#the motherfucking fucking one who calls the shots

[woozapooza]

Of all the opinions I’ve seen on The Sopranos since I started watching it last year, one of the ones I hate the most is the idea that Richard and Elliot are ultimately proven “right” about Tony. Richard and Elliot do not know Tony! They have never talked to him! And they are literally, factually, not right about him, especially Richard. In “Tennessee Moltisanti,” Richard—who knows nothing about Tony except that you shouldn’t use anti-Italian slurs around him—tells Melfi that eventually she’ll get past “moral relativism” and reach “good and evil. And he’s evil.” Later in that episode, in the family therapy scene, he says that Melfi acknowledged that, in her last encounter with Tony, she saw his “subhuman” side, a word I am 100% sure Melfi herself did not use because come on. Elliot at least doesn’t use these words, but he doesn’t see any good in Tony and consistently acts like Melfi is deluding herself by holding out hope for him. (I’m not going to get into The Blue Comet in this post for the sake of keeping it concise.) But Melfi has seen that Tony has compassion and a conscience, and so have we in the audience. We know more than Richard and Elliot, and so does she!

Now, Tony is obviously not a good person by any means. I think even Melfi would agree with that. But he is a person who, despite his harsh upbringing, despite the machismo and brutality his position demands, still has a tiny spark of tenderness and compassion inside him. That's what makes him so compelling! Of course he was never going to change for the better, because that’s not the kind of show this is. But that is a statement about The Sopranos, a fictional show made by writers who have a certain artistic vision in mind. It does not mean that Tony as a person—i.e., viewed from in-universe—had no choices, that he could never have changed for the better at all, that he was a destined to be a waste of Melfi's time. It's fair to disagree with Melfi's approach to treating Tony, but the idea that both she and the audience are fools for thinking that a human being who has been shaped into a villain by forces beyond his control is still a human being, with all the value and responsibilities that entails, is so fucking r/im14andthisisdeep it makes my skin crawl.

I realize this post is kind of dramatic, and partly that’s because, well, I’ve just always been the sort of person who gets really dramatic about her blorbos, but it’s also because I hate the brutally cynical, weirdly black-and-white worldview that’s implicit in this reading of the show. I hate it so much!!! The Sopranos is very realistic about the limits of what willpower can do, but it’s also very realistic about portraying its protagonist as someone deeply human: someone with a capacity for both evil and good, who does bad things and justifies them by pretending he didn’t have a choice, but I never bought it, and neither did Melfi. Tony cannot simply stop being a mob boss and start being a saint any more than he can simply stop being depressed, but he does have good in him, and he does have the capacity to make better choices, otherwise the story is utterly pointless!!! 

This has been on my mind because I read Emily Nussbaum’s article about the finale, in which she describes Richard and Elliot as “hard to listen to but essentially correct,” and sorry Emily, I think you’re very smart and a good writer, but my god, I hate this article. To me, it boils down to “the finale was Chase scolding us for empathizing with and caring about Tony” which is not at all how I see the show, and thank goodness, because I think it would be pretty ridiculous to spend eight years telling the story of a deeply human, deeply relatable character and then be like “lol wait, you guys related to him? Cringe! Hashtag society” or whatever. She says that in the final half season, Tony “was becoming his real self: the empty golem.” Seriously? The version of Tony who’s had most of his humanity sapped from him is his “real self”? SERIOUSLY? Okay. I’m gonna go calm down now. I promise. (I actually have one other point I want to make related to the Richard-and-Elliot thing, but I’ll save that for another post because this one is looooong.) I'd just like to close this post with this comment that I've posted here before and will probably post again because I love it so much and it makes me tear up whenever I think of it:

[nkogneatho]

Y'all know those insecure girlfriends on tiktok when their boyfriend does their makeup accurately, they go “what bitch taught you that?” yeah, Gojo is the male version of that.

He knows he is attractive, and that everyone dotes on him. But you look out of this world. Everybody wants you. Like all of his friends have tried to hit on you a few times. They said it's just playful, but his insecurities kicked in.

One evening, you showed up to one of his totally unserious basketball games with his homies, cheering him every time he dunks.

“Suguru, my girl's watchin'. Gotta show off a bit, yeah?” he smirks, licking his lips his reflexes were so good that barely anyone else could keep up with him. It was like he had drank 10 liters of energy drink with the sudden speed boost.

You hopped in his arms when the match was over, peppering his face with kisses as he enjoyed his victory, showing a middle finger to suguru to which he rolled his eyes.

“you look so cool when you jump so high, toru!” you squealed in happiness. He really did look cool.

“hehe, you liked that, baby? Jumped a little higher just for you.” he kissed your forehead.

“hate to say it, but he is undefeated.” suguru spoke up. “feel like we need to put you on the court, y/n just to distract him so we can win.” your cheeks started burning up at that. You and satoru have been dating for a few months, but you were still not used to the way everyone talks about him as if he's a simp for you. well, he is and should be.

“i would still win though.” your eyes shifted to gojo. You were a little offended at that, even though it was just messing around. It was his habit.

“alright. Let's have a 1v1” the men did not miss the shift of your tone. Suguru knew satoru might be in trouble, while the white haired wasn't worrying about it too much. Because you're not too savvy with basketball aside from what he's taught you, and he is a pro. Sure, you would be mad later, but nothing he can't make up to you.

The boys spread in corners, as you and gojo exchanged a competitive gaze—yours was competitive and his was more of a “i love when you get riled up”—before the match began. The game was not anything serious, so all you had to do was score five points. It was a piece pf cake for gojo but you were being surprisingly competitive. You scored two points just as soon as he did. His homeboys thought that gojo was going easy on you but suguru knew he was struggling. But he lives up to his name and score two points, making him just 1 score away from his sweet victory. There's no way you can win now. If you miss this chance, it's over. But you remembered something someone had taught you and all that “i'd still win though” just pumped up enough adrenaline and oh. my. god.

Gojo's jaw dropped as you shot a three pointer, your lips widening into an evil grin, and all the boys cheered at your win. You were sure they're gonna tease him about today until eternity. Toru was impressed…well, for a few seconds before he hit you with a,

“which motherfucker taught you that? because I don't remember teaching you this yet.” you were laughing but his reaction was genuine.

“hey, c'mon now. don't call me a motherfucker.” suguru slid in, a hand resting on gojo's arm. “i'm a good teacher, aren't I?” he winked at you.

“the fuck? When the fuck did you teach her?”

“last week when we were playing at toji's party.” gojo was too busy playing beer bong at that time.

“thank you, suguru. And you…" you looked at your man, "where is allat “but I'd still win though” attitude?” you mocked him.

“ight fine. you got me. i was just messin' around and ya'know that. don't get mad at me, baby,” he snaked an arm around your waist. “we're both winners. We gotta celebrate properly, right?” he leaned closer to your ears.

“now let's see who wins in the bedroom, tonight. hmm? You know i gotta settle the score, princess.”

[gutsby]

Cowboy Killers

Pairing: Cowboy!Joel x Reader

Summary: On a mission to find—and fight—your best friend’s lying, cheating boyfriend at the bar, you end up throwing your drink in the wrong face and landing in a sticky situation with Joel Miller, who never plays fair.

Warnings: 18+. Drunk-Assholes-to-Enemies-to-Lovers. Oral (m!receiving). Road head. Age gap. Daddy kink.

Note: My favorite sub-genre of country music is ‘I’m Gonna Fucking Kill My Husband,’ and I think Miranda Lambert’s ‘Gunpowder & Lead’ is a perfect representation of that.

Word count: 4.1k

Forgive and forget.

Forgive and forget.

Forgive and—

“I’m about to lay this motherfucker out,” you announced.

Across the line, your friend laughed.

“Yeah? You see him?”

Of course you saw him. Who else would be wearing a Carhartt flannel and jeans in ninety-four degree heat? Not a soul in this world but your friend’s own lying, piece of shit, hopefully-soon-to-be-ex boyfriend, you guessed.

The game that Old Fuckstick Miller had decided to play tonight was a dangerous one—he was dumb as shit, and you were drunker than a skunk. He was dating your best friend, and she was not present at the Tipsy Bison to see the barefaced clusterfuck taking place before you now.

She was home, over thirty minutes away. He had told her that morning he would be working late, and not to wait up. You were here, at the bar, approaching one A.M. with a Redbull Vodka clenched in either fist and a Texas-sized frown on your face, seeing the very same man with his hands all over a woman that wasn’t your friend. You’d wanted to puke as soon as you saw them. You knew you could never trust a man who claimed to be an Austin native and couldn’t name a single George Strait song.

Your friend had only been dating the guy for a month, and you’d just seen his face in pictures up until now, but from what you could see less than twenty feet in front of you—slightly blurred from all the drinks you’d had—this guy was him. A dick. There, cheating on your best friend.

And no man would get to do that and walk out unscathed if you had anything to say about it.

Your grip tightened on either one of your fizzy drinks and, barely managing to cradle the phone between your head and your shoulder, you gestured over to another friend.

“Dave. Take it,” you said, words slurring a little.

Dave York cocked an eyebrow but said nothing as you passed him one of your RBVs and shimmied off the barstool. By the time he was able to pose his question, your ass, your phone, and your one remaining drink were already wobbling the other way. Vaguely, you heard him:

“Where ya headed, hon?”

You turned and raised your drink, then seriously doubted he would be able to hear you over the blare of the music, but yelled back anyway, ‘I’M GONNA KILL SOMEONE!’

The age-old pro-forgiveness aphorism continued to thump in your brain as you made your way over and began to contemplate every feasible method of murder.

A gun in the face would’ve been too simple—and besides, you’d never owned or shot a firearm in your life.

Poison could be fun, but from the way you were approaching the man now, you seriously doubted he’d ever let you get within a mile of his drink. You nudged the phone closer to your ear and took a sip from your own.

“Closing in,” you told your friend simply.

She’d already given you the go-ahead to execute the confrontation and beat his ass any way you pleased after the fact. Now it wasn’t so much a matter of ‘if’ but ‘when’ you’d finally get to encroach on this little loved up scene at the other end of the bar. The man had had his back turned to you, and the stunning redhead hanging off his neck, likewise, had no idea what was coming. You smiled.

“Promise you won’t go to jail this time?” your friend said.

“Will you bail me out again if I do?” Your grin got bigger.

“Well, duh.”

“Good deal. I’ll be the shitfaced inmate with ‘Fuck Men’ tattooed on her forehead. Wait for Travis County to call.”

“I love you, psycho.”

“Love you more.”

You ended the call.

And you were fully ready to end this man’s life when you saw him lean in to kiss the woman’s neck—that was sick.

You weren’t thinking straight. You weren’t seeing straight

You yelled out, ‘He-e-e-ey, honey!’ without blinking.

The couple turned.

As soon as the man had done a full 180, you flung your drink in his face and made sure the cup struck his nose.

“You cheatin’ FUCK!”

He flinched, sprayed by your vodka-infused energy juice.

The music overhead was loud, but not so deafening as to prevent the bar from hearing your shriek. From the front of the room, a band was playing ‘Gunpowder & Lead,’ and you couldn’t help but feel the song had been fate.

“What the f—” the adulterer started, evidently stunned.

You knocked the Shiner Bock out of his hand and spat:

“Working late, are we?!”

And spilled another patron’s beer reeling back.

“Got a little caught up on the way home?”

Gesturing toward the green-eyed beauty to his left. At first, the girl fixed her stare on you as if you’d sprouted another head, but then, by turns, she was tilting it to him.

“You have a girlfriend?” she hissed.

Cheater McFuckstick was wiping his beard with his hand

Shaking his head.

“Hell no, I ain’t never—”

“LIAR!”

Channeling your inner Representative Wilson circa 2009, you let your mouth fall open and stared at the big, burly man like the Congressman had once done to President Obama all those years ago. The semi-stranger in front of you was far less composed than his political counterpart.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” he snapped.

You felt your cheeks heat up.

“Is she your girlfriend?” would-be mistress said, shrill.

“NO!” you and been-knew asshole yelled together.

You saw the man’s nostrils flare, and at the same time, the woman beside him departed. Quickly. A few people around you cleared the way, while others still stared, gawked, and murmured amongst themselves. The Miranda Lambert cover band continued on without a hitch, though you could tell there had been a stir in the crowd. They probably thought the worst of it was over.

They thought wrong.

“You’re a dick,” you seethed, unrelenting.

You almost expected the man to turn and leave.

You thought wrong.

“You’re a cunt.”

And the man chucked a stray whiskey sour in your face.

The $15 spirits splattered on your skin like the meanest insult of all. His aim was better. Though he didn’t let go of the cup, as you had with him, he did make sure to coat the whole of your twisted look with the liquor, and once it landed, he had had the nerve to do something else, too.

He brought the glass to his lips then drank what was left.

“How’s it feel?” he sneered.

You stood in wet, sticky silence for half a second; arguably, you’d earned that cocktail to the face.

On the other hand, who the fuck did he think he was?

You grabbed a random can of Keystone Light and flung it at his chest to give him a hint—and catch him off-guard.

“You’re a bitch, Tommy Miller!”

“Wh—”

“Maria’s my best friend, you absolute f—”

“What—”

“—and you cheated on her for what? All so she—”

“What did you just call me?!”

“A BITCH!”

“No, the NAME!”

“TOMMY MILLER!”

“I’M JOEL!”

Oh.

Oh.

You and Joel were shortly escorted out of the bar.

Joel’s name, and a trace of bourbon, were still fresh on your tongue when you found yourself stranded in the middle of the Tipsy Bison parking lot two minutes later. You leaned into a car beside you and held your stomach.

“Someone drop you on the head as a baby?” Joel barked.

Presently, for you, the world was tilting sideways, and your head was throbbing at a nauseating tempo.

“Go around slingin’ drinks at any old man you—”

Green. Green must’ve been the color of your face as you braced your hands on your knees and assumed a stance as if to scream at the ground. Rather than expecting any noise to ring out, though, you had only to squeeze your eyes shut and hold onto a hunch for something much less pleasant. And viscous.

Reeking mostly of Red Bull and regret, if you had to guess.

Joel took a big step back, and then he took another.

“Da-a-adgummit, girl, what the—”

He turned away just in time to miss the sight of you emptying your guts on the ground, but not quite fast enough to be spared the sounds of you retching. They were loud. Joel Miller was known to be a largely imperturbable force around these parts, but even he was made to feel queasy hearing that. Out of habit, he clapped his hand to his own gut and stumbled off. He stared at the bar, then at his car, then at the gravel crushed under his feet for what felt like the longest time. Then his gaze lingered to his lower half, and he thought:

‘Please, please don’t gimme no daughters. Please.’

He was forty-five. The time for making babies and raising daughters to be anything like a woman of your ilk was probably long past him. All the same, he kept his gaze on his crotch and sighed. Balls, you better not betray me.

When he heard the crunch of rocks, he turned around.

“HEY!”

Oh, no. No. Not tonight.

You were staggering to your car, keys in hand.

“Hey!” Joel called again, jogging after you.

It seemed the second shout had done him no more favors than the first. You were fumbling to get the key inside the door, and you looked as determined as ever.

Over your shoulder, you tossed back, careless:

“You ain’t the boss of me, Tommy Miller.”

You got the key to turn. You opened the door. You were just about to climb inside what looked to Joel to be the ugliest Dodge Ram pickup he’d seen in his life, when he grabbed your arm.

“It’s Joel,” he growled. Pinching your elbow tight as he tugged it back, “And you ain’t driving anywhere tonight.”

Somewhere in front of him, tilted away from his line of vision, you must’ve been grinning, because the next thing he heard from you was the scoff of a laugh.

“Oh yeah?”

Joel flipped you around to face him.

“Yeah,” he snapped.

Feeling a bit like a kid for mimicking your tone.

What were you, twenty-two? Twenty-three? You couldn’t have been a patron of a place like Tipsy Bison for very long, or else he would’ve recognized you tonight.

Then again, you struck him as the type to have had a fake ID since you were fifteen, so he really couldn’t know.

“I’m twenny-wuh-un,” you slurred up at him, exaggerated, once he’d made you step down from the running board and onto the ground. Answering his last unspoken question with the same, sleepy grin as before. Then lifting one of your hands to wag a finger in his face, “I can drink legal anywhere I want to in this country.”

“Not there,” Joel nodded to the interstate.

You looked to where he’d gestured and whistled. Standing and staring, like he had done to his crotch.

“Well fuck me-e!” you said next, dragging out the sound a childish amount, “You the law or somethin’, Mr. Joel?”

“Ain’t no cop.” Joel rolled his eyes.

You kept smiling. Then you turned on your heels.

And instead of trying to climb back into your truck, you sauntered off—in what direction, Joel couldn’t tell. You were more so bumbling about, turning in circles like the world’s most scantily-clad, semi-intoxicated ballerina. And then you stopped. You put your hands on your hips.

“‘Cause I’m the law,” you resumed in a slow, deliberate drawl. The twang you used was mostly feigned, “And you cain’t beat the law. Don’t nobody get away with that, not even a bunch’a Alabama smart alecks, believe you me.”

Joel didn’t know what the fuck you were talking about. The man was Texas born and bred, and you knew it.

He communicated as much by pinning you with a wide, bewildered stare, and something in that seemed to amuse. You stared back, making your eyes bug out too.

“It’s a quote from a movie,” you said, after a beat, “You’ve never seen Fried Green Tomatoes before?”

Joel couldn’t say that he had.

Joel reckoned there was a lot more than just movies he didn’t share in common with you. Miss Twenty-One. Barely a year past the age he’d been when he’d moved out of the house and tried to make a living on his own.

This woman, this girl he saw twirling out in front of him now probably couldn’t pour piss out of a boot with the instructions written on the heel if he’d asked you to. Joel shook his head and moved his feet, frown etching deep.

“Alright, princess. Up.”

You didn’t seem to understand, until he’d lifted you. Up.

You were thrown over his shoulder and carried to a truck much nicer than yours in less than fifteen seconds or so.

“Stinks in here,” you said as soon as he’d set you down.

Then, sniffing the air—and grinning:

“Aw, hell, Miller…you smoke?”

Joel wished he’d said no.

Wished he’d rolled his eyes and told you to pipe down, stop asking him questions. It would’ve made the drive a whole lot easier, and more peaceful. Nowhere near as painful, either, if he were being perfectly honest—the strain in his jeans had already gotten to be more than he could bear, and all you’d asked for was a pack of smokes.

“They call ‘em Cowboy Killers,” you said, matter-of-fact.

“I know what they’re called,” Joel grumbled in reply. Flicking the radio on and hoping to find a tune that would drown out the too-lovely, cloying voice you’d assumed as soon as you thought you might win a cigarette off of him. More chatty now than ever.

And for one, blissful moment, Toby Keith had you beat. The calm was fleeting. As soon as ‘Who’s Your Daddy’ started to drift through the car’s old speakers, you reached across and turned the knob to the left.

“Gross,” you muttered.

“What?”

“Got a light?”

“Blow me.”

Joel’s harsh, clipped tone was deliberate. The way he’d made himself mean—meaner than he’d been around a woman in a long, long time—was a choice. He couldn’t let your faux sweetness win him now. Not after you’d thrown two drinks in his face, mocked his truck, and foreclosed any possibility of getting laid by way of all your publicized infidelity philippics and shit-talking. Giving in to your charms from where you sat in the passenger seat now would only sink him further in his own esteem. Simply put, Joel’s ego couldn’t take it.

“Okie doke,” you said presently. Shrugging.

“Now keep your—HEY!”

Joel nearly swerved his truck off the road and into a ditch. Your deft little hands had slipped into his lap—and started palming his crotch through the denim.

He’d just managed to right the vehicle before jerking a look your way, staring at your hand, then your face:

“What the fuck was that?!”

“You said ‘blow me,’ Joel!” you huffed, and you seriously appeared as distraught as he was, “Sorry for listening!”

Joel grit his teeth with all the force of a cold steel trap.

“You’re fuckin’ nuts.” He gripped the wheel even tighter.

“I’m aware.”

“Where the hell do you live, anyway?”

You told him.

Your hand slipped down to the seat beside him.

And just as Joel let out what felt like the tiniest sigh of relief—he knew where that was, and the address sounded vaguely familiar—he yelped again. This time, he managed to keep control of his truck, but it was hard.

Your fingers had returned, and they were kneading the bulge under his jeans. Joel flushed from head to toe.

He didn’t have so much as half a mind to make you stop. He didn’t want to see you slink back over to your side of the car. But you were twenty-one, and he was forty-five. And you were both under the influence to some degree. And he was driving, for fuck’s sake. Shit like that only worked in dreams—not on a highway in a town like this.

He turned the radio dial to 75. At length, he heard it loud:

‘WHO’S YOUR DADDY? WHO’S YOUR BA-A-A-ABY?’

He saw you cringe.

“C’mon, Joel,” you groaned, “That’s…yuck.”

The fingers of the one hand kept digging, rubbing, but the other reached out and turned the music down again.

Joel shifted in his seat, feeling the pleasure start to bloom from the pit of his stomach, but not wanting to let you off that easy. Briefly, he looked from the road to you.

“What? You got a problem with Toby Keith?”

“I got a problem with anyone sayin’ ‘daddy’ like that.”

You unzipped his fly. Popped the button of his jeans from underneath the soft shelf of belly hanging over it, and held him, finally. You could only cup his erection through his boxers at that point, but the friction was enough to send a shiver through the whole of the old man’s body. He hadn’t been touched like that by a hand that wasn’t his own in…he couldn’t remember how long. He sighed.

“That why you’ve got your hand down the pants of a man old enough to be your father?” Joel quipped.

He couldn’t help it.

Your hand only gripped him tighter. From the passenger seat, you’d leaned over and started crawling. Scowling.

Your knees swiftly planted themselves on the old, upholstered cushion of the bucket seat, and you slipped a touch beneath the waistband of his underwear. With a hand that was smooth and soft and eager to please, you wrapped your fingers around that base and leaned in.

“You sound like you want me to say it,” you whispered.

Under your hand, he pulsed. His gaze stayed on the road.

“Don’t make no difference to me, sweet pea,” he said, and was amazed how even he was able to keep his tone:

“But those ‘Cowboy Killers’ you wanted…”

Your fingers curled tighter. Your head sank lower.

“…they don’t come cheap, y’know.”

Oh, you knew. He saw a smile snag at the corners of your lips as you brought them to his lap, and he had to force himself to look at the road again. It was empty and dark.

The tarmac stretched out for days. The fields rolling past warned sternly, ‘Don’t let her win,’ and something more in between each tree seemed to invite deliberation—remembrance, maybe. Joel was far too focused on the feel of your mouth to give the woods a second thought.

You’d worked the first inch between your lips in a slick, obscene sort of kiss; you made room for just the head and then toyed with a bead of precum leaking out of his slit. You licked it, squeezed the shaft in your hand, and hummed while the first real moan rumbled through him.

Joel turned to putty with just that flick of your tongue. He didn’t have to see your face to know he was losing.

On the wheel, his grip grew tighter, and he choked out:

“Ain’t your fuckin’ lollypop, kid.”

Then, dropping one hand to push down on your head—make you take him to the back of your throat in one go.

“Daddy wants you to suck him like a big girl, hear?”

At the base of his cock, he felt you gag. From the bottom of his heart, Joel knew there was no sound sweeter than that. He ran his fingers over your skull and tapped gently.

“If you want those smokes,” he told you—and really, with all the warmth and moisture of your mouth enveloping him now, he’d had to try to sound rougher than he was, “You’re gonna do what daddy says and suck him right.”

You gagged again, then squeezed his denim-clad leg with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around his member.

Joel yanked you by your hair and made you look up.

Your cheeks were already smeared with spit and tears. Much to his surprise, he found your eyes alight and soft.

Suffused with desire, too, from what he could see.

“Yes, daddy.” You grinned up at him.

Joel knew if he let your gaze stay on his a second longer now he’d either crash his car, blow his load, or fall in love—and he simply refused to let you succeed on any of those fronts, so he shoved your face back down.

You sucked him obediently. Greedily. Mouth growing more pliant and wet by the second, as if your jaw and salivary glands had contrived to get him as close to release as possible, as quickly as they were able.

Joel took a left onto a road he had only a dim recognition as being connected to yours, and he got that feeling again. You were bobbing your head, taking him further, flattening your tongue along the bottom of his member when his pleasure swelled inside him. At the same time, he felt a sense of dread. His hands were shaking on the wheel. He didn’t dare steal a look down to the sweet, soaked, perfect little mouth sucking him dry, because he knew that feeling would only strike twice as hard. He had to cum, or make you stop, or bring his truck to a halt.

As it was, he felt five tiny crescents sink into his thigh as you gripped him tighter, and a noise bubbled up in your mouth. Your breathing went shallow, and your lips stretched wide—you were trying, and succeeding, in deep-throating his thick, throbbing, much-too-old-for-a-girl-her-age member down close to your windpipe, and Joel could feel it. He hit his blinker, not thinking, and saw a sign that marked your street. Trepidation hit him again.

Fully, this time, in a feeling that was more like terror.

He didn’t have another second to question it, either. By the time he had the old, lone farmhouse in his sights and his heart nearly halfway up his throat with fear, your own throat pulsed, and opened the last two inches to him in. Your nose found their home in the rough, grey, wiry hairs at the base of his belly, having swallowed him whole, and Joel quickly sensed the start of what he knew too well.

He came down your throat in one, two, three, four, five long spurts, and didn’t let his foot off the gas even once.

He saw your house, approaching closer now, and paled.

No fucking way.

You’d wanted to skip the whole way up your drive.

Spit still drying on your cheeks, cum resting comfortably in your belly, and a smile as bright as the sun on your face as you waved to the F-150 pulling off toward the road, you’d never felt more alive—or smug—in your life.

“Is your dad…Lucien Flores?” Joel had asked no more than a second after his dick slipped out of your mouth.

“The one and only.”

Somehow, his face got even paler. His jaw visibly clenched, and his palm hit the top of the wheel. Hard.

It was then that you’d learned your father had hired Joel Miller on as a full-time ranch hand sometime last week.

He’d remembered the address, vaguely, but didn’t connect the dots until he’d pulled up in front of your house and damn near punctured your windpipe with his pulsing dick from how fast he’d jumped up—and cum.

His spend had almost shot through your nose with the force of it, but you didn’t mind. Once he’d revealed the wild, gory, and admittedly hilarious details of his newfound employment, you were too busy laughing your ass off to care if he’d torn your throat in two with his dick.

“So you really are a cowboy, then,” you’d said, giggling.

Joel had scowled. Rolled his eyes. Practically turned the color of a tomato when you leaned in and kissed him.

Now you were waving to him from your front door.

Joel’s truck was slow to go. The taste of him was fresh.

And there, weighing light in your back pocket while you said goodbye was a brand new pack of Marlboro Reds.

2:21 AM

You were safely in bed. You checked your phone.

Aside from fourteen missed calls, you saw:

1:09 AM – Maria

DUDE

1:09 AM

TOMMY JUST CAME HOME

1:09 AM

THAT’S NOT HIM AT THE BAR

1:13 AM

IT’S JUST JOEL!! HIS BROTHER!!!

1:13 AM

ABORT ABORT ABORT

1:42 AM

DAVE SAID YOU BEAT JOEL UP???? CALL ME

1:54 AM – Dave York

Ur gonna fuck that old dude aren’t u

[unstable-samurai]

Breathing This Calm Night - smut

Yunjin x Male Reader

ONE-SHOT

Tags: fluff, oral sex, one-shot, tightjob, penetration, k-idol, famous girl, secret relationship

A/n: This is my first request. Thanks @dav1233555 for the plot suggestion 🫡

The two of you were anxiously dragging yourself towards the end of the day. Slowly the hours passed, seeming to last longer than they should, while a hurried and hard routine was followed, with no time to even exchange a few messages.

But you were finally free, at least for now, from the mess that is a magazine of international relevance.

I'm arriving

You read the message and smiled at the phone screen. It wasn't crowded at the restaurant you chose to have dinner at. You reflected for a moment, and thought there was a bit of madness in what you two were doing, but it was indisputable that it was genuine and pure.

Truth be told, this whole thing was real. And thinking that this could be a bit crazy (in other people's eyes, to be more precise) only made your panoramic view of society more bitter.

After all, what was so great about being a foreigner and dating a K-idol? Well, you weren't the guy who was going to change the view of an entire society, so worrying about it was useless.

At least there was some security that this relationship would not be leaked to the media. Well, you were in fact part of the fucking media. There was support from the magazine you worked for (not that you were the owner or anything), and at least no one on your team would poke your eye out. Some other editors you trust already knew about your relationship. It was one of the countless advantages of being in a high position in the company and having a strong influence on what happened inside. I mean, someone from the magazine could try to fuck with you, snakes exist everywhere, doing this in an attempt to self-promote or even abandon ship, handing over the leak of your relationship to another magazine or tabloid (in the headline the motherfuckers would find a way to use the word "affair", just because your previous relationship ended a month before you met Yunjin). But you would discover the funny guy so easily that there wouldn't even be any fun in solving the mystery. All it took was a single call to your father, simply the greatest editor-in-chief who worked at the magazine's headquarters. Already retired, but still exercising great decision-making power thanks to his long years of contributions to the magazine. Your old man was seen almost as a royal advisor or a wise monk where directors, managers and editors from various sectors of the magazine went to ask for advice and help. You were relatively shielded from leaks.

You noticed her approaching. Well disguised, with glasses, hair tied back and comfortable clothes. She looked like just another ordinary girl. You couldn't help but notice the NY Knicks sweatshirt you had given her as a gift, it was both of your favorite team.

She greeted you with a discreet hug. You still hadn't gotten used to the fact that you couldn't give a peck in public que in South Korea. In your perception, it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Hi, baby! How are you?" she asked you as she sat down at the table.

"Better now, honey. What about you?"

"The same!"

"Was the day as hard as always?" you asked.

"Yeah, definitely!" she replied. Yunjin seemed eager for this question. She continued: “In the morning I had rap class. By the way, I think I'm getting better. Oh, and in the afternoon I recorded my lines, like, over and over again. The music producer has a very specific vision of what he wants for this track. He apologized and admitted that it might take some time to achieve the desired result.”

"Well, I trust your talent. Remember that you and your group are dealing with a delicate concept. I have seen up close the production of albums that address intimate themes, it is always a challenge, but also a true work and certainly a amazing gift for the fans. You girls are going to do great."

Yunjin laughed, a little shyly.

"It feels like I'm talking to a music critic instead of my boyfriend."

"Well, you're actually talking to a music critic. Oh, by the way, I remembered that I won't be writing the article about Le Sserafim's new album like I said before."

Her expression was one of surprise. Yunjin asked:

"Is it because of me?”

"Yes." you answered honestly. “Well, look, love, I'm prioritizing our relationship and thinking about the future. If this is for real, eventually the press will hear about us together, and a review from me about my girlfriend's music group obviously it would make my opinion seem partial and biased. It's just to avoid future problems."

"Okay" She looked upset. "But I'll still want to know your opinion when you hear the album."

"I'm really looking forward to hearing it." You smiled, making her feel better. "I left the review about the new album for a good friend of mine to write. I really respect her opinion."

"Well, i think we're in good hands. But let's stop talking about work for a bit!"

The waiter seemed to have heard Yunjin's speech as he appeared to save them right after she finished saying that. Yunjin had great taste in food, that's why she always chose the order for the two of you, you weren't the "culinary trailblazer" type; a few months in South Korea and you only knew five typical dishes (always returning to the arms of the big fast-food chains).

"Oh, I almost forgot to give you this!" You handed her a gift. "It had been on my lap for so long that I had forgotten I had brought it with me."

"Oh, baby! You didn't have to do that!"

She started to unwrap it.

"Hope you like."

You waited for her reaction. Yunjin smiled and made a cute little noise when she saw that it was a book (although she already knew from the shape of the gift wrap).

"You know I love reading! Thank you so much."

"It's The Alchemist. I know you love fantasy and this silly self-help thing. This book is a mix of both."

You saw her eyes light up.

"You're perfect. I love how well you know me. And self-help isn't silly, it's very good for evolving as a human being." she scolded you.

You shrugged.

"It's not the kind of thing I'd like to put on my bookshelf. But to each their own.”

She laughed.

"I'm still going to make you read one of these."

"Well, I've already read The Alchemist. If for me it's average, for you it will be a masterpiece."

★

It was around 10pm when the two of you finally arrived at your apartment. Dinner was very good, especially dessert (that bingsu thing was really delicious), and by that night there was no more energy for more fun, it was preferable to have a good night's sleep so that the next day you could do something together. Even so, Yunjin hummed excitedly in the car on the way home. You appreciated all that joy.

You took off your shoes while Yunjin took off her NY Knicks sweatshirt, leaving only a tight tank top on her body. You noticed that she wasn't wearing a bra by the way her breasts showed through the fabric of her tank top. You slowly approached her and grabbed her from behind, kissing her repeatedly. Yunjin wrapped her hands around your neck as she giggled at the series of kisses.

“Will you be my teddy bear tonight?” she asked sweetly. “I need your affection so much, baby.”

“Whatever you need, sweetie.” You said as you kissed her on the neck.

Things were heating up. Your hands slid down Yunjin's soft belly, heavy sighs escaped her mouth unconsciously.

“Look, we still need to shower.” she said.

"No problem." you answered.

“You're putting me in the mood. I'm warning you that if you keep touching me like this, you're going to have to go all the way to finish what you started.”

“And since when has this been a problem for me?” you asked as you led her to the couch.

You took off your shirt and belt from your pants. Yunjin took off her jeans, leaving only her tank top and adorable pink panties. Your hand slid down Yunjin's left thigh while you kissed her right thigh. That was more than enough to give her goosebumps. She had her legs wide open, waiting, almost begging, for you to touch that place. Instead of doing it right away, you decided to play with her a little, kissing and biting her inner thigh while using one of your hands to lightly massage her pussy through her panties. Your lips slid to Yunjin's crotch, where you licked the entire area, she reveled in the act, trying hard not to close her legs with the spasms she was having. It didn't take long for a wet stain to darken the pink of the panties. When you finally removed Yunjin's panties, you saw how wet she was. So horny that she couldn't wait for you, fingering her pussy slowly, opening it with her fingers so you could see how drooling she was; a successful action of provoking you. Then you realized how hard your cock was, pulsing in your pants, painfully tight, which made you hornier.

Without wasting any more time, you dived between Yunjin's legs, eager to taste her (that flavor that was becoming increasingly familiar and addictive… Part of your life. Yeah, we could put it that way), your tongue delighting in the taste and the cozy warmth of the inside of her pussy, while Yunjin moaned softly, digging her nails into the sofa cushions.

“I love it when you suck me like that, baby. You make me feel so good!” she moaned.

At one point she asked to stop because her lust was unbearable and that way he would have an orgasm in a short time.

“I want to feel your cock inside me now.” she said. You had just taken off your underwear when she added, “Wait, what if we fuck in the bathroom. Let’s save time, what do you think?”

Your response was to lift her off the couch and take her to the bathroom. You turned on the light with your elbow and, before you could think of anything, she said:

“Fuck me like this! Your cock goes deep into my pussy when you fuck me in the air.”

You kissed her intensely while you tried to fit your dick into her pussy. The feeling of your cock sliding inside Yunjin was wonderful. Upon realizing that your cock was well placed inside her, you grabbed Yunjin's thighs tightly and began to thrust into her energetically while she held onto you, moaning compulsively.

And Yunjin was right, your dick went deep in that position. You could feel her deep inside, the entire length of your cock was being used, and she loved it. When she announced her orgasm, you wanted to make sure it was intense and pleasurable, the way it made her roll her eyes, so you lifted her a little higher, grabbing her ass, while Yunjin wrapped her legs inside your arms, making her practically hang from you and her pussy is completely inside your dick.

“Oh God, Baby! I’m cumming!”

She trembled holding onto you, while you practically rubbed her pussy on your dick, always rotating it close to your body. It was just a shame that you couldn't enjoy her eyes rolling back at the moment of orgasm, you simply loved seeing her go crazy with pleasure, but there was also a certain contentment in just knowing that it happened.

You sat Yunjin down on the sink and there you started fucking her again, looking deeply into her eyes. At one point she looked at you with so much passion, so much desire that there was a sudden growing desire to fill her pussy with your load of cum.

“Hang me, love.” she asked affectionately.

Her hand wrapped around just over half of her neck, serving as support to fuck her even harder. Sweat running down both bodies, your gaze was lost between the mirror's reflection, her eyes, her tits and her expressions of pleasure. With the sensations highlighted, you realized how much you loved Yunjin and how much this feeling contributed to eminent pleasure during sex.

Holy shit! You were almost there.

You thought about how much you wanted to go deep into this, literally to the end, but you were without a condom and suddenly stopping the act to go get a condom at the end of the championship was a bit... discouraging.

But you have an idea.

“Stand up, sweetie” you said. “Let’s try something new.”

Yunjin got out of the sink, looking at you excitedly.

“Get in the shower stall with me.” you asked, opening the door.

"What do you want to do?"

“It’s nothing out of this world, but it occurred to me that you’ve never given me a tightjob, I think it’s time we tried it.”

She had some assumptions about what this position was, but you helped her anyway. Yunjin was a rather tall girl, so there were no problems for your dick to fit between her thighs, the result was perfect, nothing uncomfortable. You thought about turning on the shower to lube up a little, but her pussy was so wet and the continuous sweat running down between her thighs was already more than great. You grabbed Yunjin's waist tightly and she crossed her legs a little, squeezing your dick.

You began to thrust into her, your cock sliding back and forth as you dragged Yunjin's labia. So you discovered in the best way that this was very pleasurable for both of you. The internal heat started inside you again and gradually you lost yourself in that exciting sensation. As you approached the final explosion, you bestially grabbed Yunjin in every way possible, sliding your sweat-damp hands down her belly, squeezing her breasts and slapping her ass. You lost yourself in the voluptuousness that was Yunjin's body and- Fuck! She loved it. She loved being your instrument of pleasure, knowing that the person she loved so much reached maddening peaks of passion, desire and lust for her. A juice of feelings for an insatiable thirst.

“Oh baby! I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna-”

Without any warning, Yunjin began to move her hips in a rhythm that immediately took you to the precipice of pleasure. The soft, hot, wet, suffocating skin of her thighs dancing over your cock. This was too much for you. When you came, you hugged Yunjin tightly, holding her as if your life depended on it, giving in to inconstant and uncontrollable moans close to her ear. The frantic thrusts lost their rhythm, going deeper and slower through Yunjin's thighs. She held your arms affectionately, waiting for your breathing to become less labored before kissing you.

"I love you." You said to her.

The phrase was so loaded with something that covered your feelings at that moment, and you wished she was the woman of your life and would never leave your side.

"I love you too!" said Yunjin when she found a way out of your tongue. “Baby, you don’t know how much.”

“This took longer than expected. Let’s take our shower.”

“Yep! Let's go."

You turned on the shower. The hot running water was invigorating, even more so being next to Yunjin, you didn't know that sharing certain intimacies was so special until you finally did it with her. you soaped Yunjin's entire body, she helped you wash your back and you shampooed her hair, gently massaging her scalp; it was cute how it relaxed her, she seemed so surrendered to you in that moment, and just a few months ago you were sitting across from her and the other Le Sserafim girls, asking incisive questions about the creative process of their latest album. That's where it all started, after all. And who could say where it would end?

“Hey, baby, let me shampoo your hair now.” Yunjin said with a cutie smile.

Nobody, you thought. Nobody could say.

A/n: sorry for any grammatical errors 😅

[dollielliot]

˳ ･ׅ ⠀⠀ . ﾟ* 𑙕 ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ׁ𐄙transcripts from police calls about columbine

F.B.I. report excerpt about the Library 911 call:

"On April 20, 1999, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold shot and killed twelve students and one teacher at Columbine High School Littleton, Colorado. During the incident, teacher Patty Nielson placed a call to 911 Emergency. Neilson was in the library when she placed the call. The 911 operator answered the call stating "911" at 11:27:47 a.m. The phone call lasted 26 minutes. During the call, noises including gunshots, explosions, screaming, and yelling can be heard. The initial backround noises heard come from the hallway just outside of the library. Four minutes and ten seconds into the call, Harris and Klebold entered the Library and begin shooting. They left the Library eleven minutes and forty-five minutes into the call. The remaining gunshots and explosions heard on the tape occur in the Cafeteria, Science classroom area or the hallways of the school."

Eric - "Get up!"

Dylan - "GET UP!"

Eric - "Stand up right now or we'll blow your fucking heads off!"

Dylan - "Fine I'll start shooting then..." (shoots Velasquez) "Woohoo!"

Dylan - "All jocks stand up... white baseball cap"

Eric - "Pigs are here..." (begins firing out the window)

Dylan - (shoots Hall, Ireland, Steepleton) "Yahoo!" 

Patti Nielson - "our father.. who art in heaven... hallowed be thy name" Dispatcher - "ma'am, you need to forget about praying right now. What's happening there?"

Nielson - "They're in here... they're killing kids... I have to go." (drops phone)

Eric - (kills Curnow) "Die! Motherfucker!"

Dylan - "WOO!"

Kasey Ruegsegger - (after being shot by Eric) "Oh!"

Eric - "Stop your bitching! It's merely a flesh wound."

Dylan - (laughing hysterically)

Eric - "peek-a-boo" (kills Bernall)

Dylan - (shoots Ireland) "Die! …..down on the floor!"

Dylan - "REB?"

Eric - "Yeah?"

Dylan - "hey, man... there's a [ n word w/ the hard r] over here."

Eric - "shoot him."

Dylan - "SHIT YEAH!"

Shoels - "no…no…no.mom!"

(shoels and kechter killed)

(C02 bomb detonates)

Valeen Schnurr - "oh my god... help me..."

Eric - "do you believe in god?"

Valeen - "no. yes..."

Dylan - "Why?"

Eric - "God is gay."

John Tomlin - "Don't... done enough?"

(shots fired)

Dylan - "You think we've done enough?" (laughing)

Eric - "nice glasses" (shots fired... sounds of a scuffle.. shots fired again, Mauser killed)

Dylan - "was he trying to jump you?"

Eric - "yeah"

(shots fired... DePooter killed)

Dylan - "Look what we have here..."

Eric - "What?"

Dylan - "just some fat fuck"

Dylan - "give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you."

Evan Todd - "I don't want to get into trouble."

Dylan - "Trouble! You don't know what trouble is..."

Evan Todd - "That's not what I mean... I don't have a problem with you guys..." 

Dylan - "I'm going to let this fat fuck live... little fat fucking piece of shit... you can have him if you want." 

Eric - "Let's go to the commons"

Dylan - "One more thing" (sound of something smashing)

Dylan - "Reb, ya ready?"

Dispatcher - "Columbine Senior High School. There's been a shooting. There's a female in the south parking lot. OK, I'm sorry, can you tell me where she is?"

Student - "She's in the south parking lot on the lower parking lot."

Dispatcher - "She's in the parking lot, the lower one?"

Student - "Right, toward the east end of that parking lot .... I just saw everyone running. I just saw the smoke."

Dispatcher - "OK. We had a report of explosions down there. Is there a car fire or anything?

Student - "People are saying there's a gun."

Dispatcher - "Do you know if anyone was carrying a weapon out there?"

Student - "No, I do not. There's like smoke going off in the parking lot right now. There are loud noises. I'm not sure exactly. A cop is pulling up."

Dispatcher - "Can you direct them?"

Student - "No, but they're going in the right direction. People are running out of the school like mad right now."

Dispatcher - "Where is the female ... is she still in that south parking lot?"

Student - "I can't see her anymore. I ran to the phone."

Dispatcher - "Can you see anything else?"

Student - "A lot of people are at the front of the parking lot and they're running out."

Dispatcher - "When the kids came out of the school, which direction were they going?"

Student - "They went down towards the street."

Dispatcher - "What part is this? Is it like the gym area, the cafeteria or just classrooms?"

Student - "They're coming from like the commons, the lunch area right now."

Dispatcher - "The commons area? 

Student: Everyone's running and I'm still standing here."

Dispatcher - "You're out of the way of danger, aren't you?"

Student - "I believe so, I don't know." 

Dispatcher - "Do you mind if I keep you on the phone here so you can tell me if anything else is going on there?"

Student - "I think the fire alarm is going off right now. Yeah, the fire alarm is going off."

Dispatcher -  "...Shots fired at Columbine High School, 6201 South Pierce, possibly the south lower lots toward the east end. One female is down"

[unintelligible]

Dispatcher - "71"

Deputy Neil Gardner - "Shots in the building. I need somebody in the south lot with me."

Dispatcher - "MC-2's in the area."

Dispatcher - "140 enroute. 11:26" (dispatcher gives time of broadcast). 

[unintelligible field radio with siren in background]

Dispatcher - [unintelligible] "11:26"

[unintelligible, officers acknowledging their response]

Deputy Neil Gardner - "Several shots. Code 33."

Dispatcher - "71. Several shots fired. Columbine High School. Use caution...."

[unintelligible]

Dispatcher - [unintelligible] "You were covered."

[unintelligible field unit]

Dispatcher - "Copy. Attention. All units, there's a code three on this channel. For the officers at Columbine High. Take your traffic to channel two...."

[unintelligible field unit]

Dispatcher - [unintelligible] "11:27"

Officer - "41"

Dispatcher - "41"

Officer - "Yeah, the alarm's OK. Enroute down to Columbine."

Dispatcher - "11:27"

[unintelligible]

Dispatcher - "71 requested assistance at the south lower lot."

Officer - "At the lot?"

Dispatcher - [unintelligible] "at the lot. That's where we had the female down.... [unintelligible] 127 [unintelligible]"

Officer - "OK ... We've got the pupils leaving the grounds."

Dispatcher - [unintelligible] "I have report of possible grenades in the school."

Officer: "147"

Dispatcher: "147"

Officer: [unintelligible] "teacher thinks somebody is in the school with a gun."

Dispatcher - "Report units of possible parties inside the school with weapons. Also we have reports from outside the school that possibly grenades are being thrown from the roof of the school."

Officer - "27. I'm set up on Pierce at the, uh, south side lot."

Dispatcher - Pierce south side of the lot.... [unintelligible]

Officer - "44. I'll be set up on the west side of the back of the school, by the ball field."

Officer - "MC-2. I've got the west side by the ball field. Supposedly they're in black trench coats."

Dispatcher - "MC-2. West side by the ball fields, parties in trench coats, possibly has a shotgun."

Officer - [unintelligible] "copy."

Officer - [unintelligible]

Dispatcher - "Last unit"

Deputy Neil Gardner - "71"

[tojiscumdumpster]

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။ toji fushiguro x his favorite customer (revision)

✧ summary toji has a little soft spot for his favorite customer that he can't get enough of.

✧ content warnings reader is a black woman who uses she/her pronouns. chubby!reader and inexperienced!reader. rich girl in her midtwenties, very needy! usage of profanity, standing missionary, oral - m!receiving, doggy style, mixture of praise and degradation kink, breeding kink, unprotected, creampie and squirting, terms of endearment ─ pretty girl, princess, baby, baby girl, etc. softdom!toji with rough, passionate, and filthy intercourse. told in first POV ─ toji's. i got reader calling toji TJ, and i think that’s so cute pls.

✧ author's note happy birthday to my baby daddy toji fushiguro! we've been going strong now for years. just a little something something to celebrate him. this fic has been in the drafts since December. talk about black people time, old sksk. also, if you already seen the original of this fic on tumblr, it's mine lol. this is just a revision, so don't go around saying i copied someone! my writing has changed so i wanted to redo this and add some adjustments. i hope y'all enjoy. support me by reblogging, liking, and commenting your thoughts. ♡ AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS AND/OR MINORS - DO NOT INTERACT.

 

 When it comes to women I fuck, I treat them the same because at the end of the day, they pay me good money to stuff their pussy with cock. 

 Don’t really care if they're married either. I usually get the old, desperate broads that aren’t getting any attention from their husbands at home, so it’s my job to make them feel good for the night. 

 I don’t do favorites. 

 I damn sure don’t give discounts. 

 And I definitely don’t get attached. But the moment I met Y/N that all changed. 

 My favorite customer. 

 Never did I expect a younger woman to pay me to get fucked, especially when she looks that good. 

 I’m almost positive she has a line filled with fuckers that’s desperately wanting to know what this tight, wet pussy feels like, yet here I am, living their fantasy. 

 I fucked Y/N once. 

 Then, twice. 

 Then, again.

 And again.

 And again…

 If I didn’t know any better, I’m fucking obsessed with her. Can’t even say it’s just for the money she’s paying me. Probably the best pussy I ever had.

 No. 

 It is. 

 So fucking warm, and she takes dick well, too. I usually give only an hour or two to my customers, but for Y/N? I reserved the whole night to relish her pussy. 

 The perfect fuck to end my day. 

 Those soft, sweet-sounding moans that slipped through her full brown and pink lips, having my previous cum shot staining them had me running wild. 

 But it seems like I’m not the only one who’s sex drunk. 

 Cock is all on Y/N’s mind right now. Whimpering and crying how big I am and thanking me for giving her dick. Tears pricks those chestnut-colored hues and I’m in fucking awe. She’s so damn pretty. 

 “You know how gorgeous you look taking cock like this? Being a good fucking slut for me, princess?” I ask, being met with a nod and her moaning in response. 

 Y/N’s pussy talks to me. Wet noises spreading throughout the room while I have my arms hooked under the fold of her knees, fucking her recklessly to push past any intrusion. 

 She’s jumping with me every thrust I make, causing her tits to bounce obnoxiously. I take one of her nipples into my mouth and suck on them like it’s my last dying breath, hearing that sweet whimper. 

 I belong in Y/N’s pussy, and she belongs to me, too, the way she’s gripping my cock and milking me. All of her cream and wetness drips between us and down my balls, and it feels fucking amazing. Every time I experience her velvet walls, I find myself becoming more animalistic, hungry and territorial over someone who should only be seen as a client. 

 But fuck, something in me says I would go batshit crazy if I ever found out she had other motherfuckers experiencing this. 

 Knowing how she looks when sweat coats her beautiful brown skin. How it feels to stretch her out and make her adjust to you. Just thinking about it makes me pound into her deeper and more aggressively. 

 “Toji, baby, yes. This feels so good,” she purrs. “Like that. Keep fucking me like that.”

 I hum. “Yeah? This is what you wanted, right? Paid me to please this good pussy?”

 By all means, Y/N isn’t a virgin, but she told me she doesn’t have much experience and I can tell by how tight she is. 

 Our sounds of pleasure resonate in the air, and I call her my good girl, praising how perfect her pussy is, to be met with her squeezing me and watery brown eyes. 

 “Toji… Toji… Yes. God, yes.”

 “Keep using your words, pretty girl. Tell me how much you love my dick in your pussy,” I ordered softly.

 “I love it so much. It’s so big, baby,” she tells me, slurring her words because of her lips still being on mine. “You’re going to make me cum.”

 I clicked my tongue, shaking my head. “Not yet. Come taste yourself.”

 Without hesitation, Y/N slides down to her knees and starts sucking my dick. I hiss at her swallowing me and the warmth of her mouth. She doesn’t take her time when sucking me off, immediately circling her head and throating me. 

 “Hot fucking mouth made to suck dick, huh, pretty girl?” I firmly grabbed her chin so she could look at me. “Eyes up, sweetheart. Open up your throat for me like a good girl.” 

 Y/N hollows her cheeks and bobs her head fervently on my dick, tightening her lips around me. 

 She sucks dick so fucking good, better than any other woman I’ve been with. And I just know I’m bound to bust quickly if she keeps doing this shit. 

 My hand finds the back of Y/N’s head to grip and I buck my hips deeper into her mouth, ensuring I hit the back of her throat everytime. I’m a fucking mad man when I begin fucking the gorgeous face, especially when she’s looking up at me with those big brown eyes. 

 A spoiled brat, prim and shy, who’s spending daddy’s money to get fucked and folded by an old bastard like me. Think I fucking developed a kink for this type because of Y/N.

 I pumped into her mouth more aggressively until she began choking and gagging on my cock. Drool and precum coating her mouth in the process. 

 Any type of control Y/N tries to take, I push past it because I want to use that pretty little mouth of hers how I want. She needs to get her money’s worth when fucking with me. 

 “Going to fuck my cum deep down that throat of yours, and you’re going to swallow it. Got that?” She nods and I softly tap the side of her face. “That’s it. Keep those lips tight around me.” 

 “Toji, pl—please,” she slurs, causing me to chuckle. 

 “Hm, look at you. Trying so hard to talk to me while sucking my dick. It’s cute.” I slow down my quick thrusts, but replace them with more fervent ones, pushing me and her head down until my cock outlines her throat. 

 My balls grow heavy and obnoxiously slaps Y/N’s chin, a clear indication I’m about to fucking cum. 

 Grunting, whining, gasping like a little bitch for air because head like this has a fucker like me sounding like a broken mess. 

 Blood rushes to my groin and I start getting sloppy, feeling my muscles tightening and ache burning between my thighs. I’m close, so fucking close to filling her mouth with my release, then I can finish fucking that fat pussy. 

 Everything about this damn woman is perfect. Her pussy. How she sucks cock. That fucking chubby and curvy body of hers. A pretty face with loaded cash.

 Yeah, she’s definitely mine after tonight. And I’m talking about anything lovey dovey. Meaning if I catch her being a slut like this to anyone else, I’d kill that fucker. 

 No hesitation. I-

 “Y/N, fuck!” I grunt while cumming in her mouth. This load is fucking heavy, but she’s trying her best to swallow every drop. 

 I groan at the sight of Y/N touching her tits and palming her pussy, knowing how much she’s turned on, too. It’s like the vibrations of her moans pulls more cum out my fucking dick.

 A mess I made on her face, but the joyful lust I see in her eyes tells me she doesn’t give a damn. 

 Good, because I’m not finished with her. 

 “All fours on the bed. Now,” I demanded. “Still gotta fill up your pussy.”

 Perfection is what I think when I see Y/N from behind, arched back, ass in the air and pussy dripping, ready for me to fuck. 

 I force an arch in her back and plunge my cock in her tight little pussy with one deep stroke. Y/N gasps in the air and I take the opportunity to pull her up by the throat and start pounding her cunt. 

 Why the fuck is she so goddamn wet? She takes cock well, bud shit, I abruptly slip out each and every thrust. 

 “Keep me inside that pussy, baby girl. Stop fucking letting go,” I gritted in her ear. She reaches behind her to hold my dick and push back into me with a tighter grip. “Hm, just like that. So fucking good to me, aren’t you?”

 “I need more dick, TJ. Fuck me harder, baby. I can take you,” she moans. 

 Begging for cock she’s already paying for… Shit, I get a kick out of how pathetically sexy she sounds. 

 I repeatedly slammed into her wet cunt, thrust after thrust, pussy creaming even further than before. If it’s one thing I can listen to for the rest of my life, it’s how Y/N sounds when she’s being fucked. 

 My name drips perfectly from her lips.

 Our skin smacking fills the air in the room along my hand striking her ass until I guarantee it’ll bruise in the morning. 

 “Look at this fat ass moving when I pound into this pussy. Fucking beautiful,” I growled.

 “Toji, please. I… I don’t care how much… I’ll pay more. Just keep fucking me like this.”

 I chuckle. “Atta girl.”

 I see why motherfuckers catch feelings when fucking pussy. I almost feel tempted to tell Y/N that I love her while fucking her. She has pussy that’ll make a fucker crazy… Possessive… Jealous.

 I applied more pressure to Y/N’s throat and pulled her against my chest. “You know who this pussy belongs to. Right, princess?”

 “God, yes, Toji. You… it belongs to you.” Her voice comes off as a faint cry and I know she’s on the verge of cumming. Especially with how her pussy is pulsating around me. 

 “Mhm, that’s right. Dreamed of my fucking dick pounding this tight little cunt, now I have you mindfucked. Huh?” I pinch her nipples with my free hand and increase my thrusts. “You’re about to come for me. Aren’t you, Y/N? I know you are. I can feel it. You should see the mess your slutty pussy is making between us.”

 “Fuck, I didn’t mean to, baby. It’s just… you feel good. So fucking good,” she whimpers, bouncing her ass back into me to meet with my thrusts. 

 “Maybe I should have you clean it with your mouth. Hm?”

 I release Y/N’s throat to shove her face into the bed and deepen her arch more than before. My single hand returns to her hips to grip, pulling her round ass back on my cock to kiss her center. 

 Can’t get over how wet—how tight and warm this fucking pussy is. The harder I fuck her, the louder her pussy gets and I grunt, curse underneath my breath at hearing the sound of her muffled moans. 

 I don’t give a fuck if one of us catches feelings after this. Actually, I want her to. I want Y/N to be dick hungry only for me. 

 I want her pussy to smell like I’m the only fucker that’s been running through her. I’m even fucking tempted to breed this pussy just so she’s mine.

 Why the fuck would I want to have sex with any other women after knowing what Y/N feels like? 

 “You take cock like a fucking pro. Look at you gripping me. Look at how this pussy is mine.”

 She spreads her ass cheeks to feel every inch of my dick. “Fuck me, Toji. Harder. Fuck me harder, I’m about to cum.”

 “Shit, me too, sweetheart. Such a perfect fuck toy. Going to fill you all the way up,” I rasped. “Fuck me back. Keep taking this dick.”

 My thrusts are sloppy. I throw my head back and swear into the air and moan her name. My balls grow heavier and heavier until I fucking but and empty my cum inside her pussy. 

 And she’s right there with me, crying my name and thanking me for giving her toe-curling orgasm. 

 Fucking enjoy hearing my pretty girl thank me for giving her cock. She just looks so damn pretty when she cums, too. 

 Dark brown skin sweating. The sight of her ruined makeup with mascara running down her cheeks. Moans sounding like a broken record. 

 Yeah, she’s a perfect fuck. 

 My favorite customer. 

© 2024 tojiscumdumpster Do NOT copy, translate, plagiarize, repost (sharing links is okay) anywhere. I only upload on tumblr and you will find some of my work in ao3.

[disgustingtwitches]

"I like a tall woman with a nice big ass."

König x tall+curvy!reader. Love the idea of this uptight motherfucker getting with someone who is young and wild :)

MDNI

König is dragged out to a trendy club by his subordinates and he's awkwardly folded up in a seat in the corner of the club. The flashing lights and loud music give him a headache so he steps out into the smoking area. There you are with your girlfriends, yelling something about a 'hot girl summer' and pouring tequila into each other's mouths.

He can't really ignore your group; young, foreign, and rambunctious. He can't really ignore your long legs that lead to full hips that move side to side. He can't really ignore your pierced nipples or rounded breasts that almost bust out of your tight white crop top while you jump around. He can't really ignore how soft you look. He has to look away so all the blood in his body doesn't rush to his dick.

One of his subordinates walk up to him, concerningly drunk, talking about some bullshit he doesn't care about. He ushers him back to the group before ordering them to back to base. The group complains but complies. They don't even ask why he's staying behind.

He goes off to look for you. You aren't hard too find, taller than the gaggle of women that surround you. He just stares at you from far away. You stop mid conversation with your girlfriends, the hair on the back of your neck standing up. You look around and see him staring: a clear view of each other over the tops of everyone's heads.

As unsettling as his stare is, you were used to it by now. That's apparently how Germans are? You excused yourself from your group and walked over to him. Even in your heels he was taller than you. Something you weren't used to.

"Evening."

You put your hand out. He takes it, his hands are rough and his grip strong.

"Abend."

He replies dryly. There's an awkward silence. What a charmer, this one. It didn't really matter though, he was hot. He was still holding your hand... it was getting sweaty. You pull away and wipe your hand on your skirt.

"So, uhm... Nice weather."

You try to wrangle a conversation out of him.

"Yes, it is... agreeable."

You want to laugh. He was kind of pathetic. It made him hotter somehow. You convince him to take a shot with you, hoping to losen him up. You manage a few more words out of him; his age and "name". Or whatever he preferred to be called. Your girlfriends find and encircle the both of you. He immediately tenses up while they bombard the two of you with questions. You shoo them and they giggle walking off.

The rest of the night is filled with the same failed attempts at conversation. At this point it's just niceties, you're gonna sleep with him whether he talks or not. He knows that. You shoot a text to your girlfriends and share your location while he whisks you away to his place.

As soon as the door to his place closes, he pins you against the wall, grabs your neck, and plants deep kisses on your lips. It takes you back a little, expecting him to be a little more shy. But you're not complaining. You start tearing each other's shirts off, he audibly moans when your top comes off. He twirls his tongue around one pierced nipple, brushing a thumb over the other one diligently.

"So fucking beautiful, fits in my hand perfectly."

His wet mouth leaves a trail of sloppy kisses up your neck.

"Can you keep the heels on?"

He asks while unbuckling his pants. You oblige. He places a hand on your back and guides you to place your hands on a table in the hallway, making you face a mirror. You watch his face through the reflection as he lifts your skirt up, his eyes go wide. So soft and full. He's practically drooling, mumbling something about finally being able to stand and fuck someone properly for once. He pulls your panties to the side and flashes a goofy smile while rubbing himself between your slick folds. You'd laugh if you weren't absolutely horrified at how big he felt pressed up against your entrance. He looks up half-lidded,

"Fucking perfect for me, hm?"

Your knees almost buckled at his words. God, he's fucking hot. He teasingly slides his fat tip in and out of you until you beg for more, groans as he slides himself inside you. You clench around him as he gets deeper and deeper. Jesus, how much dick can one man have? He holds your hips and rocks back and forth slowly. Soft love taps to your cervix each time your hips touch his.

"Look."

He says while reaching to wrap a gentle hand around your neck to pull you back against his chest.

"See how good we look together, hm?"

You moan his name as he starts to pound into you. He's entranced with the way your soft ass bounces on his dick. He looks up into your eyes through the mirror while teasing your nipples.

"You take it better than anyone I've ever fucked before."

He kisses and nips your neck before he reaches down to grab both cheeks, spreading you out to get a better view of himself slipping in and out of you. The sight makes his dick jump inside you, which is an overwhelmingly delicious feeling. He leans over and snakes his hands around to the front of your thighs and squeezes them before sliding up between them, playing with your sensitive clit. He gets too rough with you. He thinks you can handle more since you're thicker and taller than most women he's been with. You can't. His dick is a battering ram. Your knees buckle.

"Come on mein Schatz, you can take it. Say you can take it."

How could you deny him? His voice is so soft and darling compared to the roughness of his actions. He grips your curvy hips and pulls them back onto his hips, hard. He fills you to the brim as you yelp. He didn't have a way to describe the way you made him feel. It was a nice change of pace from having to treat women like a piece of porcelain. He could rough you up a bit and you took it like a champ. He didn't have to bend in a way that made his back hurt the next morning. This was refreshing. He couldn't get enough. It went on for hours and hours.

"Made just for me."

He'd repeat into your ear every time you'd spasm around him. He folded you up and pounded into you until you couldn't see straight. He'd fondle every curve on your body, praising how nicely it bounced every time he strokes into you. You were supposed to fly out to England with your girlfriends the next day. Instead, he bought you a ticket to catch a flight after the weekend was over.

[theprettynosferatu]

CW: Non-consensual, Intox (aphrodisiac), Mind breaking.

Two years. Two fucking years of work down the drain. The worst two years of her life, working towards a goal she knows she’ll never see, and all because someone up the chain of command got bribed or threatened or who knows what else. What matters is someone fucking sold her out and now she’s bound up, staring at the gang of absolute sadistic freaks she has pushed herself so hard to infiltrate. 

Shit, the things she has done to be accepted as one of them! Well, “one of them” is stretching it. More like a trusted groupie, she figures. The amount of “slutty, fiery latina” acting she has been forced to do almost makes her throw up. It’s a stereotype and a racist one at that but damn it if these dumb motherfuckers raised by porn didn’t appreciate it, in a sick way. And all of it for a goddamn rumor.

They have this new shit, this kinda spray thing, makes any girl wanna fuck you like crazy… True Love, they call it.

Yeah, right. But still, the chance that such a drug could exist and flow through the streets, paired with some rather bizarre incidents of victims fighting to remain by their captor’s side… it was enough to try and get someone on the inside. And she’s ambitious, young, and most importantly, with the proper… attributes to play the gang-doll. Even now she almost wants to chuckle at the memory of the chief trying to explain that part, fighting so hard not to mention her ass. She’s not dumb. Wasn’t then, isn’t now. Without what she, modesty aside, considers the most spectacular ass in the city, the gang would have never even taken a second look at her. And she wouldn’t be here, now, tied up. 

Fuck. She realizes her mind is rambling, going on tangents, trying to escape the simple reality of the situation. She can’t move, and seven men are looking at her like she’s dessert, discussing exactly what to do to her. 

“Maybe we should use it, you know” one says.

She thinks she’s “it”, for a moment. She realizes she’s wrong as Karl, who has more muscles than brain cells and yet for some reason always calls the shots, removes one of the floorboards. Fuck! She has been in this warehouse dozens of times, looked everyone for evidence of the supposed magic drug, and has always come up snake-eyes. And it’s right fucking there, under the goddamn floor. What the fuck is it, the 1950’s? She’s tried every phone, installed keyloggers on laptops, learned every password- in her head, there had to be some clever operation at work, some devious method to keep such a huge deal secret. Nope. It’s under the fucking floor. She wants to tell them to untie her, just so she can kick her own ass. 

They laugh as they get naked, and a wave of shame crashes over her. She realizes she has seen all of these bodies before, and it makes her sick to her stomach. Sure, men get talkative when bragging and trying to get someone into bed. And men lower their guards after they bust a load- that is, if they don’t just roll over and fall asleep instantly. She has used that, over and over, to get information, to get chances to snoop.

Did she have to, though? That question has haunted her, and now it seems to grow solid, like a rock in her chest. Did she truly have to play up all those stereotypes to become some fucked up fantasy of whatever a hot latina is supposed to be? Did she have to buy all those booty shorts, those cheap jewels, those slutty heels? 

And didn’t a part of her enjoy the attention?

Fuck. Chances are she’ll die here, and she doesn’t want to die a delusional bitch. Yes, fine, being the center of attention felt nice. But the sex? No. That was awful. Pretending to be attracted to these meatheads, doing anything they wanted just so her reputation as a grade-A piece of ass would spread, faking orgasms…

Bull and shit. You’re dying here, Mariana. Stop lying to yourself. You didn’t fake all of them.

She’s yanked away from her little spiral of shame by the loud hiss of spray being applied. They’re passing a little can around, coating their cocks with… 

No. It can’t be real. It just can’t. There is no magic spray. It can’t possibly work. Sure, these idiots might think it does, but in reality, no, True Love isn’t a thing.

The images flow into one another like photographs. She knows, rationally, what is happening. A knife is cutting her bindings as two sets of hands are holding her arms. Her shorts are being sliced, ripped off her. Her legs are being held wide open for Meathead Karl. She files these things in her mind, and feels nothing. She’s there, but she’s not really there. Ah, yes. Dissociation as a defense mechanism for trauma. Mariana has read about it, and now feels mildly fascinated by the experience. 

The pain drags her back to reality. Her instincts kick in, and she braces for the suffering that is to come after that initial opening salvo. She grits her teeth, and…

The pain doesn’t come. She hears laughter as her eyes grow wide, a horrible realization dawning on her. The feeling between her legs is a warm thing, a pleasant thing, slithering up her body, unlike anything she has ever felt before. 

“Starting to hit you, Officer? Oh, this is just beginning”, someone says, his voice coming to her as if from a million miles away. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It’s real. Fucking True Love is real. Her mind reels, the interviews with previous victims rushing in her memories. The way they spoke about their abusers as if they were Gods. The way they defended them. The way they longed for them, like junkies going into withdrawal. She can’t become like them. She can’t lose herself like that. She can’t…

She can’t focus. Her mind is getting fuzzy as the delicious sensation reaches her nipples. Every inch of her skin feels sensitive, overwhelming. A pussy. My whole body is one giant pussy. She has no idea where the thought comes from, but it grows inside her as she squirms and little moans escape her lips. No. Don’t give them the satisfaction. Don’t moan. Don’t move.

“Oh, now you’re getting it. Don’t worry. It will get much, much worse”

Whose voice speaks? She can’t tell. She finds it harder and harder to care. Suddenly, her body betrays her as her hips start moving on their own, seeking pleasure, trying to coax the cock inside her deeper…

She feels on fire. She hates herself, hates how good every thrust feels, how much she needs more and more and more. Thoughts flood her, like a strange invasion taking over her mind. Cock. Cock feels good. Cock feels so fucking good. This is good. This is perfect. This is exactly what I should do. This is all I want. This is all I have ever wanted. Her mission starts to fade away. She can barely recall why she ended up being fucked like a good girl by this marvelous cock, and it feels so unimportant, so insignificant. Only the pleasure matters. She needs more. Her eyes cast around her. Cocks. Big, hard cocks, stiff for her. She starts drooling. The men laugh. She doesn’t care. There are hard cocks near her. Why aren’t they using her?

No. Snap back, Mariana. This isn’t you.

Why not?

Isn’t this better than whatever she was before?

One of the men lowered his body, his cock inches away from her face. She needs to taste it. She needs to wrap her tongue around it. She needs to worship it, body and soul.

“Oh, poor slut wants it?”

She’s not sure she understands the words. But she does understand, with a frenzied animal cunning, the desire behind them. They want her to beg. Some distant remain of sanity is pleading with her not to give in, not to surrender her voice, to keep some small part of her true self. It screams in vain.

“Please… give… cock…” she manages to mumble between moans.

“No. Not yet. You see, officer, your mind might be going, but your body is learning very fast. It’s so open now… And we intend to keep you around for a long time. No quick sell for you. So we need to… train you a bit”

Mariana knows the man is talking. The words don’t reach her until he starts playing with her nipples, and a single word takes over her entire existence.

“Cum”

She shakes. She screams. Her entire body is reduced to a single, shining sensation of absolute pleasure. She can feel something inside her breaking, giving in. She pants and a part of her expects the sensations to subside, but they don’t. If anything, the constant pleasure grows, leaving her right at the gates of another orgasm. She tries to grind, to move, to use the cock inside her to cum again…

“Not without permission, toy”, someone says. She almost manages to squeak out a complaint, but the stimulus is too strong. All she can do is squeal and moan.

The world swirls around her, colors heightened, bleeding into each other. She never wants to go back to the gray, solid, difficult past. She wants to stay here, be this- be pleasure.

“Cum”

Yes. She cums, and nothing else matters. This is all she needs. All she exists for. Her eyes are unfocused, her mouth hanging open. She feels the cock touch her lips before she even consciously sees it. The imperative is immediate. Suck. Lick. Take it deep in your throat. Use your tongue, pressure with your lips, the vibrations of your moaning. Use everything you are to please cock. 

“Cum”

Every time it gets stronger, going beyond whatever she ever thought possible. No mind can hope to withstand such a tidal wave of pleasure. As soon as she realizes they’re starting to move her, she hops up. The men don’t have to tell her what they want from her. She wants the same thing. She’s just holes. Holes need to be filled with cock. She impales herself on Karl’s dick and leans forward, letting him suck on her sensitive nipples, leaving her asshole ready, eager. She’s presenting herself like an animal in heat, and she’s loving every second of it. She’ll do anything to keep feeling like this, forever.

“Ass…” she manages to say.

“Not good enough, cunt. Come on, you can use your words better than that”

Words. Words for cock. Words to make cock happy. They own her words. They own her mind. They own her body.

“Please… use my ass… fuck my tight little hole… ram it hard! Wreck it! I need it so bad, need it so bad, need you to take me, take my ass, make me cum, never let me go, please please please…”

Even the pain feels good. Everything feels good. Humiliation feels good. Their mockery feels good. Their spit on her skin feels good. Obeying feels good.

One cock in her ass, using it with no care for her or any pain it might cause. One in her wet cunt, driving her mad. One in her mouth, using her like a breathing fleshlight. One in each hand, the promise of cum to come. This is it. This is bliss. This is heaven. This is all any woman could ever desire. This is home. 

“Such a good fucktoy…”, one mutters, trying to hold back his own orgasm.

The word infects her. Fucktoy. It starts overwriting everything inside her. Fucktoy. Her police training crumbles in her memory. Fucktoy. Her memories of her family fade away, forever. Fucktoy. Her hatred for cruel men vanishes. Fucktoy. Fucktoy. Fucktoy. It is all she is. All she has ever been. All she ever wanted to be. She’s mumbling it in between taking cock in her mouth. It rises like a gigantic obelisk in her mind, ruling over her, conquering all.

Fucktoy.

“Cum. Cum. Cum.”

Wave after wave of pleasure overtake her, crashing into each other, blasting away all that was and all that could ever be.

By the time she gets back something resembling consciousness, warm cum is coating her skin. She can feel the wonderful jizz inside her holes, taste it on her tongue still. She must have swallowed it. Like a good fucktoy. She feels so proud, so valuable, so beautiful. She made cocks cum. She was good. She was useful.

“Officer, remind me… what were you looking for?”

She looks at the man like a confused puppy.

“Cock?”

“I see. And what’s your name?”

She straightens up, full of pride. This one she knows.

“Fucktoy!”, she smiles.

Did you enjoy this story? You can support my work and get access to the full library at patreon.com/prettynosferatu

[cryobabyy]

Cooper Adams x Fem!Reader

Part (1/5)

oops my hand slipped and now I'm writing unhinged fanfiction for an M. Night Shyamalan movie.

He was peculiarly clean— too clean to be at a hardware store past midnight. No dirt on his jeans, or janitor's name patch, or construction vest. He smelt like most men— Irish spring, sandalwood, musk, bergamot, etc. In daylight hours, you wouldn't have thought anything about his tight and fawning smile, the gallon of industrial cleaning solution, and the seven yards of vinyl tarp he slides across the counter at the end of the month. He always smiles when he pays. You smile back despite your intuition advising against it. Something about the interaction feels cold. God, you sound like your fucking father.

OR

You work the graveyard shift at a hardware store with extended hours to put you through pre-med. You meet a DILF who is definitely not The Butcher.

Part 1/5

Glib (adjective)

1: Marked by ease and fluency in speaking or writing often to the point of being insincere or deceitful; superficial, smooth, slippery.

Working the graveyard shift at an extended-hour hardware store wasn't your first choice, but the pay was decent, and it was the only option that wouldn't clash with your med school classes. It wasn't so bad after pounding 2 iced coffees and a shot of espresso. Customers were few and far between— mostly construction workers, hotel maintenance guys, and the occasional emergency plumber looking for the perfect thingamajig to help undo the 1 am explosion of some poor soul's toilet. It was quiet enough to study; you only had to sit there and ring up the same crowd of blue-collar night owls until 3 am. 

And then there was him.

The odd one out.

A handsome man, 40's, tall, neat looking, dark brown eyes, with a picture of his kids in his wallet. He was friendly. Aggressively friendly. If he was your neighbor, you would tell your friends about the 6'3 Dilf with 90's heartthrob hair next door. The type to smile and wave if you catch him mowing the lawn when you grab the morning mail.

He was peculiarly clean— too clean to be at a hardware store past midnight. No dirt on his jeans, or janitor's name patch, or construction vest. He smelt like most men— Irish spring, sandalwood, musk, bergamot, etc. In daylight hours, you wouldn't have thought anything about his tight and fawning smile, the gallon of industrial cleaning solution, and the seven yards of vinyl tarp he slides across the counter at the end of the month. He always smiles when he pays. You smile back despite your intuition advising against it. Something about the interaction feels cold. God, you sound like your fucking father.

There's a voice in the back of your head that sounds just like him, declaring the stranger to be a 'white picket fence bastard' and a 'smarmy wasp motherfucker’ in his thick Philly accent. If he were still alive, he would tell you to watch out for him– that he was a deep state operative, a gang member, a lizard person, and other paranoid schizophrenic-fueled delusions. Toward the end, when he blocked out the windows with newspaper and craft glue, and covered all the carbon monoxide detectors with tin foil and duct tape, he insisted you should be afraid of everyone. You were only afraid of him. 

Sure, you held your keys between your knuckles when you walked to your car after night classes, and covered your laptop webcam with a sticky note, but you weren't your father.

No one was following you. No one was watching you. No one was preying on you. And the middle-aged man with a picture of his freckle-faced, blonde, blue-eyed children in his wallet was not a serial killer. 

He even told you himself.

"Hell of a lineup, am I right?" He quips, offering a sheepish laugh. "I mean... a staple gun, drain cleaner, and tarp. I won't blame 'ya if you call the cops, but I promise it's not what it looks like."

You look up from the register to find a warm smile and upturned eyebrows– an almost embarrassed expression. An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air, the only sound between you two being a 24-hour soft rock radio station crackling through the ancient speakers. The stranger sighs, seemingly aware of his social misstep.

"My wife- I'm building her a Gardening shed. I'm putting up the insulation and drywall this week. And the Drano is for my kitchen sink. Keeps getting clogged. My son is fascinated by the garbage disposal for some odd reason. I don't even want to know what kind of shit he's been pouring down there." He rambles awkwardly. Guilt twists your heartstrings at the mention of the stranger's family. You may have inherited your father's suspicion, but you wouldn't let it control you.

"I've seen weirder." You lie with a smile. The stranger chuckles, broad shoulders relaxing a bit.

"Really? I could always go back and grab some bleach, duct tape, rubber gloves, the works." 

You can't help but laugh at his corny effort to diffuse the tension. It's surprisingly effective.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to freak you out, sweetheart. I'm sure you meet some weirdos working a night shift like this."

"Not really. Just you…" You trail off, squinting to read the embroidered name on his windbreaker. You notice the emblem right above it– Ardmore Fire Department. He's a firefighter.

"Cooper Adams. " He holds out a hand for you to shake. Your father's paranoia creeps into your mind. You freeze, meeting his dark brown gaze. Dad's gruff voice echoes in your head.

His smile doesn't reach his eyes.

He's plotting something.

Smarmy wasp motherfucker.

White picket fence bastard.

You swallow hard, shake his hand, smile back, and tell him your name– but only your first. You're not your father, but you're not a fucking idiot either.

"See? We're not strangers anymore. "  

"I guess not."

Cooper carts out his selection of items and waves goodbye, receipt caught between his two index fingers.

"Nice meeting you, sweetheart. Oh, and tell them to hire another cashier! You shouldn't be by yourself this late. God knows what kind of trouble is lurking around. Stay Safe!" He smiles again, his voice coated with the candor of a concerned neighbor. This time it reaches the glint of his eyes.

AO3

NEXT CHAPTER

[woozapooza]

Sopranos thought that is simultaneously just a quibble and not a quibble at all: 

I take issue with the idea that Tony quits therapy in 4x11 because he’s not getting anything out of it. He’s clearly not getting what he wants out of it, and you can debate how much of that is his fault vs. Melfi’s fault vs. no one’s fault, but regardless, if that’s how he feels, he’s certainly within his rights to quit. (Contrary to what a weirdly large number of people on Tinder believe, going to therapy is not a moral obligation). But the claim that he’s not getting anything out of it is obviously not true: if Melfi wasn’t doing anything for him, he wouldn’t have called her a mere two episodes later after his fight with Carmela. On top of that, he blocks Melfi’s number so she can’t call him back. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t think he might be tempted to pick up, and he wouldn’t be tempted to pick up if she really wasn’t doing anything for him. 

So, what was she doing for him? She was providing something he can’t get anywhere else: emotional support! A place where he can be vulnerable! Remember, one of the final straws for Tony was that thing Svetlana said in the previous episode: “That's the trouble with you Americans [...] You have everything, and still you complain. You lie on couches and bitch to your psychiatrist.” I’m not going to say Svetlana was entirely wrong, though I also don’t think Melfi was wrong to say, basically, “okay, and what of it?”; that’s all beside the point. The point is that, in making this criticism and in saying (100% justifiably) that she doesn’t want to “prop [Tony] up,” Svetlana unwittingly played into the exact insecurity that’s plagued Tony since he first set foot in Melfi’s office: the fear that he’s not “the strong, silent type.” Tony doesn’t quit solely because he’s not seeing the progress he wants to see, he also quits because he’s insecure about needing emotional support, even from someone who, unlike Svetlana, literally gets paid to provide it. 

I say that this is a quibble because “he’s getting nothing” and “he’s getting a place to talk about his feelings without judgment, but nothing else” aren’t hugely different statements. But I also say that this is not a quibble at all because I feel that viewers who dismiss the emotional support aspect are, whether they mean to or not, buying into Tony’s worldview in which bottling up your feelings and traumas—at least, until they explode in the form of violence and/or panic attacks—is a mark of strength. And I don’t like that very much, to tell you the truth! Again, quitting is 100% his right. It’s his time and his money. But it bothers me when viewers don’t acknowledge the role of ego and insecurity in that decision. The strong, silent type is a myth. Humans, even mob bosses, have emotional needs, and you can’t make those go away just by pretending really hard. For example, I’ve had this rant bottled up inside me for a while, and now, having gotten it out, I feel way better. Does that make me weak? No, it makes me a blogger, which is a noble thing to be 💅

[nevertheless-moving]

Considering the amount of emotional and moral nuance he managed to muster up immediately post Guanyin temple (despite having a terrible week and zero good role models) AND considering his front row seat to the dissection of Jiang Wanyin and Wei Wuxian’s downfall, I think that in a time travel fix-it, Jin Ling would actually be pretty successful at brute forcing yunmeng family therapy.

I mean he'd probably cry, but even that would be good! Because 1) modeling negative male emotions beside anger, and 2) Oh shit that’s shije’s kid we made Shije’s son cry, fuck, fuck! Bam! Instant high ground! Also he has the most authority of any second gen character by virtue of the fact that he could pull “DO YOU WANT MY MOM TO DIE??? BECAUSE YOU TWO ACTING LIKE MORONS IS WHAT GOT MY MOM KILLED! NOW SIT DOWN AND SPIT OUT ALL YOUR FUCKING SECRETS OR MY MOM WILL DIE AND I’LL BREAK YOUR LEGS!!” It would work! Tell me it wouldn't work!

Not to mention once he gets a few sect leader years under his belt, he might be the best person to manage a fix-it, in general. He's got perspective. He's got political training. Others might get too caught up on the specifics of the Wen remnants or the Ying Tiger Tally or Vengeance against One Person or Another — Jin Ling is critiquing the basic structure of how Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng are living their lives and he's getting away with it.

He would even be good at dealing with Jin Guangyao, the slipperiest motherfucker in the timeline. Jin Ling's got as good a handle as anyone on his motivations, and he has sincere (if messy) affection for him, which would hit Guangyao right in his weak spot. Depending on your headcanons it may or may not be in vain, but he's got a real chance of getting the man to set some more modest and less destructive life goals.

Similarly, I think he'd do a pretty decent job at a harsh-but-fair critique of Xichen's neutrality and Mingue's rigidity and Huissang's delibrate uselessness, though getting them to listen would be more of a crapshoot.

All of this makes it especially funny how badly he would handle Wangxian.

For context: Wei Ying and Hunguang-jun are not just the gayest people Jin Ling has ever met, they are the gayest people he's ever HEARD of.

He wouldn't want to bring it up. He wouldn't mean to. He doesn't want to talk about it. But when he inevitably calls Wei Ying a slur only to be met with genuine bafflement? Jin Ling would completely lose his shit.

Because I don't think Wei Ying is going to get offended, or defensive, or have a response that his nephew could coherently mock. Wei Wuxian thinks 'hey these time traveling guys are actually pretty funny!' Him and Whom? Not even a serious topic of contention. You got me for a second, haha.

Jin Ling would break. Wei Ying eventually says something the effect of "I'm straight? Obviously?" and Jin Ling would nod once, start screaming, then climb across the table to strangle him.

It's — look. How do you fucking explain that all of the worst moments of your life were, in someway or another, characterized by Wei Wuxian and Lan Wanjii being FLAMBOYANTLY into one another.

The man who saved his life also killed his father and Jin Ling stabs him but it feels awful and — ok Lan Wanjii is cradling Wei Wuxian tenderly. Ok they're just going to go. They're leaving like that. Hunguang Jun was — is — was the Yiling Patriarch's widow, so that's another layer to add onto everything else. Hunguang-Jun is visibly expressing emotions with his face and voice and Jin Ling is going to go throw up now

Jin Ling's kidnapped at the burial mounds and everyone’s lost their spiritual energy and all his friends and family are going to die and — those two are smiling at eachother. They're telling inside jokes. They're holding hands.

Jin disciples (his own clans disciples) just shot at him and and Xiao-shushu really is what people sa— WEI YING SHOUTS ABOUT WANTING TO FUCK LAN WANJII

THEY ARE IN THE MIDDLE OF BEING KIDNAPPED AND HE DOES THIS

Jujiu is bleeding from the stomach and crying he's bleeding and crying his jujiu is doing that and Xiao-shushu caused it and his whole life is a lie and Hunguang Jun and the Yiling Patriarch are visibly groping in a corner.

And then they never stop groping again. Forever.

So yeah, I'm quite confident that if Jin Ling had to be even peripherally involved with coaching Wei Wuxian through a bisexual awakening and homoerotic courtship, he would explode. He would black out with rage. He'd make an honest and embarrassingly unsuccessful attempt at killing Lan Zhan. He would walk into a lotus pond and stay there until he drowned. He'd start heavy drinking. He'd punch a random passerby in the dick.

In conclusion, Need More Jin Ling Time Travel Fics

[lost-romantique]

The Way He Lit up His Life- Baby Stolitz Circus Edition (Part 1)

I love the way Blitz manages to light up Stolas' life, even when he never meant too.

Stolas starts off his birthday fucking elated. Of course he would, IT’S HIS MOTHERFUCKING BIRTHDAY!

"You will be entrusted with the study of the Earth's skies, the stars, the prophecies they hold, all that stuff. Isn't that fun!"

Stolas is given his life's mission as a Goetia, and he couldn't be happier!

This is best birthday ever! Absolutely what can go wrong!?

WHAT DO YOU MEAN I'M BEING FORCED IN AN ARRANGED MARRIAGE WITH A PSYCHO!

Stolas is forced into an arranged marriage with Stella, and he's devastated. He begins to cry.

His father who is so good at daddying, mind you, suggests they go to the circus in town.

Stolas does not want to go, he's miserable. His birthday is ruined.

Stolas is at the circus now, he has to have a fun time at the circus... right? RIGHT?

Despite all the cool shit that's happening before him, Stolas is miserable. He doesn't even bother looking at the performances.

He even flicks away the peanuts off his grimoire.

This baby birb is fucking miserable.

Absolutely nothing can make this day go better...

Suddenly, he sees HIM.

The boy wonder, the man who will become the poster child for severe self-hatred, BLITZO BUCKZO!!!

But Stolas doesn't see that...

All he sees is a little imp boy with the biggest smile on his face. Stolas is smitten.

Could this be what they call love at first sight? Who knows...

All Stolas knows is that absolutely nothing has caught his attention, OTHER THAN HIM!

The moment Blitz lands on stage, Stolas does a double-take. HE DOES A MOTHERFUCKING DOUBLE TAKE!

Whenever Blitz is on stage is the only time Stolas truly enjoys his time at the circus. All of his focus is on that little imp boy who can't make a fucking horse balloon to save his life.

"Well, heh. It was a horse, but then it ate too much sugar and its legs stopped working, so he had to amputate. Now, it's a gross worm horse."

Blitzo makes a stupid joke no one laughs at, but Stolas... this baby birb finds it fucking hilarious. He's charmed.

Blitzo sees that and he acknowledges his existence, almost instantly. He sees the only boy that would laugh at his stupid joke.

Suddenly Fizz comes in, makes a perfect horse in record time, and everyone laughs at his joke instead. Thereby stealing whatever thunder Blitzo had.

But you know the funny thing... Stolas doesn't laugh at Fizz's joke. Actually he's almost offended that everyone completely ignored Blitzo's joke.

"I liked his broken horse joke, it was funny. Their legs do stop working when they eat too much sugar, it's called laminitis."

Paimon looks at Stolas curiously, giving his son the eye as Stolas proceeds to laugh to himself because Blitzo's joke is that funny!

The scene ends with a closeup shot of a smiling Blitzo.

~~~

I find it adorable just how quickly Stolas' boredom changes the moment he sees Blitz on stage.

Stolas was just given the life changing news that he was going to be forced into an arranged marriage, and he's miserable. He doesn't want to go to the circus. Only for all that change the moment he sees Blitzo.

It's so cute just how smitten he is, how enchanted Stolas gets when he sees Blitzo on stage. How the worse day of his life turned into one of the best all because he sees him.

Please watch out for my future posts as I analyze all the Stolitz scenes in The Circus.

[anamericangirl]

What's telling to me about how sick people can be is that Trump was nearly killed, someone in the crowd WAS killed, multiple other shots went out, the whole thing was a terrifying event that everyone in the world should be able to agree was scary And yet I see the media on the left trying to spin this "Well this is to be expected, he's so radical and so fascist that of course someone tried to kill him" and "#YOUMISSED" is trending on Twitter Mask is fucking off and I'm done hitting Anon when I send asks to you, these people have truly shown they have no empathy, no sympathy, and are bloodthirsty. People get shot up in a school and their first thought is "This is why we need to ban guns" and "This is because of ultra-MAGA"

Some unhinged motherfucker actually attempts to kill the former president and kills someone in the crowd and the left turns it into a fucking hashtag and an opportunity to try to blame it on Trump even though he's the one that got shot at.

The left are fucking deranged, and I know better than most because I used to be ON the left. I shaved half my head, I had blue hair, I lived with liberal pedophiles (literally) in Ohio for 2 years who wore diapers around the house and bitched about Elon Musk and Trump every fucking day. I know these people are psychopaths and now they have finally just outright announced to the world how sick they are.

Even fucking Biden tried to call the hospital Trump was at to ask if he was okay, EVEN DARTH FUCKING BRANDON CARED ABOUT TRUMP and yet these Twitterlibs and liberal media fuckwads are just jumping on the opportunity to go "Aww man #YouMissed, you fired 5 shots how come you couldn't get him, you fucked up, omg"

For fuck sake hate the man all you want but SOMEONE TRIED TO KILL HIM AND AN INNOCENT PERSON'S BRAIN GOT REMOVED FROM THEIR HEAD, FOR FUCK SAKE HAVE AT LEAST A MODICUM OF SYMPATHY FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE YOU FUCKING SAVAGES.

If this doesn't turn people away from the democrat party then nothing will. Trump was not the only victim of this shooting. A couple of people were injured, an innocent person was killed and still the only thing we hear from leftists is annoyance that the shooter missed.

And while we are rightly angry at the spins the msm is putting on this assassination attempt, they have to put that spin on it or eat their words for the last 8 years. They've been characterizing Trump as a fascist tyrannical dictator since 2016. They've spun him to be Hitler 2.0 telling everyone he's a threat to democracy and leading people to believe he's a threat to their very lives. The "trans genocide" and "kids in cages" the "don't say gay" bill all that nonsense is always, always linked back to Trump and if they turn around now and condemn this attempt on his life what would that say about them? Either they will have to expose themselves as the liars and propagandists they are or they will have to be seen as being sympathetic towards literally Hitler. And narrative is more important to them than anything.

Which explains why they were trying to avoid reporting what happened like the plague. The headlines I saw in the aftermath, after we already knew Trump had actually been hit by the bullet were things like "Trump escorted offstage after gun shots were heard." "Loud popping noise heard at Trump rally." And other variations of that headline. And still leftists don't question why after Trump was shot every single mainstream media outlet had the same headline and they all avoided saying Trump had been shot or an assassination attempt had been made.

They can’t come out and say this was wrong because it will mean they will have to admit to something even worse: that they were wrong.

But of course the people currently in office can't come out and condone the shooting. That would look very bad. So yeah, it's good that Biden stood up there and said the right words and made an effort to contact Trump but how convenient that this happened a mere couple of weeks after the democratic party has abandoned and turned on Biden so his words and condemnation will be buried and ignored and mean nothing.

For the last 8 years, though, Joe Biden and every other democrat in office, paired with the media, have been villainizing Trump for his rhetoric. Everything bad thing that happened was directly the fault of Trump because of his "dangerous rhetoric." But the rhetoric they've employed against Trump and all conservatives since that time has been the worst fearmongering and slander I've ever seen so they are directly to blame for this shooting because of their rhetoric. No more "rules for thee but not for me." They have to live in the world they made.

Leftism, as I'm sure you've seen first hand what with your experience of being one and living in that environment, is no longer about what you support, it's just about who you hate. And every sane person still aligned with them is waking up. The mask has been slipping for years and most of us were able to see who they really were way before it fully fell off but there is no mask now. They're not even trying to hide it.

They have the ideas they pretend to support when told to, but all leftists are only united by one thing: hate.

Their heroes are criminals like Michael Brown, George Floyd and Trayvon Martin. And they hate police until they shoot and kill Ashli Babbitt who's only crime was being a Trump supporter at the capitol on January 6.

They still bemoan the killing of a pedophile, wife beater and injury of a career criminal who were shot because they tried to murder a child while villainizing the child they tried to kill because he successfully defended himself against their attack.

To this day they spin their violent riots as "mostly peaceful protests" while the January 6 protest was a "violent insurrection."

The rapes and murder on October 7 were a justified response to "occupation" but anything Israel does is "genocide."

During covid they freaked out about "public health" and wanted everyone vaxxed and masked to "save lives" but when Trump got covid they all immediately wanted it to kill him.

When a white boy shoots up a school it’s an example of how evil white people and right wing gun nuts are but when a trans person shot children at a Christian elementary school the main focus of leftists, all the way up to the White House, was the danger the trans community would allegedly be in from right wing retaliatory violence and how “hateful Christian rhetoric” was responsible for the shooting.

And none of this has anything to do with the values they claim to adhere to. All of their positions on every single issue come down to who it is they hate the most of the people involved. So their "values” change by the second.

So the violence, depravity and dangerous rhetoric is pretty much 100% on their side but watch them try and spin this assassination on Trump as Trump's own fault. And watch leftists just unquestioningly go with it or just try to distract people with more fear mongering about Project 2025 or something else stupid like that.

The only thing that bothers them about this shooting, other than the fact that the shooter "missed', is that this has pretty much guaranteed Trump is going to win the election. And of course they can't stand that after all they've done to try and make sure that doesn't happen.

[dumbseee]

rumours, part two.

part one.

jude bellingham x influencer!reader.

fc: nailea devora.

_

groupchat: it girls 💕

larray:

ain’t no way you’re dating jude fucking bellingham and haven’t told us

y/n:

larry istg i’ll cut your hair in your sleep if you keep believing those DUMB rumours

oliviarodrigo:

girl

he’s hot asf why don’t you shoot your shot?

y/n:

with a footballer?

hell fucking no

these guys don’t know what being faithful to one person means

and i’ve heard plenty of shit about this jude guy

larray:

yeah me too tbh

y/n:

i’m not getting involved with him, period.

larray:

okay but what about his teammates?

y/n:

larry.

larray:

DO IT FOR ME

_

liked by judebellingham, yourbestie, larray and 789 928 others.

y/n: girls night 🥂

_

fan1: JUDE LIKED???

fan2: is she lying to us?? bc why would he like her posts now?

fan3: I JUST CHECKED AND HE’S FOLLOWING HER NOW TOO

fan4: maybe she lied to protect their privacy?? that would make sense tbh

fan5: you look so good 😍

fan6: she’s such a baddie omg, jude i get it now

fan7: didn’t know who she was before the whole jude drama but omg i love her

fan8: LEAVE JUDE ALONE YOU FREAK

fan9: petition for jude’s groupies to leave y/n alone

fan10: MOTHER

fan11: y/n please do another grwm i’m obsessed with your videos

fan12: how to be like her, she’s hot asf and has THEE jude bellingham at her feet

view all comments.

_

insta dms:

y/n:

wtf is wrong with you?

i told you to tell your fangirls to leave me alone and what are you doing? you LIKE my posts and you follow me now?

leave me alone, jude.

judebellingham:

you looked good

you always look good*

are you free, tomorrow night?

y/n:

can’t you READ?

LEAVE. ME. ALONEEEEE.

or i’m pressing charges on you hoe.

judebellingham:

so it’s a yes?

i’ll send you the tickets and my jersey, someone will come pick you up, what’s your address?

y/n:

wtf

what do you mean?

judebellingham:

we’re playing against sevilla and i want you to come

y/n:

we don’t even know each other tf??

is that how you get all those girls to get obsessed with you?

that ain’t gonna work with me, boy.

judebellingham:

hm, i like you already.

y/n:

well, i hate you.

judebellingham:

haha

turns me on, love it.

y/n:

i am BLOCKING you

_

i hate him. i fucking hate him. who does he think he is? making me come see him to his stupid game, what am i, his mother? seriously i could’ve stayed at home, binge-watching the twilight movies like i do every year. now i have to go to his fucking football game, it’s going to be so nosy, damn it. and before you ask me, YES i am getting ready and i am wearing his jersey. not because i want to, but i know that i won’t hear the end of it if i don’t do it. yeah, i’m doing it because he’s forcing me, no other reason.

like jude said, someone did pick me up to take me to the bernabeu stadium, and i can’t believe i’m doing this. the venue is full of fans wearing either their real madrid jerseys or their sevilla jerseys. i can see men, women, kids, elderly people, they’re all here to have fun and support their favourite team and i have to admit that it’s a cute sight. let’s just hope that they don’t kill each other’s at the end of the match. i’m quickly escorted to the vip section, where friends, family and important people would seat for the game.

"oh my god, is that y/n?" a voice called from behind, i closed my eyes shut, fuck, and walked faster, i should’ve wore a mask to hide my face. if anyone picture me in this stadium with that motherfucker’s jersey on, it would end my career and i’m half exaggerating.

thank god, the vip section was secluded from the other people. the game started and i had to admit that it was fun to watch when you weren’t really supporting anyone. no stress, just having fun watching men run after a ball, just like dogs. jude was actually good, i never looked him up on the internet to watch his performances, i just knew he was the internet’s favourite whore and girls were thirsting over him. he was good looking, of course, no one could deny that, but more than anything he was annoying as fuck. i surprised myself, cheering for him when he scored a goal, what was wrong with me.

real madrid was actually leading the game with two goals against one. jude’s teammate passed the ball to him and he scored his third goal of the match. okay now, why did this motherfucker just point at the crowd, more specifically towards me? people turned around to see where he was pointing at, but thankfully they couldn’t see me. my heart definitely sank when he did that though, seriously what is wrong with this guy! it was a cute gesture, yes, but we weren’t dating and i promised myself to never date an athlete, tried it once and promised to never doing it again. jude was everything i hated in a man, he was reckless, cocky, full of himself and he knew he was hot. nothing worse than a guy who knows he’s handsome.

_

"how was i?" he asked, this big smile plastered on his face, i wish i could tear it off his face. "fine, i guess." jude made a weird face and put his hands on his hips. "fine? y/n, i was more than fine and you know it, scored three goals and they were all for you." he blew me a kiss and i swore i was about to knock him out. "yeah about that, someone could’ve seen me!" i said, slapping his arm, making him laugh. "darling, that’s what i wanted." okay, the way he was looking at me may or may have not made my heart skip a beat. "jude, i’m starting to believe that the fans gaslighted you into thinking we’re already dating." he laughed, making my cheeks heat up just a bit. "i just want to give the fans what they want to see." he shrugged and put his arm around my shoulders to start walking out of the changing room. i imediatly pushed his arm away and speed walked in front of him to hide my red cheeks. of course, the bitch was laughing at me, running to catch me and poking my cheeks to mock me. "aww, you’re blushing? i thought you hated me, darling." i put my hands on my cheek. "fuck you! it’s just hot in here!" "it’s literally minus two degrees, y/n."

_

liked by judebellingham, jobebellingham, oliviarodrigo and 890 918 others.

y/n: maybe football isn’t so bad 🙄

_

judebellingham: like the view? 👀

y/n: shut up.

fan1: SHE POSTED JUDE???

fan2: Y/N DID YOU LIE TO US???

y/n: WE’RE JUST FRIENDS GUYS OMG

judebellingham: for now* 🫢

y/n: jude istg…

fan3: OMGBSJSOSLSLMDMSLZ WTF

fan4: i am literally shitting bricks what the FUCK

fan5: i love the banter lmao they’re fun

fan6: i ship it tbh

fan7: y/n being a wag for 2024 omg

fan8: i love how she’s fighting it but we all know how it’s going to end

fan9: Y/N NOOOOOO NOT A FOOTBALLER

oliviarodrigo: well, well, well 👀

y/n: please not you too

larray: will you look at THAT

y/n: LARRY SHUT UP IM BEGGING

fan10: lmaoo even her friends are ratting her out

fan11: #savey/n

view all comments.

_

insta dms:

y/n:

ARE YOU KIDDING ME

DID YOU REALLY DM POP BASE TO TALK ABOUT US???

judebellingham:

mmh, i don’t know what you’re talking about

y/n:

jude bellingham.

judebellingham:

okay maybe i did

BUT I DIDN’T KNOW THEY’D RAT ME OUT LIKE THAT

y/n:

FOR FUCK’S SAKE

judebellingham:

anyways it’s not a big deal tbh

are you free tonight?

y/n:

no.

judebellingham:

nice, i’ll come pick you up at 9 <3

y/n:

are you BLIND?

i said no bitch

judebellingham:

suddenly i can’t read.

_

liked by judebellingham, larray, sabrinacarpenter and 901 927 others.

y/n: get you a man who eats his spaghettis with his hands 😍

_

judebellingham: i wonder who is this gentleman 🫢

y/n: yeah i wonder too 🙄

fan1: pls not jude carrying y/n’s purse

fan2: they’re so cute stop

fan3: my favourite couple

fan4: PARENTS

fan5: lmao i bet jude is the one who begged her to be his gf

y/n: yes.

fan6: JAISOSPXLD’´S

view all comments.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 7 - The Blinding Ultra-Violence

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: Can y’all please let me know if the long chapters are harder to digest? Because I love writing them, but if they actively impair enjoyment of the story I can start to cut them in half. Chapter Title from DEVIL by Shinedown.

Word Count: 13k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Everyone has a lesson in actions and their subsequent consequences. Emphasis on mental health issues warning for the chapter: specifically suicidal ideation and PTSD.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, fluff, angst

Read on A03!

Chapter 6 - Chapter 8

Taglist: @lordofthunderthr @kritara @sukunassfinger, @justiceforquentin @acciditties

@c1gs-coffee @manicjk

Want to be tagged? Just ask!

Free will was cruel, and you had some choice words for whatever had given it to you. "Words,” meaning several unspeakable acts of violence, a wide variety of cuss words and vulgar phrases that would leave even Ben agape, and at least one loud, feral scream.

Free will had allowed you to attend a fancy party at Vought, a party that put you in a silk dress and winged eyeliner with glossy lips. Free will had let you do one, two, three shots and gotten you tipsy enough that when the elegant woman with strawberry hair had asked if anyone wanted to sing on stage, asked the crowd if there was at least one guest who wasn’t tone deaf and could do a passible rendition of Moon River, you’d raised your hand. Free will had made you not do a fourth shot, so that when you started to sing you didn’t stumble around the stage, missing notes and embarrassing yourself, but had put on a perfect show, singing and swaying in time to the music.

Later, you had learned that the woman with the strawberry hair had been killed later that night, and Free will had allowed you to feel sorry about it. Free will had you visit her grave in the dead of night in a thunderstorm, and let you sing Moon River one last time.

Free will had allowed you to cave when Butcher and the Boys had found you in a different graveyard, only a month later. Free will let you stick with them all the way to the barn. Free will was what had you coming up with very, very stupid plans.

Not this plan, though. You loved this plan. You loved this plan enough that you hadn’t waited even a half hour after thinking of it to call Butcher, or two minutes after Butcher had screened your call to turn around and call MM instead.

“What’s wrong?” MM had picked up after two rings, and you could almost see his worried frown with his words. “Did Soldier Boy-“

“Ben’s in the living room yelling at a documentary about World War II.” You’d dismissed. “He likes to point out all the alleged inaccuracies. I have a plan, I need everyone here by tonight.”

“Uh,” MM said your name apprehensively. “I don’t think that’ll really work.”

“Look, I know everyone’s probably still freaked out about last night, but this is really important-“

“No, that’s not it. We’re fine. Butcher’s still being a fucking ass about it, but everyone else- Hey!” MM had yelled away from the receiver as something banged in the background, accompanied by muffled shouts.

“Uh, MM?” You’d frowned. “Where are you?”

“Ohio.”

“Ohi- why are you in fucking Ohio?”

“Soldier Boy’s shield is here. Turns out it’s been so motherfucking difficult to get because Vought has their hands on it, and they’ve been keeping it in a warehouse in Akron.”

“I thought it had been flown from Jacksonville, with the suit?”

“Nope. Akron. We didn’t know until a few days ago, even Mallory thought it was just waiting in cargo at JFK.”

You’d glanced down the hall to make sure Ben hadn’t heard that his shield was in Ohio, a state he’d once called “America’s shitstained taint” while watching a football game. You heard him shout “fucking commies didn’t do goddamn shit about the Nazi’s, fuck off!” And decided you were in the clear.

“When do you think you’ll be done?” You’d asked, keeping one ear open in case Ben decided to stop fighting with Ken Burns’ voice and join you in the kitchen.

“If Butcher keeps it together and nobody sees Annie and tips off Vought? Tomorrow night.” MM had answered tensely.

“Ok, come right here when you get back. Like I said, I've got a plan, but it’s time sensitive.” You gone to hang up, but paused with your finger over the button. “Don’t die.” You’d added, and heard MM’s grunted acknowledgment just before the call dropped.

Somehow they’d managed to meet MM’s prediction, and all returned in one piece. The team had stood awkwardly in the kitchen—almost everyone avoiding full eye contact with you despite MM’s claim of everything being fine—as you and Ben had sat at the counter, Ben making a mediocre effort to fake some sort of hospitality per your request.

“Thanks to Ashley,” you’d started. “We know Sage told Homelander that I’m in New York and Ben’s awake.”

“Yeah, we’re really sorry about that.” Annie had said your name apologetically. “We should’ve been more careful-“

“No, it’s fine. I’m fine.” You’d cut her off, giving Ben’s shin a swift kick behind the counter before he could’ve said anything, his disbelieving scorn at your statement running through where your arms were brushing. “And we can use this.”

“Use what?” Hughie had frowned, and you’d continued.

“They haven’t told anyone else about it. We weren’t even sure they knew until Ashley told us. I’m not anticipating them to start alerting the media about me anytime soon, but they should’ve announced that America’s number one traitor is back from the dead and out to attack the innocent.”

“Fucking rude.” Ben grumbled, and a surprisingly bruised feeling ran through you. “All I do is help you, Sunshine, and that’s how you fucking thank me?”

You gave him a quick, half-apologetic, half-annoyed look. I’m being sardonic for arguments sake, and you know it. He’d just rolled his eyes, returning his attention to the mozzarella sticks you’d heated up before the Boys arrived.

“But they haven’t done that,” you’d continued, giving Ben one last dirty look. “Which means-“

“They’re saving it for something.” Annie had finished your sentence with a thoughtful frown.

“Exactly. Sage has some sort of plan, some dramatic and complicated way to fear monger people, turn everyone against Starlight by saying you released Soldier Boy, and have been risking public safety by letting him run rampant for your own anti-American reasons.”

“You want to get ahead of it.” MM had said, eyes narrowed.

You’d nodded, and shared your plan. Now, two days later, you were squished in the back of the van between Hughie—a well placed towel separating any physical contact—and Ben—who despite many protests was eating your burger—watching Firecracker and The Deep sing in a way that made you want to permanently remove your ears.

You visibly recoil as The Deep looks into the camera, and Ben looks up from eating to watch the video as it plays on Hughie’s laptop.

“Fish-boy sounds like a fucking constipated cowboy,” Ben mutters through a mouthful of food.

You hum in agreement. “You even sounded better on your stupid Rapture video.”

Ben scowls, taking another large bite that muffles his words. “I was fucking fantastic in that.”

“You were certainly, technically, singing.” You look up at him with a grin. “With all the passion of a dying squid giving one last, mighty squirt.”

“I don’t ’squirt’, Sunshine.” Ben grumbles, and you can see the moment every filthy thing he could say pops into his head. He takes a rough swallow, mouth opening to say something that will undoubtedly make Hughie regret volunteering to stay in the van, and you cut him off.

“Before you say anything, keep in mind that is still my burger, meaning I have every right to take it back and shove it right up your ass.”

Ben glowers at you, taking another aggressively large bite. “Bitch.” He grunts, and a piece of lettuce falls fully out of his mouth. Though you can feel his dirty look in your direction, you can also feel a spark of amusement run from where your knees are touching into your chest.

“Cunt.” You pick the lettuce off his lap and throw it into his face. “You eat like a squid too.”

“The only thing that me and squids have in common is our giant-“

“Okay!” Hughie shouts, pausing the video. “Soldier Boy, can you please not say something sexual for like, fuck, ten minutes?”

Ben doesn’t respond, invested completely in the burger, and you elbow him in the ribs.

He gives a loud cough, little bits of meat spurting out of his mouth. “What the fuck?!” When you incline your head to Hughie, Ben rolls his eyes and offers Hughie a grunted, “Fuckin hell- fine, you pussy.”

“Oh, ok.” Hughie blinks at Ben nervously before fumbling to unpause the video.

As the laptop catches up with the live feed, jumping to Firecracker bouncing over-excitedly around the now empty stage, Ben leans over you to get a good look at the screen.

“That’s her?”

“Yep.” You give the screen a glare. “Crazy brown-nosing bitch.”

Hughie lets out a noise of agreement, and Ben snorts. After another minute, in which Firecracker manages to say a record twenty-two objectively wrong things in a row, Ben grunts in annoyance.

“When I was at Vought, we had real goddamn talent, not whatever the fuck this is.”

“I know, in the 80s they managed to book a Pretty Boy squid who could kind of sing.”

Lettuce hits you in the face, and you let out a sputtering string of profanities.

“I can more than kind of sing, Sunshine. I have the voice of a goddamn angel. And that song didn’t make any fucking sense, I fucking blew it out of the fucking water- what the fucks so funny?”

“Nothing!” You try and smother the giggles that had built in you as he’d devolved into rambling ire. “You’re way angrier about this than I thought you’d be.”

“I’m not fucking angry-“

“I can feel it, Ben.” You press your leg further against his in reminder. “And even if I couldn’t, you just said ‘fuck’ so many times.”

“I’m not a damn pussy, I’ll swear as much as I fucking please-“ Ben falters slightly as the word slips out once more, and you grin at him.

“When you’re angry, every other word out of your mouth is ‘fuck’. It’s actually really funny.“

“I’m glad it’s amusing for you.” He’s glaring at you, but you can feel the rapid ebbing of his anger through your body.

“It is.” You shrug, and attempt an olive branch. “So was the Rapture video. I used to watch it all the time.”

“Really?” At your words, he’s suddenly giving a toothy, egotistical grin. “What, did you have a crush on me?”

“No,” You mirror his grin, even as you feel your cheeks heat and hear your sister’s teasing in your ear. “It was just really funny.”

He scoffs. “Like you could’ve done it any damn better.”

“Oh, I know I couldn’t have. I sing like a horse who chain smokes.” The lie slips through your teeth with practiced ease. “But nobody would be paying me whatever digusting amout they payed you.”

"Joke's on you, Sunshine. I bought a house with that money."

"Hm," you give him a toothy smile. "I think that makes the joke on Vought."

“I liked your dancing,” Hughie offers weakly. “It was… interesting.”

“See, Cocksucker gets it.” Ben says smugly, giving you a nudge as his attention refocuses on the video.

“That’s, that’s not my name…” Hughie sighs, and you offer him an apologetic, close-lipped smile.

Still leaning over you, Ben takes another bite of the burger as he watches Firecracker. “She’s got good tits,” he observes, and you tilt your head to look at him incredulously. “What?! She does!”

“You didn’t even last,” you look at the clock on Hughie’s laptop. “Five minutes.”

“That’s bullshit, I always last more than five minutes- Hey!”

You manage to fit the entire remaining burger into your mouth a once, chewing frantically before he can try and take it back from you. You give him a smug look. I warned you, Pretty Boy.

He narrows his eyes at you. I’ll make you fucking regret that, Sunshine.

You swallow, his promise of regret already catching up to you from the large bite as the food aches down your throat, and push Ben until he’s fully in his seat. “Her tits better not be nice enough that you decide to blow the mission.”

“Don’t worry, Sunshine, yours are better.” He ignores your venomous look. “And she’s with Homelander. Even the best fucking tits in the world couldn’t make up for choosing that pussy.” His eyes narrow at the screen. “I should just fucking go now, it’s been the same stupid shit for a damn hour.”

“No!” Hughie’s arm shoots out to hold him in his seat, before thinking better and pulling back just as fast. “No, they’re almost ready, please, can we just wait until they’re ready?”

Ben shoots you a look of questioning annoyance. I could just fucking go. Cocksucker couldn’t stop me, and we could all be fucking done and go home early.

No. We’re sticking to the plan. You glare back.

He rolls his eyes. Fucking stupid plan if it takes ten goddamn hours to set up.

You stick your tongue out at him, and turn back to Hughie. “Have they sent any updates? At least gotten the stage passes?”

“They aren’t supposed to check in for another three minutes.” Hughie shakes his head. “And MM’s still working on the stage passes. They’re $350 for some fucking reason.”

“I don’t need a stage pass.” Ben grumbles. “I could just walk in if you would give me the suit, none of those pussies would stop me.”

“The whole point is that you don’t have the suit. But…” You trail off, frowning to yourself. “Hughie, Ben might be right about the stage pass.”

Ben makes a satisfied “Ha!” as Hughie gives you a wide-eyed stare.

“But they can’t know he’s working with-“

“Butcher and Starlight, yeah, I know, it's my plan. But the whole idea is that he’s rogue. Soldier Boy, back from the dead once more, loose on the streets of Manhattan with no adult supervision.” You sweep your hand in a mock headline gesture, and pretend you can’t feel Ben’s indignance. “A real rogue hundred year old terrorist would not have a credit score that lets him buy Vought’s super-diamond-truther backstage pass.”

“So I can have my fucking suit-“

“No,” you snap, and Ben scowls. “That defeats the point even more than the stage pass. Your suit is known government property. It was being kept in a high-security warehouse in Florida. It would be really fucking suspicious if you were wearing it.”

“They were keeping my suit in Florida?!” Ben’s face coils in disgust. “Was my fucking shield in Florida too?! Fuck, is it still fucking there?! In goddamn, sweat-stained-“

“No, apparently Vought was keeping your shield in Ohio.”

“Fucking Ohio?!”

“This doesn’t really seem like it’s about the mission anymore,” Hughie says nervously.

“It’s not, it’s about you fucking dumbass cum guzzlers keeping my shit in goddamn Florida and Ohio- Fuck!”

You give Ben a warning glare, fingers still smoking, as he rubs his arm. “They survived it, and maybe if you put on your big boy pants you’ll manage to as well. Now-“ You turn to Hughie. “You should tell MM that we don’t need the stage pass before he spends a disgusting amount of money on it.”

As Hughie takes out his phone, closing his laptop and standing to cross the van for some semblance of privacy, Ben nudges you with a grunt of your name.

“I don’t like this.” He’s frowning at nothing in particular, and you can feel tight, solid concern through your body. “It’s too fucking public.”

You wrinkle your brow at him, eyes narrowing. “Since when do you give a shit how ‘public’ a mission is?”

“Since it’s a fucking liability. Too fucking public means too many fucking people that even I won’t be able to control.”

“That’s the point-“

“I fucking know ‘that’s the point’, Sunshine, you’ve made that real fucking clear.” Ben grunts, giving you an odd look as his tight feeling grows in your chest. “Doesn’t mean I have to like this fucking dumb plan.”

“Well,” you shrug. “I love it. It’s going to work, you’ll admit I’m a goddamn genius, and maybe Firecracker will start crying like a baby.”

Ben snorts, and a jab of his amusement hits you. But before he can make any snide comments, Hughie hangs up his call with MM and returns to where you and Ben are pressed against the wall of the van.

“Well, MM’s really not happy about it, but he agrees it’s smarter not to do the pass.” Hughie sighs. “And he says that Butcher’s on his way to get us. He should be here in five.”

You nod, turning to Ben with narrow eyes. “Repeat the plan to me.”

He rolls his eyes. “What, don’t you trust me, Sunshine?”

“To retain vital information about my plan that you’ve called ‘fucking stupid’ numerous times? Absolutely not.”

“It is fucking stupid.” He grunts.

You sigh. “Please, Ben. Humor me and pretend you give a shit for one minute.”

Ben’s leg tenses against yours, and something falters along your ribs. He scowls as he speaks in terse, clipped words.

“Get on the stage, make sure the cameras see me, neutralize that Firecracker broad, and beat her up, but don’t kill her for some fucking reason.” The last part is muttered resentfully, and you chose to pretend you don’t hear it.

“And then?” You prompt.

“Break the cameras, find you, and get back here.” He grumbles.

You nod in approval. “You have to make sure you break the cameras, Ben. Frenchie’s going to make sure that all the phones get fried, but you need to break the cameras. There can’t be any evidence you’re not working alone.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I fucking got it. Kill the bitch, break the cameras.”

“Do not kill Firecracker!” Hughie says frantically, giving you a desperate look and saying your name in a pleading tone. “Please don’t let him kill her.”

You elbow Ben in the gut as you respond. “He knows, he’s just being a fucking dick about it.”

“Fuck off, Sunshine,” he mutters. “And you should let me kill her. She’s not fucking innocent, she’s a goddamn lying bitch.”

“Nope. No killing her.” You say firmly, crossing your arms. “You only get to beat her up because we need to sell the whole ‘out for revenge’ narrative. That’s-“

“The point.” Ben finishes your sentence mockingly. “I fucking got it, Sunshine.”

You kick him again. “So prove it, Pretty Boy. No killing Firecracker.”

“What if she tries to attack me? I should be allowed to fucking defend myself-“

You snort. “Her power is being a dogshit human sparkler. Her attacking you would feel like this.” You poke Ben’s arm, and he frowns.

“I thought she was a fucking fire supe. Like you.”

“I mean, yeah. She technically is. But not all fire supes can have massive fucking horse cocks like mine.”

Hughie lets out a chocking sputter, and Ben rumbles a loud laugh that makes your stomach feel soft and warm. You’re saved from dwelling on how the feeling lingers, starting to spread through your body in time with an easy delighted, sensation that’s not yours, by the opening of the van door.

“Am I bloody interrupting something?” Butcher’s dry voice is raised over Ben’s laughter, an angry and wired frown across his face. “Or can we all stop jerking each other off and do our fuckin jobs?”

“Pull the damn stick out of your ass, Butcher.” Ben rolls his eyes. “We’re not the pussies who took a year to do recon on three fucking blocks.”

"Well, someone has to make sure you don’t blow your load all over a bunch of innocent civilians again.” Butcher sneers, and Ben’s fists curl at his sides.

“I have it under control, you fucking-“

“Butcher,” you interject, feeling something hot and bloody in Ben’s chest start to grow. “We’re ready?”

Not taking his eyes off of Ben, Butcher grunts. “We’ve been ready, Love. We’re just waiting on you bloody cunts.”

“Then let’s go.” You start to stand but have barely moved from your seat when Ben’s hands are on you, holding you in place.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Ben glares at you, and you feel that weird, tight concern along your skin again.

“On the mission, dumbass.” You snap, trying to pry his grip off of your thigh.

“No.” His hand doesn’t move, and the tight feeling grows. “Too fucking risky.”

“It’s my plan, Ben. Did you seriously think I was going to stay in the fucking van?”

He ignores you, turning to where Hughie and Butcher are watching the exchange, Hughie wide-eyed and Butcher scowling impatiently. “Tell her she’s fucking staying here with Cocksucker.”

“No can do, Mate. She goes where you go.” Butcher gives Ben a mocking grin, and another weird feeling writhes in your—Ben’s—gut.

“We’re right in front of fucking Vought, there’s going to be a shit ton of cameras-Fucking hell!” Ben’s hand jerks off of you, smoking and red.

“I’m a grown ass woman, Ben.” You hiss. “I know what I’m walking into, and I know what the risks are. And seeing as you somehow forgot, I’m in charge of you. I go where you go, and that’s not up for fucking debate. I can, I will handle my goddamn self.”

“Trust me, Sunshine, I know you can.” He says, facing his still-raw palm to you. “Doesn’t mean you have to fucking risk yourself for this bullshit-“

“It’s my fucking job!” You burst out. “The whole ‘find me’ part of the plan requires me to be in the fucking crowd, not sitting on my ass with Hughie!”

“What if fucking Homelander’s there? Then what?”

A painful ardor kicks up in your lungs. “He won’t be.”

“You fucking sure about that?” Ben’s voice is dripping with unconvinced cynicism.

“Why are you being so weird about this? It’s not like-“

Butcher gives an overdramatic cough over your words. “Oi, Bonnie and Clyde. I’d let you two fuck it out, but we’re on a bloody tight schedule. She’s coming, that’s that. Now get off your arses and let’s fucking move.”

“Shut the fuck up, you pussy. We’re not done with our fucking conversation.”

“Yes, we are.” You stand up, walking across the van. “Hughie, wait a bit until we’re out of the alley, then send Ben out. Ben,” you raise your hand, dropping fingers one by one as you run through the plan. “Get on stage, blast Firecracker, give her a few light punches, break the cameras, and find me. No casualties.”

“Maybe sprout some anti-patriot shit as well, Gov.” Butcher adds. “Really bloody sell it.”

You shake your head, giving Butcher an exasperated look. “No, we don’t know what Firecracker might say. What Homelander and Sage have told her. In, violent, and out. That’s it.”

You look back at Ben with a steel gaze, to find a glower of his face you’ve never seen before. His whole body is rigid, jaw clenched, mouth in a dropped scowl as his eyes burn through you. He’s looking at you in a way you aren’t able to read, but you feel like he wants you to. Everything about his face screams that you should be able to understand it, but you can’t.

“You’re, you're leaving me here with him?” Hughie’s voice is unsteady, and when you remove your eyes from Ben you find his face has grown pale.

“It’s only a few bleedin’ seconds, Lass. He don’t bite, don’t he?” Butcher gives Ben a cocky smirk.

“Fucking watch yourself, Butcher, I’ll crack your weak fucking skull and not break a sweat.” Ben snarls, eyes still on you.

Butcher scoffs, a taunting jeer in his voice. "No, you won’t. You don’t want to upset Sunshine.”

Ben’s eyes rip from you as he stands up at a freighting speed, body tense and fists clenched as he reaches his full height. For a second, you think you might have to interfere and prevent Butcher’s life from finding a brutal and inconvenient end in the alleyway, but Ben just gives him a violent, twisted growl.

“Count your fucking blessings that I have a job to do, you pussy. And sleep with one fucking eye open, because once this is over, I’m going to drown you in your own blood.”

Butcher gives him a mocking wink and turns to walk down the alley, leaving you scramble after him.

Before you’re fully out of the van, you turn and give Ben one last look. “No casualties.” You say, and almost against your will, your face draws into a look of and stay safe.

You don’t have time to read his face before you jog after Butcher, but the last thing you see of Ben is his arms still braced at his side, his eyes on yours with an almost feral look.

You catch up to Butcher right at the end of the ally, running face-first into his arm when he holds it out, halted before stepping onto the main street.

“Fucking ow, Butcher.” You rub your face where you’d collided, and over your fingers you barely have time to register the Noir baseball cap and jacket flying at your face, managing to catch them against your chest at the last second.

“Put them on.” Butcher says, and looking over the merchandise you see him leaning out the ally, watching the flowing crowds of pedestrians. People clad in red and blue Firecracker costumes and costume adjacect outfits, a few less in dark greens and Deep trademarked Love the Ocean like the Earth and Fish and Man are One shirts, and exactly one, a bouncing little girl with a tutu and big eyes, wearing a Homelander cape.

You look back down at the cap and jacket—which is a few sizes too big—and realize both were made by Uought International, and that Noir has been spelled as Noire. Looking up, you see that Butcher has pulled a Quen Maeve sweatshirt over his shirt, and is wearing green-tinted sunglasses that have little, blue Soldier Boy brand symbols along the frame.

“You shouldn’t wear those,” you point to your nose, mirroring where the sunglasses sit on Butcher’s face.

“Why, Love, you want them so you can feel close to Ben?” He mocks, and you roll your eyes.

“No, dumbass. Right now Soldier Boy is a dead American traitor who’s going to rise from the dead and commit an act of terrorism in like, seven minutes. It’s not smart to wear anything associated with him to ‘blend in’, especially if you’re pairing it with an off brand shirt of the woman who sacrificed herself to save the world from him.”

“You know just as bloody as well as me that Maeve is picking dandelions in California.”

“Yeah, and Soldier Boy isn’t dead, he’s in the van, probably trying to blackmail Hughie into buying him drugs. The internet is a liar sometimes.”

Butcher pulls off the sunglasses with a scowl and a dirty look in your direction before dropping them on your Noire jacket. “Put on your clothes so we can get a fucking move on. We wanna get outta here before Soldier Boy sees you and carries you back to the bloody van.”

You wrinkle your nose at him and pretend you don’t hear the questioning contempt of his voice, shoving the sunglasses into your back pocket before you pull on the jacket. You give Butcher a nod and step out into the current of the street.

The walk to Firecracker’s stage is silent, both you and Butcher angling your heads down from the crowd, down from the blue, cloudless sky and anyone who may be in it. The sun beats down a warmth that is only offset by the biting of the wind, and Firecracker’s voice, projected by speakers to carry over the horns and shouts of the city, starts to claw into your head.

“Patriots, are you ready to know the truth about Starlight and how she’s been kidnapping and trafficking your innocent babies?!” Her voice has the same southern drawl you’ve heard on TV, her bubbly tone in stark contrast to her words. “We’re lucky we have Homelander lookin out for us, keepin us safe, otherwise Starlight might try to take us too!”

You drop your head further, some fearful part of your brain telling you that Homelander might hear his name from the Tower and decide to make an appearance.

Fucking risky, Ben’s voice says in your head, and suddenly you can see him in your head, that strange, angered and piercing face watching you. What if fucking Homelander’s there, Sunshine? Then what? You’ll freeze up, and I won’t be there to help.

I’ll manage, you snap back at his voice, and can almost hear his scoff.

You’ll start crying and wish I was there. You wish I was there right now. You hate that you’re walking with Butcher, who’s probably going to try and kill you instead of me.

Butcher won’t kill me. He can’t.

Never stopped him from trying before. I wouldn’t let him, Sunshine.

I’m stronger than Butcher. I’m stronger than you. I’m stronger than fucking Homelander. I don’t need your help.

But you fucking want it.

“No, I don’t!” You hiss, and only realize you’ve spoken aloud when the words come out strained, caught on a lump that has formed in our throat.

You hear Butcher snort from your side. “Who the bloody hell are you talking to?”

“No one,” you mumble, feeling your face heat as you feel his disbelieving look.

“If you’re going to lose your damn mind and go all mental, you can wait until all this is done? Would be real bloody inconvenient to have to kill you ahead of schedule.”

“Not funny.” You mutter, and are saved from Butcher’s response by arriving at the crowd, stopping next to where MM watches the show in an A-Trane shirt.

“He behind you?” MM says by way of greeting, voice barely raised over the children’s choir rendition of God Bless the USA, complete with trumpet and string accompaniment.

“Should be,” Butcher looks over the heads of the audience, scanning for something that he doesn’t seem to find. “Frenchie gonna be ready when Soldier Boy gets here?”

“Kimiko got them up on a roof across the street, and Annie will get him the electricity he needs when it happens.”

You glance behind you, hoping that Hughie can manage to keep Ben in the van a few minutes more. “We should move,” you say, turning back to MM. “We don’t want to be anywhere near the path to the stage.”

MM nods and begins to lead you and Butcher deeper into the crowd, weaving through the frenzied cheers and whoops as the choir walks off the stage. You stop at the edge of the crowd, off to side enough to avoid any crossfire, but with Firecracker still in a clear line of sight.

She’s staring down the camera, her toothy and smug smile projected on a Jumbotron as she speaks. “I don’t know about y’all, but I think Starlight should come down here and tell us why! Why she won’t show us any proof of her claims that Homelander is a murderer! When, need I remind y’all, Homelander was found innocent! Has Starlight been found innocent?” You watch her cup her ear, listening for the crowds shouted responses.

“Jesus Christ, she has to know this is bullshit, right?” You mutter to yourself, and MM chuckles beside you.

“As far as I can tell, she really believes all the bullshit she’s saying.” He says with a shake of his head. “She got this job cause her head was up Homelander’s ass for free, she ain’t gonna pull it out now that Vought’s paying.”

You hum, looking up at the sky nervously. “MM, has Hughie texted that Ben-“

You’re cut off as screams sound from down the street, and your head shoots to where you had just stood, watching as the crowd beings to franticly part for something you can’t yet see. Butcher and MM are stiff beside you, Butcher’s gun already in his hand as MM’s lingers at his hip. Firecracker’s voice has faltered through the speakers, her eyes wide and face slack on the Jumbotron. The feeling in you, the ardor against your spine and clawing at your skin, begins, and you try not to watch the sky. The sun is bright and there are no city lights, the only thing you can hear is the terrified people, but Homelander’s not here, so you’ll be fine.

The feeling is in your blood and gut, but you’ll be fine.

You’ll be fine.

Are you sure about that? Ben’s voice says in your head.

Shut up. You tell it, just as Firecracker lets out a shrill sound that echos down the streets.

You look up and find Ben has gotten to the foot of the stage, only his side profile visible to you. Firecracker has a shaking finger pointing at him, her mouth agape as she watches him walk closer, closer, closer. You hadn’t been sure what to expect once it began. For Firecracker to scream, beg, cry, fight, run, or collapse once it became that her life was gone from her hands. Of all the scenarios you’d traced, all the outcomes with more blood, less blood, more scream or quick silence, you hadn’t thought she start to laugh. Doubled over, cackling glee, tears in her eyes visible on the Jumbotron.

“Well, look here, folks! No need to be afraid, it’s going to be just fine! Soldier Boy here’s a guest, and he’s going to tell us all about how Starlight tricked him and forced him to fake his death!”

You watch Ben freeze on stage, and the Jumbotron begins to broadcast his tight, angered face to the steadily regrouping audience.

“Fuck,” MM breathes out. “They’re going to flip him.”

Butcher says your name roughly. “You need to get there, get him in bloody line. We can’t have him running off with Vought.”

You need to move. Every part of you is screaming that you need to go, go, get there and remind Ben that you’re watching and keeping him in check. But you can’t, frozen as you watch his movements on the Jumbotron, trying to keep control when your blood has run cold, and every breath you take is caught against that lump in your throat. You can’t move, and all you can do is watch him on stage, eyes scanning the crowd as he watches them look at him in awe.

Then your falling forward, barely managing to catch your footing before your knees hit the pavement, turning to see MM on the phone speaking in a commanding, measured tone, and Butcher reaching forward to push you once more. You take another, smoother step back before he can, but you don’t wait for him to bark an order for you to go. You turn back to the crowd with the bass of the speakers barely drowning feeling, trying to weave without touching anyone as it grows and grows.

You’re at the base of the stage now, and before you can start to figure out a subtle way to alert him, his eyes lock with yours.

What the fuck is happening. His gaze asks at it runs through you, his body turned as though he may start to move in your direction, and Firecracker's voice rings the air.

“Lovely, you brought her too!” Both you and Ben turn to where she stands, smiling and looking at you. “Our very special guest, The Anomaly!”

Your blood isn’t cold. It’s burning, everything is burning inside of you, scraping to get out. But there are people moving around you now, people everywhere, and someone is nudging you forwards to the stage until a smiling face is pulling you up and moving you right next to Ben. It’s so bright, and you’re burning, and when you turn your head out to the crowd, you see yourself. Up on the Jumbotron. And there are cameras. Cameras everywhere. Cameras that are following your movements as Firecracker speaks.

“I know ya’ll don’t recognize her, she hasn’t been around for as long as this patriot!” Your eyes tear from the screen just in time to see Firecracker playfully slap Ben’s arm, to watch his whole body go rigid as she did. “But she’s a real good friend, and she and Homelander go way back!”

You’re cold again. Cold and angry and sharp. Everything is sharp again, the faces of the audience are clear, and Firecracker’s words are no longer miles away. No, she’s right in front of you with a wide smile of teeth, and you can hear drums.

Drums.

You look down, and your foot is bumped against Ben’s. His eyes aren’t watching you anymore, fixed on Firecracker, but everything sharp in him, in you, is pointed at her.

“If fact,” Firecracker has turned back to the crowd, hands placed over her heart with a simpering face. “She and Homelander? Well they were childhood sweethearts! Supes, raised together, only having each other. And when Homelander went off to become our great hero, she stepped away from the spotlight.” Firecracker takes a large step back, turning back to you. “She didn’t want the fame. She just wanted him!”

A chorus of sickly sweet awwws ripples through the crowd, and the feeling is behind your eyes.

“Homelander was, is, the love of her life. Which is why, when Starlight and her team of devil-worshippers came to kill her, The Anomaly fought with all she had to stop them.”

It’s under your nails.

“She wasn’t strong enough, though, and they dragged her away from where Homelander had been keeping her safe to let her bleed out, far away from the man she loved.”

It’s on your teeth.

“Love that kept her alive, love that made her find another who had been wronged, another who would do anything for Homelander-“

Firecracker makes a gesturing sweep to Ben, and the world begins to blur.

“Soldier Boy! And now they’re here, to reunite with their lover, their son, and have the happy endings they deserve!”

The feeling is everywhere. Ben is pressed closely against you, and the drums are in your ribs. Firecracker is still smiling and her teeth are so white. The crowd is cheering and whooping and you’re going to crack-

Something smashes off the stage, and Firecracker’s smile drops. You make yourself follow her gaze, the movement like moving through mud, and see smashed cameras at MM’s feet. Gunshots ring out, and something above you shatters as Butcher appears, gun raised.

Firecracker’s face has contorted, cheery persona vaporized and she starts to shout in a furious wail.

“No! My cameras! My show- Do you have any idea how hard that speech was to memorize?! I worked so hard, and you ruined it you fucking-“

She flys across the stage, Ben taking large, violent strides to where she lands with a crack. You can see her fear when she looks up to where he stops above her, the light growing in his chest.

“Help!” She screams, looking around at the stage audience and tech workers. “He’s- he’s fucking crazy, he’s going to kill me! Someone- someone fucking stop him!”

The stage audience.

The tech workers.

You’re running. Words aren’t fast enough, and Ben’s too far gone for them anyway. You are, though. You’re flying, tearing across the stage and throwing yourself against Ben. He falls to the ground, the light still building, and twists to try and throw you off of him, his eyes so deep into himself you don’t think he knows it’s you.

Pressed against him, you can only feel the drums, and you brace yourself as the light in him explodes.

It’s painful. A blinding and unforgiving pain that sears through your body. Numbness follows behind it though, fast and empty relief, and when your eyes can see once more Ben is watching you with horror across every feature.

He looks like he’s going to roar at you, tear into and across you. You can feel fury and something deep into his chest that’s screaming.

Firecracker lets out a breathy, sobbing laugh from somewhere to your side, and even if nothing in him wavers, it saves you from whatever Ben was going to say.

“Shit, you're both pathetic. You can’t even take out one person?” Firecracker starts to pull herself up to her feet. “I don’t know why Homelander was so worried about y’all. You’re weak.” She reaches down, grabbing the back of your tattered Noire jacket and pulling you off of Ben. “I mean, I expected more from at least you, Soldier Boy. He looks up to you still, you know. Was so hopeful you’d flip. But,” she shakes her head sadly. “What a disappointment.”

You’re not sure how it happens, let alone where the energy comes from, but you twist in Firecracker’s hold and punch her square in the face. She drops her hold, stumbling back as her nose starts to fill with blood. You never hit the floor though, Ben’s arm looping around your waist as he draws himself upwards.

Everything is sharp and hungry anger that is driving in you—in Ben—to Firecracker. The thing in his chest is still clawing at him, and you can feel your own glacial fervor, but nothing is as strong as the hungry anger.

Firecracker doesn’t feel it though, the storm that's brewing. And she doesn’t know when to quit.

“You worthless bitch.” She sneers through her fingers, trying to plug the blood. “You frigid little whore.”

“Watch it.” Ben growls, arm tensing around your waist.

“Oh, fuck off, you fossil! She’s tricking you, sinking her little claws into her like she did Homelander, with her stupid little songs and dances!”

“Shut up,” the words don’t come out in the firm command you wanted. Your voice sounds pathetic, weak against your ears.

“Do you have any idea how fucking exhausting you’ve been?” Firecracker whines. “Everything was amazing until you came back. He was starting to trust me! And then Sage comes back, accuses Homelander of lyin to her, and says you’re alive. And all of a sudden that’s all that fucking matters! He’s just angry and hurt and it’s so annoying.”

The world is less focused.

“I’ve heard Moon River so many fucking times this week, it makes my skin fucking crawl. I don’t even get it! What can you do that I can’t? I want him, you don’t even care to stick around-“

Nothing is in focus. It’s only Firecracker, her voice, and the feeling.

“I love him, I am perfect for him, I am blessed and chosen and you’re just a lonely little stuck up slut who didn’t even wait after leaving him and everything he did for you-“

Her teeth are so white and you don't think you can breathe.

“Everything he gave you-“

You can feel ghosts of the pain, see the bright light as they push the fire into you. Can feel it now, trying to get out.

“To turn around and spread your fucking whore legs!”

Something in you snaps. Cracks, echoes through your body, and explodes. You’re everywhere, the fire bleeding from you. You can’t see anything but the white room around you, and you have to get out. So you let everything go. It’s just you and the fire, cocooning around you and keeping you safe.

Just you and the fire and something else that is gripping around you. Something in your chest that is thrashing and trying to keep you close. It feels safe too, so you let it stay as everything else continues to burn.

A deep, roaring voice is calling your name. It sounds like the thing in your chest, and it reverberates through you as if it’s pressed against you. There are screams too, broken and raw screams, but you can’t see where they’re coming from, and they don’t feel safe like the voice.

The thing gripping around you feels heavier. It feels safer. There’s no city lights, you can’t even really remember what they might look like, but there’s music. Soft and deep in your ear, wrapping around you. Putting something out along your skin. You’re getting weak, and you feel cold.

You can’t stop. Something in your head tells you. You falter, and you’re back in the room.

But you’re so tired. The grip feels safe. And the music is settling into you and feels so good.

So when the world goes black, the last thing you feel is the thing in your chest reaching for you, and you could swear it breathes in relief.

————

He’d figured it out. The tapping. Firecracker had said Moon River, and he’d realized that was it. The rhythm of the verses matched that incessant tapping of Hers perfectly. He’d taken a fucking gamble, dragging the verses from somewhere deep in his brain as she’d been consumed by the fire, and it had paid off when She’d collapsed into him. The fire still lingered long after She closed her eyes, long after Ben stopped humming. Most of the stage was ash, from the hollowed, disgusting bodies of Firecracker and a few unfortunate audience members to the still flaming stage curtains.

Ben picked her up, and her eyes didn’t even flutter. Her body was still burning, and his hands protested in pain against her skin, but he bit down his pain with ease. Ben wasn’t a pussy, and he’d heal. This was more important.

A thought that had everything in him—except the feeling he’d been keeping in his gut that had somehow managed to crawl into his chest—very fucking irritated.

Ben turned, carrying Her off the stage to get her as far away from here as possible, only to find both MM and Butcher waiting, guns pointed right at his face.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He growled. They didn’t have any fucking time for these dramatics. As far as he fucking understood from Her explanations, all that shit show had just been broadcast through the fucking nation. Homelander was probably on his way, and Ben wouldn’t be able to do his fucking job and wipe the floor with that pussy if She was still unconscious and the stupid fucking thing in his chest was worried.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Gov.” Butcher jeered back. “We’re not letting you off that bloody easy.”

Ben glowered at him, and his desire to throw Butcher against the nearest concrete wall was only barely defeated by the godforsaken need to get Her somewhere safe. “We don’t have fucking time for this. Move out of my fucking way, or I’ll make you.”

“Take your best fucking shot, cunt.” Butcher taunted.

“Last fucking chance to get out of my way.” Ben could hear the hitch in both their hearts, uneven from the growing steadiness in Hers.

“We ain’t moving, Soldier Boy.” MM angled his gun higher. “And you’re not taking her.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, you fucking pussies!” Ben roared, whatever patience he’d managed to hold onto vanished. “Homelander is probably on his fucking way, and unless you want him to take her, we need to fucking leave right fucking now!”

Both men blink, Ben’s words hanging in the air just long enough that he was starting to get ready to just fucking push through them. He’d deal with Her anger about it later, when she was awake and they were far fucking away from cages and boxes.

But MM lowered his gun, narrowing his eyes at Ben. “You’re going to let us take you back to the safe house?” His voice had a tone of disbelief that Ben didn’t fucking appreciate.

“Fucking hell, yes. Now fucking move your dumb fucking asses before I change my fucking mind!”

MM looked over at Butcher, whose gun was still aimed at Ben’s head. “The kid’s bringing the van round?”

“He bloody should be.“ Butcher grunted, but didn’t move. “But that don’t mean shit, I ain’t trusting this cunt to go quietly.”

“I’m certainly not going to go quietly if you keep a fucking gun in my face.” Ben sneered. “I might not do jackshit to me, but it’s goddamn rude when I’m trying to fucking help.”

“Why should we trust that?” MM asked coldly, glancing down at Her in Ben’s arms. “This is your ticket out. You’re probably just going to kill us in the van while she’s still out.”

Ben fucking knew that, he wasn’t an fucking idiot. He could hear Her heartbeat, fully steady as sleep held her under, could feel the scalding heat of her body almost fully faded. When he glanced down at her face, it painted into an empty ease. But when he blinked, it would flash back to just before she’d burst. Afraid. Only pure terror on Her face as Firecracker screamed about Homelander.

She wasn’t going back there.

“I guess you’re going to have to take a fucking gamble.” Ben held MM’s stare. “Because you have five seconds to fucking move before I kill both you pussies and leave with her.”

Some part of Ben still managed to be surprised when they exchanged one last, tense look, MM’s eyes flaring at Butcher, who dropped his gun with an angry huff. When MM started to walk away, likely to where Cocksucker waited with the van, and Butcher only said, “Breathe one wrong breath, Soldier Boy, and I’ll put you right back under.”

Ben wanted to. He wanted to step just far out enough of line that he’d be justified in bashing Butcher’s smug, pussy fucking head against the curb. But he didn’t, just keeping Her in place against him until they were back at the safe house, glaring at the whole sorry fucking lot of Her team as they watched Ben hold Her in the corner. Her heartbeat stayed steady, and it kept the drum in him from bursting, aided by the thing in his chest settling back into him the more distance grew between Her and the stage, Vought Tower, and Homelander.

When they reached the safe house, Ben didn’t bother to pause, waiting only for Butcher to open the door, before he was moving through the hall in tight, bounding steps. Up the stairs, shoving the door to Her room open, laying her on the bed above her sheets. She let out a little sigh as he let her go, and Ben hated how it made the thing in his chest wake up. He had to get himself under fucking control. She was safe, he’d done what he fucking needed to, and he wasn’t about to be a goddamn creep and watch her sleep.

The seconds were starting to stretch though, as he watched Her, listened to the steady sound of her heart. She looked so fucking peaceful, and it was calming the thing in his chest.

Fuck, he didn’t like how easy it felt. Especially as she let out another small sigh, rolling over with an arm stretching out, and he wanted to touch her upturned palm. That realization snapped him out of whatever stupid fucking trance he’d been dragged into, and he managed to turn, walking towards the door.

Before he left though—practically against his will—he turned back just in time to hear another sigh and see Her body curl into the mattress.

“Sleep well, Sunshine.” He muttered and tried to ignore the last sigh released from her chest, and how if ran through him.

When Ben got down to the kitchen, goddamn fucking Cocksucker and Starlight were waiting for him.

“What are you cum guzzlers still fucking doing here?” He grumbled, pushing past them to get to the pantry.

“Is she ok?” Cocksucker asked, and Ben shrugged, grabbing a bag of half-eaten jerky from the top shelf.

“She’ll fucking live.” He ignored the flash of Her fearful face in his head, and how his grip on the bag turned to steel. “One of you better answer my goddamn question.”

“We need to talk to her,” Starlight said softly.

“Don’t hold your fucking breath, she’s out cold.” Ben snapped.

Starlight sighed. “We’ll wait.”

“No, you won’t.” Ben turned around to face her. “She needs to fucking rest.”

“Cocksucker look between Starlight and Ben nervously. “We need to make sure-“

“She did you a fucking favor.” Ben growled. “Firecracker’s not a problem anymore, and her stupid plan fucking worked.”

“She killed four people.” Starlight said tightly. “And after Ashley, we need to know that she’s still with us.”

“With you?” Ben scoffed, saying Her name in the same exasperated tone. “Her? You think she’s going to turn against you fucking pussies?”

“She’s- she’s been weird.” Cocksucker stuttered. “And you’ve gotten closer than we thought-“

“Fuck off.” Ben snorted. “I haven’t turned her, if that’s what your dumb little pea-brains think.”

“We’re not who you have to convince, Soldier Boy.” Starlight watched Ben with a frown. “I trust her. Hughie trusts her.”

“Then what the fuck-“

“Butcher,” Cocksucker said softly. “MM. Mallory. They’re worried she’s going to be a liability.”

“Then they can come fucking tell me their fucking selves.” Ben hissed. “Now get the fuck out.”

Starlight looked like she was going to push back, and Ben was ready to throw her through the door himself, but Cocksucker placed his hand on her back, and something passed silently between them.

“Fine,” Starlight sighed, giving Ben one last, tired look. “If you promise to tell us when she’s awake, I can try and hold them off.” Her eyes narrowed. “For her.”

Ben grunted. “Deal.”

And they were gone, and Ben was alone in the kitchen.

She didn’t wake up for three full days. Three, long, insufferably quiet days where it was just Ben. Three days of pacing, of eating alone, of watching TV all through the damn night because he couldn’t sleep even if he fucking tried. Three days of the awful thing in his chest making up stupid excuse to open the door to her room and check to see if she had vanished. She never had, she would always be twisted on the bed, heart steady, face empty. At some point Ben moved Her under the covers, after he made up an excuse to touch her and found her not burning like he’d been checking for, but freezing cold. Three long days of wishing She was awake, reminding himself he didn’t fucking need Her awake, and the thing in his chest roaring that he did.

He tried to push it down, and almost succeeded, but at the end of the second day he walked downstairs from where he’d been standing outside her door for a disgustingly long time—finally managing to not push in and check on her—to find Butcher in the living room.

“She’s still out.” Ben had grunted, and Butcher had only shrugged.

“I ain’t here for her. We need to have a little chat.”

“I’m good.”

“I wasn’t bloody asking.”

Ben remembered wondering in the moment if he was already in enough hot water that killing Butcher wouldn’t really matter. “You’re playing a game you can’t fucking win.” He’d warned, and even Butcher’s heart hadn’t stuttered.

“I’ll be out of your hair in a flash, Gov. But not until you fucking listen.” Butcher managed to have more intelligence than Ben thought him capable of, and didn’t wait to hear Ben’s answer before he began. “Her plan, somehow, bloody worked. Most of the media coverage is sayin that Firecracker started panicking and lying to try and keep herself alive. You’re being label as a crazed lunatic, out for revenge.”

“Then what’s the fucking problem-“

“Her. Everyone’s buying the story about Her and Homelander, thinkin you kidnapped her after we tried to kill her.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t even make any fucking sense.”

“Don’t need to make sense. It’s the narrative Vought got, and they’re running with it. As far as the public knows, you’re back, out for bloody and evil revenge, and are holding her hostage to hurt Homelander.” Butcher narrowed his eyes at Ben. “And they’ve reached out. They want to meet with you.”

“They?” Ben paused, ready to grab Butcher’s tongue and make him stop talking in fucking riddles. “Who the fuck is they?”

“Vought.” Butcher said shortly. “Sage. Homelander.”

Ben snorted. “Fuck no. We’re not bringing her anywhere near that goddamn pussy and his conniving bitch.”

“Good thing they only want to talk to you, then, ain’t it.”

That made Ben pause, eyes narrowing at Butcher as suspicion had begun to build in his chest. “The fuck are you talking about.”

“One hour, a truce, just you, me, Starlight, Homelander, and Sage. At the old Starlight Fund building. Just talking.”

Ben snorted. “You dumb enough to believe that?”

“Nope. But you agree, it happens.”

Ben grunted. He didn’t trust any of it. He didn’t trust Homelander to have no ulterior motive. He didn’t trust Sage to not be plotting something. He didn’t trust Butcher to not have a fucking trick up his stupid fucking Hawaiian shirt. “And if don’t.”

Butcher shrugged. “Then this conversation never happened.”

Ben had said your name carefully, trying to feel out whatever it was he fucking knew Butcher was hiding. “What about her?”

“She’d stay here.”

Ben raised his brows at that. “You’d trust me without her?”

“Fucking hell, no. Not if hell bloody froze over. Don’t trust you with her. We’d set up something to make you go night-night if you get all nuclear. CIA got more than enough gas to put you under, they can spare some for our lovely uses.”

“How long does the offer stand?” Ben asked, pushing down the drum.

Butcher had shrugged. “Until you give an answer.”

“I’ll think about it.” Ben said. “Now get the fuck out.”

Butcher chuckled dryly. “Alright, Gov. Keep your damn pants on.” As Butcher walked, hands in pockets, down the hall, he paused as he passed Ben, and shoved something into his hands. “She dropped those on her way to the stage. Good luck when she wakes up, Mate. I’d keep her away from the telly.”

Ben had looked down at what Butcher had given him as the man walked away, brow furrowing at what he found.

Shitty, off-brand Soldier Boy sunglasses.

Ben had placed them in his room to give to Her later. But another full day had passed before she woke up, and Ben’s mind had not stilled the whole fucking time.

He hadn’t been lying. Ben thought about Butcher’s—Homelander’s—offer. Constantly. Starting with the fact that he didn’t have a goddamn thing to say to Homelander. The shock of their relation had long passed, fading into a numbness of just another fucking job for Ben to do, just another way in which he had to be alone. Then the numbness had been replaced by a blinding wrath. A disgust from what he had done. Ben wasn’t a saint, saints were weak, self-righteous whiners. But he wasn’t a fucking monster. He did what had to be done, and a little more to make sure he didn’t have to do it again. He didn’t take women and lock them in cages. He didn’t hurt people until the singular thought of him made them afraid. People fear Ben, yes. But just as much as they should.

Ben didn’t fear Homelander. She didn’t fear Ben. But She feared Homelander. A weak, fucking pathetic man who had needed to break someone stronger than him, someone worth more than him powerless, to feel big. She was worth so much more than Homelander that she wanted to help people. Worth so much more that she still somehow looked at the world and found it worth something. She found worth in fucking everything. Everything was amusing to Her, everything was beautiful, everything had value and meaning. Ben fucking hated it. It leaked into him, and felt fucking strange. Because he could hear Her in his head, saying Pretty Boy, this is an opportunity. Don’t be a petty baby and waste it.

And that was where the thoughts would loop. Ben didn’t want to talk to Homelander. Homelander had hurt Her and Ben never would. She’d find a way to use this, though, and She’d want him to go. But Ben didn’t want to talk to Homelander. Over and over until Ben heard Her heartbeat stutter, heard shuffling around in Her room, and had to fight the thing roaring in his chest to sprint up the stairs. He somehow managed to remain seated on the couch, everything in him fucking strained to stay in place as she tapped down the stairs and cleared her throat behind him.

Ben turned to find Her watching him with eyes still crusted from sleep. When She spoke, her voice was hoarse, and her words were quiet.

“How long was I out?”

“Few days.” Ben answered, trying to watch her passively, to pretend he wasn’t studying her every feature. He wasn’t even fucking sure what he was looking for himself.

“What-“ She took a deep breath. “What happened?”

Ben paused, finding her eyes again. Keep her away from the telly, Butcher had said, and Ben had immediately checked to see what the fuck he was talking about. He’d found the answer fast: photos of Firecracker’s scorched body, interviews with the families of the audience members who had met the same fate. Speculation about what Ben was doing to Her, fabricated “evidence” of Her and Homelander’s love. A complete, well-developed, entirely bullshit story about her life. Born in the same hometown as Homelander, happily giving up her life to support him, working instead behind the scenes in Vought marketing and cooking in her free time.

Homelander didn’t have a hometown, that pussies whole story was even more bullshit Vought propaganda than Ben’s was.

She wouldn’t “give up her life” to support anyone. And if she did, they’d have to hear her bitch about it until they fucking died.

Ben had once heard her call marketing “a plague upon human culture and societal development” during the third commercial break of one of his football games.

Everyone would know if She had tried to cook Homelander food, because it would’ve killed him.

Butcher had wanted Ben to lie. But Ben fucking knew She wouldn’t have lied to him. And he knew She would find out the truth somehow and be a real bitch about Ben lying to her.

“Three audience members and Firecracker died. You passed out. We got back here.”

“Oh,” she said softly, but didn’t look away, and Ben could see something fragile in her eyes fracture. Hear the taps of Moon River begin. “What are they saying?”

“They?”

“Vought.”

“Your plan worked.” Ben grunted, and the rhythm of Her heart told him she knew there was more. “But Firecracker’s bullshit stuck. I’m being painted as a revenge-blind maniac, and you’re being painted as my victim.”

She let out a humorless laugh. “If anything, you’re my victim.”

Ben felt his mouth twitch. “That’s what I keep fucking saying.”

She let out another, smaller huff of amusement before her face fell back into that soft state, her eyes still tired as she watched him. “That’s all?”

He nodded. “That’s all.”

She gave one last sigh, and it sounded so weak. He wanted to grab her and figure out a way to make her move. Get her to sit next to him and laugh so the fucking thing in his chest would let go of his lungs. Before he could, though, she turned and padded back up the stairs, her door closing behind her.

Another day passed before Ben even fucking saw her again. She’d slunk into the kitchen around dinner, hair tangled and eyes hollow, heating up a box-meal before placing it on a plate and carrying it back upstairs. The next day was the same, and Ben had tried to grab her and make her fucking talk to him, and she'd stared at him with a wide, empty gaze.

“We need to fucking talk.” He’d grunted.

“Please don’t.” Her voice had been so fucking quiet.

“Don’t what?” He’d growled. “Fucking talk to you? You’re just going to never fucking talk to me again?”

She’d given a small shake of her head. “I don’t want to talk. Please.”

“You’re being fucking weird.”

“Please.” She’d sounded desperate. “I can’t talk. Please.”

He’d never heard her say please so many times. He’d only seen her like this, a weak and fearful girl, once.

He’d hated it on the Neuman mission. He hated it now.

He hated she looked weaker now. Hopeless. He hated how he relented, let go of her, and she’d gone back upstairs and didn’t come back down. Two more days passed, and the only way Ben knew she was alive was the sounds of music coming from her room and the food that vanished from the kitchen overnight.

Ben was going to lose his fucking mind. The last time she’d avoided him this much had been the beginning, and, fuck, that had been better than this. She’s seen him and fought with him, tearing him to pieces as he did the same to her. Stood her fucking ground against him, a completely insufferable, violent, angry bitch of a woman. Even after they’d called truce on their war, she’d remained a powerfully wrathful, unrelenting pain in Ben’s ass. Now she wouldn’t stand in the same fucking room as him, and he was going to go fucking insane.

So, on the fifth day, Ben banged down her door, ready to demand she fucking tell him who to kill to fix this.

He found her curled in her bed, staring far ahead into nothing. Something hit his nose that he forced himself to ignore, and she didn’t even move as he pushed into the room.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He asked gruffly. She didn’t answer, so he said her name roughly. “What’s fucking wrong with you?”

“Why did you do it?” Her voice was light—frail—as she stared ahead.

“Do fucking what?”

She finally looked at him. “Why did you go back, with Sage, why did you fucking do that?”

“I saved your life, Sunshine. And you never even fucking thanked me.” Ben knew his words were cruel, shooting to hurt Her. But maybe she’d fucking fight him. Fucking do something that wasn’t just fucking sitting there.

“You should’ve left me.” She whispered, Ben rolled his eyes, and her voice raised. Not to a scream, but a high-pitched, frantic tone of desperation. “You should’ve! You should’ve left me and run! You could’ve been free, why did you do that! Why! You should’ve just fucking left me!”

This was worse, Ben knew. So much fucking worse. “Why are you being so fucking dramatic-“

“You should’ve left me to die!” She screamed. “You should’ve just left me to die! Why didn’t you just let me fucking die?!”

Ben stared at Her as she started to cry, shaking on the bed, trying to push herself further back into its frame. She’d tucked her head into her arms, sobs wracking through her whole body as she held herself, fingers digging into her skin. No smoke was rising, no tapping or chewing, just Her tears falling as she let out another, broken scream. Ben was frozen, he didn’t know how to fucking deal with this. Fuck, he barely knew how to deal with Her when she wasn’t breaking down in front of him.

Through sobs, Ben heard Her say it again. “It would be better if you had just let me die.”

Ben didn’t need the thing in his chest to tell him to move. He crossed the room in two long steps, dropping on the bed next Her.

“Look at me.” She didn’t, so Ben grabbed her wrists and pulled them down. “Sunshine, fucking look at me.”

She glanced down at where he still held her and blinked, letting out a stuttered breath. Her voice was still so weak when she spoke, “What?”

“Fucking look at me.” He growled one last time, and she finally did, her eyes still so empty. “You’re being fucking stupid.”

She gaped at him, disbelief finally filling her expression. It wasn’t the amusement or rage Ben wanted back, but it was something.

“What?’

“You’re being a goddamn idiot. Things would…” The words vomited out of him. “Be a lot fucking worse if you were dead.”

She shook her head, the hopeless looking creeping back. “I killed four people, they’d still be alive-“

"Maybe.” Ben grunted. “Maybe not. But they, along with a few more, would still be dead if you hadn’t knocked me down. Which was even fucking stupider than you’re being now, but we’ll fix that later.”

“Fix that?” She gave him a sharp look, words still choked. “I thought we agreed not to fix each other.”

“You agreed not to fix me. I made no such fucking promises.”

There was a silence for a second before She spoke again. “I don’t want you to ‘fix me’. I want to care that I…” Her stuttered, and she took another shaky breath before pushing them out. “I hurt people.”

“That’s to job, Sunshine.”

“I don’t care,” she whispered. “I didn’t even want the job anyway.”

Ben watched her, wrists still in his hands, face faraway, and eyes still lined with tears. An image flashed in front of him, of Her a few years younger, singing karaoke and crying about stupid, normal shit. Something Ben himself had never done, something Ben wouldn’t even know how to miss. The image lingered in his head, her smile carefree, singing loudly and off-key, no blood on her hands, and the thing in his chest was angry.

“Ben?” She said softly, and the image vanished. “I’m sorry.”

He scowled. “Why are you fucking apologizing to me?”

“You don’t want to deal with this, with me. It’s not- it’s not useful to cry over spilled milk-“

“Shut up,” he snapped. “No, it’s not useful. For me. For Butcher. For Homelander. You get to whine over it, because-“

“Because I’m a woman?” She asked dryly, and he glared at her.

“No, smartass. Because you’re not like us. You didn’t fucking choose this.”

“You didn’t choose that,” she nodded to his chest. “Do you get to cry?”

“I don’t cry.” He said firmly, and She tilted her head at him in a way he didn’t like. “But I get to be angry. You get to be angry. And if you need to have a little breakdown to be angry, then so fucking be it.”

“But I killed people-“

Ben rolled his eyes. “Three Homelander supporters and Firecracker. Real fucking contributors to society, I’m sure.”

“They were still people.” She pushed. “People who I killed. People who would be alive-”

“If you say ‘if you were dead’, I’ll kill you myself.” Ben snapped.

She stared at him in disbelief and something harsher flickered in Her eyes. Fucking finally.

“I’d like to see you fucking try, Pretty Boy.”

He huffed a laugh. “I’ll wipe the floor with your ass, Sunshine.”

“I’ll make you regret crawling out of your mother in the first place, cunt.” She taunted, and Ben felt a wide grin on his face.

“I’m sure you will, you bitch.” Ben gave her a sweeping look. Her matted hair, tear crusted and red eyes, the smell he’d been pushing down starting to feel fucking visible. “But you need to fucking shower first, you smell like the shit you’ve been wallowing in.”

She glared at him, and for a second Ben thought she’d keep fighting him, or worse, start crying again, but she just gave a light tug against where he still held her.

“Can’t fucking shower if you won’t let me move, Ben.” She said flatly, and Ben rolled his eyes as he let go.

“Fucking drama queen,” he muttered, and She gave him a sarcastic, toothy smile as she stood.

“Eat me.”

“I would if you’d let me, Sunshine.” He called after Her, and though she closed the door with a slam, Ben still heard her heart flutter.

He waited as the water ran and tried not to think about Her, naked, in just the other room. Tried not to think about the relief the thing in his chest had felt when she’d stopped crying, the satisfaction it felt when he’d gotten her to laugh, and the stupid fucking anger it had felt at everything when she’d broken in front of him. He didn’t let himself dwell on the way it made him sit here. Fucking waiting for her like a lost goddamn puppy. Wanting to make sure she was okay. She was fine, she wasn’t sobbing and screaming, so she was fucking fine.

But what if She’s not, you fucking ass? The thing growled. What if she’s just waiting for you to leave?

Ben fucking hated that it worked, and he stayed on the bed.

What if She needs you? It hissed. What if she wants you to stay?

Ben loathed that even more. Because it echoed in his brain, and made him listen intently for any sounds of distress over the water, made him sit rigid and alert until the door opened.

She walked out, a towel wrapped around her body. She blinked at him once, and Ben couldn’t fucking figure out if she was even surprised he was there.

“Clothes,” she mumbled, walking to her dresser. Ben grunted, and watched her return to the bathroom, the door closing behind her once more.

Maybe he should go now. It was late, it had been a weird, long fucking day. He should fucking go and put some distance between the thing in his stupid fucking chest and Her-

The door opened, and She walked over to drop back on the bed, a small smile on her face.

“You’re real shit at comforting people, Pretty Boy.”

Fine. He’d fucking stay.

“Good.” Ben grunted. “And it fucking worked on you. Didn’t even get a damn ‘thank you.’”

He felt Her hand on his arm, and looked at her face, soft and open. “Thank you.”

He grunted again, staring back at the wall, and she chuckled.

“I mean, it was still a shit job, but it was so shit it looped around into being remarkably effective.”

“Doesn’t count as a damn thank you, Sunshine, if you fucking insult me right after.”

She shrugged. “Then do a better fucking job next time, Pretty Boy.”

Ben snorted. “Don’t hold your damn breath.” She didn’t respond, and he turned to find Her watching him, lips in a thin frown with her brow gently wrinkled. “I can hear the fucking gears in your head, Sunshine.” He said. “Say what you’re fucking thinking.”

“I’m going to ask you something once. If your answer is no, you’re not allowed to talk about it again.”

Ben frowned. Every time she started a question with a phrase like that, it ended up being something fucking insane. “Okay.” He said shortly, morbid curiosity getting the better of him.

“If you want, you don’t have to, and I don’t expect you to-“

“Quit fucking edging and spit it out.”

She glared at him. “You can stay in here tonight.”

Ben stared at Her, the thing in his chest clawing against him. “What?”

“You can sit in my bed. If you want. I know you won’t sleep, and I won’t sleep well, and I’d probably end up sitting in your room at some point-“

“Why?” Ben cut off Her rambling, frowning.

She held his gaze, her uneven heart the only sign of her nerves. “I don’t-“ she sighed. “I don’t want to be alone. You’d just be sitting here, nothing else. But if you don’t-“

“Fine.” He answered, and the thing in his chest roared.

“Oh,” she paused, and Ben was pretty goddamn sure She’d expected him to say no. “Okay. Good.”

She pulled herself under the covers, looking up at Ben from her back. He didn’t like what that made him feel, and how easy it would be to just pull Her against him and keep her there.

“Thank you.” She said with a small smile. “No insults."

“Whatever,” Ben grumbled, leaning back in a pointless attempt to find a comfortable position. “Just saving you the fucking walk to my room.”

“You’re a saint,” she mumbled sarcastically, eyes drooping. “I’m sure this must have been very hard for you.”

“I’ll live.” He said, watching Her. “I need you functional, Sunshine. Small, stupid fucking price to pay.”

“You need me?” She breathed out, a sleepy smile on her face.

Ben rolled his eyes. “You burn, I burn.” He echoed the words she'd said before. “I’m not going to let you fucking burn. You don’t get away from me that easy.”

“How sweet.” She whispered, eyes fully closing. “I won’t let you burn either, Pretty Boy.”

Ben wanted to protest, and tell Her that he wasn’t sweet, just practical, and he—despite the protests of the thing in his chest—didn’t need her at all. But Her breathing became steady and even, fast asleep in seconds at his side, and he couldn’t fucking bring himself to wake her. So Ben just studied Her sleeping face, not empty, not twisted in pain, a soft smile playing on her lips. He should fucking go, She was asleep and that’s all She’d fucking needed from him. But he stayed in place, and watcher Her like a fucking creep. Her peaceful face, smooth heartbeat, and gentle breaths soothing the thing in his chest. Ben need to get himself under fucking control, he was being fucking pathetic.

But he stayed, all fucking night, unable to move and barely capable of looking away. And the more of the night that passed, the long he watched Her, the more he realized she was pretty. Really fucking pretty. He hadn’t been fucking blind, he’d known she was pretty before. Thought about it more than he’d ever fucking admit. But fuck, this was different. She was really, really goddamn pretty. And then She rolled over, settling so she was comfortably pressed against him, and he realized she was beautiful. Like one of those stupid, overpriced paintings art-pussies in the 70s had tried to sell him. But real. Fucking beautiful, in a way that made him unable to look away, that made him feel fucking stupid.

Beautiful in a way that made him stay at Her side the whole night, frozen on her bed with her body against him, all the way until the sun started to leak into the room.

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Details.

For @the-californicationist's “Cali’s Nameless Challenge” writing challenge!

(Remember to leave your guess of who this is about in the comments!)

[ Challenge Masterlist ]

words: 560 (pushed it a little SORRY). cw: MDNI!, smut(tish), piv, terms of endearment (including daddy), you/your pronouns, afab!reader

You've heard the recruits talking. They always do when they don't think anyone's listening. They're very judgmental, these kids. Makes you wanna go particularly hard on them during training when you remember the way they gossip.

They're always always talking about others, like school children, disrespecting their commanding officers, talking about their hair (head, facial and otherwise), their habits (smoking, drinking), their personal lives (or what they expect them to be), and, of course, their body types.

Their most recent victim, or, at least, the one you've heard referred to most often, is one you didn't expect. They know better than to mention someone like that, or, at least, you hoped they did.

Sure, he's not very intimidating looking, average height, average weight. His voice doesn't ring out through the halls whenever he's pissed and reaming out some recruit or soldier that serves beneath him.

But that should be more of a reason for them to fear him, not a reason for them to speak about him.

They lack the life/career experience to realize that bigger/louder doesn't always equal scarier.

Soldiers like you, like him, don't get where you are, at your age, without being a scary motherfucker, ready to shoot someone right between their eyes, only to then turn around and go have lunch as if nothing's happened. Especially not here.

But maybe you're biased.

After all, you notice the details about him.

The way his voice coos gently, softly, politely, full of understanding and care whenever he speaks to the soldiers around him.

The way his hands are calloused and rough, long fingers with cracked skin around the fingertips and knuckles.

The way his arms, ever hairy, despite rarely on display, cross over his chest when he's paying his full attention to people speaking to or around him.

The way his thick brows scrunch judgmentally when he hears someone say something stupid.

The way he leans back on window sills and balcony railings to light his cigarettes.

The way he looks at you, those big brown eyes all soft and fond, too gentle for a man that regularly trades shots with criminals.

The way he smiles and half-smirks, especially when you press your nose to his cheek, and pepper his moles with kisses.

The way his eyes, weighed down by deep eye bags, flutter over you whenever you lower yourself onto his leaky cock, your ass bouncing off his thighs with fervor.

The way he purrs words of praise in your ear while he fucks you from behind, his hands pushing down on your lower back, his body curled over yours to whisper in your ear.

The way he calls your name, first, middle, last, your rank too.

The way he uses terms of endearment.

"That's it, princess."

"Doing so well for me, baby girl."

"That feels good, doesn't it, pretty girl."

"Don't be too loud, can't let people hear how good I'm making you feel, heart."

"Just like that, moan for daddy, cutie."

What do those stupid fucking kids know? Nothing.

If only they could see him the way you do. But they can't. He doesn't want anyone to know the way he looks under his uniform.

All the better too... Easier to surprise people by how much of a punch he packs with a single haymaker.

Not to mention, you're not keen on sharing.