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#ivy league
yourhoneymoongirl · 3 months
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darkparisian · 8 months
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𝓛𝓪 𝓢𝓸𝓻𝓫𝓸𝓷𝓷𝓮
Est. 1257
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freetyphooncupcake · 7 months
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being a black hozier fan sucks/is tough/ is kinda lonely bc y'all consistently do this right here (couldn't have said it better myself)⬇️⬇️⬇️
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LOVE the album but really cannot partake in the online celebration/discussions. just have to diligently avoid reductive takes from non-Black fans or else i will rip my hair out🤠
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culturevulturette · 3 months
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Tear the Ivies down and sow the ground with salt.
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planstudyrun · 1 year
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a colorful, caffeinated, calm fall weekend spent in the company of research papers and friends 😌 🍂
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virginmary2008 · 11 months
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blair waldorf aesthetic 🕯️
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sofialisbon · 1 year
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blindmagdalena · 6 months
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Omg could you maybe do “The sun rising over the horizon as they chat through the night” with homelander and maybe venus!reader? A standard reader would be wonderful too though ☺️
ohhh, venus!reader!!! it's been too long since i thought about her! yes, absolutely. 🖤
homelander x reader. dialogue from this list of newly wed prompts. reader is the supe Venus, a Poison Ivy inspired superhero. ❤️🌿 1.3k and 18+ for saucy imagery and some heavy petting, but no outright smut. mostly a sentimental affair.
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Intimacy is a strange word. It’s the sort that can be used to describe the closeness of a wide variety of different relationships, be they platonic or romantic. It strikes Homelander that he’s had very, very few relationships that he would classify as truly intimate.
But that’s what this feels like right now. You lay atop him, nothing but skin between your bodies. It isn’t just your shared nakedness that makes this intimate, though.
It’s the tenderness in your eyes as you gaze down at him through heavily lidded eyes, lips curved in a gentle smile. It’s the way you tilt your head at the same time he lifts his hand, knowing he intends to stroke your cheek with his knuckles well before he does it. It’s the way you sigh the warmth of your breath onto his lips.
It wasn’t always like this. There was a time where he couldn’t stand you: at least, that’s what he thought it was. You had a way of putting him off balance, agitating him in ways few people could. There were times when he wanted to throttle you for the ease with which you would brush him off.
It turned his world upside down when he realized you’d been flirting with him the whole time.
“What’re you thinking about?” You ask idly, leaning against his hand. He adjusts his hand to support your cheek in his palm, rubbing his thumb along the rise of your cheek.
“You,” he answers, smiling at how you scrunch your nose.
“What about me?” You press, turning your head to kiss his palm.
He inhales a slow breath through his nose, exhales a little raspberry. “You and me. Where we are, how we got here.”
“Well,” you begin, folding your arms to rest them atop his chest. “It all started this afternoon when I sent you a picture of a blooming Middlemist Red–the rarest flower in the world, I’ll remind you–and you texted back ‘Not The Petals I’m Thinking About Spreading,’ which, inexplicably and against all logic, made me incredibly horny. So, I came home, took off all your clothes and rode you stupid.”
As you speak, a grin slowly spreads across Homelander’s face. “Wow. You got it bad, huh?”
“I married you, didn’t I?” You give back, quirking a brow.
“Ch’yeah, but even so. Sheesh. Embarrassing.” “I’m going to kill you,” you say through a smile, turning to bite his hand. He laughs as you chew ineffectually on it, continuing to stroke your cheek regardless. 
“Yeah? I think this approach is gonna take you awhile,” he muses, watching as you gnaw at the meat of his hand just below his pinky.
Letting his hand go with a soft pleh noise, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Yeah, I intend it to. At least a solid fifty years. You’ll suffer real slow. That’s why they use spoons instead of knives to torture people, you know. It hurts more when it’s dull,” you say, leaning in to press a sweet kiss to his lips.
“Fifty years, huh? That’s it?” He asks, wiping your own spit on your shoulder. “You know we’re probably gonna live a lot longer than that, right?”
“Yeah, well, you never know what the divorce rates will be like in the future. You know what the leading cause of divorce is, right?” You ask, refolding your arms, resting your chin atop them.
“We’re not getting divorced,” he says, unwilling to entertain the thought even playfully.
“The leading cause of divorce is marriage,” you say very seriously anyways.
“You are… so incredibly lame,” he says, voice heavy with the severity of his accusation.
“And yet,” you say, wiggling your ring finger.
He takes your hand and pulls it to his lips, kissing that inconspicuous little gold band. It matches his wider band perfectly. “And yet,” he echoes by way of agreement. “Hard to believe I finally pinned you down.”
“Oooh,” you purr, brows lifting. “Tell me more about how you pinned me down.”
“You’re done for now. Shackled. Legally bound,” he expounds, smoothing his hands down the curves of your body, sinking his grip into the soft swell of your ass. You laugh, moving your hands to kiss his chest just above the beat of his heart.
“Mmm, see, I recall our honeymoon differently. I remember you being the one all tied up,” you say, a wicked glint in your eyes.
True. You surprised him with that one, ensnaring him in a tangle of vines and keeping him like that for hours under the narrative of “breaking him in.” It had worked, rocked his world so hard that the thought alone was enough to send a hungry pang all the way to his core, despite having just thoroughly had you. It isn’t as though he can ever get enough. You’re intoxicating.
He inhales deeply, savoring the rich smell of you. You always have the lingering scent of blossoms and sandalwood on your skin, remnants of your powers woven into every fiber of your being. It gives you a sense of wildness, leaves him feeling as though he’s laying claim to you every time he touches you. 
“I love you,” he says, eyes soft, utterly drunk on the feeling. He watches how easily those three simple words disarm you, draining the slyness from your eyes and replacing it with a tenderness reserved exclusively for him. For as much as the world thinks it knows you, it never will. Not the way he does. Let them go on believing you’re part hero, part villainess, that all your stems are barbed with thorns. He’ll keep the truth of your softness a secret for his hands alone. 
“I love you, too,” you whisper, cupping either side of his face as you close in to kiss him properly, parting his lips with your tongue to taste, to feel, to consume. There is a hunger in you that mirrors his own, each of you taking bites of the other without ever truly growing full or satisfied. 
He realized a long time ago that no amount of you would ever be enough, and that was when he knew he had to make you his forever. The rings on your fingers are just a small token of that. It’s the scars you carve into each other’s hearts that scream the true nature of your love.
Time melts away in the wake of your presence in his. You make him laugh, bringing him the kind of peace he’d only ever dreamed of. There is an ease that comes about when you truly love someone, when you can not only show them your deepest darkness, but your most nonsensical self. He’s never afraid that you will laugh at him. He knows unconditionally that you only ever laugh with him. When he is vulnerable, you bring sobriety. When he is afraid, you don armor.
In the span of a single night, you are his lover, his rival, his spouse, his menace and his dearest friend. The two of you are so wholly consumed by one another, neither of you realize that the night has ended until the dawn comes crawling in through the windows.
“God, what time is it?” You ask, dumbstruck by the encroaching light.
“I don’t care,” Homelander answers unhelpfully, tugging you back down into his arms. “Fuck it, let’s stay in bed all day, sleep through it. I like the night better anyways. No one to bother us,” he says, kissing a line up your throat. “Let’s play hooky.”
You sigh through a smile, carding your fingers through his hair. “You know that I’m supposed to be the bad influence, right?”
“Step up your game, then,” he says, sucking a mark at your neck that threatens to bruise. The way you shiver against his tongue is fucking delicious. “Be worse.”
He inhales sharply at the firm press of your hand slipping between his legs.
“If you insist,” you say, feigning exasperation. He grins broadly.
Who ever said honeymoons had to end?
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cbbyzac · 6 months
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THE LIFESTYLE OF THE PREPPY PRINCESS FROM CBBYZAC.COM
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aestheticology · 1 year
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yourhoneymoongirl · 2 months
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starinthemaking · 1 year
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I owe it to myself to live to my fullest potential.
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girlactionfigure · 15 days
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Follow the money, and you shall know the motive.
orshalomi_offical
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ayvenrae · 6 months
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my dream 🫀🩺
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planstudyrun · 1 year
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I have been enjoying the reading part of working on my assignment so far, but I’ll have to shift to writing soon…👀
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