#cuckoo on a string

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

A Sparrow at Sea 1/?

MDNI

Whitebeard pirates/reader (fem)

Summary: Turned into a bird as part of a slave-smuggling operation, you get your revenge - and then your revenge gets you. Panicked and alone, you crash land on a very large, very famous ship full of very large and quite infamous men.

I promised myself I wouldn't post another incomplete one-shot, but here we are! Dealing with a bit of burnout and could use the interaction, buddies. Aiming for maybe two more 'chapters.'

Enjoy!

The bastards turned you into a bird.

So, you set their fucking warehouse on fire.

You sat – perched – several rooftops away, watching the little flames you’d gathered work into the prepared kindling.

Satisfaction glowed warm in hollow bones.

It hadn’t been easy. You’d labored for hours, too angry to rest after escaping the Devil Fruit user’s sweaty hands as he tried to shake your shrunken body out of your clothes and into a cage. You’d pecked his hands bloody and taken off through a broken shutter.

The kidnappers’ second Devil Fruit user, a Zoan type, slammed into the wood behind you, the owl too big to fit through the same crack a sparrow could. He’d hooted in rage, and you went scrambling over rooftiles and windowsills, trying to understand how to grab things with your feet.

Adrenaline fed into growing anger, and your little heart pumped hard with outsized emotions. Hiding was easy when you were so small. Plenty of merchants threw covers over their market stalls at night, and every building had nooks and crannies you could hop inside. Away from the men, their fingers, and their talons.

Once the owl’s shadow stopped circling and the night lost its edge to the blue hour, you set about your revenge.

Flying was more or less intuitive (a few painful experiments aside). Figuring out what you could and couldn’t lift took longer. You’d hoped to wrap some coals to drop on your target, but they were too heavy and dangerous to manage without hands. You took to setting twigs and scraps alight in torches and open lanterns. The flames caught you more than once, but only your poor little feet. If you lost your feathers, you’d have new problems, and you’d rather struggle to stand than fail to fly. At least in your current shape.

Which you’d have to do something about.

At some point.

If it didn’t wear off.

Which was a level of horror you weren’t ready to face yet. You’d contemplate your future as you took a dust bath in the ashes.

What would’ve taken less than an hour in your human body took until daybreak as a sparrow.

You panted as you watched the fruit of your labor ignite like a second sun. Straw and twigs fed the blaze until it clawed past the shingles and into the beams, growing fast and hungry down the walls and into the great room below. You hoped their smuggled goods would go up in smoke. You hoped the man who’d taken your hand to seal a deal for a few pounds of fenced sea stone would lose skin, limb, or life.

Damned slave trader.

It had all been too well-rehearsed to be their first attempt, and the cage was old and well-used. It wasn’t a bad plan, practically speaking. None of the Yonkos liked having people from their territories poached, even if they participated in the trade themselves, and sneaking a whole person out of a busy port was no easy task, let alone a profitable number of whole persons. A cage full of sparrows, though? No one would look twice.

If you were bigger, you’d lock the doors so they could all burn together.

But maybe they would anyway. The first shouts didn’t rise until the roof had collapsed, and you imagined a room full of sleeping men slapped awake with fire and falling beams.

The flesh on your feet cracked as you adjusted your grip on the roof’s edge, but you took the pain with pride. You’d done this. They thought they stripped your power from you with your sturdy bones and your opposable thumbs, but they were all wrong. Dead wrong. Fuckers.

The smoke hung low over the town, blending with the dense fog rolling in from the sea. Leaping flames illuminated the haze and cast writhing shadows on the streets below. Just as the neighborhood woke to the smell and distant screams, and the first calls for water and aid rang out, a winged shadow launched through the hole that used to be the warehouse’s roof.

The owl looked more like a demon from your diminished perspective, and you hunkered low on instinct, hoping he wouldn’t see you – the one animal lacking common sense – lingering within blocks of the mounting inferno.

But sharp, predatory eyes locked on you, and he dove with a shriek that promised murder. He could disembowel you in the public square and no one would even know they were witness to your execution. The owl was built to stab, and rip, and tear flimsy little things like you apart.

His wings spread wide, and his talons flashed gold as they came to bear.

You flung yourself from the roof, flapping wildly to catch the air as you fell away from danger. The blades on the monster’s feet scratched into the wood where you’d just been, and your heart stuttered.

He wanted you dead as much as you wanted him to burn.

As the owl gathered himself, peering into the dark for his target, you managed to find your balance in the air. Fluttering low and fast, you took the first corner. Your hunter’s wings were silent, and you only knew how close he came when an unnatural breeze cur over your back.

Too close.

No matter how small and quick you were, so long as he kept you in sight, he was always a breath from drawing blood. He knew his shape, and you did not. Sooner or later, you’d run out of corners, out of obstacles to keep between you.

And then you would die.

As a fucking bird.

Overhead, the fog thickened as you neared the water. The smoke wasn’t so heavy, but plenty of people lost themselves in weather like this. Maybe you could lose an owl.

You pushed into the damp, white cloud, serpentining to keep the owl from diving at you again. A discontented rumble of a hoot broke the silence in your wake, and you raced on, chasing the sound of waves and the densest cover.

As the sun rose, the water vapor glowed, catching and holding the light. You hoped it blinded the predator. At least convince him the chase wasn’t worth it.

But you couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t see him. So, you kept on flying like you were being hunted. Just because you were clever didn’t mean you were the smartest one in the room. You’d learned that lesson the hard way many times over, and it rubbed itself into your fresh wounds all over again with the salty sea spray.

There was always someone quicker, someone sharper, someone stronger. Someone with better connections and greater wealth. And no one had the decency to lay their traps in the open with a warning signs for casual passersby.

Over confidence wouldn’t get you this time. You’d fly forever if meant escaping the Zoan-user.

It felt like you did fly forever.

The sun rose, the fog thinned, and you started circling to look above, below, and behind for the shadow of another, larger bird. Besides a few seagulls, though, nothing appeared. Which was a relief until the fog cleared away and nothing but ocean spread below you.

You nearly fell out of the sky when you realized you couldn’t see land. Not even a lump on the horizon. You’d thought the fog would be gone by midmorning, but you realized the sun was too high and too low at the same time, like it had already crested and started heading down.

You were lost.

Worse, you were tired.

Sparrows weren’t seabirds. They couldn’t soar through empty skies to far-flung islands without many rest points in between.

You had flown far. And you saw no rest points. Not even a rock or a breaching chunk of coral.

Panic drained into a reserve, fueling a mindless fugue state that pulled you away from your growing distress. Your wings burned, but you shouldn’t have them at all. Dangerous thoughts. If felt like you were still carrying fire in your fragile claws, and you shuddered as your legs tucked too close to your body. Wrong feet, wrong legs, wrong body.

You shouldn’t be a bird at all, and you were going to die as one because you picked a fight with many someones much bigger than you without any kind of escape plan or preparation. An idiot in feathers with a small brain and burnt toes.

How much longer could you stay aloft? If not for the strong wind, you thought you might’ve already dropped low enough for the higher waves to catch your wings. And then you’d be doomed. Death by drowning or a hungry shark. Maybe even pecked to death by the gulls loitering in your periphery.

What a way to go.

And then you saw a shape in the distance. Tall and broad. That was all you could make out. It could’ve been a sea king for all you cared, so long as it stayed above the surface and let you rest.

The thing had a whale’s face, but not a whale’s shape. A whale island? No. No, you realized those square clouds were sails. Those holes were for cannons, not little caves in a cliff. Even as a human, you distantly understood, the ship – because it could only be that – was enormous. The whale at the head made sense. Good gods, it might as well be a floating island. Or an island whale.

People milled around the deck, so you fluttered up, calling on the last of your energy and determination to find a safe roost. The top of an empty crow’s nest was just what you needed. You crashed into the platform, rolling into the mast, where you sprawled – legs up – under the crushing weight of survival.

[roguelov]

No pressure, but -

✨️When you get this ask you have to put 5 songs you listen to, post it, then send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers (positive vibes are cool)🎶✨️

Thanks love now get ready for whiplash on what I’m currently listening to 😂

1. Northern Attitude by Noah Kahan ft Hozier

2. Violet’s Tale by Ren

3. Agony by Chris Pine and Billy Magnussen

4. Whole Lotta Love by Hozier

5. Control by Halsey

[translatingpostsinfrench]

a question i've been questioning for a hot while: what is YOUR local edgy cringe 2015ish 13 yo (/pos) kid culture like? like yeah we know fnaf, dan and phil, string chokers, yandere sim etc but there are definitely local variants, can attest because i was one of those kids but didn't speak two licks of english back then so i was watching squeezie play fnaf not markiplier. some french specifics elements of the weird internet kid culture imo (feel free to add on to this or your own local version pls im too curious) :

amour sucré

karal (there are definitely more prominent youtubers that played all THOSE games that flooded gaming youtube but i had a soft spot for her)

crazybomb and retake

25 (i saw someone mention it out of wattpad once i KNOW at least one person here read it come out)

jack and the cuckoo-clock heart

la chanson des licornes (natoo in general too but i remember this fucking song being peak humor to me and my friends for a hot minute)

"ta meilleure amie" by ornella tempesta (if you related to this song back then i'm genuinely sorry for you but i recently remembered it existed, listened to it and it wasn't even close to be as bad as i remember. mental health matter but what was that.)

[c0smoshit]

Closer ࣪.⋆ ♡

⋆ ࣪. ℙ𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘 ≫ Twilight/fem!Reader

⋆ ࣪. ℙ𝕝𝕠𝕥 ≫ Twi wants to be closer to you ;)

⋆ ࣪. 𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤 ≫ smut!!, cockwarming, p in v obviously, cowgirl, allusion to hickies, not proofread!

⋆ ࣪. 𝔸/ℕ ≫ I'm so down bad for this mfking wolf god-

⋆ ࣪. 𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕕𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥 ≫ 571

⋆ ࣪. part I / part II ࣪.⋆

The night was especially quiet, shiny fireflies fluttering quietly their little wings, contrary to the squacking sound cuckoos made into the night breeze. You knew how much Link loved nights like this, quiet and calm ones.

Well, It would've been a pleasant night if your guts were nestling nicely inside of you instead on being absolutely demolished by your boyfriend.

Your thighs were already numb on top of him, covered in a mixture of his saliva and your own sweat, creating a glistening glow on your skin.

"Stay still"

His husky voice took you out of your trance, you then felt his hands gripping hardly your thighs, as if he didn't want you to move.

What?

This was the first time he behaved like this with you, he didn't even prep you before sliding himself inside. And now he didn't want you to move?

Maybe it was because you told him how cold you were, the night breeze leaking through your window and into your shared bedroom, enough to make you shiver under the mattress.

You stayed silent with your bare arms wrapped around him, your body pressing against his warmer one. You hid your face on his neck, trying to surpress your evident hornyness on top of him.

You knew he was one squeeze away from going mad bellow you, trying to control his hunger for you by gripping your legs. He was hard and he ached for you, his ragged breathing coming out of his hot mouth.

Your whines and quiet pleasured sounds almost made him grab your waist and flip you over so you could scream properly. But he didn't, the rancher wanted to enjoy your warm walls around him, to memorize them when he only had his fist to remember.

"Please"

Link's ears perked up at your needy whisper, breath fanning his neck before you squeezed him hardly, making him groan out.

"Don't do that darlin' "

He warned you, pulling you off his neck and watching as a string of saliva united his jugular and your mouth. He throbbed at the sight, red and plump lips matched with your so lovely eyes, now hooded with desire and want.

His hips twitched, his mind flooded with you, images of you squirming as he rammed himself into you, scratching his back as the animal he was, how good you'd look moaning and gagging his name.

You moaned at the sudden movement, gripping his shoulders tighter as you whined a quiet "Link..."

"I know, I know... Just a bit more"

He tried to reassure you, whispering how good you were for him, letting him feel you up as you sat there obediently.

"I'll fuck you so good after this princess"

The nickname did it for you, it always did. Your thighs clenched around his waist, head falling against his shoulder as you tried to control yourself. It just felt so good.

But you muttering out his name in such a sensual way also did it for him, trailing his hands higher until they met your waist he finally rolled your hips on top of his. You both sighed out in harmony, the pleasure increasing thanks to the fact that you both were being slightly overstimulated by this.

His teeth found the junction of your shoulder and your neck, speeding up his movements needily.

This was going to be a long night.

[blindmagdalena]

The Cuckoo's Nest

18+ 6.3k siren!homelander x f!reader. dub/noncon, infidelity, mind/emotional manipulation, gaslighting, voice kink, masturbation, penetrative sex, fingering, blood, gore, cannibalism? creampie, stalking, minor character death, praise kink, good girl/pretty girl.

The gentle and pleasing voice of the cuckoo bird has made it a renowned herald of spring, and perhaps one of the most famous of songbirds. One would never guess merely by looking at it that it is a predatory parasite.

What you thought would be a dream job working for Vought as Homelander's very own secretary turns into a surreal waking nightmare as reality and dreams converge in a confusing mess. The only coherent thread that strings it all together is the alluring pull of Homelander's unnatural voice.

written for Monsterlander Mania. fair warning, this fic is fairly dark! thank you so much @anon-nee for this amazing banner art. 🖤

When you were hired as Homelander’s secretary, the gig had been pitched as a cushy desk job. Now that he’s the new face of Vought, and Ashley the company CEO, he needs someone who will keep his day to day affairs in order. Apparently, you’re just the person for that job.

“You probably won’t see much of him,” Ashley tells you distractedly. She rarely ever looks away from her phone for long.

“There are two landlines on your desk. The left one is for general business, and the one on the right, the red one, is exclusively for him. Don’t make calls on it. He has the number memorized, he’s the only one who’ll ever call it, so make sure you always answer it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you say diligently.

Glancing over, Ashley does a double take. “Aren’t you married? Where’s your ring?”

You falter, looking down at your hands. “Oh,” you say, taking said ring out of your pocket. “I put hand cream on earlier, I just forgot to put it back on.”

“Make sure you keep that on,” she says, giving you a critical look before returning her gaze to her phone. “He’s particular.”

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Nevertheless, you make sure to always keep your wedding ring on while you’re at work.

True to Ashley’s word, you see neither hide nor hair of Homelander during your first three days. You make his appointments, you take calls on his behalf, and you organize his bookings.

In your office, directly across from your desk, hangs a borderline comically oversized portrait of him that stares relentlessly at you as you work. You often find yourself staring back at it, the back of your neck prickling with the irrational feeling of being watched.

You know that it’s just in your head, but you can’t help but be put off by the feeling. Sometimes you consider covering the portrait, but the last thing you want is for the man to appear out of the blue and see a blanket thrown over his likeness.

Your instinct proves correct.

“Hey you,” comes a voice like silk. You startle, looking up from your desk to find a shock of red, white and blue standing in your doorway, his arms folded casually behind his back.

“Homelander,” you say, nearly choking on the name. “Sir, hello. I’m–”

“I know,” he interjects smoothly, cape swaying behind him as he passes the threshold, making his way over to your desk. That voice. He’s not even said five words to you yet, but it lingers in your ears like warm honey, causing a flush of warmth to roll through you. You convince yourself that you’re just embarrassed to have been caught so thoroughly off guard. “My new secretary. Sorry I couldn’t stop by sooner.”

“Oh, there’s no need to apologize, sir. I know better than most how–” you hesitate, watching as he takes a turn and begins walking directly towards you, circling behind your desk. “–busy you are,” you finish, looking up at him as he looms over you. You wonder if you should stand, but he’s so close to you now, you’d just knock right into him.

He smells good. Earthy and slightly sweet, like vetiver.

“That’s pretty,” he remarks, gesturing to your ring finger. “Sapphire, huh? Unusual choice.”

You swallow, trying desperately to reign in the cadence of your breath. Your heart is pattering as wildly as rain drops. “Thank you. My husband chose it, it’s his birthstone.”

To which Homelander giggles. It’s a delighted, slightly off-putting little noise. “P’wow, he gave you a ring with his birthstone, huh? Really staking his claim,” he says, reaching down to take your hand. He looks at you just before he makes contact. His eyes are even bluer than the stone in your ring. “May I?”

Dumbstruck, you nod, lifting your hand and placing it in his upturned palm. He sits on your desk and turns your hand this way and that, watching the way your ring catches the light. Eventually, his gaze slips back to yours. “Happily married?”

“Very,” you say immediately, your throat suddenly dry.

He smiles, and only then do you notice how unusually sharp his canines are.

“Good. Glad to hear it,” he says, giving your hand a gentle pat before he lets it go. You immediately drop your hand into your lap, touching your ring. You feel strangely lightheaded all of a sudden, unable to look away from his piercing gaze. Even when he isn’t speaking, you can still hear the warmth of his tone echoing all around you.

“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you,” he says, standing from your desk with preternatural elegance, as if he’d floated more than lifted himself.

“Please, the pleasure was all mine,” you say with a smile, somewhat dazed. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

He looks pleased as punch at that. “I’ll try not to be such a stranger, hmm?” he purrs, reaching out to give your shoulder a friendly squeeze. You feel the rumble of his voice roll all the way down your spine and into the core of you, leaving a light throb nestled between your thighs.

“I’d like that. Thank you, sir,” you say, your voice sounding dreamy and distant in your own ears.

Flashing that same toothy grin, he shoots you a wink before he turns face with a slight flourish of his cape, the fabric billowing in his wake as he takes his leave, disappearing down the hall.

The second he’s gone, it’s like the spell of his presence breaks and you come crashing back to yourself, eyes wide. A hot broil of shame rolls through you when you realize how aroused you are, that throb lingering. You’re equal parts shocked and disgusted with yourself, sickened by the hot prickle lingering on every inch of your skin.

Holy shit. What the fuck was that?

You wind up leaving an hour early, eager to be home. The shame makes you desperate to see your husband, as if touching him will erase the residual traces of the effect that Homelander had on your body.

It doesn’t. In fact, that feeling of being watched follows you all the way home, the feel of it becoming a specter haunting your house. When your husband seeks intimacy from you in your bed later that night, you push his hands away.

“Sorry,” you say softly, shaken. “Not tonight.”

Your body still remembers him too viscerally.

That night, you dream of songbirds.

Two days later, the right landline rings for the first time. You stare blankly at it, your stomach immediately twisting into knots. It rings, once, twice, nearly a third time before you hurriedly snatch it up off the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hey, sweetheart,” comes Homelander’s familiar drawl. His voice falls over you like a wash of sunlight, warm and heavy. “Thought you might be ignoring me for a second there.”

“No, no, never. Sorry, sir,” you say, reaching for your water. You take a quick sip. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing too dire, just a little shuffling. Can you bump tomorrow’s 4pm to Thursday for me?” He asks, voice slipping around your throat like a noose. The press of it makes you slightly breathless.

“Of course,” you say, balancing the phone on your shoulder while you manipulate your tablet. “That’s no problem at all, done.”

“That’s my girl,” he says, the phone turning his voice into an intimate rumble in your ear.

You blink, feeling like your mouth is full of cotton. You can’t seem to form a response.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” He asks, and you swear up and down you can hear a smile in his voice. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Was there anything else, sir?” You manage to blurt out, words leaving you in a clumsy spill. You’re breathing shallowly, mouth parched. You snatch up your water and take another quick sip. There’s a long pause on the line, the silence so deafening you think for a moment you must have missed something. “Sir?”

“Touch yourself.”

Your heart falls into your stomach, but that feeling is nothing compared to the unbidden liquid heat that those words erupt throughout your body.

“What?”

“You heard me,” he says patiently. Amused, even. “Touch yourself. Take your hand–no, no, the left one,” he says in response to your right hand drifting down. You weren’t even aware you’d started moving. You swap the phone from your left hand to your right, and grab hold of your thigh with your left hand.

“I don’t understand,” you say, the words feeling as thick as molasses on your tongue. “Why are you–”

“That’s good. Now, move those pretty fingers in. Just like that,” he directs, and to your own distant horror, your hand moves, sliding between your legs and lifting up your skirt, your sparkling ring disappearing beneath it. You press your middle finger directly to your beating clit and let go a shuddering breath, massaging it through your panties.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Show me how you like it, mm? Bet your husband still doesn’t know the first fuckin’ thing about how to make you feel good. He ever watch you do this to yourself, ever bother to learn how you like to be touched?”

Disoriented, you shake your head. Your hips reflexively lift to meet the smooth figure-eights you rub yourself with. You’re sure you’d agree to anything he said so long as he keeps talking.

“Didn’t think so. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, sweetheart. I know exactly what you need.”

The heat of his voice envelops you, makes your whole body feel aflame. You’ve never been so sensitive in your life, already shuddering and squirming in your seat from the intensity of sensation building beneath your fingers.

“Slow down. There’s no rush. You’re as good as mine now.”

His voice is like velvet but his words sting, needling something inside you that squirms. You screw your eyes shut and shake your head more fervently. “No, no, m’not… I don’t…”

“Shhhhh,” he hushes, the hiss of it like a serpent in your ear. “Give it up for me, sweetheart.”

A whimper escapes your throat, the noise all but choked out of you. You can’t move, save for the increasingly frantic stroke of your fingers. His voice is a physical caress that slips down the line of your throat, between your breasts, slinking in serpentine patterns until it spills over your fingers and–

You gasp awake, staring wide-eyed at your blurry ceiling as wave after wave of pure euphoria crashes over you, stealing your capacity for breath. You ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm in a state of delirium, the shadows on your ceiling dancing like a voyeuristic crowd. You’re not sure if it takes seconds, minutes or hours to end, your perception of time distorted by the sheer intensity of sensation.

Looking to your side, panting, you see your husband sleeping soundly beside you. His snores are faint and peaceful. The curtains of your balcony door billow softly with the night’s breeze.

Your day comes back to you in a slow blur. The phone call was real, you’re sure of it… Aren’t you? Reaching for your phone, you hurriedly log into your Vought calendar and check the schedule. Sure enough, in your history, you can see that you bumped his next day R&D meeting to Thursday. That was real.

You wrack your brain for the details of your day, trying to piece together how you got from there to here, and whether or not any of Homelander’s voice cooing lewd commands in your ear was real. 

It couldn’t have been. 

The more the dream fades from your mind, the more you remember the rest of your day. You remember hanging up the phone, finishing your work day as per usual, and going home to your husband. Though it’s all something of a strange blur, the memories are there.

Even so, the dream somehow feels more real than any of it.

It’s 5am and you doubt you’ll be sleeping again. You get up early, shower, and make breakfast all before your husband even makes it to the kitchen. Your dreams and the haze of yesterday fade with the rising sun, as all dreams and memories often do.

You’re in the process of putting your dishes away when he walks in, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “You got an early start today?” He asks, biting back a yawn.

It’s cute. He’s cute. You feel an irrational spike of guilt.

It was just a dream.

“Didn’t sleep well,” you admit, kissing him on the cheek. You wrinkle your nose. “Oof, morning breath,” you say playfully, but there’s an edge of truth to it. You can’t explain it, but there’s something off about the way your husband smells this morning.

Your mind drifts wistfully to the pleasant memory of sweet vetiver.

By the time you make it to work, your morning is nothing but a distant recollection at the peripheral of your consciousness. 

Nonetheless, the sight of that bright red landline still makes you blush. 

You don’t see Homelander again for another three days. At least, not at work. In reality, you’re more aware of him than you’ve ever been in your life. His face is everywhere, be it TV or billboards. You see him in the grocery store, the post office, and even the goddamn DMV. You never really noticed until now how inescapable Homelander truly is.

It’s no wonder he continues to appear in your dreams, too. You can’t seem to remember any of them very well, but you know without a doubt each time you wake that you were haunted by sapphire blue eyes and a voice as decadent as sin.

Sometimes you recall a gorgeous view of the city hundreds of feet in the air. Other times you recall a blue bed, but the thing you remember most is mirrors. You see yourself clearly in them. You see him with you.

All the while a budding friction between you and your husband continues to grow. You find yourself telling him more often to brush his teeth, shower, anything to combat this bizarre stink he’s taken on. Some days it’s so bad, you swear you smell rotting meat before you realize it’s him. Even the sound of his voice grates on you, both rough and shrill in a way that agitates you further and further into isolation in the house you once happily shared.

On that third day at work, you’re penciling in a meeting regarding a potential collaboration with Superplastic when a rhythmic knock at the door jostles you from focus. You look up to call them in, but Homelander is already striding inside, stealing the words right off the tip of your tongue. 

“Goooood afternoon,” he drawls, the door falling shut behind him. For as much as you’ve continued to see and hear of him, you had forgotten how different he sounds in person, the force of his presence instantly a weight upon your body.

Your brain completely malfunctions. Night after night of erotic whispers suddenly crashes down upon you in visceral detail, how multiple times you woke to the throes of an orgasm with his voice still echoing in your ears. Humiliation and arousal flood you in equal measure, turning your skin hot.

Homelander smiles at you from the other side of your desk all the while. 

“Cat got your tongue?” He asks slyly. The question hurdles you backwards in time to the moment you were seated in this exact spot with him whispering downright pornographic filth into your ear, coaxing you into touching yourself into a frenzy.

It was just a dream. It was just a dream. It was a dream.

“Good afternoon, sir,” you finally manage to say, wincing internally at the sound of your own voice.

“Don’t be so formal,” he says, giving a dismissive little wave. “C’mon, call me Homelander,” he says, once again circling around behind your desk. Your eyes widen slightly, mouth bone dry when you try to swallow. He sweeps his cape out of the way before taking a leisurely seat on your desk. He lifts his brows, pinning you with an expectant stare. “Go on, try again.”

“Uh, good afternoon, Homelander,” you correct yourself. His proximity to you is making it hard to focus–there it is again, the scent of vetiver. He smells like summer grass warmed by the hot sun, and he has a gravitational pull to him that has you leaning subconsciously towards him.

His smile widens. “Much better.” His eyes narrow a touch, flickering down briefly before snapping back up to meet your gaze. 

“So! How’s the office, everything nice and cozy?” He asks, one hand braced next to him on your desk, the other gesturing vaguely about. Before you can even answer, he points to your lap. 

“Chair good? I know how important lumbar support is when you’re sitting all day.”

Discussing your lumbar support needs with Homelander certainly had not been on your bingo sheet.

“Uhm, yes, it’s–” Again, before you can get a real answer in, he’s sitting up and making sweeping motions with his hand.

“Let’s see, up, up, lemme take this bad boy for a spin,” he says, making your heart leap up into your throat when he catches you by your waist and effortlessly lifts you up out of your office chair, turning to set you on your feet. With a flourish of his cape, he drops down into your chair, legs spread wide.

You gawk momentarily, watching him spin side to side.

“Oop, there’s that lumbar,” he says, leaning back into it. He’s grinning at you all the while, the moment entirely surreal. You huff an incredulous little laugh, crossing your arms. He’s a little ridiculous, you realize, but personable. 

Have you been the problem this whole time, turning him into something he’s not? You’re starting to lose yourself in your thoughts as you watch him.  

“How about we test the suspension? C’mere,” he says, giving his thigh a pat. “Sit.”

You snap back to attention, your smile falling away. “Pardon?”

“Sit,” he says again, his smile a predatory curve of his lips. He pats his thigh again “Right here.”

You look down at his lap and then back up, your ears buzzing with the timbre of his voice. Logically, you know that what he’s just demanded is wildly inappropriate, yet the silken tone he said it in leaves you utterly agreeable. Slowly, you lower yourself into his lap, uncertain of why you wouldn’t abide by such a request.

“That’s my pretty girl,” he coos, bracketing your waist with his arms.

 ”That’s better, isn’t it?” He asks, his hands moving up and down your thighs. You shiver, a chill running down your spine despite the fervid heat of his body pressed along the back of yours.

A distant voice in the back of your mind whispers it wasn’t a dream, though you can barely hear it over the pounding of your own blood in your ears.

“Relax,” he murmurs, the word a warm huff on your neck. 

Like a marionette whose strings have been cut, your body goes slack against him. Your heart continues to race even as a wave of calm sweeps through you, the two sensations frantically battling one another. Eventually, however, your pulse succumbs to the warmth seeping from him, and you begin to calm, soothed by the slow sweeps of his palms and the way he’s muttering sweet nothings into your ear. 

“Good girl,” he breathes, the smile audible in his voice. “That’s it. Feels good, hmm?” His hands move more firmly on your thighs, closer to a massage.

You make a thin noise of pleasure, tipping your head back to rest on his shoulder.

“When I tell you… that I have been looking forward to this,” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck. 

“But I had to be sure you were the one. Most people start to go insane after the first night, maybe the second, but not you.” His teeth, sharp as razors, delicately graze your throat. “You’ve been… perfect.”

“What’re you talking about?” You ask, feeling slightly slow and disoriented.

Homelander chuckles, the rumble of it moving from his chest through your back. 

“My voice. It tears apart people's minds… But not yours. Why is that?” His lips are warm on your skin, trailing lower. He lifts a hand to pull your collar askew and kiss at the exposed crook of your neck.

“I don’t know,” you sigh, eyes flickering shut. His mouth feels incredible, the slight dampness that his lips leave behind making you especially sensitive to the air as he exposes you to it. It’s difficult to focus on anything other than the drag of his mouth. 

You don’t even realize he’s unbuttoned your shirt and slipped it off of your shoulders until he’s kissing that newly revealed skin, nipping playfully at your bra strap.

“Here I was thinking you were just a pretty, tasty little thing… Turns out you’re so much more,” he purrs between kisses. A jolt of pain makes you gasp and then whimper, the sting of it soothed by the way his tongue drags over the spot afterwards.

It takes you a beat to comprehend that he’s just bitten the junction between your neck and shoulder, sunk his sharp teeth in so deep you smell the faint tang of blood.

“Turns out you were meant for me all along,” he says between slow drags of his tongue, lapping at your soft skin. He moans for the taste of it. “Watching you writhe in your bed, wanting me, touching yourself while your useless husband slept. I thought I was the one going fucking insane.”

Comprehension is a slow, creeping thing to your addled mind.  “You were watching me. The dreams, you–”

“Whispered them into your ear while you slept,” he interjects, kissing at the shell of your ear. “You took to ‘em like gasoline takes to a spark,” he says, that voice of his wrapping around your body and limbs like a dozen slithery tendrils. 

The touch of his voice is just as tangible as his hands sliding up your thighs, your stomach, cupping your breasts through your bra. You let out a shuddering moan.

“Every night, I was so sure you’d break. But you didn’t. You won’t.”

His confession brings back images in a flood, untangling dreams from memories. You remember a silhouette standing over you, you remember piercing red eyes glowing in the dark, and you remember the filth he spoke over you that made your body twist and sweat and come harder than you ever have.

All of it intertwines with this very moment, with his hands on you, his body against yours. It has you moaning, writhing back against him the same way you did in your bed beneath his gaze.

“Call your husband,” he tells you, hand slipping between your legs, hooking under your skirt.

“What?” You rasp, clutching at his wrists. You shiver at the hot slide of his tongue just behind your ear.

“Call your husband,” he repeats, thick gloved finger rubbing sparks between your thighs. “Tell him you’re coming home early. Tell him to wait for you in the bedroom.” 

Leaning forward, Homelander snatches the left landline off the desk and pulls it into your lap, resting it atop his hand while he fingers you in slow, precise circles.

You pick up the receiver and dial unsteadily. It doesn’t sound like something you shouldn’t do. Even as it rings, you feel no dread or apprehension. Just the drive to obey the voice cradling your mind and body so very sweetly.

“Hi,” you exhale when he answers the phone, screwing your eyes shut. It takes everything in you just to focus on speaking. 

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m coming–” your breath catches as Homelander pushes your panties aside and breaches you with a single finger, sliding into your soaked pussy in one slow, continuous slide. 

“I’m coming home early today,” you say, holding both the receiver and Homelander’s wrist in a white-knuckle grip. “Can you wait in the bedroom for me?”

He’s thoroughly confused, but all that does is frustrate you. His voice comes through ugly and nasally over the phone, grating through your nerves instantly. You feel the urge to yell at him, but the breath is stolen from your lungs by the sweet press of Homelander’s thick gloved finger crooking inside you, stroking exactly the right spot to make you see stars.

“Just–just do it, please? Wait in the bedroom, I’ll be–I’ll be home soon.”

You slam down the phone just in time, letting out a cry, lurching forward. The phone tumbles from your lap with a clatter and Homelander catches you with an arm across your chest, pinning you back against his chest.

“Good girl, that’s it. Give it up for me. Lemme feel that pretty pussy come,” he moans, grinding up against you, the sound of his finger pumping into you obscenely loud and wet. 

“C’mon, sweetheart. Whet my appetite. Gimme something before it’s time to fucking eat.”

You come loudly, clenching your legs tightly around his hand. He stops just to feel you tighten and convulse through his glove, his lips and teeth and tongue all wreaking havoc at your throat.

“Fuck,” he sighs, followed by the low rumble of a chuckle. Your thighs shake as he pulls his hand away. You can smell the heady smell of your own slick when he brings his finger to his mouth and sucks the taste of you from it, the sound lewd in your ear.

“You even taste pretty,” he hums, voice frayed like a growl. There’s an inhuman split to his voice, like there’s three of them layered over top of each other.

The whole world feels like it’s spinning. You have no center of gravity, just the sensation of movement as Homelander effortlessly maneuvers you up into his arms. Your head lolls against his chest, vision swimming.

Warm lips press sweetly to your forehead. “Rest up, pretty girl,” he murmurs. The words instantly make you drowsy. “I’ll wake you up when I’m done.”

The world slips into darkness. The last thing you’re aware of is the feeling of flying.

When you come back to consciousness, the darkness remains. You recognize your bedroom ceiling above you, familiar shadows dancing across it, beckoning you awake. 

A dream…?

Your limbs are leaden, weighed down to the bed. You try desperately to untangle the fantastical from what is real, walking backwards through what you remember. Touch, smell, sound, and pleasure unlike anything you’ve ever known. You remember Homelander’s hands on you, in you, his body and voice all around you, the sound of–

Sound. What is that sound? It’s close to you, but you can’t move your head to see. It’s a series of wet, soft squelching noises akin to someone manipulating piles of drenched laundry. Then you hear a crunch like a tree branch snapping, and you start to recognize another sound; panting breaths followed by an erotic moan of pure indulgence.

You open your mouth to speak, but your throat is too tight, and nothing escapes it. As you come back to yourself more and more, you realize the bed beneath you is warm and wet.

You manage to force a noise from the back of your throat, a strained sound born of the effort to move. Next to you, something shifts. 

“There’s my pretty girl,” coos Homelander’s familiar voice. Your heart crashes against your ribcage, the only part of you that can freely move expressing the shock of hearing his voice here in your bed.

“Shhhshhhh, no need for that,” he murmurs, moving into your line of sight, hovering over you. His face is spattered in something dark, but when he smiles his sharp teeth are white and bright, even in the dim moonlight of your bedroom. His voice soothes your frayed nerves almost instantly.

“Take a deep breath,” he says. You do so easily, as if you were never paralyzed. “Good. Perfect timing,” he tells you, his tongue sliding along his teeth, his lips, threads of saliva stretched between his teeth snapping. “I’m still plenty hungry for you.”

He kisses you, swinging his leg over to envelop your body with his. All at once you can move again, your bones no longer weighed down. You relax beneath the press of his lips and the weight of him, exhaling a breath through your nose. 

“Kiss me,” he mumbles fervently. You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him with everything you have, your lips sliding slickly against one another. He licks the taste of copper into your mouth.

Blood, a distant part of you realizes. Whatever horror you should feel is replaced by building excitement, his touch reigniting heat throughout your body. Like gasoline takes to a spark.

His lips move to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, trailing bloodied kisses down your throat. He has less patience for your clothes now than he did in your office, tearing your shirt and bra from your body with a feral noise. His hands are upon you instantly, spreading the blood on his hands down your chest, massaging your breasts until he works a needy moan out of you.

“Can’t believe I almost ate you, too,” he says with a smile.  Before you can respond, he leans down to suck your nipple into his mouth, hands sliding lower. You gasp and push your hands into his hair, slicking it back with what sprayed into it. His mouth is inferno hot on your skin, goosebumps erupting over every inch of you. His tongue is a devilish thing, working your nipple in circles, but it’s the light pinch of his teeth that make your whole body lurch.

He makes quick work of your clothing from the waist down, too, stripping you until there’s nothing left between you and the blood soaked fabric of his suit. His hand disappears from you, and you hear a metallic click followed by the hiss of a zipper. He nudges your legs apart to settle properly between them, pulling off of your breast with a satisfied pop. He licks his lips of the blood he had spread to your breast, eyes wild and glowing faintly red.

“Let’s get rid of this while we’re at it,” he says, lifting your hand. He kisses the tip of your ring finger before taking it into his mouth, gaze flickering up to meet yours as he takes it all the way down past your knuckle, your ring disappearing past his lips. He catches the metal band with his teeth and drags it slowly off, sucking your finger clean of it. A chill runs down your spine at the crunch the metal gives as he effortlessly chews and swallows it.

You stare in numb, abject shock, but even that rapidly fades to the fires rolling through you. 

Hands on your thighs, he easily pulls your ass into his lap. You look down to see his cock freed from his suit pants, thick and nicely curved. He bends over you, hitching your legs up over his shoulder, and you feel the flat curve of the bottom of his cock press against your cunt. He grins down at you, rocking his hips to grind through the slick mess he’s made of you.

“Let’s see if you feel as good as you taste,” he says, claiming your lips once more. He pulls his hips back, and you feel the head of his cock drooling precome as it slides over your clit, down to your soaked cunt. The dull stretch of it splitting you open burns, has you keening against his lips. He kisses you again and again and again.

“That’s it, baby. Open up for me. Lemme feel that perfect pussy,” he grits out, voice frayed at the edges like he’s finally beginning to lose that cocky composure of his. Even still, his voice retains that otherworldly aspect to it. He bottoms out with a low moan, hips flush to your body.

“Oh fffffuck,” he groans, cock throbbing against the velvety walls of your cunt. You can feel the pulse of him, even more so when you squeeze. It gives you an unexpected and intoxicating shot of power when doing that makes him gasp. “Perfect. My perfect fuckin’ match, fuck. I knew you would be, I knew you were made for me,” he babbles, bordering on incoherence as he starts to thrust, gripping your ass with one hand while the other goes to the headboard, slamming it against the wall with each snap of his hips.

“H-Homelander,” you moan, tangling both hands in his hair, dragging your nails harshly down his scalp, the back of his neck, throwing your head back against your pillow. 

He gives your ass a sharp slap just to feel the way your cunt clenches with it, a growl rolling from his throat.

“Come with me,” he demands, instantly sending the pressure building in you into a soar. He moves faster, deeper, each slam punching out pitchy noises from you. Every drag of his cock feels like a spark inside you, like the strike of a match igniting stars in your peripheral vision. You come with a near scream, nails biting fruitlessly into Homelander’s skin. 

He rides your orgasm fiercely, fucking you into the bloody mess of your bed until he, too, succumbs to the clench of your cunt. He lets out a guttural cry, the wood of your headboard snapping in his grasp as his release floods you, so hot that it nearly burns.

You’re both panting into each other's mouths, lips occasionally brushing. There’s a possessive growl to the edge of Homelander’s breaths, as if warning anything that might hear of the danger of approaching.

“You’re mine now, you understand?” He says lowly, his velveteen voice hoarse, almost animalistic. “My match, my mate, mine.”

Deliriously, you nod, mind still lost to the aftershocks of your climax, your pussy quivering around the girth of his cock. It’s not enough for Homelander, who gives another sharp thrust, knocking an overstimulated moan out of you. “Do you understand?”

“I understand,” you gasp, meeting his gaze. His harsh expression softens at that, the crimson glow fading from his eyes, leaving only that familiar ocean blue in its wake. He kisses you leisurely, but with no less hunger. He lets your legs slip carefully from his shoulders, but remains buried deep inside you, staking his claim as thoroughly as possible. He kisses your neck, makes you wince when he sucks at the mark he bit into your skin.

“You got no idea how long I’ve been looking for you,” he mumbles, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. You stroke your fingers through his hair, soaking in the feeling of his superhuman body thrumming against yours. You tighten your grip in his hair and lift his head, bringing his gaze up to meet yours. He looks curiously at you until that curiosity flips to surprise as you kiss him, earning a pleased little hum from him. 

When you part, his surprise has melted away into something dazed and soft. Something like love, or maybe satiation. The two look so very similar.

Homelander kisses you a while longer before he nestles down against you.

Your head lolls to the side for the first time, and only then do you see the full scope of the horror resting next to you; bones jut out from the mess of viscera and meat, shredded clothing thick with blood and innards. It looks like the work of a rabid animal, something vicious and hungry.

You know instantly that the mess is all that remains of your former husband. 

It occurs to you that you should feel a dozen different awful things about the pile of gore splayed out on your bed, but ultimately, the only thought that lingers is how he finally suits that rotten meat smell.

Looking back to the ceiling, you continue to comb your fingers through Homelander’s hair. His weight is a comfortable thing upon you, and beneath the smell of gore, you’re soothed by the gentle, warm scent of vetiver. Your eyelids grow heavy, and within minutes, you drift to sleep.

When you wake, there is no tang of blood heavy in the air. You sit up in a bed that is both alien and familiar. It isn’t until you see the mirrors around you that you realize that this is the bed from your dreams.

You feel warm, despite the early morning chill beyond the blankets. You feel a tug, and as you look down, Homelander pulls you back down into his arms.

“Mornin’, pretty girl.”

“Morning,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him. He hums pleasantly as you touch him, your hands roaming the naked scape of his body, testing that he’s real. You draw back, brows furrowed.

“Everything alright?” He asks, his voice as rich and creamy as ever.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, a touch uncertain. “Weird dreams.”

He smiles, bringing your hand up to kiss. “Well, you’re awake now.”

Somehow, you’re not so certain. 

Regardless, you huff a little laugh and snuggle back into his arms. 

“Love you,” you say, losing yourself to the familiar comfort of a partner in your arms, in your bed, in your heart. The longer you’re there, the more the dreams fade away, replaced with the reality of your waking world and the sweet smell of vetiver.

Homelander squeezes you to his chest, stroking idly up and down your back with his knuckles. You can hear the smile in his voice as he returns, “I love you, too.”

[hazelfoureyes]

HAZEL IT'S MY BIRTHDAY 🎉🎂🎂!!!

Happy birthday from the hazbin babies I’m capable of writing for! 🎉

💚Alastor💚

A quiet moment alone, his long legs allowed his feet to rest on either side of one of your own as you sat across from him. Comfy reading chairs, a heatless fire. You didn’t notice him watching you from over his paper. Then one of those purposely placed feet knocked against yours and stole your attention. He pointed to the garish cuckoo clock above the fireplace and let his grin soften. As the bird sprung out to begin its 12 chirps, he’d set the paper down fully and pull your chair closer to him with his shadow. “Happy Birthday.”

💛Lucifer💛

From the moment you woke up, he was staring at you with stars in his eyes. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” Sang into your hair the second you lifted your head from the pillow. As he pulled your through Lu Lu Land after hours he’d grip your hand tightly and run to the Ferris wheel. When the car reached the top, he’d direct your attention to the window behind you. The fireworks would erupt and light up the otherwise shadow-filled space gently rocking you both front and back. You’d turn to ask if this was all for you, but be stopped by the shining lights staring back at you from his eyes. He’d kiss your nose, and smile wide. Of course it was.

🩷Angel🩷

He knew exactly what you needed and was eager to provide. The blindfold made you nervous, naturally. He could remove it to reveal you were in Consent or he was spread naked on a table covered in sushi and purring. Not that it hadn’t been a fun Thanksgiving. All were fine just not what you had been hoping for. But the walk from door to the surprise was quick and the smell of lavender and roses met you before your eyes were uncovered. “I know you’ve been real busy…” he said it almost meekly, as if he was worried this wasn’t enough, “and we never get much time together.” He let the blindfold fall to the bathroom floor. A large tub full of rose petals, long stem glasses and lavender candles in the sides, and two soft robes neatly folded on the counter. “No interruptions! No phone! I’ll keep all my appendages to myself!” He raised his arms, “unless you say otherwise.” A wink. “Happy Birthday pookie?” He tried to read your face in the darkness. You immediately began undressing, desperate to sink under the petals and just melt, “The happiest of birthdays, Angie.”

❤️Charlie❤️

You knew it’d be a surprise party, as Charlie was as predictable as people came. You hadn’t expected it to be off hotel grounds though. Charlie held her hands over your eyes as the car came to a stop, keeping them there as she directed you into the establishment. You could hear whispers then shuffling of feet and scooting of chairs. “Sit right heeeeere,” she adjusted the seat after you were settled, trying to get it into the best spot.

A pop song began to play, then clapping and hollering from more people than you were sure you knew. As she pulled her hands back and rose them into the air, a chorus of “Happy Birthday!”s rang out from friends and loved ones. And a special someone, already on stage.

“Charlie— is this?”

“You mentioned you’d never seen her show before and so I pulled a few strings.” You looked down at the table to see a pile of ones, the sight of Luci on them a little odd as you looked back up to see Hell’s top drag queen and Lucifer impersonator, Queen Loose For Sure, holding her hat out for a tip.

🤍Husk🤍

A speakeasy was unnecessary in Hell, given that having a tipple was encouraged. But you knew Husk dug the vibes. Though he risked running into Alastor, he offered to take you. You were more than thrown off guard when you were handed a menu and at the top of the cocktail list was your name. ‘An extra special, one day only concoction” was the description, no price listed. “Well what’ll it be?” Husk didn’t make eye contact, but his smirk and wagging tail made it crystal clear he was behind the new drink. “I think I have to try the one day only cocktail, it’s got my name on it after all…”, you looked at the bartender and Husk tapped the bar twice. Husk slid the napkin under the drink as it was set before you, a handwritten “Happy Birthday” across the red paper.

🩶Vaggie🩶

The cursing in Spanish was all Vaggie left available for you to figure out what was going on. It was food related, given she had banned you from the kitchen. But Vaggie wasn’t known to cook. This knowledge coupled with the swearing didn’t put you at ease. It was hell though, what were the chances you could get food poisoning when you were already dead? To your delight (and relief), she emerged with the ugliest cake you’d ever seen. “H-happy birthday, babe…,” she set it down in front of you, candles alight. “Handmade. Mostly.”

💙Vox💙

You knew it was love because he took off the entire day for you. Even his phone was set to vibrate. Which was a big deal for him. The most expensive restaurant, table by the window to see all of the Pride Ring. He clinked your glasses and toasted to you. And as you shared a large piece of cake, and looked out onto the city, you didn’t notice him staring at you with eyes of adoration when be said, “Happy birthday, darling.”

💜Valentino💜

Anything that wasn’t sexual or violent was a shocker from the tall moth overlord. But he had a third passion that didn’t involve blood or nudity. Not traditionally, anyway. A secret he only let a few see him indulge in. As he spun you around again and again to the live cumbia beats, he whispered the kinds of things only Val would think of mid-dance. But as the music ended and you leaned into him for a breather, his hands found your hips and pressed into you, “A very happy birthday, princesa.”

💖A much dirtier menu of hazbin stories💖

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Birthday Event Poll

I'm once again attempting to put together a little event for myself. Instead of committing to specific plots and fandoms, though, I'm doing tropes. Because I'm exhausted and need something low-pressure to enjoy for a hot sec as a little treat, like a cake, ya know? Fuck I'm stressed...

June is my birthday month, and I'm hoping to have at least four one-shots ready to post (i.e. at least one a week). Reader and/or original characters will likely appear.

Hopefully, I'll get to all of these tropes, but which are you most interested in reading?

[codbabygirlification]

PLEASE HELP!

I lost a fic that I was really into: reader is a CIA informant, just a middle man, when the actual informant died in your arms and gives you the information by mouth. TF141 saves you after being kidnapped and they have to keep you safe at a lil farmhouse that only Kate knows about.

There weren’t many installments out yet, and I went to check it and it’s GONE from my posts and I’m PANICKING.

Pls I beg help a sister out😭

FOUND: Civilian Asset by @cuckoo-on-a-string

Read it. It’s so good.

[my-great-big-book-of-fan-fiction]

Hi I absolutely love your work! Could I please request yandere L and reader's first time together?

hi! A little late, but here it is! There's no actual smut in this one, sorry if that disappoints 😓 I felt like, for this particular topic, it would be better to keep the actual sex behind closed doors.

Warnings: dub-con, L is manipulative, Reader is cuckoo for cocoa puffs, implied sex, talk of sex, sex as a manipulation tactic

He never rushed you. He was never persistent, or angry with you. Everything happens on your time...but it does happen eventually. Always.

You don't know how long you've been toying with a loose string on his sleeve, your head rested on his shoulder. A few minutes. An hour. Your entire life.

He let you...of course, "letting" you was a stretch. It was what he wanted. He wanted this sort of domestic intimacy. He wanted you to fall asleep on his shoulder, he wanted you to tell him you love him, he wanted you to kiss his cheek, all for little in return.

He never returned much of your affections, to keep you needy. He knows you made yourself "love" him for the sake of safety, he's not an idiot. He also knows that if you feared he got bored of you, you'd grow desperate to regain the fondness that protected you. So he strung you along, stoic until you were near panic, tender at the end of your rope. Starving you until you're at the brink of death, feeding you crumbs to keep you alive and suffering.

It was necessary. He didn't like doing it, he told himself, but if he lost your love he'd be too distraught to focus on his work.

Maybe he'd punish you endlessly until you died of stress.

Maybe he'd obsess over "fixing" you until you're somehow the same as before.

Maybe he'd kill himself, and take you with him.

Whatever it was, he was too used to your affections now to go back to before, when you spent your days plotting some sort of escape. You were irreplaceable, the only amount of love for another he's ever felt. It was for the common good, to keep you complacent by any means possible.

You adjusted, shifting to stretch and twist. He could see the flesh of your stomach by the lift of your shirt, smooth.

He's seen you naked before. He's watched you shower, he's watched you change. But something about this, this accidental slip, made him want to reach out and touch you. It made you feel all the more real: his lover, flesh and bone and blood.

So he does touch you. He slides an arm around your waist, beneath the cloth of your shirt, and holds you close. This would be a day for crumbs.

You raise your brows, but settle into him anyway, the perfect fit against his side. "How's work?" Your voice is meek and absent, just like your sanity.

"Tiring. I'd like to know...what are your opinions on sex?"

He asks about your opinions on things often. On who the culprit of certain crimes may be. On your tastes for cakes. On jewelery. All of these things were privileges that he could give and take as needed. Good dogs lovers get to help with cases, and eat cakes, and get jewelery. Good lovers get opinions. If you were bad, any of these things, including the right to have an opinion, were taken away.

But, thankfully, you've never been bad. You've never done anything worth punishing, because if you had, you would have remembered. Just like how you've never had a life before L.

"Sex...? What for?"

"For having it. I'd like to have it."

"Well...I've never given it much thought."

He didn't prompt you to speak of your experience. That might remind you of times he'd rather you not think of. Times where you didn't know him.

"...if given the opportunity, would you consider it?"

"I guess so. Do you want to try?"

He thinks for a moment. "No. That won't be necessary. But I'd like your express permission to attempt it at any time I feel inclined to."

The illusion of choice. If you said no, he'd only talk you into it. Not that you'd want to say no.

"Of course."

"Thank you."

And that was that.

He didn't make a move for a while. You almost forgot about it.

Until you find yourself in the kitchen, prepping to bake him a cake. You preheat the oven, and as you measure out the dry ingredients, you feel cold, long fingers splay across your stomach.

"Oh, L," you gasp, smiling as you turn around.

"Are you busy?"

You tilt your head. He can see the baking materials behind you. "Not really...why?"

He kisses your cheek. "I'd like to attempt...sex."

"Oh. Right now?"

"Is that alright with you?"

"...Sure it is."

He led you to the bedroom with slow, easy steps. He had his hands on yours, loving and soft. It should be perfect. It would be. You loved him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was, by any real measure, perfect. He listened to you. He was careful with you. He didn't finish too fast. He prioritized your arrival. It was one of the very few things you found yourself centered in. Usually, everything centered around him and what he wanted, but this...this would become one of the ways he said "I love you" without saying it.

It was in the way his tired eyes gazed up at you through dark lashes as he rested his head on your chest. How his hands glided up and down your naked sides. How he muttered out, "do you need anything?"

You felt truly adored by him. It satisfied something within you, a gnawing worry that one day, he would tire of you, and dump you on the side of the street, or kill you with his bare hands.

Perhaps, you could incline him to do this more often. By the way he presses wanton kisses into your breast, you don't think he'll need much convincing.

You wished that this moment could last forever. That the next morning, it wouldn't be business as usual. That you could keep existing without the worry of what he might think of you if you make the tiniest of mistakes.

You fall asleep beneath him, and he watches you throughout the night. He doesn't sleep or move, he only watches. You were so comfortable, he almost felt bad for tormenting you.

Almost.

[roguelov]

🧡✨SEND THIS TO OTHER BLOGGERS YOU THINK ARE WONDERFUL. KEEP THE GAME GOING ✨🧡

(but no pressure - enjoy the feels. <3)

THANK YOU!!!!!!!! AND BRB WHILE I CRAWL INTO YOUR ASKBOX AND RETURN THE LOVE

[nicoleeblossom]

Multiple Characters x Reader...

main masterlist📌 | Multiple x Reader Part 2

*·˚Don’t forget to reblog, follow, like, and comment on the authors’ or artists’ pages. Show them some love!

*·˚Broken link or @? Pop a note in the comments or my ask box.

Works by @miniwheat77

Sizes. 141+Alejandro x Reader: Who has the biggest dick?

By Nature, She’s Naughty: Y/n was a wild one

Works by @mistydeyes

Hunk-o-mania Pt.1: The boys thought wrong, now they’re performing

Playboy Bunny Pheonix Edition Pt.2: The boys are very pleased with the solution

Opposite Occupations Pt.1: They realize that all the long hours are worth it

Take A Walk In My Shoes Pt.2: A day in your life

Almost Military Wives GC Pt.3: What goes on when the boys are deployed

Works by @sprout-fics

Afterburn: Just 6 dudes taking care of their girl

Poly 141 x Reader: It takes weeks, month for you all to put the place in order, and by the end of it all, you’re exhausted

Works by @loveindefinitely

Need To Listen To Me: that was a flaw. A genuine character fault, and Price was cementing that fact in this very room

Lust for Life: You’re suddenly all too desperate to get back at your father and experiment a thing or two

Works by @the-californicationist

They Help You Practice: You smiled to yourself, eager to push more of their buttons. 

The Window, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7:

Works by @charliemwrites

From SpecGru With Love

Men at Work

Works by @tojisun

Nosy Neighbours

Sugar, Spice, Everything on Ice

Keeping Him Quiet

141 + König First Word Reactions by @starstruckmiraclekitty: Reactions to their babies’ first words

Be Gentle Man Pt.1 and Be Gentle Man Pt.2 by @rileyslibrary: Etiquette training

Breeding Team by @sirenmoth: AU where reader is an omega who took suppressants

Strip Poker Pt.1 by @catsnkooks: Soap’s CO brought out some cards

Cachorrita Pt.1 and Cachorrita Pt.2 Los Vaqueros x Reader by @lxstfathier: Caught in the middle of narco violence, you are taken in

Civillian Asset by @cuckoo-on-a-string: There’s blood under your nails and a threat to your life

Sparrow by @diejager: Their tense shoulders slouched, finally knowing where you went

With Them, Who Swallowed a Star by @vellichor-of-the-solivagant: Now, he made music out of you

Home is Where You Are by @1-ker0sene-1: "Taking good care of our boys John…You always do…Making sure you all come home to me again”

Cook!reader x 141 and The Assistant by @bookbrokelibrarian:

Lift Me Off My Feet by @lovifie:

Cherry Bomb by @swordsandholly

FFS Riley Collection by @dozeydaisy

Dad!141 x Mama!Reader by @baduzzxy

Mafia!141 AU, Ext. by @ghouljams

Suite 141 by @mangowafflesss

Contractors!141 by @kyletogaz

Down the Hatch by @syoddeye

Frozen Hearts Pt.1, Pt.2, Pt.3, Pt.4, Pt.5, Pt.6, Pt.7 by @lushrve

Can’t Stop Thinking About Pt.1, Pt.2, Pt.3, Pt.4, Pt.5, Pt.6, Pt.7, Pt.8, Pt.9, Pt.10 by @a-b-riddle

Free Use by @bzurk

Really Good Neighbours by @dragonnarrative-writes

Whole Other Notebook by @auspicioustidings

Retired!141 x Rancher!Reader by @purple-moonbeam

Lifeline by @indigosunsetao3

Ranking by @gardenthatneversleeps

You’re Only Sixteen by @siddyyyyyyyy

On The Run by @devil-in-hiding

Hair Series by @kyletogaz

Secret Baby by @gloomwitchwrites

The Office AU by @flowerfreya

Loop by @eevee-of-eternity

Restaurant Au! 141 by @disgustingtwitches

Blue-Collar!141 x Reader by @xo-codbby

Naps to Lovers by @i-love-you-just-the-same

Y/N Being Feral for Her Future Husband by @feralgoblinqueen

Mafia!141 by @cordeliawhohung

Neglected Reader by @simonbrain

Lavender Marriage Pt.1 and Pt.2 AU by @beloveds-embrace

Services/Goods of Equivalent Value by @auspicioustidings

Mafia!141 by @vnards

Mermaid Reader, Part 2, Part 3 by @homeofthelonelywriter

Dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

[clockwayswrites]

Danny/Jason, Delightful

@Lenacraft No Capes AU? At least for the Bats. For Danny… ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Jason kept the package under his coat as he walked, sheltering it from the drizzle of the dismal day. He hadn’t brought an umbrella, of course not. He had been sure that there had been one at the office but, well, it never seemed to be where he needed it, did it?

If he had been headed home he wouldn’t have minded getting damp. A warm shower and a hot cup of tea would fix him right up. Unfortunately, it was only the early afternoon and he had one final class ahead of him to teach. Hopefully he wouldn’t be too damp, the lecture halls in the old Humanities building could get frigid, and Alfred would be on his case if he caught another cold this fall.

It wasn’t Jason’s fault that the sick students always wanted to stand very close and talk very quietly about how they weren’t feeling well and might need to go home. Nor was it his fault that his years on the street before literally falling into Bruce’s path left him with a pitiful immune system.

Jason resolutely ignored the itch at the back of his throat.

(Maybe If he was lucky he still had a tea bag stashed in his desk’s drawer.)

(He wouldn’t be that lucky.)

The shop door pulled on a little string as it opened, setting off a cuckoo clock bird from where it sat above the door frame. It was a bright thing, painted a cheerful green with little yellow and red accents.

“Just a moment,” someone mumbled from deeper in the shop.

Jason wound his way through display cases of watches and grandfather clocks and hanging oddities till he made his way to the back of the overly full shop. A lithe figure was hunched over the wooden workbench, tools in hand. Idly, he chewed on his lips, bruising it lightly with sharp teeth as he twisted the tiny screwdriver with nimble fingers. He gave a little ‘ah-ha’ before sitting up and pushing the magnifying glasses up onto his head, sweeping the mass of black hair back with them. It gave a slightly startled look to his bright, bright blue eyes.

“Welcome to Clockwork’s, I’m Danny, how can I help you?”

From a little prompt ting I did.

Feel free to continue this one if you want!

[idlenight]

Hello! Thank you for signing up for my little fandom project. Like I mentioned in my post, these will be once a month character building/exploration questions. I don't expect immediate answers. Feel free to take the whole month, if you need! If you have more than one Step, pick your favorite or whichever you think needs more love.

We're going to start with the basics this month: Where did your Sidestep get your name? Do they know what it means? Do they feel any particular way about their name?

- Cigs

Thank you for doing these 🧡💜

Unironically, it is just his re-gene name.

His name as given by his fellows was:

Sun-Head River Soaked (shortened to just the sign for River in re-gene language )

Sun-Head: Simple and descriptive. The name he was originally given by older re-genes as a newly decanted cuckoo. I think his red hair stood out amongst the other re-genes, probably the only one, or the one with the most notable color even with a short shaved head.

[pictured: farm-era River with a short shaved head of red hair.]

River Soaked: Those who know anything about River know that he's fascinated by water. It might be ingrained into his very psyche. Or maybe it's the desire to return to the brief and first comfort of floating in the warm liquid before decanting, before never having another comfort ever again. That fascination is not specifically how he earned the add-on of River Soaked to his name, however.

He earned the name River Soaked on his first outing. Ending up 'mysteriously' falling in a river while tailing a target....

[pictured: farm-era River partially in disguise while waist deep in water. he is smiling slightly.]

He got reprimanded by the handlers, of course. He doesn't regret it one bit. Some re-genes found it funny, others consider the name more of an ironic reminder. Whatever the re-genes thought, it was memorable enough of an event that it earned him a name.

River loved it. Reveled in it even.

So he kept it. When Julia asked what his name was he replied on instinct, not giving her whatever name was on his fake ID at the time. River. His name. Only name he was ever given.

It's what he considers to be his "true" name, closest to it anyway. Can't exactly introduce yourself as the entirety of his re-gene name to humans, never mind a string of numbers.

Becker then came as a commitment to this identity and fascination of water. Becker like a beck (creek), or physiculus beckeri (fish).

River Becker. His name.

[z-eusie]

Hi, I read your stories on AO3 and I admit that I really like them, especially when it comes to Zeus and Hera. But I have a question, do you really believe that Zeus loves Hera even though he is aggressive towards her and has already assaulted and abused her? I don't remember if anyone asked about this, but I would love to hear your thoughts on them

zeus loves her undoubtedly.

two things before i continue: one, i am not going to sit here and argue against the existence of the aggressive nature of some of zeus' behaviour in myth, particularly in the iliad. that's not fair nor correct of me to do so. two, the representation of zeus as king and father/husband are always going to be contradictory. we can work with that.

i also will start by saying that, as far as i'm concerned, zeus has never assaulted hera. he has not always been kind to her, but the cuckoo myth was consensual. others are free to disagree, but to me, this was one of many attempts by zeus to woo hera - not because she was avidly opposed to marrying him, but because she wanted him to prove his dedication and loyalty. making himself into something small and weak, something devoid of any pride, and offering himself up for her care is a pretty romantic gesture.

now, the other thing is that i am by no means an expert on the iliad, so i will gladly allow my mutuals to maybe clarify a few things in that regard, as i know this is where much of zeus' most obvious examples of aggression come from. i did, however, reread some of those parts to refresh myself.

the thing that i think is important to address in regards to zeus and hera's relationship, and the depiction of violence within it, is the example of leadership zeus is supposed to set. not only is zeus a king, meant to uphold justice above all other personal pursuits through any means necessary (often through acts of violence, which is and has always been associated with power), but zeus is also responsible for fate. he is, for lack of a better way of putting it, expected to defend and protect the way history is meant to play out, even at his own expense. this, through extension, means even at the expense of his loved ones, hera included.

do i think zeus actively abuses hera? no. do i think he has done harmful things in his pursuit of these expectations? yes. do i think this is acceptable? not really. is this a difficult and nuanced topic? most certainly.

hera actively undermines so much of what zeus is trying to protect or uphold. it is her right to do as she pleases as the queen of the gods, which zeus acknowledges within the iliad. i liked this quote from book 8 of the iliad (i'm sorry i don't really know how i should be citing this shit. n e ways):

"But I feel no great anger or indignation for Hera, for she always tries to undermine my commands.”

zeus knows this is what she is going to do. he embraces it. he still has to do as duty commands and punish those who actively defy his will, and the will of fate. he is expected to be impartial - and if the punishment for defying his wishes is an act of violence for everyone else, so too must it be one for hera. the examples i can think of within the iliad is all talk, no action. zeus has to say those things because it is expected. he does not follow through on these threats because he loves hera and because even she understands there are limits to how far either of them can push and stretch.

zeus expects her defiance and, it seems, is not entirely bothered by it - he does what he has to, but he's not actually wanting to harm her. he's putting her in "her place" by issuing his fair warning, as is expected of him, but nothing further. now, i still think zeus and hera argue in ways that can be extreme, and perhaps in some capacities, violent - but not to a point where either party is particularly devastated by the fact. both equally guilty and innocent at the same time.

the other example i can think of is zeus stringing hera up in chains by her wrists - sources vary, though i generally tend to lean towards this taking place after hera binds zeus. it's certainly an act of violence on zeus' part towards hera, and one done in anger, but is in retaliation to an act of violence towards himself. zeus also only punishes hera for a day before he lets her go - meaning even in his anger, zeus does not truly have the heart to harm hera, even if it might be expected of him.

zeus exists in a difficult position. he is, by no means, an entirely benevolent figure without flaw. zeus does commit terrible acts - objectively so - even if they are sometimes understandable. that being said, zeus being the most powerful being among the gods, forced to be impartial and still forced to be strong, means that he has to punish with force. and he has to punish, period. it does not matter who it is. therefore, his role as king and his role as a husband and father can often exist in conflict with one another, where in order to be a good example of one, he becomes a poor example of the other. this includes violence against his family.

i do not view zeus and hera's relationship as abusive - others can view it however they like, but i think all of these factors prove, to me, that the gods truly operate on an entirely different wavelength. zeus loves his wife, and demonstrates that clearly on numerous occasions. she loves him.

the messiness of their relationship is a feature, not a bug lmao. anyone who would like to add anything is welcome to do so! again, i'm not expert on the matter, just a person who really loves zeus <3

[peachesofteal]

hi peaches!! Can you recommend some Sandman blogs/authors? I'm getting into the show and got all the way through a fic on AO3 in awe of the writing and characterization, then I checked the author and saw it was YOU. It's amazing to find one of my favorite authors in a completely different fandom!! ❤️

Hi! That is so cool, 🥲 I’m so glad you liked it (I'm curious if it was a tear in your hand?) Anyway, I haven't poked my nose in that fandom recently but I definitely have some recs:

Younger Gods (one of my all time fav fics from any fandom by @cuckoo-on-a-string who is near and dear to my heart)

Aralezinspace @aralezinspace (one of my first moots, ily. Would recommend Pale and Summer Knight)

The First of Many (!!!! @tinypandacakes who also writes for this cracked out COD fandom and her stuff is amazing)

Lady Morpheus

landwriter

today i bury you in me.

All the Precious and Fragile Things @alteon77 (better than a whole ass book)

softestpunk

reallystressedhoneybee @reallystressedhoneybee (I love Falling Stardust, Fortuna, and an Innocent Apple)

Per Somnia

there are so many more but I am a goldfish. Happy reading!

[thevampiremarie]

HOW BADLY DO *YOU* WANT A HEARTLESS UPDATE?

Because I’ve got one that I’m working on…. BUT

(Inspired by @cuckoo-on-a-string )

I want to make art that helps do good. I want my fic to be a haven for the underrepresented, the marginalized, fat people, queer people, disabled people, people of color.

But making art isn’t enough. So I offer a proposition: I will complete and post this chapter of Heartless IF AND ONLY IF Heartless readers collectively donate FIFTY ($50) USD to this gofundme for my friend Lina

Lina is an incredibly brave and strong young woman. She’s a 25 year old woman from Gaza and a new mother. I first got to know Lina when I started donating and boosting the gofundme she made when she was NINE MONTHS PREGNANT to help evacuate her and her husband to Egypt, so she could safely deliver her son Omar.

Remember that miscarriages are up over 300% in Gaza. Remember that tens of thousands of babies, some born and some still in their mothers’ wombs, have been bombed, starved to death, torn into pieces, died from illness, all because of the illegal Israeli occupation and genocide against Palestinians.

We refused to let Lina and her son Omar and her husband Yousef become another family exterminated by Israel. We raised enough money for Lina and her husband to get through the Rafah Crossing into Egypt, where Lina had Omar in a hospital, with anesthesia, antibiotics, doctors tending to her. Not a tent in a bombed refugee camp with no food, water, or medicine.

Now Lina is raising money to help get her family out of Gaza, along with the money necessary to help sustain her and her husband + son’s life in Egypt. Her brother is a heroic paramedic who helped saved countless Gazan lives in the past months of the genocide until he was too injured to help any longer.

I myself have already donated a lot of money towards her cause (I mean in the hundreds). But I can do more and we can do more. If even TEN Heartless readers give $5 USD, we’ll have hit the goal and I will update AS SOON AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE.

How does this work? Send me proof that you’ve donated (whatever amount you can) via my ask inbox or my direct messages, I will reblog this post to let everyone know how close we are to our goal + check with Lina to make sure she’s got the donations, and that’s it! Easy peasy.

Every dollar counts. You can also share her gofundme with YOUR friends and family, ask them to donate. If they do, send me the same proof and I’ll count it towards our goal!!!

Through collective people power, we saved Omar. He and Lina would’ve died in Gaza if Lina had to give birth there. He is an innocent baby boy who has the right to grow up in a peaceful, loving, healthy environment with his family. He deserves that.

Please only give what you are able to. If you can’t give anything, share Lina’s gofundme with anyone who can give. Help us save Lina’s family and give baby Omar the chance to grow up, and get some fic out of it.