#the boys: diabolical

[madeofitzits]

The reviews for 'Lee' are in and pretty much all of them are some variation on this:

But anyone who's been paying attention should know that Andy Samberg has spent the last decade developing into an incredible dramatic actor and writer.

From 'Celeste and Jesse Forever' (2012)

To 'Palm Springs' (2020)

To 'The Boys: Diabolical' (2022)

And now...

Lee (2023)

Congratulations to Andy for another amazing dramatic performance and - for those of us who never doubted him for a second...

[whiteshipnightjar]

just going about my day when suddenly i remember andy samberg wrote “don’t skip meals just because i’m not there”. aaaaaaaand my heart gave out. so now what do i do.

[james-stark-the-writer]

just binged through The Boys Presents: Diabolical S01 bc i didn't have anything else to watch rn, so, here's some quick thoughts on the episodes. mild spoilers.

Episode 1: not as funny as i'd expect given the Seth Rogen writing credit, and it's got some pretty wonky comedic timing but the homages and the lack of dialogue makes it kinda work overall, though you can feel the tendency of thinking it's the violence that makes The Boys what it is, and not it's politics or the storytelling craft. it's a fine opener ig, and the incredibly dark ending played completely straight as sweet is really interesting. 6.5/10

Episode 2: already funnier than the first episode, that writing credit was a jumpscare, but it was actually a pretty good episode, though you can really feel the Rick and Morty shit in there (though the title card intro was fun) which is kinda annoying bc it's not really my thing or what i'm looking for in a The Boys spin-off, but the ideas are interesting and it's always fun to see some shitty parents get what they deserve. 7.5/10

Episode 3: let's just say you can tell Garth Ennis wrote this. probably fun for the comic fans. nothing but annoying for me, and a reminder of how much better the show is from its source material. at least he didn't have the characters yell slurs. 4/10.

Episode 4: by far the best episode of the series, incredible, incredible work, the comedic timing, the story, the pacing, the VA, the direction, the music choices, it's all fucking great. i got no complaints, really, other than just wishing we saw more of a gradual buildup of their relationship, though within the timeframe we do still get a really good and effective story, and the ending punchline is hilarious. 9.25/10.

Episode 5: what a fucking downgrade lmfao, that voice is a jumpscare and then the writing credit just spreads full body terror, and the episode is by far the worst fucking thing in the show, it's (heh) shit. it really is, though, like my god, it's bad and unfunny and just there's literally nothing there, it's sad to even see it trying so hard. like occasionally the animation is cute but it's just an imitation of better work. stop giving that woman work. on the other hand, please keep giving Nicole Byer more work. only highlight of the episode besides Chace, and ig the base story isn't the worst but it's like a rejected South Park episode, and not from one of the good seasons. 3/10

Episode 6: alright, this is at least a good comeback episode, it's pretty funny, i don't know about the names of his balls, that's an odd fucking choice, the parenting stuff is funny, the political stuff is good, i enjoy the story, it's overall a pretty good episode, there's nothing to really say about it, it's just pretty good! 8/10

Episode 7: turns out i need Andy Samberg to be writing more bc this ending made me fucking cry. jesus fucking christ, what an incredibly touching episode in such a short space. genuinely phenomenal shit. easily the second best episode. the middle chunk is just a tiny bit slow and narratively weird but otherwise, peak. also avoids the shitty implications of the base narrative handily, which many other writers wouldn't even have realized. 9/10.

Episode 8: man, what a weird episode to end on. as a weird what-if episode about Homelander? pretty decent. could use some work in the writing, but largely it kinda works. like a 7/10. as a "this is how Homelander happened" episode? did these guys watch the show they're a spin-off of bc................. woof. 4/10. let's say a 5.5/10 as a compromise. it's just. not very good unfortunately. like it had interesting ideas, the PTSD flashbacks he gets are interesting, but besides that, it just feels like it's trying to ape the first S01 more than anything, and kinda desperately failing.

overall? really interesting! like i loved the different animation and art design styles, and besides those few episodes, it was all pretty fun, the episodes are a perfect size to still give you satisfying stories, like it all kinda just works. feel free to skip episode 5 after the intro when you hear Nicole Byer but the rest are at least worth a watch. 7.5/10 for the season as a whole! excited to sit down and watch S04 of The Boys once it's done airing!

[macfrog]

fucking diabolical | one shot

i don't have a semblance of an explanation for this one. i've fallen off the ledge and i'm never coming back. if you know, you fucking know.

pairing: billy butcher x f!reader summary: you move in across the street. butcher notices. warnings: unspecified age gap, infidelity, unprotected car sex, creampie, daddy kink, breeding kink (one mention of pregnancy), softdom! & soft!billy...? weird. word count: 3.6k

main masterlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🖤

Six days. He made it six days.

He’s not this weak a man, is he? Is he really? To stand by the living room window, whiskey in hand, white-knuckle grip threatening to shatter the glass. Five minutes. Only five more minutes.

To watch your figure float between rooms, flicking lamps on and flitting blinds closed. A patchwork façade, now become an almost nightly routine. Polite little home on a polite little street, on this polite little evening.

You’ll leave the radio on in the hallway. Your neighbors will never know.

He’s not so weak to feel himself harden at the mere thought: your body bending backwards under his, his every move stealing the sweetest of sighs. Leaden weight in his pants, painful and premature and at the same time – a fucking relief, honestly.

Relief that he’s still alive, somewhere inside himself. Relief that he can feel something other than burning rage, simmering resentment. Relief that he can still spot a right fucking sort when he sees one.

Billy’s not a weak man.

You just might be testing his willpower, is all.

It’s been a month since you moved in. Since you first crossed paths across the street. He was walking Terror, cooling off after another spat with the missus. Never fucking listens, does she, old boy? Never. I ain’t tryna cause a fight, but she makes it so bloody –

Hang about. Who’s this?

You looked too good to be true. Boosting yourself up into the back of the moving truck, dipping into the shadows for the one, two, three steps it took him to reach the curb. He could feel the ricochet of his pulse through every vein in his body.

You resurfaced in the light, nudging a brown box towards the ledge with the heel of your shoe. Skimpy little shorts, Billy noted, your skin glistening with sweat and sun.

When you hopped back down, your breasts – Jesus fuck, your breasts – they bounced so perfectly into place. Full and round and fucking delicious beneath that tank top.

Billy loves a challenge, doesn’t he? Fly little bugger. Didn’t matter to him when your little twat of a husband came scurrying out, scooped up the box and, following your direction, staggered like some pathetic drunkard back inside.

Didn’t matter to him, and didn’t seem like it mattered to you. At least, not when you caught sight of your new neighbor and took one looping glance – from raveled boots to rugged beard, lingering on the Hawaiian shirt in the middle – and then smiled.

Smiled like you knew you were about to ruin his fucking life.

Hi.

Hello, love. Moving day, is it?

You gestured to your feet, then to the Tetris block boxes in the back of the truck. Bit of a shitshow so far.

Looks like it. Need a hand?

He could’ve sworn you were considering it, the way you paused. The way your hands crossed to cover the ring on your third finger.

You rolled your tongue from one cheek to the other. Thanks, you decided, I think we’re good.

And then, just as Billy made to cross the street, you cast another line.

Nice neighborhood?

His mouth twisted into that sick smirk of his. Muscle memory. He had you ensnared already. He glanced over his shoulder. Hm?

I’m not from around here. Is it a nice neighborhood?

He staggered back over, stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘s alright, yeah. Few wronguns, couple curtain-twitchers.

Terror sniffed a trail between the boxes at your feet. His leash wrapped around your bare legs.

You knelt to cup his blocky head, scratch the folds of fur between his ears. Curtain-twitchers, huh? you echoed to the pup. And which category does your daddy fall into?

Billy’s fist locked around the leash. He could already feel it: the rush of blood heading somewhere he knew it fucking shouldn’t.

Neither, he replied. Yet.

You looked up at him. All doe-eyed and innocent. Younger than him by a decent amount, so it looked. A light in your eyes and a fullness in your cheeks that gave you away instantly.

You looked brand new. Lovely little thing; a baby crease between your brows as you ruffled the dog’s snowy fur and stood up, mirroring Billy’s suspicious smirk.

So fucking sweet. So sweet, in fact, that Billy wanted to chew you up and spit you back out. Wanted to see how much of a mess he could make of such a pretty girl.

He’s always known just how to ruin a good thing, hasn’t he?

Well, you cleared your throat, it was nice to meet you, uh…

Butcher, he said, holding a paw of a hand out. Billy Butcher.

Billy Butcher, you echoed. I look forward to seeing where we both turn out.

Forty-five seconds still on the clock, he gives in.

Gives in to the need thrumming through his bones, so electric he can’t stand still. Gives in to his fluttering heart and the way it falters with each sighting of your silhouette.

Gives in to the fucking brick in his pants, the painful ache and the feeling like bruising each time it ruts against his jeans.

Can’t help himself, can he? He’s already bursting at the seams. He hasn’t touched you in – Christ, Billy, it’s only been eighteen hours – but fuck it.

You’re the only good thing about his day. The only relief he gets, the only time he feels like himself.

The only thing Billy has to look forward to these days, is pushing his cock inside someone else’s wife.

Ain’t that a fucking thing? Fuuuckin’ hell.

He thinks, swaggering down his front steps, that he should feel bad about it. He almost wishes he could.

He thinks, watching you mirror him across the street – collar up, head down, the way he’d taught you the first night – that he should call it quits. Tonight, last night, last week. This affair should never have started in the first place.

He thinks, as he sighs into his car and you strut off in the opposite direction, that he should let you go. Tell you to turn around, head back home. Back to your husband, back to your life – unblemished by Billy’s messy, poisoned hands.

He should let you go back to that girl he met on the side of the road. Ring on her finger, dimple in her cheek. A twinkle of innocence as bright as sunlight in her eye.

But you pause at the end of the street. Billy catches it in his rearview. You pause, twirl on your heel, and stare back at the Cadillac. Your arms come up – something of a signal, a prompt. He should have the engine running by now. He should be on his way to the meeting spot.

Billy thinks, if he’s half the man he’s spent his entire life trying to be, that he owes it to himself not to turn the key. To get back out of the car, and never watch for the shadow of you ever again.

He knows he’s not half the man he should be. And why the fuck would he be, anyway? He ain’t exactly got a decent lineup of role models to choose from. A seed planted in shit can grow into as tall a tree as it wants – the roots will always be steeped in shit.

Sod it.

The engine rumbles to life, and so does he.

Billy pulls the Cadillac in to the usual spot. A couple blocks from your street, the place is perpetually deserted – save for a couple stumbling teenagers last week and a meddling raccoon the week before.

You’re loitering beneath the cover of some trees, avoiding the splotches of amber streetlight. Hands in your pockets; shoulders bunched. Almost a month of sneaking around and still, each time, he almost mistakes you for some other ghost on the street.

The door whips open. You sink into the passenger seat.

“Don’t tell me you almost got cold feet.”

His eyebrows quirk. “That sound like me?”

You bite down on a cheeky grin. That dimple of yours makes itself at home. “Thought you were about to bail on me. Car trouble? Couldn’t get it to start?”

“Hm,” Billy pinches your chin, “That don’t sound like me either.”

He could swear he feels you nuzzle into his grasp; could swear your gaze softens just a little. But it’s dark outside, even darker in here, and he’d do well to remember exactly who you are, and exactly who he is.

Selfish, careless, irresponsible. A right cunt. Broken from the inside out, a black chasm which splits the four chambers of his heart. It’s in his bones, in his blood.

The kind of man who flirts with the neighbor, who meets her in a backstreet and fucks her in his car. The kind of man who goes home afterwards and showers her perfume from his skin; who plays with himself until he’s hard all over again just from the memory.

The kind of man whose wife reckons the new couple look happy. Honeymoon phase, she’ll say, and then drift off into some other corner of the house.

Billy lets his hand drop. “Come on, then,” he says, putting the car into park. “Ain’t got all night.”

He’s never bored of it.

Never bored of the smutty smirk on your face, or the way you skip around to the backseat. Never bored of that first touch, the heat on his skin that meets your frozen fingertips. Never bored of the way you melt into him, the need pouring from your body as soon as Billy pulls you into his lap.

There’s a thrill to it. A kind of ecstasy he hasn’t felt in years. For the sliver of night that you share together, he can be exactly who he wants to be.

It just so happens to be who you want, too.

He lifts the tee from your shoulders, teeth dragging between your collarbones. Across red lace and strap, pausing only to suck a delicate mark into the plush of your chest.

You giggle, throwing your head back. “No proof,” you pull his jaw away, “He’ll see that, you know he will.”

Billy nips at your bottom lip. “Tell ‘im he left it.”

“Ha,” you roll your eyes, “Good one.”

He toys with the lace on your hips, slipping a hand between your legs. “Poor baby,” he pouts, “Ain’t got no one to touch her at home.”

Your spine curls when he cups your mound. Tongue pokes at the corner of your mouth, eyes flood black; a wild animal eyeing her next meal.

He swirls his middle finger, teasing your clit over your underwear. “Make a mess in ‘em, sweetheart, just for me.”

“They’re already a mess for you,” you grit, nails digging into his shoulders. You grind into his palm, hips stuttering. “They’re – always – a mess – for you.”

He can feel it – the damp material at his fingertips, the warm wet on the inside of your thighs. You need this as much as he does. And that’s all this is, right? Helping each other out, being neighborly. A favor asked and answered inside of an hour.

Lend me some milk, water my houseplants. Fuck me until I can’t fucking think straight.

His cock strains against his jeans. Any longer and he’ll be making a mess in his own fucking underwear.

He kisses along the ridge of your jaw, sliding a hand up your spine to unhook your bra.

You shake the lingerie from your body, fucking perfect tits jiggling between your arms. Bare on top of him now – nothing but a scrap of lace over your hips and a sinful smile on your lips.

You fiddle with the buttons on his shirt, writhing still with the pressure he’s quickly building between your hips. Grinding into him, hungrier and hungrier.

“Stupid fucking shirt,” you groan, ripping the floral pattern from his shoulders. Your hands find the plain of his chest; solid, dappled with dark hair, chain catching the streetlight and reflecting it in your eyes.

Billy laughs to himself. He pulls his hand from between your legs, sucks the tease of slick from his fingers, and guides your lips down to his. “Come here.”

No, he’s not a weak man. He’s been a fighter his entire life. Fists that have broken bone, words that have crumbled foes to dust. If you ain’t already a cunt, the world will make a cunt of you, yeah?

But here, now, you – undoing his belt, tossing it to the footwell; pushing the denim from his hips. You, giggling when he bucks you up to rid himself of his underwear, and your head hits the roof of the car.

You, taking his stiff cock in both hands, biting down on a moan when you feel the weight of him –

You might just be the thing that breaks him.

He thrusts up into your grip. “Drivin’ me off my head, you are,” he groans, burying his face in your chest when you squeeze.

“Good,” you reply, spitting into your palm. “’s what you do to me, anyway.”

You drag warm saliva over his length, slipping lower to massage his balls. So big and heavy in your hand, though Billy knows you’re being gentle.

Everything about you is gentle. Even while breaking your most solemn vow – the bullshit promises you made to that cunt at the altar – you’re so sweet with it. A favor, sure – but you want to make him feel good. You still want to pretend it’s real.

Only – there’s not enough time. Your husband will be home any minute, Billy’s wife has probably already noticed he’s gone. There are only so many excuses that an hour can allow, and the longer he spends admiring the way you caress his ball sack, the more of those excuses are written off.

For now, the back of his Cadillac behind a dilapidated Burger King will have to do.

“Alright,” Billy croaks, pausing your movements with a light hand on your wrist. “Gotta let me fuck you now, sweetheart. Been waiting all day for it, haven’t I?”

You chew on your lip, guiding his cock to your entrance.

His tip notches at your hole, so warm and snug just for him. He can feel how tight you still are, even after a month of him. Still not used to the size, the way he punches the air straight out of your lungs with that first thrust.

He wonders if you’re still having sex with your husband. Stupid question, maybe, but he does. He wonders whether, when the bloke slips inside, you feel yourself aching around him. Feel your cunt needing more, needing him.

The thought drains his head of any blood and sends it straight to his dick. He leans back against the headrest and pulls your cunt down over him.

The sound you make is almost enough to send him over already. A tiny squeak, a yelp which shatters into the most beautiful sound he’s heard all day. Need. Need and want, laced up and tied into the form of a pretty girl on his cock.

Need and want, which happens to push the word over her tongue just as he goes to ask for it.

“Daddy,” you whine, head rolling across Billy’s shoulder. Your hips are still, split open on top of him as your cunt adjusts to the intrusion.

“There she is,” he whispers into the shell of your ear, smirking. “’s my girl, let Daddy open her up a little.”

So fucking tight, it almost hurts. He can’t remember the last time he was inside someone who gripped him this much. Like you don’t want him to move at all, just stay put between your walls and let you call the shots.

“That feel okay, darlin’?” Billy asks, helping you straighten.

You look down to where your bodies connect – the dark trail of hair on his groin meeting yours. The twist of lace, underwear warped to make room for the width of his cock.

You brace yourself with two hands on his stomach, and push up. Only an inch, barely enough for any relief, but when you drop down on him again, you wince.

“She’ll get there,” he says, slipping a hand around the small of your back. He cradles you in the crook of his arm, kisses the hinge of your jaw. “Just gotta give her a little bit a’ time, don’t we?”

“Yeah, Daddy,” you reply, in a bottled voice. You link your own arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him.

He lifts his hips, gently bucking until your whimpers quieten. Until the crease between your brow smooths, replaced with creases at the corners of your lips. A smile, a satisfied thing – her daddy always makes her feel better, doesn’t he?

Always blurs the edges of her pain. The relief after a long, shitty day; the escape from a long, shitty marriage. The need met; the want fulfilled. The hunger satiated, until eight p.m. the following night when you pull your hood up and go for another one of your walks.

You chant it to him, like with each syllable you’re turning the pain into pleasure. Daddy Daddy Daddy. Each one higher than the last, each one more desperate.

Your walls squeeze around him. You grind down against the thick hair at his base; clit swollen and soaked with your wet and his.

Billy’s eyes roll closed. He slips his fingers through yours, feels the cold brush of your wedding ring on his skin.

A good man would snap out of it. A good man would glance down at the strip of gold around his own finger, and call the whole thing off. Stuff himself back into his pants, drive the both of you home. Never look the road you’re on again, never look at another woman who isn’t his wife.

But his wife’s not here. Hasn’t been here, for longer than Billy would like to admit.

You’re here. Dove of a girl, soft coos from her lips and little fluttering movements. Good girl, right in his lap, begging him to tear her apart.

And thank fuck he’s not a good man.

He grits his teeth, jaw clenching around a pathetic moan. “Daddy’s gonna come, darlin’, gonna fill her right up.”

“Daddy,” you pant, “Daddy, I’m – I’m ovulating, please –”

“Good,” he grunts, slamming in again, “Means you’ll take it all then, won’tcha?”

You slur something of a laugh into his chest. Your thighs clench around his waist, rutting begins to falter. You dig your nails into his shoulders and, with a sobbing moan, you come hard around his cock.

“Oh, my God – Billy,” you gasp, hands grabbing the hair at the base of his skull. You give it a sharp tug and tilt his head skyward.

Billy comes with a guttural moan, a sound that tears from the base of his throat and echoes into your mouth. His cock pulses inside you, emptying into your little cunt.

Nothing has ever felt so fucking right, he realizes, than this cramped backseat. A tight squeeze, all of it – the sweet pinch of your pussy around his cock, the sweat and sex coating the windows in a hazy film.

The stars in his vision spatter, fading into the dull car. He settles back with a sigh.

You giggle, swaying to and fro in his lap. When you slip off, his cock settles heavy and soaked on his groin.

“Hold it,” Billy says, snapping your underwear back into place. “You hold it all in there.”

“Okay,” you smile, wrapping your arms around one of his, “Okay, Daddy.”

He closes his eyes. For a moment, he allows himself to fade out of this stifling backseat and to somewhere fresher, cleaner. Unbroken and untainted. No vows or golden rings suffocating either of you.

For a moment, he could almost believe it.

At his side, he hears the ruffling of denim. The flick of a lighter, once, twice, and then the soft crackling of a cigarette burning. The thick stench of tobacco fills the car.

“You wanna know something?”

You ask it quietly, timidly.

Billy snaps back to the Cadillac. His eyes flutter open. “What?”

You twirl the cig between your fingers, watching the snaking smoke bend and twist. “This is all I have. The only time I feel like I’m above the waves. Everything else is just…fucking…”

“…drowning,” he says.

You hum an agreement and lift the cigarette to his lips. “Isn’t that awful? I mean, we’re fucking awful people, aren’t we?”

Billy takes a long drag. The question fills his lungs, sour as smoke. “Not you,” he says, lifting his chin to exhale over your head. “Not you.”

“Hey,” you tug on his arm, “How come you get to be the cunt, and I don’t?”

He answers with an empty shrug, another cloud of smoke obscuring you from his vision.

“What would we do if you got me pregnant?” you ask, wafting the air.

He scoffs. “You’re askin’ if we’d pretend it was his?”

You shrug. “Sure. Would we?”

He rests his chin on your head. “S’pose we’d have to,” he utters, watching the blur of headlights soar by the parking lot. “You want to admit this is what you’re up to every fuckin’ night?”

“No.”

“No,” he repeats.

“It would be a shitstorm, though,” you snicker. The cherry glows again as you suck on the end.

“Fuckin’ diabolical,” Billy agrees.

[velvet-paradox]

That waist 😌😌

[panevanbuckley]

anyone else noticed that since oscar's win the mclaren fanbase has become unbearably toxic or am i going crazy

[needa-hyperfix]

Just stating facts… +2 for turtle neck in warm weather

[mjolnirswriststrap]

Super Hearing

Homelander x Reader

Word Count: 927

Summary: You forget Homelander has super hearing, while trying to explain something to your friend in a crowded coffee shop.

Warnings: None.

Masterlist

Sandra’s voice drones on and on about the way climate change is ruining everything. You sip on your tea with a disgruntled look. She promised shopping and gossip, not channel five news. Your attention is caught when the bell beside you chimes. Letting everyone know a new customer walked in.

Your eyes widen in shock, this is the last place you’d expect to see him. The Homelander, at Starbucks. It helped that he had his son with him, his eyes ,almost as wide as yours, look at the extensive menu. This must be his first time. You look at his childlike wonder and remember being 14 and ordering cake pops with Sandra.

You look across from you and your jaw drops. “Sandy! Look who it is!” You whisper. She rolls her eyes, not fond of him. “God, please let the earth swallow me whole.” She says, dramatically resting her head on the table.

“You know I can’t stand him, or any supe for that matter.” She says rolling her eyes at your excitement. “Well. You know how I feel, I respect him, the good he does far out weighs the bad. He’s earned being a cocky ass.”

Speaking of ass, you take the time to admire his, he was wearing his suit, but no cape, must be too dramatic for errands with a kid. Someone blocked your view. A stereotype of a woman stands behind him, tapping his shoulder with her bottle tanned hand and long fingernails. “Can I get a picture?” You swear her voice sounded normal but it shot hot streaks through your veins, filling you with an annoyance.

“Sure thing.” He says, plastering a fake smile on, that looked like it hurt. He leans over for the picture, keeping a foot of space between them, even though it was obvious she wanted him to wrap his arm around her for the picture. You scoff, “He’s here being a dad to Ryan, why even bother him with pictures?”.

You see as the barista throws herself at Homelander as he orders for Ryan. She’s leaned halfway over the counter, her top buttons recently undone. “Look how tense he is right now, he probably never catches a break from women.” You say, never taking your eyes off him.

“I bet he has a new one of them in his bed every night.” Sandra says, downing the rest of her black coffee. You shrug your shoulders, it was probably true, you’d be one of those girls too, if you had the chance.

Sipping your tea once more you watch as they stand at the end of the counter, not immune to restaurant wait times. “I just know those girls can’t take care of him like he needs.” You feel bad for him, “They want a big strong supe to wreck them, I bet all he wants is to be cared for, genuinely.”.

Sandra laughs at you and it breaks your attention from the tall man. “As if it would be you.” She laughs again when you shoot her a confused look. “You’re so not his type, skinny blondes seem more in his range.” She says.

Your friends words hurt, but you knew they were true. You could sit in the corner fantasizing about him all day, it wouldn’t change the fact the he would never approach a girl like you. “What’s so wrong with dreaming?” You say, giving your friend a fake laugh to let her know you wanna change conversation topics.

Sandra pulls her phone out when ‘beez in the trap’ starts filling the small Starbucks dining area. “Hello?” She says, and you take the chance to look back over to the supe. Except he’s not standing there anymore, you see Ryan waiting by the front door and before you know it, blue fills your vision. Homelander is at your table, a paper business card in his hand.

You’re dumbfounded for a minute, wondering what it could possibly be. You look up to his face and meet his eyes. They glimmer as if he didn’t expect you to dare make eye contact with him.

“Can I help you, Sir.” You say, not wanting to say the wrong thing and embarrass yourself. Sandra groans from across the table, while still having the phone pressed to her ear, you don’t owe him anything and yet here you were serving yourself up.

“I hope so, call me. That is, if you like cocky asses.” He drops the card on the table and turns towards your friend to give her a grimace, letting her know how dissatisfied he was with her. He walks away without another word. Leading Ryan out of the trendy coffee shop.

Your face turns beet red, he heard you. If he heard you calling him names, then he heard how much you want him, a glimmer of pride sparks in your chest, she was so wrong, maybe you are just his type.

Sandra slides her phone into her purse, silently fuming. “Are you serious right now? We’re supposed to be having a girls day, not picking up guys.” She says, annoyed with everything you do. You wonder if she’s even your real friend.

“We were supposed to go shopping, not sit in Starbucks and talk about ice caps melting.” You shoot back, not letting her bully you any more.

Sandra gives you a look of surprise, like she didn’t expect you to talk back to her. “I think I’m gonna go.” You say, leaving her open mouthed at the table. You had to go celebrate yourself, alone.

[weeb-polls-with-pip]

Autistic Anime Boys Side A Round 1 Match 16

Propaganda:

Lan Wangji -

"LWJ is smart and a great warrior in a very 'learning is my special interest/pleasure to have in class' way. He's super strict when it comes to rules, often seen as unapproachable because he's not very social and always has the same expression. Only his older brother and his love interest can read his emotions (LWJ has basically-canonical flat affect, a common autistic trait). He doesn't speak a lot and uses rather old-timey/poetic language when he does, another trait common for autistic folks since we often have an odd way of speaking."

Rui -

"Has been seen as weird since he was a child and doesn't understand why. Pushes others away because he's scared of being rejected. Has a special interest in robotics."

[ric505]

Draw the best superhero HOMELANDER!🥛🇺🇸

[probablygayattorneys]

So, I only started keeping track about a third of the way through Diabolical Box so I'm missing any wisdom from the beginning of that game/Curious Village, but according to Professor Layton and Luke, a true gentleman...

Pays attention to his manners in every setting

Does not pry deeply into other's affairs

Always remembers to treat a lady with kindness and respect

Never takes off his hat

Never forces a lady to say more than she wants to

Always helps a lady in trouble (Get ready, they say this one in like fifty different ways)

Helps those in need

Helps a cat in need

Shouldn't glare at people as if he wants to hit them in the face

Should not go around threatening people with knives

Should not take what does not belong to him

Never, ever makes a lady cry

Admits his mistake rather than trying to cover it up with an unconvincing excuse

Always fights for the truth

Always remains kind when conversing with a lady

Can't walk around with his head bare

If your future self has become obsessed with completing a time machine and has been kidnapping scientists from the past, then stopping your future self is your duty as a true gentleman

Keeps his promises and solves the problem

Always express gratitude for the. hospitality of others

Never plays his ace in the hole until absolutely necessary

Again, if your future self has turned evil, you must meet that challenge and stop him

Keeps his secrets

Has his hobbies

(As an aside, the violin is a very gentlemanly pursuit)

Cannot allow another to follow you into a dangerous situation

Keeps calm and carries on, even under duress

Never rushes a lady

Breaks into a house if he believes a young girl could be in danger

Always keeps his promises

Has good penmanship

Always keeps his word

Rarely resorts to punchlines

Is patient

Shows gratitude to one's teachers

When crafting a solution, always prefers the elegant one

Never refuses a request to help an old friend

Never abandons someone in need

Never neglects those in need

Finds peaceful solutions to potentially violent situations

Isn't suited for rides like a carousel

Never wipes dirty hands on his clothes

Must not jump over fences

Always obeys the highway code

Would never give a false statement to a police officer

Admires a fine collection of gloves

Always remains positive

Does not act arrogantly in the face of tradition

Treats his guests with the utmost hospitality

Always invests in a time piece

Conversely, a lady...

Never keeps a gentleman waiting

Always demonstrates good humor

Solves puzzles

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Diabolical 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, extreme profanity, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Billy Butcher

Summary: your neighbours has some strange friends.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The reverberation of copper ripples through the air. You nearly slip under the water as you jolt. You grip the edges of the tub and sit up. Another crash thunders and you scowl. Your peace is shattered. 

Candles, music, a book, and a steaming bath. It's a perfect night. Or it was. 

You wait and listen. Silence. You let yourself back and reach for the novel on your bath table. Another egregious cacophony has you splashing yourself with water.   

You growl and slide the table out of the way as you stand. You grab your towel as water slakes off of you. You pay no mind to the mess that puddles below each step as the thrashing continues.  

You storm across the apartment, sliding dangerously on the hardwood, and you put your eye to the peephole. The man grins, as if he can see you and shakes the box in his hands. The metal echoes again. 

How dare he? It's almost nine in the evening! You tear open the door, your hand clasped around the knot of your towel, and you snarl. 

"Must you make so much noise?" 

He cackles at you as he hugs the box of cymbals and bells. "Eh, I'm just doin' good ole Hughie a favour. He's been talkin' 'bout getting into drumming so's I say Hughie, I know a guy. Can get you everything you need." 

"I don't...care." You bluster. "Should you even have those in a box? There are bags meant for that." 

"Who cares? You just bang on the things anyhow. Well, then," he turns to the door behind him. "Seems like my pal isn't in." He drops the box and the raucous clamour makes you groan. "I'll just leave 'em here for him. Buddy that I am." He spins back to face you. "And you can get back to listening to Bach and drinking your oolong." He makes a motion which could be tipping a cup or something more heinous. "Your majesty." 

You furrow your brow and roll your eyes. "All I asked for was a bit of decency. It wasn't any sort of insult but I see to you, any thought of being kind is offensive." 

"Talkin' to me about being decent and you're stood out here in a dish towel," he scoffs. 

"I--" you look down, remembering yourself. You move to hide behind the door. "Well, you disturbed me--" 

"You are disturbed, ain't ya, sweetheart?" 

You sneer. "Fine, whatever. I'll make sure Hugh gets his drums." 

"Hugh?" He chuckles. "You are something." 

"Good night, sir." You back up and close the door. Your certain to lock it too.  

His laughter keens through and friction brushes up the other side. "It's Butcher, not sir, love." He taps and you flinch, "have yourself a good night, won't ya? Don't think of me too much." 

You huff and have a mind to open the door again. Not, that’s only what he wants. You retreat and trod back to the bathroom. The water’s tepid and the scent of the candles grows overwhelming. You shut off the music and pull the stopper. So much for relaxing. 

The tension needles across your shoulder. You blow out the wicks and snatch your book from the table. You go to your room and flip on the bedside lamp. You put the novel on your pillow and pull on a night gown.  

You recline and crack open the book. A long honk blares from outside. That’s not unusual but what is, is the successive short toots that follow, almost in a rhythm. You try to ignore it. The honks vary, long, short, soft, loud. You realise the offender is doing a rather poor job of honking out Beethoven.  

You know exactly the culprit and you won’t let him know you’re bothered. Let him waste his own energy not yours. Besides, if he had any sort of nuance, he’d realise you don’t sit around and listen to classical. You appreciate vintage music but you’re not pretentious. You simply have your tastes. Nothing wrong with that. 

You lay back and your eyes gloss over the words without reading. You may not want to give him the satisfaction but it doesn't mean it’s not working. Several rereads of the same paragraph have you fed up. You sink down and drop the book. 

You stare at the ceiling and sigh. You can’t even put on a movie or music. You won’t be able to hear it. 

As if on cue, silence. You exhale. Thank god. 

An engine rumbles and you hear it steer down the alley outside. You hear the tires crawling just below your window. Another wall of sound rises and has you nearly jumping out of your skin. Heavy metal pumps through the wall and has you gritting your teeth. 

It’s him. That imbecile. 

[ima-fancyunicorn]

Billy Butcher

[overleftdown]

i finally got around to watching archie madekwe's interview with in creative company and it was astounding, for one. i geeked the fuck out. there's so much to talk about.

his and emerald's understanding of farleigh's character on such a deep level, not just what was on screen, but in his past and in his thoughts... gagged! i was very interested in his interpretation of farleigh's family; archie considers farleigh's mother as a kind of enigmatic fallen star who behaved more as a friend than a parent. archie describes farleigh's childhood as overly mature and neglectful, with the character having to experience more mature and adult situations than he might've in a different family.

another important thing archie touched on was the power dynamics between oliver and farleigh, and how threatening they appeared to each other. archie believes that farleigh didn't truly understand the genius of oliver and how intricate a game he was playing; that never stopped farleigh from observing oliver at any opportune moment. eventually, farleigh had a deeper understanding of oliver's sinister obsession with felix, as well as the way he manipulated the family. this is why, in the karaoke scene, farleigh doesn't bite the bait that oliver offers him. he's not grateful for oliver's sympathy or companionship; he's appalled that oliver would even have a personal conversation with him in the first place.

the dynamic archie describes between felix and farleigh is also really interesting to me. he discusses the transactional nature of their relationship, but also how deeply farleigh loved felix. there was also the need to learn exactly how to behave amongst the cattons; when to pull away, when to fade into the background, where to assert or insert yourself in a situation. farleigh is, above most other things, an observer. the nature in which oliver behaves in the early summer, how clumsily he navigates conversation, incited a lot of judgement from farleigh. part of it was the knowledge that oliver didn't quite fit, didn't make sense among the cattons.

archie talks about how self-serving the majority of farleigh's socialization is, at oxbridge. his opening line is entirely intended to cater towards the people he is walking with. there has always been a need for farleigh to adapt, observe, overthink. in this environment, love is neither unconditional nor reliable.

the biggest difference i've clocked between farleigh and oliver is the way they play the game. farleigh plays his own cards, he analyzes what he's seen, and acts accordingly. whereas oliver integrates, injects, and manipulates. farleigh is playing poker while oliver is playing chess.

i'm an actual blabbermouth.

[annboch]

Alright big boy… What are you waiting for?

[goest-and-fuckest-thyself]

Not Without You

Soldier Boy x OC!

Summary: Ben, (Soldier Boy,) is fresh out of cryo in Russia, fresh out of the destruction of the building downtown, and he wants his deserts from Butcher. When he asks for one more condition, Hughie expects another name on the kill list. But when Ben pulls an old photo from his wallet depicting his best friend, the first female Supe, the boys understand that there’s more to this situation than they bargained for. Will they find who Ben is looking for, old and frail? Or will they find a gravestone with her name on it?

Follows the boys plot (mostly) with some interludes for my own subplot.

🔥Warnings!🔥

All my works are 18+ I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR FAKE PAGES AND/OR RESPONSIBLE FOR ANYONE WHO READS MY CONTENT!!! LEGAL USERS BE ADVISED, I SHALL NOT BE HELD RESPONSIBLE FOR FALSIFICATIONS OF AGE ON THIS SIGHT!

CW: Only other thing I can think of is language and slightly asshole-ish themes. (Soldier Boy being mean to Hughie.)

“If you’re looking to play headsman again, bruv, it’s gonna have to wait this time,” Butcher chimed as Hughie gave him an incredulous look. The boy hadn’t much liked Soldier Boy, let alone think it was a good idea to be indulging him so. Now he wanted another person dead? It was too much for poor Hughie too handle.

“S’not like that,” Ben riffled through the box of his old keepsakes and belongings, picking up a wallet. He stood from the table as he unfolded it and picked out an old picture, worn at the edges and yellowed with time.

He handed the picture over to Butcher, who thoughtfully held it before him with a smirk.

“Reminiscent, are we?” the Brit teased as he handed the photo to his young friend. Hughie’s eyes widened before his brow creased.

“I remember her,” the kid mused brightly, “that’s Eris, the first female supe.”

“That’s my best friend, dick-fuck,” Ben snapped at the young man before snatching the photo from his fingers. Ben couldn’t help but stare at the printed image of her face, hoping to see her in person again soon.

“Hate to break it to you mate, but Vought said she died in the same explosion you did. She wasn’t in Russia with ya, and we barely knew where you were. How’re we supposed to know what’s happened to her?” Butcher asked.

Ben’s jaw clenched tightly as anger rose in his chest. He had to remind himself to stay calm, lest his new powers took over and brought down another building. It’s was already enough that Stan had sold him out, but her? Oh, Ben would make Stan and the whole of Vought pay for anything they did to her.

“I don’t give a shit how you do it, just get me the info. Or I’m not helping you with home-fucker,” he demanded.

~*~

With the right people being given the right motivation, meaning threats and a beheading, the team was able to track down info on Ben’s new prize.

The bunker was dark, mildew clinging to the scent of the air like a damp unfinished basement. Ben never cared for the smell, not even as a child when he would escape to the root cellar tunnels and find his way to her house. He didn’t pay much mind to it now, with the electric tingle running up and down his spine distracting him from doing anything but looking around the flashlight illuminated space.

The walls were lined with shelves of boxes, files, even books. Some tables, obviously left hastily abandoned judging by their disheveled state, held open folders and spilled coffee mugs. None of the labels on anything looked remotely interesting or useful to Ben as he made his way deeper into the room. There had to be something here.

“Look at this,” Hughie called from behind Ben’s position in a corridor of shelves. The supe turned to see the young man leafing through an open desk file. Ben’s stomach flipped, stalking back to where the curly headed kid hunched over the table.

“This is it, this is the file,” he told Ben with a smile, “it’s called project Phthalo.”

There was not time to read anything more than the title and her name beneath ‘SUBJECT’ on the page when Butcher called from the back corner of the room.

“I’ll do you one better than files,” He grinned as the two men joined him.

Again, Ben’s stomach twisted in his body, seeing the heavy steel door Butcher had found and now stood in front of. There was a keypad to its right, lit up with a red bulb, just like the ones they’d used in the lab in Russia. He knew as soon as he saw it that whatever was behind the door, would be his answer.

“You sure you wanna open it?” Billy asked, noticing Ben’s face fall as he hesitated to move or blink. This seemed to snap Ben out of his daze and let him nod his approval. With that Butcher wasted no time in shooting out the keypad, allowing the door seal to hiss open.

Stepping aside, Butcher gave Hughie a look, letting the lad know he was expected to hang back a second. He would let Soldier Boy walk into a secret Vought lab headfirst. Hughie in return nodded and stayed next to his friend as they watched the supe shove open the heavy steel door.

All three dropped their lights to the floor as a blue glow emanated from inside the foggy room, cast by a large containment tube. As if bitten by something, Ben stirred into action and ran into the room, dropping his shield as he went. Hughie gave butcher one more confused glance before they were following after Soldier Boy.

Ben couldn’t believe it. He had been thinking the worst, dreading what they would find on this trip, begging and silently pleading with every force of power in the universe that she had somehow survived. He wanted to tell her all the things he was to pussy to tell her for the almost eighty years they’d been friends, he wanted to make sure she knew. She had to know how he felt. It had shattered his heart when Butcher’s little twink told him the story Vought had put out about their deaths. Ben knew they’d probably taken her out because of what she’d do to them in retaliation for the Russia incident. He couldn’t imagine they could control her.

Yet, here he was, dropping to his knees with wide, sad eyes as he stared up at this containment tube. There she was, his best girl; suspended in a thick blue solution of god only knows what as novichok gas flowed from the exhaust pipes around it.

“Holy fucken shit,” Butcher voiced quietly as he stared up at the girl floating in a vat of blue chemicals. He had been expecting to find a body, sure, but not a live one. The man could barely register Hughie nudging his arm next to him, his disbelief and shock overtaking him.

A thought went through Butcher’s head, one that he was sure he would regret having later. He wondered if this would make Soldier Boy easier to control, make him less on edge. Now, as he watched the man crumble to his knees and stare up longing at her, he thought it might.

Ben was shocked out of his foggy mind when he remembered why he was there. “Help me get her outta this,” he demanded, rising to his feet and rounding to the control panels.

“Oh, uh, yeah!” Hugh shook his head and hurried over to try and open the unit.

“You lucked out big time, old man,” Butcher chuckled as he crossed his arms over his chest, earning an eye roll from Ben.

The supe wasted no time in disconnecting every tube not labeled ‘oxygen’, causing the hiss of novichok to cease. ‘Good’ he thought to himself, ‘we can wake her.’ The more he dismantled the machine, the quicker his heart beat. It felt to Ben as if he might explode, reminding himself to breathe and try to relax before he exploded again.

“I got it!” Hughie called enthusiastically, letting Ben’s heart jump in his chest.

It almost happened in slow motion for Ben, reaching forward as the glass door slid to the side as the liquid finally drained from the tube; the way her body slumped forward into his arms, wet and slimy to the touch. His knees hitting the floor as he brought her into his lap, cradling her head in one hand. Everything was surreal until she took in a breath.

Her chest jolted, air entering her in a way she hadn’t felt in decades. Her lungs burned at the feeling, a cough rising in her throat. Her body seized as she coughed up fluid uncontrollably. Ben still trying to calm her with soft touches and quiet words.

“Hey, I’m here, it’s me! Look, it’s me!” Ben’s hand came to cup her head, thumb resting just before her ear. He couldn’t help but smooth the silky white hair that clung to her face away as he stared into her scared and wide blue eyes.

Finally, her frantic gaze landed firmly on his, her breathing finally evening out as she calmed in his arms. Weakly, her left hand reached up to his face, fingers shakily ghosting over the skin just beneath his eyes. She recognised those eyes better than any other pair she’d ever seen. Those were his big green eyes staring down on her with concern. I don’t give permission to reblog or repost my work

“Benny?” She rasped out, throat harsh and dry.

Before she could say another word, she collapsed against Ben’s chest, her obvious fatigue overwhelming her.

“Benny?” Hugh questioned, looking between Soldier Boy and Butcher.