainly for the sentimental value but the retail price associated with the gift they hold certainly doesn’t help. 

He clasps the gifted necklace around your neck. The dainty chain lays cold against your skin and your fingers gently caress the pendant with care. Your statement still rings true but you can’t help but feel giddy every time he brings you something he thought would look great on you. 

“Do you not like the things I bring you?” With a perplexed expression you see him trying to do mental math, trying to figure out why you could possibly not kneel or bow in gratitude. He watches you play with your new pretty jewelry with a squint. 

“No! It’s all beautiful—this one especially—just. I don’t want you to feel like that’s an obligatory part of you being here.” You laugh it off a little, still dreamily thinking about what it really means to get pampered to this degree. 

He breaks your thoughts with a simple sentence.

“Maybe I want to treat my girl.” 

Your eyes widen, and you let out a shocked stuttered breath.

“Your girl?”

“Yeah, duh.” He scoffs as if what he said is as obvious as the sky being blue and water wet.

“Because you’re mine, right?” You don’t see the way his eyes reflect his own complicated and simmering feelings. The tension in his jaw betrays how he needs you to acknowledge his words and speak them into an existence. But you don’t notice any of that because it’s like the dam you’ve been doing your best to hold together with safety pins finally bursts.

You’re nodding feverishly. No longer able to hold back you’re possessed to blurt out the words that have been threatening to fall off the precipice of your tongue for weeks. 

“I love you.” 

Homelander’s eyes widen. Surprised by your admission just as much as you are. Your heart is racing, suddenly feeling insane for thinking this was anything more than simple fun to him. The knee-jerk response to apologize spills easily from your lips.

“I’m sorry—,” but instead he interrupts you by cradling your jaw in his bare hands, stepping closer.

“Don’t be sorry.” He says in a low rumble, sending shivers down your spine. He leans in to give you a tender kiss. Just barely slotting in between your parted lips, pressing them against his. Before you get the chance to continue he pulls away with enough distance to speak up.

He breathes out, eyes squeezed shut in longing which to an untrained eye would just look like pure pain and frustration. But not to you. You’ve learned to read him better. 

He nuzzles his face against yours, dragging his lips across your cheek until he reaches your ear, growling a weak, “say it again.”

You’ve partially gotten used to the timbre of his voice in your ear. Capable of having a conversation without getting worked up by every word he says but the way he’s now needily begging in your ear has your body erupt in goosebumps. He doesn’t need to say please for you to hear it anyway.

“I-I love you.” You whimper out. The emotion alone feels thick in your throat, as if it was clogging up your airways anytime you come up for air. Your heart is pounding, you’re strung up, the butterflies in your stomach make you antsy. 

His hold on your jaw tightens. With a sharp intake of breath he smashes your lips together. No longer composed and tender. Your teeth nearly clash as he’s pressed you close to him. He’s prying your lips open with his, his whimpers easily falling into the press of your lips.

“Again.” 

“I love you.”

You don’t want to cry but you’re so overwhelmed with emotion the burn that turns your eyes glassy spills over and you’re dripping tears down your cheeks in pure emotional instability.

“Again.” 

And each time he asks he sounds more wrecked. 

“I love you.”

Homelander catches the tears with his tongue right before kissing the salty taste into your mouth. Not letting any of your love get wasted. You grab onto him, grasping where you can. Your hands tangle in between his as you wrap them around his neck. One hand grips as much of the fabric of his suit it can while the other tangles in his hair, pulling on it for support more than anything. 

You feel like you’re drowning. The intensity of the moment makes you gasp for air but it’s like Homelander kisses it back into your lungs like a lifeline. Hearing his shattered whimpers soothes you, his own need fueling yours, filling the void your tears are leaving behind.

He lifts you up and with practiced ease you automatically wrap your legs around him.

He leads you both to the bedroom while he’s continuously prompting you to continue declaring your love to him. Each again, again, again you reward with the three words that make him feverish and mad. The more you say it the less your heart feels like it’s about to explode from the burden it’s been carrying for too long.

Homelander quite literally rips your clothes off, not caring that he’s leaving his own recent purchases in tatters. He doesn’t want to separate his lips from your neck where he’s kissing trails across each inch of your skin.

You don’t have the luxury to treat his suit with the same carelessness. Even if you wanted to, the tough molded material would make it impossible. Instead you do what you can. Unclasping his belt, pulling at the front of his suit, pushing his pants down where you can reach.

He helps you with taking off the rest of it until he’s on top of you, skin to skin. You rarely get the luxury of lying with him fully stripped and each time you’re shocked at how hot he runs. Now his hot body is making you melt under the heat alone.

Neither of you have stopped kissing with the same intense need that has been laying there dormant for months. Anytime you have the chance you repeat the same words over and over again until they’re all you know how to say.

It’s the first time sex has felt anything more than a physical relief he comes to you for. You’re barely keeping it together as he nudges your legs a little open, sliding his hand down your body, his palm blazing hot as the anticipation makes you clench your core.

It’s by no means either one of your first times, nor it is the first time you’ve been together yet you’ve never felt more nervous. The first touch he descends onto your clit feels like a lightning bolt crackling down your spine, spreading the tingles out to your toes and fingertips.

“Ahh hah—fuck. Want it so bad, don’t you?” He looks as broken as he sounds when he hisses at the feeling of your soaked pussy. It makes his fingers glide too easily, making it harder to give your clit the precise rhythm he’s learned to make you see stars with. 

His attempt at his normal dirty talk is disrupted by his keen moans and broken whimpers. Part of you wonders whether his super senses include being able to feel other people’s sensations with the way he’s acting as if it was him getting his body set on fire.  

You hum and ahh in response, your tongue feeling incapable of saying anything but the words you’ve been finally allowed to repeat over and over again. 

His fingers easily slip inside the sloppy mess you’ve made for him and he moans right into the kiss he leans in to steal from your lips. And it feels good. The friction is perfect, his fingers are hitting the right spot inside you and the loud squelch is embarrassing and intoxicating in equal parts. Yet it’s not what you want.

It takes all your strength to reach down and pull his hand out of you, as instinctively you’re already clenching around the all too familiar emptiness you whine at every other time when he’s done with you. 

“I want you. Please. Just you.” You manage to breathe out, your hand reaching over for his hard cock. You give him a few shaky strokes, smearing his leaking precum across the entire length.

“Alright. Uh huh, okay. I’ll give it to you.” And he’s just as out of it as you as his normal cocky one-liners just break into a lot of grunts and stutters.

He wedges himself in between your thighs, spreading them wide open. His lips part with a wistful sigh while his eyes haze over with lust at the sight of your pussy spread ope, generously glistening with slick all made for him. 

He aligns his cock with your entrance, not even bothering to tease you. He’s just as strung out as you are. He splits you open with a single thrust, your slick pulling him in with an easy glide.

“I love you.” For the first time the confession spills from Homelander’s lips. A relief just as palpable falls upon him. It’s a different story for you. The words cause more tears to spill, a wet hiccup leaving your throat as you clench around him.

“Shh, shh.” He hushes you sweetly, already reaching back for you. 

He lays his body flush on top of yours and kisses your tears away, the heat and weight of his body on top yours grounds you. He repeats the words over and over again in between wet, messy kisses. He ruts into you in shallow thrusts as if he doesn’t want to part from you any second longer.

Nothing in the world exists but you two and neither one of you can believe how perfect you really are for each other. You’ve always felt like the way you love was overwhelming. It left the other person choking on the overwhelming viscosity of it all. Homelander isn’t like that. To him your love is a breath of fresh air. 

As long as you love him with the same unyielding intensity he’s yours. At this point, he wouldn’t know how to live without it.

He kisses you in a way that says just that. Needy and broken yet utterly completed by you. 

You’re both so worked up with the overflowing emotions it doesn’t take much more than his frenzied grinding to make you both reach the release that’s as emotional as it physical. Maybe even more so.

Because the reward isn’t just a good orgasm. It’s the love that fills the air, spilling into every empty crevice you didn’t manage to fill with your bodies.

Homelander’s whimpers resemble cries as he finishes inside you right as you flutter around him with the toe-curling orgasm wracking your nerves. 

It takes you a little while to regain your mental faculties after such an emotionally draining affair. You feel boneless, your limbs feel like jelly and you just lie there dazed. Focusing on the way your heart beats loud even to your ears. 

Homelander is doing the same thing. Listening to your heartbeat with his head on your chest.

After a long while you both pull yourself together. Still in bed but now you’ve managed to strike up a normal conversation again. Talking about everything and nothing.

You lie like this for what feels like hours. Having changed positions you rest your head against his chest, ear pressed to his pecs to listen in on the steady beat of his heart.

After this reveal your brain recognizes your relationship as the utmost priority. Because of that your eyes lock onto the Kuddle Buddy plush resting just a foot away from Homelander’s head. As if you were locking onto an enemy. You pluck it from the pillow, squeezing it in your hand.

You’re staring at it, still clutching it too hard. 

“What got you thinking so hard? You’re making my head hurt from how tense you are.” Homelander interrupts you from your thoughts. 

“Just you. This. I can’t look at this stuff these days without—I don’t know—rage? To know how much Vought has wronged you.” You furrow your eyebrows, assessing the innocent plush toy while it’s staring back at you with its stitched grimace.

“That’s what the toy reminds you of, really? It should remind you of me.”

“It doesn’t anymore.” Your furrowed expression slowly melts into one of content as your hand presses against your new necklace. “Things like these do.” 

“And these.” Your fingers continue to travel up your neck where they tap at the darkened patches you feel he has left behind. With soft nipping and sucking he left your neck coloured in all shades.

He plucks the plush toy from your hands, throwing it somewhere across the room with thankfully not enough strength to knock anything else over. You’re pretty damn comfortable and you’d rather not get up to assess any damage. 

“Maybe I should give you more reminders then.” 

You squeal as he easily pulls you up so his lips can meet yours, kissing your worries out of your mind.

Homelander lands on your balcony with a soft thud. It’s late in the afternoon, earlier than he normally arrives, and he doesn’t want to attract unwanted attention. Already predicting the shit Madelyn would put him through if he got caught regularly perusing outside some random person’s apartment.

His person’s apartment really. You’re not just a random boring nobody.

He makes his way in quietly, closing the door and stepping in. Each time coming back to your apartment has felt more like coming home than he’s ever felt at Vought. You’ve arranged your life around him. He’s noticed you cancel plans, call off events just so you could stay in in the evening, waiting for him to make his return.

You even make space for him in your small apartment. The state of which he’d normally scoff at but it’s hard to mock your financial situation when you manage to make the place feel warm.

His presence left its mark in the gifts you happily displayed or the flowers you always took good care of.

And of course, the insane collection of merchandise you’ve spent years accumulating.

Wait.

Where is everything?

Homelander looks around, breaking out of his routine and instead he scans the surroundings as if it’s the first time he’s ever been here. Only now does he realize that all the usual merchandise carrying his likeness is gone. No posters on the walls. No action figures on the shelves. No funko pops. No collectibles. Nothing.

Homelander feels his blood pressure rise. There’s no way you’d want to get rid of him. Not you too. You love him. You wouldn’t do that.

He finally notices the black trash bags pushed into the kitchen, still open and overflowing with all the things missing from your walls. 

His stomach flips. 

No. Nonono. This can’t be happening.

You can’t get rid of him like this. He can’t lose you. 

Not after he’s finally tasted what real love in cooking tastes like. Or what it’s like to wake up next to someone who instead isn’t pushing you away straight after sex. Someone who makes an effort for him. Not out of fear but out of love. 

He mentally compares everything you’ve changed his perception on. 

Like when you give him a gift or help him out it’s different. Vought employees being at his beck and call could never compare. 

He’s the most powerful man in the world, with means that don’t feel like they have an end yet he could never buy the love you give freely. For once, love doesn’t feel like pulling teeth. It feels like a warm embrace on a cold winter night. 

You make it easy. You don’t fake it. And most importantly you do it unconditionally. Love him through thick and thin, the devotion to him a part of your very core. Your love is overwhelming, oozing and sticky like he’s never gonna be able to get rid of it. Just like you could never get rid of him.

You’re the only one who hasn’t left him.

Exactly. It can’t be. You wouldn’t.

This has to be some kind of a mistake.

The shuffle of your slippers against the floor breaks him out of his spiraling thoughts. He looks up sharply. Seeking some sort of explanation.

“Hey baby. You’re early today—what’s wrong?” The smile drops from your face as quickly as he sees it and it’s only then he realizes his hand is shaking. He squeezes it into a fist, the leather creaking with the pressure as he takes in a labored breath with a jittery shake to his head.

“W-uh-what is… What are you doing?” He blinks rapidly, shaking his head pretending that his voice doesn’t quiver and waver the way it does. 

“Bit of spring cleaning. After we talked the other night I just can’t look at this stuff and not think how much Vought has used you. I don’t want those reminders. It’s not what I thought it was and now that you opened my eyes to it, I can’t forget. So. Out with it.” You say so casually, not picking up on the panic he’s been going through in his head.

“Oh—okay.” He lets out a visible breath of relief, his posture relaxing. “I thought—” His jaw tightens and he looks away. Thought so heartbreaking, he doesn't want to give it voice.

“You thought I was getting rid of you?” You stop what you are doing. Putting the box on the couch and instead you walk up to him, hand on his jaw you turn him back to look at you.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy.” You kiss him, and Homelander melts right into it. He lets himself melt into the loving embrace of your pliant lips.

“Good. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.” When you pull away he puts his hands on your jaw, tilting your head as if he was inspecting you. Seeing if what you’re saying is true. And he can’t see a single speck of a lie with the steady beats of your heart and the taste of love on your lips.

“So what are you doing with all of it?”

“Selling it, donating or trashing some I guess.”

“Why not sell it all?”

“You can buy a Homelander poster or card at any shop for a few bucks. I'm not gonna bother with those.”

“What if I sign them?”

“Oh please don’t waste your time. You’re not here to be a show pony.”

“Nonsense, come on. Bring it out.”

Homelander ends up taking the stack of posters with his or the Seven’s likeness from the top of the trash bag, placing them on the coffee table in front of the couch. He sits down, hooking his cape out of the way. He picks up a pen off the table already signing the first poster. 

Part of him is still upset that you feel like throwing a part of him away. Is this part of him not good enough for you anymore? It’s how he found you, how he got to know you and now it feels like you’re throwing it away. 

As if you could read his thoughts you sit down next to him, placing your hand on top of his as he’s halfway through his signature.

His head snaps up towards you, expression clearly guarded while he looks you over with his piercing blue gaze.

He carries his upset so visibly it would be hard even for someone as unaware as you to miss it. His smile is tight, not even attempting to reach his eyes.

You pull the pen out of his grip, instead wrapping your hand around his. The other one goes to his hair, scratching your nails down his scalp until you reach his undercut where you play with the shortly buzzed hair.

“I’m not getting rid of you. Not now. Not ever.”

At that he leans into you, nearly purring at the pleasure your scalp massage brings him. The way you touch him with no hesitation will never cease to amaze him. There’s enough love pouring off you to almost fill the black hole in his heart. 

It was exhilarating to have someone so eager to keep him in their life. Everyone else has just pushed him away, entertained him until they got what they wanted. Not you. You give and give and give. Sometimes he’s scared you’ll run out of love to shower him with. However, one look at you tells him that the love you carry feels just as much of a burden as his need for it does to him. You free each other by sharing the love. You feed his insatiable beast of a heart and he lets you burst the dam free without feeling like you’re not allowed to.  

The posters are forgotten about. Any hurt brushed away with a press of his lips to yours. Needy and hungry, wanting to see if you can prove your words with actions. Again and again.

And you do. Like you’ve done a hundred times before and just like you will do thousands of times over.

Taglist (you can add yourself to be tagged when I post a new Homelander fic)

@morishitoshi @ker0senebunny @itsvaleriesucka @thychuvaluswife

@nervoussystemss @littlegaaby @natliecole @thatvintagefanboy

@infinetlyforgotten @rafecamsgirlll @hom3landr @mrsdesade

@nommingonfood

[fernclans]

A time to start anew.

(tw for blood, violence, and implied death)

“Cliffpaw, grab the kits and run--!”

A small red tom woke with a start, fear and adrenaline filling his veins as the thick stench of blood filled his senses. The lone apprentice of ▇▇Clan doesn’t even take the time to stand properly, bolting immediately from his nest and sending its contents scattered behind him. He barely has a moment to parse the camp in front of him before whirling on his paws and angling left to the nursery; he couldn’t count how many cats had already fallen, but against such a massive enemy the tom knew instinctively they stood no chance either way.

Misfortune had followed a patrol home; a patrol of young wolves out for a hunt. The packs northward had been growing larger over the past seasons-- more pups meant more prey which needed to be killed. Though predators themselves, Cliffpaw knew it was foolish to believe cats weren’t also prey in their own right.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon! Let’s get going!” a kit nearly his own size shoved his way past ▇▇▇▇, a smaller she-kit following behind with what could only be a moon-old kit in her jaws.

“Head to the tunnels!” ▇▇▇▇ shouted over their shoulder, just barely audible against the snarling and barking of wolves.

Giving himself a firm nod, Cliffpaw overtakes the eldest kit and begins to pick up the pace. “Follow me-- I can lead us somewhere no wolf can find.” He hoped. He’d only been there once, two moons prior the beginning of his apprenticeship with Magpiestar; The Moonlit Caverns. A place where those blessed with the ability to do so commune with their ancestors, sacred and protected.

A small dip beneath a stone obscured by plants Cliffpaw never learned the name of marking an emergency tunnel into the system below -- it was narrow, and not well-maintained but it would have to do. A shriek sounds from behind him, shrill with terror. “AMBERKIT!” Cliffpaw hears the tomkit shout as his eyes meet the dark stare of a wolf whose jaws clamped around the tail of the white and grey tabby she-kit.

“Take the little one and through that hole and RUN-” Cliffpaw orders, hoping his few moons of training would be enough to save Amberkit and get out of there before the wolf could get a worse hold. Without hesitation, he lunges forward and latches to the large hounds face, teeth fighting for a grip against its massive forehead. 

He looks down at the wolf, eyes black and hollow, and then further down at Amberkit, tiny and helpless within its jaws. His paw begins to slip when an idea strikes him. Leaning into the weight, Cliffpaw scores his left-front paw down the wolf’s left eye and landing with a thud when it pulls itself back, a high-pitched whimper leaving its muzzle, releasing its hold on Amberkit’s tail.

His mind fights to take the moment to look across the camp while the wolf was still dazed -- were ▇▇▇▇ and ▇▇▇▇ still alive? Did they somehow escape as well? Precious seconds are wasted while Cliffpaw fights against himself, muscles tensing in indecision. A growl, deep and low is quick to make the decision for him. The red tabby surges forward, grabbing Amberkit by her scruff and forcing himself through the tunnels.

Whatever happened above, they would have to get through this together.

hiii welcome to my latest little clangen venture :3 this save, i selected a single apprentice and all the kits i could and decided to let it up to fate if they can rebuild from such a tragedy post style will probably change moon to moon while i figure out what kind of flow i like, but i hope you enjoy!

[cyarikasmoon]

Rest Now

Bad Batch Hunter x reader

Summary: Hunter returns home after saying goodbye to Omega. *Set just after the Season 3 epilogue scene*

Pairing: Bad Batch Hunter x f!reader

Word Count: 1,539

Warnings: Bad Batch Season 3 spoilers, married Hunter, older hunter, fluff, comfort, cuddles, HUNTER DESERVES LOTS OF CUDDLES AND KISSES

Divider by @freesie-writes & @snotbuggle

A/N: I truly adore this show and just wanted to write a little piece for Hunter. He did so well and is such a good father figure for Omega. That epilogue meant everything to me. I wish we saw older Crosshair and Wrecker, but I'm also quite glad it was a final moment between those two. It was always meant to be them. I will love and cherish them forever.

I hope you all like this. It's a little rough and rushed, and it's just raw emotions being processed onto a page after the finale, but I still wanted to post! Enjoy! x

It’s almost sunrise when you wake up. You sleepily reach out, cold underneath the sheets, and you realise the familiar warmth of your husband is gone. Your eyes blink open with a frown as you pat the bed, almost to make sure he is actually gone. Sitting up in the bed, you blink blearily, taking in the room. It’s dark, but your eyes adjust quickly, the faint lighting of a new day approaching helping you see the dimly lit room. You roll over the bed gently, and you see his boots are gone, and his overshirt that he had left hanging over the edge of the bed last night.

The entire house is quiet, which almost makes you confident that Batcher is gone as well. You let out a soft whistle, a quick two-tone note. Nothing like the loud army shrill your husband does to call the lurker hound. When there is no distant sound of barking, no heavy pads of paws on the ground, you sigh softly.

Gently getting out of bed, you move to pull on your trousers and the quickest shirt being one of his thick, long sleeved ones. As you slip it on, you breathe in the smell of him and let your shoulders sag. It wasn’t normal for him to be gone this early. His side of the bed had been cold when you had felt it. He had been gone for hours. At least Batcher would be with him. You hope, anyway.

Pulling on a quick small pair of boots, she moves towards the door but pauses by the window as she hears voices outside. As she peers out, she sees Wrecker and Crosshair standing talking. Crosshair is almost silent with his words, speech always raspy and quiet but sharp. Wrecker, thinking he was being quiet, was still quite loud. But the early morning rays indicated it wasn't long till the residents of Pabu would awaken.

Crosshair strokes his chin gently, fingers brushing over the soft wisps of grey turning white hair. His hair finally growing back in revealed it to now finally be more silver white than the original grey it used to be back in the days of the Republic. Wrecker still stands tall, and the body is still accumulating so much muscle, but he looks softer, rounder. Years of enjoying and actually living life and eating good food. His lips are drawn into a tight line from where you can see, his jaw covered in a soft wiry fuzz of scruff - the start of a beard that is accentuated with fine white hairs now amidst the dark ones.

The flurry of quick hand movements between the two have you frowning before you all hear a distant bark. You glance through the window to the right. Coming up over the hill, the rising sun casts light across the path as the old lurker hound ambles up the street. Batcher picks up speed slightly as she spots Crosshair and Wrecker, forever excited to see them. It’s then you see your husband, not too far behind Batcher. He walks slowly, his head down slightly, but he looks up as he spots his brothers.

He seems to stand up straighter then as he notices them, almost instinctively falling back into the roll of Seagerant after so long. Crosshair gets up slowly from where he had knelt down to stroke Batcher, leaving his prosthetic hand to rest on the back of her neck as he faces Hunter. Wrecker’s eyes are full of apprehension as if he knows what Hunter is to tell them, but he desperately doesn't want it to be the case.

When Hunter reaches them, you watch as he simply nods his head and says a few words. The three brothers stand in silence for a moment. Whatever news he had just shared, it brings a sombre moment, but then Wrecker’s smiling. He makes a comment, followed by a booming laugh. Crosshair's face twists up into an amused smirk, and he replies with his own comment. Your husband says something else, and they fall silent for a moment. It’s then Crosshair takes a step forward and rests his hand on Hunter’s shoulder, and they share a look. Before anything can be said, Wrecker envelopes them into his arms, a signature crushing hug from the big man that has them all smiling and reminiscing.

Wrecker puts them down, and they all share a final smile. It’s then the old girl barks, and Crosshair rolls his eyes fondly, the hound sticks to his side, ready for her breakfast. They all seemed to nod and head off in their own separate ways. A new day is beginning after all. As Hunter turns towards your home, you move and gently open the door and lean in the doorway and smile at him.

He glances at you and pauses for a moment, a fond smile on his face before he continues to walk forward to you. Like second instinct, you hold your arms open and let him hold you close and tight against him.

“Hi.” You whisper to him.

“Hey.” He responds softly. His voice reserved slightly, like when he’s lost in thought.

“Hey, come back to me.” You whisper softly, leaning back to cup his tattooed side of his face, fingers brushing over his dark beard.

His eyes tell you everything. They’re tired from being up so early. They’re full of love and adoration for you. They reflect peace. They show sadness. You smile sadly then, as you realise. This is the look of a father who has just had to let go and say goodbye. No matter how much he doesn’t wish for it to be the case.

“Omega?” You ask softly, stepping back, so you both gravitate back into your home.

He nods then. A small smile plays on his lips, his eyes softening.

“She left first thing in the early hours of the morning. Thought she could sneak away.” He chuckles, a gruff noise in his throat.

“She spoke about the Rebellion so often. It was only a matter of time before she would want to go help.” You stroke his cheek as you watch his melancholic expression.

“I know…” He breaks away so he can sit and take his boots off, and you do the same. You both leave them by the door, and he rises to stand in front of you again.

You hold your hand to him, and he instantly takes it.

“You’re a wonderful father, Hunter. I know it. Your brothers know it, and Omega knows it.” You whisper to him, taking both of his hands.

His thumbs stroke along your knuckles in a soothing motion for himself and for you. His left thumb focuses on running across your ring. He raises his eyes to look into yours.

“You’ve raised her wonderfully. She is such a bright, beautiful young woman now, and the Rebellion is lucky to have her.” You say and then grin. “You practically prepared her for this.”

He huffs and rolls his eyes fondly at you, lips quirked up into a small smile.

“I was once told battle droids were easier to handle compared to raising a kid.” He muses. “They weren't wrong.”

“Hunter, love, she’ll be fine. She knows you’ll come if you need her.”

“I’d be there in a heartbeat.” He promises, and his voice is so strong and earnest. You could never not believe him. The sergeant shines through in that moment.

You lean forward and kiss him softly, and his hands move to hold you close. Your foreheads then meet in a keldabe kiss, and you smile at him.

“C’mon old man, let's go back to bed for a bit.” You tease him with a grin.

“Who are you calling old man? The days are just starting.” He rolls his eyes and tries to hide his smile.

“And you’ve hardly slept.” You argue back, nudging your forehead against his. “C’mon, a little nap won’t hurt anyone.”

You lead him to the bedroom and smile as you help him take his overshirt off and drape it back over the edge of the bed. Laying down, he holds you close in his arms and still keeps his eyes open and watching you.

“You’ve done so good, love.” You whisper and lean forward, pressing gentle kisses across his face. “It’s okay to miss her. It’s normal. We all will miss her. But she’ll be okay. She’ll come back one day. Now you can rest.”

HIs eyes close as he embraces your touch. His breathing relaxes.

“Rest love, I’ve got you.” You whisper as you watch him drift off. “We’ve got you. You can rest now.”

You press a final kiss to his brow, right below his bandana, before you lay your head on the pillow next to him. The sun has risen now. You can hear the residents of Pabu begin their day. Birds in the distance. You swear even without enhanced senses like Hunter, you can hear the ocean. You look at him one final time before your eyes drift close. It’s a new day. They're here and alive. How exciting it is to live. To live and to love. To do whatever they want.

[winchesterwild78]

Carry on My Wayward Son part 1

Master List

Characters: Dean x Reader, Sam

Warnings: Mention of injury, angst, 

A/N: Just something I’ve been thinking about. This takes place at the end of Season 15. Dean doesn’t die, cause dammit he deserved better than that. Uses Supernatural characters but doesn’t follow the storyline. All work is my own. Don’t take it. 

Minors DNI 18+

Sam and Dean were on a simple vampire hunt. Dean had called you from the hotel to talk to you and had you look up some lore. You had the flu and stayed home, resting and getting better. 

You’d been hunting with the Winchester’s for about 3 years now, and Dean’s girlfriend for about as long. He was the love of your life, and you knew you were his. It took some time, but you were able to break down some of his walls. 

You saw a future with him. One without hunting and with the children you two would talk about late at night,wrapped in each other’s arms. The only problem was, Dean didn’t think he deserved that kind of life. 

It broke your heart to hear him say he didn’t deserve happiness. After everything he’d done for everyone, for the world, he deserved so much more than you could possibly give him. 

Laying in your shared bed, you were dozing in and out of sleep. Your fever had finally broken, and you hadn’t gotten sick in a few hours. The fatigue was all that was left. 

You kept your phone close in case the boys needed research done, but also because Dean would call when the job was done so you knew they were safe. You glanced at the clock and it was after 2am. You started to get worried, but you knew they would call. 

Maybe they didn’t get started as soon as you thought. Maybe they went out to eat or ran into some other hunters. Maybe they got arrested….again. Your mind raced with different scenarios, but nothing could prepare you for what really happened. 

The silence in the bedroom was shattered by the shrill sound of your phone ringing. You looked at the screen, it was Sam. “Sammy?” You heard a sniffle, “Sam! What happened?!” “Y/N, I need you to get to Mercy Hospital as soon as you can. It’s Dean.” Your heart leaped in your throat, and your breath hitched. “Sammy, what happened?” “There was a fight, and it went sideways fast. Please, hurry. I don’t know how much time he has left.” 

Your head spun and replayed his words over and over again. “I don’t know how much time he has left.” You got dressed, grabbed your bag and ran to the garage. Climbing in your car, you took off towards Sam and Dean. Praying the whole way to Jack. “Jack, please if you can hear me, please don’t take him away from me. He deserves the life we’ve talked about, please Jack.” The tears fell the whole way to the hospital. 

You don’t remember how you got there. You know you just drove, the past 3 hours a blur. When you got to the hospital you ran inside. Sam was standing there waiting for you. His eyes swollen and red, he was covered in blood. You threw your arms around him. “Sammy, where is he?” “They have him in the ICU. It doesn’t look good, Y/N.” You gasped as the tears fell. 

“I need to see him, please.” Sam nodded and walked you to Dean’s room. Dean was laying in the bed, the machines he was hooked up to made a steady beeping noise. He looked so vulnerable laying in the bed. 

You crossed the room, kissed his lips and sat down beside him. Inside you were falling apart, on the outside you had to remain stoic for him. You took his hand in yours and looked at Sam. “Sammy, please tell me what happened.” 

“It was supposed to be a simple vampire hunt. Unfortunately there were kids taken, and you know Dean. His focus was getting the kids to safety. We were ambushed by mask wearing vampires. Dean was in hand to hand combat with the biggest one. He didn’t see the piece of rebar sticking out of the column in the center of the room. As Dean went to cut off the vamps head, he kicked him into the column. I jumped up and killed the vamp. Dean was still against the column. He begged me to leave him and get the kids out. I called the police and stayed with Dean. He was losing too much blood. Dean told me to get out of this life, go back to school and live my life. He wanted me to tell you he loved you, and to look in the safe in your room. He left something for you. He also made me promise to make you move on and have those babies you two talked about.” 

As Sam continued talking, the tears fell heavy and fast. You knew Dean thought he was going to die. You leaned over and kissed his lips, “Dean Winchester, don’t you leave me. I want those babies, but only with you. They are going to have your strength and loving heart, my stubbornness, and above all they are going to have both of us to love and guide them. You have to give that to me Dean. You’re the love of my life and I can’t do this without you. Please baby, please fight.”

Sam put his hand on your shoulder. You looked at Sam with tears still in your eyes, “Sammy what am I going to do if I lose him? I love him so much.” “I know, Y/N. He’s a fighter.” You sighed, “Sammy, you should go shower and change. You’re covered in blood.” Sam looked at his clothes and shook his head, “Yeah. I’ll head to the hotel. Are you going to be okay?” You nodded, “Yeah, I’m not going anywhere.” 

Sam placed a kiss on the top of your head and left. You sat beside Dean still holding his hand when the doctor came in. “Oh hello, I wasn’t expecting anyone to be in here. I’m Dr. Wells, who are you?” “I’m Mrs. Winchester, his wife.” You motioned towards Dean. 

You knew they wouldn’t let you stay if you weren’t immediate family and there was no way in hell you were leaving him. “Well, nice to meet you. I spoke to your brother-in-law earlier. Your husband was impaled on a piece of rusty rebar when he got into that fight. He’s not out of the woods yet, but I want to let you know those kids he saved are all okay and are back home with their families.” 

You smiled as you looked over at Dean. “You hear that baby, the kids are safe.” You rubbed circles on his hand. “I’ll leave you with him. Mrs. Winchester, if you need anything just let one of the nurses know. I owe him a debt of gratitude. One of the kids he saved was my nephew. I’m going to do whatever I can to bring your husband back to you.” 

You nodded and softly smiled at him. The pride you felt for Dean magnified even more. He was always putting others, especially children. It was one of the things you loved most about him, and the reason you knew you wanted him to be the father of your children. They would always be protected as long as he was alive.

Sam came back a few hours later, clean and in new clothes. You told him what the doctor said and he smiled. Silence filled the room as the two of you sat watching Dean. 

“Y/N, why don’t you go get a coffee or something to eat, stretch your legs. You’re still recovering from the flu and you need rest and to keep up your strength.” You smiled softly at Sam, “I appreciate it, but I’m not leaving him.” Sam sighed. He knew there was no sense in arguing with you. You were more stubborn than Dean. 

Sam sat in the recliner in the room and you sat in the chair beside Dean’s bed. Your hand on his and your head laying on the bed. Sam dozed off in the chair and you fell asleep too. 

You were woken up around daybreak by someone calling your name and touching your hand. “Sweetheart, wake up.” That voice, that smooth voice pulled you from your sleep. Your head shot up and you met Dean’s green eyes looking at yours. 

You jumped up and threw your arms around him as the tears fell. “Oh my god, Dean! You came back to me!” Dean chuckled “of course I did. I couldn’t leave my girl. By the way, Jack says hello.” He smirked at you. 

You let out the breath you’d been holding since you got the phone call. Sam woke up and hugged Dean too. The nurses and Dr Wells came in to check on Dean. His wound was healing and he was doing well. 

You thanked the doctor and the nurses. Dr Wells looked at Dean, “You’ve got yourself an incredible wife, Mr Winchester. She never left your side.” Dean smiled at you and back at the doctor, “Yeah, she’s pretty amazing. That’s why I married her.” 

After the doctor left Dean looked at you and smiled, “So, Mrs Winchester. What do they have good to eat around here?” You smiled and hung your head a little, “Sorry, I knew they wouldn’t let me stay if I didn’t tell them we were married.” 

Dean cupped your face, “I’m not complaining. I like the sound of it.” You leaned in and kissed his lips, “good, cause so do I.” “I’ll go grab you a burger and some fries.” 

Dean nodded. “Oh and some pie too.” “That’s my girl.” 

You left the hospital room filled with so much joy. As you climbed in your car to go get Dean food you looked up “Jack, thank you for sending him back to me. I love him so much and I promise to spend the rest of my life loving him the way he deserves.” 

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[irisintheafterglow]

HAND ONE - HIGH CARD

summary: in a season where you're determined to fly under the radar, newly-returned crown prince!touya todoroki has other ideas. in this hand, a duel is fought.

wc: 1.7k

cw/tags: royalty!au/regency!au, fem!reader, first meeting, touya's sass need its own warning

note: SURPRISE !! bet iris starting another series wasn't on your 2024 bingo (it wasn't on mine) but here we are! this whole series is based on this little idea from a few months back and will include swordfighting! fake dating! mutual pining! angst! balls! (the royal kind, not,,, yk) oh and many poker metaphors lol. hope you enjoy this first little exposition chapter :))

likes, reblogs, and replies are greatly appreciated <3

You would admire the spectacle of it all, had it not been for the aching pain in your feet. 

The hand-me-down heels from your estranged stepmother made it hard to focus on anything but your breathing as you tried to steady yourself against a nearby column in the palace garden. You could practically hear her shrill screaming in your ears for not doing enough to network among the other young nobles, for failing to present yourself as fit for bearing children you didn’t want. As the people you’d grown up with since birth milled about carefully-tended roses and large-bloomed peonies, you couldn’t imagine how they weren’t sweating all their caked-on makeup off in the stifling June heat. Fishing the lacy hand fan from your clutch, you relocate to a shadier side of the column under the stone walkway lining the garden. An aggressive snap echoes off nearby walls when you flick it open and sigh when the air hits your face. 

“You stole my spot,” comes a smooth male voice from the other side of the column. You don’t think the person is talking to you, but then you hear an amused snicker and a small thank you to who you assume is a passing servant. It’s awkwardly silent except for faraway conversations and the breeze blown from your fan until the man clears his throat. “I’m holding out a water to you, if you would kindly look over your shoulder.” Slightly irritated by the condescending tone in his voice, you look and, sure enough, there was a cold glass of water in the stranger’s white-gloved hand. You couldn’t see his face, nor the rest of his body, but something in your gut told you that it was safe. And, if it did happen to be poisoned, at least it got you out of another season. Carefully taking the glass from his long fingers, most of the tension in your body leaves after the first few sips slide down your throat. “Refreshing?”

“Very,” you answer cordially, in that airy tone your stepmother taught you. She said it was a fine way to attract suitors, which made you want to drop your voice several octaves whenever a potential husband drew near. “Thank you. That was very kind of you, Mister…?”

“My identity is irrelevant,” he says quickly and you turn your head in his direction, as if to hear him better. “Nor will I ask of yours, so consider this conversation akin to speaking to a wall.”

“From my perspective, I am speaking to a wall,” you point out and the stranger chuckles under his breath. “May I ask why you aren’t socializing with the others?”

“I could ask the same of you, considering that you’re cowering behind a column.” The jab was evident. Your mouth drops in indignancy and, had it not been for heat exhaustion and your nice spot in the shade, you would have decked whoever was on the other side of this conversation. 

“I am not cowering,” you huff, taking another sip and willing the temperature to decrease just a few degrees. “I am merely…taking a break.”

“Taking a break where no one else can find you? For ten minutes?”

“A woman values her privacy,” you argue. “And as far as I’m aware, you were able to find me quite easily. Perhaps you were the one trying to hide, and I was the one who stole your spot.”

“So, you do acknowledge that you are stealing from me.”

“Space in this garden is not something to be claimed unless you are of the royal family, dear stranger.” You hope he can hear the smirk in your tone. 

“And yet, here you are, stealing what is rightfully mine.” 

“And yet, here you are, stealing what is rightfully mine,” you echo in a nasally, mocking voice that would have placed you in major trouble if your parents knew how you were addressing others. “Cease your bratty ramblings as if you own this palace.” The man barks out a laugh, a reaction you didn’t anticipate. It makes your heart race a little faster, in spite of your will to stay casual. 

“Have suitors ever told you that you’re quite the firecracker?”

“Bold of you to assume they get as far as to speak with me,” you correct without hesitation. Presentations were one of the stupidest parts of your present society, along with those tiny sandwiches and that tea that tastes like boiled shoes. “If they decide to pursue me, that’s their first mistake.” The stranger hums in a low tone. 

“Maybe you haven’t found the right suitor, then,” he muses and, before you can answer, the royal bugles announce the beginning of the duels. Excited cheers and the clicking sound of heels on pavement take over any remaining conversations. You whirl around to the other side of the column, anxious to see the mysterious man you were conversing with, but find the other side as vacant as when you first passed it. Slightly disappointed, you find your place along the perimeter of the circular stone courtyard and wait for the king’s advisor to speak. 

“Today is a day of celebration,” he begins, and you mutter the rest of his speech that you’d heard for the past four years under your breath. The hair stands up on the back of your neck and instinct tells you that someone was watching you, but you can’t find who it is among the hundreds of people present. You think you’ve found the culprit when you lock your gaze with a pair of strikingly blue eyes, but they disappear before you can identify the rest of the person. “And, as you are most likely already aware, this year we welcome His Highness Prince Touya Todoroki to the presentation ceremonies. Though he is of a royal family, those that wish to court or be courted by His Highness may present themselves as suitors as they ordinarily would.”

“And will the Prince grace us with his esteemed presence, or is he preoccupied with his ordinarily outlandish activities?” Sneers and snide remarks ripple through the crowd and the advisor struggles to regain their attention. That is, until that same loud barking laugh that you heard from the other side of the column cuts through the murmurs and mutters.

The voice that follows makes your blood run cold in your veins. 

“How bold to assume any of you are worthy of breathing in my presence.” 

“Your Highness–” 

“Shut up,” he spits, shivers spreading over your skin as the crowd splits to reveal an unruly mass of spiked white hair. His eyes are paralyzingly bright, cold and narrow while they scan the vermin before him. The rumors that circulated of his intimidating nature paled in comparison to the man before you, tall and lean and radiating the most dangerous aura you’d ever come across. All the previously gloating eyes became that of rabbits hunted by a wolf when they came under his gaze…except for yours. By some odd stroke of Fate, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d seen the Prince before, even though that was physically impossible. Maybe you’d passed another white-haired asshole in the market. “Well? Are we starting or shall you keep gawking until I staple your jaw shut?” The advisor stumbles, shrinking away like a mouse in a lion’s den. 

“Yes, Your Highness. May the first Lady to be courted please step forward!”

As the gowns start to swoop and the swords begin to swing, you’re again reminded of just how unnecessary the spectacle of presentation season always was. One by one, daughters of nobility presented themselves to the suitors, who would then step forward and duel one another for the opportunity to court the Lady. The fights were never to the death, of course, but the shame that came with losing more than one duel was close to it; nothing was more embarrassing, however, than having no suitors step forward when a Lady presented herself. It was your worst fear every season, one that you seemingly didn’t need to worry about this time around.

Still, you were met with the same pasty-faced suitor that had been attempting to win your hand for the past several seasons. He’d accumulated significantly more muscle mass since the previous season, but his hot-headed temper and objectifying tendencies were enough of a turn off to send him packing by the end of the first meeting. 

“You have rejected me time and time again, but that only makes you more enticing,” he declares, offering his hand to you while you roll your eyes behind your fan. Ladies who already received their matches swoon at his show of masculinity, but it only makes your stomach turn. “I will win you. That is my promise. And, if not this season, then the next, and I will persevere until the only eyes you look for in a room are mine.” 

“The only thing I would be looking for in a room with you is an exit,” you mutter. He doesn’t answer, eyeing you like you were a wise investment. Gross. 

“You’d do well to accept me.” Your attention darts upward and you meet his stare, irritated at your lack of a response. The volume of his voice drops so that only you two can hear it as he comes to stand inches away from your face. “It’s not like you have the privilege of other options. Marry me or life as a spinster is your only future.” 

“I wouldn’t marry you if the entire kingdom was at stake,” you hiss and his mouth turns up in a snarl, ready to bite out a response when the shing! of a sword being pulled from its sheath echoes through the courtyard. A quiet verbal commotion sets into the crowd, but you’re unable to see anything beyond the asshole before you. 

"Your business is with me, not her," warns a dangerously familiar voice and the man in front of you stiffens. "Let's get this over with."

“The…ahem…duel will begin once both suitors are in first positions,” the advisor relays with great hesitation. You’d never experienced a duel for your hand, yet it seemed that another man had been dealt into the game. With his face drained of its remaining color, Pasty-face draws his blade like an inexperienced marionette, clunky and jagged, as he takes his place in the circle, allowing you to catch the eye of his opponent, molten blue eyes that make your knees turn gelatinous. The prince was dueling for your hand. 

Prince Touya of the Todoroki family was dueling for your hand. 

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[firestorm09890]

stray canto vii part 1 thoughts (warning: long)

so many cool new designs!! it made me realize how few of interest we got in Canto VI. Then almost everything was pretty standard (classic maid and butler outfits, lots of suits, Cathy had a fancy dress at least? and everything was brown. yes I know, T Corp color drain, but still. and Öufi came before season 3 ended so that didn’t count), but this time we have Camille, the P Corp guys, Fanghunt Office, Hugo I guess, Hong Lu’s sister, the firefist guy? if he counts? he barely appeared, Sansón, and all the fancy dressed up bloodfiends. woo babey!!

speaking of Jia Xichun, I like her! She’s cute! I didn’t expect to see anyone related to Hong Lu, but in retrospect I probably should’ve, since his turn is next and his family is massive. I hope nothing bad happens to her. I've never read Dream of the Red Chamber

also speaking of Hugo, lol. lmao. when he was talking about pressing the button to get the reward I was like “oh hopkins 2, got it” and then Ryōshū sliced off his hands so I guess… not hopkins 2

ALSO the blonde Fanghunt guy is named Romero, which is apparently the name of a character in Vampire: The Masquerade. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was an intentional reference

Sinclair cursing that one guy out was so awesome. I remember when Canto V part 2 came out and he censored himself saying “Bitch Brother” people were worried that the new translators were making him softer than he actually was, but, nah, he tries his best to be a polite boy but when he’s actually genuinely pissed off he does not hold back. Ryōshū correcting him BUT THEN SAYING HIS INTERPRETATION WAS GOOD absolutely killed me. my son demands respect

it’s a good day to be a Leviathan fan

The scripted loss encounter was so cool. They set you to level 45 no matter what level your LCB Don is, and take away all your EGO except the base (which you can’t even use), and I don’t know how far you can actually get in this fight because I flipped tails every single time and lost every clash

let’s talk about the Barber! leave it to Project Moon to look at the character who didn’t have very much of a personality who stuck around with the priest and attempted multiple plans to bring Don Quixote back home so he could become sane again (and burned a bunch of Quixote’s chivalry books, also with the priest), and turned him into an insane vampire woman with big scissors and a shrill cackle who stitches masks onto people’s faces.

interesting choice to have Sancho and Dulcinea both named in a single line and then not acknowledged or mentioned again

Sansón! so based on his story log portrait background being bisexual, the blue name, and him resembling someone in Demian’s group in the Limbus Company PV, I feel confident saying he’s part of Demian’s Group. The spot where his Sign would be is covered by his mask, though, so no one in-universe knows

I think this is why Sinclair was cast in the role of the Knight of the White Moon: he also has the sign, which Sansón (who is the Knight of the White Moon) would be able to see, and even if other sinners have it too, they’re not Demian’s special guy. everyone else, though, seemed to be cast in the most humiliating role possible: horse to be ridden for Gregor, wild animal for Heathcliff, random peasant for Rodya, presumably homeless old person for Outis

ok Sansón. in the book, he’s a young college student who read the first part of Don Quixote and, in part 2, approaches Quixote saying he’s a big fan and encouraging him to go back out and do more knight stuff. However, he actually just thinks Don Quixote’s antics are very amusing and isn’t actually an earnest supporter, and is conspiring with the barber and priest to get Quixote back home to stay. the way they (priest and barber try to bring him home in part 1 is by tricking him with an adventure that’s conveniently in the same direction as their home village, but then they get sidetracked in an inn for a long time so they just put him in a cage and drive him home. in part 2, they want to play on Quixote’s terms for a more effective result. near the beginning of the second part, they have Sansón dress as a knight (called the Knight of Mirrors/Knight of the Forest. these titles have no significance in the book but apparently the mirror thing forces Quixote to see himself as the frail old man he is in Man of La Mancha), say his lady is fairer than Dulcinea to get Don Quixote to duel him, and then make Quixote promise to stay home for a year when he loses. however, Sansón is the one who loses, because he wasn’t expecting Quixote to actually be good at jousting. Later, near the very end, which iirc is 3 months after the first encounter, another knight called the Knight of the White Moon issues the exact same challenge to Don Quixote (it’s just Sansón again, and "White Moon" has no significance in the original book either), but this time Sansón wins, so Don Quixote goes home, dejected, and then becomes “sane” again and dies.

Since this Sansón is part of Demian’s group, I don’t think his intentions will be the same- the Barber was a bloodfiend, and he sees beyond the ambitions of the bloodfiends now- but it’s fun to know how he is in the source nonetheless

I really like how he didn’t show up after the Barber’s defeat to say something cryptic and then leave, he told us quite a bit, and though his methods were… questionable, he DID force the sinners to actually finally pay attention to Don Quixote

speaking of the stage play, I like the juxtaposition between Sansón’s play and the Barber’s. in a different context, what Sansón did might’ve been framed as horrifying, and we’d be talking about how uncanny and unreal this is, but I don’t think that’s the intention here. the sinners might be playing roles, and all the enemies are cardboard cutouts, but it’s better than putting targets on real people (though I guess they’re not “people”, they’re bad, bad, bloodfiends). the cheerful music in La Manchaland is distorted and out of place, while the stage play is nice in comparison. the music for the talking sections is a bit too upbeat for the situation, but the music during the battles really immerses you. guitar! trumpet! maraca! this music is clearly composed to emulate spanish music, and it’s very earnest, which I think is important, with how easily music sets tone in media.

in both cases, Don Quixote is in a delusion. nothing in the stage play of her adventures is real, but she’s also completely wrapped up in the narrative of evil bloodfiends without the knowledge that she is one. a violent nightmare and a peaceful dream, both of which she needs to wake up from.

they both do this thing with black-and-white thinking, too. there’s a difference between the “good” bloodfiends, which you should get along with, and the “bad” ones, which you need to kill (though Don sees them both as bad), and then the bandits in the stage play are cartoonishly evil and love to bully the weak. except it seems the first is the narrative the Barber wanted to sell, while the second is Don Quixote’s reality… I mean, the play is definitely inaccurate, but we’ve seen how Don behaves

if you follow me for kingdom hearts and are for some reason reading this you know how much I love Nobodies in kh. people who used to be human, but aren’t anymore, who look close enough but are different on an intrinsic and physiological level, that everyone automatically treats as unreasonable monsters that need to die when they’re more complicated than that… I love it so much, I’m cheering and clapping whenever bloodfiend morality is brought up. Moses said that Larierre was cordial and offered her a place to sit and talk, but then also said bloodfiends are insatiably hungry and you shouldn’t underestimate them. agh I love it

also THE MUSIIIIIC every fight theme so far has been a banger. songs that were already good but with typical carnival instruments, big brass swing, the aforementioned nice spanish music, and the fucked up and evil sequel to dubstep electroswing featuring evil laughter

and finally, the helm of mambrino. in early part 1 of Don Quixote, he sees a barber (COMPLETELY unrelated barber to the other barber btw) carrying a basin on his head, and thinks it’s the amazing mystical Helm of Mambrino, so he attacks the barber and steals the basin. Don Quixote wears it as a helmet a few times and everyone thinks it looks really stupid. they did not fight a bear for it, nor did they go into a cave. idk what this might actually be in the City. either we’ll see or we won’t

[agendabymooner]

the little schuminis || ms47 fic

dad!mick schumacher x mom!ofc

EXTENSION TO SHE’S EVERYTHING… AND HE’S JUST MICK! (SMAU) + MICK, MULTIPLIED (SNAPSHOT)

Summary: Barbie Schumacher was the best mother there is to Mick’s little carbon copies. OR four times when Mick showed his devotion for his kids, and the one time his devotion paid off.

Content warning: Made this in about an hour— did not proofread this but I love it bc F1 driver with kids, All around fluff, Mick issa good dad, Michael Schumacher and Sebastian Vettel being wingmen to their kids (Barbie and Mick), Michael’s clowning his own son, many Schumacher kids

Note: @avaleineandafryingpan I know this isn’t much but I hope you love this request babygorl 😭😭🫶 my heart beats for you fr. Enjoy some dad!Mick content xx

a - n masterlist

o - z masterlist

i. the time with minna schumacher’s late night wake up call

Shrill cries of a newborn love was equal to the agony that Barbie Schumacher — formerly Blanco Vettel — felt as she groaned quietly. 3 AM never felt this awful until her firstborn child reached her teething stage, and all Barbie wanted to do was cry like her daughter was doing in her nursery now. 

Perhaps it wasn’t ideal to have a baby at the age of 27. Many people told her that her spouse wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment— that he was still on the peak of his career as a formula one driver. 

And Mick was in the midst of a season when Minna Elisa Schumacher was born. Being away from her for far TOO long was something he didn’t want, but he was forced to leave as soon as Minna reached her 47th hour of her life. Mick never hated something this much until his career made him choose. 

Barbie grumbled as she reached for her nightgown and slipped it on, only for a large hand to pull her back to the mattress as the German man murmured, “I’ll get her, liebling.” 

“Mick…” Barbie hadn’t really wanted to make him get up, seeing as he just arrived four hours ago after his triple header.

“‘s okay, I’ll get Minna,” he muttered, reaching out to kiss his wife’s forehead. “Just go get settled down and you can feed her here.” 

The blond man had immediately found Minna crying in her crib as he cradled her, heading downstairs to grab some iced teether to help soothe her gums. “Shh,” he shushed her gently, the baby’s cry subsiding immediately as she sucked on the teether. “You hungry, liebe? Or ‘s it just your gums?” 

“We have to stop waking your mom up at such an early time, Minnie baby,” he sighed, rocking her in his arms as they made their way back up to the bedroom. “She’s been awake all the time— she works too hard for us.” 

“She’s amazing, no?” Mick asked his daughter as if she could understand every single word he was saying. 

“Ma…” Minna mumbled regardless, clinging to his arms as Mick grinned tiredly. 

“Yeah, I know,” Mick nodded. “She’s working too hard, Minna. I’m glad she’s here to see you grow like this, liebe.” 

“Talking to Minna again, Schums?” A soft voice reached his ears as Mick looked back at his wife, who had her back against the headboard as she smiled tiredly and extended her arms. 

“Of course, Barbie,” Mick chuckled. “She’s got to learn her words, one of these days.”

“No need to lecture her though,” Barbie told him. But it wasn’t anything that she didn’t appreciate; she always liked it when Mick talked to their child like Minna understood everything. He had been doing this since Barbie fell pregnant with the girl— he’d often crouch down or lay next to her bulging stomach to speak to the growing baby inside of her. 

It showed Barbie that Mick was a committed father. It showed that regardless of his situation as a busy driver, he always saw his family as his number one priority. Perhaps that was why Barbie loved Mick so much. 

ii. the time with gisela schumacher’s first ballet show

Gisela Belle Schumacher’s first little ballerina performance was happening in the program facility and everyone made sure to show up. 

By everyone, I mean Barbie’s family, the Vettels, and Gisela’s (or Gigi) aunt Gina, Pippa Michael and Nina Corinna. The two year old was excited to show everyone what she practiced with Madame Pinault throughout her three months of being at the class. 

She was the tiniest girl out of the group, with her bright blue eyes and blonde hair making her stand out in comparison to her peers’ darker tones of hair. The Schumachers and Vettels knew which one to look out for while they waited at the auditorium.

Barbie peered down at her phone and sighed quietly. Mick wasn’t here yet. Stupid flight of his.

At Gigi’s age, she couldn’t easily grasp the concept of people not being able to make it to certain events at the right time. All she knew was that she was going to show her Dada how she could balance on her tiptoes without a problem. 

And of course, Mick couldn’t find himself to break her heart like that. And so, after the Brazilian GP, he took the fastest flight back to Lausanne. 

And there he was, rushing inside the auditorium with the biggest bouquet for the littlest girl. 

Minna’s announcement led the families to look at him as Mick kissed Barbie’s lips and Minna’s cheeks.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Mick apologized, “the baggage claim took longer than expected.”

“She hasn’t gone out yet,” Barbie laughed quietly, mindlessly caressing Minna’s blonde hair as she continued to speak, “glad to see you back from the race in one piece, though. With the biggest flowers too.”

Later after the performance, Gigi ran around the Schumacher home with the bouquet bragging about the flowers her Dada had given her. Barbie laughed at the sight of the girl— she was too adorable.

Mick laughed along, as he knew that he’d be more than happy to come carrying the biggest flowers for his girl— even after the longest double header he’s had. After all, nothing can stop him from being the best father to his children.

iii. the time with mika schumacher’s birthday party

“Who decided that setting up a pet display should be this fuc—“

“Mick, watch your words.”

“Sorry, Dad.” 

“Stop going crazy,” Michael said with a frown, throwing the small giraffe plushie at the direction of his son, to which Mick reacted with an ‘Ow!’ after being hit in the face. “This isn’t the first birthday party you’ve handled.” 

“Well this is the first one where ‘pet adoptions’ are a thing,” Mick gestured at the safari animal plushies at hand. “I don’t know what came up to Gina thinking it’s easy to find bulk plushies, but this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done— and I have three kids, Dad!”

“Because you can’t control yourself,” Michael mumbled, making Mick glare at him. Michael shrugged, “Am I incorrect?” 

Mick couldn’t even find himself to argue with his dad. Six years into the marriage, and he and Barbie already had three kids under seven. 

“I’m just so used to the girls wanting princesses and all of that,” Mick pouted lightly. 

Michael sighed, “Well, now you have Mika— think of him as you. What did you like when you’re a kid? Put yourself in his shoes. Don’t tell me you’re having an existential crisis three kids into marriage? I’m actually gonna be disappointed if you didn’t think that before you had the kids— you’ve been a driver for years!” 

“How can you find a time to joke about it,” Mick sighed exasperatedly. “I don’t even know why I’m here being an ass about my kid’s birthday party.” 

“Because,” Michael told him with a purse of his lips, “you’ve never had a son before— that’s why you’re stressing out about messing up.” 

“I struggled with you for a good while,” Michael shrugged nonchalantly, “Gina was into princesses and pink ponies. You were a boy— I didn’t know what baby boys liked. But I was a racer, that’s why I didn’t have any questions— I still hesitated though because you might like something else and I have to be aware of it.” 

“From what I can tell, you’re doing an alright job so far,” Michael smiled at Mick, patting him on the shoulder. “Miki’s been a happy child. That’s what matters, no?”

“So pick up your sad face and put those plushies up,” Michael said.

A delighted scream came from inside the house as the year old boy escaped from Kimi Vettel’s chasing, giggling as Mika Sebastian Schumacher ran as much as his little legs could handle. 

Eventually he found himself in the arms of Mick as Mika hid from his Uncle Kimi. 

“Da!” Mika screamed delightfully, kicking his legs when Kimi Vettel began tickling the boy. 

Mick and Michael exchanged grins.

Yeah, Mick would continue to put these plushies up if it meant that he’s making his son happy. 

iv. the time with michael ‘mikey’ schumacher’s introduction to the world

Michael Senna, or Mikey, Schumacher was born sixteen hours ago, his tiny body was proof that he was so much like his mother. Yet despite the smallness of his, his facial features and expressions of contentment showed that he was his father’s son. 

Another Mick Schumacher had been born into the world, and Barbie and Mick (alongside their family in Switzerland) welcomed him with open arms. 

And no one was more than excited than the newborn’s namesake, his Pippa Michael, and Sebastian Vettel when meeting the little boy. In fact, they raced through the hospital as soon as they heard that Barbie, Sebastian’s adoptive daughter, had given birth to Mick’s second son. 

Michael was more than happy to meet the boy— just as he was excited to meet his other grandchildren— but to meet little Mikey Schumacher was a moment to remember for everyone. Because that was also the time when Mick announced that…

“I’m retiring,” both Seb and Michael looked at the man with surprised expressions as if they wondered if they heard him right.

Mick explained, “I feel like I’ve lost a lot of time with the kids because I’ve been racing. The kids obviously don’t know how much time I’ve lost because they’re young but… I do. Barbie does.

“It took me a good while to understand what Mika loved— it took me a while to learn how to keep Gigi from having flyaways in her hair during her ballet classes— or how Minnie managed to handle her equestrian routine without Gina or Mom.

“I’ve lost a lot of time,” he said with a small chuckle and a shake of his head. Mick then gestured at Mikey, who remained peacefully sleeping in Michael’s arms as he said, “And with Mikey, I think I can’t afford to do that anymore. I’m okay with one championship only.”

Sebastian broke the silence after, “I’m proud of you Mick,” he smiled softly before reaching out to hug his in-law. “Look at how far Barbie and you’ve come.”

“Back then we had to goad him to ask Barbie on a date,” Michael chuckled quietly.

“It took us eight years,” Sebastian joked.

“Or nine,” Michael snorted.

“We’re still here,” Barbie mumbled in her sleep, “stop making jokes about it.” 

“Still,” Michael said, “we’re very happy for you and Barbie, son.”

“This is where your life begins,” Sebastian nodded, “all you need to do is to tell everyone about your commitments and devotion for your children and wife.” 

i. the time mick’s devotion paid off

Being a retired driver felt great. It wasn’t everyday Mick got to say that— and now he had every chance to. 

Barbie’s family restaurant in Lausanne, one that she named SV et Blanco, had been built years ago— it was the Vettels and Schumachers’ pride. After she graduated from culinary school, Barbie worked as a chef in nearby restaurants before eventually deciding that she wanted a place where family could start their traditions through countless dishes and desserts to try. 

Needless to say, it became a local and even international favourite. Many tourists in Switzerland would try to stop by Lausanne just to get a taste of Kimi Vettel’s favourite spinach and egg soufflé.

And now, SV et Blanco became a place for the Schumachers to spend their time during the Friday afternoons after Minna and Gigi’s classes. Mick would always pick up his daughters with Mika and ten month old Mikey on their car seats.

And after that, he’d come dropping by the restaurant. With Mika on his pram and Mikey on his back carrier, he led the kids into the restaurant as they found their mother making her rounds around the place. 

“Mama!” Minna exclaimed before she and Gigi ran towards Barbie, hugging her around the legs. 

“Oh, excuse me,” Barbie smiled at the guests before she crouched down to hug her girls. “Gigi, Minnie— hello! How’s school!” 

“School is good, Mama!” Gigi grinned. “I got star for writing!”

“That right? Good job, Gigi,” Barbie grinned. “And you, Minnie? How is your school?”

“Okay! I want soufflé though!” The eldest Schumacher pouted lightly. “I wanna see Pippa and Nina!”

“Pippa and Nina! And Sebby— and Mamma Bel!” Mika shouted from his pram.

Barbie giggled lightly before looking up at her husband, “And…? How’s Dada, kids?”

“Dada’s not that busy,” Mick giggled, “hungry for some soufflé though— Minna’s right.”

“Well,” Barbie clapped her hands before standing up, “it’s a good thing it’s our everyday special.”

“Great,” Mick joked. “Otherwise we traveled to Lausanne for nothing.”

Barbie rolled her eyes playfully.

It was a good thing Mick’s devotion and commitment for his kids were paying off. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be the retired father that he is now— his kids wouldn’t be adoring their mother as much as Mick did back when they were teenagers and secretly in love. 

[dooberific]

❝ 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘨 ❞

pre-release wriothesley x afab! reader

-> can be read a gn save the like, last line oop

genre: hurt w mild comfort tbh

been eating up that rough boxer wrio tbh <3,

It was uncharacteristically quiet as you stood there in the kitchen, your hands balled into fists. The only sound was the shrill hum of the box fan in the window desperately trying to circulate the hot air that seemed to pervade the shitty little apartment you called home. You were so angry you were practically shaking, a tremble not unlike that of his bandaged hands as he raised the cigarette back to his lips.

He looked like hell. The gentle slopes of his tanned face were blotched with ugly blooms of black and blue. Butterfly stitches held his skin together in places that were sure to scar, weeping with antiseptic ointment and drying blood. There was a new crook to his nose, a new cut opened on his lower lip, a new wince to hide with every movement of his arms that you knew looked no better under the loose sweatshirt he wore. 

He may be the one beat all to hell but you felt it too.

“Wrio.”

He didn’t respond, his eyes glazed over as he stared at the peeling linoleum floor.

“Wrio, look at me.” You hissed, your voice cracking.

It was a hesitant action, the turn of his head. Maybe it was for the best, his blue eyes ringed with a spider web of burst blood vessels. 

“Don’t go back there, not tonight.” Your tone was blunt and angry, as if hoping to convince him that he had toed the line and pushed things too far with your words alone. There was no such thing as safety when it came to ring fighting for money, yet the sheer brutality you now saw inflicted upon a seasoned fighter was enough to make your gut twist sickly.

He stared up at you blankly, a hand rising to rub his stubble lined lower face as he sighed. “You know I can’t do that.” Came his quiet response as he took another drag off the cigarette between his fingers, his eyes breaking contact at the hurt look that burned onto your face. You were never angry, let alone with him. It was a foreign and hollow feeling that stabbed into his chest at the sight.

Your mouth opened to retort only to shut and open once more as you floundered with the anger that burned in your veins and the distress that tingled up your spine and drew tears to your eyes. 

“Fuck!” You yelled, turning away quickly as you felt tears breach your lash line and creep down your cheeks despite your efforts. “You stupid fucking boy, why can’t you just listen for once?” You mourned aloud, storming out of the kitchen and down the hallway. 

You could hear the scrape of chair legs against the floor, his heavy footfalls trailing you down the hall as you quickly turned into the bathroom to make a futile escape. You couldn’t even close the door before he had shouldered it open, cornering you in the tiny space.

“Get out.” You hissed, your hands flat against his chest as you tried to force him back. It was like pushing against a brick wall and hoping it would move, another act of your frustration manifested.

“No, I’m not letting you run away from me. Not now.” 

His voice was so gentle it hurt. It was a gentleness that seemed out of place for a man who seemed destined for the ring, for fighting, but it was achingly familiar to your ears as the tone that seemed reserved only for you. 

He took a step further in, and you stepped back, your calves meeting the cold porcelain of the toilet. There wasn’t much more distance to be made, yet you tried your best even as he reached out and caught you in his arms despite your thrashing refusal.

You hated the feelings that seemed to overflow, the tightness in your chest, the stinging in your eyes. You hated the weakness that seemed to burn you to the core, and you hated the pitiful look in his tired eyes as he caged you in his arms against the wall. 

Your fingers sank into the rough wallpaper as you turned your face away, wishing he would just leave you to be ugly in peace but knowing he wouldn’t. 

“(y/n), baby, talk to me. Please.” You could faintly smell your cheap detergent mingling with the scent of smoke on his clothes as he wiped your tears with his sleeve, prodding for you to acknowledge him as if he wasn’t surrounding you with himself already. 

You mustered up the courage to look back at him, your cheek pinched firmly between your teeth as you tried to collect yourself. “You’re gonna get yourself killed.” You blurted out, your brow furrowing. “They won’t  fight fair and they are gonna kill you and I am gonna have to live with that for the rest of my life.” 

“I won’t let that happen.”

“It’s not about you letting it happen. It doesn't have to happen at all. The money isn’t worth it, please Wrio, just stay.” 

He was quiet for a long moment, leaning forward to press his forehead flush to your own. His hands cupped your cheeks, rough thumbs brushing over your cheek bones. Your sweet boy, so tender and kind yet so bruised and beaten from circumstances he should have never had to deal with. It broke your heart nearly as much as his reply.

“I wish it was that easy.”

Your knees buckled as you slid to the floor, an overwhelming sense of dread washing over you. Money and debts be damned, they could all burn in hell for all you cared, yet your tears had dried and were replaced with a bitter emptiness that glossed over you eyes and filled you with an indescribable numbness.

He was silent as he joined you, his legs crammed up nearly to his chest in the floor of the small bathroom as he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Even without looking he could easily find your hand, small and delicate intertwined easily with his own, a thumb running over your knuckles in a circular pattern. 

“Are we okay?”

His question was simple, yet it hung in the air like a lead weight. You squeezed his hand.

“No, I don’t think so.” You murmured, turning to look at him only to be met by his own intense gaze. You scooted closer to his side, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “I haven’t been okay in a long time, Wrio.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I knew what I signed up for.” You stated plainly, fingers splaying under his palm for a moment. 

“Promise you won’t get yourself killed?” You offered into the air, turning to bury your face into his side. He smelled like home. 

“Promise,” He replied softly as a smile teased the corners of his lips, “Who would take care of my girl if I wasn’t around?”

Rey, 2023

[autumn-opossum]

Dr. Hemlock @ CX-2 before sending him off to find Omega: Start breakin bricks, wet nips. blblblblpbplp

_____________________________

Dr. Hemlock while interrogating Crosshair about finding Omega: YOU’LL CALL HEEERRR

_____________________________

Omega: Where’s Nala Se?

Dr. Hemlock: We just stepped out of the shower, she’ll be here in a minute

Omega: I just wanted to ask her some- wait did you just say ‘we’?

Dr. Hemlock: hmm?

Omega: Did you just say ‘we just stepped out of the shower’?

Dr. Hemlock: ……………. I said ‘she’.

_____________________________

Dr. Hemlock @ Tarkin after the 12th time he complained about funding: *stab* THAT’S WHAT YOU GET WILHUFF! YOU GET FORK STABBED!

______________________________

*Omega wearing her usual clothes but with a clone helmet as a disguise*

Dr. Hemlock: Who’s this guy?

*Omega takes off the Helmet*

Dr. Hemlock: OMEGAAAA

______________________________

Dr. Hemlock with his crew of clones standing around Hunter and Wrecker: Scorch, stab somebody!

Scorch, running out from behind Hemlock, screaming: *stabs Hemlock in the arm with a vibroblade*

Dr. Hemlock: *shrill screams*

______________________________

Dr. Hemlock walking out after the summit: Later bitches

(^ Alternatively: Dr. Hemlock after escaping with his life at the end of season 3)

[happilyfeatherafter]

Dean’s VOs in The Winchesters (season one!)

(LISTEN ALONG WITH AUDIO HERE)

Dean episode 1: 

( Ten Years After's "I'd Love to Change the World" ) ♪ ♪ 

March 23, 1972. The day Dad came home from the war, and the day he met Mom. Now I know this story might sound familiar, but I'm gonna put the pieces together in a way that just might surprise you. And in order to do that, I have to start all the way at the beginning. 

[END OF EPISODE]

What they didn't know is that the Akrida weren't just a threat to Earth, but to all of existence. Now, like I told you, there's gonna be some surprises. Hell, I'm still trying to find all the puzzle pieces myself. But I'll explain everything. And until then, I'll keep picking the music. 

♪ ♪ Spread them wide ♪ ♪ Rich or poor ♪ ♪ Them and us ♪ ♪ Stop the war ♪ 

Dean episode 2: 

( punchy, percussive music ) ♪ ♪  The ties that bind a family together can be complicated. Parents raise you, teach you what's right and wrong, and in some instances, how to kill monsters. But no matter who you are, there comes a time when you have to break from them and make your own way. And if you're not careful, things can get pretty ugly. 

Dean episode 3: 

( dramatic music ) ♪ ♪ ( screams ) ( sizzling ) ( growling )  There's no map to being a hunter. No playbook. You gotta follow your gut. But that can only take you so far. Truth is, you can't do it all on your own. You need other people to help guide the way... Your friends, your family. Otherwise you just end up lost. 

Dean episode 4: 

( eerie music ) ♪ ♪  Fighting the battle between good and evil isn't easy, especially when the first monster you have to face is the one inside yourself. ( soft dramatic music ) 

Dean episode 5: 

( dramatic music ) ♪ ♪ Spending a lifetime of hunting monsters takes its toll. There comes the time when you gotta let out that pain inside you. If you don't, it'll eat you alive. 

Dean episode 6: 

(Lata) I am centered. I am at peace. I create my own path, and I walk in it fearlessly. (end Lata)

Hunting has a way of changing a person. After a while, right, wrong, good, evil, they all start to look the same. And then it makes you start to wonder, "Who's really the monster here--them or me?" 

[END OF EPISODE]

Hunting's not for everyone. You have to be strong, stay sharp, make tough decisions, and it's not easy, But then again, the righteous things never are. 

Dean episode 7: 

( birds chirping ) Comes a time in every hunt when the fightin' starts. And the difference between winning and losing isn't whether you have the holy water, the wooden stake, or the silver bullet. It's whether you've got the grit to get the job done. (Mary on radio)

Dean episode 8:

(John Moran’s “Rebel”) ♪ ♪ Being a hunter, it means living a life of sacrifice-- not a lot of room for dreams. But you open your heart and get a little lucky, you'll find you gain more than you lose. ♪ ♪

Dean episode 9:

( mellow bluesy music ) ♪ ♪ This isn't how I saw things going when I pushed over that first domino. Thing is, I've had more than a few dances with free will and fate, but as my dad used to say, "Fate is what you make it."

Dean episode 10:

Hunting and happy endings don't usually mix, so when you get your chance, you got to ask yourself, "How far will I go to get it?"

Dean episode 11:

Being a Hunter means always being on the move, No matter how hard you plan, no matter how hard you work, at a certain point, we all run out of road. It's what we do with those crossroads that defines us.

Dean episode 12:

♪ ♪ ( carnival music resumes ) ♪ ♪ ( giggling manically ) ♪ ♪ ( shrill giggling ) ( whispering voices ) ( strange sounds ) 🤡🤡🤡

Hunting's a dishonest business. You gotta lie all the time about who you are and what you do. But the hardest lies aren't the ones you tell other people. They're the ones you tell yourself.

(Mary to John) Another day looking for this mystery man and still nothing. It's like this guy's a ghost. (End Mary to John).

Dean episode 13:

*RECORD SCRATCH* HE’S HERE!!!!! We’re going in universe baby.

(Opening scene, dramatic music ) ♪ ♪ 

Dean: John Winchester. 

John: Sir, can I help you? 

Dean: This is for you. 

John: Where did you get this? Who are--  [...] One ticket for Lawrence, Kansas. 

Ticket lady: Okay.

BOBBY, IT’S FREAKIN’ BOBBY!!!: We're not supposed to meddle with things, ya idjit!

Dean: You always said if I was gonna be stupid, I might as well be smart about it. 

Bobby: Yeah, that does sound about like me. We're not even supposed to be here. 

Dean: Come on, the letter was meant for him. I just, uh, you know, gave it a nudge. 

Bobby: You keep an eye on things here. I'm gonna get the damn cavalry. 

Dean: How you gonna do that? 

Bobby: I got no freaking idea. One last hunt, huh? 

Dean: One last hunt. ♪ ♪

[Insert finale including lots of chat about the ‘ruggedly handsome' mystery man here. For Akrida!Queen exposition science: You're here to talk about the man with no name...he was digging around in things that should have stayed buried. ... The Akrida. You see, our mysterious friend isn't from around here. There's only so much he could do. His hands were tied. Credit where it's due... he did manage to stay ahead of me for a while, but... I can assure you that he's not going to be a problem anymore. ... Well, there's this portal. You see--I'm sure you've heard of it. It's not quite up to code yet, but I managed to pry it open just enough to toss a certain someone and his car into it. No human can survive that gateway, so his body will be torn to shreds for centuries. Anyway, this, um... this old journal... it's all that's left of him.]

Back to the end of the show:

( electricity crackling ) ( engine revving ) ( engine revving ) ( dramatic music )  ♪ ♪ 

John: Mary! ... How did you guys survive? 

Dean (gestures at Baby): She kept Mary safe... me too. Of course, there's not a lot that can tear me apart. I'm already dead. I was stuck in the world between worlds, so I stayed close to that portal, and as soon as I saw baby come through, I hopped in and grabbed the wheel. 

Samuel: So who are you? 

Dean: I'm a Hunter, just like you. But I'm not from this Earth. 

Ada: And how did you get here? 

Dean: When I died, I made it to heaven. And she was waiting for me. So I went for a drive, and then I took a little detour. 

Latika: Through the multiverse. (Dean points ‘bingo’.)

Carlos: S-so what were you looking for? 

Dean: That's a good question, Carlos. I was looking for my family. See, I come from a long line of Hunters. I guess I was hoping that somewhere out there was an Earth that had a version where my family had a shot at a happy ending. When I was driving, I caught wind of the Akrida. Turns out that they were one of Chuck's last creations. 

Millie: Who's Chuck? 

Dean: God. It's a long story, but, uh... basically, he's a real dick. He left the Akrida behind to wipe out all of existence in case he failed. Well... he failed. Eventually the Akrida were going to make their way to my world, and I got family there, so I couldn't let that happen. 

John: T-the letter, why did you-- 

Dean: I took my little detour. The rules were simple. Don't mess with anything. Well... I gave it a little nudge. Thought it might need a little help. Looks like it worked out pretty well. So now that the Akrida are gone, you all can choose your own destiny. You can write your own story. 

Jack: And you can get back to yours. 

Dean: It's all right. It's all right. They're--they're with me. This is Bobby. That's Jack. They're family. Excuse me. You okay? 

Bobby: I told you I'd figure it out. Didn't say I wouldn't get us in more trouble. Look at 'em. Man, this is all kinds of weird... seeing Samuel with a full head of hair. 

Dean: Right? ( chuckles )

Jack (~~or is he?~~): Dean. 

Dean: Yeah. No, I know. I know, Jack. 

Jack: When I restored things, I wanted mankind to make their own fate. That meant no interference from on high, anywhere... no exceptions. 

Dean: I couldn't let our world get destroyed. Sam's still down there, okay? He deserves a good, long life. Hell, they all do. ( indistinct chatter ) So, if you want to cast me out of heaven... so be it. 

Bobby: If we're taking a vote, I'd say you give the guy another chance. 

Jack: There's always another case with you Hunters... even in death. Well... if you're going to meddle in things, finish what you started. After this... it's time to get around to the... "there'll be peace when you are done"... part of the song.

Dean to John: Listen, um... b-before I go... I want to give you two something. My dad... he, uh... Kept a Hunter's journal, looked just like this. I lived my whole life by that damn thing. Well, this is my Hunter's journal. So if you're gonna stay in this game... This will help guide you through it. 

John: Thank you. 

Dean to Mary: I know you're thinking about quitting Hunting. Believe me, I understand. But you need to do me one favor. Keep an eye out for a yellow-eyed demon. And if you even catch a hint of that son of a bitch... I need you to use this. 

Mary: Your family... did you ever find a version where they had a shot of a happy ending? 

Dean: I think I did. 

John: You never told us your name. 

Dean: Hetfield... James Hetfield. (Hetfield is the lead vocalist, rhythm guitarist, co-founder, and a primary songwriter of heavy metal band Metallica.)

( Nick Drake's "One of These Things First" ) ♪ ♪ (Dean, Bobby and Jack vanish with baby). 

Transcripts from: https://tvshowtranscripts.ourboard.org/viewforum.php?f=1550

[tailoroffates]

Writing Tips #1 - the 5 senses

Here is a little list of different words you can use to describe the 5 senses. Below I've included many examples of words that may be synonymous with a sense or sensation that writers commonly want to describe. Hopefully now you won't sit there for an hour trying to think of a different way to say "the smell was smelly..." :D

Sight

Admire, examine, eye, eyeball, focus, gape, gawk, gaze, glance, glare, glimpse, glower, goggle, inspect, look, mark, note, notice, observe, ogle, peek, peep, peer, perceive, recognize, review, scan, search, see, sight, spot, spy, stare, survey, view, watch, witness.

Sound

To hear - catch, detect, eavesdrop, listen, overhear. A sound - din, noise, note, resonance, sound, tone, tune. A pleasant sound - angelic, harmonic, harmonious, mellifluous, melodic, rhythmical, sonorous, symphonic, symphonious, tuneful. An unpleasant sound - boisterous, clamorous, deafening, ear-piercing, ear-popping, ear-splitting, grating, monotonous, noisy, piercing, raucous, riotous, rowdy, shrill, whiny.

Scent

To smell - inhale, scent, sniff, snuff, whiff. A scent - aroma, fragrance, odor, perfume, scent, smell. No scent - deodorized, odorless, scentless, unseasoned, unscented. Good smells - appealing, delightful, divine, enticing, exquisite, heavenly, luscious, mouthwatering, pleasing, rich, savory, tantalizing, tempting, well-seasoned, zestful. Bad smells - awful, detestable, disgusting, fishy, foul, gross, loathsome, malodorous, nasty, nauseating, noxious, odious, offensive, putrid, rancid, rank, raunchy, reeking, repellent, repugnant, repulsive, sickening, stinky, tainted, unappealing, unpleasant.

Taste

To taste - lick, sample, savor, sip, slurp, taste, test. A taste - bite, morsel, mouthful, nibble, sample. Pleasant tastes - appetizing, delectable, delicious, delish, divine, flavorful, flavorsome, luscious, mouthwatering, palatable, pleasant, pleasing, rich, savory, scrumptious, tantalizing, tasty, well-prepared, well-seasoned, zestful. Unpleasant tastes - bland, burnt, detestable, disgusting, distasteful, dull, fishy, flat, flavorless, gross, insipid, loathsome, nasty, nauseating, offensive, oily, rancid, rank, raunchy, repellent, repugnant, repulsive, savorless, sickening, tainted, tasteless, unappealing, unappetizing, undesirable, unpalatable, unripe, unsavory, unseasoned, vapid.

Touch

To touch - brush, caress, cuddle, dab, embrace, fell, frisk, grab, grasp, graze, handle, hit, hug, itch, nudge, pat, paw, pinch, poke, rub, scratch, smooth, snuggle, squeeze, sting, strike, stroke, tag, tap, tackle. Rough surfaces - bearded, brambly, bristly, bumpy, bushy, chapped, choppy, coarse, craggy, grainy, gritty, hairy, jagged, knotty, leathery, lumpy, matted, prickly, ragged, ridged, rocky, rugged, sandy, scraggy, scratchy, stony, tangled, unshaven, wiry, wooly. Sharp surfaces - barbed, briery, horned, jagged, knife-edged, needlelike, peaked, pointy, pronged, ragged, raggedy, razor-sharp, ridged, rivetted, serrated, spiked, spiky, spiny, splintery, tapered, thorny. Smooth surfaces - creamy, flat, flowing, fluid, flush, glassy, glossy, polished, satiny, silky, sleek, slick, slippery, smooth, velvety, waxy.

I hope this little list helped, and that your following days are blessed to be the best! <3

[pinkiedev]

Payback Ch. 1

A Stranger Things AU where Steve Harrington gets shrunk down to five inches tall, and one Eddie Munson is the one who finds him. Now, if only Eddie didn't think this was all a drug-induced hallucination.

Set in post-Season 3 but pre-Season 4!

-

Steve was not having a good day. 

Was this particularly surprising? Maybe a couple of years ago, yeah. 

However, after having survived a whopping three attempts from what an average joe would not be far off from correct by calling demons from hell, well. Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly atypical for Steve to no longer have only good days.

The difference now, however, was that he wasn’t currently in the midst of fighting an impending apocalypse or the related monsters, he wasn’t having nightmares about either of said scenarios, and he wasn’t even suffering through a more monotonous than usual day at the video store. 

No, today, Steve woke up and immediately realized several things were amiss, a task made easy considering the fact that there was 1) no roof over his head, 2) there was instead a shockingly high up canopy of trees interspersed with clear blue skies, 3) he had a headache to rival the time he’d gotten his face beaten in by Billy, and 4) the grass around his stood at about waist high.

Yeah, that fourth realization had come around as soon as he’d shot upright in a blind panic, hands clutching at his head as he'd let out a pained groan.

Now, several hours later, Steve could quite assuredly give three additional claims that were likely facts: he was undeniably lost, his headache had thankfully abated, and he was currently the height of a fucking goddamned soda can. 

He knew that last one because he’d stumbled across a can of pop and found that the top of his head just reached the lip of it.

Which was absolutely fantastic.

He had half a mind to think this was all some sort of messed up dream, but he was unfortunately well aware that he was not nearly imaginative enough for that, and he hadn’t been to any parties recently where he could’ve been slipped some drugs that might’ve been able to make up for his innate deficiency.

So it was pretty safe to say that this was real, and he was probably going to die.

Why would this being real mean he would probably die, you might wonder?

Well, the answer was more reasonable than you’d expect:

He was being chased by a goddamned rodent that was nearly double his size.

-

Eddie snapped out of his daze at the sound of a shrill scream, his chin slipping off from where it’d been propped up against his palm at the abrupt break in the relative silence around him.

He sat up on the wood bench, wincing at the drag of the splintering grain against his jeans, and scanned the trees around him. 

Nothing. 

His brows furrowed minutely, and he stubbed his joint against his metal lunchbox, tapping out the ash and shoving it inside a baggie in the tin.

Maybe he was just hearing things? he mused, turning the thought over in his head before giving a mental shrug. Well -

His eyes snapped back up. There it was again! - a shout. High pitched in the sense that it was at such a quiet decibel, followed by the sound of rustling leaves. 

His head slowly tilted to the side, and he leaned his whole body with the motion to peer around the picnic table and towards where the noise had emanated from.

“...Hello?” he called out cautiously, dragging out the word, gaze darting around as he found himself rising from his seat. He crouched down when he heard another rustle followed by a yelp.

That was definitely coming from somewhere close to the ground, and it sounded deceptively… not like an animal, Eddie thought, squinting his eyes as he scanned the leaf litter in the grass.

Movement had his head snapping to the left just in time to track it, and he sprang forth without another thought, the motion more of an awkward frog leap because of his stance, and saw -

What the hell? 

It - what?

That was a person.

An itty bitty person, face hidden by their mussed up hair and only their waist and up visible through the foliage, but what Eddie was pretty sure was a human - or, at the very least, very human-like - nonetheless. 

One being chased by a very disgruntled looking mouse.

For a second, Eddie found himself just staring at the completely incomprehensible scene, thoughts dazedly somewhere along the line of ‘wow, I’ve finally actually lost it and my mind’s entered some fucked up Alice in Wonderland type shit, hasn’t it?’ but he snapped out of it as the teeny tiny person gave another yell when the mouse snapped at them, the rodent’s teeth momentarily snagging on the back of the teeny's shirt.

Eddie’s hand darted forward unthinkingly, and, from one moment to the next, he had a fistful of person held up in front of his face, the mouse giving an aborted squeak and darting away as soon as he made his move.

Meanwhile, the being (?) squirmed in his hand, having first given a shout in surprise at suddenly being caught before letting out grunts and puffs of air as they tried to push fruitlessly at his fingers, their tiny, miniscule little hands shoving at his skin and hardly doing anything but leaving the faintest of indents. 

Eddie blinked rapidly, bringing them closer to his face. 

He’d smoked weed today, sure - when did he not? - but it’d never given him hallucinations before. 'Cause that’s sure as hell what this had to be. A hallucination, that is.

There was no other explanation for the fact that, staring right back up at him, face frozen in a mixture of shock and burgeoning dread, was none other than Steve fucking Harrington.

------

WOOT WOOT

Ch. 2

[slutsareteacherstoo]

Haunt Pt 1 of 2

Im letting something out yall.

I apologize in advance, this will not be proofread. Im typing this in my notes app. Like will update with more/better warnings and tags later

Its def a lot of angst, cussing, yelling. Its all hurt; no comfort 🙅🏿‍♀️. This IS a one-shot (lmaoo there will ONLY be a part 2 cuz im still in my feelings but need to sleep but I found a good stopping point).

This is my contribution to spooky season (in the sense that feelings are scary and sometimes the scariest things are facing the consequences of your actions and the ghosts of your past coming back to haunt you)

Gender neutral /gender expansive!OC Lee x Terry Richmond

Lee was sitting on the couch watching TV. Their legs were drawn up, feet touching the arm rest. They were covered by a golden honey blanket. The pumpkin jack-o-lantern plushie their friend, Tania had gifted them, served as a source of comfort during the film they were watching.

It was some thriller Tania recommended. The protagonist found themselves in an archive of sorts. Phone in hand as flashlight, they were combing the files looking for proof of some sort in the dim room. She grabbed each thick folder and flipped them open. Photos and documents were paper clipped and stapled together. They were thumbing through the items. The camera caught on key words like “discarded” “records not found” “fate unknown” “missing teen” “missing child” “missing woman” “missing man”.

And suddenly a phone rang.

Lee was on the edge of their seat, excited to see what would happen next. Would the phone call our protagonist received distract her time-limited search? Would it help her or hurt her?

And then it rang again. Lee looked at the screen with a slight frown. The protagonist was still combing through the files, gathering whatever evidence she needed.

Damn, maybe this was a call that might actually be helpful for ol’ girl but something is about to happen to her in a minute.

Lee’s thoughts were cut off by the shrill sound of ringing AGAIN. Realizing they weren’t from the screen, but rather Lee’s own phone. After fumbling under the blanket for the remote, they quickly pressed pause. Using their other hand, Lee went to pick up their phone.

Who could be calling at this time of night? The phone was set on “do not disturb”. Do people not understand the meaning of that purple, crescent moon?

Maybe it was their mama or their uncle. Those were the only two people on one hand who could get through on Do Not Disturb. But they had specific ringtones. The one that came from Lee’s was the one that matched the film’s. Flipping their phone over and seeing the contact name, it made Lee want to scream. To cry. To throw up. A fury of emotions ran through them at once.

👁️👄👁️

mobile

It stopped ringing. And all Lee could do was stare at the phone in a state of anxiety, like it was a cursed thing. This could not be happening right now. Breathing a long sigh, they tentatively reached for the phone and glanced at the call log. The same contact name appeared 3 times. Had he really called them 3 times?

Lee forgot it was a privilege they gave him so long ago. That he of very few people would be able to stop whatever Lee was doing and they’d be sure to pick up.

I mean, was this really happening right now? It had to be a terrible dream. Because there was no way in hell that this man ——

One

Two

Three low, hard knocks sounded on the wood of their apartment door.

Lee swiped sweat from their brow they weren’t aware they’d built up. Their breathing was low and slow, but still staggering and shaking like the rest of their body. Their eyes scanned the room for something, something that they could use to defend themselves and inflict damage if need be. But all they could see was a pen. A sharp one with great ergonomic grip. Lee would stab whoever the fucker was.

I mean was it him anyways? It could be coincidental that there was a knock after the phone call just ended. Because there was no way that the person who Lee thought had called, would even show up like this. Not after how he left things. How he left them.

Two sharp raps into the hollow of the wood frame brought Lee out of their thoughts.

No, it had to be him. Those last knocks were his signature. That made the pit in Lee’s stomach to grow deeper.

Lee waited for a moment before grabbing the ergonomic pen and creep slowly to the door.

He wouldn’t knock again.

—————————

Okay pt 1 of my one-shot. That’s it. Going to bed now. If shit seems fucked, it probably was. I’ll fix it

Hope you enjoyed <3 :)