#if you see me butchering ED words

[cloudedangels]

makin up for lost time (18+)

minors dni 18+

≈4.1k words

After the explosion, everything changed—except the way Caleb looks at you. On his birthday, after a day of trying to make it the best he's had, an old video resurfaces, pulling you both back to a time when your biggest worry was who was the bigger Swiftie and who had better musical skill. Now, with scars both seen and unseen, you realize some harmonies never fade... they just grow louder. And some desires do the same.

cw/tags: caleb plays guitar, yes they're swifties so what, they're pent up af, fluff and smut and a teensy bit of angst all in one, piv, creampie petnames (princess, pips[queek]), dry humping, first time sex

As promised... just before the end of juneleb: caleb's birthday fic. building off his bday card and this headcannon.

The couch is warm where you’ve dozed off against Caleb’s shoulder, the remnants of his birthday celebrations strewn around you—wrapping paper, half-eaten cake, the guitar propped against the coffee table. You stir when the tinny sound of laughter filters through the room, blinking awake to the glow of an old video playing on the screen.

It’s you. Both of you, years younger, cross-legged on his childhood bedroom floor. Your teenage self is mid-eye-roll, shoving Caleb’s shoulder as he fumbles the opening chords of Everything Has Changed.

"You’re butchering it," your past self accuses, but you’re already singing anyway, loud and off-key. Caleb’s voice is quieter, steadier, laced under yours like a promise.

You freeze. "You kept this? I thought I lost the file…"

Caleb doesn’t look away from the screen. His thumb hovers over the pause button, but he lets it play.

“Took it. Couldn't share it.” Share you.

Now, the silence between you is heavier. You swallow, the words blurted out before you can think to stop.

"I used to… I think… I took you for granted. Before."

Caleb’s fingers tap against his knee—a nervous habit, one you’d forgotten.

"You didn’t."

"You don’t know what I thought when you were—" Gone. The word sticks.

The video ends. The screen goes dark, and Caleb turns to you, his gaze softer than you deserve.

"Sing it with me again."

"What?"

"Birthday request." He reaches for the guitar, and you see the tremor in his hands. He’s better now, but the nerves are the same.

You start shaky. The first line cracks, and Caleb’s lips twitch like he wants to tease you, but he doesn’t. His playing is careful, each note deliberate, like he’s afraid to miss a single one. When it’s his turn to sing Ed Sheeran’s part his voice is lower now, roughened by time, and age, and things unsaid. It pulls your eyes to him in a way that hollows and fills you all at once.

You cry. You don’t notice until Caleb’s thumb brushes your cheek, calloused and warm. "Should we stop?"

"Please keep going."

The harmonies are sticky-sweet and shy. Where before you were competing, now you’re confessing.

"Come back and tell me why I’m feeling like I’ve missed you all this time…"

Your voice wavers. His fingers stumble on the strings.

The guitar clatters to the floor when he pulls you into a hug. His arms swallow you whole, his heartbeat loud against your ear. You fist his shirt.

"Don’t let me take you for granted again. Please."

"No promises," he murmurs into your hair. “I like you spoiled.”

Your smile is wry. "I missed you."

"I always miss you. Even when you’re right here."

The heat between you is alive. You want to press closer, to map the new scars under his clothes, to take. But you just cling tighter.

He clears his throat.

“You should get ready for bed, I know you're tired.”

▪︎▪︎▪︎

Later, in bed, you stare at the ceiling. The hug lingers—you feel him in places he wasn’t.

There's a creak from his room.

Is he awake too?

You hear footsteps in the living room, the opening and closing of the fridge. The sound of a lamp flicked on then off.

You exhale. You want him. You want him.

You quietly remove the covers from over you, your legs turning over the side of the bed. With determination, you take off the giant t-shirt that Caleb let you borrow and put on your dress from earlier, tying the ribbons on your shoulders. You grab the tin of candies that you brought to the room just so you can have an excuse, and you walk towards the living room where you can see the dim fairy lights glow just how you left them as you approach.

He's on the couch, holding the necklace you gave him up, gazing up at it. He doesn't look at you yet.

“Couldn't sleep, pipsqueak?”

You walk closer and that is when you notice the tent in his pants. Your breath hitches. He's not even trying to hide it? You exhale and shove the tin towards him, the candles clattering.

“I… forgot your gift,” your voice shakes.

He looks up at you, studying your face the way he always does when you're trying to lie to him. It's impossible but you've still always tried. He takes the candies and you feel yourself losing courage.

“Okay… Goodnight…”

Coward, coward, coward…

You move to turn around when suddenly he grabs your wrist, stopping you from leaving. His grip loosens but you don't leave. You never wanted to. The butterflies in your stomach multiply. You feel dizzy. When you don't leave, he tugs you to him and down onto his lap. You gasp.

“You used to always watch me open my gifts… and see how much I liked them,” his voice is low and pointed, and it makes your heart increase. You feel him below you in a way that makes you feel things that turn you inside out with nervous but undoubtable need.

“My birthday isn't over yet. It's not midnight. Stay.”

“Okay.” You whisper.

He opens the tin and hands it to you, you blink at him in confusion.

“Pick one for me,” he mutters, and his voice is rough, edged with something that makes your fingers tremble as you reach into the tin. The candies rattle softly, bright wrappers catching the dim glow of the fairy lights. You pluck one out, a yellow lemon, and hold it between your fingers.

Caleb’s gaze doesn’t leave your face as you bring it to his lips. He parts them, letting your fingers brush against the warmth of his mouth as he takes the candy. His tongue grazes your fingertip, just barely, and your breath stutters.

"Sour," he murmurs.

You swallow hard, your thighs pressing together instinctively where you’re straddling him. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs tracing idle circles over the thin fabric of your dress. The heat of him seeps into your skin, the weight of his arousal undeniable beneath you.

"You’re shaking," he says, voice low.

You are. Every nerve feels alight, every inch of you hyper aware of him—the way his pulse jumps in his throat, the way his grip tightens just slightly when you shift.

His hand comes up, a finger brushing against the tied ribbon on your shoulder. You shiver, a gasp coming out from barely parted lips. “Caleb—”

“I know that wasn't your gift…” He whispers, his eyes low, gaze steady.

You are nervous, your heart races, you feel him under you. Shaking, you slip another yellow candy into his mouth, not ready to respond to his heavy implication.

He puckers this time. “Why do you always give me the sour ones?”

Your breath is shaky but the answer is automatic. Your thumb brushes his bottom lip, once, and slowly. He looks down at your hand as you do it.

“If you don't like it,” you whisper, “You can always give it to me”

His breath hitches—just slightly—but you hear it. The air between you is thick, charged, and for a moment, neither of you moves. Then his fingers tighten on your hips, pulling you flush against him, and your gasp is swallowed by the sudden, searing press of his mouth against yours.

The candy is still on his tongue, tart and bright, and you taste it when he licks into your mouth, when his teeth graze your bottom lip. Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him there, needing him there. The kiss is messy, desperate, years of want spilling over at once.

When he pulls back, his lips are wet, his breathing ragged. “Still sour,” he murmurs, but his voice is wrecked.

You whimper, pressing forward again, chasing the taste of him, of citrus and something deeper, something only Caleb. His hands slide up your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, and you arch into the touch, trembling.

“Tell me,” he rasps against your mouth. “Tell me what you brought me.”

You can’t think. Not when he’s looking at you like that, not when his fingers are teasing the ribbon at your shoulder again, tugging just enough to make your pulse jump.

“You know,” you breathe.

His fingers tighten. “Say it.”

You swallow. “Me.”

A low sound escapes him, rough and approving, and then his mouth is on your neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin just below your ear. You gasp, fingers clutching at his shoulders as his hands slide down to grip your thighs, hiking your dress up around your hips.

“Caleb—”

“Shh.” He nips at your collarbone, hands squeezing. “Let me have this.”

And you do.

You let him pull the ribbon loose, let him peel the dress from your body like it’s another gift just for him.

The fairy lights cast a honeyed glow over your skin as the dress slips from your shoulders, pooling at your waist. Caleb’s breath hitches—just once—before his hands are on you, rough and loving all at once. His thumbs trace the dip of your ribs, the swell of your hips, as if relearning a map he’d never truly forgotten.

“You’re so—” He stops himself, jaw tightening. The words catch in his throat, replaced by the press of his mouth against your sternum, the scrape of his stubble as he works lower.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against your skin.

The candy tin clatters to the floor, forgotten.

His hands find the backs of your thighs, urging you closer, until you’re flush against him, until you can feel every ragged breath he takes. “Tell me,” he murmurs, lips brushing the frantic pulse at your throat. “Tell me you’ve thought about this.”

You have. A thousand times. In the quiet of your bed, in the spaces between waking and dreaming. But now, with his teeth at your earlobe and his grip possessive on your waist, the admission spills out like a confession.

“Yes,” you whisper.

He growls—a low, desperate sound—and suddenly you’re tumbling off the couch, wrapped with him, his hand behind your head.

The fairy lights blur above you as Caleb’s weight presses you into the rug, his body a solid heat between your thighs. His mouth is everywhere—your collarbone, the curve of your breast, the frantic flutter of your pulse—as if he’s trying to memorize you by taste alone.

You arch into him with a whimper, fingers scrambling at the hem of his shirt. “Off,” you demand, voice thin with want.

He obeys, breaking away just long enough to yank the fabric over his head. The sight of him—all buff muscles and veins, the old scar above his hip, the new ones you haven’t traced yet—steals your breath. You reach for him, but he catches your wrist, pinning it beside your head.

“Not yet.” His free hand skims down your side, teasing the lace edge of your panties. “You gave me this. Let me take my time.”

You squirm, but his grip tightens. A thrill shoots down your spine.

Then his mouth is on your inner thigh, biting just hard enough to make you gasp, and all protests dissolve into a moan.

When he is suddenly lifting you in a bridal carry to his bed, you don't even have time to respond. The world tilts as he lifts you, your laughter muffled against his shoulder as he carries you down the hall.

His bed smells like him—warm and familiar. The sheets are cool against your bare skin as he lays you down, his hands lingering on your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

For a moment, he just looks at you. The dim glow from the hallway spills across the bed, catching the curve of your hip, the rapid rise and fall of your chest. His gaze is heavy, unreadable. Then his fingers brush the inside of your knee, pushing your legs apart just enough to settle between them.

“Caleb,” you breathe.

His breath heaves. “Is.. this—”

“More than okay,” interrupt. Your voice is breathy from him kissing the air out of you. You smile weakly and a little smug. “Happy birthday.”

First kiss, first touch... years of wanting this but settling for a lie fall away. Your mouth still tastes like lemon and him.

A sharp exhaled laugh leaves him as if he can't believe you. His laughter is warm against your skin, a puff of breath that makes you shiver. His fingers trace the curve of your hip, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the right to touch you at last.

“You’re smug,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “After all this time—”

You cut him off with a kiss, fingers threading through his hair to pull him closer. He groans into your mouth, his body pressing you deeper into the mattress. The weight of him is intoxicating, the heat of his skin branding yours.

When you break for air, his pupils are blown wide, his breath uneven. “You have no idea,” he rasps, “how many times I’ve imagined this.”

He exhales sharply again, barely laughing, still shaky with disbelief. Like he can’t quite believe this isn’t another almost, another near-miss in a long line of them. But then his mouth is on yours again, and this time, it’s reverent. Slower. He kisses you like he’s tasting each second he lost.

You feel the press of his chest against yours, the heat of his skin, the way he trembles when your hips rise to meet his. Every moment is drawn out, suspended like the final note of your song still echoing in the air.

His fingers slide beneath your panties, slow and deliberate, and he groans at the way you move against him, eager, trembling.

“I used to dream about this,” he admits, voice cracked. “You. Coming to me like this. Wanting me.”

“I always wanted you,” you breathe. “Even when I was too afraid to know it.”

His mouth dips to your sternum again, kissing a slow path downward. When his tongue swipes along the inside of your thigh, your back arches involuntarily, a soft cry escaping your lips. He smiles against your skin, then pulls your panties down your legs with reverence, like unwrapping a secret he’s kept close to his heart for too long.

“Mine,” he says, so quiet you barely hear it. “Even when I shouldn’t say it.”

But you hear it. You feel it. The way his fingers part you, the way his mouth follows—hot, wet, devoted. You cry out, clutching at the sheets, the sound swallowed by the dark and the fairy light glow. He learns your skin and your core with his mouth like he never cared to know anything else—every gasp, every pulse point, every stuttered breath.

He comes back up and you're face to face. His eyes are wide, mouth wet and open as he breathes over you.

You, barely together, barely finished, arch beneath him, rolling your hips just to hear the way his voice cracks when he curses.

His breath catches—fuck—and his hands tighten on your waist like he doesn’t trust himself to keep from unraveling. You feel it in the way his hips stutter against yours, the way his mouth finds your neck like he needs to anchor himself in the taste of you.

“Keep doing that,” he whispers, voice rough with want, forehead resting against yours. “Please.”

You do. A slow grind, steady, deliberate. His hips answer in kind, messy now, less controlled. He’s shaking a little, not from nerves but from relief,—like this moment had lived inside him too long, too vividly, and now it’s real and it’s you and he can barely take it.

You cup his cheek, fingers soft where everything else is heat and friction.

“I’ve thought about it too,” you admit, and his eyes snap open, searching. “About you.”

That makes him groan—low and broken, like it hurts to be wanted this much.

“You’re killing me,” he says, and then kisses you like he means to survive it anyway.

He shifts to slide a thigh between yours, dragging it up until you're gasping, your bodies aligning with just enough pressure to make you ache. One hand finds yours and pins it to the bed beside your head—not rough, just sure, like he wants to feel your pulse beneath his thumb, like he wants to keep you right there.

“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs against your lips, open-mouthed, panting. “Let me give it to you.”

You shiver, breath catching. “You. Just you.”

He exhales like that undoes him.

“Then take me,” he says, guiding your hand down, guiding himself to where you’re already waiting, soaked and trembling. “Can I…?”

You nod again, but this time, you whisper, “I want to see you.”

His hands shake as he undoes the rest of his clothes. You watch—entranced, nervous, aching. When he’s bare, when he lowers himself between your legs again and you feel the heat of him press against you, you both freeze for a breathless second.

Then he pushes in—slow, inch by aching inch—and your mouth opens in a silent gasp.

The stretch, the pressure, the way he buries his face into your neck with a groan—it's all too much, not enough, perfect. You cling to him, arms around his back, fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders as he begins to move, steady and slow.

Once he’s fully seated, he stills—breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours.

“You feel…” He doesn’t move. Just kisses you like he’s overwhelmed, a strangled sound in his throat, like the words wouldn’t be enough anyway.

He finally starts to move, shallow thrusts that build with each breath, each whimper that spills from your lips. The rhythm is intimate—not frantic, not fast, but deep, focused. Like he’s memorizing you from the inside out.

You meet each other like it’s the first and last time, like there’s nowhere else in the world you’d rather be than this exact moment. It’s not just sex—it’s remembering, relearning, rewriting. Every kiss is an apology. Every thrust, a promise. Every breath shared between your mouths says, I still love you. I never stopped.

You moan his name, and he shudders.

“Say it again.”

You do. Again and again, with each roll of his hips, with each kiss that leaves you breathless, trembling. He’s whispering things too, filth and praise and pleading all tangled together.

“Perfect,” he murmurs into your mouth. “So fucking perfect for me.” He wraps around you, your head buried in his shoulder, his in yours, a sticky embrace with no space between you. As he continues to push into you, you're sent closer to the edge by the sound of him whimpering sweetly in your ear with each thrust. The sound of him makes you moan out.

His body is a hot, relentless pressure, rocking into you, and you claw at his back, your nails scoring soft lines on his skin. Each thrust is a question, a memory, a promise. The bed groans beneath you, a low counterpoint to your ragged breathing and his insistent whispers. He pulls back just enough to lean in, his lips grazing your ear.

"Pipsqueak," he breathes, the name a brand new sensation now, laced with desperation, "you feel so good."

The tenderness in his voice, even now, makes your core clench tighter around him, urging him deeper, faster.

You can’t form words, only soft, broken sounds that are swallowed by the space between your mouths. Your hips lift to meet him, an instinctual, primal dance. He mirrors your urgency, his rhythm quickening, becoming more insistent, yet still perfectly attuned to your responses.

His hands move from your waist, spanning your ribcage, then sliding up to cup your face, thumbs brushing away stray tears that you didn't even realize were falling. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, search yours, a raw question in their depths.

"Look at me," he murmurs, his voice thick with unspent want, "Let me see you."

You meet his gaze, wide-eyed, vulnerable, and the heat in his purple eyes lights something inside you. He pulls one of your hands to his chest, pressing your palm over his hammering heart.

"Feel that?" he rasps, "All for you. Always." The confession, open and aching, sends a fresh wave of sensation through you, making you gasp against his shoulder as he pushes deeper.

This is new, unfamiliar territory for both of you, a dizzying height of sensation and emotion. Every brush of skin, every soft moan, every ragged breath is a discovery.

You can feel the tremor in his muscles as he holds himself above you, the effort it takes for him to maintain this exquisite control. His lips find the hollow of your throat, tracing a path down to your collarbone, leaving a trail of fire. You arch into him, a silent plea for more, for everything.

His hips grind against yours, a slow, deliberate friction that builds a dizzying pressure.

"Almost there, princess," he mutters, the words like a low growl against your skin, "Stay with me. Don't leave me."

You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him further into the core of you, desperate to close every last sliver of space. The air crackles around you, thick with the scent of aroused skin and the unspoken history finally unfurling between you.

Each sweet, agonizing thrust brings you closer to the edge. He pulls back, just an inch, then plunges in again, a powerful, consuming stroke that makes you cry out, your head tossing on the pillow. He groans, a deep, guttural sound of pure need, burying his face in your neck, his body taut and trembling above yours.

"God, you're so good, pips," he whispers, his voice strained with control, "So perfect. Mine…fuck…I'm really close, I can't..."

“Caleb—I—”

His words and pace hit you like a ton of bricks, and your sudden climax bursts through you. It's a wave of liquid heat that ripples through your core, stealing your breath. You cry out, a sharp, broken sound, fingers digging into his shoulders as your body bows into the sensation.

Caleb groans above you, a raw, triumphant sound, his thrusts deepening, quickening somehow, mirroring your release. He drives into you, one last desperate push, then shudders violently, his own release spilling into you, hot and abundant.

He collapses against you, a dead weight, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your ear.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Only the ragged sound of your combined breathing fills the room, slowly returning to normal. You feel him, heavy and satiated, buried deep inside you, and a profound sense of rightness settles over you.

The scent of him, of sex and sweat and lemon candy still, fills your senses. His arm, still wrapped around your waist, tightens, pulling you closer, if that were even possible.

He shifts, just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then finally, lingeringly, to your lips. It’s a tender kiss, full of unspoken gratitude and a dizzying new promise. His voice, when it comes, is thick with emotion, a mere whisper against your mouth.

"Happy birthday to me," he murmurs, and you can feel the faint tremor in his body, the lingering aftershocks of pleasure and perhaps, something even deeper.

You manage a shaky laugh, tracing the line of his jaw with your thumb.

"Happy birthday, Caleb," you whisper back, the words feeling monumental, weighted with years of unspoken longing. “I hope that was an okay gift.”

He groans again, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and presses his face into the curve of your neck. You can feel the wetness of his tears against your skin, and your own eyes sting with unshed emotion.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, his eyes still dark with passion but softened by an overwhelming tenderness. He reaches out, his thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin behind your ear, then tangles his fingers in your hair, pulling you back for another kiss, slow and deep.

There’s no urgency now, just a profound connection, a silent conversation passing between your lips.

“I want…” he starts, then stops, uncertain.

You shift to look at him. “What?”

“I want to stop missing you,” he finally says, so quietly it almost breaks you.

You press your lips to his, tender and certain. “Then don’t.”

He pulls the blanket over both of you, arms wrapping around your waist like he’ll never let go again.

"Stay," he rasps, his voice still hoarse, as if the words are too precious to be spoken loudly. It's not a question, but a plea.

“For at least a hundred years.”

“If we live that long, right?” You feel his smile against your skin as he teases you.

“Of course.”

Maybe change… is not so bad..

Tags: @asiatic-apple @starryeyed-apple

[venus-haze]

Stakeout (Billy Butcher x Reader)

Summary: Ever since you started working with Butcher and The Boys again, life has been exciting, invigorating—and stressful. During a stakeout, Butcher mixes the personal with the professional to help you relieve some of the tension you’ve been carrying around.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. Takes place vaguely in season 1. Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: Sexually explicit content involving semi-public fingering, light degradation, and voyeurism (Butcher is insane. So is Homelander.)

You hadn’t been on a stakeout in years when Butcher asked—demanded, really—that you come along with him to keep an eye on Vought Tower overnight. Something about letting Hughie get some sleep while you two tried to keep tabs on A-Train’s comings and goings. It was easy enough to see through his bullshit, but rather than call him on it, boredom from your day job and curiosity of what he had up his sleeve made you agree.

Butcher at least had the decency to pick up some snacks from a bodega near your apartment, mostly beef jerky and bags of chips. Kept the radio low on some classic rock station, the two of you sitting in near silence across the street from the tower for the better part of an hour. His car hadn’t changed much from the last time you were in it. Except for the new pine tree air freshener—though new was a stretch. It’d long since lost its scent, but the blue wasn’t as sun-bleached as the old one. Funny, the things you remember.

“This feels like a waste of time. Even if we were here to spy on A-Train, which you and I both know we’re not, there’s no way we’d be able to actually see him leave and come back,” you finally said. “And Homelander wouldn’t leave out of Vought’s front door unless he was doing some publicity to appeal to us plebeians.”

“You got a point.”

“So what’re we doing here?” 

“Y’think the cunt can see us?” he asked.

“Who? Homelander?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t the point of a stakeout that we’re not supposed to be seen?”

“S’why I’m asking, love.”

You sighed. “Unless he’s somewhere we can’t see him, then I guess not.”

“Perfect.”

He put his hand on your knee, his fingers inching their way up your pencil skirt. You didn’t have time to change out of your office clothes when Butcher picked you up at your apartment. Even though you were back with his crew, you hadn’t quit your day job just yet, working for some stupid startup that somehow landed a contract with Vought. Gave you some insight into what they were up to, at least made your presence in the tower the least suspicious of anyone else, able to say you were there for business.

You shifted in the passenger seat a bit. “Butcher, what’re you—“

“Tryin’ to help you relax,” he said, his fingers brushing your clit through your panties. “You’ve been tense as hell lately.”

You chewed on your bottom lip. He was right. Linking up with Butcher again after so many years gave you a renewed sense of purpose, but with that came the stress, the late nights, the close calls. In the comfort of his car, just the two of you where no one else could see, maybe you could let him take control for a while.

“How tense, Butcher?” you asked, leaning back in the seat. “Tell me.”

“Workin’ yourself too hard for a bunch of sorry pricks,” he said, his voice low and husky as he tugged at your panties. You lifted your hips so he could pull them to your knees. “Can’t have that when I need you now, yeah?”

You nodded breathlessly as he slid two fingers inside you, pumping them in and out slowly, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit. His gaze, dark and intense, always had a way of making you feel acutely aware of his attention on you, even when you weren't looking at him. Sometimes unnerving, but in cases like this, utterly exposed despite being fully clothed.

“Been a long time, huh? You miss this? You miss when I'd take care of your cunt?”

“Yes,” you moaned. “God, Butcher, keep going.”

“Thought of callin’ you a few times the past few years. You were always a good fuck,” he husked, his lips, his rough beard brushing across your neck and jaw. “Look at you now, people walking by, and you don’t give a damn who can see you, long as you get off, huh?”

“Butcher—“

“Bet if I’d taken my cock out instead, you’d have sucked me off. Take it all like the cockslut I know you are. You fuck anyone else the past few years? They know how to treat you? Know how to make you feel good?”

“Yes—No—I don’t know.”

“Fuckin’ hell, you’re pretty when you’re close. How close are you, love?”

“Fuck—I’m close. I’m so fucking close. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop,” you babbled, choking out a moan when he slipped a third finger inside you. “Keep going, just like that.”

He was pushing you, knew your limits better than anyone, and as much as you hated to admit it, you needed it. Hadn’t realized until then how long it’d been since you’d really been fucked until he curled his fingers inside you, and your brain felt like someone poured soda over it, your skin burning for more.

You didn’t care who saw, all you cared about was getting there, and you were so fucking close it made you screw your eyes shut and cry out in frustration. Jesus, no wonder you were willing to jump back in when Butcher showed up on your doorstep. Everyday was bland, the same old bullshit. There was plenty of bullshit when it came to Butcher and whatever harebrained schemes he came up with, but it was a hell of a lot more fun than typing up reports and sitting through meetings.

“C’mon, love. Put on a show. Let me hear ya.”

You opened your eyes, only to catch Butcher staring out the windshield. Following his gaze, you let out a panicked whine upon seeing a red glow honed in on you, long enough to be sure he was watching. You came on Butcher’s fingers with a perverse moan, pleasure coursing through you as you dug your fingers into the console. You threw your head back, your hips jerking upward as you rode out your orgasm on his hand. 

Butcher was relentless when he wanted to be, and you weakly tapped out, squeezing his muscular arm, whining a bit nevertheless when he pulled his hand away. Sparing another glance at the windshield, the red glow was gone. Homelander was gone.

You told yourself it was the surge of fear-fueled adrenaline that brought you over the edge, not exhilaration at being seen, being caught in such a vulnerable state by the most powerful supe in the world. Definitely not. But you kind of hated yourself for not feeling more humiliated, instead, as you obsessively replayed the scene in your head as Butcher drove down the street, you were thrilled by it. 

Still, he should’ve fucking warned you, given you some kind of heads up. You held your tongue until you were sure the sound of traffic would hide your voice from any superpowered hearing.

“You fucking prick!” you hissed, smacking his shoulder. “You banked on Homelander being enough of a pervert to watch us?”

“Killed two birds with one stone. You feel better now, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you reluctantly conceded.

“Attagirl.” He grinned. “I think I know where the cunt’s going.”

You balked. “I can’t look him in the eye after this.”

“You kind of already did.”

“Fuck you, Butcher.”

He glanced at you again, squeezing your thigh. “I’ll make it up to you later, love. Don’t you worry.”

[delphi-shield]

:// sᴍᴀʟʟ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ғᴏʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ / ʙɪʟʟʏ.ʙᴜᴛᴄʜᴇʀ

Billy Butcher x Reader smut, hurt/no comfort wc: ~5.2k mdni read on ao3 digging the worms out of my brain real quick since i finally caught up with the boys. idk i think i worked through something personal with this, so like, that's a win for me.

summary: Butcher knows better than to be fucking around with you, but there's 50 quid in it for him if he gets you to call him 'daddy'. Easy money.

content: s4 spoilers, dubcon, butcher's pov, an exorbitant amount of kessler in the first half, age gap, general sleazy behavior, handjob, finger fucking, piv, pussy slapping, some just the tip action, blowjob, mentions of titfucking, degradation, general objectification, public sex, not proofread.

“Makes you realize men have nipples too.”

The bar is packed for a Wednesday night, but Butcher already knows exactly what Kessler is talking about. You’re a ditch lily, sitting tall in this shithole. He turns his head away, pretends he doesn't see the way you lick up a trail of spilled cosmopolitan from the side of your glass, pink tongue parting your lips, eyes half-shut. 

Fucking typical. Kessler could sniff out daddy issues and sadness from a mile away, and he was lethal at half that distance. He could have them wrapped around his finger in the time it took Butcher to take a piss.

His eyes linger. A thing like you doesn't belong in a dump like this. This is the sort of place girls like you stumble into at 1 AM, survey the crowd through the haze of cigarette smoke, and wobble right back out onto the streets, take your chances with the elements rather than the haggard, unfriendly crowd that hunches over their drinks.

Butcher likes Midwest 10's. Begs Kessler to stop ogling barely legal co-eds, says he's not some sleazy cunt in a John Hughes film. He can lie all he wants. If it makes him hard, it makes Butcher hard. 

He glances sidelong at your face. You've got this Christmas-light bright smile that makes his dick jerk. Kessler’s more than under his skin. He’s in his veins, in the same blood that raises his cock up like a goddamn bicycle pump when you lean over the bar, arms squeezing your tits together.

"You could probably fuck 'em." Kessler tips his head to the side, eyes locked on your cleavage. His eyes narrow, lips pursed, evaluating your chest and charting a course for his dick to travel.

"Shut up."

"Huh?"

Fuck. Your tip your head to the side from two seats away, brows pinched together. Cute, in a lost little lamb kind of way.

Butcher's eyes cut to Kessler. He's cocked it all up now. The sly, punchable grin on Kessler’s face turns him back to his drink. He drains his glass and gestures for another. If he doesn’t look at you, if he keeps drinking, this all goes away.

"Nothin'. Don't you worry about it, love."

That should be the end of it, but you’ve clearly got something wrong with you. You fiddle with your purse, pluck up your courage, and drop yourself onto the barstool next to him. Whether you’ve got no sense of self-preservation or you’re just that damn oblivious, he doesn’t intend to get to know you well enough to find out. Butcher's strained smile doesn't do much to smooth the worry lines away.

Kessler chuckles, leans back and props his elbows up on the bar. Cunt just wants to watch him squirm.

"No," Kessler corrects, drawing the word out. "I want you to get some pussy."

His eyes dart over to Kessler, looming over you, hands ghosting up your arms to squeeze your shoulders. He blinks rapidly, rubs at his face, tries to play it off like he's nervous or tired or whatever the fuck but when he looks down, there's your tits again. Butcher lolls his head back to the ceiling. Laugh it up, you fuckin’ cunt.

And Kessler does. Makes a show of slapping his hand on his thigh, head knocked back, grinning toothily.

He tries to ignore you, but you’re straddling that stool next to him in your little skirt and ordering another cosmo. This isn’t the kind of bar for cocktails, and he knows without even seeing the bartender’s eye roll that he hates you.

It's none of his business. He ought to keep himself sat there drowning in his drink ‘til last call and past that, make them throw him out on the street, give him a reason to swing first. It's a better idea than messing with you.

The bartender drops your drink off in front of you and turns before the words ‘thank you’ leave your glossy lips. Another sickly pink cocktail with a dried out lime dropped on top. Butcher can’t help himself. He’s got a soft spot for the clueless.

“Cheery bloke, isn't he?” He says, casting a sidelong glance at the bartender. He taps a finger against the bartop, inclines his head toward your cocktail. “That the only drink you know the name of?”

Your cheeks warm. You hide it behind a hand, turning your face away from him to laugh.

“What? No. I just think they taste good.”

Kessler snorts. “That’s a fat load of shit.”

Butcher agrees. His mouth twists into a half-hearted smile. He slides his glass over to you. 

“Try it,” he insists.

There’s hardly a passing thought for your own safety. You look between his scotch and his face and seem to decide it’s safe to take drinks from strange old fucks in bars. Your fingers brush his when you take the glass, warm and soft - sticky. You must be more sloshed than you look, must keep spilling your drinks. Hell, for all he knows, maybe this place does make the best cosmo in the city. Maybe the bartender just hates your ass because you keep making a mess.

You don’t even ask what he’s drinking. (Maybe this is all a grift, he thinks. Kessler’s at his ear, chuckling - she ain’t bright enough for that.) You lift his glass and leave your lipstick behind.

“Oh my god.” You sputter, pound a fist against your chest. It makes your tits bounce. Fucking miracle your shirt is containing those things. “That tastes like ass.”

“That is the highest quality scotch this bar serves.”

“It tastes like someone put a cigarette out in a glass of whiskey.”

“It’s a shit bar.”

You laugh, head tipped back, nose scrunched - the works. You’re too tipsy for it to be on purpose. Being cute comes naturally to you. Must be how you’ve made it this far.

You pass his drink back and scoot your cosmo closer to you, spilling it as the glass skips over the pock-marked countertop. Butcher snorts, dabs it up for you with his sleeve. He’s starting to think his theory about the cosmopolitans might hold true.

“Well, here, a trade’s a trade.” He takes your drink by the stem (fucking amazed they even have martini glasses in this place) and pounds back a mouthful.

It isn’t that bad, but he makes a show of scrunching his nose and shaking his head. He slides your drink back over to you and mirrors the way you had clung to your drink.

“You’re kidding,” you laugh. “It’s better than yours. I don’t know how you drink that.”

“I’ll keep my liquid ashtray, thanks.”

Your eyes are all lit up when you smile, but it emphasizes the raw edges, the puffiness that lingers. Rough night for you, by the looks of it. Not like he’s having much of a better one.

There’s no harm in it. No harm in showing you what a proper drink tastes like, broadening your horizons and helping you both forget what a shit hand you’ve been dealt. He buys you a drink on the condition that you try something that isn’t a cosmopolitan. You can hardly stomach a whiskey and coke. He orders you a fernet and coke for shits and giggles, expects you to spit it out like all the rest, barks out a laugh when you declare it’s tasty, notes of lavender drawing you in. Notes of lavender - Christ, what fucking suburb did you pop out of? 

He introduces you to more drinks, leans closer with each empty glass. You're new here, you tell him. You tell him your name, too, not that he remembers. Got stood up on some shitty date. He knows it’s got to be shitty because what idiot in his right mind would take you here, of all places?

By the time he orders you both shots of Rumple Minze, you’re pressed shoulder to shoulder. Your hand splays against his chest, head leaning against him. You lift his shot to his lips for him and he’s too drunk to find it childish and irritating. He downs it and does the same for you, watches you extend that pretty neck to drink it down.

“I’ll get you a cab,” he slurs, rocking unsteadily to his feet.

“I already called an Uber.”

Jesus. It’s a struggle not to roll his eyes. Fucking kids. Allergic to one night stands, couldn’t take a hint to save their life. Even Kessler is on his side, his head thunking against the bartop.

It's for the best, he thinks, trying to curb his disappointment. He's got shit to do. Ryan to worry about. Kessler's a right cunt, pushing him to you. He hasn't got the time to be fucking about. This entire thing had been a waste of time, too busy trying to get his dick wet to make the most of what he’s got left.

Butcher stuffs his hands into the pockets of his coat, steps back, ready to split and stumble his way back home. He nods quick and sharp, tight-lipped smile to keep his frustration locked behind his teeth.

You show him your phone, make him squint to see what he’s supposed to be looking at. “My Uber is still a couple minutes away, so…”

Kessler picks his head up from the bar. He's a bloodhound for pussy. He picks up the leading edge in your voice before Butcher’s even done parsing your words.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Kessler drones. “You can’t even get it up, can you?”

“I’m damn well going to try.”

“What?” You laugh, swaying on your feet.

Butcher wraps an arm around your waist, tugging you against his side. “Nothin’. Don’t you worry about it. I’ll keep you company. Make sure no nasties try to get you.”

The cold outside is bracing. You wrap your arms tight around yourself and this time Butcher’s too drunk to pretend he isn't staring at the way your tits press together.

It’s your idea. Really. The way you look up at him, the way your lips stay parted while the pair of you pace the sidewalk. You wrap your hand around his bicep and squeeze, eyes drifting slowly to the side, to the alleyway just a few strides away.

See? It’s your idea, honest. He drags you behind a dumpster, pins you to the wall of the alley, and shoves his tongue down your throat, yeah, but you moan so fucking loud and drag him closer. It takes longer than he'd like for your hand to stop massaging his chest and start fondling his cock, but you're a sweet girl - don't seem the type to do this too often. Need some guidance.

Butcher lays his hand atop yours, wraps your fingers tighter around his bulge. Your breath hitches, your eyes flicking down to your hand, mouth popped open - got this sweet, vacant little look in your eye.

He'd bet real money you go dumb for cock.

“$50 says you can get her to call you ‘daddy’,” Kessler pipes up, leaning against the wall next to you. He tips a cigarette into his mouth, cups a hand around to light it, and Butcher swears the light from his zippo gleam in your eyes. He doesn’t doubt it. Seems cruel, though, especially when he can’t remember your name.

“What was your name again?”

It takes a bit for you to get dick off your mind and fish around for your name. You mumble, make him lean in close and tilt his head to get you to say it again, clearer.

You're the obedient sort. Pick up on cues so easy. Don't even make him ask for it again. He pats your cheek, smirk creasing his face.

By your side, Kessler flashes a crisp $50. He plucks it taut, fans himself with it, makes a real show of being a dick while you try to take Butcher's out of his pants.

At the end of the day, 50 quid is 50 quid.

“How ‘bout you ask daddy for permission, sweetheart?”

Your mouth moves wordlessly.

“Please?”

He clicks his tongue. “That’s real polite. But it ain’t what I asked for, is it?”

“Can I please play with your cock, daddy?”

“Better.”

Kessler slips the fifty into Butcher’s coat pocket while you fumble with his belt and free him from his pants. You lay his cock in the seam of your hands, cupping him like he’s a gift on two legs. You stroke him reverently, look up at him with big, thoughtless lamb eyes.

Your heart’s in it, but you’re too reserved for his taste. He grips your hand in his and guides you down his cock, shows you when to squeeze, when to twist your wrist, how to flick your thumb over the slit of his tip.

He can never make it last when he drinks. Should have warned you before he came on your pretty skirt, but you’ve got a natural talent for stroking dick. He keeps his groan locked up tight. It rattles through his chest and he leans into you, crushing you against the wall of the alley. His hips stutter and rut into your hand, still wrapped around him, coaxing every drop from his tip. You still toy with him while he tries to catch his breath. He’s got to push away from you with a mumbled “Christ, all right, that’s enough.”

It’s like he’s taking your favorite toy away. You pout up at him, hand still molded for his cock by your side, by the skirt his ruined with his cum. He almost gets an apology out, but you drag a finger through his mess and bring it to your lips, make a show of licking it up.

His chest aches. He isn’t sure if it’s the tumor or his heart desperately trying to pump enough blood down to his dick to get him up again.

Butcher crams two fingers into his mouth and scrapes the dirt from beneath his nails with his teeth. The rest is a blur. He knows that he kicks your feet apart, traces your slit through your panties before he pushes them to the side and finger fucks you until your head snaps back against the wall. It’s quick, messy - leaves his forearm soaked. He’s not so sure that was real, but he’s too drunk to figure it out, too gone ask.

He tucks himself back into his pants. You set your panties back in place, skirt still hiked up to your ribs. You slip a little lower down the wall, panting. He stops you before you can slip all the way down, pats your cunt, and tugs your skirt back into place.

“Let’s get you a cab, eh?”

That’s the last thing he remembers clearly. You’d missed your Uber, had to take a cab with him anyway. He remembers you leaning against him, tucked up against his side, hand stroking his chest. He’d pet your hair - soft as lamb’s wool - and whispered nonsense against your head just to get a laugh out of you. After you get out, the whole thing’s blank.

When Butcher wakes up at 2 PM the next day, choking on his own vomit, he can't find the 50 quid. He turns his jacket inside out searching for it. A scrap of paper with your number scrawled on it falls from his jacket pocket. He doesn’t spare it more than a glance and keeps digging for his wallet.

Lambs lose their appeal after the flying cunts nearly bit his cock off.

That farm had been dirty business. Wicked stuff, the kind that doesn't wash off. This work always has been, but this time the blood doesn't come out from under his fingernails. He tastes bile every time he breathes. The copper twang of blood trickling down the back of his throat is the only chaser he gets anymore.

He doesn't think of you often. He knows it'd break your little heart to hear it, have you looking up at him with those ‘fuck me, I'm sad’ eyes and that little girl pout that makes him feel every bit the lech he is. You’re a sweet thing. Vacant, just like him. It didn’t take long to piece that together.

You’re easy and malleable, quick to fit yourself around him in whatever way he demands. He liked that about you at first.

But when he calls on you at three in the morning for a quick lay and you answer the door in a full face of make-up, hair done and wearing the sort of nightgown that no one actually sleeps in, all he feels is distaste.

You let him crowd you against your couch (a neutral color, no blanket in sight, your living room just as blank as the rest of you) without so much as a ‘hello’. You hook a leg over his hip. No panties, he realizes, eyes locked on your drippy cunt, already flushed. Been touching yourself to the thought of this. He warms a little at the thought.

Butcher wedges his knee between your leg and grinds. Any warmth you’d kindled with wet pussy dissipates the moment you moan so goddamn loud, the sound hollow and plastic. He keeps his leg still, flexes his thigh for you to grind on. His jaw tightens. He nearly shoves his fingers in your mouth to keep you from making those stupid fucking noises.

You let him twist you up however he wants, more a posable toy than a person. He pushes you further along the couch until your back arches awkwardly against the arm. You don't protest. Of course you don't.

His thick fingers trail down your slit, part your slick folds for his inspection. He sways back on his haunches, admires the pretty way he's got you arranged, pinned open on his fingers for him.

He brings his hand down sharply on pussy once, twice - and the third time directly to your clit is just because you kept making that annoying fucking noise. That nasally, porn-star whine that drills him between the eyes and makes his hard-on flag. The way you twitch and jerk at each hit might be genuine but that fucking noise drives him up a wall. Christ, there's got to be something about you that's real.

Pussy’s real. Can’t fake that, he thinks.

“Stay right there,” he says, a bite to his voice when you try to shift against him again. If you could just lay there and take it - is that so much to ask for?

He guides himself to you, hips rocking experimentally. You suck his head in and his chin dips to his chest. He groans deep. It turns to a growl when you raise your hips. He lays his forearm against you, pressing you down - and that moan might have been real.

“Can't you do fucking anything right?” He snaps. His hips push forward, bullying himself deeper into you. You suck a breath through your teeth, your hand bracing against his forearm. “I told you to stay right there.”

A spark of indignation flickers in your eyes, flash-fire flushed out by the same pitiful little lamb wool you pull back over your eyes. Makes you look all downy, plush and fuckable - he's fished more respectable shits from the toilet.

You’re a good girl for a few more shallow thrusts, lay there just like he wants while he works himself to the hilt. He finds his rhythm sloppily, one knee propped on the couch, the other foot planted on the floor. Your tits bounce with every thrust and he’s stupid enough to take his hands off of you, trust you not to move while he gropes at your breast.

Immediately you rise to your elbows, try to arch your back deeper. He’s positive you’re trying to mimic some video, down to the exact angle of your spine, but your heart isn’t in it. His cock butts against your walls, shallower than before, the pleasure that had been tearing through his blood coming to a screeching halt. He hisses through his teeth, grinding out his frustration.

“Don't –” his shoves you back down, hand flattening against your cheek and pushing your face into the couch. Feels fucking awful any other position. “–fucking move. Don't fucking move. Trying to cum. Goddammit.”

Your hands curl into fists by your head. You hide your face, press it deeper into the cushion and he presses your face deeper to help you. The noise you make is pitiful, but at least it's real.

Fucking hell. Now he’s completely out of it. You’ve gone and fucked up pussy for him. He didn’t think that was possible. He can’t find the angle he needs, can’t get back to that gummy spot that make his vision blur.

He pulls out and flips you onto your stomach, ignoring the little whine you make. You don’t raise your hips - god forbid you take a fucking hint - so he sits you up for him and wedges his dick back in. It only takes a few thrusts for him to realize this is worse. Tighter, dry, chafing his dick like goddamn sandpaper.

“Your cunt shrivel up or something? Feels fucking terrible.”

He snatches your wrist, pulls your arm back at an angle that makes you cry out, and fills your palm with lube. Can't even get wet on your own. Fucking Christ, he's got to do everything for you. Even has to curl your fingers around his cock, drag your hand back and forth until you final get the big, swinging fucking hint and jerk him off.

He meant to stuff himself back into your cunt, but at this point your hand will do. Six one way, half a dozen the other. At least your hand doesn't chafe.

You’re silent now. Small mercies. The only sounds are the slick of your palm working him over and his labored breaths. Your hand is clumsy at this angle, but he’s not going to risk letting you move and fuck it all up again.

Once he’s close, he drops your hand and flips you onto your back again. A big hand presses your knees apart, opens you up for him. You're still so pliable, even if the sheen is gone from your cunt. You try to fix your hair. If he notices the tears brimming your eyes, he doesn't say anything.

He lines himself back up with your cunt, dragging himself through your folds. Your knees knock closer with each pass of his bright red tip over your clit. He taps it once with his cock, expecting another produced moan to rattle the walls, but you only whimper, your thighs trying to close around him.

Butcher smirks. He pumps himself into you, keeps himself shallow - just the tip past your puffy lips. 

You whimper, try to shuffle down and take more of him. Butcher’s hand grips your face, squishing your cheeks so hard it stings.

“Don't you fucking move,” he grits out. You used to take instruction so well. Now you've gotten all up in your own head. Nobody likes an uppity bitch, he ought to make you see that.

What he really ought to do is make you get down there and jerk him off. Your hand is still slicked, but you'd probably piss yourself at the chance. Instead, he pushes your knees damn near up to your ears and barks for you to hold your own legs. Your hands curl around the backs of your knees. There you go. Figuring it out again.

His hand strokes his dick quick and hard, one hand dedicated to keeping himself just inside you. It doesn't take long for him to cum. It’s a slow burn that seeps up through his belly, lattices up his ribs and congeals in his chest, makes him ache and cave over your body while his hips sputter. He squeezes himself dry, pumps his cum into your pussy until it flows past his tip and seeps down onto your couch. 

Butcher lingers over you, catching his breath. He’s already gone soft, his cock dropped out of you. He sits back against the opposite arm of the couch, splays himself out while you curl up.

Something burns in his chest - remorse, maybe. You’re all curled up against your couch, cheek cushioned on your arm - won’t look at him, don’t paw at him or lean against his side, don’t even reach to clean yourself up.

His head knocks back to the ceiling. He can’t be bothered to pull answers out of you. He reaches for the tissue box on your coffee table, plucks a handful, and cleans himself off.

He tosses the box back to the coffee table and shoves his boots back on, barely taking the time to lace them up properly. He scoops he coat up from where you’d shucked it onto the floor, buttons himself back up, and you still haven’t moved. His eyes linger on you for a moment, brow set low.

Can’t be bothered, he reminds himself. He runs a hand through his hair and makes for your door, boots thunking heavily against your floors.

“Can I see you again?”

You’ve managed to pick your head up when he glances back at you. You sound so desperate it's pitiful. His lip curls. He runs a hand over his head, looks anywhere but you.

Christ, even your apartment is blank and devoid of personality. He hadn't noticed it before, too consumed with the need to get between your thighs. He shrugs, and gives you a lifeless smile.

“We'll see.”

Butcher closes your door behind him and hurries down the hall. He turns the corner to see Kessler’s cheshire grin greeting him in the dark of your stairwell.

He ought to get right with you before his time comes. He isn't proud of the way things ended. Butcher’s a right bastard, but he isn't blind; he'd seen the look on your face, the hopeful shine in your eyes dulling when he'd left you there without so much as a ‘cheers, love, thanks for the rub’.

He doesn't bother texting you. He's already posted up outside your apartment. Giving you a heads up would only give him time to pussy out.

Besides, you're home. He knows it. You’re piss-easy to track. Home to work, work to home, same route, same time. It will be easy to knock on your door, get his closure, and slip out of your life for the last time.

It should be easy. He’s had harder conversations with people who meant more to him but he keeps staring at your door, trying to will himself to knock. He’s not that weak yet. He can still raise his hand.

Butcher turns to leave just as you open the door. His shoulders tense when you call out to him.

“Billy?” You blurt out. There’s genuine surprise there.

“I just thought I’d –” He turns to catch a glimpse of you and it sends him headlong into silence.

You look a right mess. No face isn’t done up, an oversized t-shirt draping off your shoulders. Your pajama pants are fluffy, snowflake print - tackiest thing he’s seen in a while. 

You duck your head down, trying to catch his eye. 

“You okay?” You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “Want to come in?”

He doesn’t. Not even a little. He wants to rip the band-aid off, forget he ever met you and let you get on with your life - whatever it is you do. But you step to the side and fix him with a weak little smile that he thinks might be real, and his feet take him in through the door.

It’s a nice place in the daytime, he realizes. Natural sunlight, open floorplan, your shelves crowded with plants and knick-knacks he’s never seen. You offer him a drink, laugh when he says water and fall quiet when he insists.

You hand him his drink and collapse onto your couch. Your legs kick up onto your coffee table, and for the first time he realizes your socks are fuzzy, too. He looks around, scans you from head to toe. Is this the right place? He keeps picking at his nails, trying to free the grime from under them.

Once you realize he’s baffled, you’re merciful enough to start the small talk. It’s awkward and stilted - his fault, his answers halting and quick. You give him grace, sip on your drink. Your laughs never quite reach your eyes, but you scoot closer to him on the couch anyway.

“Why are you really here, Billy?” Your hand settles on his thigh and curls inward.

It’s not how he wanted this to go, but he doesn’t stop you from sliding your hand higher while he chokes on his words. You’ve got his belt undone by the time he manages to string a sentence together.

“I've been a right cunt to you.”

“Mhm.”

“You don't got to put up with it, yeah?”

“Mm-mm.”

“Got your whole life right ahead of you.”

“Uh-huh.”

Fucking Christ, could you give him more than a noise? A few moments ago you’d held a conversation with him.

His irritation is snuffed out by your lips wrapping around the tip of his cock and sucking hard. Your hand pumps his shaft, twisting your wrist on the way back up. Good God, you learn quick.

Butcher could spoil you rotten if he had the time. He could get you whatever you wanted - if ever you wanted for anything. He cups a hand over the back of your head, encouraging, not guiding.

You’re methodical. You let your hand work what your mouth won’t reach, fondle his balls with the other one. It’s clinical. You’ve committed the moves to memory, when to swirl your tongue, hollow your cheeks, when to moan around him, when to look up at him with those tears straining at your waterline.

He finishes quick, his chest heaving. You pass him his water while you reach for a tissue box. He drains it and nearly misses you spitting his cum into a tissue, wadding it up and tossing it into the bin.

“I haven’t got much time left,” he says, breathless.

Your brow creases. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, your lips swollen. “What?”

“I’ve got this –” he gestures nebulously with a hand, like he’s trying to pluck the right words out of the air. “– thing. In my brain, see? Inoperable. So, if I up and vanish on you, it ain’t personal.”

You stay silent, stone faced. He wishes you’d say something. Even one of the irritating platitudes people like to parrot would be better than this. Your eyes harden. You purse your lips, breathe deep, and stand from the couch.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Billy. It was good to see you.”

Butcher’s still trying to catch his breath. He tucks himself back into his pants, a mess he’ll clean up later, and rises unsteadily. You don’t reach out to help. He makes another nebulous gesture towards you, his hand quivering.

“You want me to..?”

“Nah. Don’t strain yourself.”

He stuffs himself back into his coat, watching your eyes linger - maybe realizing for the first time how much slighter he’s looking. Butcher pats your cheek gently as he passes by.

You don’t ask to see him again. For your sake, he hopes this is the last time.

[writhyv]

⋆｡°✩ [ch.1] for when you miss me

Songs on the charts, sold-out shows, the kind of career most musicians dream about—everything’s perfect. But success doesn’t fill the emptiness. And then, just when you think you’ve moved on—there he is. Your past, standing in front of you like a love song you never finished.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — park jongseong x male!reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 1.5k

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — male reader, jay x reader, estranged exes to lovers, famous singer!reader because we're built like that, is this angst? i have no clue, memories of your past together just hits hard ughhhh, jay has a new lover omg the drama-mama-mamah, you are dramatic as hell but we love you for you, you are insane to still think of him, i understand though you are in love with jay we see each other WE SEE EACH OTHER, more to come!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — use of male pronouns, has some implied relationships, swear words, mentions and use of alcoholic substances, author's interpretation of the people in this fic might not reflect them irl, story update lengths may vary~

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love: the full masterlist

The stage lights are too bright.

They always are—blinding, artificial suns that bleach the room into a watercolor blur. You squint against them, fingers absently strumming your guitar as the crowd murmurs beneath the clink of champagne glasses.

The venue is all exposed brick and twinkling fairy lights, the kind of place you’d have mocked two years ago. Now, you’re just background noise to someone else’s love story.

"You’re up next." Leah’s voice cuts through the hum, her manicured fingers digging into your shoulder—nervous energy. The sequins on her dress catch the light like shattered glass.

"Play something romantic. But, like… not too romantic. Sarah’s grandma thinks love songs are ‘sinful.’"

You snort, plucking a sour note on purpose. "So, no ‘Careless Whisper’?"

"God, no." She grins, but it fades fast.

Her eyes dart toward the crowd, then back to you. "Hey… you okay? You’ve been a little bit pale lately—"

"I’m fine." The lie tastes stale. You twist a tuning peg too hard; the string protests with a sharp twang.

“Oop?”

“There it goes~”

“Psh.” Leah exhales through her nose.

"Heads up, but Jay’s here."

Your fingers freeze mid-strum. You think the discordant echo hangs in the air—a fitting soundtrack.

"Shit," you mutter.

"She was Sarah’s tutor, so she had to invite him," she adds, her voice low.

"Just… brace yourself."

Your stomach knots. "… anyone with him?’"

"Tall brunette girl. Clean fit with a high pony. Around our age. Pretty. A lawyer too, I heard?" Leah grimaces. "She’s got that whole ‘I do hot yoga and would destroy you in court’ vibe."

"Fantastic." You reach for your water bottle, but your hands betray you—trembling just enough to make the plastic crinkle. The condensation drips onto your jeans, cold and clammy.

You don’t look. Not at first.

Instead, you bury yourself in the set—some anemic Ed Sheeran cover, then a neutered Beatles rendition.

Safe. Soulless. Distracting.

The crowd barely reacts. A few aunties tap their heels; a groomsman drunkenly mouths "play ‘Wonderwall’" at you. You ignore him.

But then Sarah, Leah’s new wife, commandeers the mic. Her grin is all mischief.

"Okay, time for a special request!" she announces like she’s not about to detonate a grenade in your chest.

"This one’s for all the hopeless romantics."

She looks at you with a grinning smile, almost teasing.

"Play Way Back Into Love!"

Of fucking course.

You haven’t touched this song since the breakup. Since … him.

Not because it’s hard—it’s easy, four chords and a melody so saccharine it should come with a dental warning—but because it was yours. The song you and Jay butchered in the car, harmonizing off-key until your lungs ached. The one he’d hum against your collarbone at 3 AM, his voice gravelly with sleep.

Now, here it is. Taunting you.

You take a breath—shaky, unsteady—and start playing.

"I’ve been living with a shadow overhead…"

Your voice cracks. You clear your throat and try again.

"I’ve been sleeping with a cloud above my bed…"

And then—because the universe is a sadistic bastard—you look towards the audience.

There he is.

Jay.

Sitting at a table near the back, wearing something so elegant you know the gods made it for him and only him to wear. His hair is bleached now, swept to the side in a way that suggests actual effort, and his fingers are wrapped tight around his champagne flute, knuckles blanching white.

And at that moment? He’s staring at you.

Not the polite, detached gaze of an ex. No—this is raw, hungry like he’s trying to memorize the way your lips shape the words he once whispered against your skin.

Your brain short-circuits.

"I’ve been—uh—" You fumble the lyric. "Solitary… something."

A few guests chuckle, mistaking it for charm.

Jay doesn’t laugh. His lips part, just slightly, like he’s about to sing along—but then she leans in.

The girlfriend.

Tall, brunette, with the posture of someone who’s never slouched a day in her life. She murmurs something in Jay’s ear, her manicured hand settling on his forearm—possessive.

Jay flinches. Just once. Then he looks away.

And just like that, the spell breaks.

˚　　✦　　.　. 　 ˚　.　 . ★⋆.　　✦　.　　.　 ˚　.　　✦　˚ 　　 ˚　.˚

You flee the stage the second the song ends, beelining for the bar like it’s salvation.

"Whiskey. Neat please," you tell the bartender. "Actually, make it a double."

As you sit there all alone, the first glass burns; the second barely registers. You’re halfway through your third when that voice cuts through the haze.

"You still forget the lyrics."

You turn.

Jay’s standing there, smirking, but his grip on his drink is white-knuckled.

"Yeah, well," you shrug, "some things never change."

A beat of silence. And then:

"You still sound good," Jay says softly.

"You look good," you blurt.

Shit.

His cheeks flush pink, but he doesn’t call you out. "Thanks.”

Just then, you notice an unfamiliar motion near you, a person almost to your side.

“Uh… and this is Naomi." He gestures to the woman beside him.

"Hi, Naomi Natten." She says, extending a hand. Her grip is firm, her smile polished. "Jay’s told me a lot about you."

You force a grin. "All lies, I’m sure."

Jay chokes on his drink.

Naomi, oblivious, laughs. "He said you’re a great musician. And, uh…" She glances at Jay. "That you burn toast like it’s your job. Is that true?"

"Wow," you deadpan. "That’s what stuck?"

Jay’s expression flickers—guilt? regret?—before he forces a chuckle. "Among other things."

Another silence.

You then stare into your whiskey, searching for words that don’t exist.

"So," you finally say, "how’d you two meet?"

"Law school," Naomi says brightly. "He was assisting one of our professors in one of my course subjects. I then had the guts to torture him into asking me out."

Jay rolls his eyes, but there’s affection in it. "She’s joking. Mostly."

"Mhm." You swallow the rest of your drink.

"Congratulations." God, it’s burning hot.

Silence stayed for a minute and let a smooth breeze in before a loud soundtrack played in the middle of the venue.

“Wait, let’s dance!” Distracted, Naomi pulled Jay’s arm, talking as if you weren’t even there.

"W-We should go," Jay says abruptly. "But… it was good seeing you." His voice was faltering as the music drowned his cadence.

He hesitates like he wants to say more, but Naomi’s already steering him toward the dance floor.

You watch them go, whiskey burning your throat.

"Yeah," you mutter. "Good seeing you too."

˚　　✦　　.　. 　 ˚　.　 . ★⋆.　　✦　.　　.　 ˚　.　　✦　˚ 　　 ˚　.˚

It was quiet when you got home, the kind of silence that makes your ears ring. The wedding's music still echoed in your head, as if remnants of melodies that wouldn't leave you alone.

As heat crept up your body, you took off almost everything that wrapped you until you got to your room - your suit jacket first, then the tie that felt like it had been choking you all night, and finally those fancy shoes that never quite felt right.

Feeling the bits of tiredness and exhaustion from the event you played in, your eyes landed on a simple cardboard box in the corner. It sat there like a time capsule, gathering dust in the shadows of your bedroom.

As simple as it was, it wasn't ever just one. It was tons of stacked boxes, old and new, each one holding pieces of your past. It wasn't noticeable to anyone else, but every box with it was tucked into the side after you moved in almost eight months ago, like you were trying to hide them even from yourself.

Walking groggily, fighting against the whiskey still warming your blood, you manage to carry one of them and land it on top of your soft mattress. The cardboard felt rough under your fingers, worn at the edges from too many moves.

Scrounging through your messy stuff - old receipts, notes from physics, forgotten birthday cards, ticket stubs from concerts you barely remember - you notice a gleaming antique at the bottom of it all. An old CD case with a scratched plastic cover, the kind nobody uses anymore.

With one gust of air, you wiped down every dust on its surface, watching the particles dance in the dim light of your bedroom lamp.

Opening the case with shaking hands, you see a vintage disk that almost shone brightly with its rainbow colors, like an oil slick caught in sunlight.

The sharpie on the label has faded, but the words still gut you:

FOR WHEN YOU MISS ME — JAY

You pop it into your ancient CD player, just an arm’s length from the box you’ve got it from.

Right there, the first and only track plays. Silence plays in the back as dread looms over what could play from this relic of your past.

"I’ve been living with a shadow overhead…"

You close your eyes, lingering in the presence of his silky voice.

And for the first time in four years, you let yourself remember.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — YOOOOOi never thought this day would come BUT does this qualify for angst? i'm not too sure cuz i've never really dove into the trope in terms of writing and also just had this asone of those dream fics i really wanted to write basedon tropes from the 2000s movies I oh so loved to watch RAHHHHH BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOY ITTTTT also enha in la WOOO GO TEAM

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ story taglist — get in here and request down below!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ can i join the masterlist? — sure! i do frequent posts and updates so just be warned! leave a reply on any posts and i'll add ya in the future updates, much love~ 

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love : the full masterlist

my masterlist! | made by writhyv 💘

[zepskies]

Break Me Down - Part 17

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Female Reader

Summary: You’re a private investigator by trade, but now you happily sit at a desk — leading a surveillance team at Supe Affairs. After managing to end Homelander in New York, Soldier Boy escapes custody. You are recruited for the manhunt, joining Butcher’s team.

Truly, you joined the S.A. for the right reasons. But after you become his accidental hostage, Soldier Boy will break down every single one of them…

💚 Break Me Down Masterlist

AN: *Gives you a box of virtual tissues.* Just in case. 😘

Word Count: 6,000 Tags/Warnings: Macho angst ahead, hurt/comfort, major, major fluff…

Part 17: More Than Words Can Say

Mount Sinai Hospital was one of the largest private hospitals in the city. 

Fortunately, it was also the closest to Vought Tower, or what once had been the focal point of the superhero industry. It had been reduced to mere rubble and whatever dilapidated parts still stood. 

All the news outlets were covering the tower’s collapse, and speculating on what could’ve created the blast that made the entire city tremble—not unlike last year’s incident, when Soldier Boy killed the most powerful supe in the world.

In the hospital, M.M. walked through the Emergency Department until he found Yvette and her son, Devon. They sat beside each other on a single cot, now joined by Yvette’s husband Chris while she signed her discharge papers. She’d gotten off with a minor concussion and a bandage over her temple. 

“Just checking in on you guys,” M.M. said. Yvette smiled, but she asked about you. 

“She’s in surgery,” he told her. 

Yvette nodded, though tears welled up in her eyes. Chris rubbed her back and held his son’s shoulder. 

“Please call me with any news on her,” Yvette asked. 

“You got it,” M.M. said.

“And please,” she said, holding her son. “Thank Soldier Boy for us.”

M.M. paused at that. 

Seeing the family was well in hand, he returned to the trauma wing. There in the waiting room sat the whole team, minus Butcher, who’d been admitted to the hospital as well after the ED doctors didn’t like what they’d found on his lab reports. (But M.M. would look into that later. Hughie was with him now anyway.)

That left Frenchie, Kimiko, and Annie to wait for any news on you. Even Grace had arrived an hour ago. 

But M.M.’s attention was drawn to the dusty motherfucker standing near the hallway. 

Soldier Boy leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. The collar of his supe suit was undone to give his neck and chest some breathing room. He’d removed his gloves, and an empty gallon jug of water lied at his feet. 

He was covered in a fine layer of soot and grime, though he’d since washed his hands and face to the best of his ability. He was also flanked by his two hired men, Frank Cardoza and Lorenzo Rivales. 

Grace had run a quick background check on both, and as M.M. had learned, they were ex-Marines Soldier Boy had picked up in Colombia, while he was busy infiltrating a drug cartel.   

Fucking figures, M.M. thought, shaking his head as he watched the man. Grace stood and joined him.

“He’s not just gonna fuck off back to South America,” he told her. “You realize that right?”

She considered that with a tilt of her head. “Let’s just see what happens here.”

As if right on cue, your surgeon made his way down the hall and over to the waiting group. Ben pushed off the wall and went to meet him, as did Grace, Annie, and M.M. 

Annie and Ben eyed each other with mistrust and annoyance, respectively, but then he ignored her to regard the surgeon with a terse, expectant gaze.  

The doctor was a graying man in his fifties. He seemed to internally brace himself before he spoke, glancing at Ben first before the others. 

“We’ve repaired the damaged muscle around her right leg. The femur is broken. We also addressed the wound near her shoulder,” he said. “However, the rebar did nick her heart. She’ll need additional surgery to repair it.”

Ben sensed a but coming. He crossed his arms. “Okay, what’s the problem?”

The doctor gave a nod and a short sigh. 

“She’s lost a lot of blood,” he explained. “We’ve given her a transfusion, of course, but she’s in a delicate state right now.”

“So why’re you wasting time? Do your fucking job,” Ben snapped. Grace shot him a glance, but addressed the doctor herself.

“What are her odds, doctor?” she asked. Ben eyed her with a glare. She ignored him for the time being. 

“She needs this now. But, there is a chance she won’t make it out of surgery at this stage,” the surgeon replied. “The OR will be available in thirty minutes…so this would be the time to be with her, just in case she’s unable to get through this.”

“Excuse me?” Ben said. 

His tone was dark and deep with grit, and the doctor stepped back. No one dared attempt to hold Ben back, but Grace quickly thanked the doctor and urged him to move forward with prepping you for surgery. 

Loco shared a saddened look with Frank, who watched their boss with a deepening frown. 

Annie turned to Ben with a measure of sympathy, hidden underneath her irritation at his attitude and her worry for you. You were still her friend, and she felt guilty for how cold she’d been treating you lately. And she could see, at the very least, that this man cared about you. 

“Look, can you just calm down a bit? We’re all here hoping she pulls through,” Annie said. 

M.M. stood behind her, silent, supportive. But Ben just ignored her, and everyone else for that matter. 

He stalked down the hallway. And when he turned a corner, out of eyeshot, he growled and punched a hole deep into the closest wall.

Hughie perked up when Butcher finally started to rouse in his hospital bed. They had him on a hefty dose of morphine. 

He blinked his weary eyes, his head rolling over on the pillow. His lips quirked when he noticed Hughie, who was glaring at him. 

“Watching me sleep now?” Butcher remarked. “Pretty fuckin’ creepy, Hugh.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Hughie said. 

That was something Butcher couldn’t refute. He nodded. “I see they told you.”

“When were you gonna say something?” Hughie said. “When you fucking dropped dead?”

“Probably not even then,” Butcher teased. But when he took in the younger man’s face, all he saw was his little brother, Lenny. Butcher sighed. 

“Ain’t nothing any of us can do about it.”

“Fucking cancer?” Hughie said incredulously. “You could’ve gotten treatment.”

“Would’ve bought me a few more months, maybe,” Butcher admitted. That fell between them for a moment with stony silence. 

“It’s all right,” he added. “I’ve had my fucking time. Got to see the life drain from that golden cunt’s eyes…got to let my girl rest easy.”

Hughie didn’t buy that. Or maybe, he just didn’t want to. His eyes burned, both with emotion and determination. He stood from his seat and set out to find Grace. If there was anything that could help Butcher, she would know. 

While the others went down to the cafeteria for a bite to eat, Frank sat in the waiting room with Loco beside him and Dr. Baker’s briefcase on his lap.

He was sorting through its contents while Loco sat with crossed arms and slumping shoulders. He looked over at Frank’s stoic profile with a frown.

He was older, but not by much. They’d gone through one fresh hell after another together, and somehow, Frank always managed to pull their asses out of the wringer. It seemed Frank was trying to do the same for their boss. 

It was funny, actually. Soldier Boy wasn’t their first contractor. You were their first kidnapping though. Neither he or Frank had felt good about it when Antonio brought you back to the mansion in Medellin, but they’d agreed to do a job. Guarding you became part of that job. 

And yet, you had somehow reminded both Frank and Loco that they used to be respectable members of society. They used to have families, friends. They had once been soldiers. Good men. Maybe that was why they’d grown fond of you over the past few months. 

And Frank…well, Loco knew the man had his reasons for wanting to be done with this work. Loco couldn’t blame him; he was feeling tired himself. 

“Found anything good?” Loco asked in Spanish. Frank’s dark brows had drawn together in new interest.

“More than good,” he said. He looked up, but didn’t find Soldier Boy in the waiting room. “Where the hell did he go?”

Loco pointed to the reception desk. “Try asking someone.”

With a sharp sigh, Frank gave Loco the briefcase. “Guard that with your fucking life. Don’t let anyone from the CIA take it from you.”

Loco gave him a look of offense. “It’s like you don’t know me at all, bro. Fucking hurts.” 

Rolling his eyes, Frank got up and went over to the reception desk. 

“Excuse me,” he said. There seemed to be no one at the reception desk. Granted, it was late at night, and they technically weren’t supposed to be there. Grace Mallory had worked out an agreement with the hospital to allow them all to stay overnight. 

He didn’t have to wait too long though, as an on-duty nurse came over with a clipboard in hand. Her red hair caught his eye, along with her pretty smile. 

“Hi there. Can I help you?” she asked. 

Frank faltered, just for a moment. But he cleared his throat and met her eyes. 

“Did you happen to see which way Soldier Boy went?” he asked.

She gave him a wan smile and pointed down the hall, to the left. “That ‘a way. Think he had an argument with the wall over there.”

Frank followed her gaze and caught sight of the hole in the wall. He frowned. 

“Sorry about that,” he said. 

The nurse gave him a sideways look. “No worries, hun. It’s not your fisticuff outline in the wall, now is it?”

Once again, Frank didn’t know quite what to say to her slightly teasing smile. But he returned it, more reserved, but genuine. 

“Thank you,” he said, with a nod. Then he remembered then what he needed to do. 

And he took off brusquely down the hall. 

It took him a few minutes to pull his head together, but Ben eventually worked up his nerve to go and see you. 

You were still drugged out asleep, of course. He stood outside the large window of your private room in the Intensive Care Unit. He wouldn’t go in though. Part of him refused to believe it had gotten to this. 

And the reality, that this was his fault. He’d caused the blast that destroyed the tower. His fault he hadn’t gotten to you sooner.

“You are the reason I needed saving,” you’d told him once. 

You were right then, and it still held up now. 

So, no…he wouldn’t go in there, into your room. The truth was, he couldn’t. 

But Ben’s awareness prickled before he noticed, Frank had joined him. Ben tolerated it. While he wanted to be alone, maybe part of him (one he wouldn’t acknowledge) craved some kind of company. 

“You’ll get paid, don’t you fucking worry,” he said dryly. 

“That’s not the only reason I’m here,” Frank said. 

It felt like a confession. Ben didn’t reply though; he was focused on your pale face, covered by the breathing mask. Shallow puffs of air fogged the inside of it while your heart monitor clipped on.

“There’s another solution here,” Frank said. 

Ben gave him a cursory side glance. “She wouldn’t take Compound V. Not even to save her fucking life.”

“That didn’t stop you before,” Frank mentioned. 

Ben didn’t answer, but he’d been internally debating it ever since he’d spoken with the surgeon. 

“All right, get it over here,” he said. “The temporary stuff.” 

Frank rose a brow. He’d been curious enough to try testing the man. But now, he frowned.

“She won’t forgive you,” he pointed out. 

“What’re you, devil’s fucking advocate? She’ll get the fuck over it,” Ben snapped. 

But after his initial anger subsided…he knew his subordinate was right. 

“She’ll be alive to hate me,” he said, more honestly.  

Frank inclined his head. “There could be another way.” 

Ben glanced over at him. 

“She lost a lot of blood,” Frank said. Ben frowned.  

“They’ve given her fucking blood transfusions—” 

“Yeah, normal blood. A supe’s blood is stronger. Yours could probably heal her,” Frank said. “But, the only one who can break your skin is you.”

Ben eyed him in suspicion. “Who told you that?” 

“Read it somewhere,” Frank said evasively. 

Ben huffed in response, but as that realization truly sunk into his mind, his lips pressed together in new determination. He left Frank to start a brusque pace down the hall. 

He ignored the red-headed nurse calling at him at the reception desk when he shoved through a locked security door, into the OR unit. He searched until he found your surgeon and pulled him from the sink he was washing his hands in.

The man gasped with fright, though he tried to hide it looking up at Ben. “What the hell’re you doing?”

“I’m making a donation,” said Ben. He raised a blunt nail to his wrist. “You better hurry the fuck up, because I’m about to open a vein.”

It was morning by the time another doctor returned to deliver an update on your progress: the “treatment” was working. Your wounds had knitted closed within an hour following the blood transfusion, and you no longer needed surgery. They had also x-rayed your leg and found that the bone was whole once again. Even your broken ribs had healed.

Ben nodded at the news. He didn’t respond, and just started walking down the hall. Grace, Annie, and M.M. stared after him with mixed reactions of confusion and curiosity. 

“Where are you going?” Annie asked. She was exhausted; all of them were. 

The supe ignored her though. M.M. shared a look with her before he decided to follow the man. 

Meanwhile, Ben once again stopped in the middle of the hallway when he was out of view. He took in a slow, steadying breath of relief, his fists clenching at his sides.

“Congratulations. After today, you’re gonna get your statue put back up,” M.M. said.

Ben turned around to stare back at the man, schooling his face into a stoic frown. 

“Yvette and her son are going to be fine, by the way,” M.M. added, as he crossed his arms.

Ben paused slightly at that, filing that information away with secret satisfaction. 

To M.M., he merely raised a brow. “You got something to say, or are you going to keep wasting my fucking time?”  

“You think saving one black kid makes you a hero?” M.M. asked, point blank. “Taking down Vought. Saving her. What does that all mean to you?”

Ben frowned in irritation. “Why the fuck do you care?”

“Just answer the question. Be honest for once in your motherfuckin’ life,” M.M. said. “Do you really think you’re a hero?”

Silence fell between them. 

Ben didn’t know what it was about this guy. Maybe it was his persistence, or the fact that he’d pulled you out of the rubble and got you to a hospital in time to save your life. 

But Ben actually considered the question.

Killing Stan Edgar and Black Noir. Saving you. He’d done it all for selfish reasons. The kid…that was something else. His face stuck in Ben’s mind, how he’d trusted the superhero, like dumb kids were supposed to do.

But in that moment, carrying the tower on his back and knowing he was the only barrier between a mountain of hot rubble and this one kid…Ben hadn’t wanted to fail. 

And still. You are the reason I needed saving…

It wasn’t really saving the fucking day if he started it, was it?

Ben’s lips turned on a humorless smile. Still, he had saved the kid. And his mom. And you. For now, that was enough.

“Looks like I am,” said Ben.

But he met M.M.’s stare, briefly allowing him to glimpse beyond a wall of arrogance and pride.

And Ben walked away. M.M. watched him go in silent contemplation.

Grace intercepted Ben before he could visit you in the ICU. 

Christ. What the fuck now? he thought sourly. 

She gestured for a word, and with an annoyed look, he followed her down the hall.

“I’ll get to the point,” she said. “Butcher is sharing a floor with your girlfriend, down in Oncology.”

Ben raised a brow. That prick had cancer? Par for the fucking course, if he said so himself. 

“So?” he remarked. 

Grace sighed. She’d expected that reaction. “They’ve given him weeks, but the way he’s been pushing himself, more likely it’s days. Taking the untested Temp V long-term has had its adverse side effects…if you were to make another blood donation, I’ll make it worth your while.” 

So now his blood was some fucking wonder drug? Hell no, Ben thought. 

“You’re asking me to save the guy who’s double-crossed me, tried to hunt me down, tried to end me?” he said, with a dark, incredulous chuckle. “You can fuck right off, sweetheart.”

She grated at the sweetheart remark, but Grace leveled him with steely blue eyes.

“If it weren’t for me, you’d be on ice right now,” she pointed out. 

Ben’s lips pursed. He’d really like to snap this bitch’s fucking neck on principle…but then he thought about it. He could work this into his favor. 

“You know what. I’m having a good day, so maybe I’m feeling fucking generous,” he said. His mouth edged into a smirk. “But I think it’s time we renegotiated our contract. Don’t you?”

Grace stared up at him, and she inhaled a deep breath. 

“Fine.”

You slowly woke up in a hospital room, in a paper gown with an IV drip and a heart monitor. Which made sense, as the events of yesterday came back to you in a rush. 

But beyond feeling relieved to be alive, you also felt extremely well-rested. You didn’t feel like a building fell on you. 

What kind of masterful drugs are they giving me? You tried to read your chart on the wall, but you didn’t see any pain medication on there. 

Annie popped into your private recovery room. Her face brightened when she saw that you were awake. 

“Hey, hun! How do you feel?” she asked, lowering into a chair at your bedside. You wouldn’t know that this chair had been occupied by various members of the team over the past few hours, including M.M., Frenchie, Frank, and even Grace. 

“Great, actually,” you replied. But now you frowned. “I shouldn’t feel great.”

You remembered nearly being crushed under a pile of rubble. You remembered falling on a piece of rebar, and unable to move your crushed leg. You remembered the worry in Ben’s eyes… 

And panic stung at yours.

“Did they give me Compound V?” your voice shook when you asked. Annie calmed you down with a shake of her head and a reassuring hand on your arm. 

The door to your room opened once again. Ben’s frame filled up the doorway. When his eyes met yours, your breath caught in your throat. He was still in his supe suit, and with his hands resting on his belt, he strutted inside the room. 

M.M., Frenchie, Frank, Loco, and Kimiko came in behind him and at least looked showered. Ben looked like he hadn’t even done that much, nor slept all night.

“It wasn’t the V,” he said at last. “Just a little blood donation. Seemed to work like a charm.”

His resulting grin had a bit of charm in it as well. Your head tilted in confusion.

"Whose blood?" you asked.

"Mine," he said. His expression faded, slightly more serious.

You found yourself slowly smiling, though your brows still furrowed in surprise. He gave me his blood…instead of Compound V.

While you tried to wrap your mind around the gravity of that, you reached for the pitcher of water on the rolling tray beside you. You grasped the pitcher, but the plastic actually crunched in your hand. You gasped and moved your hand over so the water inside wouldn’t spill all over you.

Ben raised a brow. 

The room fell silent as all eyes stared at you. When the water finished pouring out onto the floor, you gently set it back down on the tray. 

“Seems you got some of his strength in the deal,” Annie remarked. 

“Great, there’s two of them,” Hughie quipped with a grin. 

“Well, that’s probably just temporary,” M.M. sighed. “Hopefully.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh, and it brought a slight grin to Ben’s lips. 

After a bit of well wishing, everyone cleared out of your room to let you rest up…except for Ben, Frank, and Loco. 

“What are you guys going to do now?” you asked of the latter two. Loco cracked his knuckles. 

“Got another job lined up in private security,” he revealed. “I’ve lost the taste for drug running. Nearly lost a damn toe on the last one.”

You laughed. “Well, thanks for doing one more job here.”

“Anything for el Capitán,” Loco said, giving Ben a respectful nod. “He pays exceedingly well.”

You raised a brow at Ben, who shrugged with a cocky grin. Smiling, you turned to Frank, who was sitting in the chair beside your bed. 

“And you?” you asked. Frank gave you a rare smile. 

“Going home,” he said. “To my daughter.”

Your eyes began to sting, but you tried to blink away the beginnings of tears. You nodded and squeezed his arm. 

“Give her a big hug for me. And thank you again…for everything,” you said, even though you realized that thanking your former guard keep was strange. Still, there had been no part of your kidnapping that was normal in the least. 

Frank hesitated, but he covered your hand with his. 

Though he caught the way Ben’s face tightened, and Frank let go of you. He stood with Loco, giving you and Ben a final nod. Then the two men left your room and disappeared down the hall.

Part of you felt melancholy, like chapters of your life were closing. But you also felt like new ones were waiting in the wings.

Your gaze turned to Ben, who stood near your bed.

He was looking over your chart to see if the doctors needed anything else before you were discharged. But your soft voice called to him, earning his attention. You beckoned him closer.

He went over and sat down on the edge of your bed, laying a hand on your thigh. You reached out for his arm. 

“Thank you,” you said. 

Ben scoffed, though a hint of humor glinted in his eyes. “For what? Saving your reckless ass for the millionth time?”

“For saving Yvette and her son,” you replied with a smile. “And yeah, all that other stuff.” 

Your hand slid down his arm and slipped into his hand. Your fingers curled around his palm. 

“Really. Thank you…” 

Tears welled up in your eyes again. You still couldn’t fucking believe he opened up one of his own veins and gave you his blood. He gave a public hospital his blood in order to save you. 

He could’ve easily slipped you V24 again, or worse, the permanent stuff. But he didn’t just save you. He’d respected your wishes. 

What you wanted to say next got stuck in your throat.

Ben had something hiding behind his eyes, like he was reluctant to show you his real emotions. But when he focused on your face, his hand tightened on yours. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak. He only let go of your hand to brush a falling tear from your cheek. His lips twitched at a smile.

“Come on now, baby doll. You’re tougher than that.”

You choked on a laugh as more of your tears slipped down your warming cheeks. “Nope. I’m actually not.”

“Hmm. Could’ve fooled me,” Ben said. You matched his grin with a beaming smile of your own.  

Slowly, you pushed yourself up and took his dirty face in your hands. You guided him down to you, and you pressed your lips to his. 

He allowed it with his usual demanding, fervent kiss. But then it slowed. He held your wrist to keep your hand in place on his cheek, and his thumb drew bath and forth over your skin. 

You parted from him, pulling back enough to see his face. There was so much you wanted to say…but maybe right now, it was too much. 

You met him with another tearful kiss.

Before you were officially discharged from the hospital, you had one more visitor. 

Grace was once again there to debrief you. This time though, Ben sat at your side on the bed, a silent statue who regarded the woman coolly. He seemed to be tolerating her presence with more ease than usual, and you wondered why.

“You’re going on medical leave,” she informed you. “For three months, and then a psychiatrist will need to clear you for duty.”

Part of you wanted to argue, considering you were completely healed of your injuries. But you knew you needed a break from the S.A.—from all of this. 

“Your mother and sister will be brought out of witness protection soon, after we determine that the threat is sufficiently neutralized,” she said. “You can return home today as well.”

You could finally go back to your apartment…though the thought didn’t call to you as much as it should have. You glanced over at Ben.

“Is this the part where you try to ship him back to Colombia?” you asked. 

“That was the agreement,” Grace said wryly. You frowned, trying to blink away the tears forming once again in your eyes.

You didn’t want to lose him, but you also didn’t want to give up your life here. You didn’t want to leave the S.A., or your family, or your friends. Ben put you out of your misery, however.

“We renegotiated,” he said. 

Your eyes widened. “What?”

Grace explained, “In exchange for his assistance in another case, he can stay in the U.S. on a trial basis. As long as he agrees to live within the law.”

You didn’t entirely trust Grace. Ben would be watched at every moment. That was a given, but considering he still didn’t have full control over his nuclear power, you were surprised Grace would allow him free roam within U.S. borders. 

“And, provided, he agrees to a relocation. Preferably not in a densely populated area,” Grace added.

There it is, you frowned. You shared a look with him, and you could see he wasn’t entirely on board with this. You had no doubt he’d agreed to her demands by lying through his teeth. 

You turned back to Grace.

“What if he becomes a contractor for Supe Affairs,” you proposed. “There may be some fallout after Vought’s collapse, and more of their records to go through. Other labs to clear out. Ben would be a lot of help, if he’s willing.”

You glanced at Ben again. He met your eyes, then Grace’s, and he nodded marginally. He was getting bored of the heat in South America anyway. 

Grace heaved a sigh. Ben’s lips formed a smirk. 

“Oh, relax. I just ended Vought. You’d be an idiot not to cash in on that PR,” he pointed out. 

“Need I remind you that you caused the tower’s collapse?” Grace said tersely. “And you did not end Vought. There will be repercussions to this, believe me.”

Ben’s face tightened, but you grasped his hand. 

“But he fulfilled the mission,” you said. “He took out Black Noir…and Stan Edgar in the process.”

“The idea was to arrest him, but I get your point,” Grace said. Her hand raised to cover her mouth as she thought about your proposal.

Eventually, she spoke. “If you can play by our rules, then we’ll contract with you. But until you get that atomic bomb under control, you can’t remain the city. Upstate is the best I can do.”

Ben chafed at being told what he couldn’t do. What the fuck was he going to do in Upstate New York? Slowly rot to death in dusty-ass suburbia?

You shot him a knowing look, raising a brow. 

“It’s a fair offer, Ben,” you pointed out. His lips pursed in annoyance. But he glanced at your hand in his.

Then he looked up at Grace. “Fine. But first, unfreeze my fucking bank accounts.”

Ben later led you out of the hospital. There was a car waiting outside, and he got in to drive, despite you offering. He must’ve been going on very little sleep, if any over the past two days. 

And of course, he’d refused to be seen at all medically, saying he was fine. You were still concerned about that destabilizing gun Black Noir had shot him with. 

“I’m fine,” Ben had claimed. “Just need some sleep, that’s all.”

You watched his profile for a moment, and a smile started to raise your lips…until you finally remembered something that felt like a heavy stone in your stomach.

“Um…” you said, earning Ben’s attention. You looked up at him. “My father’s dead…”

Good fucking riddance, was Ben’s initial reaction. Followed by a frown, as he now realized he would never get the pleasure of choking the shit out of Jon himself. 

Ben had been fucking livid to learn from Frank that you’d been left alone in the Tower with your father while it was coming down (and Ben was petty enough to dock that little slip up from Frank’s pay). Had that asshole lived, Ben wouldn’t have put it past him to try and take you with him after escaping the building. The mere thought grated on him. 

“Black Noir killed him,” you said, heaving a shaky breath. 

That cut through Ben’s thoughts. He glanced over, watching you fight some conflicting emotions. 

“…Punched a hole straight through his chest,” you added.

Ben hummed in acknowledgement. You turned to him with a raised brow and glassy eyes. When he realized you were expecting a bit more from him, his lips pursed.

“Well, he got a quick death,” he said. “Better than he fucking deserved, far as I’m concerned.”

You sighed and leaned your head back on the head rest. Your eyes closed. 

“Goddamn it, Ben.”

Ben eyed you with a deepening frown. “What the fuck do you expect me to say?”

“How about some decency?” you asked, as a tear fell down your cheek. “He tried to apologize. But I wouldn’t let him.”

He paused at that. While he thought you were being unreasonable, it begrudgingly dawned on him what you wanted, and maybe, what you needed. He sighed through his nose. Even now, you were a handful.

Ben reached over, taking your hand from your lap. He pressed the back of it to his lips, earning your mild surprise.  

“That’s not your fault,” he said. And he briefly took his eyes off the road to look into yours. “None of it was. You understand me?”

Your face softened. Though you tried to blink away your tears, a few of them still fell. You wiped at them with your free hand, while the other squeezed around his fingers, resting against your thigh. Despite how you were fracturing inside, warmth still kept you afloat. 

So you looked up at Ben, and you nodded. He seemed satisfied by your answer. He turned back fully to the road, but you kept a tight hold of his hand. He allowed it.   

“We’ll have to go to the safe house to get our stuff,” you said eventually, with a small sniffle.

“No need,” Ben said. “That’s taken care of.”

That confused you. Was he taking you to your apartment then? 

But instead, he drove you out of the city, and an hour upstate into Scarsdale. You’d never been there, but you knew it by reputation—as one of the most affluent towns in the state.

You were even more confused when he drove down a street flanked by tall hedges within a private community. He pulled into a circular driveway in front of an immense white house, with a red brick roof, colonial architecture, a manicured lawn, complete with matching fountains lining the front door.

Ben parked the car and encouraged you to get out with him. You followed him up to the front porch, expecting an old billionaire to pop out of the tall bushes at any moment to chase you away. 

“What’re we doing here?” you asked. His hands fell to the belt of his supe suit as he surveyed the stood, the door, and the walls for anything amiss. 

“I’m looking into buying it,” he revealed, as if he’d just told you, It’s pretty fucking sunny today, huh? 

“Our stuff is ready to be shipped out when the deal closes with the owner,” he added.

Your eyes flew wide. “What? When did you have time to scope out houses?” 

You’d only been discharged about an hour after the conversation with Grace. 

“I had Frank look into some shit. He found this one,” Ben shrugged. “Could use some work, but not bad.”

Our stuff, you repeated in your mind. This house…was he trying to recreate what the two of you had in Medellin?

And more importantly, was this his way of asking you to move in with him? 

Well, there’s not too much asking going on, you thought in annoyance. And yet, you blushed; the sentiment in itself was enough to warm you. 

You brought Ben back down to Earth by grasping his hands, earning his attention from the old grout in the tile.

“Ben, this place is amazing,” you said. “But I don’t know if I’ll be comfortable living like this.”

He frowned down at you. “What the hell do you mean? You could have anything you want here. It’s safe. Got plenty of room—”

“A bit too much room,” you said, holding up your thumb and forefinger a couple inches apart. 

He looked adorably grumpy. You smiled and squeezed his hand. 

“Did you really feel cozy and at home in that mansion with fifty rooms and nobody in ‘em?” you asked.

He didn’t answer you, and he didn’t seem happy either. You didn’t want him to take this as a rejection. 

“If we’re going to do this,” you said, “then can we start a little smaller? Somewhere that feels like home to both of us?”

Ben stared back at you in annoyance. “You need to broaden your palate.”

You just managed to stop yourself from laughing.

“You haven’t had a normal home in a long time, Ben,” you replied. Maybe ever, you realized. “How about you trust me?” 

He gave you a dubious frown.

“What about this,” you tried. “Let’s pick it out together! If in a few months you still hate the new place, we’ll try it your way.” 

“You’re assuming we’re gonna make it that long.” Ben was starting to wonder if this was going to work after all. The two of you were from very different worlds. 

You offered a cheeky smile. “I’m optimistic.”

He huffed. “Sure.” 

You reached up on your toes, and gripped the front of his suit when you leaned up to kiss him. His hands rose naturally to hold you, resting on your jean-clad hips. He followed your languid kiss, his furrowed brows relaxing when you touched his cheek.

When you broke from his lips, his eyes opened to find yours. 

“I am, Ben,” you said more seriously. “I’m not playing games. This is real to me, and I want to be with you.” 

But then you hesitated. You lowered back down to your feet. 

“But if it’s not to you…if you’re just passing time with me, until you get bored,” you said, “tell me now. Please.” 

It was Ben’s turn to hesitate. It was the please that got to him, along with your downturned gaze. He captured your chin between his fingers and raised your face up to him. 

“I’m not fucking around,” he said. “I want you to live with me.” 

Your smile was soft and bright when you took his hand. Ben wouldn’t admit it, but something in his chest stuttered to life then.

“Okay,” you said with a nod. “Let’s do it.”

AN: *squeals* It's happening! We've really gotten here, folks. How'd you like how it all wrapped up with Grace, M.M., and even Butcher?

But we're not quite there with these two yet...

Next Time:

“Why’re you nagging me like a goddamn wife?” he snapped.

“Wife?” you scoffed, crossing your arms. “You don’t even call me your girlfriend.”

But God forbid another man even smile in your direction. Ben was possessive, protective, and claimed with all but words that you were his. And yet, he wouldn’t say it.

You shouldn’t have been surprised that he was afraid of commitment, but you’d been living together for six damn months.

Keep reading: THE EPILOGUE

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[riddle-me-ri]

hii, hope you're having a nice day<3

for the valentine's day event may i request a ficlet with arkham riddler getting jealous? thank youuu

a/n: hahaha you sure can, God he'll try so hard not to be jealous but he just can't hide it, he's far too proud lol also tiny reminder this event is closed but requests are open!

Content Warning: jealous tendencies/behavior

Word Count: 594

Arkhamverse Riddler Getting Jealous

The glow from the vast number of monitors showing various crooks and crannies of Arkham City spotlighted his bent over form.

Edward was scribbling down riddles, diagrams of traps, anything that came to his amazingly brilliant mind.

Trying to distract himself from his ludicrous emotions…

Pfft, jealousy…an emotion far too trivial for him to consider unless it's to manipulate someone else with for his own personal gain.

But what were you doing fraternising with the other Rogues and their henchmen?

You knew that he'd know what you're doing and where you were…

Not that he was following you or anything either…nothing like that.

You were just an assistant–someone who's managed to prove themselves somewhat worthy and at least minimally competent to get his tasks done for you in a timely manner.

Edward aggressively shoved the loose pages all over the floor in a huff.

Edward had more than plenty of other concerns and tasks that took priority over whatever insignificant activity you were doing.

Dulled strained green eyes glanced back up at the screen–

You were spouting away with some of Penguin’s thugs…

A scowl grew across Ed’s face as one thug put his filthy hand on your shoulder–

His signature purple gloves got tighter as it bit against his clenched fists.

In a sharp short moment of pure indignation–he promptly turned the monitors off.

Edward held his head in his hands, his teeth grinded against each other.

The man indeed had to succumb to the fact he was disgusted to see you with others.

A can of worms that the genius didn’t dare to open–but he knows it’s there, to deny it anymore would be futile. Hopefully, maybe, it can be hidden so far down he’ll forget it’s ever there.

“Ed?”

Silence hung in the air like a carcass in a butcher's freezer.

“Ed?” You called again as you walked closer to him.

“What?!” Ed snapped his head up from his hands. “Can't you see I'm busy!”

Any other time, you'd just roll your eyes and let him be, usually coming back when you know he's been up past 18-20 hours and insist he gets rest.

However, you didn't, taking note that he wasn't tinkering with any equipment–the cameraa were all shut off for the first time…

“Yeah…very…”

Ed just grumbled as he turned away from you and back to the blank screens.

The screens buzzed back on as Edward switched them back to life.

“What were you doing…”

“What're you-”

Edward snarled before kicking his chair back as he stood up.

“Don't be stupid…you know what I'm referring to…don't make me ask again.”

You crossed your arms. You were mostly used to Ed’s shit, but you couldn't help but feel this was caused by something else entirely…and it put you off.

“Well, if you must know…I was getting intel, you mentioned how quiet some of the informants got so I took the liberty of finding out what's going on–”

You continued before Ed could criticize how careless that was. “I gave false names and stories…no one has a clue I'm working with you…”

You moved across the floor to where you were side by side with the rogue.

You dropped a few cassette tapes on the desk before turning around and walking off.

“You're welcome.”

Ed tried to think of something belittling and critical to say but somehow couldn't muster the energy.

He glanced over at the tapes that you clearly labeled to his specifications…

Edward Nygma will deal with this later–he sees Batman out of the corner of his eye.

It's showtime.

[riddle-me-fear]

My dear Riddler and Scarecrow

Scarecrow's accent reminds me of Swiss German; people that speak German usually don't understand it and get annoyed. That being said.

Verstoht öpert do schwiizerdütsch? Gschriibe isch s eifacher als gsprocha, aber es isch anschiinend schwer für Lüt wo nur dütsch chönd das z verstoh. Wenn du Riddler das verstohsch frog Scarecrow was er dänkt das dä satz heisst: "ich bii de meister vo dä angscht"

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Oh dear lord. Well, I do love a challenge, so I'll humor you for a moment. Can't be harder than code...

"Do you understand Swiss German? Written is simpler than spoken, but apparently it's hard for people..." uhm... "people who are only able to speak German. If you as the Riddler understand this, ask Scarecrow what he thinks this sentence means--"

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

"Ich bii de Meister vo dä Angscht." I do hope I didn't butcher the pronunciation.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

...

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Come oooon Joooon, just give it a try. Doesn't have to be correct, I mean, I highly doubt you're going to guess what it actually means--

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Fer fuck's sake, will you shut up? I'm tryin' ta think...

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Alriiight, alriiight, take your time.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

... Uuuh... can you say tha line again?

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

"Ich bii de Meister vo dä Angscht."

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Oouf ok... I dunno German at all, or Swiss German, fo' that madda. But uhm... There wus this wanna-be Rogue, a while back, think that was befo' yer time, Ed.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Oooh, gather 'round, children! It's storytime with grandpa Crane!

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

You shut that mouth o' grampa Crane's gonna get his gramma's old sewing kit, and sew it shut. ... That's whut I thought. Nah where wus I? Right, tha guy. He wus German an' I heard that bats actually talked German back at'im. Think it wus uuh... "Eekh bin da fluttermousemann" or somethin' like that, "I am the Batman", right. So I think tha first two words mean "I am" ...and then "the" ...uhm... that's gotta mean "master", right? Or is that too obvious...? I can see ya fuckin' grinnin', Ed.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Nono, please, you're doing great, do continue.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Ffffhh... "fo da"... "for the"? And "angsht"... Well it's pretty close ta "angst", so maybe somethin' along tha lines of "unease" or "anxiety"...

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

And now put it all togetheeeer.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Hhh right, whut did I say? "I am the master for the..." nah that's gotta be wrong... "I am the master OF the..." Oh, it's fear, isn't it. Is it s'pposed ta be I'm tha master of fear?

Edward slowly claps in the background, returning to his spot next to Jonathan, after he's been pacing around the room while Jon was trying to translate the sentence.

"Braaavo, Jon, well dooone. You know, I have to take that one back; you're in fact NOT as dumb as you look!

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Up yours, Nygma.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Oh-hoh! Is that an offer? My "Meister vo dä Angscht"?

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Ya really have ta take every single oppartunity ta flirt with me, dont'cha.

Jon grins upward at Edward, who has crawled onto the sofa and on top of Jonathan's lap, smiling cheekily down at him.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Would it be me, if I didn't?

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

S'ppose it wouldn't...

You see both of them leaning in for a kiss, and inches before their lips meet, Ed eyes the camera through which you had been watching them. He smiles, and his hand closes in on the lens, covering the view until the screen fades to black.

-----

✨ V's comments below✨

I used to watch a lot of documentaries in swiizerdütsch with german subtitles a while back. Love the way the language sounds, some austrian accents sound similar, actually. I like to watch things in various different languages from foreign countries in general, because what we have in Austria is uuuhm... Let's just say it's not it. Especially because I'm trans and there's ZERO pro-trans anything in our mainstream media, everyone is antagonizing queer people generally (like on TV, in the news and stuff, the shit that the older generations consumes). So I had to get some positivity elsewhere. Now I'm more connected and found some small communities, luckily. I specifically remember a documentary about mental health in Switzerland, and it showed some people living in a psychiatric hospital, and it was sooo damn wholesome. One of them was a trans teenager who gave insight on their situation and how they cope and everything. Was really cool and uplifting for me to see, with all the negativity and misinformation about the lgbtq+ community here.

Also, the "Ich bin der Fledermausmann" thing actually happened in an old batman tv show I watched some time ago. I tried to find the episode again, but I can't even remember which series it was 😭 I lost my absolute shit though when I heard bats say that, it was so funny to me.

[solarstranger]

BAKUGOU KATSUKI (爆豪勝己)

links. universal masterlist, writing tag: bakugou. sorting. arranged from latest to oldest per category!

⌞ONE-SHOTS⌝

⇀ desperate times (desperate measures) (18+)

you like taking care of your boyfriend—there’s no doubt about that—although something tells you he likes it more than he’s letting on. unusually determined to uncover the truth, you conjure up a plan to confirm it once and for all. (or: in which you try to prove if bakugou has a mommy kink)

⇀ too hot to handle (18+)

halloween has always been the time for you to unwind—have fun, even—as a reprieve from the stresses work and life brought you. but when your best friend bakugou katsuki somehow shows up to the party in a not-so forgiving costume, you suddenly find that the last thing you can do is relax. (or: in which you rope bakugou into wearing a costume set with you, and you get reminded of your...thing for men in uniform)

⇀ ward off (this loneliness)

love comes when you least expect it. or, in bakugou’s case, when he’s unceremoniously dumped into the psychiatric ward. (or: in which bakugou finds himself haunted by his war-torn past, rancid nightmares, and the pretty face of this girl he meets inside)

⇀ hold me close (hold me tight)

masaru has a stroke that nearly kills him. bakugou handles it well—until he doesn’t.

⌞SERIES / MULTI-CHAPTERED⌝

⇀ i hope you see (right through me)

the itinerary was simple. sign off your will, give yourself one last mind-shattering orgasm, then jump off the tallest bridge in musutafu to kiss your sorry ass life goodbye. at least, that was the entire plan—short and sweet as it is—up until you not-so-later begrudgingly find out that there is indeed life after death, although it’s not adorned with the pearly white clouds or—more realistically—burning fiery pits that you were almost certain it came with. no, this afterlife came with all might figurines. a shit ton of it. (or: in which you finally end up killing yourself only for your soul to be stuck on earth, tethered to the last person who saw you alive, which just happened to be pro-hero dynamight)

⇀ stars don't shine (they burn)

when you made a wish on one of those “shooting stars” (it was a meteor shower) to not be miserable anymore, the last thing you’d ever expected or wanted was to become tokyo university’s incredibly handsome and universally adored boy-next-door kirishima eijirou. like, literally become him. biceps and (apparently, true-to-the-rumors) monster cock and all. but now you’re stuck, with no way of returning to your own body, and the weird thing? you’re not sure if you want to go back anymore. but kirishima’s got mina, his adoring girlfriend, and bakugou, his too-(a)cute-for-comfort best friend, who also just happens to have hated your guts since you ended on the wrong foot after arguing on a project the entire semester of your first year. people who’ll miss him. people who have lives left to live, like kirishima.  people not like you. (or: in which you inadvertently wish yourself into becoming another person to escape your own misery, only to find it again in the form of one bakugou katsuki)

⇀ meet (not so) crazy

part 1 — bakugou unceremoniously stumbles upon you. where? in his therapist's building.

part 2 — bakugou's therapist poses a ground-breaking question.

⇀ all out of luck (18+)

you had the biggest, fattest crush on bakugou katsuki in high school, which granted you weird looks and judgment from those who found out, because why, when you could fawn over prince-like todoroki or manly kirishima instead? fast forward to 10 years later, though, and now the joke’s on them, because #2 pro-hero dynamight just got dubbed the hottest bachelor of the year. but that doesn’t matter, because you’re over him now. you’ve been over him, ever since that butchered attempt at confessing where he dismissed you as a gen ed extra before you could even get the words out. so why, all of a sudden—and an entire decade later—do you have to work with him on a top-secret mission? (or: in which you fall first, but bakugou falls harder)

⌞DRABBLES⌝

honeyed

graduation season

i'm so fucking horny (18+)

look in the mirror

ready or not

favorite shirt (18+)

"i want to go home to my wife."

happy 4th anniversary

© solarstranger 2025. do not plagiarize, repost, or feed to ai any of my works.

[burntsaltsblog]

tw: nsfw, mdni

Chapter Five

"We are not sharing a bed."

"Alright, doll, enjoy sleepin’ on the floor then," Butcher shrugged, kicking off his boots.

I scoffed as I turned towards the door. "I'm getting my own room."

"You will do no such thing," Butcher intervened sternly. "I told Ed we was on our honeymoon, remember?"

"Yeah, and I also told him you were gay, so I guess we're both liars," I said, pivoting back to Butcher as I placed both hands on my hips. "Unless," I continued, analyzing the burly Brit.

"Unless what?" Butcher barked, mirroring my stance.

"Well, I don't know," I slyly commented. "I've seen the way you look at MM. But hey," I held up my hands, "I get it. He's a nice-looking man, you know, with his big, strong arms and stubble that I'm sure would leave the loveliest of burns on anyone's thighs-

The rest of my words evaporated into thin air as Butcher stalked over to me, immense agitation written all over his face as he backed me up against the sky-blue wall. "Oi, I know what you're tryin’ to do, ya’ sneaky little cunt. But it ain’t gonna work."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, peering up at him innocently. I widened my eyes, painting on a face that resembled a puppy.

Butcher's mouth hardened. "You're tryin’ to get a rise outta me, so you'll get your way." He leaned in as his voice fell to a husky whisper. "Nice try, sweetheart, but I ain’t fallin’ for it."

"Well, it was worth a shot, don't you think?"

Butcher merely shook his head before retreating to the other side of the room and unpacking his belongings. I watched him quietly for a moment as he threw his Hawaiian shirts into the white wood dresser before sighing loudly and holding my hand out. "Give me your keys."

"Why?" He grunted, not bothering to look up.

"Because I'm sleeping in the car."

"Bullocks." He argued, closing the now full drawer and finally looking at me. "You’re not leavin’ the confines of this room without me supervision."

"I'm not a child, Butcher. I don't need you to babysit me," I huffed. "Now, hand over your fucking keys."

"Not happenin’, princess. S’not safe to be out there all by your lonesome," he said, gesturing to the window to acknowledge the outside world.

I narrowed my eyes. "You don't give a rat's ass about my safety. You're just scared I'll drive off without you, leaving you all alone in Snow White's cottage with only Ed to keep you company. But maybe that'd be fun. I mean, speaking from experience, older men are amazing in bed because they really know how to take control. I bet Ed would rock your world if you just gave him the chance."

My frame again collided with the wall when Butcher trudged back over with much more aggression. I giggled maniacally as his fingers applied the most beautiful pressure to my neck, cutting off most of my air source and the blood to my head.

His mouth grazed my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. "You're going to sleep in this room, in that bed, with me, even if I have to hold a gun to your head. And lucky for you, I have plenty of those."

Butcher pulled back enough so he could see my face. "Do ya’ understand?"

I was dizzy as I stared at him, smiling lazily. "Yes, Daddy. I understand."

Butcher's breath caught in his throat, and for a brief moment, I thought he might kiss me. In preparation, I swiped my tongue over my lower lip. His eyes honed in on the action, and his mouth parted as soft pants exited his mouth.

But everything shattered when he suddenly pulled back, ending the confusing yet heated interaction.

"Go shower, ya’ smell like shite," he instructed, turning away from me.

"You don't exactly smell like roses either," I grumbled as I shuffled over to my bag and pulled out an oversized white tee and a clean pair of black panties with a simple lace trim.

As I entered the small, extended bathroom, I glanced back at Butcher and almost missed the bulge he was attempting to conceal by pretending to look out the window. His knuckles were white as they clenched the blue silk curtain, and his shoulders were taut with tension.

The bathroom door clicked shut, and I leaned on it for support as I closed my eyes and focused on taking deep breaths. The sight of Butcher's tented jeans was burned into my eyelids, causing a strong need to settle in my core, pulsing incessantly.

"Fuck," I whispered as I pushed myself off of the door and made quick work of turning on the shower and stripping myself of my clothes that had begun sticking to my skin.

I let the waves of purposeful cold water wash over my body as I scrubbed myself, trying to think of anything other than what I knew Butcher was doing in the next room over. If I strained my ears, I could almost hear his quiet grunts of pleasure as he roughly stroked his member, nearing his release. There was no doubt that Butcher had sent me to go shower so he could fix his little problem.

With minimal shame, I let my hand trail between my breasts and down the length of my torso until I reached my aching cunt that had been begging for attention since the moment Butcher wrapped his hand around my throat.

I leaned against the shower wall as the water, now much warmer, trickled down my back, only aiding my nearing orgasm. My hips rocked against my hand as my fingers dove into my sopping hole relentlessly, grazing the spot that made my knees go weak. A place that Butcher had no trouble reaching with his fingers and his cock. I pictured the veiny length that I'd had the privilege of coming apart on that one night now months ago.  

I slammed my other hand over my mouth to silence my whine as I came on my fingers. My vision blurred, and I helplessly reached out to shut off the water before staggering out of the shower and grabbing a fluffy white towel that sat on the countertop.

After gathering my bearings, I hastily dried myself off and left my hair, wet and tangled, to fall around my shoulders as I threw on my shirt and underwear.

Then, I shut off the bathroom light and cracked open the door, peering out into the now-dark bedroom. I squinted, making out Butcher, who was in bed, lying on his side, facing away from me. I studied his breaths for a moment as I tried to deduce whether or not he was faking his slumber.

Deciding that he was, in fact, asleep, I tiptoed over to the unoccupied side of the bed and nimbly slid under the covers. I turned my head and watched as a sliver of moonlight that snuck between the curtains fanned over him, basking his beautifully sculpted face in a glow that made him look almost ethereal. I assumed it was what Zeus looked like if the Greek God ever took a few moments of rest.

A yawn bubbled up from my throat, urging me to rest as well, so I clutched my pillow and closed my eyes, listening to the breeze that was picking up outside. I was grateful that Butcher wasn't hogging the blankets, and I drew them up to my neck, burrowing deeper in search of warmth.

Soon, I drifted off, and dreams invaded my mind, specifically one about the day I met Butcher. He had found me in a tiny hideout, living with other dealers as we all scrounged on the street, barely scraping by. He had initially come to collect some information from our boss, but when he'd laid eyes on me, huddled up in the corner of the dingy apartment, he recruited me immediately.

"What's a pretty thing like you doin’ livin’ in a place like this, eh?" He asked, displaying his prominent cockney accent as he crouched in front of me. "Did some bloke use ya’ to pay a debt?"

"No, you ass, I work here," I shot back.

His brow arched at my surprising rebuttal. "Well, I'll be. For someone who looks like a little princess, you sure do have a mouth on ya’."

"And if you ask me what else my mouth does, I will bite off your tongue and shove it so far down your throat you'll be shitting it out for a year."

"Jo," Hugo, my boss, warned me, and I scowled at both men, scooting farther into my corner and tightening my hold on my stale mug of coffee.

"New deal," the Englishman announced, rising to his feet to face Hugo. "I'll give ya’ one grande for everythin’ you know about the Temp V that's bein’ funneled through the Chinese restaurant down the street." He then pointed to me. "And her."

I stood to my full height, which wasn't very impressive compared to the broad man in front of me. "This isn't the 1800 hundreds, buddy. You can't go around bargaining women like they're fucking objects."

"Sorry, love. Didn't mean to tickle any nerves. I am merely in the position to expand my team, and I was thinkin’ you just might be the perfect fit."

"Team? Do you coach cricket down at the local senior center?" I asked mockingly.

"Is she always like this?" The man questioned Hugo, completely disregarding me.

"Yup, I have yet to find her off switch."

I glared at my boss. "Fuck you."

"See," Hugo said, gesturing to me. "You really want to put up with this? She's stubborn to an end, with an attitude that would drive anyone insane."

"No," the Englishman whispered as his hazel eyes wandered my face, "She's magnificent."

༺༻

A clash of thunder jolted me awake, and I abruptly sat up before throwing my legs over the side of the bed and stumbling over to the window. I cautiously pulled the curtain back to gaze through the glass and watched in horror as rain splattered down angrily while lightning flashed from above.

My latest career was in face-to-face combat with supes who did frightening things like shoot lasers from their eyes or start a fire with a mere snap of their fingers. But my greatest fear in life was storms. Even the slightest bit of thunder immediately brought me back to my childhood, and I felt like a little kid again, cowering under the covers of my bed while my parents all but tore each other apart in the living room, and a storm raged all around the small ranch house.

Anxiety racked my body, and I sprang back when thunder boomed again. A small whimper left my mouth before a voice behind me drew my attention.

"Come on back to bed."

I twisted around to look at Butcher, who was now awake and sitting up. I opened my mouth to respond, but another thunderclap interrupted me, and a tremble vibrated in my bones.

My vision blurred with tears as I bit harshly into my lip before my mouth filled with the taste of copper. I looked up at Butcher, and when he saw my face, his brows creased, and he held out his hands, beckoning me toward him. "C’mere, love."

I hesitated, but when a branch from the tree outside smacked against the window, I shot forward, straight into Butcher's arms.

"Atta girl. There we go," he murmured, pulling me to lay on his bare chest as he leaned back against the headboard. My legs landed on either side of his torso, and I wrapped my hands around his neck, grasping the ends of his hair and tangling my fingers in the strands.

"That’s it. Ya’ just hang onto me," Butcher whispered.

His hands rubbed up and down my back soothingly, and I focused on the feeling of his touch to ground myself.

"It's just a pesky little storm. Nothin’ to be afraid of."

His reassurance made me sink further into his embrace, and before long, my breathing began to slow, and my cries significantly quieted.

I pulled back slightly to rest my forehead against his and took notice of the tension that began to brew between us. My eyes dropped from Butcher's dark eyes that studied me to his full lips, which were only inches from my own, and without thinking, I closed the gap between us.

My cunt pulsed, and I knew Butcher could feel it as I ground myself down on him while our lips clashed together. But all too soon, he broke away. "Fuckin’ hell, doll. What are ya’ doin’?"

I mumbled my answer, leaning back in. "Need you."

Butcher stopped me by placing both his hands on my shoulders, creating distance between us. "Now, just a minute, love. I don't want ya’ goin’ and makin’ a mistake here."

I went to answer, but Butcher held up his hand, silencing me as he continued. "You're in a very...vulnerable state right now, and I don't wanna take advantage of ya’."

"You're not. I promise."

Butcher didn't look convinced as the wind blew harshly outside, and I winced in his arms, bracing my hands against his chest. "Please, Butcher, I need this. I need the distraction."

Fresh tears of desperation welled in my eyes, and he was quick to wipe them away as they stained my cheeks.  

Butcher was quiet as he looked at me in nothing but my thin t-shirt with my nipples peeking through and my panties that were beyond soaked.

His silence sprouted panic in my head as I began to worry that maybe it was due to the fact that he didn't want me like that anymore. One hook-up three months prior certainly didn't define one's feelings, and the arousal he displayed earlier this evening could easily be explained as some sort of anatomical dysfunction.

"It's ok. I get it," I muttered, mortified, falling off of Butcher's lap and curling up on my side of the bed. "It was presumptuous to assume you were attracted to me. I'm sorry."

Rejection flooded my body, and I pulled my blankets tightly against me, only to have them ripped away seconds later.

"The fuck are ya’ goin’ on about?" Butcher asked gruffly, leaning over me. The simple chain displaying his wedding ring dangled next to my face, and I did my best to ignore it as I answered him. "The fact that you're clearly unattracted to me. But it's fine, no hard feelings."

I shoved my face into my pillow so I wouldn't have to look at Butcher as he granted me the confirmation that I so dreaded. But instead of doing just that, he gently instructed me, "Gimme your hand."

I hesitated before placing my hand in his outstretched one. Still lying on my side, I felt Butcher guide it behind me towards his frame. A small gasp of air escaped my lungs when my hand was placed over his front, and I felt a bulge that grew with every second.

"You think I don't want ya’?" He asked lowly. "Then explain this."

I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat as I looked over my shoulder, and my heart raced at the lust that bloomed in his eyes. "Of course I want you. I'll always want ya’, doll. No matter how much ya’ try to push me away. You're the reason why I can't sleep at night no more because I'm fuckin’ my fist, rememberin’ the way ya’ whined underneath me as you came all over my cock the night before I left."

I didn't know what to say. For the first time in my life, all words had evaded me.

"But, I know how spontaneous you can get, darlin’. And I don't want ya’ to wake up tomorrow and regret tonight."

"I could never regret you." My voice was hoarse from crying, and I slowly sat up. Butcher matched my position on the bed, so we sat facing one another.

My eyes lowered to Butcher's hard length, and I reached my arm out. "Is this ok?" I whispered as my fingers traced the waistband of his boxers.

Butcher breathed deeply, closing his eyes before opening them again to look at me earnestly. "If this is what ya’ really want, petal, then s’ok with me."

The new pet name warmed my cheeks as my hand dipped into Butcher's boxers and wrapped around his hard length. I used my other hand to ease down the fabric, and his cock popped free, leaking pre-cum from its angry, red tip.

Butcher hissed as I spat into my hand and began to stroke him gently. I wanted him in my mouth, to feel his fat, swollen head hit the back of my throat till my eyes watered, but I craved comfort at this moment, so I looked at Butcher. "Please," I begged. "I need you. Need to be close to you."

Solemnly, Butcher nodded and easily pried my hand off of him. He was quick to discard his boxers and eased himself up the bed until he was leaning against the headboard once more.

"C’mere, sweetheart," he encouraged softly.

I, too, rid myself of my underwear and crawled up the bed. Butcher used his hands on my hips to guide me as I swung my leg over his torso so I was straddling him.

"You tell me if ya’ wanna to stop." He said, removing one of his hands from my hip to cup my jaw instead to guarantee that I was looking at him. "I don't care if I'm in the middle of comin’; if ya’ wanna stop, we stop, got it?"

I nodded, appreciating that even in a heightened moment of pleasure, Butcher would still put my needs before his.

"Atta girl."

Butcher ran his hands up at down my arms as I wrapped my hand around his cock for the second time that night and lined him up with my pussy which was weeping just for him.

"Daddy," I whimpered as I sank down on Butcher's thick shaft, my walls stretching to accommodate his almost painful size. "I forgot how big you are."

"Fuck I missed ya’," Butcher groaned. "I missed both of ya’: my girl and her perfect pussy."

I was already preening under his words as I rose up before sinking down on him again. I repeated the action several more times before settling into a steady rhythm.

"Doin’ so good for me, love," Butcher said, his voice raspy as his thumb circled my aching clit, and I couldn't stop my look of pure content as his praise washed over me.

"Fuck, Daddy, that feels so good," I whined. But Buther already knew that based on how tightly I was squeezing his cock, threatening to milk him any second.

"Yeah? You gonna come, sweet thing? I know ya’ want to. Come on and show me how much ya’ appreciate my cock stretching you wide open."

My slick walls constricted around Butcher's length, and a soft cry left my mouth as I reached my climax. I gripped Butcher's shoulders, holding on for dear life as he grabbed the fat of my ass harshly, helping me to fuck myself through my orgasm.

"There we go. Make a mess for me. That's it, petal."

My chin met my chest as I panted, trying to catch my breath. My movements were much more docile as I slowly continued to ride him, enjoying the lasting pleasure from my orgasm. But the feeling soon turned intense again as I felt my second high quickly building.

"Already goin’ for another?" Butcher chuckled, brushing stray hair away from my face, which had stuck to my sweaty skin.

"Daddy, please," I cried, even though I wasn't even sure what I was pleading for.

"Take what ya’ need, sweetheart. Make yourself come again," Butcher coaxed as his thumb left my throbbing clit and instead reached around to rim my puckered hole. I mewled loudly as my hips slammed down harder, chasing a new high.

Butcher eased my shirt over my head, revealing my chest and nipples that were practically begging for to be sucked.

"There's my beautiful girl. So fuckin’ pretty," Butcher growled, leaning forward and swirling his tongue around my nipple before taking it into his mouth. He sucked greedily, causing my second orgasm to crash into me like a freight train. A strangled moan exited my mouth, and I clung to Butcher helplessly.

Once I came back down to earth, Butcher gripped my hips firmly. "Hang on tight, petal," he warned before holding me in place as he fucked up into me, now intent on chasing his own release after holding back for so long to ensure that I had got what I needed.

"Best fuckin’ pussy." He groaned. "You've fuckin’ ruined me for anyone else."

Butcher's movements stuttered, and I felt his hot release coat my walls. His teeth sank into my shoulder, marking me and creating a constant reminder of this night.

The silence that followed felt poignant compared to the way we had been filling the room with sounds of satisfaction just moments before.

"You reckon we was too loud?" Butcher finally asked, kissing the mark he had created, soothing the inflamed flesh as he traced random shapes on my lower back. His length still pulsed inside me, but I found the connection comforting, so I made no motion to move.

"Well, you did say we were on our honeymoon," I joked. "At least it's believable now."

Butcher spanked my ass playfully. "Accordin’ to traditional marital standards, I believe newly married couples usually engage in such intimate activities more than once on their honeymoon."

"It would be a shame if we didn't at least try to live up to those standards, don't you think?" I asked, a smirk playing at the edge of my lips.

"A shame indeed," Butcher replied, leaning forward to capture my lips in a long kiss.

The hate I had so intensely felt for him melted away as he caressed me as if I were the most precious thing in the world.

"Thank you," I murmured, looking up into his amber eyes.

Butcher smiled softly, something he didn't often do. "Let's get some sleep, yeah? I think you've done a proper job of tirin’ us both out."

I nodded, and Butcher eased me off of his softening length. I whined, but he was quick to place a kiss on my temple, calming me.

Butcher delicately placed me down on the mattress, and I sighed in contentment. I watched him effortlessly strut into the bathroom, and he threw a wink my way, knowing that I was checking him out. Even though we'd just had sex, the sight of his muscular body had me rubbing my legs together.

Butcher popped out a moment later with a towel in hand. Right away, he spotted the needy look on my face and snickered. "Insatiable little thing, aren't ya’?"

I nodded my head up and down, and Butcher scoffed, "Tomorrow, we can continue, but right now, young lady, you're goin’ to sleep."

I pouted up at him, feeling playful. "But I don't want to sleep, Daddy."

Butcher climbed on the bed and placed a hand on either side of my head. "But you're not in charge, are ya’, petal?"

"Mm, I guess I forgot who it was. Maybe you should remind me."

Butcher's eyes darkened as he grinned madly and gripped my waist, effortlessly flipping me over.

"Oh, you're in for it, sweetheart."

₊ . ⋆ ⁺ ݃ ⁺ ⋆ . ₊ ₊ . ⋆ ⁺ ݃ ⁺ ⋆ . ₊ ₊ . ⋆ ⁺ ݃ ⁺ ⋆ . ₊ ₊ . ⋆ ⁺ ݃ ⁺ ⋆ . ₊ ₊ . ⋆ ⁺ ݃ ⁺ ⋆ . ₊

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[katyawriteswhump]

the freak in the penthouse, part 5.1

accidental millionaire eddie/sex-worker steve. E-rated (overall for sexual content, this part M) CW: contains references to past abuse

On tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3.1 Part 3.2 Part 4.1 Part 4.2

On AO3

5.1 Newsflash

“Jesus, how many times do I have to tell you, Robin? Eddie genuinely is the best thing that’s happened to me in a fucking age.”

“No way, shit-bird.” Robin grabbed Steve’s arm. He let her drag him back into the kitchen. She poured him a glass of milk, dumped it on a counter. She glared meaningfully at it then proceeded to butcher a pile of herbs.

“You like that Eddie guy too much,” she whispered, chopping madly, which always made Steve nervous. This week, she’d already gotten band-aids on three fingers. “What do you really know about him? Or him about you?”

“What kinda dumb question is that?” He whispered too, though the kitchen was otherwise empty.

“You’ve spent over a fortnight with him!”

“So? Look, I honestly think I’ve made a difference to his life. When we first hooked up, he was mopey and depressed. He’s totally pepped up.”

Or it could be all the sex and booze acting as his band-aid.

She paused in her chopping. “What’s he done for you?”

He makes me happier, too. Bite me.

Robin didn’t look in the mood for that kind of bull. She plucked a banana from a bowl and dumped it down beside his untouched milk.

“You know I like looking after people.” He picked up the banana. “I’ve got my meds and I’ve paid off most of my debts.”

“You told him about that, huh? Why you need the money so badly?”

“Get real, Robin. What was I supposed to say—'Hey, Eds. I’m your friendly neighborhood asthmatic call-boy.’” He stuffed the banana in his mouth.

“No. I mean, how your trust-fund went bye-bye, and what that horrible lawyer did to you.”

“Jesus, Robin. No!” He swallowed quickly before he spluttered all over her. “It’s not exactly a turn-on. Mommy and Daddy were loaded, and I was their coddled brat who’d been told he’d never want for anything. Before they went and inconveniently died.” He always impressed himself when he got that word out without a hitch, though it never came without a pang. “Then it turned out my trust fund was in debt. So my dad’s lawyer got me working it off with my ass, passing me around his friends. Then I finally got away, got a shitty job as a shitty bellhop… and caught pneumonia. In LA. Nobody catches pneumonia in LA! I mean, it’s beyond pathetic.”

“It’s tragic, Steve, and it’s not your fault. I honestly still don’t know how a trust fund can be in debt."

“Look, it’s over.” He took a glug of the milk and met her scowl with a cutting one of his own. “I’ll be able to rent somewhere of my own when he’s through with me.”

“Yeah, and I wouldn’t worry so much, but you look waaaay too sad when you say that. Be careful Steve. I don’t wanna have to stab lover-boy’s eyes out with an ice-pick.”

“Don’t you dare. His eyes are dazzling.”

She harrumphed despairingly then drew a key out of her apron pocket and dumped it by the banana skin. “My roomie is away. Get some sleep, or heaven help me, Steve, I got a filleting knife here with your name on it.”

…

Eddie was poring over his game notes—sucking on a cigarette and stressing his pants off. Someone knocked loudly on the door. A jerk in a three-piece suit, who Eddie vaguely recognised, let himself in.

“Mr Munson, I’m terribly sorry to disturb you.” The newcomer offered a preening smile. “I’m Larry Kline, head concierge here at the Beverly Hills Yorkshire. We met briefly when you checked in last month.”

“Right.” He unenthusiastically shook Kline’s outstretched hand. Kline’s beady eyes slid around the room. “Uuuuuh, is there a problem?”

“Have you had company staying here, Sir?”

“What’s it to you?”

“You are supposed to sign in extra guests, Sir. But seeing as you’re a very special guest, we can overlook—”

“Look, man, nobody else is staying here.” He turned away, stubbed out his smoke in frustration. “Is that why you’ve come to play ‘persecute the freak?’”

Kline’s hand flew to his chest in an attempt at mortification that reminded Eddie what an amazing actor Steve was. Steve’s douchiest fluttering of his lashes never looked that fake: “It was not my intention to offend, Sir. Please accept my sincerest apologies.”

“Accepted,” muttered Eddie, wishing he’d get lost.

Kline cleared his throat. “I am here, ahem…”

About how I’ve made your sleazy hotel stink like good ol’ Reefer Rick’s?

Kline presented a silver ashtray with a couple of mints and a scrap of paper. “It’s a delicate matter concerning your check this week, Mister Munson. I’m sure it’s just an error at your bank, but it’s bounced.”

“What?”

Kline put down the ashtray on the doily-covered occasional table. “It hasn’t been paid.”

“That’s gotta be a mistake.” Eddie found himself fiddling madly with his rings. There’d been a fat row of numbers on that check from the gaming company—he was richer than God! Apart from the house he’d bought for his uncle, he’d not gone too mental. Okay, there was the collectors’ guitars, the studio time, the… penthouse.

He got rid of Kline with a mumbled promise that he’d call the bank. He’d have to find his check-book to find the number. He stared at the phone, a ghastly turquoise monstrosity with a golden handset. And then at the mints in the ashtray, under which was tucked an invoice for 8,347 dollars and twelve cents.

He stared at it, unmoving, for a long time.

Then he ate the mints and tucked the invoice under the phone. He’d call Dustin. Later.

...

5.2 on tumblr .... On AO3

I've added a hashtag #thefreakinthepenthouse for ease of finding the earlier parts. I am very happy to tag usernames if anybody is interested... please let me know.

Thank you for reading. Likes reblogs and comments much appreciated and will feed the bunnies🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕

On tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3.1 Part 3.2 Part 4.1 Part 4.2

On AO3 All my ST stuff on AO3

[jesterheartz]

So this is a niche idea that probably only appeals to me but I can't get it out of my head so I'm sharing it with all of you. AU where Gold (from the Pokémon: Lost Silver creepypasta) gets adopted by the Haunted Mansion crew

Long post under the cut

Quick disclaimer: I have not played the Hypno's Lullaby FNF mod yet and I have not watched a full playthrough of it yet (I have seen parts here and there though). I've just been listening to the Monochrome song on loop for 4 straight days (it's a banger btw, especially the Perish mix) and fell straight back into my old Creepypasta phase. My entire perception of Gold's personality comes from what I've seen of the FNF mod, read about on TvTropes, and fanon (I did read the original creepypasta story that he's from, but that honestly gives nothing to work with). This is to say, I apologize in advance if I absolutely butcher Gold's canon personality. I am just very fond of the perception of his character I have in my head.

Anyway! The most prominent trait I interpret of Gold from what I've seen of him so far is that he is DEAD. And SAD. And SAD about being DEAD.

And Disney's Haunted Mansion is filled with dead people who are not necessarily as distraught about their predicament.

I imagine Gold (and the many, many Unown inhabiting his corpse) somehow get isekai-ed out of his game and into one of the Disney Parks. He's floating down the sidewalk feeling very sad indeed, groaning "N O M O R E" every so often.

Ghost Host looks outside and sees this lost soul and his companions just floating about. Hosty, not being one to just leave a soul out in the open, decides to take him in.

The Hatbox Ghost and Emily (Beating Heart Bride) adopt him immediately! Gold is like the son they never had. Hatty is absolutely delighted when he learns Gold can detach his head from his body.

Communicating with Gold is difficult at first, seeing as Gold doesn't speak much. But after some time, the other ghosts eventually learn to read the Unown language.

In particular, Gold and Gus (the prisoner hitchhiker) would have a special bond over both being non-speakers (I headcanon Gus as mute)

This isn't to say I don't think Gold has the ability to talk. I think he could, he just prefers not to. More often than not, he only groans maybe 1-3 words at a time. Otherwise, the unown just spell things out for him.

Sally Slater (the tightrope girl) and Victor Geist (the Organist) go out for ice cream once a week. After they get to know Gold, it becomes a regular thing for them to invite him on their outings. They grab a wheelchair for him (so that he doesn't have to use extra energy floating around) and wheel him out of the mansion to grab some Dole Whip.

Gold doesn't talk much. So during these outings, he prefers to just sit and enjoy his ice cream while listening to Sally and Victor bicker and gossip. Even though he never says it, he enjoys their company.

The hitchhiking ghosts are the ones to take Gold on his first tour of the park. Their preferred method is tying up Gold to those big Mickey balloons and dragging him from place to place

They take him on the fast-pace thrill rides first (think Space Mountain, Splash Mountain, Thunder Mountain, etc.) first because those are their favorites (though specifically more Ezra's favorites). They quickly find out that Gold does NOT like that. So Phineas suggests they take him on It's A Small World. Gold feels much better afterwards. :)

I headcanon Gold prefers the more calm rides. So think It's A Small World and the Storybook Land Canal Boats.

Oh, and he absolutely does NOT want to go on Matterhorn. Ever.

At the end of the hitchhiker's Disney park tour, they gather near the castle to watch the fireworks. Hatty and Emily join in too.

Gold is now surrounded by many more friends, who are all dead just like he is. But perhaps being dead doesn't have to be so bad after all.

[korogie]

Not a single person asked or wanted it but I'm back again this time complaining about the movie I'm not going to go into the complete butchering of Mike's character just yet cuz that is actually the most upsetting thjng abt the adaptation but okay anyways The movie makes it super obvious (if ur paying attention and obsessed) that Richie is lying about his biggest fear being clowns bc in reality his biggest fear is being outed and/or losing Eddie but like. In the first movie if clowns are not his real fear which they clearly aren't Why the fuck did pennywise even try that shit. Like it can read their fucking minds. Pennywise tries to scare Richie with a room full of clown dolls and Richie is just like "Stupid clowns dude." Like bitch this thing is an alien demon and in the second movie it knows that Richie is terrified of his sexuality so then Why even try the clowns in the first place if u knew they were bullshit!!!!!!! The execution is so poorly done cuz again it's only obvious Richie isn't all that scared of clowns if ur crazy obsessed (me) so ur casual viewers will just take it as surface level and then guess what Richie being gay feels like a curveball!!!!!!! Even though I (obsessed and crazy) know it was always meant to be in the story 😭 like don't be fucking pussies Make Richie lie about his fear to the losers and then when Richie is alone Pennywise does something with Eddie (that it kind of alr does cuz it uses eddie to lure richie away but again it's just So minor most ppl miss it). Also Richie not using any nickname for Eddie like he was supposed to, specifically Eds, ruined Eddie's last words for the second movie bc the whole bit with them in the book is that Richie calls him Eds and Eddie always went Don't call me that u know I hate it when u do that (and when reading eddie's pov u see he in fact actually rlly likes it cuz it feels like a cool secret between them) so when Eddie dies in Richie's arms and Richie is crying saying Eds ur gonna be aright Eddie's last words are Richie don't call me that, you know I... and then he dies and it's ruined for the movies cuz nobody except for Beverly in only the 2nd movie for some reason calls him Eds so his movie dying words are I fucked ur mom which is still an inside joke between them but so less personal and so disrespectful to Eddie as a character. Like how is Eddie's death in the movie where it is meant to be romantic why less romantic than the book cuz in the book Richie kisses Eddie's cheek before going on a rampage to kill It like that does not happen in the movies why not Huh ur meant to be explicitly gay act like it okay anyways

[blogplot]

Anne Clark would be Nowhere without David Harrow

My writings regarding my work with Anne Clark and how it all went pear shape, please see:

https://substack.com/@petrock1 ~~~ or ~~~ WordPress starting with “When you're Anne Clark ...”

There are many other platforms I wrote the same to not have all the eggs in one basket.

With writing these and posting online, people comment or contact me, especially Germans who are Clark's main audience since 40 years. She never fully learnt German though, which seems to be normal for British or American people, no effort made and being used to everyone speaking English.

Some of the people who comment or contact me say they are just really only into the music, and not the texts. That explains for sure why no-one saw the mistakes of Anne's book “Notes Taken Traces Left”.

But it also shows that it's really due to David Harrow who wrote and produced many of the early hits, like two of many people's favourites, “Sleeper in Metropolis” and “Our Darkness”.

David Harrow on Daily Bandcamp interview.

If you only take Anne Clark's spoken word, she wouldn't have gone anywhere far with it. It's the music that grabbed the poetry and thrust it into people's ear drums.

I wasn't keen on Anne's music/spoken word at first and had to “smoke” it into my ear, which I explain in “When you're Anne Clark ...”

And for some reason, Anne never mentions David Harrow compared to mentioning Charlie Morgan mainly, who sadly died early in his life and career.

Only Anne and David know why he seems forgotten, and he humbly mentioned on Facebook that it's nice his work is still played, after someone posted “Sleeper...” And even now, people still discover it for the first time, which is weird. But it might be the usual management issues who can't be bothered doing a proper job of promoting the artist they manage. Looking at Jeff Aug.

UPDATE: This particular post of "Sleeper ..." with all the comments has disappeared now after my interaction with David Harrow. That's why I keep receipts. This is how it works when people, be it Anne Clark & Co or collaborators or fans don't want free speech. I've seen accounts with 100K followers disappear for campaigning about something legit, no hate speech, no call for violence etc. It's arbitrary and cowardly. Whoever has either more followings or a stronger voice gets smaller accounts shut down and posts deleted. But keep speaking out, it's just a normal day in the office when it comes to social media platforms. EXPECT to get shut down. Keep speaking/writing etc.

I wouldn't be surprised if it was Harrow who got it shut down to distance himself. Often in reality people then communicate in the bckground or meet up to brainstorm how to shut accounts down. Part of the public posts in my conversation with Harrow. My response regarding "wasting time" has to do with writing things off ones system to move on, and the responsibility artists have. Responsibility that I also mean in how careless Anne Clark is with her work and with people who work(ed) on her stuff.

... cutting it short ...

Sorry David Harrow, Anne Clark, colleagues, fans, friends etc. you can all dismiss me as a lunatic or bitter or whatever in your dictionary of definitions for me. You and Anne will meet up very soon and laugh about what I do, that's your prerogative. I know who I am and what I've survived and what I've been through. And I am not scared or worried about what people think. So, you guys stay in your bubble, and I continue to do what I want to do. I spread out my writings far and wide and don't keep all the eggs in one basket. Just please spare me of cowardliness. That'll be all.

But, back to Anne Clark, it's also an Anne Clark thing to not care properly, parallel to not looking after her book of mistakes and letting others butcher it.

. She was also followed around on and off for 10 years by a documentary maker who after 10 years came up with only 1 hour 20 minutes of documentary film. And Anne settled for that. It's currently (as in September 2024) at 6.5 out of 10 on IMDb.

If she was young, I'd say she has a lot of talent, the musicians produce incredible sounds, and she has a lot to go for. But she is in a comfortable bubble, mainly tours and works in Germany, then Europe for decades, playing the same venues year after year after year. And that's okay. Why exhaust yourself with bigger venues or further continents?

I now suggested to Clark to collaborate with Harrow again and even have him on stage. The fans would flip out. But Anne Clark ghosts people, once she either doesn't need them anymore, or they become inconvenient, or she finds someone more attractive or useful to her. Maybe that's what also happened to Harrow. And that was the last time I gave Anne suggestions, except, she needs a new proper manager.

But Anne Clark without David Harrow just wouldn't exist in the music scene. Harrow created these unique electronic sounds that distinguish Anne Clark from the rest of the early electronic acts. And I simply don't understand why he's never mentioned, unless he did something unforgivable.

But then, with Anne, many people do “unforgivable” things that gets them on the ghosting list or if you are lucky, she'll call the police on you. That's punk!

Just make sure you don't lose anyone close to you that might traumatise you.

A more recent track by David Harrow:

Links to David Harrow's work.

PK

[dianight]

Let's but a spoiler barrier for anime only girls.

Quick judgment (no E in that word huh) of the anime is: OP>ED but they are both bangers, first half (6 eps) is pretty good but you can notice some pacing issues, second half is atrocious.

While I was watching I soon realized that the action scenes are a bit lacking, which by itself is not so much of a problem because despite the anime focusing on the colourless arc(?) there isn't that big of a focus on the action. Now, one of the advantages of anime as a medium as opposed to manga is that action can be communicated better and in a flashier way (Kimetsu no Yaiba p.ej.).

I've also mentioned before that Negi Haruba is pretty good (with a "this is an understatement" tone) at making cool looking spreads and panels. So what I was expecting of the anime was to be at least as cool as the manga.

A few examples from the manga to show what I mean: ex1 / ex2 & ex3 (together) / ex4 / ex5 / ex6 / ex7 / ex8

Ex1 is just there as a "benchmark" of what I'd expect. Look at the panel composition: threatining full panel -> close up of Suzukiri with a "beamy" background -> D refusing as punchline. It's just a common yet well executed gag. The anime butchers this part: threatining full scene -> reflection of Suzukiri on the knife -> close up of Suzukiri with no effects. There isn't a punchline because Sakurama appears earlier than usual and ruins the whole scene, these are pacing issues that the anime constantly has.

Ex2 & ex3: all the cadets (without D) are meant to be fighting that Peltrola (and losing) right before D arrives. On the anime this is skipped and D arrives before they even start fighting. Again, pacing issues that could be "solved" if the action was good; you could understand compressing that part if they did something with it, instead it plays just like the manga (overall) and it's a missed opportunity to make use of anime's strong points over it (moving scenes and music direction), which is what a good adaptation should do (IMPORTANT).

Ex4: this is what a good anime scene from a good manga should look like. The manga gives us the rangers posing on one of these spread that Negi Haruba is great at and I love to eat up, fantastic composition and shows good characterization: Hisui is the strongest, at the front and taunting; Tokita is from red and also hotheaded and willing to redeem/prove himself, not quite at the front but almost there; Nadeshiko is a man of few words somewhat embarrased about his interests, despite being quite strong he stays back; Suzukiri above all of them, she has her own plans and she's just playing the part of ranger. The anime shows all of this AND adds a nice visual effect with the camera moving downwards until it ends up on a similar scene to the manga panel; in this case the anime adaptation does a really good job, taking something good and making it better.

Ex5: unless I have some lacuna in my brain this was skipped on the anime. Not a super big deal, but one can see a cool spread and think "if this was an anime you could add a side by side panning scene (short one) and it'd look super good". It is the little things like that that get removed from the anime that end up hurting it. Lots of chances to do something and then... whiffing every time.

Ex6: one of my favourite faces in the manga and it did not get included. This one is important to me because it was this specific sequence not being in the anime that irked me enough to check what exactly was changed. Again, just a "little thing" and another show of the pacing issues. Like the manga does go fast, but the anime tries to go fast and it drops a lot of characterization and good looking scenes, and since those are what make the manga good while the anime has very little going for it, we end up with a bad adaptation.

Ex7: this one is so beautiful and so important for the whole series. I don't think the anime does it justice, it's too fast and not impactful enough. Nothing new to say, missed chance for a fractured flashback, or a quick one, or something that only the anime could do and instead we get ah, an attempt(?) at a copy of that panel. Insufficient, the anime could do better.

Ex8: I've mentioned this one before. This is probably the one example where the anime did go for something different and it still was not remarkable enough.

I know all of this probably sounds very harsh. I did enjoy the anime, I just don't think it's very good and it feels bad to see such good art "wasted" and not improved on instead.

My recommendation is to watch the OP and ED on youtube or such and read the manga.

Went back to check the manga and the frame with the dragon mikos was an anime addition. I have a few thoughts now on ep 11 but I think I'll wait until (checking) sunday so it's completed.

[beybaldes]

the woman that loves you (boy you're such a fool)

Eddie Roundtree x Fem!Reader

djats masterlist

Word Count : 3.1k

Summary : the end of the band is just the beginning for y/n and her favourite bassist.

normal = flashbacks ,, italics = interviews

Warning!! I have not read the book or the show!!! All info I have gathered has been from other x readers I have read. sorry in advance if I have butchered your fav show/book because i have plainly made shit up in favour of satiating my own need for more Eddie fics xoxo

Y/n: I think about that last day all the time. I think about everything I should've said or done. But I don't think it would've changed anything honestly - everyone seemed pretty set on what they wanted for the band. Who was I to change that?

your legs pulled from warrens lap, quickly jumping from you seat and running out of the bus, desperate to reach the cab before it could pull out and take Eddie away. whatever was out there had been on your side, your hard pull open of the door stopping the driver from leaving as he put it into gear and got ready to leave.

"I'm so sorry" you said to the grey haired man in the front seat, turned to Eddie with a creased brow. "I'll only be a minute."

"birdie..." he hummed, pushing his sunglasses away from his eyes, letting them meet your own. "let me go, I need to leave, I can't stay here - not with Billy, not after everything."

"I'm not asking you to stay, Ed's." You murmured, tears brimming your eyes as you placed one knee into the cab, tucking yourself into the crook of his neck, one arm holding the door open. "I know that's not fair. I just don't want you to leave without saying goodbye."

Though you couldn't see it, tears began to pool in eddies eyes at the way your voice trembled and your words came out in a whisper - like a little kid too upset to really get the words out. When he'd packed up his things and called the cab he had only thought about leaving, getting away from all of it and getting to be his own person - he'd yet to consider that he'd be leaving some of his nearest and dearest friends behind in doing so. That he'd be leaving you behind.

Eddie: I'd never done anything as hard as leaving the band. At least not until y/n stopped the cab to speak to me.

"I got to go birdie, I got a plane to catch." soon half a continent would separate you, something so scary when for the last decade you'd only been a street, a room or a curtain away at all times.

"Just gimme one more moment." You tried to savour the feel of his arms around you, holding your body tight and close as if it was the last time he was going to do so. 'it probably was the last time he was going to do so,' the thought made your stomachs churn and your whimpers boarder on full on sobs. If it weren't for the fact you wanted your last moments together to be happy, you would've just let it all out, cry into his arms like the little kid your rise to fame never let you be. "Just one more moment."

Camilla: Y/n. She, she was always the closest with Eddie. They were like two peas in a pod - I don't think I'd ever seen one without the other somewhere nearby.

With a particularly tight squeeze, you pulled away, knowing that no hug would last long enough to satiate the longing ache already settled deep in the pit of your stomach.

Eddie was quick to wipe at the tears that silently rolled down your cheeks, his large hand cupping your face as his thumb stroked across the apple of your red cheek. "I'm gonna miss you, birdie."

"Not as much as I'm gonna miss you, Ed's." You pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, trying to tell him everything you didn't have the time to say in what could easily be passed off as a misjudgement of closeness. "Please don't be a stranger."

Eddie didn't say anything else. He let you close the cab door and stand on the side of the pavement, watching as he drove off and away from the six, away from you. Only when the cab was out of sight did either of you let the tears fall, not wanting the other to be saddened by your own heartbreak. Though, when had goodbyes ever been easy?

Billy: Y/n had always been a sensitive girl. But the band had been her whole world - each of us, we, had been her whole world. I think it truly broke her when the band broke up that day.

Furiously you wiped at your tears, trying to clear your face before you returned to your seat on the tour bus, knowing now that it was unlikely the six would continue past this moment, and that more goodbyes would probably be in order. You could cry it all out on the flight you were sure you'd have to book later today.

Making your way back to the tour bus, you silently got back on, not even making it to your seat before you broke down in tears again. Your knees couldn't hold your weight any longer, and as you began to sink to the floor, Warren was quick to spring from his seat, wrapping you in his arms and lowering you to the floor at a gentle pace. He gently stroked his fingers through your hair, shushing you as the pair of you rocked back and forth on the floor of the tour bus. Karen was quick to join the two of you, pressing a kiss to your temple and letting her own tears fall in the group hug containing the final members of the 6.

Y/n: Karen and Warren - I'd always been good fiends with them. But that day, on the bus, it became something different then. They're my best friends in the world now. Karen was the maid of honour at my wedding. I did ask Warren but he refused, claiming it only made sense for it to be Karen.

"It's okay sweet girls." Warren whispered to the two girls that were now cradled in his arms, all three of the in a mess of limbs and tears on the floor of the tour bus. "Everything's going to be okay."

"Warren had been right of course." You paused with a smile, waiting for Julia to adjust the camera so that both you and Eddie fit into the frame; his arm wrapped around your waist pulling you into his side, a kiss pressed to your temple after which he gazed down at you lovingly. "Everything was okay, in the end. Eddie called me the second he landed back in Pittsburgh, correctly guessing I'd still be on the tour bus with Warren and Karen."

"Thank god I'd been right (about the tour bus)." Eddie smiled, pressing another kiss to your temple, relishing in the feel of his arm that was around your waist, knowing he'd never have to lose that feeling as long as he played his cards right. "I don't know what I'd have done if she hadn't picked up. If I'd lost her for good."

"Hello." You murmured into the phone, the loud ringing having woke you from your sleep. Thankfully, Warren and Karen were still asleep to your right, the ringing noise not waking them after the exhaustion of getting through such an eventful and emotional day. "Who is it?"

"Birdie..."

You sat upright at the voice on the other end of the line, sleep vanishing from your eyes. "Eddie." You whined, fingers scratching at the phone as if you could claw you way through it and into his arms. "I miss you."

"I know birdie, I miss you too."

"How'd you know to call here?" You and Karen were crashing in Warrens room, the three of you too upset to be left alone and not wanting to pay for three separate rooms when money was now going to be an issue.

"I figured you'd end up in bed with Warren, or Karen, or both. I called each room until you picked up." A soft smile graced your features at the thought of Eddie calling every room until he found you. He knew you so well. "I'm back in Pittsburgh, I want you to come with me."

It had taken Eddie seconds to realise the mistake he'd made in leaving the band. Not in the way of leaving the band, but rather in the way it meant leaving you, too. But his cab was going and his flight had been paid for.

"I... I love you, birdie." Eddie whispered, unsure if he was allowed to say such words after how hard he'd made you cry just hours before. "I don't want to not have you in my life. And I'm not calling just because I need someone right now, or because I regret leaving the band. I'm calling because I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you in it, and when you realise that you do something about it."

Eddies words had you shocked to silence, his voice calling out for you several times in the moments that you took to process what he'd just said. "Birdie, please say something."

"I'll tell you I love you too when you pick me up from the airport tomorrow at 11."

You could feel the smile that filled Eddies face through the phone.

"Am or Pm?"

Your hand interlinked with Eddies as you let your head fall to his shoulder, wrapped up in the memory of your first day out of the band. "It was difficult to say goodbye to Karen, her flight going back to England when both mine and Warren's were going back to Pittsburgh. It hurt a lot to see her go."

"I was in tears the whole flight." Karen laughed, wiping away a stray tear as she recalled when you and Warren left her at the gate to get your own flight. "But I called y/n as soon as I landed, and she told me she'd already booked flights to come and visit in a month. She's always been so good to me, to all of us, like that."

You'd slept on Warren's shoulder for most of the flight, his head atop yours as your dreamt about what life would bring going forward. Neither of you wanted to stay in Pittsburgh, but knew it was right for the moment, to take a deep breath and remind yourself of who you were before the band - without the band. Warren's long-time girlfriend, Lisa, had been the first person you saw once you escaped baggage claim, her running into his arms the moment she spotted him, but not forgetting to give you a hug of your own and a kiss to your cheek.

"My girl now, Rojas." You teased, pulling Lisa into side hug, hear head falling to your shoulder with a bright smile.

"Already forgetting about me?" You were quick to turn around at the sound of Eddie's voice, dropping your luggage and crashing into his arms, pressing kisses to his cheeks again and again, only stopping when he placed two fingers under your jaw and turned you to face him, finally giving you a real kiss after years of dancing around each other.

"Finally!" Warren shouted, head thrown back in laughter as he watched the two of you address all those lingering looks and hugs and touches that had happened over the past few years. "I better be invited to the wedding!"

"She told you that?" Warren scoffed, pulling the lit cigarette from his mouth, tapping the burnt butt into his ash tray before replacing it between his lips. "I only refused to be her maid of honour because Eddie asked me to be his best man first. How could I say no to being her maid of honour otherwise?"

"I love you too." You gasped out, pulling away from the kiss with Eddie. "I love you too. I love you so damn much it keeps me up at night, you're all I think about, all the time."

"I love you even more then that, birdie." Eddie nuzzled his nose against yours, quick to pull you in for another kiss that had Warren shouting at the pair of you to 'get a room.'

"Y/n did fulfil her promise." Karen nodded, thinking about her life long friendship with the brunette she'd met by chance. "She came to visit three weeks later. I was so excited. We spent a lot of time taking about the solo career I'd been planning for myself and how she could come along, be my opener for the American leg of the tour I would hopefully do - I didn't even notice the ring on her finger until her third day there!"

"I proposed the same night she got back to Pittsburgh. The girl had just flown halfway across the country cause she didn't know how to be without me, and I'd practically begged her to do it because I didn't know how to live without her. How could not?" Eddie retold with a soft smile gracing his features. It was one of the things you'd come to love the most in his old age; how soft and loving his features were when we wasn't stressing about the six, or Billy.

"I can't believe you came all this way, for me." Eddie mused later that night, the two of you face to face in his childhood bed, not wanting to fall asleep in fear this would all be some dream.

"How could I not?" You asked, pulling one of your hands out from beneath the duvet, pushing a strand of Eddies overgrown hair out of his eyes and safely behind his ear, careful to avoid brushing against the black eye nursing on his cheek. "Like you said, Ed's, I want to spend the rest of my life with you in it. Why would I wait to start the rest of my life when I could start it right now?"

Eddie pressed a hot and firm kiss to your lips, pulling away and resting his forehead against you own, a lovesick smile gracing his face. "You're exactly right birdie. Exactly right." Another series of kisses were pressed all over your face, starting at your lips, moving to your cheeks, then your forehead and back to your lips again. "Why wait when forever can start right now?"

Eddie pulled off one of his rings, holding it out in the small gap between the two of you. "Marry me."

It hadn't been a question.

"I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I have no doubt in that. And I know more then anything, I want the rest of my life to start right now; I've spent years not doing that, and I don't want to wait another day. Marry me."

"It was quite the bold ask." You giggled, curling into Eddies side with a bright smile. "But who could say no to such a face?"

"Yes." You whispered into the darkness of the room you'd spent so many of your formative years in. "Yes." Eddie slipped the ring on your finger, pressing another series of hot and firm kisses all over your face.

"He promised to go out and buy a real ring the following morning." You explained to Julia, sticking your hand out towards the camera to show her that your engagement ring was just as simple of a band as your wedding one. "But I told him a didn't want one. This one meant more."

"She gave me that ring as a gift for my 15 birthday." Eddie mused, reaching for you hand and toying with the ring that'd sat on your finger for the last 20 years. It should've sat there for a lot longer, he thought. "It seems kind of full circle that it's ended up back in her possession. But she wouldn't have it any other way."

"I was happy for them, y'know." Daisy smiled, thinking back onto the pictures you'd sent her of your wedding day, her choosing not to come to keep any peace you may have had that day. "Glad to see more then just Warren came out of the band happy. Really happy."

"We only had a small wedding." You explained, the day feeling minutes ago rather then almost 20 years ago now. Where had the time gone? "Warren and Karen came, but everyone else didn't. I asked Cami to come, but she felt it'd be better if she didn't. I understood of course, things were different then, but it hurt me a lot - that the people I'd spent everyday of the few years of my life with didn't want to come to my wedding."

Eddie squeezed your hand tighter, pressing a kiss to your hair. "It was a hard day for y/n. But despite everything, we had the best time; it was the perfect day, honestly."

"Everyone came to visit sooner or later, one at a time, to congratulate us, apologise for not coming. Graham was the first to come and visit." You let out a low laugh as you dwelled on the memory. "I wish I had a photo to show you of the face he made when he realised I was pregnant."

"I'm sorry... what?" Graham choked out, unmoving in the doorway to your house as he stared at the baby bump that had formed under your summer dress. "Since when were you pregnant?"

"It wasn't the way I meant to say it." Graham denied. "It had been about 4 months since the band broke up, and only 1 month since they got married. I was just surprised!"

"Since just over 3 months ago." You laughed, pulling him into your house with a kind smile, taking hold of his bag for him and leading him towards your guest room. "Don't tell Eddie, but I think it's a girl."

"Oh! Of course she did!" Eddie laughed, his head thrown back over the cushions of the loveseat the two of you were cuddled on. "Though, not that I said anything at the time, I knew it was a girl."

"I'm sure you did." You nudged Eddie in his side, intertwining your fingers with his and letting your head fall to his shoulder. "Our Janie was born 6 months later. She was beautiful. 6 pounds and 8 ounces."

"She just started college last year, it's weird for the house to be so empty." Eddie added, a slight frown settling into his features. He missed Janie every day she was gone, that little girl - his little girl - being the absolute light of his life.

"You didn't have any other kids?" Julia asked, head peaking up just over the top of the camera she was recording the two of you with.

"No. Just our Janie. She was perfect. We didn't need another. Spitting image of her mother, with my rocking personality." It was moments like this, where Eddie spoke so fondly of you, your daughter, your family, that you knew - despite the hurt the band caused you across the years - every second had been worth it.

"Yeah, it was perfect. All perfect."

[avastyetwats]

"M-me? Really, Ed?" Stede questions, surprised and awed. "Do you like it? Am I your favorite, then?" There's this adorable pleading look in his eyes now, as though begging him to say yes, as though desperately hoping he was Ed's favorite even though he very clearly stated Stede was the only one he's ever held like this. But his question went beyond how he was being held... he wanted to be Ed's favorite in general. and though he may not remember this conversation in the morning, it would still make him feel so loved and so happy in the moment. "I like when you hold me like this, Ed... when you hold me at all." He may be drunk, but that didn't take away from how in love Stede was. It didn't take away how affectionate of a man he is. If anything, it made him even more affectionate and more eager for praise and love. So he nuzzles his shoulder and then kisses up to his lips, his body swaying as a result from all of the liquor consumption. Oh, he's really feeling it now... but it doesn't feel as fun.

His sweet words make tears well within Stede's eyes. Oh, no one has ever said anything like that to him. Let alone wanted to be his and if he could see Ed's lips without the room spinning, he'd kiss him. Though he tried anyway and missed, hitting his cheek instead. "Oh, Edward..." He whines again, as though he's just so overcome with emotion... and something else. "With everything you are, I also love you." Words butchered once more, but the meaning was there. "I've never felt like this before.." Which was quite true in more than one way. "Never so... so..." He couldn't even find the words. Likely due to how drunk he was, but he was trying. "Never." He says again, as though he finished his previous sentence, his head dropping to his shoulder again and his hand fisting Edward's shirt as he whines. He has to tell him.

He needs to tell Ed.

So, he pulls his head back so he can gaze into his lover's eyes... which is difficult because they keep moving side to side. Or maybe that's him. Either way, it's a struggle. He looks dazed, emotional, and... a little concerned. But he raises his hand to cup his cheek as he calls his name so softly. He leans in a little as though wanting to kiss him with how utterly romantic the moment was right now. So, he murmurs his name once more, and then...

"I don't feel good..." Stede groans, eyes shutting as he tenses in Ed's arms, trying to make the room stop spinning. Deep breaths... deep breath in, deep breath out. Deep breath in-

Suddenly he leans over and up comes everything from the evening. His lunch, the alcohol, and the sammie he'd just eaten minutes ago. He, luckily, misses Ed's feet, but makes a mess of the floor next to him. He groans and keeps himself leaned over, probably leaning a little too far and nearly falling over had he hadn't been secured in Ed's arms. "Ed, stop making the house spin..." He groans, eyes still shut tight as he falls against Ed's chest, trying to will away the next wave of nausea already rising through him.

Oh, gods. He's thinking it over. Did Stede ask for too much? Was he being an absolute pain? Was it his comment about too many sandwiches? It was rather rude to say that when Ed was so kind to make him something to eat at all. He should've just eaten the three without complaint. Or maybe it was when he yelled at him for not making any sense. Oh, god, he was a horrible boyfriend! He was a horrible person! Edward was upset and rightfully so and--

"Sure, babe."

"Yay!" Stede does a little cheer when he agrees, instantly forgetting his train of thought. Couldn't have been important if he didn't remember it, right? Right. No, he was just that drunk. "I believe that's a," another hiccup, followed by a thick swallow. Oh, no... "fair trade, Captain!" But before he can even grab onto the cup, Ed's lifting him out of the chair. "Wait, wait! Your drink!" He tries reaching for it and thankfully Ed leans him over far enough for Stede to grab onto his glass and once he does, off they go to the love seat. Quite a romantic name for it, wasn't it? When Ed turns around, a wave of nausea hits the blond and he lets out a strained grown before he's pressing his head into Ed's shoulders, not wanting to watch the room bounce from the steps he takes, but he makes sure to keep a secure hold on his glass. He will not fail his Captain!

He feels his stomach do a little drop when his body is lowered, realizing they're sitting on the couch when he pulls his face out to look around, only to be greeted with a nuzzle by his lover and it makes Ed smile, nuzzling him in return like a pair of kittens showing affection for one another. If Stede could purr, he absolutely would. Though... he was doing something akin to a purr what with the little hums of joy and contentment rumbling in his throat at all of the nuzzling and little kisses Ed is giving to him. "I've never nuzzled anyone like this..." He giggles. "Only you, Ed." Which was true since he and Mary were not at all affectionate. "And I want it to always be you. Only you. My Ed... my Edward." A smile as he kisses the corner of his lips. "I love you and your sandwiches and pencils..." Another kiss, half on his lips this time. Then he pulls back and looks into his eyes with the most adoring and loving look on his face.

"Edward?"