Sometimes, it's scary how strong the love gets. | AXNQEL™
C & Y ─── joint writing blog. circa jan '25. 18+.
one. cece. she/her. december sagittarius. average dc fan. fiona apple enthusiast. homelander's girlfriend (i have my reasons). iced coffee addict. missin' tiktok. masterlist.
─ writes for.. jason todd, rafe cameron, homelander, pope heyward, matt murdock, billy loomis, stu macher, wanda maximoff, soldier boy, sherlock holmes, robin buckley, steve harrington, nate archibald, jess mariano, clark kent (smallville+dceu), george weasley.
─ writes angst, fluff, blurbs, smaus, aus, headcanons, smut.
two. yoki. she/her. april taurus. chris sturniolo's main hoe (talk to the hand bc the face aint listenin). yapper. ariana grande. ribbons. gold. vanilla everything. horror movie lover. pinterest girlie. pink, pink, pink! iced coffee for life. masterlist.
─ writes for.. the sturniolos, logan huntzberger, quen blackwell, carrington, vinnie hacker, steve harrington, robin buckley, carl gallagher, kevin ball (SPECIFICALLY S1 MY MAN), dan humphrey.
─ writes smut, fluff, blurbs, angst, smaus, headcanons, aus.
TAG SYSTEM ───
— #c&y's notices .ᐟ announcements and such.
— #c speaks .ᐟ all cece's thoughts and such.
— #y speaks .ᐟ all yoki's thoughts and such.
— #cece's writings .ᐟ anything cece writes.
— #yoki's writings .ᐟ anything yoki writes.
— #asks .ᐟ all answered asks.
— #chatter mouth .ᐟ chats.
— #cece's recs .ᐟ fic recs from cece.
— #yoki's recs .ᐟ fic recs from yoki.
— #cece's reblogs .ᐟ anything reblogged by cece.
— #yoki's reblogs .ᐟ anything reblogged by yoki.
INFO ───
ᝰ INTERACT! we love talking to people so give us a reason to yap! we'll talk about anythingggg!!! whether it's about movies, our celeb crushes, or just our writings in general, we will never stop talking !! o please interact!
ᝰ REQUESTS! they are open, so if you have any ideas, drop them in my inbox. when you request, please specify who you are requesting to write for you.
ⓘ ULTRAVIOLENCE .ᐟ I will do anything for you, babe.
─ pairing .ᐟ homelander x fem!psychiatrist!reader
─ synopsis & word count .ᐟ being hired by Vought as the psychiatrist for the seven wasn't exactly what you'd envisioned for your career. and captain patria falling in love with you? yeah, that definitely wasn't on the bingo card either. you liked him—God, you liked him more than you'd ever admit—but loving him? loving him felt impossible. it was like trying to hold onto a storm; no matter how hard you tried, it always slipped through your fingers, leaving nothing but chaos in its wake. | 4.0k words.
─ content warning .ᐟ slight ooc homelander, talks of narcissism, obsessive behaviors, homelander tweaking out, lwk stalking...., reader being quite literally the complete opposite of homelander, slight arguing but tbh it's lwk one-sided, angst, hurt/not really comfort, ending can be interpreted differently tbh, takes place somewhere in season one i guess.
─ c speaks .ᐟ tiktoks gone and i had over 100 homelander edits and i was only able to save 21. this is what happens when no one turns on their saves. in mourning fr. (edit: i deleted the app when it got banned. yes i know, biggest mistake because now its back??? like omigod), also try to spot the lana songs i referenced by name !!
Vought Tower was intimidating on your first day, though you’d never admit it out loud. The glass walls, the sterile halls, the feeling that the entire building is watching you—it all felt like stepping inside a gilded cage. You weren’t naive; you knew this job wasn’t going to be easy. You’d read the reports, seen the news, and done your research. The Seven were powerful, untouchable, and deeply dysfunctional.
It wasn’t like you hadn’t done anything similar to this before. You’d worked as a trauma counselor for too long and needed something new. But although this wasn’t that different from your previous job, the paycheck Vought offered you was obscene, and the idea of helping anyone navigate that kind of mess was almost too good a challenge to resist.
Still, the reality of it was a little more… intense.
“Try not to take anything personally,” Ashley Barrett chirped, with her tangy-pitched voice and her heels clicking too quickly down the hallway as you struggled to keep pace. “They can be… uh, strong personalities.”
Well, that’s lovely. You raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond, clutching your notebook tighter. Strong personalities. Sure. That sounded like Vought’s PR-approved way of saying absolute trainwrecks and fucking maniacs.
The first meeting was set in the briefing room, a sleek conference space with a long table that was seemingly just for show. Fortunately for you, this was just an introductory meeting, and you had extra time to prepare for the sessions you would have with the supes later.
You weren’t expecting them to show up all at once—if they even showed up at all. But as you stood near the head of the table, straightening the folder in your hands for what felt like the thousandth time. the door swung open.
And there he was.
Homelander didn't just walk into a room; he commanded it. It was the first thing you truly noticed about him. Perfect posture, perfect suit, perfect smile that somehow felt more threatening than polite. His presence swallowed everything else, leaving no room for anyone else to breathe. And when his sharp blue eyes landed on you, it felt as though the world was closing in on you.
"You're the shrink?" he asked, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Psychiatrist," you corrected, keeping your voice steady.
He chuckled, low and quiet, like he'd already decided this was going to be fun—for him, anyway.
"Welcome." He said, his eyebrows raising as he walked over to the chair at the head of the table.
You stepped a few steps over, but that clearly did nothing as he subtly scooted closer to you.
My, did you need so much strength for this job.
The job was not easy. In case that wasn't already clear. Getting the supes to cooperate was like talking to a wall. You didn't want to coerce them into spilling out every detail of their life, but you weren't expecting them to be so grounded. Maybe your judgement was just clouded from what the media showed you about them.
Luckily, your office was a calm contrast from the chaos exhibited in Vought tower. The decor was intentionally neutral-earthy tones, soft lighting, and a simple desk with your tablet, folder, and notebook resting on top. A pair of comfortable chairs sat across from each other, meant to foster openness. Yet, the calm facade of the room was tested by the personalities that walked through the door.
Maeve was... okay. She was sweet, closed off, and knew exactly when to stop talking. PR training had clearly blinded her.
Black Noir was quiet—obviously but did exchange a couple words through his notepad.
A-Train was clouded and very insecure. However, that didn't change your resentment for his attitude towards you. Goodness.
The Deep pissed. you. off. But you kept a professional demeanor. His misguided attempt to flirt with you and the exaggerated confidence almost made you want to punch a hole in the wall. Ha.
Starlight might've just been your favorite yet. She was sweet and willing to talk, and her soft voice made you feel safe.
However, when the clock struck 6:00, and Homelander walked into your office on the dot, lord, you might as well have fainted.
It wasn't that you liked him or idolized him. You barely knew of him. Of course, you'd heard the name here and there, but to be frank, you never kept up and your family didn't give two shits. But the way he carried himself and spoke to you, it made your heart clench.
He was surprisingly so open to speaking, but the more he opened his mouth, the more narcissistic he seemed. If you could diagnose him with a God complex, you would. He acted like some million-dollar man, though he truly was. It just seemed he wanted to be in charge wherever he went.
"Thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I want to hear about how you're doing and how I can... support you." You kept your expression neutral, though your pulse quickened.
Homelander's smile widened, but there was an edge to it. "Support me? That's cute, but I'm fine. Really. The question is, how are you holding up? First day on the job and all." His tone was so friendly and polite, it confused her.
And it went on like this every session. He would come at 6 P.M. on the dot every Friday and the atmosphere in the room would become so charged. His presence was so magnetic, and his smile was disarming, yet the more he talked, and the more you listened, you started to feel some kind of way. Not anything you could explain, as ironic as that seemed.
And there was no kidding he felt something too. But your feelings were nothing compared to his.
He felt a burning desire for you the minute he walked into that conference room and looked you straight in the eye. He was willing to give himself up for you, and it felt so weird for him. Never in his many years of living did he ever feel this way.
Plus, you were just some ordinary woman. There was nothing special about you to the ordinary eye. You weren't a superhero or an entrepreneur. At the end of the day, you were just a psychiatrist, trying to make it through the day. If that was the case, then why was he so drawn to you?
He didn't understand—no—he couldn't understand.
And as time went on, this desire only grew stronger. Mutually.
Homelander began to fixate on you, quite unhealthily for that matter. It started innocently enough: more frequent eye contact in your sessions, lingering in the doorway of your office, showing up early for your sessions, or even walking you out of the tower at the end of your shift.
Being around you was like a balm for the constant chaos in his mind.
To him, you're unlike anyone he's ever met: calm, kind, and so completely human it fascinates and unnerves him. You were the complete opposite of him, and he never thought he could be attracted to that.
He's always managed to be in a relationship that was, while short-lived, with someone who elicited every ounce of his personality. Someone who was just like him. And maybe that was a good thing, who knows? But it only confused him more.
At first, he tries to justify it. You're his psychiatrist. His shrink. Nothing less, nothing more. You're meant to listen to him, to care about his feelings; he tells himself it's just your job.
However, as time goes on, he starts wanting needing more. He's tired of the patient-doctor dynamic. He begins asking personal questions, sometimes invasive, using his enhanced hearing to eavesdrop on your conversations with others, and justifying it all with the idea that he's "protecting" you. Problem is, he doesn't really know what he's doing. He's just trying to convince himself that his actions are worth being justified.
You'd be lying if you said you didn't notice the shift in his behavior and try to keep the professional boundaries. You remind him, gently but firmly, that the relationship is strictly therapeutic. But it felt like you were telling yourself that rather than the captain himself.
"What's your favorite flavor of ice cream?" Homelander brings up after a moment of comfortable silence between the two of you.
You shifted in the cream-colored plush chair, your eyebrows raised with confusion. "I'm sorry?" You spoke questioningly. The two of you were just speaking about his narcissistic tendencies and now he's asking what your favorite ice cream flavor is? How bad was his attention span?
Homelander smiled, but it had that edge to it. So much so, you couldn't even tell if it was genuine. "What is your favorite ice cream flavor? Come on, you've gotta have one." He tilted his head as he continued to stare at you, his gaze never averting.
The question was simple. Innocuous, even. What's your favorite ice cream flavor?
But somehow, it felt like the world had slowed down the moment he asked it. What?
You blinked, the words tumbling through your heads as if he'd said something infinitely profound. It was the question itself—it was the way he asked it. The casual tilt of his head, the way his lips curved in that perfect, effortless smile, like he wasn't aware of the absolute devastation he left in his wake. His eyes—bluer than any sky or ocean you'd ever seen—were locked on you, so unrelenting it felt like he could see straight through your skin. He could.
Your throat tightened, a mix of awe and panic, as if he'd plucked every coherent though from your mind and left you with nothing but the ridiculous, overwhelming knowledge that this man was impossibly beautiful. Lord.
It was embarrassing! Really. You weren't some love-struck teenager, swooning at the mere sight of him. But God help you, that's exactly what it felt like.
"Uh..." you stammered, your brain working overtime to catch up to the question. You barely managed to form words; your voice softer than you intended. "Mint chocolate chip. I guess."
His smile deepened, and for a split second, you thought he might laugh. Not in a cruel way, no, but in that teasing, playful way that made your chest tighten even more.
"I love mint chocolate chip." He said, and you swore the warmth in his tone was just for you.
And just like that, you were lost.
You walked into your office the next day to find a tiny red cooler on top of your desk, with 4 jars of mint chocolate chip ice cream.
Homelander starts requesting more one-on-one sessions than originally planned. At first, he frames it as a necessity. "You know, it's stressful being me," he says with a tight-lipped smile during one session, leaning back in the chair like he owns the room. "I think I deserve a little extra... support."
You can't exactly argue. After all, this is your job, right? If he wanted extra support, he would get it. Simple as that. But even in those early days, there’s something about the way he watches you that makes your skin prickle—not with fear, not yet, but with the awareness of something unspoken hanging in the air.
It’s manageable, at first. He talks vaguely about the pressure of being perfect, about always having to put a show for the cameras, the crowd, and his fellow teammates. He doesn’t give you much, but to be fair, he doesn’t have to. You’ve worked with people similar to him before, people who hide their vulnerability behind bravado.
What surprises you, though, is how much he seems to want you to understand him.
And he clearly won’t stop until you do. Or until he makes you feel the same way he does.
It’s late—too late for anyone to still be in the building. You’ve been working late, reviewing session notes and preparing for tomorrow’s meeting with The Seven. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly, and the silence of Vought Tower felt heavier than usual.
You were so engrossed in your work that you didn’t notice him at first, not until his reflection suddenly became clear in the glass of your office window.
“Burning the midnight oil?” His voice was smooth, casual, but it startled you all the same.
You turned, clutching your chest. “Homelander—God, you scared me.
He stepped inside, uninvited, and you immediately noticed the difference in his appearance. His cape is slightly askew, his hair less perfect with strands falling into his face, and there’s a tension in his posture that you can’t seem to place.
“I was in the area,” he says, brushing off your concern with a shrug. “Thought I’d check in. See how you’re doing.”
The statement threw you off. “I’m… fine,” you said carefully, unsure of where this was going. “You didn’t need to come all the way up here for that.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s not trouble. You know, I think you’re the only person in this whole damn building who’s honest with me.”
There’s a rawness to his words that takes you off guard, but before you can respond, he’s already moving closer, standing just a little too close. His gaze felt heavier than usual, like he’s searching for something in you—validation, comfort, maybe both.
"You really care about people, don't you?" he asked softly, almost as if he's testing the waters.
You nodded, choosing your words carefully. "I do. It's why I got into this field. I want to help."
He tilts his head, his smile sharpening into something darker, more knowing. "Even people like me?"
The way he said it sent a shiver down your spine. You meet his eyes, trying to keep your voice steady. "Especially people like you, Homelander."
"John." He corrected.
You furrowed your brows. "Sorry?"
"Call me John."
The first kiss didn't come softly—it was a collision.
It happened after one of your most intense and deep sessions. Homelander's mask slipped completely; his usual smirk replaced with a vulnerability so raw it made your chest ache. He's sat across from you, his hands gripping the edge of the chair as if he's afraid he might fall apart.
"I don't know how to stop," he admits, his voice low and trembling. "This... this thing inside of me. It's like... it's eating me alive."
You're not sure what to say. For all your training, for all your professionalism, you're still just a person. A person who feels too much.
"You're not broken, H... John," you whispered, even though you're not sure you believe it.
His eyes snap to yours, and for a moment, there's silence. Then he's standing, closing the distance between you in a single heartbeat.
"Don't say that," he says, his voice sharp but desperate. "Don't lie to me. You don't really understand—no one understands. But you... you're different."
Before you can stop him, his lips crash into yours. It's not gentle—it's needy, almost frantic, like he's trying to our everything he can't say into you. You feel the weight of his emotions in every movement, every shiver of his breath against your skin.
And for a moment, you let him. You kiss him back, your fingers curling into his suit as you let yourself drown in the intensity of it all.
But then reality hits, sharp and cold. You pull away, your breath hitching.
"This... we can't," you stammer, stepping back. "Homelander, this isn't right."
He doesn't respond immediately. His gaze is locked on you, his chest heaving. Then, slowly, a smile curls across his lips—a soft, unsettling thing.
"You felt it too," he says quietly, and there's a glimmer of triumph in his tone.
You shake your head, and the pounding of your heart is like music to his ears. "This can't happen again," you whisper, but even as you say the words, you're not sure you believe them.
You tell yourself it was a mistake. That it was a moment of weakness, nothing more. But it doesn't feel like a mistake. Not when you catch Homelander looking at you during your sessions, his gaze heavy and unrelenting.
"I scare you, don't I?" he asks one day, his tone casual but his eyes anything but.
"You don't scare me," you reply, though your voice wavers.
He leans forward, his expression softening. "I should." He says, almost gently.
There's a part of you that wonders if he's right. If you're being reckless, selfish, delusional. But then there's another part of you—a darker, quieter part—that craves him. That loves him. Even though you know you shouldn't.
And that's the part that keeps you up at night.
You notice it the next morning—the way your mail seems disturbed, the faint smell of his cologne lingering in your hallway. It's subtle at first, easy to dismiss. But it only gets worse.
You find flowers on your doorstep. Your favorite, in fact. There's no note, but you know exactly who they're from.
When you confront him during your next session, he doesn't even try to deny it.
"You don't have to thank me," he says, smiling like it's the most normal thing in the world.
"John, this isn't... appropriate," you say, your voice firm but uncertain.
"Appropriate?" He echoes, his smile fading. "After everything I've done for this country, for this cruel world... you're worried about what's appropriate?"
You don't know how to respond, so you don't. But his words stick with you, planting seeds of guilt and confusion that take root in your mind.
You're sitting in your apartment, nursing a glass of red wine and trying to shake the feeling that you're being watched. The soft hum of the radio fills the space and before you know it, he's there, standing on your balcony like he belongs there.
"You left the curtains open," he says, his tone teasing but his expression serious.
"John," you say, standing quickly. "What are you doing here?"
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he steps inside, his gaze locking onto yours.
"I can't stop thinking about you," he says, his voice low and raw. "You're all I think about. Every second of every day. And it's driving me insane." He's practically fed up. He could kill you, get it over with and maybe then everything will go away. But somewhere deep inside, he knows that's not the case.
You should tell him to leave. But instead, you let him close the distance between you again.
When he kisses you this time, it's softer, slower, but no less intense. And once again, you let yourself get lost in it.
The kiss ends too soon, leaving you breathless and unsteady on your feet. Homelander—or rather, John, as he’s insisted you call him—steps back just enough to study your face. His expression is unreadable, a mixture of triumph, longing, and something darker, something that makes your pulse race for all the wrong reasons.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” he murmurs, his voice almost tender. “I’d never let anything happen to you. No one will ever hurt you while I’m around.”
You can’t stop the chill that runs down your spine at his words. There’s sincerity in them, but also a quiet promise, one that doesn’t leave room for argument. It’s like he’s already decided what your life will look like, as if the idea of you existing without him is unfathomable.
“I’m not afraid,” you lie, stepping back, trying to regain your composure. “But this… this isn’t right, John. You know it isn’t.”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, the mask slips. The vulnerability you’ve seen in your sessions flickers, but it’s quickly replaced by something colder, more calculating.
He doesn’t like being told no. You can see it in the way his shoulders tense, in the flicker of irritation that passes through his piercing blue eyes.
“But it feels right,” he counters, taking a step closer. “Doesn’t it? You can’t tell me you don’t feel it too. I know you do.”
You want to argue, to deny it, but the words catch in your throat. Because the truth is, he’s right. You do feel it. That pull, that connection, that overwhelming magnetism that makes it impossible to think straight when he’s around. It’s intoxicating and terrifying all at once, like standing on the edge of a cliff and daring yourself not to look down.
“This isn’t about what feels right,” you say finally, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “It’s about boundaries, John. About professionalism. And this—whatever this is—it crosses every line.”
For a moment, he just stares at you, his expression unreadable. Then he smiles, slow and deliberate, like he knows something you don’t.
“You’re scared,” he says softly, almost sympathetically. “Not of me. Of how you feel about me.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, you can’t breathe. Because he’s not wrong, and he knows it.
“I think you should leave,” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper. “This… this isn’t going to happen, John. It can’t.”
His smile falters, and for a split second, you see something raw and dangerous flash across his face. But he doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods, his expression hardening into something more familiar, more controlled.
“Alright,” he says, his voice tight. “I’ll go. But this isn’t over. You know that, don’t you?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. All you can do is watch as he steps back out onto the balcony, his cape billowing behind him like a shadow. He pauses for a moment, turning to look at you one last time.
“Goodnight,” he says, his voice soft but laced with something unspoken. And then he’s gone, disappearing into the night like he was never there.
You collapse onto the couch, your heart pounding in your chest. The room feels impossibly quiet without him, the weight of his presence lingering even after he’s left. You tell yourself it’s over, that he’ll leave you alone, that you can go back to your life and pretend none of this ever happened.
But deep down, you know better.
The following days pass in a blur. You throw yourself into your work, trying to ignore the way your skin prickles every time you pass a reflective surface, the way you can’t shake the feeling that you’re being watched.
The flowers keep arriving, always your favorite, always without a note. And every time you see them, you’re reminded of his words, his touch, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.
And then, one night, you find a letter slipped under your door. It’s written in his handwriting, neat and precise, and your hands tremble as you read it.
I’ll wait as long as it takes. You know where to find me.
You fold the letter carefully, placing it in the drawer of your desk. You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything, that you don’t care, that you’re not waiting for him to come back.
But as you sit there in the quiet of your apartment, staring at the faint glow of the city lights outside your window, you can’t help but wonder what it would mean if you did.
Would it be so wrong to want him? To give in, just once, and see what it feels like to be completely consumed by someone like him? Or would it be the beginning of the end, the moment you lose yourself to something you can never take back?
You don’t have the answers. Maybe you never will. But you can’t deny the tiny, treacherous part of you that whispers: what if? What if it was easier? What if loving him didn't have to be so hard? Would you still do it?
And somewhere out there, in the shadows of the city, he’s waiting.
─ synopsis .ᐟ hanging out with your dealer turns into some late night cuddling
─ word count .ᐟ 763 words
─ content warning .ᐟ smoking, rest is pure fluff!
you had always been a sweet girl, a goody two-shoes, but when your friends introduced you to christopher sturniolo—their favorite dealer—you mayy have changed.. just a tiny bit
you started small at first, smoking pre-rolled joints as a little joke, wanting to see how it would feel like; lets just say it became more of a habit than a little joke.
you and chris would meet up somewhere, talk for a few, you'd pay for the joints, and you would smoke 'em together in his white mustang. it became a little routine for you both—a way to wind down after a long week.
── .✦
○ 10:56pm..
windows were rolled down, smoke surrounded you both, and laughter filling the quiet, but comforting atmosphere of the empty parking lot. you and chris were having your usual yapping sesh, passing a joint, which he generously let you smoke without pay. chris was in the driver seat, with the joint held between his index and middle finger as he exhaled a puff of smoke, continuing his random talk.
"c'mon ma, doesnt 'baffoon' sound like sum kinda monkey?" he looks over at you in the passenger seat with his half-lidded bloodshot eyes.. that man looked so stoned outta his mind that it elicited a soft chuckle from you before you responded to his dumb question.
"sure chris," you sarcastically say before letting out a quick yawn. you were tired as hell and chris knew of it.
"y'want me to drive you home? swear 'm sober enough to drive" chris passed you the joint as you reluctantly nodded. you obviously didnt trust him behind the wheel, but you didnt want to hear his whining the whole way to your place. and without another word, he put the car to drive and started making his way to the apartment complex which you had lived in. just 6 months of knowing each other and chris had the way to your place memorized with all the driving back and forth from his place to yours.
── .✦
○ 11:15pm..
both of you raided your room once you two both entered your apartment building, plopping your tired bodies onto the blanket-covered bed, taking in the lingering smell of chocolate chip cookies you had made hours prior. your eyes closed as your body relaxed, but a feeling of movement on the bed caused your eyes to flick open once more. chris had gotten up from the bed, grabbing his black leather jacket from the bed to leave.
"why are ya leavin''?" you look up at chris and tug on his arm. you were very clingy when high; thats for sure. so when chris would decide to leave you all alone when high, you would always attempt to find a way to make him stay even for just a couple of minutes. "c'monn, stayyyy" you whined.
"ma, i got deals to do tomorrow, i cant be all tired and groggy, lookin' like a zombie when i got a whole bunch of customers f'me" you give him a playful pout and continue to nag him about staying, until he finally agreed. chris had a sorta soft spot for you, i guess—all of your mutual friends would tease him about it, saying hes "in love" and that he "soo whipped" for you. of course you never believed them, i mean why would a 21 year old man who looked like that and had rows of women running after him would like someone like you? youre not anything special!
chris quickly got situated once more, dropping the leather jacket on some chair in your room and throwing himself back onto your bed. his large arms found themselves around your waist. "y'know, youre always so clingy when high," he teased as his fingers traced along the hem of your white lace tank top. his body was warm and comforting as your head rested on his chest which rose and fell steadily. "like a fuckin' koala" he continued and you softly giggled. his voice was so calm and soothing, you loved it. his left hand parted from your waist as traced along your cheek.
chris' voice filled the silence in the room. his hands grazing against your soft skin as your eyes had soon started feeling heavier. you closed your eyes and his voice soothed you to sleep.. he liked this, having you fall asleep in his arms like that. you liked it, being able to feel as comfortable as that with someone. these little late night cuddle moments you two had every one in a while made everything better..
─ written with love, sealed with a kiss, yoki ❤︎
─ y speaks .ᐟ soo this is my first time ACTUALLY writing so its ass, i know..
Could you do a homelander x female boys!reader where the boys and her try to gather info at a vought gala and she blends in as a guest and he knows what she’s doing. However he’s impressed when she flirts back even knowing she shouldn’t- and isn’t scared. smut pursues and maybe they after that continue to hide their secret hookups from the boys?
ⓘ CECE'S MASTERLIST .ᐟ please don't take this personal
® for smut.
౨ৎ for fluff.
✩ for angst.
JASON TODD ──
RAFE CAMERON ──
ⓘ cigarettes after sex ౨ৎ — COMING SOON!
HOMELANDER ──
ⓘ ultraviolence ✩ — being hired by vought as the psychiatrist for the seven wasn’t exactly what you’d envisioned for your career. and captain patria falling in love with you? yeah that definitely wasn’t on the bingo card either. | 4.0k
