#homelander incognito

[olliveolly]

New art incoming 🥰

We're all familiar with the image of Homelander as a superhero, but what would John look like if Vought had sent him into retirement?

Or if John had left on his own or was hiding from society?

As I like to imagine, he would get a bunch of cats, just collecting them on the street, watch Netflix 24/7, maybe write his biography without Vought supervision.

(In my AU version, he would be puzzled by getting a proper education and would anonymously sponsor a couple of extremely dubious organizations with his savings)

😉

Hope you enjoy ❤️

[blindmagdalena]

i am not ashamed to tell you that, upon seeing the new toni post filming look (tm) my mouth fell open and i accidentally drooled on my carpet, thank you for sharing those pics you’ve blessed me and I’ve blessed my carpet

LMAO have no shame my friend!!!! you are most welcome. i'm always always happy to share beard thirst.

[after-witch]

Absence is a House So Vast [Yandere Soldier Boy x Reader]

Title: Absence is a House So Vast [Yandere Soldier Boy x Reader]

Synopsis: You're assigned to guard Soldier Boy at a secluded house. The assignment turns into something much more.

Word Count: 3651

Notes: Yandere/yandere behavior, abusive relationship, physical and emotional abuse, misogyny

Soldier Boy was dead. That was the official line that Vought, the media--and most importantly of all, the government--was sticking to; and it was the line you were sworn to uphold, even under pain of torture and imminent death. 

But he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t even asleep, anymore; or whatever counted as “asleep” in the semi-frozen state they’d put him in after the incident at Vought Tower. No, he was alive and as well as could be. If “being kept in an isolated cabin away from civilization, implanted with exploding trackers in case he tried something, and kept company by a rotating team of agents” could be considered well, anyway. 

Being part of the rotating live-in guard watching over the defrosted Soldier Boy wasn’t exactly the type of job you thought you’d be assigned, especially given your light track record with the Secret Service. You were meant for reconnaissance, light missions, in-and-out actions that kept you moving.

This mission was static. One place, the same length of time, and the same essential experience: Soldier Boy wanting to know if you’d brought him his snacks (you had); Soldier Boy staring at the TV for hours, or attempting to use the kid-protected tablet the agency gave him for entertainment; Soldier Boy getting bored, demanding to be let go, and you reminding him of the deal he made with the government in exchange for being taken out of stasis.

He remains here, incognito, away from everyone else--and in return, if the government ever needs him to quash a Supe in the name of American safety, he’ll step up to the plate. You weren’t there to see his expression when they told him “It’s the least you can do to serve your country.” But based on the months of interactions you’ve had with him, you imagine that expression was somewhere between indignity, prideful acceptance, and are-you-fucking-kidding-me-with-this-shit.

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Soldier Boy, it’s that he still clings to that past as an American Hero. Like a security blanket. You’re not sure how much of it he actually believes. You were briefed on his real actions--some legit, many of it staged--and you think it helped you gain a deeper understanding into his worldview. 

He’s not a nice person, exactly. He’s killed people. But there were worse Supes to be stuck in a cabin with for 2 weeks on end, weren’t there? And you know that a lot of what is being put out on the TV is bullshit, Homelander-approved Vought propaganda designed to inflame the masses. 

So you pick and choose what you believe and after a few weeks, you don’t give him the cold shoulder, like the others say they do. You talk to him. Why not? He’s not going anywhere, you’re not going anywhere. It would be inhumane to keep him socially isolated. And you’re not inhumane.

He even has--you would never admit this to anyone else--something charming about him. You can see why he had so many women falling at his feet back in his multi-generational heyday, though you’re sometimes reminded of when those generations fell when he makes low-voiced, teasing comments about you cooking his food or cleaning up after him. 

Today, you’re not thinking about any of that. Today, you’re actually not thinking about Soldier Boy much at all. That’s because a new book in your favorite series came out, and you’re currently curled up on the lounge chair in the living room, lost in the pages while some inane game show Soldier Boy turned on drones in the background.

“You gonna answer me, sweetheart?”

His voice finally pierces through your book-induced haze, and you blink slowly, pulling yourself out of an engrossing story to find him staring at you from the other side of the room.

“Sorry,” you say, reflectively. “What did you say?”

He regards you with something of a half-smirk, and you can’t deny that understanding of what made him so appealing at the sight. He’s really damn handsome.

“I said, what’s a pretty gal like you doing with her nose in a book all day?”

It’s cheesy. It sounds like something from an older Hollywood movie. But it makes your cheeks heat up to be called pretty, anyway. 

“I like books,” is all you come up with, holding the cover almost protectively. 

“Yeah?” He seems interested, almost. “So what’re you reading?”

You hold up the cover. It’s a fantasy series. 

“Why don’t you read it to me?”

You search his face for signs of teasing, but find none.

“Why?” You ask. 

He shrugs and crosses the room, plopping himself down on the couch closest to your chair.

He gestures towards the TV. “Why? Because I’m bored and I like the sound of your voice, and there’s only so much of this shit I can watch every day. TV used to be a hell of a lot better, I’ll tell you that.” He pauses. “Pardon my French.” 

You shouldn’t. You were briefed on how to avoid getting too close with the subject under you care. That’s one of the reasons why everyone was rotated out every 2 weeks.

But… he does look bored. And he asked politely. What’s the harm in it? 

You open to the page you just finished and begin to read as he leans back on the sofa, kicking up his feet.

**

Your first kiss with Soldier Boy is a mixture of sweat and heat and shame and fear; fear that he’s doing for ulterior motives, fear that the agency will find out and you’ll be fired---or worse; and fear that you’re just a fling, just something he’s doing because he’s bored. Like flipping through TV channels. Like listening to you read a book.

When you pull away, his mouth is still close, his scent--some generic aftershave the agency picked up--overwhelmingly intimate. You stare at his lips to avoid looking him in the eye.

“Soldier Boy…” you begin. “This isn’t…”

“Ben,” he says. “Call me Ben.” 

You look up at him. His gaze has softened from its earlier hunger, and there’s something gentler and anxious in them. Something that makes you think about how he sometimes cries out at night (he denies it; you stopped bringing it up); about him bitterly telling you about the Crimson Countess, about his disappointment in the fact that his only son was a shitbird like Homelander. 

Something that makes you forget about your fears about your job and his motivations entirely.

“Ben,” you whisper. 

His name is sweet on your lips, and your first kiss with Soldier boy is not your last.

**

The relationship has to come to light eventually. All things do. You sit in your superior’s climate controlled office, your hands tucked under your thighs, like a nervous child brought to the principal’s office. There’s a solid pit in your stomach that has only grown since you received the phone call to report in. 

You could be fired. You could be arrested. Those are the good options, truth be told.

But instead of reprimanding you, they tell you that your intimacy with Soldier Boy is actually an asset for the agency. He’ll be easier to control, if he’s connected to someone. They’re going to pull the other guards now, and it’ll just be you. Your apartment is already being packed up. 

You swallow thickly and thank them for their decision. The pit in your stomach doesn’t go away when you get back to the cabin, where Ben is waiting, pacing around the living room, a beer in one hand. 

He looks up when you enter and scans you over with his gaze. Checking for bruises, maybe; he’d prepped you on what to do if they started interrogating you, and you reminded him that you were a trained agent, after all. But you tell him that they didn’t hurt you. They’re letting you stay, in fact. Your stuff is coming soon.

His smile is full of disbelief and relief, and he pulls you into a jovial hug and spins you around in a silly motion, making you feel giddy and ridiculous. And that pit in your stomach finally dissolves away, leaving you light and breathless in his arms. 

**

It’s not a great day.

He’s irritated. It happens, you remind yourself. He’s cooped up here in this modest cabin, unable to interact with anyone but you. There’s only so much entertainment to be had, especially when he’s never gotten the hang of the newer technology installed here, and even when he does, it usually leads to him getting aggravated about something in the news. Reversals in politics. Articles about toxic masculinity. He has no shortage of barbed words “for that dumb shit,” and it’s almost better when he’d rather do something that doesn’t involve his minor connections to the outside world.

Still. He’s bound to get irritated. You know this. It’s understandable, it’s okay, he’ll tire himself out.

That’s what you tell yourself as he paces around the living room, a light scowl on his face. 

“Hey, what’s the matter?” You ask, trying to keep your tone soft and amiable. 

He stops in his pacing and you can see his face scrunch in annoyance.

“It’s that fucking pill thing they gave me. It’s not working right.”

Your brows furrow in confusion.

“Pill? What pill did they give you?” If they’re drugging him, it’s news to you. Well. Aside from the bennies that they supply him now and then for good behavior. 

“The--you know.” He gestures broadly to the coffee table, where the solidly built children’s tablet is sitting. “The fucking pill… tablet thing.”

“Oh,” you say, and you can’t help your smile at his mix-up or the teasing tone in your response. 

But it was the wrong thing to do today, when he’s so wound up, so agitated. You recognize that in a flash when you see his nostrils flare as he huffs a hard breath out his nose, just before he yanks the tablet up from the coffee table and chucks it at the wall.

You hear the glass screen crack, splintering--so does the drywall.

“Fuck,” he says, sitting himself down on the couch. He runs his hands through his hair. “Sorry. Got a little too pissed there.” 

Your heart is pounding in your chest, rabbit-like. He’s never gotten aggressive in front of you like this before. Maybe a little too heated when he’s ranting about all the restrictions or annoyed with changes in the world, but…

You glance at the gaping hole in the wall and make a mental note to call someone to get it fixed. 

“It’s… okay,” you say, voice placating. It’s not okay, and you know that. But you can’t blame him, exactly, for getting agitated. You shouldn’t have made fun of him, you reason to yourself. You know better than that.

**

“I’m just going to run a few errands. I’ll be back in a few hours at most.” 

He can’t go into town. He can’t go into town and he hates it. He doesn’t hate you. No. But he hates his situation. You can’t blame him, but that doesn’t change the fact that you need to get groceries, you need to get supplies and--truthfully? You need a break from his constant presence, always demanding attention from you. Affection and otherwise.

“No, you’re not,” he says, and his voice has taken on such a matter-of-fact tone that it takes you aback for a moment. “I don’t want you going today. You can scrape together dinner with what we have in the kitchen.”

You press your lips together.

“Ben. Seriously. It’s not a big deal.”

“Of course it’s a big deal!” 

You don’t expect the outburst and you flinch back, just a little. The drywall is patched up, but you’ll always notice where the hole was. Your mind flashes back to that, yes, and other incidents as well. The way he got annoyed when you brought up an old boyfriend, but he was allowed to bring up his past lovers all he wanted. The way he hated it when you played on your phone, or if the shows he watched used too much modern technology. Most of the time, you watched reruns of shows he liked before he was taken or movies set in those eras--he likes to point out the inaccuracies. 

He steps closer to you. Your hand is on the doorknob, the other at your waist, resting loosely on your post.

“You are not leaving me today.”

You smile, and try to make it warm.

“I’m just going to get groceries,” you say, softly. “C’mon. I’ll bring back takeout. What do you want?”

You don’t expect it when he grabs your upper arm, gripping with enough force for soreness to radiate immediately. You don’t expect it, and you don’t know how to respond, other than the instinctive way your body jerks and your mouth inhales a short gasping breath.

“I want you to stay home today.” 

“Let go.” Your voice wavers. But you remember who you are, and your training. You’re not some helpless lamb, are you? You tilt your chin up and say with more confidence: “I’m going to run errands today, and that’s final. Let go.”  

He regards you for a moment. And you think he might do what he’s done before, when he goes too far. You think he’ll let go and apologize and make it up to you by being extra sweet the rest of the day.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, you’re slammed against the side of the wall, breath knocked out of you.

His finger is in your face and he talks down to you, keeping you in place with a tight grip that makes you remember in a single gesture who he is, what he is, what he can do. 

“I. said. no.” 

He holds you there for a few more moments. Until your body is shaking from the shock and you’re looking submissively down at the floor, your courage stuck in your shoes. 

“You gonna listen?” He says. 

You nod, feeling numb.

He lets go.

You wipe your nose and keep your arms clutched tight around you as he puts his arm around your shoulder, anger drained from his body, acting like he didn’t just slam  you into the wall. 

“C’mon, sweetheart, I bet you can whip up a great dinner with what we have. You can go… Goggle it or whatever the hell it’s called.” 

You nod, feeling the phantom pain of his grip on your arm.

**

He’s been through a lot. That’s what you tell yourself for a few weeks afterward. He’s been through torture. Real torture, torture that should have killed him a thousand times over. He never told you all the gritty details--”That’s not stuff for a lady to hear,” he said, when you got bold enough to ask--but you’d read about it from the agency’s files. 

So when he tells you to stop talking about guys’ you’ve been with in the past, because he doesn’t want to even think about you being with anyone but him, you do. 

When he gets rough and tells you to stay in every time you run to do errands or God forbid, enjoy a day outside the cabin, you start to go out less and less.  You have the agency delivery groceries and supplies instead. You watch movies with him, and not at the theater. It makes him happier to have you here, and when he’s happier, he’s less prone to pushing you around. 

Sometimes he holds you and you think he might cry, but he never does. It’s unmanly in his eyes, probably. He has a lot of hang-ups about stuff like that. It’s the moments when you’re holding him that it’s easiest to remind yourself that there’s a reason he acts the way he does, and you should be patient. 

That’s what you tell yourself for a while. 

And then he slaps you across the face, hard enough to send your head smacking into the wall. Your jaw aches for two days. 

And you stop telling yourself all those things. 

You tell yourself, instead, that you want to leave.

**

“You’re not leaving.”

You have a large purse in your hand--just the essentials and the sentimental things that fit inside. Your plan was to head into town under the guise of running errands, call the agency, explain the situation, and get the hell out.

The plan didn’t get as far as the front door. 

He knew.  You don’t know how, but as soon as you announced you were running to town to grab some steaks for dinner while they were on sale, he just knew.

So you admitted it, because you weren’t dumb enough to lie to his face when he’d figured you out. 

“Ben,” you say, because you don’t want to hate him, and you don’t want him angry. You just don’t want to be hurt anymore, either. “I’m sorry. I--this just isn’t healthy for either of us.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t give me that psycho-babble bullshit. It’s not me, it’s you,” he mocks. “I’m not stupid. You think I’m stupid?”

You meet his gaze. 

“No, I don’t think you’re stupid.”

He makes a grab for your purse, and you let him, because you don’t want to start a fight.

“Then why the fuck did you think I’d believe that you were running to get some steaks with a purse stuffed with all this?” He opens it up and begins pulling out everything you’d carefully tucked inside. A change of clothes, your phone--it falls on the floor with an unceremonious thump, thankfully protected by your case--and some trinkets and a necklace that belonged to your mother.

“Ben,” you say again, trying to keep him calm, ignoring the own stressful beat of your heart. “I just didn’t want to start a fight, okay?” 

“What?” He raises his eyebrows, looking defiant, targeted. “You think I’m a psychopath? You think I’m gonna--what, hit you? Kill you?”

Your expression must shift when he mentions hitting you--but you have hit me, your face says--and he shakes his head. There’s an almost pleading look on his face and you hate it.

“C’mon. It was one time. One time. And I apologized after.” It wasn’t just one time, and he didn’t always apologize, but you don’t correct him. “But I warned you. You got too sass-mouthed, okay? I don’t know why women today think they can just--”

Something in you bursts and you clench your fists tight as you snatch your emptied purse from his hands. The patience and care has fallen from you, replaced by a hot ball in your stomach, something built over the past few weeks every time he yelled and gripped and hurt. 

“This isn’t the fucking 1940s or the 1950s or the 1960s or--whatever the fuck decade made you think you have a right to boss me around. I’m not going to stay here and be treated like this. You can complain about it if you want, have a tantrum, I don’t care. But I’m leaving.” 

“The hell you are!” 

He grabs your upper arm and squeezes, and this is where you would normally cave in, but you can’t. Not today. Not if you want to really leave. So you grit your teeth and keep his gaze, defiant on the surface and terrified underneath. 

“You’re not leaving me,” he says, almost a murmur, as he releases your arm.

He keeps on talking as you crouch down on the floor and begin to replace all the items he pulled from your empty purse.

“Everyone else left me. I fought with those guys, fucking tried to take them under my wing, fucking loved them.” There’s a pause. “Well, some of them. And you know what I got for it?” You don’t answer, because you just want to get packed and get out. “Years of torture is what I got. And now, when I’ve found someone that I care about, that I want to stay with me, you’re just going to leave?”

You want to dissect the disbelief in his voice, the hurt and anger and entitlement all wrapped into one horribly complex package. But then you look up, muscles tense and chest tight, and your body flinches in horror. You see it--a sight you’ve only seen one other time, surprisingly early in your relationship, and which you managed to soothe. It made you prideful at the time. 

The sight is an unmistakable warm, golden, deadly glow in his chest. His breath coming in deep, painful bursts. His face scrunched in pain and anger, torture in his eyes. His voice comes out ragged and pained and terrifying. 

“You’re. Not. Leaving.” 

He’s going to explode.

In an instant, you drop your purse, contents forgotten. Your arms wrap around him and you pet his back, his cheeks, pressing kisses feather-light to his skin.

“Hey, hey, hey,” you say, soothing, stroking his shoulders, trying to get him calm. “It’s okay, you’re okay…” You take his face in your hands and make him look at you, talking like you would to a feral animal, voice soft and comfortable. “I’m here, Ben. Look at me, Ben.” 

It takes a while, but the glow eventually fades, sapping out of him like thick water.

He collapses on the ground and you go with him, holding him still. His arms cling around you, tight and unforgiving, but not in anger this time. 

“You can’t leave,” he says, voice muffled into your shoulder. You can’t tell if he’s commanding or asking or pleading, and you’re not sure you want to know.

Instead you think, right now, if he would let himself, he might cry into your shoulders. 

“I won’t,” you whisper, and your plans drop at the doorway as they’ve done every time. “I promise.” 

Maybe if he cried, it would be easier to pretend that this is okay. 

[dyns33]

Flufftober 9 - Homelander

Homelander x Reader 

          "It will never work, it's ridiculous."

           "Try them."

           "They'll all recognize me."

           "In this old comic, the superhero puts on glasses and nobody notices him on the street."

           "Y/N. This is real life."

           "John. Put on the glasses."

Even though he didn't see the point at all, Homelander sighed as he took the glasses Y/N handed him to put it in front of his eyes. They weren't even sunglasses to be incognito, but simple accessory glasses.

With that, Y/N had more or less ordered him to put on a stupid t-shirt and jeans.

Well, "ordered" might not have been the right word, since no one was ordering the Homelander.

But Y/N was special. The only person in the world who treated him like a human being, who didn't ask him to be perfect all the time, who listened to him with patience and kindness, and who loved him despite everything.

Few people were aware of their relationship, and Vought employees quickly understood that it was necessary to avoid this subject, and to stay away from Y/N, while making sure that she did not miss anything and that she was safe.

           "I could put on a real costume, with a mask. That's the point of this silly party."

           "One, you hate wearing a mask. Metaphorically and effectively. Second, it wouldn't be funny if you wore a mask, or some other disguise, when you more or less wear one all year round. For Halloween, that's great that you play the role of the normal guy. And finally, I want to have the pleasure of seeing your sweet face."

           "Hmm." he growled, trying not to blush.

At first, they had planned to spend the evening in the tower, watching horror movies and eating sweets, away from the crowds.

But Y/N had insisted that they went outside. They hardly ever went out. It was complicated since everyone always recognized him, approaching to claim photos and autographs. Journalists would come to film them.

Everyone would then know that Homelander was dating someone. Who wasn't a sup.

And he didn't want that.

Not because his contract forbade it, or because he was ashamed of Y/N. But because he didn't want people to start criticizing or insulting her. Following her everywhere, asking prying questions and trying to use her to get to him.

It was better if nobody knew anything, and they were very happy like that.

But he could understand that Y/N wanted more. That she can't stand being locked up. He had been locked up for much of his life.

           "It's for you too, John." she said, hugging him. He didn't know what he liked more between her hugs and the fact that she was the only one to call him John. "You deserve to have a normal life, outside of your... work. You have to breathe, have fun, without fear of being judged. Tonight is the perfect night. Everyone will be dressed up as you, no one will pay attention to a guy with glasses walking down the street with his girlfriend. We can do a lot of things ! Eat ice cream in the park, have dinner at a restaurant, go to the movies ! Everything you want !"

It was so adorable that Homelander followed her outside. He couldn't deny her anything, even when he thought her ideas were ridiculous and wouldn't work.

Yet, against all odds, no one seemed to notice as they walked down the street.

No one looked at him with wide eyes, a big smile, screaming his name, pointing at him and running towards him excitedly.

And in a way that was a very good thing. That was the point, what they wanted, to have time together outside, undisturbed.

But it disturbed Homelander a lot not to be recognized. Admired. The center of attention.

Even if having Y/N with him should have been enough to fill him with happiness, he didn't like being ignored.

           "They don't see me at all."

           "Welcome to the life of a normal man, John. People don't look at each other. Only stars are important, actors, singers, sometimes politicians, and of course superheroes. But tonight you are John, a unknown in the crowd, who will quietly enjoy life."

           "They don't see me at all." he repeated, looking at everyone with a dark expression. "They might at least have a doubt. Come and ask me if by any chance I won't be The Homelander."

            "... That would be very annoying, and we don't want that at all, do we ? We want to have some time to ourselves."

           "You don't understand. They should recognize me. Simple glasses shouldn't have that effect."

           "So you're not happy my plan is working ?"

           "Oh yes, that's great ! My fans only love my costume, I'm so glad I found this. Not only do they don't care who I really am, they don't even memorize my face ! No, that's out of the question ! Hey ! Guys ! Look who's there ?!"

Pulling out his glasses, Homelander began to fly, grinning when the crowd finally turned to him, chanting his name as they admired him as the God he was.

It was much more usual for him to find himself surrounded, giving all these insects what they wanted, letting them approach an important being for once in their miserable existence.

But his sense of joy disappeared when he noticed that Y/N was gone.

He quickly excused himself to fly over the city to find her. It wasn't difficult, because she had simply returned to the tower.

Sitting on the couch in their bedroom, she was watching television, not moving when he joined her.

           "You are angry."

           "I'm not."

And it was the truth. Which wasn't necessarily a good thing.

           "... You are disappointed ?" he tried.

           "Not really. I should have expected that. I should have known that I would never be enough for you. I thought you would like to breathe a little, get out of the costume, be yourself. I really thought that would be nice if we went outside together for the first time, without anyone bothering us, just you and me, John and Y/N, like a normal couple. But you hate John. You hate normality. You are a little ashamed of me too, even if you refuse to admit it. I truly love you, you know that ? I love John, and I love Homelander. But if you want us to stay locked up here, fine. You just have to say it."

           "I... I was stupid, sorry. I panicked. I'm not used to people not looking at me, and it's true that even if their opinion doesn't really matter to me , I appreciate that they adore me. But you are more important. I ruined this evening."

           "It doesn't matter." she sighed, still without looking at him.

           "It's true. It's true, it doesn't, because we'll have other nights. Your plan is working after all, I can put my jeans and glasses back on whenever I want, and we can go outside like a normal couple."

           "You mean in a year, the next Halloween ?"

           "No." he said as he approached, resting his forehead against her head. "Whenever you want. As soon as we have free time. I'm going to work on myself, I'm going to get used to not being the center of attention. In any case, just of your attention, which is more than enough. "

           "... You promise ?" Y/N asked, finally turning to him, her eyes full of tears and hope.

Deep down, Homelander knew he couldn't really promise that. He had a lot of tough issues to deal with, especially when it came to his popularity.

But for Y/N, he wanted to try. So he told her that he loved her before kissing her, because that was the only honest answer he could give her.

[xieyaohuan]

Feeling greedy. Dealer's choice for either ask if you only want one. Maevlander for ship headcanon: SFW 7 besides the times they went there in canon to look at plane wreckage and a dead whale ;D and NSFW 11, if you please.

SFW 7: Would they go to the beach?

I've thought about this long and hard to find a way to get them to the beach in a non-carnage scenario, but I think the answer is no. The reason why i say so is that I think neither Maeve nor Homelander particularly see the attraction of the concept, and therefore neither would attempt to force the other into the scenario. Homelander likes to do typical couples stuff, but I just don't see this on his list of "romantic things to do with my gf." It would never occur to him to get out of his suit in public, and being at the beach in his suit would be actively uncomfortable. Now, Maeve would of course try to get Homelander out of his comfort zone and/or loves to watch him be uncomfortable, but she doesn't like to do anything where they are seen in public and get mobbed. If I thought the beach was her thing, I think she might try to convince him to go incognito (and that would actually be a fun fic, I'd love to read about HL being miserable on a beach!), but somehow she just doesn't strike me as a beach regular, either. So, sadly, no beach for them.

NSFW 11: Favourite romantic gestures during sex/orgasm?

He likes cupping her face, but she hates that and has actually refused to kiss him a few times. When she's in a good mood, she lets him hold her hand during sex.

[deliciouskeys]

A while ago I submitted a dirty boys confession that was never posted. It was something to the tune of ‘I’d like to watch Homelander and Billy have a sit down breakfast with Ryan”

Perhaps it wasn’t dirty enough (it’s a dirty confession to me ok?) or perhaps it was misinterpreted as something that was secret code for something too dirty and disturbing 😅

So my clean boys confessions are just going to go right here:

I want to watch Ryan’s Lego rendition of his 2 dads’ home life

I want HL to complain about being unable to just borrow Billy’s jeans for the rare times he wants to go out incognito, because they all require rolling the legs up an inch or two and are fucking uncomfortably tight across the ass.

I want Billy to teach HL how to drive a stick shift, and HL getting so childishly frustrated at his difficulties with smooth transitions that he crashes the vehicle on purpose (Billy is not too harmed. But not unscathed.)

I want Billy to walk into the bathroom and see HL staring silently in the mirror. He has to reach around him to get his toothbrush, and then to spit and rinse, but he doesn’t interrupt the silent conversation.

I want Billy to suddenly notice the HL plushie in Terror’s toy bin has been replaced by what appears to be a custom ordered plushie of himself. HL feigns ignorance when asked about it.

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

Tagged by @areyenotfondofmelobster and @glitter-and-gasoline

rules: tag 9 people you want to get to know better

Three ships: Generally the only ships I talk about are the ones I write for which are oc x canon. I have more than three ships going right now:

Kit x Jacob Seed (Far Cry 5)

Siobhan x Sam  Drake (Uncharted)

Nightingale (Nora) x Homelander (The Boys)

Ava x Vicar Max (The Outer Worlds)

First ever ship: Green Arrow x Black Canary (DC Comics) but also Buffy x Spike (BTVS)

Last song: Night - John Carpenter

Last film: The Batman

Currently reading: Nothing right now. But Fragile Creatures by @direwombat (Far Cry 5 fan fiction) is top of the list

Currently watching:The Great Canadian Baking Show

Currently consuming: red licorice

Currently craving: Lasagna and garlic bread

Tagging: @poetikat @confidentandgood @roofgeese @perhapsrampancy @natesofrellis @direwombat @adelaidedrubman @incognito-insomniac @theladyshenanigan

[aita-blorbos]

Am I still the asshole after doing all I could to atone?

Alright, so for some context. I (M, over 50) used to be a notorious, but also idolized member of the local nobility, and an informal spokesman for my clan. Small-time gentry didn't like me much, because I was quick to fight and my grudges were legendary, but I was the favorite blade of the local lord H, always welcome in his court, and a lot of the blood I spilled and heads I cracked were for his benefit.

The lord had a daughter. We fell in love and I thought that, as his friend and loyal blade, I could convince him to let us marry. Instead, I was ritually dismissed as a suitor, and the old man instead gave his daughter to a political ally!

Needless to say, I was furious, and I broke off all other arrangements with H. My beloved became a political asset in a loveless marriage. I resigned myself to despair and also married a woman I didn't love. We were miserable together - I started drinking heavily, she died soon after giving me a son (let's call him T). Being a drunk and a fighter, I decided it would be better for T to be raised by my estranged younger brother J (~50).

Like I said, my grudges were the stuff of folk song, so I swore revenge - and my chance came at the worst possible moment. There was a war, and when the enemy besieged H's castle, I went there just to watch him burn. Only he didn't. He and his servants actually managed to fend off the assault! Drunk and furious, I went over to the battlefield, picked up a rifle from a dead soldier, and shot the old bastard on my first try.

I regretted it as soon as I pulled the trigger. He saw me standing down there with the gun. I dropped it and ran. After H's death, the enemy forces rallied and took the castle - and for my treason, when I was nowhere to be found, the invaders awarded H's estate to J. (He wasn't happy about it - he's not a fighter, but still very much a patriot.)

My beloved and her husband were imprisoned soon after for their ties to H. They were sent to a prison colony to die. From my own exile, I made sure their baby daughter remained in the country, under joint custody of her aunt and J.

Ever since, I've been trying to atone. I joined our nation's army in exile, in an empire sympathetic to our cause. I found religion, and became a priest. I've spent the last few years incognito in my homeland, right under my family's nose, as a spy and propagandist for the empire as they're preparing to march on our occupants. I've watched both our children grow and, lately, fall in love.

It all came to a head when H's old servant G (m, around 70, I think?) misunderstood my propaganda and sicced the local gentry on my brother for "collaborating" with the occupants, destroying my carefully laid plans and forcing me to reach out to the local garrison to save my loved ones - which then escalated into a three-way fight where nobody really won. T, now almost an adult, will have to run away with the rest of young men involved to join the army in exile, while we old-timers try to smooth things over at home. I won't live to see it, though - I'm gravely wounded and I fear I will not live to see tomorrow. In fact, I plan on telling G, the last living witness of my treachery, the whole story before I die. I don't expect his forgiveness, I just want to know if I managed to atone for some of my sins.

So, am I dying an asshole?

[two-as-one]

|| Okay so, I'm not a Homelander fan but, these pictures/gif gave me soft vibes. Like he finds out L is playing at a bar or something and goes incognito so he doesn't draw attention away from them. (First picture)

Or Xi is teaching about ancient burial rights at a museum and he shows up to support her, and actually finds it interesting and stays for the whole thing, again all incognito. (Second picture)

And he's just genuinely happy after. Maybe he doesn't even let either know he was there, he just leaves but still had a good time.

Man, fuck Anthony Starr for being so gd cute||

[mysterymanjoseph]

Life in the Big City:  mysterymanjoseph and manymusesmenagerie

Joseph had traveled from his homeland to Paris, to observe what sort of people lived here, and if his realm should have official diplomatic relations with this nation.  His royal grandparents sent him, to give him some ‘life experience’ beyond patrolling the borders with the troops.  He is traveling incognito, just a wanderer coming into the city to see all the excitement.  He does have a letter granting him diplomatic immunity, to invoke in the most serious of circumstances.  The royal court does know that he is due to visit, but, not when, or under what circumstances.  It seems he has arrived during some sort of street fair, the street crowed, Dagger, his huge war horse having to stop often to keep from stepping on someone.  Soon enough, he is able to see a small stage, and then music starts playing, followed by an attractive woman coming out and dancing for the crowd.  He thinks, “Well, seems the people have ways to entertain themselves.

@manymusesmenagerie

[zelihatrifles]

The Ministry of Utmost Happiness

Don’t know why exactly but it took me quite a while to even start writing about this much-heard-of book by the fiery Arundhati Roy. It spans two different kinds of communities that are pushed to the peripheries for different reasons, and their fight, as one character rightly feels, is More than Azadi, now it's a fight for dignity. In a world where normality is a bit like a boiled egg: its humdrum surface conceals at its heart a yolk of egregious violence, it is certainly not an easy thing to pursue. Roy writes of the nonchalance of perpetrators as they go on with their ‘normal’ lives and it chills you to your marrow: The saffron men sheathed their swords, laid down their tridents and returned meekly to their working lives, answering bells, obeying orders, beating their wives and biding their time until their next bloody outing. 

Roy is a well-known advocate of the separatism of Kashmir. While i do not have any authority to argue about its rights or lefts, i can hardly stop myself from feeling this sinking feeling every time i read about violence in the novel. It was probably Tilo who once wrote in her journal: I would like to write one of those sophisticated stories in which even though nothing much happens there’s lots to write about. That can’t be done in Kashmir. It’s not sophisticated, what happens here. There’s too much blood for good literature. Raises quite a few questions about sensationalism, acceptability of violence, and high literature, doesn’t it? Broken blinded injured Kashmiris arouse not your sympathy but your deepest admiration because You don't know how radiantly we smile when our hearts are broken. Musa tries to explain to his ever-young daughter Miss Jebeen why trust is a rarity in his homeland: I took you for a walk (and you were angry with the cat who wouldn’t trust you and refused the piece of bread you offered him. We’re all becoming a bit like that cat, jaana, we can’t trust anyone. And really, truly, how can you, when everyone around you is trying to take advantage of you in all ways possible? Musa would have dearly liked to kill that heinous bastard Amrik Singh, but he was killed pathetically, not by guns but by horrified remorse, and Musa’s interpretation of this again makes you rethink about what side you’re on and what side you should be: One day, Kashmir will make India self-destruct in the same way. You may have blinded all of us, every one of us, with your pellet guns by then. But you will still have eyes to see what you’ve done to us. You’re not destroying us, you’re constructing us. It’s yourselves that you are destroying.

In spite of all this war and brutality, love never exits the hearts of these persecuted people, be it the Kashmiris, or the hijras, or the radical tribals. Love for their community is all-embracing, just like Tilo perceives Musa’s love for his people, the way he belonged so completely to a people whom he loved and laughed at, complained about and swore at, but never separated himself from. Love for their soulmate, from whom they got separated due to the revolvings of the world, but returned to again, if only for a week's worth of lovemaking on shikaras, only to meet incognito for years afterwards, and then die predictably. Tilo and Musa’s love story is at the heart of one of the narrative strands in the novel, and they belong to each other, even when really really far away, because Tilo used to think of Musa as her people: They had been a strange country together for a while, an island republic that had seceded from the rest of the world. Their relationship was one that complemented each other: They had always fitted together like pieces of an unsolved (and perhaps unsolvable) puzzle - the smoke of her into the solidness of him, the solitariness of her into the gathering of him, the strangeness of her into the straightforwardness of him, the insouciance of her into the restraint of him. The quietness of her into the quietness of him. It is in passages like this that you realise Roy’s gift for writing about both love and war in equally haunting ways. Even when these two lovers are discussing Musa’s deceased wife, there is no malice, no resentment that is expected, because their love is simply too deep, too eternal to be defeated to petty emotions like jealousy: It was possible for Tilo and Musa to have this strange conversation about a third loved one, because they were concurrently sweethearts and ex-sweethearts, lovers and ex-lovers, siblings and ex-siblings, classmates and ex-classmates. 

The other love story of the novel is that of Anjum and life and daughters. The old Delhi environment that Roy creates so beautifully through the cusses, smells, fragrances, colours and sounds seeps through the pages and stands in front of you, real as the violence lying hidden in us all. It is Anjum’s search for happiness that begins the novel and also ends it. She is not always someone you can admire whole-heartedly, because she knows the role of cruelty and its acceptance in her life: she had learned from experience that Need was a warehouse that could accommodate a considerable amount of cruelty. She knew the real truths about adjustment. Language is also sometimes a barrier, which makes us wonder: Was it possible to live outside language? Roy comments on the lack of closure in real life too, and the ultimate inconclusiveness of it, because maybe that's what life is, or ends up being most of the time: a rehearsal for a performance that never eventually materializes. The first Miss Jebeen dies long before she can flaunt either her Jebeen-ness or Miss-hood. So, it automatically falls upon Miss Jebeen the Second, to shoulder these grave responsibilities. Her past remains a mystery until a letter from her biological mother, radical activist tribal, confesses the truth just before dying. That almost starts off a(n unconsciously revolutionary) new greeting system, because ‘Lal Salaam Aleikum,’ was Anjum’s inadvertent, instinctive response to the end of the letter. That could have been the beginning of a whole political movement, but she had only meant it in the way of an ‘Ameen’ after listening to a moving sermon.

And this is exactly what stays with you long after you read this book. As it was with me too. I felt like i needed to let some time pass before writing about this experience, so that i might be able to do it justice in some way. The only fault of Roy here may be that she tackles multiple issues at the same time in the book. While each issue is relevant in its own right, dealing with all together serves to dilute their impact, even if just by a little. But this was an absolute masterpiece by Arundhati Roy, and long after i’d have forgotten all the character names and even major themes, i’d remember how reading it made me feel.

[graymanbriefing]

Censorship & Privacy Brief: National Summary  TikTok has launched a $1 million COP28 initiative to counter "climate-change" misinformation via a partnership with Verified for Climate (United Nations and Purpose). TikTok will use a team of "verified champions" to target videos that challenge the scientific consensus on climate change IOT "help turn the tide on denialism, doomism and delay." The initiative will "empower" an...(CLASSIFIED) A Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) granted to Judicial Watch found that the Department of Homeland Security’s Cybersecurity and Information Security Agency (CISA) and the Election Integrity Partnership (EIP) acted in a "concerted effort to execute 'real-time narrative tracking' on principal social media networks during the critical days leading up to the 2020 election" and that the obtained "records illustrate instances of social media post 'takedowns' and an intentional avoidance of creating public records that would be subject to the FOIA process". Judicial Watch alleged t...(CLASSIFIED) Google has agreed to settle in a class action lawsuit brought on by consumers who alleged that Google Chrome's Incognito m...(CLASSIFIED, get briefs in real-time unredacted by joining at www.graymanbriefing.com)

[jeonezra]

ROLEPLAY/FAKE. KRP OC. LITERATE. SELECTIVE. NSFW. TW: DARK AND MATURE THEMES FOLLOW. ALL NON-BASIC PROFILE INFORMATION REMAINS UNDISCLOSED UNLESS PLOTTED OTHERWISE. FACECLAIM: Jeon Wonwoo (Seventeen)

CODE NAME: Incognito. FULL NAME(S): 전우주 / Jeon Uju (Korean), 钱建宇 Qian Jian Yu (Chinese). PREFERRED NAME: Jeon Ezra. NICKNAME(S): Nul. Isn’t very fond of them. BIRTH DATE: 15th January 1994. KR/AGE: 28, 29. ZODIAC: Capricorn.

HEIGHT: 183CM. WEIGHT: Average relative to his height, but all muscle. TATTOOS & PIERCINGS: Nul. SCARS & MOLES: Present but randomly scattered. Most notable is a long, vertical slash down his left shoulder blade, multiple lashing scars on his thighs. And what looks like a scar made by burning cigarettes on his right collar and shoulder. The rest are tiny faded scars from knife work and other miscellaneous activities. FASHION SENSE: Slightly rudimentary, to blend in, but still tasteful. Plain T-shirts, outerwear and sweatpants and jeans. Headwear. Lots of muted colours. Hardly ever fails to have a mask at hand. RELIGION: Nul.

GENDER & PRONOUNS: Cis Male, He/Him. The occasional they/them’s don’t hurt, either. SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Female leaning bisexual, n/a. Presumed heterosexual. NATIONALITY: Recently moved to South Korea, thus South Korean. But for majority of his life he’d lived in China. LANGUAGES: Mandarin, fluent in speaking, reading and writing. Korean, fluent in speaking, reading and writing.  ESTABLISHED: In Seoul. CURRENT RESIDENCE: N/A. Trusts no one with his actual address. If he’s to be met with for certain occasions that necessitate private properties, ten times out of ten, it’s not his.

BIRTH PLACE: Seoul, South Korea. Home birth, received by a midwife for the sake of secrecy. His biological parents, both college students, were much too young and poor for a child, and so desperate to ease the burden of having an extra mouth to feed they’d quickly found a solution to their problem. Unbeknownst to the rather expensive price tag it came with, they’d placed the boy in the hands of a faux organization believed sincere, without knowing it had roots that ran thickly between South Korea and mainland China. 

The boy had been sold off to notoriety, like a seed tucked deeply in soil for sprouting. After becoming of age and finishing high school, Uju had been sent off to the men his foster parents ultimately worked for and was taught how to kill. Since being handed over, he was basically a recruit for a small, private project overseen by the Triad heads, and one of the only few that had survived the constant roughhousing and unforgiving training.

HOMETOWN: N/A. Even he doesn’t know, so it counts as lost information. In China, he’d lived around almost consistently in Shanghai. CURRENT SOCIAL CLASS: Upper class. EDUCATION LEVEL: Homeschooled up until 12th Grade. Graduated at a slightly younger age than normal, due to him being so intelligent.  FAMILY HISTORY: Biological parents are both proven to be deceased after an “accident” in late 1994. Chinese “foster” family, consisting of a mother, a father and a younger brother, presumed dead since 2017. CURRENT PET(S): Nul.

OCCUPATION: Elite hitman for a Triad tycoon in China, who strays on and off on independent hit assignments. He’d been sent off to be stationed in South Korea as a ‘gesture of chivalry’ since it’s his homeland, and is closely monitored by a superintendent who works for their Korean ally gang. These days, no one knows anymore where his sense of loyalty lies. SKILLSET: Tactical shooting & combat, experienced with carbines, shot/handguns, sniper/rifles, machines under extreme circumstances. Hand-to-hand, martial arts, filipino stick/knife fighting. First aid. EXECUTION: Painstakingly to-the-point. Very swift, and neat. Never makes more contact than necessary. MORAL COMPASS: Off the charts. Strictly kill4pay. CONNECTIONS: He has a companion/rival in Seoul he often collaborates or competes with, named Taeil, a reconnaissance for his family’s business.

HOBBIES: Animal shelter volunteer in his free time, particularly good with cats. PERSONALITY: Very chill notwithstanding the nitty-gritty of his work. Introverted and not very social, though, so he tends to stick around familiar faces more often than not. He enjoys being out of sight and reach. RANDOM: He often changes the rims of his glasses and keeps what’s not being used as a part of his growing collection.

PLOT OPTIONS, A SUMMARY: TBA.

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

Guess My Type!

Alistair Theirin(DAO)|Cullen Rutherford(DAI)|Oliver Queen(DC)|Vicar Max(TOW)|Bucky Barnes(Marvel)|Garrus Vakarian(ME)|Nancy Downs(The Craft)|Jacob Seed(FC5)|Homelander(The Boys)

Thanks for tagging me to expose my pitiful taste in characters @thomrainer @sstewyhosseini and @natesofrellis

tagging: @captastra @galaxycunt @ashren @incognito-insomniac @funkypoacher @damejudyhench and anyone else who'd like to play