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loquaciousferret · 1 year ago

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Saints and Sinners

Summary: The yearly Halloween rendezvous with your long-term no-strings lover Joel Miller is set to be shaken up when he invites a third- Javi Peña- to your hotel room.

No-outbreak AU | Joel Miller and Javi Peña existing in the same universe AU

Pairings: Javier Peña x f!reader x Joel Miller

Word Count: 5.7k (whoops)

Warnings below the cut | 18+ Only

Content Warnings: MATURE 18+ Disrespect of religion including the Cross. No real physical description of reader other than female anatomy and she can be lifted by or sit on top of both males. Alcohol consumption, sex whilst under the influence, oral both m and f receiving, facesitting, facefucking, unprotected sex with a stranger, consensual voyeurism and exhibitionism, facial, spitting, degradation, pet names, anal play, MMF threesome, a suggestion of but not actual infidelity, discussion of age gap between the sexual partners.

A/N: Hey homies, I’ve come out of retirement for one day only for halloween (It’s also my birthday) this started off just something hot but accidentally turned fluffy and deep towards the end. Consider that my birthday gift to myself. I hope you enjoy!

You analyse your appearance in the mirror for what might be the hundredth time, straightening the garish crystal-covered cross that hangs on a delicate chain from your neck. The base of it just slightly tucks into the cleavage that is spilling from the top of the satin black mini dress. A few strands of hair peak out from the matching black covering on your head, framing your face perfectly. Sexy nun. What a great Halloween costume. Offensive? Probably. But hot? Definitely.

Joel had texted you a few hours previously with the room number for your usual luxury downtown hotel. 308. Surprise inside. The message had read. A man of few words was Joel Miller, but you didn’t mind. Your annual meeting didn’t need much introduction.

You checked the time on your phone and realised you were in a rush. Your scheduled Uber, the chariot that would deliver you to Joel, would be there in half an hour. You quickly grabbed your bottle of wine, still only half finished, and poured yourself another large glass. After all this time, the nervous butterflies that gathered in your stomach prior to seeing him should have faded, but on the contrary, they seem more powerful each passing year.

By the time you had finished off the bottle you were rushing to cover yourself with a long black coat and put your heels on to head out the door. The nerves had barely subsided and the alcohol only served to hinder your balance as you hurried to the car.

You arrived at the hotel, which you hadn’t visited since this time last year. It was a looming black structure that stood out against the rest of the buildings on the street. Once inside the lobby, it was like you were in another dimension altogether. It was dimly lit and strongly scented with candles and diffusers. It was soundproofed well, to the extent that you would never know you had just stepped off of a busy city street. It was familiar and yet mysterious every time you visited. It certainly wasn’t the sleazy motel you would imagine to typically be used for you and Joel’s purposes. You didn’t know how often other people typically visited hotels. They are usually a place of passing. So, after visiting on the same weekend every year for five years, you felt like perhaps you were a regular.

You spoke to the man at the desk who welcomed you with warm eyes and a kind smile. It was the kind of place where the staff always made you feel important. He handed you a wallet made of thick black card with the hotels gold logo embossed on the front.

“The keycard is just inside. Take the elevator to the third floor and you’ll find 8 on your right.” He says. “And I’m here all night, should you need anything at all.”

“Thank you.” You say, and proceed nervously to the elevator. The hand holding the wallet is actually shaking. Pull it together.

The elevator ride to the third floor is over quicker than you would have liked, and suddenly you are stepping out into a dim corridor. The same thick scent that fills the lobby also lingers here. Deep and musky, like oud, and yet fresh at the same time. The whole thing is a sensory experience.

You turn to find 308 and take deep breaths with each stride. You’re about to see him again. With each year that passes, you always worry things will have changed, and yet they never do. He is always the same Joel, the same scent, the same strong frame, the same quirks in his speech. He is something entirely familiar to you, just as you are to him. Two halves of a pair entirely in tune with one another, able to predict each others every word, every movement. He is the one constant you can always rely on. You just know him.

But when you insert the keycard and let yourself into the room, you are staring into the face of someone entirely unfamiliar.

“Uhh- I-“ You began to stutter. There must have been some mistake, but you don’t know what to say. ‘I’m sorry, I think uh- I-”

“Don’t worry.” He said with a smooth Texan accent. “You’re in the right place. You’re Joel’s girl, right?”

Your eyebrows draw together in confusion as you try to piece it together. The question, asked with such casualness as though he already knew it to be true, was so complicated that you could barely wrap your head round it. You weren’t Joel’s girl, not even close. Why did he think that? How does he know Joel?

Once you looked at him properly, you realised that whilst he was younger, this stranger, his resemblance to Joel other than that was striking. He looked more like him than his own brother. The same hooked nose and serious brow bone, but his hair was shorter and straighter, dark brown not yet peppered with grey like Joel’s. And unlike Joel’s scruff of stubble, this man was clean shaven except for a thick moustache.

So this was the surprise. You realised. Where the hell did he find this guy?

“What is this?” You ask. It came out harsher than you expected and you cringed at yourself for being so rude. But this was not part of the arrangement, and you hadn’t prepared yourself. The butterflies in your stomach swelled painfully.

“I don’t know, sweetheart.” He said. “Some kind of Halloween treat I guess.”

“Is it? Seems like more of a trick to me.”

The man chuckled, unphased by your comment. Whatever this was, well, you had a pretty good guess, and whilst you weren’t against it in theory, you were pissed Joel had pulled something like this. But he always had to change the rules and shock you. It was just part of his addictive game.

The man rose from the comfortable chair in which he had been slouched, thighs wide, manspreading and confidently exposing a bulging package inside his tight jeans. He reached for a bucket containing an expensive champagne, popped it open without any fuss and poured two large flutes full. He held one out for you and you took a tentative step towards him.

“I don’t bite.” He said, flashing a toothy grin that made you doubt his statement.

You took it from him anyway, your hand brushing against his large warm one as you clutched the stem. You took a sip and the warm bubbles floated down your chest and into your stomach, heat radiating where it mixed with the white wine from earlier.

Damn this whole situation, you think, and yet you can’t fool yourself into thinking you won’t do exactly what Joel intended you to do with this guy. When he calls, you answer. When he gives, you take. And when he tricks you into meeting a handsome stranger and screwing him, for whatever reason, you oblige just so.

“So, um…”

“Javi.”

“So, Javi.” You say. “What are you supposed to be dressed as?”

“Uhhh…” He hums as if he hadn’t really thought about it. “A cop.” He says eventually.

“Then where’s your uniform?” You challenge.

“Undercover cop I guess.” He shrugs, smirk plastered on his face. “You on the other hand. You went all out, huh?”

“Oh, this old thing?” You say, running your hand up your side from the hem of the dress to your cleavage, which you lean towards him for a better view.

His tongue flicks out across his lower lip. You giggle and lean back to where you had been sitting before, but he reaches an arm out to wrap around your waist and pull you a little closer towards him.

“How do you know him?” You ask. You don’t want to pry, but if you’re going to let him fuck you, you want at least a few details.

“Uhh…” His responses don’t come easily to any of your questions, as if he is consistently just thinking up answers before offering them. “We met at poker.”

“I didn’t know he gambled.” You say.

Javi looks at you with a quizzical expression, like it was obvious. Like Joel and gambling are synonymous and it wouldn’t make sense not to immediately associate them. It stings for some reason.

“Right.” He says, expression still twisted. “So not his girl then, I guess. Then how do you know him.”

But you hum too while you think of your answer, and so you give Javi some slack for his own hesitation.

“Old friends.” You say simply, giving nothing away. “How did this come about though?”

He laughs a little, ducking his head as if unsure whether to be honest. “A bet.”

“A bet?” Your eyes widen and you respond in shock. You’re rightfully offended by the insinuation, but it doesn’t make you angry. If anything, it sends another aching sensation between your legs. “He- He bet me? You won a bet for me?”

He laughs at that, a proper laugh, like the suggestion itself was downright ridiculous, although you are unsure why. You had considered it a pretty sound conclusion. “Actually, no.” He explains. “It was Joel who won the bet.”

Your eyebrows are drawn together in thought and he smirks as he watches you piece what you can together.

“So…” You say, unsure what to think of it all. “So he really wants us to do this?”

“I guess so.” He says, finishing off his champagne. Yours is empty too and he takes the glass from you, heading back to the desk to find the rest of the bottle. “You want another?” He asks.

You shake your head no and he comes and sits down next to you on the bed again.

“Is he… Is he coming? I mean are we supposed to wait or- or- do we have t-“

He cuts you off and puts a comforting hand on your thigh. “Hey, there is no ‘have to’. Whatever you like. I’m a man of the law, darlin’. I won’t make you.” He pauses just for a beat. “Unless that’s what you’re into.”

You flush at the insinuation, looking away from him. Damn your bashful complexion. Damn Joel for this twisted trick. Damn this handsome dude for making it impossible not to throw yourself into his lap and kiss him.

He responds to you immediately, his hands wasting no time feigning respectfulness before attaching to your ass and groping you through the tightly stretched fabric.

You grind into him as he deepens the kiss, one hand leaving your ass to come round and grip your jaw. The thick denim of his jeans stimulates you through the thin barrier of your underwear.

“Dirty girl.” He says as you speed up your movements, grinding yourself against his growing bulge deliberately to pleasure yourself. “That outfit just pretend or somethin’? Where’d ya learn to do that?”

You don’t speak back and you focus on unbuttoning his shirt instead, not breaking the kiss as you work at the buttons. The alcohol has affected your dexterity and eventually he pulls back and starts undoing them himself. You reach for his belt instead, unclasping it and then pulling down the zip on his jeans.

By then his shirt is off, and you take in the wide expanse of honey skin. He is slimmer than Joel, but still built strong. Lean and toned muscle take the place of Joel’s, which are hardened by life but softened by age. It’s not just the resemblance that had you comparing the two. You compared every lover to Joel. Eventually you just had to stop sleeping with anyone else, because no one measured up. There was simply before Joel, and after Joel. And after Joel, well… nothing else would suffice. Apart from this handsome stranger nominated by Joel personally. That, you were willing to try.

You fumble clumsily with his jeans until he takes over that, too. He grinds his palm into the hard bulge as he does so. You smirk a little when the trail of hair that is peeking out is revealed further, showing he isn’t wearing underwear.

He pushes them down his legs, not bothering to remove them fully, lays backwards, and then his hands are grabbing at your sides and pulling you up further so you are sitting on his stomach.

“You’re just something else, ain’t ya?” He says, his voice thick with desire for you.

You flush and he starts to take apart your costume, removing the head piece and uncovering your hair which remains perfect underneath. Then, he reaches behind you and unzips the dress, his touch gentle but still urgent, fuelled by desire. You raise your arms to let him slide it over your head, exposing your bare chest, and his hands immediately move to cup your breasts, kneading gently and toying with your nipples with his thumbs.

“Look at you…” He coos.

You basked in his attention. He was softer than Joel. Sweeter. Then you scolded yourself for comparing them and tried to enjoy the moment, leaning down to kiss him.

He pushed you away. “Uhuh.”

You frown, but he is quickly grabbing your thighs and pulling you further up his chest towards his face. You let him guide you until you are hovering over him, his mouth kissing at you through your lace underwear.

You let out a desperate sigh and you feel him smirk under you. He presses another few kisses before opening his mouth and dragging his tongue up and down your underwear.

You feel yourself shaking a little already, and you put effort into breathing deeply to avoid pathetically moaning so soon.

You gasp as Javi brings his hand up to your underwear, pulling it aside so his tongue has access to your wet core.

As soon as his tongue connects, he lets out a groan. Your knees shake and whilst you had been trying to hover slightly before, you end up fully sitting on his face. This encourages him even more, sloppily eating you out, his nose brushing your clit. He licks, sucks, and kisses each spot perfectly. His moustache tickles a little and you realise you have never slept with a dude with one before.

“Oh, god-“ You gasp, cutting yourself off with a loud moan. “Javiii-“

He moans into you as he eats you out hungrily, sending vibrations around your aching core.

“Fuck-“ You say. You rip yourself out of his grasp and shuffle down his body where his cock stands, hard and throbbing. You had to stop him before you came all over his face. Joel wouldn’t have appreciated that.

You glide your dripping cunt up and down his shaft, wetting it before rising up on your knees and taking it gently in your hand. You sink down onto it and watch his expression. He grits his teeth in pleasure.

You let it fill you for a moment, not moving while you adjust to his length. He has less girth than Joel, but not much. His length is equal, hitting a spot deep inside you as you gently rock back and forth. Once you are prepared, you start to move, slowly at first, but with gradually increasing pace and force.

Using your hands to help you balance, you start to bounce in a quick rhythm up and down his length. Your tits jiggle in his face, the cross hitting against his lips. He takes it between his teeth and you giggle, your hole fluttering and pulsing as you do so. This causes him to spit it out, his mouth opening in a sensual moan.

“Fuck, baby, you ride this cock so damn good-“ He pants, hands grabbing at your ass greedily, spreading your cheeks and helping you with your momentum as you bounce on his length shamelessly. The praise encourages you to keep trying hard to please him.

Your moans are desperate as you keep going, your head thrown back and your mouth open. Your eyes roll pornographically. When you eventually summon the strength to open them and look down at him, you see him transfixed on you.

“Yeah, yeah just like that.” He grunts, “Fucking ride that dick, baby, yeah. Oh yeah just like that”

You are too wrapped up in the sensations, the sounds, of you and Javi, that you don’t notice the door opening. It’s heavy footsteps on the lush carpet that break you out of your trance. You whip your head round, the motion of your hips not faltering, as you make eye contact with him. Joel. At last.

He smiles a dark smile, his eyes wide as he takes in the scene before him. You realise how depraved it must all be from his perspective, the bejewelled Cross sticking to your tits with sweat as you bounce on this stranger’s cock.

“Don’t be rude, baby.” Are the first words out of his mouth. “Keep your eyes on what you’re doing.”

You break away from looking at him reluctantly, focussing your attention back on Javi, whose head is thrown back into the pillows, mouth falling open and eyes now closed in pleasure. You see sweat glistening on his throat and something urges you to lean down and lick a wide stripe up it, the salty taste beautiful on your tongue.

You try to pay attention to Javi and not let yourself get distracted by Joel’s movements. You hear the splash of liquid into a glass and realise you had observed his favourite whiskey earlier, right next to the champagne bucket. The signs of him had been all over the room already and you hadn’t noticed.

You continue to chase your pleasure, the alcohol supplying you with a rare confidence that left you able to perform for both men with little shame. You slow down your movements, feeling Javi deep inside you and grinding your clit against the dark curls at the base of him. Your moans become louder as you do so, rubbing against him rhythmically until you feel the tension of an orgasm building.

“I’m gonna cum.” You gasp, your voice strained.

“No you’re not.” Says the voice from behind you.

Javi’s eyes are open again, watching you, taking in every expression on your face. He smirks at Joel’s words and grips your thighs, preventing you from moving.

“Please-“ You gasp, unsure which of the two men you are pleading with. Your hips jerk involuntarily to chase the same sensation you had been creating previously but Javi keeps a firm grip on you.

“No. You’re going to step being selfish and ride him like a good girl.” Joel instructs. “And you’re gonna hold it. The only cock you’ll come on will be mine.”

You whimper pathetically, turning your head to look at Joel, who is sitting in the armchair I the corner of the room with a perfect view of the bed, hopeful that your wrecked expression might make him take pity on you.

“What did I tell you about manners already?” He scolds, unmoved by you. “Don’t look at me. Look at him.”

When you do, you find Javi’s expression is amused. He doesn’t add to the exchange, simply observing you and Joel’s dynamic, listening as the other man bends you to his will so easily.

You brace your hands on his chest once again and try to follow Joel’s instruction, abandoning the pleasure you had been giving yourself by grinding on his cock and going back to bouncing on it. You can’t find your rhythm and Javi helps you, thrusting his hips upwards into you.

Joel tuts disapprovingly as he watches, taunting, “You’ve forgotten how to ride a cock properly, huh? Need a lesson?”

You whine in frustration and embarrassment, giving up on your own movements and letting Javi control the pace from under you, rutting up into you with enough force that you still need to grasp at his chest to keep your balance. Your tits align with his face and he reaches up with his mouth to suck at one of your nipples.

You hear Joel moving and before you can wonder what he is doing, there are hands on you. His large palms wrap around your waist from behind, holding you tightly. Javi stops moving and Joel starts to control you, lifting you up and dropping you down harshly onto Javi’s cock. You let out a high pitched moan, to Joel’s displeasure.

“Be quiet.” He says. “This isn’t for you.”

He does it repeatedly, forcing you up and down again and again until you lose all control of your upper body, collapsing back into Joel’s wide frame. You bite your lip to hold back your moans, and then Javi helps you by reaching up and sticking a thumb into your mouth. You suck it obediently and you hear him curse under his breath.

“You gonna show him what else your mouth can do, baby?” Joel growls into your ear.

You nod eagerly and Joel lifts you off of Javi. You whimper, the sensation of being empty is unpleasant. Joel laughs darkly.

“Greedy little cunt.” He says. “Doesn’t wanna go a second without being filled up, huh?”

You ignore his teasing and get onto all fours, crawling between Javi’s legs, knowing that simultaneously, you are giving Joel the perfect view of your wet pussy. But he doesn’t touch you again and you hear his footsteps moving away from the bed. You are disappointed but after being chastised twice for looking at him, you manage to resist that urge and focus on Javi’s cock.

You start with just licking, gathering up the taste of your own juices from his shaft. You moan lightly and feel your pussy throb.

“Such a tease.” Javi says, tangling one hand into your hair. The other tucks behind his own head as he lounges back in the luxurious bedding, the image of nonchalance.

His comment doesn’t stop you, though. This is your style. You lick the tip, swirling round it with your tongue. He chases your mouth with a thrust of his hips but you pull your head back at the same time, stopping him from controlling the pace. He growls in displeasure but you choose to maintain the little semblance of control for a while longer. You replace your tongue with a hand, wrapping it around him and letting your mouth travel lower, teasing his balls with light kitten licks. He groans and you take one into your mouth fully, sucking lightly.

“Jesus-“ He sighs, bucking his hips up again involuntarily. You continue for a moment, swirling your tongue around it as it fills your mouth before releasing it with a pop and swapping the position of your mouth and hands once again.

Your hands massage his balls lightly and you finally take the head of his cock into your mouth. You lower your head slowly, very slowly, until it’s halfway in and hits the back of your throat, before rising off of it again just as slowly. He’s more patient than Joel, who would have put a stop to this much before now.

You do it again, your speed increasing only incrementally. He twitches inside your mouth and you feel his fingers gripping your hair tighter in a sign of his impatience. Soon, the game is up, and he starts forcing your head up and down urgently. You gag and splutter all over his cock but he doesn’t slow down. You are so wrapped up in it, that it takes you a while to register a weight on the bed behind you, until eventually, your attention is grabbed by a hard cock gliding up and down your wet seam.

You moan around Javi’s cock which leads him to relent in his pace a little, choosing to savour the feeling instead.

“Now you remember what I told you.” Joel says. “Don’t take your eyes off him.”

You can’t respond other than to try and nod which leads the tip of Javi’s cock to prod forcefully into the back of your throat. You gag again and feel your hole convulse, Joel grits his teeth.

He presses the tip into you slowly and within just an inch, you are so full. Full of Javi in your mouth and full of Joel now, too. You moan as he pushes further and further in, your sweet sounds sending vibrations around Javi’s cock that have him cursing incessantly.

Joel’s hands reach to take both of your hips and as soon as he has sheathed himself fully, he is pulling out again and setting an aggressive pace. This is his favourite position and you imagine it is only enhanced for him, as it is for you, by seeing your mouth all filled up too, rendering you incapable of speech, locked in place between the two men.

He hammers into you and you lose control, the blowjob becoming messier, spit dribbling all down Javi’s cock so that it is sliding in and out of your throat with little resistance. Neither of them limit the harshness of their actions, Joel pounding into your cunt and Javi into your throat. The sensation is unlike anything you have ever felt. You don’t think you can get any fuller until you feel Joel’s wet thumb prodding at your ass.

You cry out as he slips it inside you. He groans, low and satisfied. “You like that baby, huh? You like us taking up every single one of your slutty holes? Filthy whore that you are. Jesus-“

You moan at his words and Javi starts to twitch inside your mouth. He pulls your mouth off of him suddenly, not wanting to finish yet. You lower your head turning your cheek so that it rests on his thigh, your back arching in an extreme fashion. He just watches, rubbing himself gently as Joel continues to abuse both of your holes from behind.

Then eventually he pushes you off of him and moves, your eyes are closed but Joel watches what he is doing as he gets off the bed and stands at its edge, pumping his cock in his hand. Joel manoeuvres you so you are facing Javi again.

“Can I come in her mouth?” Javi asks Joel.

Joel lets out a mean laugh. “You don’t have to ask that, man. What else is a whore’s mouth good for?”

You whimper, your cunt throbbing and pulsing around Joel, unbelievably turned on by hearing them talk about you, not to you, like you aren’t even the third participant in this event.

Javi rubs his cock over your face, your cheeks, slapping at your chin with it. Just because he can. Your mouth falls open and he feeds the tip to you slowly, giving you a false sense of security before roughly slamming in the rest of the length. It forces you backwards, impaling you harder on Joel’s cock and the now two fingers which are exploring your asshole.

You feel as though you are the rope in some sick game of tug of war, the way the two of them pass you back and forth between them. Eventually you can’t even separate the sensations both men are giving you and you are left weak and boneless, just moving with the hammering tide that pulls you in and pushes you away again and again.

It’s Javi’s pace that falters first, moans and expletives escaping from his lips until his salty hot load fills your mouth. He half pulls out and spills the remainder over your cheeks and nose. It drips all over your face and he holds you up by your chin. His thumb drifts over the hot spend and directs it towards you mouth. You swallow it all and suck his fingers clean.

“Jesus, I could watch that all day.” He says. But he doesn’t, and he walks away from you after only a brief few seconds. With Javi satisfied, Joel flips you over so you are on your back. He lifts your feet, placing both ankles on his shoulders, ploughing you harder than you thought possible. You had imagined he was fucking you full force before, but like always, he ends up having just that little bit more to give.

You moan and whine helplessly, his pace unrelenting and his stamina downright cruel. You are unable to open your eyes, absolutely exhausted from him and Javi’s treatment. He doesn’t mind, satisfied with your performance already and happy to use you for his pleasure when you are in this state, soft and pliable to his every will. You vaguely register the sound of the door opening and then closing, the two men offering noncommittal farewells to one another.

“Oh, my baby.” Joel is whispering gently. “You did so well for me. You impressed me so much, sweetheart, I’m so proud of you.”

His rambling seems to go on for a long while, but then again, you don’t know how much of a concept of time you even have left. Some of his words seem distant, like they’re coming to you through a filter. Some of them are so unbelievable that you discount them as just being part of a dream.

“I’m so proud of you, my sweet girl. Always so good for me. Always do so well for me. My sweet baby.”

He must think you’re asleep, talking like this. You still aren’t entirely convinced you are awake either.

Your name falls from his lips like a prayer as he finishes inside you. You think he holds you like that for longer than usual, until he is completely soft and slips out of you, both his and your juices leaking onto the bed. He cleans you up and he kisses you. He kisses you everywhere, your face, your neck, your chest, down your stomach. You keen towards him unconsciously, weak hands grabbing at whatever part of him you can reach and ending up tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck.

“What am I gonna do with you, my girl? Hmm?” He hums into the crook of your neck.

You must have fallen asleep, although you’re not sure for how long. When your eyes flutter open, it’s still dark, and you register a weight in the bed next to you. You turn towards it.

Joel’s eyes are already open and he is gazing at you intently.

“Hi.” He says.

“Hey.” You say. You can’t help the word from trailing off into a giggle. He renders you downright stupid.

He reaches out a hand to your cheek and strokes it with the pad of his thumb, before moving to push some hair behind your ear with his other fingers. These are his rare affectionate gestures, and whilst you aren’t experiencing them for the first time, they certainly aren’t frequent.

“It’s been a long year.” He says.

You never talk about the time you spend apart. All that matters is the precious, no, sacred, time that you do get together.

“It always is, for me.” You say. He tenses a little in response and you curse yourself silently for having said too much.

To your relief, he relaxes again and pulls your body closer to him. Warmth radiates from the place where your head meets his broad chest. He kisses into the top of your head, inhaling deeply the scent of your shampoo. It’s coconut. He kisses you again and again.

Suddenly, he speaks.

“I don’t know if I can do this again.” He says.

You freeze up. A chill runs down your spine. He wants to break off the arrangement? Somehow you feel blindsided, even though every year the possibility crosses your mind that he’ll finally do it.

Maybe that’s why he brought you Javi. Maybe he thought you would hit it off and you could just move on with him, offered up to you like meat on a platter for your own convenience. Your mind runs through the last few hours in an instant, looking for any sign, any hint from Joel that was this coming. You find none.

He, blissfully unaware of every thought racing around your head, continues, rubbing salt in the wound.

“I just- I just don’t think I can do it again. I’m sorry.” He repeats.

Your heart is racing, your stomach doing backflips. This was inevitable. He’s probably met someone else. Someone who he wants more from than what he wants from you. Someone his own age who thinks the same things he does. Someone who understands the references and jokes that fly over your head. Someone who is the opposite of everything that you are insecure about. Someone powerful and equally matched for him.

But then he speaks again, quieter this time. “Listen baby, the waiting it’s just- I can’t do it anymore. How could one night a year ever be enough? I need ‘em all.”

Oh my god. You honestly thought you must have been dreaming for a moment, unable to process his words and reconcile them with actual reality.

He is silent for a long while and you realise he must be waiting on a response, but you can’t find words.

“I- I-“

You hesitate and he cuts you off. His voice is guarded now.

“No, yeah. You don’t have to explain. It’s whatever. I figured you must have someone else anyway. Didn’t wanna assume but… Yeah. It figures.”

“No.” You say quickly. “There’s no one else. There hasn’t been anyone else for- for years.”

A silence grows again. And eventually, you are first to fill it.

“How could there be anyone else?” You say. “I just stopped trying to find anyone else. It’s always been you for me, Joel. No point trying to fight that.” Your voice trails off to a whisper.

He puts a thumb under your chin, raising it so your eyes meet his for the first time during the exchange. His brown irises sparkle, lighter than you have ever seen them. He presses his lips to yours and kisses you desperately, muttering practically intelligibly about “My baby. God why didn’t I just ask sooner? My sweet baby. All mine.”

You drift off to sleep again, a tangle of limbs, breathing each other in. You don’t know what will happen in the morning, but at least you know that this time, it won’t be a year until you see Joel again.

Thanks for reading! Masterlist

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yandere-avatar · 7 months ago

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Yandere! Team Korra Headcanons

Wishing my friend a happy birthday! <3 [Even though he's kind of a loser]

You met Korra first, since she was the Avatar. You were smitten with her, but thought she was out of your league, so you didn't pursue

The next person you met was Bolin and he was sweet and quick to sweep you off your feet

You slowly become part of Team Avatar. You fit in well and Bolin makes it easier for you to fit in

When learning you are not a bender, Asami is quick to teach you how to defend yourself. Besides, you're dating boys who are brothers

You become very close and anyone can see it. In fact, Bolin becomes a little jealous and you both get into a fight

"Well, maybe we should break up!"

"Fine!"

"Fine!" And then you leave, letting your words really sink into Bolin's mind. He knows he fucked up

You do eventually make up again, but you don't want to date him again

Mako didn't like you for a while, for hurting his brother's feelings, but once he spends some one on one time with you, a thought in the back of his mind appears. You were out of Bolin's league and maybe it was for the best you both broke up... Besides, he could probably treat you better anyway

He tries to get you to like him, even though he knows it's wrong

Bolin's not happy about it, but seeing you happy makes him all giddy and happy, so he let's go of his resentment. Though, he's still protective over you, so if his brother breaks your heart, he'll beat him up

Asami finds out you're dating Mako, even though you tried to hide it, because they used to date, but she seems okay with it-

Well, that's not true. You suspect she's jealous- But not because you're dating him, but because he's dating you?

She'll bring up bad things he did when she was dating him

"I just want you to have the best, because that's what you deserve and while he is my friend even after everything, I still think you deserve better"

Girl was out to ruin your relationship from the beginning

Though, Mako being Mako, he does end up fucking up the relationship on accident

He tried to apologize, but you couldn't forgive him

You found comfort in Asami, just like she wanted

You avoid dating her for a while, in fear of being a 'Homie hopper'

When you and Mako get back on better terms, you talk about it with him

He seemed okay with it, though he'd rather you be single, but he knows Asami, so you'll still be close to him, even if you date Asami

Korra was always sweet to you, but never anything that made you think she felt something special about you

You two are friends, but don't date, not until later, when she starts doubting her abilities

You're there for her and she gains an emotional attachment to you

She realizes she's in love with you, but you're dating Asami

Asami has been so good to her, just like you, so she couldn't betray Asami like that

Bolin and Korra are much more laid back and more willing to let you do as you please

You can get away with a lot more with them. Especially Bolin

Asami and Mako are stricter and restrict what you can and can't do

Mako is the strictest and you can't get anything past him

Asami wants you to like her and when realizing you get along better with Korra and Bolin, she tries to be more laid back

Though, when Korra gets hurt, you try and stay with her

She tells you no- The world needs protector, especially since she can't do it. She also doesn't want you seeing her like this. She feels weak and helpless

Korra is the only one who hides her feelings for you

The only way you find out is because she accidentally lets it slip to Asami

Asami is surprisingly open to the idea of a throuple

She knows that she can't always protect you, but Korra can. You'd always be safe if you were with Korra

They try and make you seem weaker than you are, because they all want to protect you

They know that something is wrong with them and with each other, but they find peace in that they all feel the same way for you. They love you, so who cares if other people don't understand- They do.

#yandere korra x reader #yandere korra #avatar the legend of korra #the legend of korra #korraa x reader #legend of korra #avatar korra x reader #bolin x reader #yandere bolin x reader #yandere mako x reader #yandere mako #mako x reader #yandere asami sato x reader #yandere asami x reader #yandere asami sato #asami x reader #team korra x reader

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vyl3tpwny · 1 year ago

Text

Music Genres

When I was kid, you would have probably heard me say something like “I don’t believe in genre labels”. To a degree, there is still something about that sentiment that I agree with; I don’t think you can really put music and styles of music in neat little boxes. But otherwise, I was pretty much wrong about everything else.

Let’s go over that.

pictured: Mala, one of the godfathers of roots Dubstep

—

To be blunt, “genre” isn’t just about approximating what a song sounds like. If you say “I love pop music”, that honestly doesn’t mean much. The more specific you get, the more you will approach something someone can imagine like “I like experimental progressive noise pop music”. Ok, I can start to imagine things that likely approach what you're talking about, but even then it will usually not help someone fully understand what something truly is. In categorizing and approximating music styles, genres only go so far. So what makes them important then?

Well, not to say that approximating a style when describing an artist to someone is a bad thing or that doing so isn’t meant to be valued, but it’s hardly the only reason these labels exist. Importantly, “genre” helps establish culture, history, and a musical identity. So when you're trying to tell someone you're listening to a "progressive rock” project, you’re not just imagining odd time-signatures and complex riffs, you’re also meant to understand and consider that whatever is being described as to you has some sort of relevance or importance with regards to the history behind progressive rock; the culture of college bands in the UK, the sound that the punk movement revolted against, the progression of musical storytelling in rock music since the late 60’s and early 70’s, stuff like that. There’s a distinct culture and history you can pinpoint and understand when you describe something as being progressive rock and you can’t just go around calling any complex electric guitar oriented music "progressive rock" unless it has those specific ties as well as understanding and iteration of the roots.

pictured: Genesis, because progressive rock mention

—

Genre labels help to clarify what kind of culture and histories a music project is being associated itself with and where a lot of its inspiration comes from. This is much more compelling reason for underlining the importance of genre labels and why they should be used correctly.

So, there is something I need to get off my chest then. There are a lot of misuses of genre labels all over the place, especially online. And I’m not talking about saying something is “Alternative Rock” when it’s clearly some kind of “Folk Rock” record instead. What I’m talking about is something like “Dubstep”.

Even as recent as a few years ago, I started personally reclaiming the term “Dubstep” as a genre label to describe any bass-adjacent music. At the time I did this, I thought it was cool, because the term Dubstep had been dubbed (pun intended) to be cringeworthy lexicon to some people. And while I feel that’s a noble reason to reclaim something like that, because some weirdos think it's cringe, in this case I actually think it’s wrong.

The term “Brostep” has been used to describe any non-roots bass-oriented music that originates from the proper roots Dubstep. It’s a term I didn’t like FOREVER, especially because the phrase was derived as a generalization of the kind of people who tend to listen to it. However, I actually think that Brostep is a title that people should be more comfortable and confident with labeling things as.

The original Dubstep came as a result of Jamaican immigrants bringing Dub music to the UK, which then fused with the remnants of 2-Step Garage which was prominent in the 90’s just years prior. Timbah.On.Toast made a great video called All My Homies Hate Skrillex and it is a really good breakdown of what separates roots Dubstep from the Americanized Brostep, which came after it. I think everyone knows by now that I have a deep, deep love for EDM based Broste and I am the biggest Skrillex fangirl alive. So being both a Brostep and Skrillex superfan, please understand that I think the video is one of the most important things you can watch as an EDM enjoyer.

Conflating the term Dubstep with things that aren’t actually Dubstep is honestly a slap in the face to all of the pioneers of Dub and Dubstep, which famously were both pretty much ENTIRELY invented by black people. I think it’s fair to say that incorrectly labeling music in this way has racist implications. It dishonours and twists the legacy of the music. You can find og Dubstep to listen to on the RYM Ultimate Box Set > Dubstep page. Check some of that out, then listen to some 2010, 2011 Skrillex and see how different things really went.

It confused me at first when I was a teenager, I didn't understand why so many people hated Skrillex back in the day. I came to realize so much of the hate wasn’t even really with regards music itself, but the total lack of understanding or care for the roots of the genre, which all of his work was founded upon and he then subsequently bastardized without caring at all. It was pure disrespect, it was practically cultural erasure and so many people will now only know of Dubstep as “that Skrillex transformer screech music”. Yeah. It actually fucking sucks.

But there is a LONG history of black music being erased from history and being undermined, whether entirely intentional or due to systemic unawareness.

I saw a post the other day talking about how it sucks that so much music is just lumped into being “video game music” when so much of this stuff has deep roots and cultural significance. The first example pointed how a lot of acid jazz music is just described as “Persona music” by the layperson now. Meanwhile, Acid Jazz as a genre is a huge development on things like roots jazz, disco, funk, and hip hop music. You know. All genres that were invented by black people. Fascinating, right?

Jungle music was also mentioned. And this one is very particular for me. Jungle music, when not being generalized as "PS1 Music", is often just called drum & bass or breakcore (also please Google the difference between breakbeat and breakcore, thanks) which are all fundamentally misunderstanding what Jungle music even is. Much of Jungle music, AS MANY THINGS DO, finds VERY prominent roots in Reggae, Dub, and sound system culture in Jamaica as well as countless other prominently black communities in the UK.

But it doesn’t stop there.

If you’re unfamiliar, there is a genre called “IDM”, otherwise known as Intelligent Dance Music. When I was a kid, and I first heard that word, I immediately was like “that is the most pretentious, stupid thing I’ve ever heard”. Eventually as I grew up, I just stopped thinking about that and started referring to more music as IDM. This style of music is generally characterized with “complexity” and being “not much danceable”. While I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the music that is called IDM, I do think there’s everything wrong with the term IDM, intelligent dance music.

When asked how he feels about being labeled as an IDM artist, Aphex Twin responded:

"I just think it's really funny to have terms like that. It's [basically] saying 'this is intelligent and everything else is STUPID.' It's really nasty to everyone else's music."

pictured: Aphex Twin, the funnyman himself

—

I think most people would agree with this sentiment. It’s so strange to call one kind of music “intelligent”, out of the hundreds of thousands of genres out there. But let’s bring this back to Jungle music. The reality is that IDM started to become a term around the same time that Jungle music became prominent, in the 90's. Both styles of music are complex, introspective, skittery, and chaotic (but refined and often disciplined) genres. Except, of these two, Jungle music was the one pioneered primarily by black artists. IDM was a sort in competition with Jungle. To therefore call IDM “intelligent” in comparison to Jungle music ... well. I don’t feel like I really have to explain why that’s fucked up.

A lot of people have proposed different names for IDM. A quick look on reddit yields things like “Experimental Electronic” and “Brain Dance” (which was coined by Aphex Twin's label). Me personally, the term “Electro-Prog” comes to mind. Sounds cool.

Similar conversations are presently being had about the term “Riddim”. This brings us back to the dubstep side of this discussion again. Riddim, as an EDM genre, is an offshoot of Brostep music that focuses a lot on repetition over the downbeat, maintaining an insanely distorted sound design, a lot more than the average Brostep song. However, the term “riddim” originates — yet again — from the Jamaican Patois for “rhythm”. And Riddim as a musical style in Jamaica is actually more associated with things like dancehall and reggae, rather than the commercialized "Riddim" that is several hundred times removed from its own roots.

Last year, musician INFEKT proposed that what most EDM listeners call “riddim” should be referred to instead as “Trench” in an article on their website. This proposed name is derived from Getter’s use of the term on his 2014 record “Trenchlords Vol. 1”. I don’t personally know how much I resonate with the term, but whatever the consensus is, I don’t think we should be conflating a westernized, commercialized, and EDM-centric genre like this to Jamaican roots music. Over and over again, it seems that black music is constantly overwritten by developments like this, so I think more care needs to be taken in not allowing that to happen.

As a side note, a lot of people online seem very keen on appropriating Jamaican Patois quite often? There are so many examples of this. When the term “Bomboclaat” started making the rounds on Twitter a few years ago, so many white people were quick to either talk wildly about the term and trend or otherwise start saying it as well. There was a fucking article that sought to answer “The Bomboclaat >> Meme << Meaning Explained”, like they’re not dissecting an element of Jamaican slang lol. Then there was a period of time where people were constantly saying things like “On Jah?” as a stand-in for “On God?” even though this, again, is Jamaican Patois. And even now, you have tons and tons of non-black people going everywhere being like “what is blud waffling about?”, the phrase “blud” ONCE AGAIN also being Jamaican in origin.

I shouldn’t even have to explain what makes these kinds of appropriations weird and messed up. But black people lose jobs and are denied basic things in life over their hair styles, their expressions and slang, and so many other things that a white person can just appropriate and face zero consequences whatsoever for.

That aside, aside. Understanding and labeling genres correctly is such a big part of music history and highlighting and preserving cultures worldwide. When efforts are made to undermine the meaning of a genre label or otherwise use it incorrectly, so much damage is done to the communities and people groups that innovate and pioneer this art to begin with.

For these reasons, I will gladly use the term Brostep. I will happily call things Electro-Prog. And when you talk about genres like Jungle and Dubstep, say it with your whole chest. Be proud of the human race, show respect and love for the people who have forged the greatest parts of music with their bare hands. We will always stand on the shoulders of giants as musicians, so instead of pretending you yourself are the giant, build monuments and maintain the history of these people. You as an artist are nothing without them.

pictured: Augustus Pablo, one of the most important innovators of Dub. Without him, and without many of his contemporaries, I would reckon that half or more of all modern music would simply not exist.

CONTENT WARNING FOR THIS FINAL SECTION, THERE ARE LIKE LOTS OF STRANGE SLURS AND RACIST VIBES.

—

One last thing I wanna mention, this is slightly tangential but I think it's relevant to this conversation. It's always weird how lots of websites categorize things like this:

From Big Fish Audio... "G**sy*? "World/Ethnic Loops & Samples"? What the fuck are you talking about. Seems like racism to me.

On Loopmasters they have a "World" section. Any Americanized genre gets its own category, but the entire continents of Africa and Asia as well as the country of India and region of the Middle East (which are part of Asia, hope this helps btw) and lastly South America are stuffed into the nebulous "World Label". Seems like racism to me. Are you telling me you weirdos can't figure out a better way to represent these things?

But then Psy Trance gets its whole entire own category? Aren't there only like five people who listen to Psy Trance? /hj . But like come on.

Shoutout to WA Productions for categorizing a universe of suspiciously mostly black music as """Urban"""". And this company is a dime a dozen, hundreds of corpos do this shit.

East fucking West, what is this dude. There is a racism happening, I just know it. Please give me a count of how many poc are on payroll at your company, I am so curious.

And while we're at it, East West, what is this. Tell me. Fucking tell me.

Thanks for reading.

#vyop

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8ttached · 8 months ago

Text

"One last time"

pairings - fontaine x blk fem reader

a/n : hey guys! I haven’t posted here in so long i hope y'all still hungry for Fontaine fics… but srsly came back with an overwhelming amount of love thank you all so much oh em geeee!! This was a scrap and I’m sure y'all can tell but bear with me lmaoo I'm thinking about making a pt2 just cus I feel like the plot/smut ratio is a little unfair (sorry) but anyway enjoy bookies!!!

Warnings - 18+ smut minors dni!!, public sex, breakup/makeup sex, mentions of aave/n-word, more so plot than smut.

“I think we should stop seeing each other.”

the last thing you said to Fontaine before you guys became no-contact for weeks. Lately, you've been worried about Fontaine both mentally and physically. Losing homies and being around streets he got no business being in. but every time you mention any concern for him, his ears go mute. Him saying shit like “I’m cool” and “I’m fine” never cleared your cloud of fear. Yet, he continued his shenanigans. You knew as someone who grew up with a good family and a great upbringing, you shouldn’t be dealing with someone as reckless as him let alone dating. But deep down you loved him. You loved how he had a soft spot for you, or how he always reassured you whenever you were feeling unmotivated or unwell, even when he’d run baths and rub your feet as you rested. You knew Fontaine was a good person, all you wanted was for him to be more careful.

You told yo-yo about your recent breakup and all she could say was

“I told you niggas ain’t shit, at least Fontaine isn’t.” she’s folding her clothes while you sit at her house head to the knees seconds away from breaking down. “He coo’ as a friend but relationship? Girl…. If toxicity was a city, that man would be mayor, believe that!” she whistles. She always did when she talked about anyone. Both bitches and niggas. You didn’t know how to live without him. Not only was he your lover, but he was your friend. Best friend at that. You’ve been through thin and thick together. Being each other’s comfort on different days and different nights. What were you thinking? You couldn’t live without him.

This was three weeks ago

Now, you're sitting at your desk organizing your planner, adding stickers, and color-coding events with colored pens and highlighters till you get a call. You look at your phone and notice the call came from an unknown number. “Now who the hell..” you whispered to yourself. It didn’t take till the 5th ring for you to just say fuck it and answer. You held the phone up to your ear, slowing down your breathing to try and hear something from the other end, till your heart dropped.

“y/n?”

The familiar deep voice. The tone, the way he said your name, everything made your eyes widen from realization.

It was Fontaine.

You frown your eyebrows as your throat tightens. What happened to seperating? What happened to no contact? You felt sick. all of your love, your concerns, and your worries for Fontaine came all at once. You gasped lightly as you whispered his name.

“I miss you, I wanna see you again”

Your heart sinks, just when you’ve already heard enough. You ended things with Fontaine. You were done with him. He should be done with you, so why is he calling you? and from an unknown phone number at that? “See me again? Fontaine, what do you not understand by separating? Your tone obviously sounded pissed. You were upset. This wasn’t gonna help anything between you guys. But deep down, you were happy to hear from him. You were more than glad to know that he’s still alive and okay.

“Look, I know we suppose to be alone n shit but lemme at least see yo’ pretty ass one last time, end things on good terms.”

One last time.

You take a deep sigh.

“That’s it, one last time”

You tried to exchange a place to meet up but he insisted to pick you up and take you out for “lunch n shit.” You started getting dressed, wearing something casual but sexy, to remind Fontaine of what he’s gonna miss out on. Wearing your favorite perfume combinations, lathering your deep color legs with cocoa butter. you made sure to throw on anything Fontaine couldn’t resist. As soon as you heard the two honks from out your window, you knew it was go time.

You open the door to Fontaine smoking. The blunt between both his thick lips and his rough fingers, the view of it could make you bite your lips. Fuck the lunch date and fuck the back seat you needed him in the driver’s seat right then and there! But you wasnt gonna admit that especially with the position you were currently in. he noticed your googly eyes toward him causing his lips to sneak a smile. “Y’tryna smoke?” he lends you the blunt but you shake your head as you shake your hand in the same direction. “I’m here for lunch, not no smoke sesh” you declined. “Mkay” he sets the blunt down as he shifts the gear and drives off. slouching on the car seat, left-hand steering while the other on his thigh, manspreading with the most obvious tent in his pants. The view made your legs quiver.

“You mind if we make a stop real quick?” the male asks without moving his sight away from the street. “Nah do what you gotta do.” you weren’t expecting anything crazy, but you also weren’t expecting him to park in some random ass empty parking lot. “I’d be lying if I said I ain’t miss you,” Taine says. But it was quiet. So quiet that it took time to understand what he said. “taine, don’t start this shit with me, I came here for lunch, not so you can convince me to stay with you while you do what I left you for.” your tone started from upsetness to disappointment. “I love you, and there ain’t nothing that’d change it, but it’s draining having to worry about where you are and even if you’re alive” You look down as you fidget with your hands. “I had to grieve someone who’s still here so I wouldn’t have to once you’re gone.” he understood how you felt but unlike you, he had a rough upbringing. Being around drugs and introduced to dealing at a young age. of course, it was gonna be hard and nearly impossible to get out of what he started in. he loved you dearly but he knew it would be a crazy idea to just up and go. He sighs as he licks his lips. “Lemme try to figure shit out, I ain’t promising nun, but I’ll try to reduce all the crazy shi, ight?” you look at him with deception. “You sure? I don’t gotta worry about whether ya ass is injured or dead?” you frown. “I ain’t say allat, I said ill try. It’s gonna take time” you sigh. You’re more than happy that Fontaine is at least trying to get out of what he’s in. The awkward silence filled the room quickly.

“But, until then” Fontaine stretches as he lets his seat down. “How bout you tell me why you came out like that, just for lunch” he mocks you as you smack your lips at the question. “Damn, I can’t look good now?” you smile, analyzing Fontaine. You knew Fontaine for years. You knew what he liked and when he liked it, and as of right now, he was ready to take ya ass to poundtown. “Nah, unless there’s a reason you wore them scents ykno’ i like.” you had that man looking up and down in greed and lust and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t feeling the same way either. After moments of intense eye contact, you were on top of Fontaine. grinding your sweats on his jeans, moaning through the messy, passionate kiss, hands holding his locs, desperate for any and all of Fontaine. Hands gripping your ass through your sweatpants, seamlessly and eagerly pulling them off while kissing your glistening breasts as he pulled down the zipper, teasing you as he planted hickies from the neck down. Lord, how were you gonna explain to yo-yo how they suddenly got there?

You knew this was wrong, you knew ‘one last time’ would turn into multiple. But you couldn’t stop.

“I missed you so much, I missed this” he mumbled in between each kiss. Each one being sloppier and more passionate. You couldn’t say anything. You were so caught up in the pleasure that all you could do was sigh and moan. “Damn I see you missed me too” he grins as he rubs his fingers on your clit, spreading the wetness all over your inner thigh. “Don’t you think that’s why I-” You get interrupted by the male’s thick fingers teasing his way inside. You couldn’t do anything but grip his shirt and rub yourself against him to get anything from him. “Please don’t stop Fontaine..” you gasp, lying your forehead against his shoulder. All you could do is gush and melt onto him. “Im not gonna stop ma, haven’t seen ya’ass in a month and i still know what you like” and with that you fell apart, cuming all over Fontaine hands. Rolling your eyes back and crying, practically screaming his name.

After a moment you finally catch your breath slightly raising your head up to look at Fontaine’s reaction and his cheesy ass was smiling. “Damn you must of really missed me” he laughs at the mess you have yet to see. “huh?” you sigh as you look back and notice a nice-sized wet spot on his pants. “shit im so sorry i didn’t mean to-” you get caught off by a heavy sigh “shit! how we supposed to eat when I look like I dun’ pissed myself” you laugh. “You can wear my sweater around your waist” you suggested but Fontaine had a different idea. “Nah, ima change at the house after i finish what you started” he lazily wraps his arm around you enjoying your defense argument on how he started this whole thing.

We all knew that one last time was gonna be a few.

#they cloned tyrone #fontaine #fontaine x black reader #fontaine x reader #tct #black reader #black women #black tumblr #8ttached's works⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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sehtoast · 8 days ago

Text

Tender Threads Ch 11 (Homelander x OC)

chapter eleven: when you bite the hand... (18+)

chapter directory | slow burn, hurt/comfort, fluff, spidersona as original character, original trans male character, smut, sublander

summary: absence makes the heart grow fonder, little spider.

Three days. Three days of nothing. Not a word in the halls of the tower, not a peep over text, no late night visits. Eye contact, though. That was constant. During meetings, every time they’d pass each other, from across rooms…

Ben’s not even sure what had happened that night. One minute he was blubbering his heart out to Homelander while it broke at the fact Homie thought he would ever do him dirty in such a cruel, malicious way, and then… nothing. Just a cracked rooftop and ringing ears from the sheer volume of his forceful takeoff.

He waited on that roof for an hour. Sent a couple texts. Watched from across the way as the disjointed band of mostly rejects that comprised the spider hero get-together went on. It was the first time he was actually going to go to one of those stupid things. It was supposed to remedy the miserable mood Benjamin had been drowning in all day which, of course, was only exacerbated after another chewing-out over the fact he hadn’t made up with his brother. He didn’t even bother showing up late. It was best not to spoil everyone else’s good night.

The day after, he felt like a husk. Ben barely even slept an hour that night, constantly roused over and over again by his overstimulated spider-sense going off at the smallest of things. He spent a fair amount of his time moping, occasionally venturing across the way to The Seven’s complimentary bar without any care to throw on his costume and protect his identity. No surprise that Maeve eventually caught him there for his third martini.

“Wait, it went well?” She’d asked in pure shock. Ben gave her the rundown on his week with Homelander, leaving out all the recent bits that would make him break his promise and potentially kick up some workplace rumors. Not that Maeve seemed the type. It was just better safe than sorry. “Jesus, I figured you’d drop dead by the end. You’re so soft.”

Ben just smiled and went wild with the martini shakers in each of his hands. “Pssh! Too bad I poured these already or I’d be halving your liquors. I’m not that bad!”

“I know.” She said, eyes falling to her empty glass. “He is.”

Nothing more was said on the matter, though the two shared their drinks together with casual banter on the state of affairs with the team– mostly, though, they just shit on Deep the whole time. And that? That's therapy, baby.

Later that night, Ben gave another shot at texting Homelander.

-i hope you’re doing okay -

He didn’t know what else to say, really. The bundle of texts he’d sent, all marked as read, rubbed salt in the wound as the cursor blinked at him over and over again. It barely took a minute for the new one to be marked the same.

“If you can hear me,” Ben whispered, skeptical that his voice would carry two floors up to those ultra sensitive ears of his, “I wish you’d talk to me…” He rolled over and pulled his blanket to his chin, shutting his eyes for what was ultimately going to be another night of unsatisfactory sleep. “Mm, oughta show up with more ice cream. That’ll get ya… Fuckin’ banana splits or something next time.”

Days two and three went about the same except for one teeny, fucked up detail. Swing around the city, burn out, head back, and then find out a plane dropped in the middle of the fucking ocean. It was almost strange to see Homelander on his screen. After a whole week of him, Ben feels like he should be listening to his star-spangled buddy tell the story himself. Instead, he gets to watch those eyes cry through his laptop while Homie milks the moment for the defense bill.

Gotta hand it to him, much as Ben hates the pandering to Vought's interests. Whatever Greek dude coined the term Kairos would be bowing at Homelander’s feet right now if they could see such an expert move. Ben huffed and shut the screen, sitting in silence to contemplate why their little falling out had him so worked up till his gut voiced its displeasure with his sporadic meal schedule.

He managed to run into A-Train in the elevator on the way down. The speedster gave him an odd look. To be fair Ben stuck out like a sore thumb in a tattered, hooded flannel, jeans, and scuffed up shoes.

“You new here?” A-Train had asked once the gaggle of businesspeople stepped off for their floor.

Ben, on his third day of hardly a wink of sleep, just jumped and dangled by the tips of his fingers from the ceiling. “Nah. Just not gonna dress to impress to go get food, y’know?”

“Man, I do love that party trick.”

“Thanks,” Ben hummed. “By the way, ‘grats on the race–”

Ding!

The doors slid open to reveal the absolute last person either of them wanted to see. He could practically feel A-Train’s mood sour in real time.

“Hey bros!” Chirped The Deep, sauntering in and slapping the button for his floor. Ben dropped from the ceiling and dug his nails into the palm of his hand to keep the look of sheer disdain from rooting itself on his face. “You guys goin’ down for grub?”

For fucks sake…

Which, of course, resulted in Ben’s plans to bask in the chaotic ambience of the cafeteria being stomped into a whole heap of nothing. Straight back to his room he went with extra seafood that he didn’t even technically want. But making The Deep squirm over a few fried shrimps and a crabcake? Worth it every fuckin’ time. Maeve would be proud; he knows it.

Benjamin checks his phone as he eats, pumping his fist in a mock victory of sorts. Not that every day in The Seven wasn’t damn near a vacation compared to regular non-superhero living, but tomorrow was an entire day off for everyone on the team not assigned to the Believe Expo. Ben in particular wasn’t chosen because he’d opted to make his nonprofit work pertain to uplifting queer youth and the Believe Expo was the last place that'd platform him for that move. Whoopsies…. not.

He’d rather not be there anyway.

Each buzz of his phone is like a knife to the heart, and the rare occasion it’s not Benjamin feels like a good enough reason to level the entire city. Homelander’s mind screams back and forth with ways to respond, ways to kill him, kiss him– anything and everything.

In the wee hours of the morning, he’d stopped by. Ben had finally managed to fall and stay asleep, and Homelander tried. He tried all day to float out from behind the exterior wall and into view of Ben’s window. He tried to convince himself that rapping his knuckles against it wouldn’t be the most terrifying thing he’s ever done, and he tried to remind himself over and over that Ben is kind.

Maybe that was the worst part. Kindness. All those stupid little acts. The ice cream, the banter, the attempts to know him and the way the bug held him so softly after the nightmares. By all rights, Ben should’ve taken a swing at him when Homelander had him pressed against that wall. Anyone else would've. Instead of laughing off the accusations, he fucking cried. Called him a friend… Said Homelander saved him from loneliness… Those innocent eyes carved slits into his heart with such ease.

He still hasn’t wrapped his mind around it. Homelander’s never heard such a sweet combination of words strung together just for him before. At least never in a way that didn’t reek of insincerity and opportunity. Every time he tries to make sense of it, his mind wanders back to the time he stole that featherlight kiss from Benjamin while he slept and how fucking good it felt. How warmth and electricity jolted through his body and left him floating in a blissful, excited haze. It drives him insane. His heart clenches every time. Yearning floods him, body and soul, and he becomes more lost than ever.

So he just… lurked. Observed. Took it all back to square one and stayed as close as he could while keeping as much distance as he could possibly stand. And when Ben fell asleep, he went inside. He hears it over and over again in his head as he takes in the sight of his sleepy little spider.

Johnny, wait!

Anyone else and he’d have turned around mid flight and crushed them into the fucking ground, stomped their head into a bloody fucking pulp for saying that . The fact he ever told Maeve was a fucking miracle in and of itself, and he’d thought he was fully committed to ensuring John remained a relic of the past. But his name sounds different on Ben’s lips. The product label rings with sticky, sweet endearment and all the gentle charm of the bug’s normal deep-set smiles. Even called out in frantic desperation, it still felt… good. Maybe it’s because of the nickname, but even unaltered was so…

Goosebumps erupt along his arms. That empty spot in the bed calls to him, but he knows he can’t. Ben’s out now, but the risk of waking him was so high… Homelander damn near darts when Benjamin shifts and mumbles in his sleep. He’s missed that little quality. Two nights with him was all it took to get hooked on those little ‘isms’ of his. The way he’d slide his legs together along the rough fuzz of the blankets, roll around a little– god, he liked that especially since sometimes they’d end up so close, and when he’d jolt awake…

He watches Benjamin shift once more and the blanket slips just enough to reveal a bare shoulder. His breath catches.

Oooh-la-la.

As if he hasn’t seen the bug bare from the hundreds of times he’s– okay, fine! Just one look…

With a tight gulp, he scans the length of Benjamin’s body, descending slowly from head to toe. His gloved fingers twitch, itching to shed their leather shell and slip under those blankets to touch the softness of his little spider’s flesh. He’s felt the weight of Benjamin pressed against his own body so many times. Two nights… just two fucking nights and Ben had tossed and turned into him more times than he could count. Restless little thing, but he always has been. Homelander would lay there all night yearning to let a hand slide over the bug’s abdomen and pull him closer, slip under his little shirt and–

He releases a tight exhale. His gaze falls between Ben’s legs and his tongue juts out to swipe his top lip. A pussy on a man was far from the strangest thing he’s ever encountered, but Ben made it look so fucking good. Maybe someday he could–

You could do it now if you weren’t such a baby.

But that would be… no. No, he can’t do that.

Well if you’re not gonna take from the source, you should grab a sample. A little something to keep as a souvenir.

Oh..? That was– that’s not an awful idea… Floating, he makes his way to Benjamin’s laundry basket, overflown, of course, since the bug was adamant housekeeping need not service his apartment whatsoever. Homelander slips a glove free and lets his digits fall against the mound of clothes. The first thing he snags is a t-shirt, pressing it to his nose to inhale deeply. His eyes roll back…

Bet he wore that one for a while.

The fabric was chock full of his scent, tickling that desperate little itch in Homelander’s brain. But that wasn’t quite the trophy he wanted. No, no… Neither shirts, nor shorts, nor sweatpants. His cock twitches in the confines of his suit the second his fingers graze the waistband of what he really wants.

You’ve struck gold.

He’s got them pressed to his nose in a fraction of a second, huffing slow, deep breaths. He could sustain himself entirely on the sweet aroma of Ben’s cunt– fuck, the taste. He has to know, he has to fucking know! Just one swipe of the tongue and–

He barely bites off the moan. His eyes go stark wide, terror coursing through his body in fear that Benjamin would rise at the sound. Homelander’s heart hammers at the thought and his whole body locks like a board, tongue trapped in place against the crotch of Ben’s drawers.

Nothing…

Thank fuck.

Ideally, he should bolt.

Finish your food, tiger.

But he didn’t need to be told twice. He locks the fabric between his teeth, suckling to draw out the flavor while he grows harder and harder against the cup in his suit until it's almost painful. Benjamin tastes fucking exquisite. He keeps his glazed eyes locked on the boy the whole time he indulges, scanning up and down his bare form, imagining it was that thick clit between his lips.

Credit where it’s due; he’s… tasty.

So good, so fucking– oh god…

Homelander lets a hand fall and press to his groin, rubbing firm and slow against himself. In a perfect world, it'd be Ben touching on him. Those gentle hands would unzip his pants and pull him free from his tight briefs. They’d grasp him so sweetly, stroke him softly, push him closer and closer to the edge of paradise. Oh, to come apart by Benjamin’s touch would be divine. Nothing could compare. He’d eat the boy’s pussy raw for just one measly little touch to his weeping cock. He’d do anything for it. He’d raze the world to ash for the chance to spread his legs and–

“Mmph!” He squeaks into the fabric, eyes screwing shut as he chokes off every sound, cock pulsing and spilling against his underwear. Each warm slither of come slicks his skin before inevitably soaking into his briefs. The aftershocks tingle through his limbs and haze his mind.

So good, so good, so fucking good…

And to top it all off, lady luck seems to be on his side. Benjamin doesn’t wake at his pathetic little noise. Homelander sighs and lets off, letting the silky boxer briefs slip from between his lips, trailing a string of saliva as he parts.

Now, throw them back in the basket and grab a fresh pair for later.

Fuck, that was a perfect idea. He rifles through again, smiling like the Grinch himself when his fingers find another pair. Ben won’t notice, right? It’s just one pair of underwear. Not like things didn’t get lost on occasion. Who hasn’t heard of a random sock being eaten by the dryer? Who’s to say it can’t do the same to underwear?

That’s the spirit. If you’re gonna fall into the bug’s web, we’re gonna at least make sure you’re comfortable in it. Now go clean yourself up and get to sleep. Gotta pander to all those god-fearing shit-for-brains tomorrow while they milk the plane crash.

That’s right, he’s got that expo tomorrow. Not a single part of him was particularly looking forward to it. He’d been hoping Ben would be there, but the lack of the bug’s name on the roster had left him infuriated. He went to Madelyn to demand a change, but she insisted his choice of nonprofit work was far too alienating for the demos that’d be there.

He floats to his balcony, recalling with near perfect clarity the way indignant fury filled his chest. Homelander simply scowled at her in the moment, but inside he pictured caging her head between his hands and squeezing until she was little more than pulp. She tried to soothe him. A hand on his chest, an invitation to join her on the couch, but he declined her. He'd never done that before. But he did, and it felt good.

After showering, Homelander curled up in bed. It’s not ideal anymore. The fur of his comforter and the silk of his sheets lack any of the coziness of Ben’s. Somehow, synthetic fibers and fuzzy, knitted blankets had become leagues better than the best bedding money could buy, and his last few days of sleep had been atrocious. Tonight, though, rest finds a way. Might have a little something to do with the garment he nuzzles his face into…

“Damn, you look rough.”

Ben pokes a meatball across his plate, watching it tumble aimlessly over mounds of saucy angel hair pasta. “Gee, thanks.” He hums. The little diner was loud as ever, but Jason clearly heard him anyway.

“You’re not like, killin’ yourself to do, uh… night shifts again, right?” The concern etched on his friend’s face is touching, but it does nothing to improve his mood. They’ve got, what, thirty more minutes? Fuckin’ lunch breaks…

“Nah,” Ben shakes his head, hand coming up to scritch at the scruff along his jaw. “Just— just a rough few days, y’know?”

“Felt,” Jase says, shoving a bundle of fries in his mouth. “Me and Dasia are having another fight, so I’m there with you.” Ben raises a brow for him to continue. “She’ll get over it, but she’s upset I’m still talkin’ to those dudes I met a few months ago at that club she hated.”

“You mean those–”

“Yeah, the ones I started buying from.” He says it like it’s no big deal, but Ben remembers. “They're cool though.”

It’d certainly be a case of the pot calling the kettle black if Benjamin, the vigilante, got up in arms about Jase, the enjoyer of substances, having his own not-necessarily-immoral hobbies. He gets the girlfriend’s gripe, though. Jason had a mean fight with addiction a couple years back, but today he claims to keep it all within moderation.

“Plus, they cut me a deal and she gets hers, so whatever.”

Ben skewers a heap of spaghetti and contemplates the borderline tasteless bite with its weird, chicken-y sauce while he listens to more ramblings. He wishes Jase would at least try to pry. He wants so fucking badly to be asked what’s wrong. Sure, he can’t say everything, but he just… he needs to say something. Fuck, a few weeks ago, him joining The Seven was all they talked about. Promises of an autograph from Maeve, fascination about the others and what they were like, all sorts of chances to spill the beans and talk about the occasional frustration. But now it’s all old news. No different than when they sat three rows away in their open layout office, clickety-clacking their lives away.

Even just blowing off some steam about his family situation would be a godsend, but he can’t find it in himself to interrupt anything Jason says. While he desperately wants to drop the heavy weight of his brother’s words and his mother’s insistence that he relent, Jase talks about the leaky faucet in his apartment and how his girlfriend wants to repaint the bedroom but the landlord’s an asshole and won’t approve it.

Ben wants to talk about how much he loved running around with Homelander. How it made him feel so fucking free. How, once the anxiety Homie initially caused faded, he found the American Jesus to be far less imposing and intimidating and way more enjoyable and just… just different. Homie showed him sights he never quite imagined seeing without a plane ticket and some chump taking up his armrest. He showed Ben the joys of running around the city with someone else, of sharing the setting sun and all the silly, stupid conversations he hasn’t had with anyone in so fucking long. Homelander lit up a part of Ben’s heart that hasn’t felt the beauty of unlimited companionship in so very long.

At some point, waking up to start their miniscule seven days together became the easiest thing in the world. And ending them together, falling asleep while some shitty documentary played became the best fucking part.

Someone to laugh with. Talk to.

Someone who made him feel less alone. Less isolated.

And now, someone to place a ten ton weight of sorrow on his heart. What if Homelander never talks to him again? What then? The thought alone makes Ben’s heart clench so hard it fucking hurts and it's weird that he's so affected by it. Other than regular meetings, run-ins, and the occasional pick-on-the-new-guy bullshit, that week was the most time they'd ever spent together. So, why..?

“– you gonna go or what?”

“Huh?”

“The siren,” Jason says as if it were so obvious. “Tell me Rapunzel’s not gettin’ lazy in that fancy tower.”

Ben breathes a weak laugh, shuffling out from the booth. “Nah. I’ll uh, I’ll V-Mo you for my food, yeah?”

“Don’t worry about it. Just go do what you do.”

How to apologize to a friend.

How to say sorry to someone.

He’s noodled through ten pages worth of search results and they all say the same thing. Bring a gift, pour your heart out, and hope for the best. But that doesn’t help because he already fucking knows that! Homelander could swing just about any act at any time, but this was just… daunting. Texting it was simply not good enough. He’s gotta do something, but what? What could he get for Ben? What could he say? ‘Sorry I smashed you into a wall and threatened to pick your arms and legs off.’ It’s just not enough! His frustration with the matter bleeds into everything he does.

Even his speech.

Homelander! Homelander! Homelander!

Not that it matters. They all loved it. But, when he was floating through the crowd, there was only one person whose opinion he was genuinely concerned about. When Benjamin sees it, hears it, what will his little spider think? He sold it so perfectly, swung everything just right to get the whole crowd on board with the defense bill.

So why, when he returns to the tower, does Madelyn berate him?

“You cannot be bad.”

He swallowed hard and took it. Let her give him that look and shake her head in disapproval. Even after telling her off last time, there’s still a part of him that can’t help but follow her every whim. Even when she’s beckoning him closer to join her on the couch, he follows like a dog to its master, salivating for a treat he knows deep down he’ll never get even as she undoes each button of her shirt.

Even reclined with his head in her lap, Madelyn only gives in halves, and yet she’s never gone this far before. Fingers substituting what he wants. Sweet coos to placate him. It’s more than he knows what to do with. But, even then…

“You have to be good.”

It’s still there. Disapproval. He’d done his tricks, but not to her liking. Never to her liking.

“And you have to listen to me.”

As if on queue, her words melt away the veneer she’d so carefully crafted.

“You’re my good boy.”

But he knows that’s not true. He knows it; he fucking knows it! Back and forth, up and down, every which way she can, Madelyn toys with him.

She was so harsh on you, echoes the sweet voice of his little spider. The taste of vanilla ice cream floods his mouth, overpowering the intricate flavor of Madelyn’s skin. It sings to him sweetly. You deserve better than that.

He does… He fucking knows it, too. Homelander lets his eyes flutter open, peeking up to find her staring down with a faux tenderness almost like what she saves for that spawn of hers. It’s sickening. She’ll never give him the real thing. Her eyes don’t twinkle for him. Not the way his do. They don’t light up at the mere sight of him. Even now, there’s an emptiness in there. She should smell different. Sweet and warm. He should be able to taste the love on her skin.

But he can’t.

He suckles harder, teeth pressing tighter to her knuckles bit by bit until she–

“Jesus Christ!”

He wouldn’t sever them. No, no, doing so would cost him dearly, but that? That sends the message. The warning. Even a good dog will bite once in a while.

“Get the fuck out!” She cries, eyes watering while she scrambles for the tissue box on the table. Blood drips from her digits, the crimson a strange juxtaposition to what she’d been teasing him with. It tastes of pennies on his tongue. Not at all the sweetness she’s always holding just out of reach.

He leaves, but not because she told him to. He wants to. Homelander charges through the hall with a newfound confidence. He passes door after door, dropping by the team’s bar for exactly the right touch. He knows where he wants to go now. Where he should’ve gone instead. Bottle in hand, he walks right in nice and quiet. His eyes roll at what his poor ears are subjected to.

“Looks like it’s official folks. You heard it here. This grave news, this stain on our nation’s history is here to stay.” Ben’s got that burnout’s mug on the living room TV. “The Spider-Man is truly part of our great country’s defenders. What this means for us going forward is a mystery, but, rest assured, I will be here to make sure he’s held accountable. Once a lawless vigilante, always a lawless vigilante!”

As soon as their eyes meet, all the bravado drains from his body. He can practically feel it slip from his head and out through his toes. Big, wide brown eyes stare into his. If not for that grating voice in the background, he might have thought time stopped.

“Hey…” Greets his little spider. It barely comes out as a squeak. Homelander takes in the sight of him. Scruffy cheeks, dark undereyes, the same outfit he’s worn for the last three days…

God, what a fucking mess.

Every smooth introduction fizzles away. Every slick word he’d thought up on the way over goes right down the fucking drain and he’s got nothing but raw nerves and that goddamn deer-in-the-headlights look he can never quite conceal. His fingers twitch and the glasses clink together. “Do you wanna…” Homelander tries, voice softer than he’d like it to be, trailing off. Instead of continuing, he just watches a big, bright smile start to spread across Ben’s face before the bug practically leaps from the couch. Arms wrap around his torso, pulling him in tight. Ben’s face finds its way into the crook of his neck, right where he belongs.

“–I have to wonder: what in the world was Homelander thinking bringing a miscreant on the team!?”

“Whatever you’re gonna say,” Ben mumbles against his skin. “Hell yeah.”

“Mm, well I could say anything now. Naked Twister?” Oh, how he loves the way his little spider’s cheeks burn red. It revives some of that lost confidence.

“Pffft,” Ben blows a raspberry that tapers into the most precious, perfect giggle. “Pop that bottle you might convince me to do wacky shit. Maybe.” Benjamin tugs him to the couch.

Homelander’s hands shake the slightest bit as he pours each glass. He’s not even sure what he grabbed, only that it was the biggest bottle in sight, so he just opts to show Ben the label when he inquires about the type.

“Oh, good pick. That’s like the only kind I enjoy."

“Well, wine’s about the only alcohol I don’t hate." What they'd trained his palate to tolerate. "You really don’t like it?” Homelander asks, swishing the contents of his glass that he’d be conditioned to enjoy long ago.

“Nah, not most.” Ben follows his lead and does the same. “I mean, this is great, though! That wasn’t to like– I’m not saying I don’t like you bringing it, I just…” He sputters. “You know what I mean.”

Homelander rolls his eyes, but the smile on his face paints a different picture. He sips at his glass, kicking his feet up on the little table in front of the couch to play into a sense of casualness. He practically prays Benjamin doesn’t bring up what happened between them days ago. “So, what’s the entertainment tonight? I’ve been bored these last few.” Not a total lie, but certainly not the full truth. Watching Benjamin could never be boring, but it was certainly less stimulating than actually sitting beside the bug.

With a soft hum of acknowledgement, Ben grabs the remote and starts flicking through channels. They pass by a few Vought features, but ultimately settle on Animal Planet. On the screen, a small jumping spider navigates the dense vegetation of its habitat to find a mate. There’s a touch of endearment to it. Homelander blames it on the critter’s technical association with the man beside him.

“The silken road to finding her is littered with the remains of unsuccessful suitors.”

“Little guy’s sporting your colors,” Homelander says between sips. The wee thing’s abdomen has speckles of red and blue, and its cute demeanor is all too perfectly in line with Benjamin’s. Suddenly, it begins waving its legs about in the air, shuffling from side to side. “Tell me you didn’t pick your theme off a jumping spider.”

“Now, what can he do to win her over? Dance. Dance for his very life.”

“...maybe.”

The thought of Ben sorting through pictures of arachnids to find the perfect inspiration brings a tight, amused grin to his lips. Instead of teasing, though, he opts to lean back and enjoy the poor thing’s desperate attempt to woo the mate attempting to murder him.

“He’s done his bit and satisfied her needs. But, now, her need is over. So she kills him anyway.”

“Aww, no!” Ben cries, hands on his head as he seemingly mourns the insect. “Poor dude… I feel it though, buddy. Dating and spider life ain’t for the weak.”

“Women,” Homelander mouths silently with a smack of his lips. He draws parallels to his own situation with Madelyn, chewing at his lower lip while he contemplates it. Once upon a time he’d lose himself in thought over anything and everything about her, but the presence beside him and the duty of refilling their glasses keeps him from drifting away for too terribly long.

After a few more segments, a small break to put in a Vought-A-Burger order through V-Dash, and some lighthearted commentary, the series comes to an end just as easily as their bottle. Ben grins, sitting sideways to face him, head leaned against the back of the couch. “Hey, did you get your script yet for ‘Super America’ or whatever that shit’s called?”

“Mhm.” He fibs. In truth, he hasn’t. He usually gets them a day or so before, but it made no difference. Not like there was much he’d have to learn. Baseball, America, mom and dad, whoop, whoop, whoop. Same thing every time.

“It’s so weird.” Ben gripes. “I picked mine up yesterday. They got me set up as some kid from Queens.”

“Really?” There was some interest there. Benjamin’s situation would be a touch different than the others on the team. Much like his own story, Ben’s would lack any truth. After all, the bug didn’t want to give a single inch of his real identity to the public. Maybe it was the teeny-tiny buzz from the wine, but there’s a lurching feeling in his chest knowing Benjamin’s situation was even mildly similar to his own.

“Yeah. I’m apparently a twenty-two year old who grew up right on the poverty line, played lacrosse in high school– whatever the fuck that is; I don’t speak sports– dropped out of college, and apparently I’ve got three younger sisters.” Ben snorts a laugh, snickering at the absurdity of it all with a big, wide grin. Seems like the wine settled in nicely. “How’s yours?”

“Oh, you know. Baseball. Sunshine. Suburban paradise.”

“How much of it’s legit?”

“None.” He scoffs, bitterness brewing in his gut at the thought of every goddamn lie he’s gotta tell. “Absolutely fuckin’ none of it.” He doesn’t know why he admitted it. Maybe it just feels… safe to say to Ben. Safe to admit the lies to someone else whose entire life is about to be corporate vomit, too.

“Oh,” Ben arches a brow, wine-drunk whimsy fading from his face as it's replaced by some sickening blend of curiosity and concern. He shuffles a little closer as if to express his devoted attention. “Well… what was it like then?”

He remembers when the boy asked this the first time in that cramped little dressing room. Just one week ago… It feels different this time. Less like some wannabe sniffing his ass for favor and more like a friend. Someone who cares, or has a reason to. Fuck, he hopes so, anyway. “Not…” Homelander’s gaze falls to his hands. He picks nervously at his nails and he waves his socked foot from side to side on the table. Rehashing it too much brings back the dreams… He exhales tightly. “Not good…”

What are you doing?

“So all that Leave it to Beaver type stuff..?”

“Fake,” he rasps. He’s not even sure why he’s doing this. Sympathy is the last thing he wants, and he’d probably laser Ben’s head off if he even sniffed a lick of pity from the boy. But… it feels good to say it. Somehow, some way, it’s safe.

“Huh…” Ben sighs, shifting a little closer. He crosses his legs and sits less than a foot away now. “I don’t wanna pry, but if you ever wanna like, get some of that off your chest…”

He should’ve never drank anything. He can barely get more than a weak buzz, but fuck if it didn’t have him doing stupid shit anyway. As much as he wants to grit his teeth and give Ben a strict, cruel ‘no,’ he doesn’t. Instead, almost as if it had a mind of its own, his right hand creeps off his lap and halfway between them. Bare and vulnerable. He always sheds his gloves in Ben’s home…

Soft, warm digits curl around his. They give a small squeeze and it’s like he can feel them in his chest, wrapped around his heart. “I…” He doesn’t know what to say. He dares to look over and his gaze flickers back and forth between those rosy lips and void-like eyes. He could get lost in either so easily. “I, uh…”

Those pretty lips quirk into a sweet smile and he fucking catches himself inching forward.

“Did…” Homelander utters, clearing his throat weakly. C’mon, fucking think! “Did you… did you see my speech?”

You might actually be an idiot.

“Y-Yeah!” Ben chirps, leaning back a bit.

Was he also..?

“You were awesome up there! I’m not really on the whole god-fearing patriotism train myself but like, you just have such a way with crowds. Even I was feeling it, y’know?” The bug’s smile could practically melt ice, but it builds his ego sky high instead. “I thought the same back when you showed up at my big reveal thing. Like, yeah, the crowd cheered for me, but they went bonkers for you. Kinda envy it, to be honest.”

It’s nothing he doesn’t know, but it tickles like he’s never heard it before. His gaze falls once more to Benjamin’s lips, dancing down to his neck where an oddity rests. A black cord of sorts.

“Man, Starlight though…” He half hears. Benjamin’s never worn jewelry before. “Dude, I wanna beat the brakes off Deep so bad after that.” What if there was… no, no– that can’t be right. Ben didn’t see anyone but that deadbeat friend of his and that stink bug, Webweaver. There couldn’t be someone else vying for his little spider’s attention, right?

“Mhm,” he hums absently, hand slipping from Ben’s to travel up. He hooks a finger under the cord and slides down until the pendant slips out from beneath the dark edge of Ben’s shirt collar. He rolls it between his thumb and forefinger. “Where’d this come from?” Homelander murmurs, interrupting whatever sympathies Benjamin had been expressing for Starlight.

“Oh, this? I’ve had it for years. Was a present from my great-grandma.”

Good. If there had been any competition…

“She meant a lot to me growing up, so I've kept it this whole time.” Ben continues. Homelander slips the pendant back beneath the bug’s shirt, but he doesn’t withdraw his hand. Instead, he plants his palm softly on the side of Ben’s neck, a far cry from the threatening grip with which he’d held it just days prior. His thumb slides back and forth over stubbly little hairs.

A cat food commercial is the only noise interrupting the moment, but he hardly cares. Homelander rests his thumb over Ben’s pulse, feeling the gentle thrum that’s just a little faster than a resting rate should be. A soft grip wraps around his wrist and that warm, earthy gaze meets his.

One little tug and it’d be perfect. Their lips would graze each other and Homelander could relive that bliss once more, only this time… this time Ben could too. They could both feel those sparks… Ben could kiss him back, return every glide of his lips and swipe of the tongue. God…He practically can smell the excitement radiating from Ben’s body in more ways than one. The bug wants it too. He can tell. And yet, he can’t bring himself to act.

You cannot be bad…

“What?” Ben whispers. His cheeks are a light pink, eyes twinkling like stars. “Do… Do you–”

Knock, knock, knock!

The sound from the apartment door rips them away from their moment. Who the fuck could possibly be visiting so late? He’s got half a mind to just shoot a beam of heat right through the door.

“Oh, that’s our food!” Ben scrambles, hopping over the back of the couch to scurry to the door. Behind it is some quivering kid holding the burgers they’d ordered almost a half hour ago. “Hey, thank you! Sorry about the long elevator ride…” The bug tells him. The delivery boy stutters his gratitude and goes on his way after thoroughly ruining their moment.

Coulda, woulda, shoulda, eh sport?

“Time to see if the Big Homie Burger lives up to the hype!” Ben teases as he spreads out their late night snacks. Homelander doesn’t even like any of it, but he demanded Ben give his branded burger a shot after the bug admitted he’d never eaten at Vought-A-Burger before. ‘Listen,’ he’d said. ‘I like junk food as much as the next guy, but frying stuff in lard is crazy work.’ Which Homelander couldn’t even argue with.

The wrappers are labeled with names… one for Ben C.– extra pickles, and another for Johnny H.– no pickles. And there it is again… that funny feeling deep in his chest. Like fleshy flowers blooming right between his ribs, sprouting to soak up the torrent of emotion that floods his body at the sight of such a juvenile yet affectionate take on his given name.

“Eugh,” Homelander grits as he flips the top bun off. “They gave me pickles. Fucking morons.”

“Sweeeet!” Ben chirps. He slides his sandwich wrapper over and gently taps the corner to indicate where their new home should be. “I’ve come for your pickle~”

Homelander cocks an eyebrow. “They gave me more than one, though.” Unless Ben meant–

The bug snorts a laugh. “It’s from SpongeBob! But yeah, I’ll take all of ‘em.” Homelander gets to work on removing the foul ovals from his food while Benjamin reaches for the remote. Within a few minutes, the cartoon in question is playing. Homelander’s confusion only grows with every passing minute.

“F is for friends who do stuff together!”

And yet, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

Ao3 Link HERE

#homelander #homelander x oc #homelander fanfiction #homelander smut #homelander x reader #the boys #spidersona x canon #the benlander agenda #oc x canon

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coyote-cowboy-2628 · 9 months ago

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auuaghhh I'm genderfluid so idk if I count, apologies if no 😭❤️

i was thinking like romantically suppressed/closeted long term battle buddies/bffs reader x keegs? maybe something happened one evening or someone got a gf and it's psychic damage sorrysorry have a good day!!

YOU 100% COUNT DARLIN’🫶 don’t be sorry for anything, these requests make my day😭❤️

So..I’m thinking, Male/Reader with a scared Keegan that doesn’t think he is gay. Reader is just his battle buddy, his best friend. Even if Keegan is gay, if he confessed, would reader feel the same?? Keegan has known the reader for YEARS. But has never..asked about sexual preferences. He’s confused, but then he tries to deny it by one evening getting a girlfriend and Reader finds out. It sends Keegan into a really low point, he is miserable, while reader is panicking thinking he doesn’t have a shot. Until they finally confess 😸

Warnings:LOTS OF FLUFF, fake love, un-enjoyable sex, unprotected p in v—Keegan is a closeted queer✌️ implied male reader and reader is taller than Keegan. Slight smut. It’s gay people. If you don’t like it then leave. 🫶 (don’t know if I missed anything)

(Minors + fem aligned please don’t interact!)

Story below the cut!

Keegan had always been a straight guy and never really indulged in anything related to sexuality. That was, until he met you. He was mesmerized at first sight, though he shook it off, for years. He bottled up his feelings and thought it was wrong. That he should have a girlfriend, not a boyfriend. That he should be into the girls with long blonde hair and blue eyes, skinny waists and the ones that play sports, (no offense to anyone)the girls that have their voice to damn high it’s like talking to a dog’s squeaky toy. He wasn’t supposed to be attracted to you with your H/C hair and your E/C eyes, with your deeper voice and slightly muscular build.

It had been 10 years since you and Keegan met, you guys had formed a close bond and great friendship. You two were homies, to say the least. Until recently, you two hadn’t thought anything of it. You and Keegan were just friends, right?

It wasn’t uncommon for Keegan to not talk to people, he was quiet, much like you, but he would absolutely talk your damn head off. Hours and hours of him rambling on about military tactics and sniper rifles, hell, even DOGS. How much he loved Riley and how he one time tried to steal the little German Shepherd from Hesh. It was nice for the grueling soldier to relax once in a while, especially when you were around. He wound trail behind you like a lost puppy and just stare at you, he stared at everyone, but you were different.

He looked at you with these star struck eyes as he listened to you. But that loving gaze started to fade away when he started to feel weird around you. He realized he was getting attached. He got all hot, and Keegan was a very cold person, personality wise and temperature wise. He found himself not being able to sit still, always having to move or fidget with something, when you reached something off a higher shelf for him once, he got all bubbly.

You and him had been friends for years, why was it just changing now?

After a particularly tough and stressful mission, Keegan decides to go to a pub to get some drinks and get away from everyone. Until one girl came up to him, beautiful long blonde hair, curves, blue eyes, long eyelashes and a cute little smile on her face. Keegan didn’t know what to do at first when she started drinking with him, exchanging numbers, and getting a little handsy. It felt gross, but Keegan had forced himself to like it. The images of you still flickering in his head as she laid in his bed, pinned under him, her shirt unbuttoned. His mind trying to think it was you under him, you loving on him, you getting your guts pounded by him.

Maybe it was just..his feelings, or the bourbon flowing through his body, but he felt so aroused that he couldn’t help himself. Unbuttoning his pants and mindlessly slipping his dick inside her without thinking twice, it felt so gross to him, but it was too late. He fucked her into the mattress, grunting and huffing as he tried to get off but he just couldn’t.

Until he felt woozy, she had came and that was enough for him, he collapsed into the bed next to her and fell asleep. The next morning, he apparently had a damn girlfriend?..Keegan told Hesh about it, he had a girlfriend. And knowing Hesh, he couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut so word got round that Keegan has someone. Then that word got out to you, it absolutely broke your heart, shattered it to fragments. You felt so angry and frustrated that when you saw Keegan, you went the other way to your barracks, curled up in a ball and let out a few silent tears. Girlfriend huh? Out of the blue like that?..

Keegan was absolutely miserable, he didn’t want to be in this horrible relationship with a girl he just met. That he doesn’t know. He is forced to tell her he loves her and it burns his throat, so he goes to the only place he feels safe. You, he hurriedly walks to your barracks and frantically knocks on the door.

“Kid, god damnit—let me in! Please!..” he begged, his voice breaking slightly.

“What?..” your reply weakly as you open the door, Keegan pushes himself past you into your room. “Keegan?..” You say softly, your eyes red and puffy from crying. He was on the verge of tears as well.

“Listen..we’ve known each other for a long time….and apparently in my 38 years of life, I hadn’t found out who I was. Until now..I love you, I’ve loved you since the day I met you, I thought it wasn’t love—but it’s even deeper than that now.” Keegan said, eyes watery.

“I just need you to know that I don’t want to be with her—I want to be with you..because you’re the one I love.” Keegan says, he takes a step closer to you and takes your hand in his, his hands are cold and trembling, “Please tell me you feel the same..” Keegan whispered.

You seem shocked, some tears rolling down your face, “fuck it.”, You say and gently grab his face, kissing his lips with tears running down both your faces. Your bodies relax and your finally met with the relief you needed all along, that was right infront of you. Each other.

(AHHHH I love how this came out, please leave more suggestions for stories🫶🫶🫶)

#call of duty ghosts #cod ghosts #cod x male reader #male reader #cod keegan #call of duty #keegan russ x male reader #keegan russ cod

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foot-tea · 8 months ago

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God i hope Jude B just fucks around and enjoy his youth ( the homie ain’t even 21 🫠😳😳😱) and doesn’t take these IG models ( Im sorry but the majority of them are escorts and very dodgy women) too serious. He could date someone who has a career or something on the long term . I know his mom is a good influence on him, but he’s still a straight man 🥹 i won’t be surprised if he marries fairly young but i hope he find someone decent

I dont mean to be rude but this message feels very double standard-ish. Like the hope that he fucks around...or that he is just a straight man feels a lot like excusing future male bad behaviour. I dont think we should look down on escorts or prostitutes. It may seem very glamorous but it has a very dark side. What you see on IG is a very surface level pic. There are unspeakable things that happen to women in the sex industry either by choice or as usual force.

#jude bellingham #england nt #real madrid

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punch-love · 1 year ago

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Could you give us some of your fic recs as well? 🙏🏼

I've been waiting for this ask. * is for all time favorites.

Classics/Required Reading:

Between Apollo and Arachne. / He is Soundless From Afar. / Blood Sickness. by elastic honey (infernoconcealed)

I got into this fandom specifically because of this author. I think all of their work is incredible but, these three are my favorites and also the first bookmarks I ever made. I like the ways they explore their dynamic, and they often explore darker scenarios between the two of them with a lot of heart and nuance.

How To Get Physical by Wilt

I like their writing as much as I like their art, but this one in particular is a consistent re-read for me. It's a trans Peter written by a clearly trans writer, and it's soft and kind and good-hearted in a way that really, really sells the history between them.

Up to the Sun (Full Speed Ahead, Mr. Parker) by SleepsWithCoyotes

The first AU I really enjoyed and also one of the best. Eldritch horror Wade that goes from a massive tentacle creature to an off-putting mercenary that gets attached to Spider-Man. It's great. The whole verse is great.

for the wrong reasons by orphan_account

This is one of my favorite Wade character studies of all time. He gets hit with a truth serum and ends up at Peter's apartment. It's sad and complicated and perfect, and I've read it more than a few times.

gunpowder and firewood / steel and flint * by periodically_puzzled

This is forever one of my favorites. It's the best first-person POV in the fandom hands down and is just so fucking good. It's got everything, idenity porn, grindr, complicated explorations of emotional manipulation, bromance, and it's so very funny.

Snake Oil by BunsofHoney

This was so good that my writing group chat temporarily re-named our chat after it. Peter is a preacher and Wade is a possessed snake oil salesman. It's very good, and also you will learn something about the 20s as it is immensely well researched.

Blazed (Smoking Weed is Gay) * by GreendaleHumanBeing

This is one of my all-time favorites. Peter is coping with his midlife crisis by being a huge stoner, and Wade has mellowed out and joins him for long smoke sessions. It's very slice of life, intimate, slow burn friends to lovers. It's one of those reads that just feels really, really good and relatable.

Paradise (spread out with a butter knife) by Sarah_Sandwich

A soulmate/slice of life work that really will make you feel something profound by the end of it. I read this one at four in the morning and didn't sleep until I was finished with it. It made me feel something big.

Dog Years by androgynousdouche

This is the only unfinished work on this list but man, is it a hidden treasure. They really build a foundation for the relationship and the intimacy between these two is so....it's really good. I wish it was finished, but even though it's not, I still think it's worth the read.

Porn:

Tip of the Tongue * by TimidTurnip

I think this is probably the work I go back and re-read the most. It's got everything. Peter Parker's insane oral fixation, his inability to come to terms with his own bi-sexuality, homies who are mean to each other dynamics, and worship based blow jobs. It's great. You should read it.

i could show you and stop (don't stop) by jilliancares

I think this is probably two of the most infamous smut works in the fandom but they both really, really deserve the hype. The first is the eating out fic of all time specifically for me but also for a lot of other people and the second is my favorite situational porn.

Meeting Minutes */ Pitter Patter by WhoopsOK

These are hands down the best watersports fics in the entire fandom. I've read the entire tag, I would know. The first has Peter being hit by a truth serum and telling his fantasies to Wade who intentionally does not sleep with him, and it's hot and good dynamic wise. The second is just a very hot scenario where Peter pisses in Wade's mouth while he works behind the counter. Great stuff.

a luxury few can afford by three-fingered (calciseptine)

I love the way this author writes them so much. It's fun and fresh and so good at building up some good old-fashioned tension. It also has some great character study moments inbetween blow jobs (my beloved)

Fucked Up Shit:

she's not going to die today / Songs for the Zombie Apocalypse / Need You Like A Gun To The Head * by (zerospoons_onlyknives)oprime

I also consider these classics/required reading but they are all very dark and go places that fans of the classic dynamic might be surprised by. SNGTDT is the best and darkest soulmate AU you'll ever read. SftZA is not only an incredible zombie AU but also one of my personal favorite pieces of zombie fiction period. NYLaGttH is one of my favorite smut fics of all time and one I often re-read (the title should be taken literally)

twisted, baby by jilliancares

The Peter "adrenaline kink" Parker work. It's dubious and intimate and exhilarating in a way that never gets old.

tap out whenever by periodically_puzzled

also known as "the fic that triggers me so bad that I've never commented on it despite reading it eight times" this is like. One of the darkest works in the fandom, hands down and if you can relate at all with the content, will put you in some sort of headspace. It's excellent. It's horrifying.

Because You're Mine *- WaterMe

I absolutely love this one. It's a sex-pollen turned non-con work that is very dark (mind the tags) but if you want to go there, this is the place to go. I always come back to it and find something new to appreciate. Also the only second person work I've ever enjoyed/felt affected by in the way I think second person is supposed to do. (honorary mention by this author: their Arbor day fic)

Sinking by coveryourheads

This one is hard to describe, but if you're interested in some really nuanced work on sexuality, this one will sit with you for a while. Peter and Wade are in an intense D/s relationship that is both abstract and personal in ways I've never really read about before.

#mailbox #spideypool #long post #listen I don't care that this is long I have a lot of love in my heart #rec list #making a pinned post soon and this will probably be on t #fic rec

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thesleepyhollows · 10 hours ago

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Dreams in Darkness from BTAS is probably my favourite episode featuring Scarecrow in that series. He’s definitely at his most sinister here at least in terms of presence and his plan is really intelligent and well thought out.

Something very likely unintentional but still interesting to me is how the episode opens with the doctor who I hate by the way but that’s an entirely different can of worms. Discussing Batman’s current condition saying and I quote.

“Such a pity really. To think after all he’s accomplished should he end up here. Like this.”

Anyway I just think that’s kinda interesting in an episode where the main villain is a former renowned psychology professor who turned to villainy. I wonder if it echos some people in the field’s feelings on Crane’s decent.

Anyway. Yeah I hate dr. Bartholomew all my homies hate dr Bartholomew.

#batman #jonathan crane #dc rogues #btas jonathan crane #btas #Arkham asylum #btas jon my beloved #btas scarecrow #btas Batman #btas dreams in darkness #scarecrow batman #batman scarecrow

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hausofmamadas · 2 months ago

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Until The Day You Don't Come Back

⁂

Pairing: Andrea Nuñez & David Barrón (+ some implied Dinarrón)

Prompt: "All we have are our choices" and Crossroads - for @narcosfandomdiscord Narcovember - #14 Book of Decisions Decisions Decisions

Word count: ≈ 4.2K

Note: shoutout to the homie @rerorero-my-cherry whose discord tonteria, talking about skipping off to Mexico to escape fascism somehow sparked the idea for this fic and I can't even explain how or why😂

TWs: Canon-consistent violence, descriptions of violent acts, smoking

There was no possible universe in which he was brought here by conscience. So naturally, she was dying to know the real reason they were meeting now under this bridge... Andrea gets a mysterious call from a potential new informant one day with information on notoriously corrupt politician and money launderer, Carlos Hank Gonzalez. She agrees to a late-night meeting on the US side of the border, so she can get all the tea, and boy is that tea scalding. (This ended up entirely too long but here you go world.)

⁂

Andrea checks her watch. Almost midnight. The road is quiet, cars passing by every fifteen minutes. The thinnest nail clipping of the moon is out and her informant is over a half an hour late. The lone street light flickering on the overpass above feels like a doomsday clock urging her to cut her losses and go home.

Really, loitering at this fork in the road under a highway bridge isn’t the most sensible idea, not when people were being gunned down in the streets in broad daylight and the cartels were using the bodies of their victims to send telegrams to each other. At least she had enough sense to insist the meeting take place on the US side of the border where her death would at least be investigated should things end badly. Just a few miles from Tecate, she’d found an unmonitored stretch of border the gringos hadn’t fenced off yet a few months ago and had been using it to touch base with informants.

It’s for this reason Salgado is always telling her she’s a clever girl with no sense. And also that if she’s senseless enough not to listen to him, as La Voz’s editor and her boss, he makes no bones about using it to his advantage. And he had - a series of groundbreaking stories about the hipódromo, Carlos Hank Gonzalez, and the AFO were enough to prove her senselessness enough of an asset, no matter how much of a danger it posed. Until the day you don’t come back, he’d note ominously.

But if not her, then who? The job was easier to do if you knew you were already dead. She did. She also didn’t think about it too much. Plus, this lead was too big to pass up. The call with the tip-off had come directly to her desk, an anonymous insider allegedly high enough in the AFO to know all about Gonzalez’s dealings not just with the Arellano family but with Amado Carrillo Fuentes in Juarez; news she wasn’t yet privy to but that made enough sense to catch her attention. And that’s how she ends up on these back-country, dirt roads in the middle of the night.

Of course, she knows it could be a trap too - she’s senseless, not stupid. She knows full well this little rendezvous could be no more than someone making good on a bounty for the head of any journalist from La Voz. She couldn’t even bring herself to revel in the I told you so, when the street edict came down from the AFO after Salgado enacted the policy of removing writers’ names from the bylines, even if she did tell him it was a short-term solution to a long term problem. It was even shorter than they bargained for because within a week of implementing the policy, the AFO had branded anyone who came in and out of that office fair game. Normally she wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to retroactively gloat, but this time it didn’t seem fair. Salgado did his best to protect them and it earned the whole staff a scarlet letter. But who’s fault was that really? So she left well enough alone, like she never had an opinion on the matter to begin with.

So yeah, the prospect of this being a trap had occurred to her. More than once. And the longer she sits here, leaning against the hood of her station wagon, checking her watch, the more the possibility keeps rearing its ugly head. Right on cue, the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel has her going for the handgun in her waistband and spinning around to greet the void of what she hoped would be empty space under the bridge.

“Hello? Who’s there?” She does her best to breathe, keep calm, as she anchors the gun in both hands, aiming for the shadows.“Dejate ver. Muestrate si no quieres tomarte una bala en el culo.”

A pair of raised hands are the first things to emerge followed by a modestly dressed man with a clean-cut crop of dark hair, dark eyes, and a sharply drawn mustache that gives him the look of a French nobleman caught in the wrong timeline. Her stomach drops several floors and liquifies into a puddle on the ground as it sinks in, just who he is. She’d give anything not to but there’s no eradicating the sense of recognition.

So this is it then. The end of the line.

She’d pictured it just like this. In fact the scene is so familiar, she feels the distinct impulse to laugh at just how much of a cliche she’s about to be. Because as much as she can acknowledge the possibility - meeting a grisly, undignified end, painted somewhere on the streets of a city she’s fought for and loved, just another macabre telegram - she’s also struck by the kind of shame that accompanies shattered hubris. That, somewhere along the way, she mistakenly bought into a brand of exceptionalism she always hoped to avoid, one might call it downright American. Rationally, she’s known the odds, even accepted them. And yet somehow it was still something that only happened to other people.

What a fool. She’d kick herself if she wasn’t about to die. Or maybe … How fast could this guy move? How quick could his hands be? Maybe she’d turn her gun on herself, get a shot off before he could get his out. Take things on her own terms. Not that she can even see a gun. But she doesn’t need to, to know it’s there, tucked in his waistband right at the base of his back.

After all, he is the AFO’s top sicario, David Barrón Corona. One of the most lethal men in Tijuana. Maybe all of Mexico. She’s only ever seen him at a distance, through a telephoto lens or in grainy photographs developed thereafter, but she could recite a list of his exploits from memory like a kid in some perverse spelling bee: the shootout at Christine’s, the airport massacre, the assassination of Ocampo, the shootout at the Belmont cafe. The man’s resume is a mile long and filled with nothing but death.

In her experience, meeting monsters like this tended to be unsettling for how boring and anticlimactic they always seemed to be. He appears no different. Just a man walking on two legs, with two eyes to see, and those eyes aren’t even crazed or rage-filled or brimming with hate. Whenever she came face to face with someone like him, it tended to incite within her a twinge of irritation that they couldn’t do everyone the courtesy of coming with some kind of warning label.

One of her hands drops and she walks toward him, gun drawn as she cocks the hammer and fires a warning shot into the ground next to him with an ease that surprises even her. He barely flinches. It’s obviously not his first rodeo. Which, yes, is to be expected but the stillness of him is still downright chilling.

His posture is relaxed, hands up in an effort to suspend hostilities. She’s decidedly unmoved in her hostility.

“Y’know,” he attempts to reassure her, “if I wanted to kill you, ya estarías en el piso, desangrándote en la tierra,” but it looms more like a threat.

It catches her off guard though, how much softer, gentler his voice is than she expected. It’s almost enough to disarm her entirely until she remembers all the coroner’s reports and crime scene photos she’d come across in her research. His handiwork. Well-executed executions, meted out with such quiet indifference he could’ve been telling them a bedtime story. This is who she’s dealing with.

“O sí? Pues soy yo ya quien tiene la pistola. So start talking, cabrón antes que te dé por el culo,” she flicks her wrist, pointing the gun barrel at the gravel disturbed by the first shot, “with another one of those.”

He chuckles, “Usually when people, civvies especially, say that,” making sure to keep his hands up, careful not to make any sudden movements, “no les creo. Pero a ti? A ti te creo.”

“Arre. So, if you’re really not here to kill me, fuiste tu con quien hablé por el telefono?”

He gives a stiff nod.

Andrea cocks her head to one side, examining him in the flickering street lamp light. He’d be handsome were it not for the vacuum in his eyes, no warmth, no life, yet here he was, breathing and blinking and talking all the same. There was no possible universe in which he was brought here by conscience. With what she knew, he was likely immune to that particular plague. So naturally, she was dying to know the real reason they were meeting now under this bridge, at this dirt crossroads, near the dirt town of Tecate.

“Do I, uh, have to keep these,” he looks right, then left, at each of his arms, “up the whole time?”

She considers the risk for a moment, ultimately deciding to let him but refuses to drop her gun. His hands come swinging down by his sides apparently unbothered by the fact that he remains caught in her crosshairs. Yeah, clearly not his first rodeo. Not even his second. Or third.

He meets her eyes but says nothing and the silence starts to feel like a third party in the conversation that just won’t shut up. Andrea taps her foot impatiently but he doesn’t seem to get the memo that this is the part where he’s supposed to do the talking.

“Alright.” She exhales crossly, rolling her eyes. “What did you want to talk about? On the phone you said something about Hank and Juarez?”

“That’s right.” Barrón takes a few steps closer, hands now clasped together at his waist, no more troubled by the gun than when he was further away. “He’s been working with Amado since he took over. Cleaning his money.”

“I don’t understand. Wasn’t he already doing that for the Arellanos?”

He nods.

“Wait, but that doesn’t make any sense. Why would he align himself with warring plazas?”

Looking down, Barrón shrugs, “That’s above my pay grade,” kicking a rock across the dirt, dust trailing behind it like a tiny, terrestrial shooting star. “I’m not that high on the food chain.”

She regards him skeptically, brows crinkling.

His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, “I can only guess,” seeming to take the cue this time. “He’s probably too high-profile for either plaza to fuck with, so big homie can afford to do business with both. But I doubt Sr. Kingpin Accountant accounted for the heat it’d bring back on him with all the, uh– y’know, scrutiny.”

Grinding her teeth, Andrea snorts. Scrutiny was both a succinct and delightfully vanilla way of saying, ‘global attention thanks to all the bodies of the streets.’ But the implications of Hank laundering money for Juarez were big. He might be playing the plazas off each other, biding his time until a victor emerges, one he’ll be all too happy to chuck right under the bus the minute the political machine decides it needs to offer up its next sacrificial lamb to the gringos. Standing there, trying to put all these new pieces together, Andrea suddenly remembers the pack of cigarettes in the pocket of her flannel and wishes she’d thought to smoke one before they’d started talking. She can’t afford the distraction of lighting one up now, what with having to keep the gun in place.

“Alright, so he’s doing business with both plazas. How the hell do you know this? You said it yourself, you’re not that high up on the food chain.”

He seems to bristle at this, throwing her a sideways glance through half-lidded eyes, face overtaken by a dangerous, far-away look that spooks her even more than the gun at his back. “Why would you need to know that to write your little story.”

Interesting. Something personal, perhaps. She’d get it out of him one way or another. But later.

“Well,” she grips the gun even tighter, knuckles going white and she hopes that by keeping her voice level, he can’t sense how scared she is, “it’s not going in an article per se. But for reasons that I hope would be obvious? I can’t identify you as a source. You’ll have to remain anonymous.”

“You don’t gotta do that on my account.”

Practically gagging on disbelief, she manages to sputter out, “For you? What are you kidding?” before regaining her composure. “I mean– well frankly, you’re a criminal, a killer at that, putting a rival cartel in the headlines, so it’s more an issue of self-interest. Now, I know doing something like this does nothing but put you at risk but my readers won’t know that. So, telling me how exactly you found out about all this would lend you more credibility as a source. O sea significa que podemos confiar más en lo que me has dicho.”

This seems to wound him privately somehow like he’s taken it worse than the bullet she’d fired. But whatever it stirs in him is gone before she gets a chance to interrogate it further.

No less relentless, it is enough for her to ease up on her delivery. “So do you have proof? Something concrete that I can take back to my editor?”

His hand goes in his pocket and he begins digging around for something. Andrea’s whole body stiffens and she takes a step back, arm straightening to retrain the gun on him more decisively. If he notices, he doesn’t show it as he continues fishing around in his pocket until he finally brings out a few folded documents along with a bag of rolling papers. He takes a pre-rolled cigarette out of the bag, popping it between his lips while reaching out to pass her the documents. A few hesitant steps forward, she lowers the gun slowly snatching the papers from his hands quickly before scurrying back again. Her head bobs up and down between watching him and trying to read what’s on the page in front of her.

“What are these,” she flips through a few pages, “business licenses?”

“Among other things.”

She skims the first document and for the first time she feels like this whole thing might not be a trap. Fixing him with the coldest, most I-will-kill-you stare she can manage, “I’m taking a big risk, doing this. No me hagas arrepentirme o te arrepentiras, lo prometo,” she flicks the safety on and puts the gun in her waistband, in front so he knows she still has easy access.

Bowing his head, Barrón agrees, "Noted," cracking a small smile, something akin to respect or maybe admiration and it’s the first time his face displays any emotion. It puts her a little more at ease.

Both hands now free, Andrea combs through the documents, a few loose, the rest stapled together, some with carbon copy backings, and skims for the highlights - important phrases, dates, places, signatures - until she finds a signature at the bottom of a business license for an aeronautic manufacturing company.

“A shell company,” Barrón confirms her suspicions before they’re even fully formed. “Makes specialty parts for small planes. Like Cessnas.”

She flips to the next page, documents showing ownership stakes in the casino at the hipódromo along with two of the Arellanos’ discotheques. Flipping through the rest, it’s more of the same, SEC and CNBV registrations for shell corporations, licenses for legitimate businesses, and share certificates, none of them bearing Carlos Hank’s name but nonetheless tying him to both Tijuana and Juarez by a signature almost as important: Carolina Vera. His lawyer. She was all over these documents.

Speechless, Andrea’s head rises slowly to look at Barrón. When she said proof, she wasn’t expecting it to be this monumental. The cynic in her kicks up, wondering if it isn’t just a more elaborate trap designed to lull her in a state of submission before the jaws snap shut for good.

“It gets better," he says, examining his zip-o lighter before flicking the top back and forth a few times with his thumb.

Which reminds her, in desperate need of a cigarette, Andrea folds the papers up and sticks them in the back pocket of her jeans and then feverishly digs around the pocket of her shirt for her pack. Once retrieved, she flicks her lighter several times, sparks flying at the end of the cigarette in her mouth, until finally a little bloom of flame appears out of the corner of her eye to light it for her. He's a smooth motherfucker, she'll give him that, although strangely, there was nothing smug about it. He brings it back, cradling the flame with his other hand to light his own. After a first drag, Andrea dips her head back, a cyclone of smoke pouring from her lips while she exhales in relief.

“How,” snapping forward again, she takes another drag before asking, voice thick, each word encased in smoke, “does this get any better?”

“I have another source.”

“What? Who?”

“Cristina Palacios Hodoyan.”

“No me digas." The shock has her nearly wheezing the words and her eyes are wide, almost feral with curiosity. “You know where she is?”

He smirks. “Who do you think hid her?”

“What? So– but wait, so you didn’t—y’know. Her sons?”

Suddenly he can’t meet her eyes and she can’t wipe the image of the bridge from her mind - the row of lifeless bodies strung up, punishment para los soplones, whose biggest crime was usually no more than bearing witness to things she never agreed to see in the first place. That Alex and Alfredo were more involved in the extracurricular activities didn’t change the fact that they were just boys.

Perhaps trying to get a read on Andrea or maybe just hoping to fill the silence, Barrón offers, “Everyone assumed- and for good reason. But that time wasn’t me. I was in San Diego, trying t–”

“Save it.” With one look, she skewers him, eyes narrowed, mouth tight, not here for his bullshit. “Vete alaverga con esa ‘that time.’ How many other times was it you, huh?”

Meeting her eyes again like he recognizes his mistake, he responds matter-of-factly, “Plenty,” head held high, no attempt at contrition, false or otherwise.

Still, she’s expecting him to plead his case, so she waits for the explanation, the mental gymnastics, the cognitive dissonance, the rationalization for every single horrific act of violence wrapped up in that plenty. After standing there, watching each other in silence for who knows how long, she realizes there won’t be any of that. And up sprouts the tiniest kernel of respect that she already hates for being there. But she can’t help it. David Barrón could be called a lot of things but a hypocrite wasn’t one of them. She rolls her eyes because christ, who needs heroes when the bar is this high.

She mumbles to herself, “There’s a fire sale and everything must go,” but before he can voice the look of pure confusion on his face, she’s onto the next question, something tugging at the back of her mind since he first stepped out of the shadows of the overpass. “So, what’s in this for you? Why are you telling me all of this?”

Gaze shifting off to the light polluted horizon, he goes quiet. Eventually he just says, “That’s a big question.”

If this was a television interview, the broadcast would’ve been cut for all the dead air between them but she just waits, hoping he might give her just a little more, something to put this whole bizarre night into perspective.

“It’s just—” he shakes his head, “the way I come up—” putting his smoke to his lips and taking a pull so long, she wonders if maybe the question hasn’t short-circuited him a bit.

“Gettin’ into all this,” he waves his hand around at nothing in particular, a party streamer of smoke left behind its path, “wasn’t really a choice for me. Not like how it is here. Now in this new– whatever. Era. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. We were supposed to legitimize. Climb outta this ditch, not dig it deeper.

“This? What do you mean?”

“The game,” he huffs in a moment of frustration, the only emotion he’s let escape so far. “Used to be no civvies, no bystanders, no regular folk. If you was in the game, you get popped on the street, well okay, you knew what you signed up for. But all this other– truth is, man, I’m just tired. Tired of the game, the life, tired of doing all this shit just to be someone’s second choice.”

It was the most he’d spoken the entire time and she didn’t want to interrupt for fear he’d clam up again and go back to nods and one-word answers, but she’d have to start asking some follow-up questions if he didn’t start putting some names to these pronouns.

“I tried to save him, y’know, for her.” He keeps going, face fixed with a thousand yard stare so vacant and icy, he might’ve had the surface of the moon in his eyes. “But I couldn’t. Maybe I didn’t want to. She knows I tried but maybe she knows that too.”

“Hm.” Crossing her arms, one hip cocked out to the side, Andrea examines the end of her cigarette before holding it off to the side and tapping it with her finger. “So the rumors were true. You and Enedina.”

“I thought it’d be different.” Barrón turns back to her, flashing a nihilistic smirk that reveals how broken he is. “But the things she’s asked me to do,” he shakes his head, “I don’t know. The game ain’t in me no more. And this last one, well—”

“This last one?”

“Your editor. He was greenlit.”

It takes a moment to register. When it finally does, Andrea feels like someone’s pressed pause on reality only to start playing it again in slow motion.

“Y— you mean, my—? uh, Salgado? Ramon?

“Pues, sí.”

“You’re certain?”

“Mhm. My next mark.”

“Hijoueputa,” she mutters. “No es posible.”

Stamping his cigarette out in the dirt with the heel of his wingtip, he nods. “Best believe it.”

“Well— so what? Are you still gonna go after him?” Andrea’s getting more panicked by the second, her fingers finding the grip of her gun.

Chuckling, Barrón puts a hand up in gentle protest, “Nah, chill.”

For some inexplicable reason, she listens to him.“Fine. So, what’re you gonna do then?”

”Something I’ve never done in my whole life.”

“What’s that?”

“Miss.”

Andrea appears to take some comfort in this as her shoulders drop, a breath escaping that she didn’t even know she was holding. Remembering her cigarette, she takes a last drag while noting dryly, “You know, you can never go back.”

A blank look from him is the only response she gets.

“If you do that— y’know, miss. The minute I talk to Cristina, the minute I write this, they’ll probably figure out it’s you. You can never go back.”

Barrón just shakes his head, resigned. “No, ma’am.”

“No? What, no? If they find out you’re my source, they’ll kill you.”

“Of course. I know how they’ll do it too.” He says it with a twinge of pride that reminds Andrea exactly who she’s talking to. “It’ll be someone I know. I’ll see it coming. They’ll want me to see it coming. Cause they know I know.”

Despite this reminder of who he is, what he’s done, she can’t quash that kernel of respect that’s been planted. Even if he wanted to atone, he had enough respect not to insult her by trying to. Nor did he feel sorry for himself that he probably didn’t deserve to. It was a display of accountability she rarely saw from someone as morally bankrupt as he’d had to be. Until now anyway. And this makes her feel, in spite of herself, almost sorry for him. “You’re not scared?”

“Sure. Wouldn’t you be?”

“Well, of course,” she shrugs, twisting the filter of her cigarette until the cherry and remaining tobacco fall out before tossing it behind her. “But I w–“

“But you wouldn’t deserve it. And it’s true, I got it coming. Made my own bed as they say. But I can still be scared. Even if I know, at the end of the day, all we have are our choices.”

Andrea smirks, crossing her arms, looking down at the ground to push some dust around with the toe of her boot, unsure what to say next. When she looks back up, he’s already walking away, hands in his pockets, leisurely like he’s got nowhere to be, back to the shadowy spot under the bridge he came from. She wondered if his car was parked there or somewhere else. Or maybe he’s just some visiting ghost of Christmas past and she’ll wake up from this dream.

”Hey,” she calls out.

Just before he reaches the edge of the void, he spins around on his heels, hands still in his pockets, eyebrows raised, and waits.

“For what it’s worth– well, you do have it coming. But … I hope you find your way to some peace somehow.”

The unexpected happens then. He smiles. But this time it travels up his face all the way to his eyes, lighting them up. It might be as rare as a passing comet. So there are signs of life, after all.

═

taglist: @narcosfandomdiscord, @drabbles-mc, @ladygoatee, @rerorero-my-cherry, @narcolini, @ashlingnarcos, @complete-nonsequitur, @tofuwildcard, @bellinitini, @when-did-this-become-difficult

#narcovember #narcovember prompt roulette #narcos mexico #andrea nuñez #david barrón #andrea nuñez & david barrón #narcos mx #day 13 #book of decisions decisions decisions

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ineffablydelighted · 1 year ago

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[How exploring the Ineffable Husbands' dynamic in Good Omens can help us figure out what the show/book is all about, Part 1/?]

Also called: This human has, apparently, too much time on her hands and will be trying to Effable the Ineffable for [...] hours.

Ah, Hello! 👋

I'm ineffably delighted to meet you all! 😇

Let's cut to the chase and bear with me as we try together to analyze further the subject of the day:

Aziraphale is in love with Crowley and I am pretty sure he is aware of that fact BUT

[yes, there is a "but", do not erase me from the Book of Life just yet, let me explain first, homie 🥺]

I do not believe he can comprehend WHY he is just yet, and what that would mean for him in terms of... well... EVERYTHING he ever stood for.

It will also be the perfect roots to answer the biggest question yet :

What is Good Omens all about, exactly?

[Yeah, it's a tough one. When I say "bear with me", I really insist on the fact that it will be LONG. I will try my best to make it fun to read and to allow some "natural breaks" but know that I would appreciate your unshared attention if you're willing to give it to me. 😇]

Although, would you have the chance to ask him about it (probably looking at a cup of tea as we would all do in Earthy fashion), Aziraphale would have somewhat of an answer to give you, probably in the range of:

"Because, deep down, Crowley is the nicest being I've ever known."

Is it false? No, Crowley IS nice. Swaggeringly nice, occasionally unhinged, but still. Nice.

And that is somewhat the core of the... "problem" for our soon-to-be Supreme Archangel [Yep, the pain is still fresh, thanks for asking, you're welcome for reminding you 😭👍] because, as much as Crowley learned nuances due to past experiences (Falling being, most likely, the most traumatic one,) Aziraphale remains bound to think in absolutes. And everything relates to THIS perfect meme right there:

[Whoever you are, person/entity who has done that, you have forever my utmost gratitude and respect]

I'm far from bringing anything new to the table here, but to Aziraphale, Crowley should NOT have fallen in the first place. Because of how nice he is. Crowley IS an angel, to him. In fact, I'll go even further by stating that, to Aziraphale,

Crowley is more of an Angel than ANY Angel in the "Main Office."

Let's present our other contestants, shall we?

When he ruled, Gabriel was an absolute a** and had an ego the size of, idk, at least A DOZEN GALAXIES. He made Aziraphale feel like... well... poop most of the time they interacted.

That is why, in S2 when Gabriel/Jim tells him "I love you", Aziraphale, even being and considering himself a "creature of love", happens to be utterly unable to either reciprocate or take the compliment. At this moment, later enhanced when he reminds himself of the Job case, he realizes he is able to feel, if not hatred, NOT love NOR admiration for somebody he should somewhat consider a role model.

That is very important for Aziraphale's present and future character development, especially considering Gabriel/Jim's own fate, so please keep that in mind.

Michael? Oh God, Same if not worse: too condescending and ambitious in the wrong way to inspire anything nice to anybody.

Sandalphon just does what they are told but can totally throw a punch if necessary.

Uriel is mostly cold, occasionally cruel, and can also be physically threatening.

[I love the actress, though. Gloria Obianyo deserves a Ph.D. in Resting Bitch Facing for her performance in Good Omens alone and I'm here for it.]

S2 Saraqael seems to be more layered but has also been hurtful to Aziraphale (especially when she ironized that he couldn't possibly be the 25-Lazarii-magnitude-miracle caster).

Overall, S1 Aziraphale refers to the "Main Office" Angels as "BAD ANGELS!" after their hostile encounter. We could see from his face he would have wanted to use harsher words but couldn't get past his forgiving, decent nature.

Before we talk any furfur-ther [Am I proud of this so-called pun? A-BSOLUTELEH 😎🤭], let's add a really important stone/layer to our favorite Angel's thinking: to him, it is simple maths:

GOOD = RIGHT, BAD = WRONG

And let's save it for later, shall we?

[Killgrave dear is just here to remind you you can take a break anytime to drink a glass of Talisker if you'd like, or, more so, if HE'd like. Also because that character is THE best David Tennant role on television - 10th Doctor being the worthy third, I let you guess which character is our second now - and I might have wanted to use this gif just to be able to say that, who knows? *whispers* Mysssteryyyy...]

Anyway.

To a being like Aziraphale, who mostly thinks in dichotomy, being an Angel requires one main requirement: being GOOD.

[Buy a farrrrrm and be good! Not just "pretendy" good but. properly. GOOD! - NO, I couldn't find the gif and YES, I'm mad about it, but since I'm also unable to make one myself, I'll just shut it.]

That is why he refers to the Main Office Archangels as simply being BAD.

At that moment, they had been mean to him, threatening, and, by doing so, they became somewhat active in Hell's Armageddon project. Making them "bad" angels, but, more so:

Bad at BEING Angels.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, is, at heart, the penultimate goody-two-shoes: he does feel bad about himself whenever he does something bad/wrong such as lying (it has started to change, and I'll nuance that statement another time, but you get the grip).

He is constantly scared he might fall whenever he somewhat defies God's will or the idea he built in his head of what an Angel should be(have).

But have you paid attention to how his "Angelmates" NEVER seem to CARE about their own displays of, let's say "unconventional characteristics" for what should be the highest "Representatives of the sole concept of Good"?

Have you ever seen Gabriel or Michael being self-conscious about their narcissism and condescending tendencies? Uriel about their coldness? Saraqael about their sarcastic nature? Any of them about their use of violence? Of course not! They seem to be perfectly fine with it!

They own their characteristics, good AND bad.

Aziraphale does not.

Aziraphale is... soft. Even if he, at times, expresses regrets to be just that, he also applies it to his Angelic nature.

You know who else is soft?

Crowley.

Crowley is soft because he cannot kill children and takes it upon himself to LITERALLY DEFY BOTH GOD AND SATAN'S WILL TO SAVE SAID CHILDREN, including two annoying ones [especially the one who DARED to hit on Aziraphale but that is a topic for another day]

[MASSIVE Bildad the Shuhite fangirl here, consider yourselves warned.]

Crowley is soft because he cannot even kill GOATS.

Defying both God's and Satan's will to save kids? Yeah, eventually, okay.

Defying God's and Satan's will to save goats? Man, that's so effingly. more. powerful.

[Oh, look! A bird flying, normal thingy, nothing to see here, buh-bye!]

Crowley is soft because he proposes/"tempts" Aziraphale to "eat a spot of lunch", especially whenever his Angel experiences stress.

We have barely seen him eat, which might indicate he does not have such a strong taste for it personally. He only goes to the Ritz to enjoy Aziraphale's company and to watch him happily eat scrumptious, comforting foods.

[Okay, also because it morphed into a proper kink at some point but that is NOT today's subject, so stop trying to make me deviate from it! 😣]

Oh, and, before you bring that up, no, the alcohol motive is not relevant since he can, in all probability have a glass of Talisker in ANY sort of pub/restaurant in London.

[As a proper peated whisky lover who happens to be French, let me tell you this is NOT the case in my country and I'm super duper jealous of you, lads.]

Crowley is soft because he takes care of both Gabriel and Aziraphale's bookshop, even if it is clear he loathes the first and expressingly said he would not be a bookseller "even at gunpoint."

And, by "taking care of", know that I MEAN IT: he kept an eye on Jim, didn't wake him up when he heard him snore, answered any question he had, no matter how seemingly stupid they were [Even if Crowley, of all beings, cannot be anything but a raging "There is no stupid question, only stupid answers" representative] and offered him hot cocoa. As for the Booksho-P[uhhhhh *exhales in asthma*], he attempted to repair Jim's messy ordering twice and meticulously rearranged the place after ✨the Ball✨

[What do you mean, "he also Killgraved him into jumping out of the window?" HE ALSO STOPPED HIM FROM DOING SO, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. #NotBiasedInTheSlghtestIndividual]

Crowley is soft because he shares his Bentley with Aziraphale. Which is a VERY. BIG. DEAL. considering it was, at the time, HIS LAST ONE AND ONLY PRIZED POSSESSION.

[Should I mention that the Bentley FALLS IN LOVE with Aziraphale or is debating on whether or not that falls into the Oedipian complex territory off-topic? Yes, I'll see myself out.]

Crowley is soft because he rescues Aziraphale on countless occasions, even though, 99% of the time, that is pretty much unnecessary.

For real, guys: if Aziraphale had been discorporated in the course of his 6000+ years on Earth at any other given moment BUT on the eve of THE WAR with a capital "W", nobody in Heaven would have flinched.

[I do have a theory, though: maybe being re-incorporated takes quite a long time, which would have meant too many years apart from each other, hence the growing Damsel in Distress kink in Aziraphale, idk THAT IS NOT TODAY's SUBJECT, OKAY?!]

Also, Crowley is soft because "doing that makes him so happy".

Do you know who is supposedly "so happy" to save living things, aka GOD'S CREATIONS? Angels.

Crowley is soft because he rescues Aziraphale even when it is ACTUALLY ENDANGERING for both of them

He risked: his life, his pretty comfortable position "he carved out for himself", both his Earthy and Infernal homes sort of speak, AND EVEN HIS CAR to save his Angel's bottom/help him out in the direst situations (like stopping time to stop SATAN HIMSELF.)

[Also his past/present/future existence altogether, but the Bentley is more important, as I'm sure we'll all agree.]

[That is a Class A Protective/Helpful Husband, right there.]

Crowley is soft because he encourages Aziraphale to follow his passion for ✨prestidigitation✨

Even though he is pretty... amateurish at it. Not only does he encourage him, but he also HELPS him when he accepts to be his dashing assistant on stage.

[Yes, he does tell S1 Aziraphale to stop doing magic because he "has no idea how demeaning that is" but I'm pretty sure it was BECAUSE of S2 1941's events. Also, #WeStan1941Crowley here.]

Crowley is soft because he works pretty hard to make two humans he barely knows fall in love.

Yes, he also does it to cover his and Aziraphale's 25-Lazarii-magnitude-miracle lie BUT don't tell me his amazed expression when he thought he was about to witness Nina and Maggie actually falling for each other was not the purest, sincerest of all.

Finally, even if I could come up with more examples,

Crowley is soft because he saved Aziraphale's books JUST because he KNEW and CARED that Aziraphale CARED about said books.

That also, in Michael Sheen's very own opinion [as stated by Neil Gaiman in S1 GO DVD commentary], shared by many fans, and myself very much included, marks the moment

Aziraphale falls in love with Crowley.

[I DARE you to tell me THIS is NOT THE LOOK OF LOVE PERSONIFIED, go on, fight meh.]

So. WHY did it happen at that moment in particular? Well, because, first of all:

As a proper Jane Austen fan, Aziraphale is a slow burner.

Also, to him, an actual Angel, love is everywhere, so differentiating one love from another might be more difficult for somebody who can feel it whether or not it is even their own.

BUT [have you started getting used to my "but"s yet or should I harass you some more?] Let's go back in time to see how every previous encounter (that we know of) led to that pinnacle, shall we?

[Oh and, YES, this sort of essay will be long, and NO, I had no idea how much it would be when I started writing it, and still haven't, tbh 🤷‍♀️]

During part 2, we will also dive a little bit deeper into what Good Omens is all about.

[Yeah... I figured we would all need a break at this point.]