#this is the happy part of the chapter

[turtleations]

Pink Couldy Sky, Chapter 07 – Letter (Summarized) - Part 1

Note 1: Once again, the chapter is split into two parts. This first parts has the majority of it, but the secong part contains a long section that is actually, directly translated, and I will need more time to edit it properly. I hope to have it up before the year is over, but I can make no promises.

Note 2: This post contains pictures. I am not happy with how tumblr is sizing/cropping them on my screen. Click on them if they are not shown in full.

Chapter 00 - 01 Chapter 02 Chapter 03 Chapter 04 Part 1, Part 2 Chapter 05 Chapter 06 Part 1, Part 2

Under Professor Arakawa, REM’s days of acquiring knowledge as a dentist continued after graduation. He joined Arakawa’s study group where he gained practical experience on various cases and worked very hard on becoming an actual dentist. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to justify himself to his late mother, nor to hide and the other members of SAVER TIGER. Those feelings were his main driving force. The other members of his dentist-band AMIT also joined Arakawa’s study group and they pushed each other forward.

To REM, who was practical by nature, this study circle was very helpful. He learned about the technical aspects from a medical point of view, and also about mental self-discipline.

In this time, again thanks to Professor Arakawa, REM also met Beat Takeshi, aka Takeshi Kitano [born 1947, actor, director, comedian etc.].

He vividly remembers the first time they went drinking together. They met at Takeshi’s place and he took REM to a snack bar in Roppongi’s underground. Takeshi was in a good mood and sang a lot at karaoke. His way of singing was exactly as REM had imagined it would be. Song after song he got on the floor and fired off jokes in rapid succession.

Takeshi seems blunt, but REM thinks he actually has a direct and kind personality and is very aware of his surroundings. When REM showed him a photo from is SAVER TIGER days, Takeshi laughed and said, “You really were a dentist already. Time didn’t change you.” Then he got serious and said, “But it’s interesting. Do your best.” The timing and the delivery were exquisite. [Note: I’m guessing that there was a joke in there that I fail to make sense of.]

When they talked about hide and discussed music, Takeshi pulled out one creative idea after another.

“When Doctor REM does a live, I’ll secretly enter the stage with no announcement, sing one song, and leave again without saying anything.”

It was a very fun night of drinking. They separated with REM excitedly promising to make that song for him.

Come to think of it, this was just one week before that unfortunate accident befell Takeshi. [Note: This is likely referring to a near-fatal motor scooter accident on 2. August 1994, which may or may not have been a suicide attempt.]

After this, they met several more times, with Takeshi also coming to Yokosuka for drinks, and continued their exchange. Takeshi would probably scold REM for embarrassing him if he read this, but he truly is a generous and warm person.

-

Hide continued to call REM about once a month. When he called from overseas, REM had the habit of taking notes on his calls in his diary-substitute-notebook.

For example: “31. August. Call from hide in L.A. at 6:30 AM. Today, it seems Megadeath came to the studio and he listened to their rehearsal.

He chatted about various things with the former guitarist of Cacophony, who apparently speaks Japanese.

When they went to a Japanese-style iszakaya afterwards, Ron Wood was drinking there…”

Beyond that, he would always contact REM when he returned to Japan, come directly to his apartment from Narita airport, and drink until morning to combat jet lag.

In the first half of the nineties, “X” turned into “X JAPAN”. In this time, hide rapidly grew not only as a guitarist but as an artist in general.

In 1992, he showed his talent as a visualist with the publication of his solo-photobook “Mugongeki”. His stage turned from Budokan to the Tokyo Dome to the world. REM, on the other hand, having given up music, turned into a normal dentist.

However, whenever hide returned to Yokosuka, they would go drinking at Dobuita together – as drinking buddies, as best friends, as music companions who would forgive each other for every stupid thing said.

In a sense, it was a pretty strange connection.

Now, REM wonders if it wasn’t obvious that he was holding back around hide for fear of bothering him. To say nothing of the fact that the bitter feeling of not having been there for hide when he needed him most would not leave him alone.

But – and he thinks it may sound pretentious to put it like this – REM wonders if in this town of Yokosuka, where hide had been born and raised, all the cloudy hesitation and misunderstandings and strange fears weren’t blown away by the constant salty breeze from the sea.

REM couldn’t help but think that way.

When they drank at Dobuita until morning, there were no obstacles between them.

Hide always listened intently to REM’s silly music stories. Is that artist good or not, which CDs are cool – he always had an earnest discussion with REM about these things.

Looking at hide’s carefree smile, REM always heard a voice deep in his heart, saying, “Now I owe him again…”

Without his noticing, that murmur changed to, “No matter how, I want to pay him back. No matter how many years it takes, one day I will…”

One day when hide was in Yokosuka, REM went to “Parkside X” together with Professor Arakawa. He’d been thinking that he should introduce hide to Arakawa, so when they happened upon him, REM introduced him with the words, “Arakawa-sensei, this is hide.”

And Arakawa smiled and stood with, “My pleasure, I’m Arakawa.”

Hide, also standing, looked a little nervous, and said, “Likewise. Thank you for always taking care of REM. I’m hide.” He removed his trademark hat and sunglasses and gave a quick bow.

Then, he slowly put them back on and apologized for being impolite by wearing those things while drinking, and sat back down.

REM was astonished that he had taken them off at all, because at that time, he never did that in public. It seemed that hide was particularly respectful towards Arakawa because of the relationship he had to REM, and REM’s surprise soon turned into deeply moved gratitude.

After a night of drinking together and talking about all sorts of things, Arakawa also praised hide as a young man who, striking appearance aside, had firm opinions and was very polite. The way in which hide expressed his friendship that night had been typical for him.

-

In December 1995, REM announced that the was leaving his bachelor life behind and got married to a woman named Miwa. [Note: At least, that’s what I think her name is. REM gives the kanji for her name, but not the reading, which might differ drastically from the common (or even any sensible) reading of the characters.]

For the wedding reception, they reserved a cozy restaurant for their few dozen guests, which included family and only their closest of friends. One invitation was handed to hide, who was happy as if it were his own wedding and confirmed that he was definitely going to attend.

On the day of the wedding, REM was nervous and embarrassed like never before in his life. This was no fault of his bride’s, he simply had a raging case of wedding nerves, and it defeated him. As soon as the nerves hit him, he would drink any alcoholic beverage he could get his hands on. He honestly thought that since it worked on stage, it would work for getting married.

Hide had sent them a large bouquet of flowers in the name of “X Japan hide” but was nowhere to be seen in person.

In fact, it seemed that hide had chosen his timing well, considering the commotion that might have happened at the gathering place if word had gotten around that a member of X Japan was present.

An hour into the event, hide was there, just sitting casually in the front row in his hat and sunglasses. He grinned when he handed more alcohol to REM. At this point, REM was already blazingly drunk.

Hide for his part was fidgety and restless, talking to Jimmy and pointing out that it was time for the afterparty.

Then, during the preparations for said party, those two kept whispering to each other about something.

The wedding reception was not unlike a live show, with plenty of music buddies present. There were former members of SAVER TIGER, Hikaru, who used to be the bassist of X for a while during their indies days, and the current, much more famous X Japan-bassist heath.

SAVER TIGER served as the lead act. With hide jumping in, it was like the illusion of a SAVER TIGER revival session. The song they played was “Double Cross”.

The title of the song seemed a bit too fitting for the situation, but they chose it because it was representative of SAVER TIGER.

So REM, unsteady and hugging his guitar, started to play (“Ei!”) with the timing he was used to, only to be met with perfect silence from everyone else involved.

Thus, he declared, “It can’t be helped, you’re all doing it wrong,” regained his composure and started playing the phrase again.

Once again, hide and the others met him with grinning silence.

And REM thought, “I’m being deceived!”, finally realizing that he was falling victim to a prank, and that the prank smelled strongly of hide. Surely, hide and Jimmy had set this up when they were whispering to each other before.

In that moment, the room erupted into laughter and hide smiled earnestly at REM while looking very satisfied.

REM’s memory of the events after this point are essentially nonexistent.

Among the things that he vaguely remembers are heath getting up on stage and accepting a trophy he had won at their bingo tournament with a smile, and hide’s younger brother Hiroshi being delighted about having won a guitar.

From what REM could put together from the stories of his wife and the others, hide gave a musical performance that day, looking truly happy. This was not X Japan’s hide, this was an amateur at a free-for-all, lost in the spur of the moment, strumming his guitar with a relaxed smile on his face.

“At least, he was grinning as he played and looked like he was truly having fun.” That’s what Jimmy always murmurs when remembering that wedding reception.

[December 1995: REM's wedding reception. Photos exist for when your memory doesn't. (Click on the image for full view if tumblr cut it weirdly.)]

Due to REM’s work, the newlyweds couldn’t go on honeymoon right away. Only in the following year, in spring 1996, was he able to take the time off for it.

REM and his wife immediately agreed on the destination they wanted to visit. They both recalled at once how hide had told them to come to L.A. at least once, so that was where they wanted to go for the occasion of their once-in-a-lifetime, somewhat late honeymoon: The L.A. where hide was.

REM called hide over there at once. When he told him, “We’re thinking of travelling to L.A.,”, hide said, “Wait a second, I’ll call you back,” and hung up.

He had probably gotten a call for work, was certainly busy right now… REM and his wife speculated such while they waited, but when hide called them back after only a sort time, he gave them a list of the major hotels in Los Angeles, with information on their rating, how far they were from the airport, the price, if it was okay to smoke in there, what attractions were nearby…

After hanging up on them, hide had researched all that at the speed of light. REM and his wife were nothing but grateful. Hide, for this part, was very enthusiastic about their upcoming visit.

“What do you want to do when you’re here?”

The two of them told him they wanted to watch a Nomo Game [Note: Probably referring to Japanese baseball pitcher Hideo Nomo, who was playing for the Los Angeles Dodgers at the time.], visit the Universal Studios, and other things. And hide said brightly, “I got it! You don’t need to take care of anything, just make the reservations for the flights and the hotel…”, and then quickly hung up the phone.

The weather in L.A. was clear.

They arrived at the hotel they had picked from hide’s list, checked in, and rested in their room for about an hour before hide arrived, going “Yaa, yaa, yaa!”

Hide was in the middle of recording his solo single “Misery” at the time and hadn’t slept in three days, but you wouldn’t know it from the way he acted. He was wearing his usual hat and sunglasses, and his usual smile that lit up his whole face when he said, “So, what’s the plan?” He pulled out pen and paper and wrote down the schedule for their stay in the city, while asking REM and his wife for their wishes. Then, he asked, “How do you feel about Las Vegas?” and added his own recommendations, arranging everything from flights to hotel reservations.

He also insisted that REM’s wife, pregnant at the time, had to eat! And handed over a bundle of ten onigiri that he had brought for her.

Her due day happened to coincide with hide’s thirty-second birthday. Whenever he stroked the bulging stomach of REM’s wife, he would tell the unknown baby to better get born on schedule, so they could share their birthday.

In any case, to REM and his wife, hide was the world’s best tour conductor, taking care of every aspect of their journey. His thoughtfulness, attentiveness, kindness and warmth were extraordinary and he made sure that they got whatever they wanted. REM and his wife could only be grateful and impressed by his warmth that asked for nothing in return.

It was thanks to him that this trip became one of the best memories of the couple.

One day, after hide had left for recording, his manager at the time, Kudo-chan, took them downtown for dinner. After parking the car, they waited at a traffic light, discussing where they wanted to eat.

As they waited, REM spotted a man waiting at the opposite side of the road who looked like a musician to him, from the way he dressed to the way he wore his long, lustrous hair. Then, the signal turned to “WALK”, they did just that, and as the guy came closer, REM thought that his face looked like he had seen it somewhere before…

It couldn’t be. Here, on this giant continent of America, in the middle of this giant city of Los Angeles…But damn, if that guy did not look exactly like…

And so it came that REM and heath embraced right there in the middle of that pedestrian crossing in L.A., celebrating their unexpected reunion. Babbling along the lines of:

-“Hey, what are you doing here? No, this is where I… Where are we, anyway…”

-“N- no, I heard from hide-chan that you were in L.A., REM, but that I would meet you here…”

Since the time heath came from Osaka to Tokyo, REM had often gone drinking with him. Their meeting here was as much of a surprise as when hide had told REM that heath had joined X.

Thanks to this prank of the gods, they all went to a Japanese restaurant together, chatting happily. It was a day full of surprises and deep emotions.

Just two or three days before REM and his wife were to return home, hide invited REM to the studio and asked him to play the guitar solo of “Misery”. So REM borrowed hide’s guitar and contemplated the song’s guitar phrase there in that place.

And after he played it, hide said, “Well, REM-chan, let’s have you record it before you go home!”

Somewhat incredulously, REM agreed.

However, the next day, something urgent came up with X Japan and the recording of “Misery” had to be interrupted.

Looking regretful, hide told REM over and over that it would resume the next week. But REM’s work did not allow for the delay. And so, with painful reluctance, REM and his wife boarded the plane home.

The day before their return, hide somehow managed to take them out for dinner despite his busy schedule. Since REM’s pregnant wife couldn’t drink, REM and hide drank beer and wine for three. Afterwards, they returned to hide’s apartment building, hung out on the roof at the pool, and continued to chat while looking at the giant, illuminated HOLLYWOOD-sign.

At some point, without anyone noticing, hide had taken off his sunglasses. Hide, who had returned to bare-faced Matsumoto Hideto, and REM, who had returned to bare-faced Araki Masahiko, continued talking with a beer in hand for a long time.

It had been more than ten years since REM had first come to this city as a middle school student. Now, the L.A. night breeze was as fresh as it had been back then, and so dry they could basically hear it.

[2 May 1996: Last night in L.A.]

The next day, hide was driving the car himself when he picked up REM and his wife who were puking all over due to hangover and morning sickness respectively and took them to the airport.

Hide seemed to enjoy himself when he looked over his shoulder at their pale faces in the backseat and asked with a smile, “Honored passengers, how did you enjoy your trip?”

That kind smile of hide, that rare entertainer, was swaying before their eyes.

Hide had been serious about what he had said at the studio in L.A., as REM came to understand that the afterparty of the secret live hide and his band gave at the Yokosuka Art Theater that autumn. He had really meant for REM to play the guitar for “Misery”. REM had been baffled, and felt that now there was another major depth he was owing hide.

He murmured those words as he watched hide’s cheerful form fussing around. His wife, who had heard him, nodded in agreement. She was approaching her due date.

“He’s really supported us at every important point, hasn’t he?”

And so he had. When REM and his now-wife had been dating, it was hide who had looked at them and declared that they absolutely had to get married. He kept saying it. He even said it on New Year’s Day of the year they did get married, just like hide had predicted.

In that moment, REM and his wife likely had the same mental image: Of hide, cheerfully playing guitar at their wedding reception with a mischievous smile on his face, or his kind hospitality in L.A., happily going along with everything they wanted. REM’s thought of, “I want to repay hide for all he’s done” turned to “I must repay hide” turned to “No matter how many years it takes, one day for certain,” and finally arrived at “I must start at once.”

On the sixth of December, 1996, about one week before hide’s birthday, REM’s wife gave birth to their first child without problems. It was a boy, and they called him 柊衣. [Note: The Japanese names strike again. This is probably read either “Hii”, “Toui”, or “Hiragi”.]

Hide came to meet their beloved son the following year, in February 1997.

Hide loved children. Even now, REM remembers how hide played with their son tirelessly all day. He passionately gave this baby, only two months old, rhythm training and taught him how to hold a guitar pick.

This was another day when hide took off his sunglasses. It is their absence that REM blames for the fact that hide, holding the baby in his arms, looked so innocent and vulnerable it hurt.

Continued in part 2

[rendevok]

Act II ~ The Challenge

A tapestry for chapter 2 of Let No One Sleep by @azalawa-scroggs on ao3

[blindmagdalena]

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter two )

18+ 3.8k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, masturbation, lite humiliation kink, lite somnophilia, breaking & entering, petty theft, sublander flavored. nebulously takes place post s1. part 2/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander is the most powerful man in the world, and all he wants is to be yours.

After spending the majority of your evening and the following morning anticipating being fired, walking into work the next day feels like traversing a thinly frozen lake, each step webbing out in precarious cracks.

Clearly you’re not the only one who thinks so: you clock a handful of surprised looks from coworkers who’d attended the meeting and took note of the tension between you and Vought’s golden boy.

Maybe they’d taken bets on whether or not you’d be coming in this morning.

There’s no sign of Homelander on your way in. Not that you were expecting him–yesterday was the first time you actually saw him in person–but you still find yourself on the lookout. It’s hard to say whether you’re anticipating or dreading him. Part of you is still expecting to open your door and find a letter on your desk politely informing you that they’ve determined you aren’t a good “culture fit” for the company, and that your probation has been terminated.

After all, who in their right mind would take your side over Homelander’s?

You push open your office door, and sure enough, there is a letter waiting for you, but not in the way you expected. You stand in the doorway, staring in quiet incomprehension. The envelope, crisp and bright white, is propped up in a bed of rich red roses sitting in a pretty vase upon your desk. You glance behind you before you step inside, closing the door behind you, and approach the desk cautiously. You pluck the paper out of the bouquet, taking a moment to smell the flowers–they smell as good as they look–before you carefully rip open the envelope, tearing the small american flag sticker that sealed it.

Inside, there’s only one word on the folded piece of paper, scrawled in surprisingly elegant handwriting.

Truce?

You can’t help the incredulous little bark of laughter you give at that. It’s not even an apology. It’s a demand that he expects a gratuitous bundle of flowers will help you swallow, like taking medicine with a spoonful of sugar.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say quietly to the letter, setting it down on your desk. You give the roses one last sniff, testing one of the soft petals between your fingers. You wonder if what you said actually got through to him.

Homelander has no real reason to smooth things over with you: you’re no one. He’s posed no risk to himself by coming after you. He could no doubt have you fired by complaining that your marketing tactics don’t align with his brand. It’s hard to imagine Vought denies him much.

Yet he is apparently negotiating peace. It’s not nearly enough, but it is a start.

Or maybe it’s just more than you expected.

You sit, idly tapping the letter against your desk. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t still think him handsome. Homelander wasn’t the first man to ogle your tits while you gave a presentation, but he was certainly the first to fluster you like that when he did. His sly smile had made you want to slap him, but there was a questionable little part of you that thought about kissing it better afterwards.

Taking in a steadying breath, you slip the letter into your desk drawer and adjust the flowers to the side, admiring them a moment before you pull out your laptop.

If Homelander can behave himself enough to let you do your job without public humiliation, you can afford a truce. You don’t need to forgive or condone him to be civil, or even to continue having your own private fantasies. A little guilty pleasure now and again never hurt anyone.

You can’t know that Homelander is observing you throughout this internal conversation, watching through several layers of steel and concrete, his parted lips curving into a slow smile as you accept his offering. You can’t know that you haven’t just acknowledged a truce, but an invitation.

No, you can’t possibly know what’s to come.

Two days later, you diligently change the water that the roses in your office sit in. They’re doing well, the crimson buds having unfurled into a splay of velvety petals. You pinch one between your thumb and forefinger and stroke it absently. Homelander has continued to be a scarcity, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen him. Quite the opposite: you spend most of your working hours either looking at or thinking about his face to the point where it’s starting to follow you home each day.

That’s what you tell yourself when you think of him outside of work hours, anyways.

It’s been long enough now that you wonder if the flowers were the end of it. He was simply covering his ass with a half hearted gesture that slightly resembled an apology so that you could both comfortably drop the subject. That was entirely fine by you so long as he actually did improve his behavior.

A familiarly brisk knock at your door catapults your heart up against the cage of your ribs like a spooked hare. It’s the exact same beat, you’re sure of it. You stay quiet, half expecting to be barged in upon, but when nothing happens, you move from your desk and open the door yourself, intentionally blocking it with your body.

Sure enough, Homelander stands tall on the other side. He flashes his signature smile while your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

“I think I’m the one who can help you,” he says brightly, that spread of teeth downright wolfish. He lifts a handful of papers that have been stapled at the corner, gesturing for you to take it.

Still wary, you take them from him and shift, wedging your foot to keep the door firmly in place while you flip through the pages. Your brows furrow as you recognize chunks of your own presentation. Understanding dawns when you realize that he’s annotated them.

“You read my presentation,” you say, unable to mask your surprise.

“Obviously. It’s my image on the line, right? Got some notes for you, but I have to say: y’mostly nailed it,” he says, reaching out to rest a gloved hand on the doorway.

“Mostly?” You echo, quirking an eyebrow at him as you look up from the pages.

“Yeah, mostly. Again, I have some minor notes,” he says, wiggling his other hand in a vague gesture. “But I figure I owe you praise on a job mostly well done.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Crossing your arms, you abandon your stern foothold on the door in order to shift your weight, your incredulity showing in every inch of your body language.  “What you owe me is an apology.”

Homelander’s grin softens into a smile that’s no less challenging. “Looks to me like you’ve already been enjoying my apology,” he says, leaning slightly to gaze past you, to the bundle of roses sitting prettily on your desk.

You briefly glance over your shoulder, but your expression remains impassive. Unimpressed. “That? That isn’t an apology. An apology would include the words I’m sorry.”

He scoffs a dismissive laugh, swaying back to look away, but you persist.

“I’m serious,” you say, luring his ocean blue gaze back to yours. “I want you to say to me ‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation. It won’t happen again.’ “

The two of you hold each other’s gaze with all the magnitude of two gunmen in a duel, hands steady over your proverbial pistols. 

To your surprise, Homelander does not fire back. He raises a dainty white flag.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation,” he says, words slow and measured. You watch his tongue flash over his bottom lip, wetting it attractively. You fight to not let your eyes linger on it. “It won’t happen again.”

You swallow, suddenly finding thought and speech an impossible task. You weren’t prepared for such raw, ready obedience from him, nor the intensity in his gaze that follows it. He reminds you of a charmed snake–docile so long as he is transfixed.

“Good,” you say, the word half a sigh. Homelander’s lips part and he breathes in like he’s caught wind of something particularly delicious smelling. “I accept your apology, and I appreciate that you took the time to do this,” you say, gesturing with the documents in your hand. “I’ll go over them and get back to you.”

He reaches out, bracing his hand on your office door. You half expect him to push it open, but he merely holds it there. “We could go over them together,” he suggests slyly.

“No,” you say, clearly disarming him. He looks as though he’s forgotten the meaning of the word. “I’m in the middle of another project at the moment.”

The leather of his gloves creaks faintly in your ear as he flexes his grip on the edge of the door. While what you’ve said is true, it’s also serving as a test. Words and flowers are pretty things, but only actions always speak the truth.

“At the moment,” he repeats, gears visibly turning in his eyes. “So… Later?” He extrapolates, displaying an uncharacteristic tentativeness alongside his obvious displeasure at the taste of rejection. You even see a glimmer of hope in the mess of his expression.. 

He did pass the test. You suppose you can reward him for that.

“Another time,” you say, giving your door an exploratory push. He relents, his hands sliding down the length of it before falling away as he takes a half-step back. “How about tomorrow on my lunch break? 1:00 o'clock sharp.”

He splits into a smile that looks more genuine than any of his you’ve seen before. “Aaalrighty-roo. Sounds gooood to meeeee,” he says, drawing out his vowels more the closer he gets to actually having to leave. At your silent, amused stare, he claps his gloved hands together with a muffled thump! and takes a few more steps backwards. “Yooooou’ll see me… tomorrow.”

Your smile pinches along with your brows. What a strange way to phrase it. “See you then,” you say, watching as his face is eclipsed by your closing door. You wait a beat and then let out a thin thread of breath from your pursed lips, resting your weight on the door.

Looking down at the papers in your hand, you push off from the door and head to your desk, flipping through them.

Such a strange man, you think, carrying the notes to your desk. You set them down next to the vase of roses and try not to think too much about the unconscious smile your lips keep settling into for the rest of the day.

Homelander’s got you hook, line and sinker. He’s certain of it. He lingers on the other side of your door just long enough to watch you through it while you settle, a charmed smile set on your lips. He can already imagine how those lips would feel against his own, how they’d taste. He swallows thickly and looks around before he departs, already plotting his next move.

The two of you have a date tomorrow, and in order to be at the top of his game, he’s going to have to do a little additional research. Knowing your work was a good first step. The next one will be learning about you.

Following you home is the easy part. It ultimately feels chivalrous to do so once he realizes you walk home even at this time of year, when the sun sets long before the work day ends. He drifts above you, cocking his head curiously. No wonder you walk. The streets are packed as tightly as sardine cans, and your apartment garage isn’t much better. The claustrophobia of it all serves as a stark contrast to the openness of Vought tower.

The interior of your apartment provides an even sharper juxtaposition to his penthouse. It’s tidy, but the comparatively low ceilings and minimal floor space still make it look cramped. Somehow, you simultaneously have too much and yet not much at all, the confinement of a downtown apartment making what minimal affects you do own seem crowded together.

That only becomes more apparent once he’s inside, slipped in through your balcony after sleep has taken you. Why would you bother to lock your balcony when you live on the 8th floor? It works out perfectly for him.

In all fairness, your living room feels cozier once he’s standing in the center of it. Your walls are lined with an assortment of art pieces and photographs, and the shelves are well stocked with books and knick-knacks. You have a decent film collection displayed on your media console, and he can’t help but snoop through it, bending at the waist, examining through the rows. He cocks his head.

Odd. You’d think an employee of Vought would have at least a few VCU films. He runs his index finger along the spines, slightly adjusting them flush as he goes. Pursing his lips, he straightens up and looks at the closed cabinets on either side. The left one yields an untidy assortment of electronic odds and ends, cords and the like. Nothing of much interest other than an indication that while you like to keep up appearances, you aren’t quite as together as you’d like people to think. 

It’s on the right side, however, he finds what he’s really looking for.

“Bingo,” he whispers, smiling to himself as he scopes out your little hidden collection of Vought hero flicks. Specifically, his films. He’s less interested in the handful of others you own (Queen Maeve: Her Majesty, Black Noir: Insurrection, Lamplighter: The Bright World, etc) and more so in the fact that you have nearly his entire catalog tucked away. 

Nearly. You’re missing his eighteen part miniseries, Homelander: Brightest Night.

At least that gives him something to gift you.

Closing the cabinet, he meanders about the rest of your apartment. You have some plants in varying states of decay, with only a few cacti looking to be in decent shape. Either your work keeps you too busy to properly mind them, or you just like the idea of them more than the reality. It tells him that you’re looking–and failing–to fill a void in your life. You want to feel less alone in your home, you want to nurture something. You just haven’t found the right something yet.

Striding into your kitchen, arms folded behind his back, he peers through the cheap wood veneer of your fiberboard cupboards, unveiling an unusually broad assortment of mugs. There doesn’t seem to be any particular theme: holidays, locales, characters, and a menagerie of patterns. 

He hums softly, pivoting out of the kitchen and down the hall, his steps preternaturally light. He listens for the beat of your heart as he draws near, tunes it in alongside the shallow cadence of your breath. Deep asleep. Good.

The walls are lined with pictures of you and others. Friends or family, he can’t say, but you look to have an abundance of both. He rarely sees himself in photos that aren’t promotional material. He pauses to straighten a picture frame, and finds himself so viciously jealous of the man sharing the frame with you–his lips pressed to your cheek, your laughing smile so genuine he can nearly hear it–that he almost knocks it to the ground.

Running his tongue along his teeth, he continues on.

Your bedroom door is open. He slips in silently, pausing just through the doorway. Your bed's a queen, too big for just you. You’re sprawled comfortably amidst pillows, limbs splayed in just such a way that he can easily imagine fitting himself in the empty spaces between them. He can smell the lingering burn of the candle you’d lit when you got home. He picks it up off your dresser, reading the label: Cup ‘o Joe. 

Eugh. He never cared for coffee, and the artificial sweetness surrounding the note is cloying. Your perfume, on the other hand, he doesn’t mind. He notices the bottle alongside a few other of your things and puts the candle down in favor of that, popping the cap off. The smell hits him before he sprays it: vanilla first, then amber and something more woodsy. It’s less impressive by itself than it had been on you.

Still, it’s yours. You chose it for yourself.

Slipping off one of his gloves, he lightly sprays into the inside of it before he sets the bottle back down, recapping it. It won’t be the same, but he’s driven by the compulsion to spirit away any little pieces of you that he can. Just enough to satiate himself until he can have you properly.

That’s when he sees your blouse from today in a careless heap at the top of your laundry basket next to your dresser. Licking his lips, he tests the feel of the garment between his bare fingers. He’s always been sensitive to fabrics, and while the blend of this one is fairly cheap, it’s been worn and washed enough that it’s soft against his skin. He grabs a handful of it and lifts it to his mouth, brushing it along his lips, under his nose, and he deeply inhales your lingering scent mixing with the fresh pump of perfume.

He bites back a moan, screwing his eyes shut. His cock gives a dull little throb. Fuck, the spell you’ve cast on him makes him ache just for the smell of you, makes him salivate. He swallows it back, letting out a rough little breath as he reluctantly puts the shirt back down. Under it, he spies a little flash of something black and lacy. His stomach clenches, and he’s reaching for it before he can stop himself, fishing the black panties out of the heap and twisting the fabric between his fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He can’t afford to overindulge. He won’t be able to control himself if he does, but he also can’t bring himself to put the little slip of fabric back down. He imagines he can almost taste where your sweet cunt had been pressed to it. Christ, he’s practically drooling. Out of sheer impulse, he yanks down the zipper of his pants with a quiet hiss of metal against metal and hastily pushes your underwear into his cup, biting down hard on his lip. He grinds once against his hand, savoring the feel of the fabric against his cock.

He’ll enjoy them far more than you’ll miss them.

Zipping himself back up, he carefully pulls open your top dresser drawer. He curiously pushes the contents around, mindful not to overly disturb, and his knuckles bump something solid. He shifts one of your bras–another near painful pang of arousal at the reminder of your breasts–aside and finds, to his delight, what any good marketing department would describe as  “a large purple massage wand.”

A vibrator. He chews his bottom lip briefly, turning it over in his grip. An exciting find on all fronts. It’s smooth and decently hefty, good quality. You deserve even better. You might be capable of indulging yourself with this, but he could make you scream. You’ll never need a silly little toy again. Not when you have him.

Homelander moves to put it back in the drawer, but–

“Fuck!” He hisses when the button catches on his finger, and suddenly the damn thing is buzzing.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, he chants mentally, jabbing at the buttons in an attempt to silence it, but pressing the same ones only makes the accursed device louder. In a frantic move, he grips the neck and squeezes. There’s a soft crunch beneath the silicone, and as abruptly as it had begun, the buzzing ends. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest. He listens to the silence, to you.

He looks over his shoulder. No movement. Your breaths remain shallow.

Christ.

So much for leaving no trace. He slips the busted toy back amidst your underthings and snatches his glove off of your dresser, tucking it under his arm. He hones his attention on you as he approaches your bed, assuring himself that you really are still asleep. He stands there for a while, admiring the part of your lips and the haphazard splay of your pajamas and where they cling to your body.

No bra.

His bare hand flexes. Being so close is too much of a temptation. He wets his lips with a quick slide of his tongue and bends down. He ghosts his fingers just over your cheek, not quite daring to touch. He can smell the faint remnants of your toothpaste on your breath, your shampoo, and beneath it all, you. It's intoxicating, it's…

Your brows furrow slightly in your sleep and you make a soft noise, interrupting his thoughts. He wonders if you’re dreaming–dreaming of him, perhaps. He’d like to think so. He’d like to think that you’re just as affected by him wanting you as he is, and that’s the real reason you invited him to lunch. He saw it in your eyes when he echoed your words, the thrill that went through you. He could have gone to his knees for you in that moment and had you in giving himself to you.

Desperate for just a taste, he kisses ever so gently between your brows, his own breaths matching the cadence of yours. Divine. You're divine. So effortlessly perfect and so aware of your own power. How could he not want every part of you?

He means to leave it there, to walk away with nothing but the slight salt of your brow on his lips, but the pull is too great. He's greedy, drunk on the smell and the taste of you, on the feel of your panties pressed up against his cock, and he can't stop himself from sampling your lips against his.

It’s the barest hint of touch, and yet the contact lances electricity through him like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning. Your lips are soft, soft, soft. He knew they would be. Everything about you is so fucking soft. It takes everything in him to pull away, standing back to his full height.

He's aching, yearning so intensely he could rip the covers away and take you just like this, shake you awake, declare himself and have you. Would you scream, or would you have that same look of affronted understanding of him? You see him in a way few are ever brave–or stupid–enough to dare.

Not yet.

He won’t spoil the game. He agreed to play by your terms. As far as you’re concerned, he’ll do precisely that. You’ll be none the wiser in regards to his little reconnaissance mission–anything could have happened to your vibrator–and the two of you can play your little game as if you stand on equal footing.

Sucking in a silent breath, Homelander leaves alone, but not empty handed.

He’ll make very good use of his little trophy tonight.

( chapter three )

[rigbykinnie]

Even though saying "Chainsaw Man is subversive to the battle heavy shounen genre" isn't a new take (or a 100% correct one), I really do love Denji as a character and I don't think there are many other characters in this genre who can compete. This story is in a magazine directed for teenage boys and it continuously deals with heavy topics like depression, abuse, hypersexuality, etc etc and it is all done tastefully. I just think Denji is a really good character that can help anyone who's in similar situations but unsure of how they feel at that age and who also went through similar situations.

[disgurrr]

I can't help but think how Katniss's narration of Finnick and Annie always holding-hands had a certain longing to it, almost a painful one, even some jealousy to it, IMO. Because wherever they are, whatever they are doing, Finnick never lets go of his girl's hand. And it reminds me of all those times Peeta held Katniss's hand:

When they were walking down the train tracks coming back home from first games, when they walked through the gloomy streets of 12, when they entered the opening ceremony for the 74th/75th HG's, when they were waiting for their turn for their private sessions, etc., etc.

And just how good and warm it made her feel in all those times, how it just grounded her when everything else felt like it was about to crush her.

Katniss's constant observation of Annie and Finnick holding hands—even the simple fact she is narrating something so close and special to an element of her and Peeta's relationship—rings to me how Katniss is longing to have what Finnick got back. Because she knows if her Peeta was there, he would be holding her hand. Never letting go of it.

So, it doesn't really surprise me that on the same pages, Peeta shows up in the cafeteria, making reality wash all over her. And it also doesn't surprise me when she, once again, observes Finnick holding Annie's hand tightly as they are leaving the cafeteria, while Peeta is close to her. And everything is oh so taunting for her, for them.

[aquaquadrant]

hey miners and crafters 🗣️ tomorrow evening i will post the final chapter of ‘from eden’

writing this story has been an amazing journey, and it ain’t over yet. i’ve got plenty of future oneshots planned for the HTP au, which will surely not turn into elaborate multi-chapter projects. surely. my next goal is to get the fic (and all my other mcyt stuff) uploaded to A03 so y’all can keep track more easily 😂

howEVER, i’m about to start my final year of vet school, which means nonstop clinical rotations AND my board exam, so i can’t promise when that will come. all i can say is i’ll continue to write as long as i’m inspired, same as mel will continue to make art, and we’ll still reply to asks and tags as we receive them. so it may be slow(er) going, but there’s still lots to look forward to ✌️

(P.S. y’all might wanna make sure you’ve got plenty of time when u sit down to read it. this one is a doozy.)

[i-dreamed-i-had-a-son]

jon val jon or something

[rockingtheorange]

Do you ever think about how important and significant Alex's action to give his key to Henry was?

Alex had brought the key with him everywhere throughout his life since he got it.

Then, the first moment he's quietly alone with Henry, Alex gets to explain what it means to him: it's the key to his family's house in Austin.

But it means much more to him: it's from the times when his family was still all together (book), it's his childhood, his time growing up in Texas, it's his mixed blood, and the quiet life he left behind to follow his mother in something bigger than him.

That key is his comfort and reminder of what he was and the memories he will treasure forever.

Alex doesn't tell all of this to Henry, but Mr. HRH Prince Dickhead knows there's more about it underneath, just like how he had always known Alex wasn't just a peasant boy.

Alex brings his keychain everywhere and Henry is always there to admire it.

The key to Henry means something completely different: it's the reminder of his unusual life, the fact that he can't have such normal things as possessing a simple key, it represents all the things he can only admire from afar but he'll never be able to posses.

And then Alex breaks the wall that Henry thought would suffocate him forever, that seemed impossible to destroy.

Alex starts to remove the key when he's in the most intimate moments with Henry. He decides to leave the thoughts and worries related to his family for another time. He decides to be fully Henry's, even during just brief rendezvous.

And Henry takes everything he can, as far as he can. Till the moment, he's sure will come, when the magic breaks and the key will return to be something to admire and desire from afar, but never possess.

But Alex isn't just a peasant boy.

He hands over his childhood, his memories and his whole being to Henry, with just a simple gesture. Alex says "Henry, I'm yours." by giving him the object of his desires, by breaking the illusion that Henry can't be a normal boy, simply owning the key of someone's heart.

And Henry is reluctant to accept it, cause he knows (just like he had always known that Alex wasn't just a peasant boy) that the key means so much to him. But Henry accepts, cause he wants to believe that the wall between them can break, Alex made him believe it. And he grips and holds onto that hope like his life depends on it, cause it does.

Alex is the only key to his freedom.

[suckishima]

Gosh, I guess even Tsukki will snap when he gets tired enough.

[angy-grrr]

spoilers for chapter 429

idk if you guys remember but ochako does have parallels with All Might, specifically as the side who saves. It’s not that he feels the same for them both or something like that, they serve to represent the type of heroism he naturally goes to; his friend is not his love interest, from his perspective she’s out there having a crisis over not being able to save her, and Izuku reminds her that she is a hero bc she is his hero -she saved him multiple times, and she should be able to feel like a proper hero.

This conversation is not about the nature of their relationship, is about heroism; Izuku relates to a conflict between being a hero who saves and failing to save someone, and doesn’t want to see Ochako ending spiraling because she couldn’t also fulfill that role as expected. She’s his hero not because he loves her romantically -he’s a nerd I’m sure he would be way more nervous and blushing if he was confessing anything he thought was romantic- but because she’s able to go and do what All Might does to Izuku, save him physically and emotionally.

He knows she hides her feelings in order to not be a burden, yet he doesn’t talk about his own feelings outside of his guilt in heroics -what does he feel about losing OFA? About his own failures? About the people he personally lost? He can’t talk for others and claim Ochako is everyone’s hero, but he can speak for himself, and that’s his personal perspective -she is a hero to him, she’s his hero. And then the class appears to make sure she’s able to get support and understand she’s not alone, and she’s important to them too.

but Izuku doesn’t get support. Izuku cries a little and talks a little about himself, but he doesn’t get supported. If this was meant to be romantic, I don’t understand why he would hold back what’s inside of him.

the end of the chapter reveals that boy is going to be helped by that woman who regretfully ignored Tenko, and they both witness it and are happy about it while hearing izuku inspired that change, and iida wonders what’s up with them -this is the conclusion to their relationship. In their hearts these two are saviors who struggle to be heroes who save others, and they are happy there are appearing more people who want to be heroes like them. Heroes who save. Save like All Might.

That grandma for example, interpreting the narrative as what I think is intended, would be that boy’s All Might; she’s his hero.

Izuku and Ochako are heroes who save, and Deku is here to remind her at least she did save him many times, that she is still a hero because she is his hero. I don’t believe is meant to be interpreted as romantic, not that Izuku sees that phrase as it neither -after all, he said he does want to be like All Might and feels good to imitate him, but he doesn’t love him.

Ochako’s All Might hair moment, the parallels with Toshinori telling him he can be a hero, the trying to save from black suffocating quirks, the we can do it and do your best…

Do I need to remind you heroes arent a romantic thing for Izuku Midoriya?

[ilovereadingandstuff]

HORI!!

DO AS YOU SAID!!!

DO WHATEVER MAKES YOU HAPPY AND GIVE A DAMN ABOUT EVERYTHING!!!

I'm here because of that.

Make reality what you said.

For us, your fans.

[corviiids]

   “I didn’t say anything.”

   “You so rarely do,” Akechi sighed, “and yet, you really are transparent, you know that?”

   “You’re the only one who thinks so,” says Ren.

   Akechi smiled beatifically. “You know,” he says, “it’s incredibly satisfying to hear that.”

   “You want to be the one who knows me best?”

   “I’d like to be the only one who knows you at all, if we’re getting this far into my indulgences,” Akechi said with an odd laugh. “But we’re getting off track, Ren. Why don’t you go on and deliver your judgement on our friend Achilles?”

   “But you already know what I think.”

   “True. But I wonder if I can convince you otherwise, and it won’t be fair if you don’t present your best case.”

   “Because you disagree or because you want to argue?”

   “Wouldn’t I only want to argue if I disagree?” Akechi asked.

   “Or you disagree because you want to argue,” Ren said.

   He always did this. They always did this. The two of them would start walking the conversational path together, side by side, even arm in arm, and then Akechi would point off the beaten track and hold his lantern out. With an inviting crook of his finger he drew Ren into the woods. Each and every time, Ren followed him off the road and into the fog until Akechi, if he so wished, could push him smilingly into a gorge.

--

chapter 8 of "as you like it", my akechi palace au, 7k. in a flashback, akechi tells ren about the iliad (i tell you about the iliad). in the present, ren sits with a shadow of his rival, deep in the bowels of the Theatre.

[ariespetal]

Some Mondos and Chihiros since I finished replaying chapter 2 last night :’)

[kyouka-supremacy]

(˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

[juustozzi]

[murtacalafate]

Knowing Fujimoto’s previous works, he might pull something tragic over the protagonists. Let cringe boy and fail girl be happy cmonn!