#The unbearable americanness of reading

[fallowhearth]

It's endlessly funny to me, that so many people read Nona the Ninth - a book where a group of indigenous people from a small nation in the southern hemisphere spend years trying to build a communal plan, begging anyone to take collective action, reaching out again and again for as many people to get on board as possible, only to be stymied again and again by the individually and structurally powerful, who simply didn't care (and couldn't care due to the incentive structures imposed by power) and just wanted to preserve their own power/lives at the expense of everyone else, only for one of their number to be singled out and given immense universe-altering power by a magical entity, which of course led to disaster and the collapse of their original goals because, you know, absolute power corrupts absolutely and will magnify even the most minor human foibles - and came away thinking ah yes, the point is that John as an individual is ontologically evil.

[sirenofthegreenbanks]

die kaiserin (and the sudden end of season 1 TvT came totally out of the blue that was mean!!!!) had me recall that the last time i saw a german tv/show/movie production (not counting those i already know and rewatched) was ,, in winter and it was one (1) movie i watched one evening and thats it. i miss it TvT

[fulokis]

I understand it’s fiction but the show writers really should have thought about boosting the heat up cause these poor London souls would not be okay in even 30 degrees Celsius much less 40+

[determinate-negation]

so many public resources are going into directly supporting and aiding this genocide. our tax money is going towards this. i aim this mostly at other americans but so many countries are providing aid or support to israel it could easily apply to others

when so many resources are directly going to the destruction of gaza and the extermination of the palestinian people, think about how much you could direct towards helping a family survive this genocide.

mohammed @save-mohamed-family has already lost so much in this war. his entire immediate family–his parents, his four sisters and all their family were killed by israeli bombings. he lost his job, his home, basically everything from his life before the war. he’s displaced many times with his wife and three young children, living in unbearable conditions and suffering from injury and disease that they struggle to treat because the idf has destroyed the heath system. read more in his own words here

our government is actively supporting this and using your and my money to continue this horror. please consider how much you can put back to helping him and his family survive this genocide. every donation makes a difference

this is #192 on the Vetted Gaza Fundraiser List

$1,988 out of $50,000

[olderthannetfic]

No, ppl, VPNs aren't even possible for many MANY ppl in the third world. You can't buy a VPN in a brick and mortar store, and many of us (adults who are parents of kids in schools and everything) don't even own credit cards. Many who do still cannot afford VPN because what is easily affordable to a Westerner could pay my bills for a whole month. It depends on how poorly my currency is performing against the US dollar.

Even Paypal is sth mythical. I mean, I've had pieces accepted in US magazines for what the editors said was a token payment, about 50 dollars. Man, those 50 dollars would've paid off so much! That would be a FORTUNE. But I had to waive the payment EVERY time because Paypal doesn't work in my country. Grrr.

That doesn't mean third world countries listed on the Paypal site can use it either. My country is on it but every time I filled surveys etc and they transferred the money, I couldn't get my bank to let me have it. I know a third worlder in another country who has had that happen to them too.

My heart goes out to fellow readers and writers in Malaysia. Some of the most mindblowingly beautiful fics I've ever read (they were gushed abt by Americans and Brits and Aussies so I assumed the writers were native English speakers) turned out to have been written by fellow third worlders, one of those in my own country! The idea of waking up to find my country decided to ban ao3 is just... unbearable.

I hope the Malaysians find a way around it. And I hope whoever made that horrible decision gets the worst RPF written abt them AND hears about it from their political rival.

--

Yeah, I'm always meeting fans online from certain countries: Malaysia, Indonesia, the Philippines. Some places just seem to produce a lot of nerds. Or maybe more people learn English? IDK. Both a lack of (popular-with-fans) local media and a lack of economic opportunity can incentivize foreign language learning, so I'm sure that's part of it along with a certain amount of randomness.

In any case, part of why AO3 is run on donations instead of having paid accounts with better features is that a lot of core fans who write the fic and make the recslists and make fandom happen turn out to be in situations where they literally cannot pay even if they have the money.

Someone who's popular might be able to get foreign friends to pay for their VPN, but even then, can they actually get access to it? Questionable.

As for the last, it will be with their political rival, and you know it! They'll have to hear from some aide. ;D

[littlestpersimmon]

When ppl talk about the "banality of evil" its often about how boring the system that upholds imperialism is, but it's also how evil is commonplace, an ingredient to the cement that builds the foundation of the imperial core. You read about what the IOF is doing to Palestinians and yet fail to realize that American soldiers were doing the same things in the Philippines in 1902 during the american occupation, which is still not recognized as a genocide to this day. You think about Congo today but don't realize that a hundred years ago within the same land, the king of Belgium would cut off the hands of natives if they didn't collect and extract enough rubber, and its not much different when you replace"rubber" with "cobalt", "Belgian king" with "American oligarch".. the world immediately, utterly feels godless. One war seamlessly transitioning into another. How can there be so much grief for something as ordinary as a component to something I am literally holding in my hands right now. How can you make sense of that.

In the Philippines, there is a legend that says that the sturdiest, strongest buildings are constructed using the blood of a thousand children. The most prominent structure to remember this legend by, was a bridge called "Tulay ng San Juanico", built by none other than Philippine Dictator Ferdinand Marcos, who is renowned to this day by his record of unfathomable human rights abuse. San Juanico Bridge stands, used for commute in the daily lives of filipino civilians under the shadow of the empire, in an all consuming, impenetrable and unbearable mundanity. You can find 20, 45, a hundred, a million people who are kind, but at the same time I think about how so many of these kind people walk this earth without thought or personal responsibility, completely and totally unwilling to lose an iota of comfort and convenience, without once stopping to think, what do they owe the next coming generation, the ones that are still here, and the ones nameless and buried in this world's wreckage, in the necessity of its evil.

[r4vn]

—SNAKE'S TONGUE (cont.)

farleıgh x reader 【2/2】

w.c: 5,562

part ¹: here

disclaimers: nsfw, smut, heavy sexual tension, vers!farleigh, versfem!reader, references drugs, alcohol, some fluff some hurt, unprotected p in v (stay safe out there), creampie, brief overstimulation, praise kink, fingering, whimpering farleigh, begging, teasing, riding, off script from movie scene of olivers party

—synopsis: throughout oliver's party, farleigh is a sarcastic pain in the ass. the two of you go head to head in a heated game of beer pong, finding yourself in an intense predicament afterwards.

a/n: hope u enjoy! ty for reading and being patient!

「divider by @/ cafekitsune」

"oh it's going to be lovely oli! i invited maybe fifty people...no wait– a hundred. maybe two hundred?" elspeth rambled about having a party this evening for oliver. you quietly ate your food, occasionally adding a comment or two about party decoration and a theme.

"i don't even know a hundred people, elspeth." oliver chuckled, taking a bite out of his eggs. you couldn't look at him the same after seeing his actions with venetia the night before. the faux blonde sat quietly next to you, eating. it didn't seem like she enjoyed it, but she didn't look to be in disgust either. you notice the subtle movement of oliver as he continued to speak to elspeth. he slid another plate for venetia to eat and she silently accepted.

with the view of the painfully awkward interaction got to you, you diverted your eyes around the room. unfortunately your eyes found farleigh across the table. there was a shimmer of playfulness in his brown eyes and you noticed a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth whilst chewing. abruptly, venetia stood and exited the room rather quickly. you share a brief look with her brother felix before elspeth spoke.

"is ..is she alright?" the woman asked, looking at the rest of the heads at the table. farleigh sighed loudly, spinning a knife between his fingers.

"it seems she was rather full, stuffed even." the curly brunette commented. "you think it was the gluten? what even is gluten anyway.." he sneered, shrugging.

"farleigh." felix said, giving him a look. it's almost as if they communicated telepathically because farleigh had immediately shut his mouth and continued his breakfast.

"pardon me." you announced, exiting the dining room. you hadn't fully grasped the layout of the house yet so you were kind of aimlessly wandering. you did remember how to get back to your room, and venetia stayed next to you so you started there. you made sure it wasn't farleigh’s room, making a mental note that venetia was to the left of you and the unbearable american was to your right.

"venetia?" you called out, knocking on her door. no answer. you pressed your ear to the door to see if you could hear anyone, but it sounded completely vacant. you sighed, wondering which of the several rooms she could be in. you found yourself once again wandering, admiring and rooms and halls you passed for the next few minutes. as you were walking past an intersection, you were suddenly pulled into one and pushed up against the wall, your lips quickly being met by another pair. you let out a brief yelp into the kiss, instinctively placing your hands on the person's shoulders to push them away before realizing who it was. as much as you wanted to melt into his lips in such a deep kiss, you pushed him off.

"what the hell farleigh! you scared me you prick!" you proclaimed, subtly wiping your mouth with a heavily flushed face.

"theeere's my new nickname. boo, sweetheart." farleigh smiled ear to ear, crossing his arms. you rolled your eyes at the tall man, looking away.

"i’m looking for venetia." you stated, rolling your eyes. at this point you hoped they would roll out of your head.

"ohh the masochist? no idea. don't care enough either." he simply shrugged at you before turning his heel to walk off. you don't know why you told him, mentally slapping yourself.

you began to walk down the opposite hallway of farleigh, sighing in frustration. though farleigh glanced back at you, feeling the slightest ping of guilt before he, too, sighed.

"..venetia is in the library." you immediately turned around to farleigh again, who was still walking away from you. as soon as he turned left to another hallway, you could have sworn to see a smile on his lips. though you couldn't get distracted now. you knew where the library was and immediately made your way there.

as you finally arrived at the library, you saw one of the doors cracked open. you slowly walked up to the before peeking inside only to reveal venetia curled up in a ball in a large cushioned chair, crying. your heart began to feel achy at the site of your friend in such distress.

you slowly stepped in, the unforgiving creak of the door giving you away. venetia popped her head up from her position and immediately looked away, wiping her smeared mascara.

"came looking for you after breakfast. thought you could use a cigarette." you started, holding one out. you thanked god for quick thinking and checked your pockets as you walked in. venetia didn’t move for a few seconds before reaching her hand out, taking a tobacco stick from you. you sat down in the tufted chair next to her, lighting her cig first then yours. you smiled at hearing her mumble a soft 'thanks.'

"so, a penny for your thoughts?" you asked, taking a small puff of your cigarette. venetia sniffled, sighing loudly. she sat up and pulled a knee to her chest, resting her chin on it.

"haven't you heard? i'm a masochist with an eating disorder." she muttered, laughing dryly at her own words.

ah, so that's what farleigh meant..

"no, i haven't heard. but at the end of the day, you are human. and the road to recovery isn't a straight line." you reach out and grab hold of her free hand, squeezing it gently.

"i'm proud of you for both your big and small milestones, venetia." venetia's eyes glazed over again, turning her head to you.

"what big milestones?" she whimpered out. her voice cracking made your eyes water with sympathy. you immediately put out your cigarette in the ashtray sitting on the coffee table before walking up to the blonde. you pulled her up from the chair and stood her up.

"you still being here is a huge milestone venetia," you wiped a runaway tear off her face, smiling tenderly. "i know we may not have seen each other in a while but, regardless, i will always be proud of you." venetia's sad face mixed with a slow happy expression, making her look like a puppy.

"thank you, [y/n]." she whispered before engulfing you into a tight hug. you immediately return the hug, giggling softly before pulling away.

"now, you have to help me find a costume for tonight's party." venetia gasped and quickly wiped her face. she excitedly grabbed your arm to exit the library with an even brighter expression than before.

"i know just the costume. this house contains almost anything you can think of in the walk-in closet." venetia raved. you smiled, happily followed the excited faux blonde.

°°°

you and venetia were in the huge walk-in room closet of the mansion. there were 3 walk-in closets filled with several different dressers, trousers, shirts you could think of. some were bejeweled and some embroidered with intricate stitching. the second one had costume pieces. it stored faux animal heads and masks, and several different types of wings such as angel or insect wings. it also stored decorated shoes with flowers, wings, jewels, or simply glitter. the last closet was full of jewelry itself, some fake or were just minimally valuable. you knew they wouldn't place authentic generational jewelry in a random room. from crowns and necklaces, to bangles and hanging body jewelry. you could name it and it was there.

"venetiaaa! the party started almost an hour ago! im sure i look fine." you groaned dramatically as you sat still, careful not to mess up venetia's hand. she was doing your make up for the party. when the 30 minute mark hit, venetia said that 'being on time is early and being late is on time.'

"i’m almost done!..a little glitter there aaaand...done!" she stepped back, beginning to place her makeup back in the make up box and you immediately got up to look at yourself in the full body mirror. your eyes practically lit up at the sight of yourself. you were dressed as a fairy with butterfly wings. being the bookworm you were, you knew the butterfly wings that dressed your back. they were the wings of the tiger swallowtail, with the upper wings being black and a cream yellow and the hindwings dipped with a cerulean blue lined with black. on the underside of the hindwing had small distinct orange spots.

you wore a silk black dress that stopped at your mid thigh, the hem of the dress and v-cut lining being lace. your shoes were an ombre from black to blue and matched the wings. you didn't choose flashy jewelry, instead dressing your neck with a simple layered, dainty silver necklace. you didn't want bracelets, but a silver arm cuff engraved with flowers caught your eye and you placed it on your bicep. venetia gave you a smokey eye with light yellow eyeshadow complimented with iridescent blue glitter.

alas, venetia got a little glitter happy and used her finger to put some on your cheekbones and temples but it looked amazing nonetheless. you couldn't believe how pretty you looked.

"wow i– .." you murmured, letting the biggest smile appear. venetia stood next to you, grinning. "you look like a family heirloom: priceless." you couldn't help but giggle at venetia's mediocre pick up line, playfully pushing her. venetia countermatched you, being the known monarch butterfly. she found little LED light antennas for her costume.

"now, we are ready. lets go the party is waiting for us!" the two of you giggled as you left the room. you could already hear the music and see disco lights down the hall and down the staircase. you stared in awe at the decoration and the amount of people who were present whilst being dragged along by your friend.

"stop gawking and dance with me [y/n] baby!" venetia yelled over the music. she grabbed your hand and the two of you danced within the crowd, laughing and giggling. elspeth had really outdone herself, but then again parties like these were probably normal for saltburn.

as you and venetia danced your way through the crowd to get drinks, a curly afro caught your eye. you looked to your left and there he was, the boy you despised. maybe even hated. farleigh was dancing with some girl, clearly leaving no room for god himself. you furrowed your brows to see him pour a powdery substance on the back of her hand, licking it slowly while holding the girl's gaze. just as venetia nearly pulled you out of his view, his eyes met yours and the slightest smirk danced on his lips. you felt something. you didn't know what, but you know you didn't like it. you continued to follow venetia into the kitchen where drinks were being made, hoping it would flood the feeling away.

"what are we feeling tonight [y/n]? we have tequila, vodka, wine, bourbon, beer.." you picked up a half empty random bottle and waved it in your hand with a smile.

"i choose this one." you declared, being talking a swig. it burned your throat, the warmth of the alcohol quickly gathering in your chest. venetia laughed and kissed your cheek before also taking a random bottle and taking a drink.

"ooh bottle roulette! i love it!" she announced, getting small cheers from the crowds around.

°°°

it was about an hour into the party and you made sure to pace yourself on the drinking. you hadn't seen farleigh since you walked in and you could say you were slightly paranoid. you didn't know why, but anytime people walked through the kitchen you looked up, thinking it'd be him.

"ohh so close!" venetia cheered as the guy across the counter missed his shot in her last 3 remaining cups in her pyramid of beer pong.

"i got this, i got this." you jousted with a grin. you began to steady your balance and angled your hand before shooting the ball, scoring in the guys last cup. you and venetia immediately cheer together, jumping up and down. claps could be heard but a particular rhythm caught your attention. the slow clapping caused you to turn your head, and there he was.

farleigh.

"rather impressive win, [y/n]." he taunted with the fakest smile. you and venetia mutually waved him off, rolling your eyes. you tried your best to hide your smile, the alcohol quickly making you fail.

"oh? cocky much? let's play then. just you," his finger suddenly landed on you, making your heart jump. "and me."

"ugh farleigh go fuck yoursel—" venetia started.

"no no. it's fine, v. i got this. hold on." you held up a waiting hand and went to a nearby cooler, grabbing a bottle of water. you took a breath before downing half the bottle before setting the rest down on the marble counter. if you were going to play another entire game, you needed to refresh your organs before poisoning yourself again.

"aw now that's no fair [y/n]. where's the fun in sobering up like a little bitch?" farleigh pouted dramatically, crossing his arms like a child.

"bite me, prick." you gave him the finger, setting up your cups. he did the same, an eternal smile never leaving his stupid pretty mouth.

"ladies first." he tossed the ping pong ball and you caught it, shaking out your shoulders before throwing it again, the plastic sphere landing in one of his cups. you cheered briefly with your faux blonde friend, giggling happily at your win.

"lucky shot." the brunette shrugged and kept his cool as he downed his first cup. without warning, he quickly shot his turn, landing it in one of your red solo cups. your mouth hung slightly agape, watching farleigh as he took in the small cheers around him. he pointed to the cup and then angled his finger to you with a smug look.

you waved him off again and downed the drink. over the course of 15 minutes, you and farleigh competitively shot the ping pong ball back and forth, each of you gaining a series of misses and scores. the intense game began with a small crowd surrounding the table.

as the time passed, you began you notice you were getting really drunk. you had a good poker face though. you just had to not look anywhere else besides the table and farleigh or your world would spin. you'd steal stares at farleigh between turns. you were good at holding your liquor, but he was much better at holding his. you didn't know how early he started drinking, but regardless you were wasted. farleigh was beginning to beat you, getting even more cocky by each play. he had 3 cups left and you had 2.

"ooh i see you're slacking there [y/n]. you wanna pull the baby card again and drink some water?" farleigh teased, making a crybaby face towards you. you swallowed hard, blinking rapidly to focus. you casually grabbed the corners of the table to steady yourself, shooting daggers at him.

"go f-ffuck yourself farleigh." you said plainly. you cleared your throat, thanking god no one seemed to notice your slurred stutter. the room itself was full of drunk people, and though he didn't show it, farleigh was watching your every move. he caught your slurred speech. he saw how you ever so slightly stumbled and how you grabbed onto the table, blinking rapidly to focus your eyes. he was mostly impressed at how subtle you held yourself together.

you slowly raised your hand, swaying to the side before trying to slow your movements. you shot the ball, and missed, your groans being joined by others in the crowd. farleigh laughed, before immediately starting his turn and scoring one of your two cups. cheers erupted in the room again, the sound beginning to sound cloudy to you.

fucking hell.

you let out a soft groan, shaking your head to bring yourself back. you quickly downed the burning liquid and irritably threw the cup to the ground.

"hey, you alright?" venetia grabbed your shoulder, steadying your swaying body. you blinked slowly, focusing your eyes on her

"yeas..im...fine. im gonnnna win.." you mumbled, running a hand through your hair.

"hey, drink some water for me alri–" venetia grabbed the half full water bottle from earlier and tried to hand it to you. instead, you slapped it out of her hand, turning back to the game. venetia frowned but stayed quiet, keeping a close eye on you.

"ready to lose, sweetheart?" questioned farleigh, tilting his head to the side with a taunting smile. you ignored him, focusing on the three cups. you exhaled slowly and tossed the ping pong ball, missing again. you groaned and slowly kneeled down against the table, ready for your known fate. the room began to chant farleighs name and the sound began to drown out. you sighed and leaned on your elbow on the table, wasted with your eyelids barely open and full of bad sportsmanship.

"checkmate, baby." was all you heard before hearing a soft splash followed by loud cheers. your blurred vision found your hands around your last red solo cup and you sipped the last bit of alcohol, knocking the cup over on the table.

"fuck you." you mumbled not loud enough for anyone to hear. you didn't even look at the brunette. somehow, you managed to pick yourself up and stumbled away into the crowd. but farleigh was staring right at you as you said it to yourself, reading your lips perfectly. he frowned at your current state. you were wasted and wandering off, away from everyone, away from venetia, away from him. he began to make his way to follow you, moving through the dancing and cheering crowd around him.

as you wandered through the party. the music and lights all began to blur and sound very echo-y. everything felt like slow motion as you stumbled past dancing bodies. you groaned softly, slowly making your way somewhere quiet. you found yourself on the outskirts of the party now. people were making out and borderline fucking in corners of the hallway, but the music began to finally fade causing you to relax a bit more.

"[y/n]."

"[y/n]– wait.."

"hmmm?" you turned around, too fast for your liking and suddenly found yourself falling. everything spun around you.

"[y/n]–...god." you heard the voice again before being abruptly caught. you didn't have the energy to hold your own weight, falling into the pair of arms that caught you.

"you fucking drunk." you heard him say, making you giggle quietly. you were swooped up off your feet, quite literally before opening your blurry eyes to see a faint outline of the prick himself. you reached up, drunkenly playing in his hair.

"mmm..helloooo farleigh.." you smiled, absolutely wasted. you heard a chuckle, causing your warm body to erupt with butterflies. you didn't open your eyes but you could feel farleigh walking, taking a turn before walking through a door. a familiar smell immediately hit your nose; a scent of fresh soft green and musk, making you hum in content.

farleigh gently placed you on a bed before suddenly sitting you up. things began to spin violently again when you forced yourself to open your eyes to look at the boy kneeled down in front of you. he was holding you up, seemingly whispering sweet nothings as he pulled off your pair of faux wings.

"don't worry i got you ..lay back." you heard him say and you plopped back down on the bed, feeling his hands grab hold of your leg. tingles lingered wherever his hands touched. his fingers trailed down your leg and stopped at your calf, using his other hand to pull off your heels and did the same with your other shoe.

"[y/n], hey, for the love of god don’t fucking move from this bed okay? i'm gonna get you some water." all you did was nod with a soft mewl before you grabbed the nearest pillow, laid your head down on it and finally blacked out.

°°°

it was hours after the party and you opened your eyes to a moonlit room. you turned your head to the window where the source of moonlight was coming from. farleigh was sitting on the open window seal with a half smoked cigarette in his hands. when you began to sit up, you could tell you were still intoxicated, but most of the alcohol had run its course through your body. you felt like you were tipsy on an empty stomach now.

"good morning, sleep beauty." you heard the brunnette say. you turned to him, saying nothing. he then pointed something next to you, to a glass of water on the nightstand and you immediately downed it within a series of seconds. you sighed in relief, because that water was like liquid gold to you. you could say it nearly revived you.

"what–..time is it farleigh?" you grumble. you finally built the confidence to stand and walk to his bathroom.

"about 4 in the morning." you gave him a thumbs up and closed the door behind you. after you finished your business you went to wash your hands, noticing two one-use packets of make-up wipes on the counter. you wouldn't help but smile at how thoughtful it was.

after washing your hands and wiping your makeup off your face, you exited the bathroom and joined farleigh on the window seal. just as he was about to take another hit you swiftly grabbed it out his hand, smiling as u took a hit. he playfully glared at you, rolling his eyes with a scoff.

"first you can't hold your liquor, then you want to steal my cig." you shrugged, tauntingly blowing the smoke into his direction. farleigh chuckled and looked away outside, resting his head on the back of the window seal. while you smoked his cigarette, you took the time to admire him. maybe it was the alcohol that still lingered but you couldn't help but stare. the moonlight lit up his features like the last time you two were in his room. only he was wearing a plain white t-shirt with flannel sleeping pants this time.

you could also tell he wasn't fully sober mainly because for the first time since you've been here, he was being nice. or somewhere near it. farleigh began to feel watched and diverted his gaze back to you, who was definitely staring.

"can i help you, sweetheart?" he questioned. you didn't say anything, instead shrugging. he grinned and leaned up, putting his hand out.

"well if i can't help, i'd like my cancer stick back–” farleigh stopped himself short as he noticed you pulled back your hand out of his reach with a cautious brow raise. he raised a brow himself, a playful grin growing. before you could even process, farleigh had swiftly pinned your hand that held his cigarette by your wrist up against the window seal and held down your other arm by your bicep. reflexively, you grabbed onto his forearm with your free hand and stared up at him. farleigh looked down at you with a proud smile.

you felt his fingers slowly unwrap around your wrist and trail up the palm of your hand. just as he made it seem your fingers were going to intertwine, he swiftly grabbed the cigarette and sat back down, instead right in front of you. he sucked in a slow puff before exhaling slowly at you. you looked away while making a face towards the intensity of the smell. but farleigh didn’t allow that, and instead gently turned your head back to him, capturing your lips.

you reciprocated the kiss. it was soft and sweet. when he slowly pulled away, smoke faintly left both of your mouths into the air above. you couldn't help but laugh as his little trick.

"smooth." you admitted, making farleigh flash a smile. he seemed a little more bashful this time around. it looked cute on him to look flustered. you stood up and walked away from the window seal to his wardrobe, opening it.

"oh so you're going to steal my clothes now?" he said with the nearly finished cigarette between his lips. you winked and didn't answer, ruffling through his clothes before finding another white t-shirt. you turned your back to him and slowly slipped off your little black dress. farleigh had a full view of your blue bikini cut underwear. you wore no bra, so you knew his imagination began to run wild.

a smile stayed at your lips as you stepped out of your dress and slipped on his shirt. it stopped just above your knees. when you finally turned back to him, his demeanor darkened. his eyes had a look of hunger in them and he said nothing. you wandered back to his bed and sat on the edge with your legs crossed.

"you have the free will to steal your shirt back. so c'mere and take it, sweetheart." you offered. farleigh didn't move for a few seconds. he was probably still thinking about how you just undressed in front of him. finally, he snapped out of his daze and stood up. he walked slowly until he loomed over you. his eyes wandered and he finished the rest of the cigarette in one breath, setting the bud on his nightstand. he then pulled off his shirt in one swift move and laid you back. he kissed you again, hungrier this time.

the two of you mutually scooted more onto the bed and he slid in between your legs, grabbing both your wrists and placed them above your head. your legs rubbed against his needily, rolling your hips.

"all that arguing just to get under me huh, [y/n]." he mumbled against your lips. you whined in protest from his hand restricting you. his lips trailed down from your lips and jaw to your neck, fully attacking you there. you mewled from the mix of hurt and pleasure as farleigh abused your skin. he made sure to leave bruises and bite marks on your clavicle.

he used his free hand to caress your skin all around your body. he started at your thighs, then your hips, and teasing the sensitive skin of your abdomen. your stomach occasionally sunk inwards from the tickles of the tips of farleighs fingers. you exhaled sharply as you watched his hand snake up further under his shirt on you. he enjoyed watching you gasp and whimper at the lightest of his touches.

"you're so needy [y/n].." he teased audibly, watching intensely as he caressed your right breast, flickering his index finger over your nipple. you whimpered loudly, squirming more.

"fuck– farleiiigh–" he quickly stopped your movements by burying under the shirt, kissing and sucking on your left breast. a breathy moan slipped past your lips, bucking your hips even more against his. he would groan whenever you shifted against him, his pants becoming uncomfortably tight. farleigh was done waiting and let your wrists ago. he pulled off his shirt and slipped it onto himself with a cheeky grin.

"successfully re-stolen." he assured. you smiled before pulling him back in for another kiss. farleigh swiftly slid your underwear off and immediately dipped his hand between your thighs. you almost immediately lost all strength as he touched you. his fingers trailed between your second pair of lips. the slick sound from your own body cause you to hide your face in farleighs chest, letting out an even louder moan as he slid in his middle finger slowly.

"shh sh baby... you’re doing so well." he whispered into your ear, keeping a slow and steady pace. you let out soft gasps each time he decided to suddenly go deeper than the last. he added his ring finger, nearly causing you to break out in salacious sounds. you covered your mouth and moaned into your hand as he began to pick up the pace.

"move your hand from your mouth, or i will stop [y/n]." farleigh commanded in a low tone. you did as you were told, gripping onto farleighs shoulders as a substitution. the sounds of your wetness and moans filled his ears. it made him pulsate and you could feel it against your thigh. you couldn't take it anymore.

"f–farleigh–" you stammered. "please just– fucking fuck me already.." the brunette's hand stopped thrusting into you and you finally allowed your body to relax momentarily. he pulled his fingers out of you slowly and made sure to hold eye contact as he licked his digits clean of your juices. he pulled off his pants and boxers, revealing his hard on. you flushed a bright pink at the sight of it, your own walls clenching in response.

"since you asked so nicely." he chuckled. farleigh laid you down and aligned himself with your hips. it seems all his 'cockiness’ dispersed as he rubbed his tip between your soaked folds. his head became cloudy with lust and heat, exhaling as he rubbed over your clit. he closely watched your reactions, loving the way your hips twitched. he made sure to burn this sight of you into the folds of his brain.

"fuck.." he groaned out, finally pushing into you. you threw your head back in pure bliss, whimpering as you were stretched out. farleigh’s large hands held up your hips, beginning at a slow pace once more. farleigh groaned into the air above him and picked up speed.

"o–oh–... fuck–" farleigh shuddered, leaving his mouth agape. you looked up as he fucked you silly. your walls contracted against his girth and your thighs trembled. farleigh leaned down and pressed his body against yours. he began to kiss and mark your chest with more hickeys and bite marks. you wanted to see more though. you wanted to see farleigh groan and moan simply in pure ecstasy.

"farleigh ..wait–” he immediately stopped his movements and looked up at you, panting.

"yeah? am i– am i hurting you?" he questioned, immediately sitting up. you leaned up on your elbows, smiling up at him.

"no. but ..let me pleasure you." you bargained. farleigh swallowed nervously, his adam's apple bobbing up and down. carefully, you flipped yours and his position. you were now sitting on top of his lap, right in front of his aching cock. farleigh sat up against the bed frame, becoming visibly shy. his skin flushed color and you couldn't help but kiss his warm cheeks.

"you're so cute farleigh...mm.” you said against his blushing face. you lifted your hips and grabbed hold of him within your fingers, slowly sitting yourself on his dick, simultaneously watching as his facial expression filled with pleasure.

"ah– [y/n]– ...shit." he stuttered, exhaling sharply. you felt so full, gently touching the core of your abdomen. you could feel him pushed up against your insides, nearly grazing that spot. you grabbed hold of his shoulders, licking your lips as you began to bounce on farleighs cock.

"you're so big farleigh.." you murmured against farleighs lips. he tried to respond, only letting out whimpers and pants. you kept a rough, steady pace to continue to see his reactions. you loved to see his eyes roll back and to watch him struggle to curse and speak, matching his moans. suddenly farleigh grabbed onto your hips, ramming them down onto him with a fully audible moan. the two of you mutually moved your hips, letting your head rest on his shoulder. you listened to his yearning sounds, whimpering yourself as you neared your edge.

"o–oh god [y/n] please–" you cupped his face, maintaining eye contact as you rode him. his beautiful brown doe eyes began to water, whimpers becoming more prominent.

"cum for me farleigh–" you gasped out, reaching your climax. you quivered under his touch, thighs trembling. seconds later he thrusts roughly upwards one last time before releasing inside you. your walls contracted in response to each filling pulsation. your hips bucked slowly riding out your high with soft mewls. abruptly, farleigh let out a higher pitch whimper, grabbing your hips to still your movements.

" ‘m s–sensitive for f–fucks sake.." he breathed out. you raised a brow, bouncing on his dick once out of spite. he yelped from the overstimulation, covering his mouth immediately.

"watch your mouth farleigh. i’m the one on top right now." farleigh didn't argue with you, instead staring up at you with the sweetest puppy dog brown eyes as if he was silently asking for forgiveness. you chuckled and kissed his cheek before moving to his mouth to plant a soft kiss on his lips. you slowly lifted yourself off the poor guy, laying down on your back beside him. you watched as his cum slowly oozed out of you, biting down at your lip. your [e/c] colored eyes met farleighs, who was also looking down at your mess. his dick twitched again at the sight.

"..can we– go again?” he asked, eyes looking back and forth between your entrance and your eyes. with a face like that, you couldn't deny him no way.

"you’re so fucking lucky i’m on birth control, prick. now c'mere."

© r4vn ²⁰²⁴, do not repost my work.

hope u enjoyed ;)

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 2 - A New Kind of Tension

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: Chapter title from American Idiot by Green Day.

Word Count: 5.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Soldier Boy is woken up, and you have to deal with the pitfalls of your idea. Contains usual tags.

Read on A03!

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

Want to be tagged? Just ask!

When he was forced into this type of sleep, Ben didn’t dream. This type of sleep was more like death, with no part of him alive in any way that mattered. But in the few seconds before he woke, with chemicals leaving his system and consciousness returning, he felt pain.

Borderline unbearable, exhaustive and consuming pain. The last few times he had been woken up, the pain had made the bomb in his chest start to tick, tick, tick, building up and up, off the beat from his heart until they found a rhythm, and he would explode.

It never relieved all that pain, but fuck him if it wasn’t cathartic.

Every time he had woken up in Russia, he’d fought the scientists like a fucking animal. When that assfuck, traitorous Brit and his cum guzzling team had found him, Ben hadn’t hesitated to use teeth and fire, hellbent on getting out, on getting home. This time wasn’t any different, the beat in his chest was already banging against his ribs, save for the stark exception of his surroundings.

He wasn’t in a clean lab or disgusting tube. He was in a suburban living room, complete with potted plants, one of those new and weirdly flat TVs, and some of the most boring paintings of roses he had ever fucking seen. Not a single person was in sight, no tubes were hooked to his body, and no cannon barrels or gas-filled vents sat in his vision. A small part of him hesitated, wondering if he was suddenly dreaming, his body having adapted to fight back and allow him some hazy peace. But the fever in his chest was growing, and there was no goddamn world where he would ever find suburbia and floral-patterned carpets peaceful. No, this was someone’s attempt to trick him, to make him compliant. Maybe Vought, maybe the Reds, maybe the CIA, didn’t matter. They all died the same.

The nuclear explosion from his chest lit the room, tearing out of him with a rush. Ben braced himself for bullets and grenades as his captors realized their little plan had failed, but none came. And as the dust cleared, he realized that not only were there no soldiers dropping from the sky or weapons hurling at his body, but everything was… exactly the same. Well, the plants had been burnt to a crisp, but that was the only evidence of his power having ripped through the room. The TV was still smooth and clean, the sofa hadn’t moved an inch, and the paintings hung evenly on the walls.

What the fuck.

He paused, the drum in his chest having stilled, and listened. Bird song, running water below the floor, electrical hums through the walls, and…

There it was.

Heartbeats.

Five heartbeats. All sped up, all bouncing around in the chests of their owners. Three moved heavily and quickly, one rapid and staggered—that one reeked of terror—and one beat only a single mark off from steady, almost as if it were devoid of any fear. Interesting.

Ben searched the room for a camera, but settled on looking in the direction of the heartbeats.

“I know you’re there,” he drawled. “I can fuckin hear you. Come out, you pussies.”

There was a pause, all five heartbeats having stuttered at his words, before a door creaked down the dark, sconce lined halls, and footsteps sounded towards him.

The people who stepped from the shadows into the living room should thank the Lord that Ben didn’t kill them the moment they were in the light. Grace Mallory, the thin-lipped bitch, watched him wearily, with the backstabbing Billy Butcher to her left. Only a step behind them was the blonde broad that had blasted him in the face at Vought Tower, accompanied by her and Butcher’s gangly cocksucker. The only one he didn’t recognize stood at the very front, a woman who was looking at him with sharp eyes, arms crossed in front of her body and legs planted apart. This was the holder of the steady heart, unsurprisingly given her collected stance and cold gaze. It was almost amusing, the way she was looking at him, like she was a lion and he was a gazelle, like if she glared her lovely eyes at Ben enough, he might drop dead. But he turned his eyes from her tiny fury to Butcher and Mallory, giving them a smirk that made his murderous intentions clear.

“What the fuck is this?”

It was Butcher who answered, returning the false smile. “This is an intervention, mate. You have a problem, and we’re here to help.”

“The only problem I have is you. If you had half a brain, you’d start running.”

“Really? Because to me,” Butcher’s smile didn’t falter as he gestured around the room. “It seems like you’re having some performance issues.”

“Don’t make him angry,” the cocksucker mumbled from the back. Butcher only rolled his eyes in response.

“This, Soldier Boy, is an opportunity. We’re giving you a second chance to help us with Homelander.” Mallory said, watching Ben carefully.

“A second chance?” It was Ben’s turn to roll his eyes. “You should be grateful that I might not kill you all when I leave.”

“I’d start playing nice, Soldier Boy.” The blonde stepped forward with a scowl. “You don’t have the upper hand here."

"Oh, please, you blast me down once and think you’re some sort of god? You caught me off guard that time, doll. This time, you won’t be so lucky.”

Blondie opened her mouth to retaliate, but Butcher snorted first, a newer, more twisted grin on his face.

“Starlight’s no god, but she is,” Butcher nudged the steady-hearted newcomer forward. “Meet your new babysitter. Go on, Love, say hello.”

The woman stumbled slightly at the push, her already strong frown deepening, and had barely turned her anger to Butcher when Ben started to laugh. All eyes fell to him as he gave a loud snort of amusement, a broad grin on his face.

“Jesus,” he wheezed. “Didn’t think you were funny, Butcher, but that’s a fucking riot.”

“We’re being serious,” Starlight snapped. “You answer to her now.”

“Yeah,” Ben rolled his eyes, giving his alleged keeper a once over. “Sure. Sunshine over here is going to stop me from ripping all your heads off your bodies. Fuck, she won’t even stop me leaving this room.”

“Wanna bet?”

Ben paused as the woman spoke for the first time. It wasn’t just her heartbeat that was level and even. Her voice was smooth, unbreaking and calm with not a trace of anxiety. Her eyes were still watching him coldly, her pretty face set like a mask.

“Excuse me?”

“Would you like to bet that I can’t stop you?” She repeated slowly, as if he were a child.  “I’d advise you not to, but I don’t think you’d care for my opinion.”

“You think you can stop me, Sunshine? Are you fucking stupid?”

“No, but I don’t think my intelligence matters here. You’re not walking out that door.”

Part of Ben wanted to start laughing again. At her blatant lack of self-preservation to go up against him and not flinch. At her smooth claim of intelligence but painfully clear lack of understanding about the situation she was in. At her companions, who had all stepped back, undoubtedly realizing that their gambit had failed and leaving her in his line of fire.

Part of him wanted to be quick and brutal, make her an example before he left. But it wasn’t worth it, and her face was too nice to ruin, so he settled to just walk past her. He’d kill Butcher on his way out and figure out what he wanted to do from there.

He only had to take three long strides to reach the hall, making to just move past the woman, but she side-stepped, blocking his path. Ben looked down at her, finding his amusement at her misguided boldness fading into annoyance.

“Move, Sunshine. I’ll only ask once.”

She met his glare, no break in her resolve. “I’d say the same to you, Grampa.”

“I’m warning you. I’m not above hitting a lady.”

“I thought you were only going to ask once.”

That was it. Ben moved to grab her, to shove her aside and end her pointless little charade. He didn’t have time for her frivolous, self-indulgent bullshit, he had tried to warn her, and at this point her blood was really just on her own hands.

It happened fast. He reached to push her, she didn’t flinch, her face looking almost bored as Ben lunged, and his hand had barely landed on her arm before he let go, recoiling from her with a roar.

“What the fuck!” He looked at his hand, now raw and red, with blisters fading as soon as they had formed. His gaze shot to the woman’s unbothered face, she herself having neither flinched nor wavered. “Did you just fucking burn me?”

“I warned you,” she said. “I don’t play games I can’t win.”

Ben looked past her, where the small group remained, having retreated down the hall. Butcher’s face was painted with deep amusement as Starlight and Mallory held twin looks of satisfaction. Only the cocksucker still looked afraid, but his nervous eyes were trained on the woman, as though she might blow to pieces at any second.

“Somebody better start talking,” Ben growled.

“We tried to tell you, Governor,” Butcher said with an overly dramatic sigh. “She’s in charge here.”

“You think this will hold me? I-“

“You were unprepared, we got lucky, it won’t happen again. We all heard the speech you gave Annie.” The woman cut him off with a snort. “You need to start getting it into your head. You do not have the upper hand. The sooner you do, the sooner we can actually do something productive instead of peacocking like idiots.”

Ben stared at her, the drum in his chest growing loud once more, his anger serving as fuel. He didn’t bother to try and control it, simply letting it set to his heart and build and build. Just before the sound could drown out all his other senses, he heard the woman yell.

“Everyone out!” Her voice was slightly alarmed, but laced with no panic. And as the door slammed down the hall, Ben realized her heartbeat hadn’t retreated. She was still right in front of him. He hoped this hurt.

As the smoke cleared, Ben opened his eyes to, tragically and annoyingly, see the woman completely intact, unbothered, and in one piece. Most he could tell, she had only taken a step back.

“Are you done?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Bitch,” he said. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“Lovely,” she sighed. “You just tried that. Didn’t work. Won’t work. Not on me. Like I said before you started acting like a toddler, the sooner you accept that, the sooner we can help each other.”

“How could you possibly help me?”

She grinned. “I’m so glad you asked. Hughie! You’re up!”

The skinny little coward appeared over her shoulder, anxiety painted over his face. “Can’t Mallory or Butcher do this?”

“Nah, Mallory has a powerful resting-hater-face, and Butcher would get himself killed all over me, which would be gross. I don’t need that right now.”

The cocksucker pouted. “Annie?”

“No, I don’t think he’s her biggest fan, especially after the whole tower thing-“

“Stop talking about me like I’m not right fucking here,” Ben cut in.

“Fine, you baby. Hughie,” the woman nudged Cocksucker forward. “Give him the pitch.”

Ben didn’t listen to Cocksucker as he rambled, catching only the beginning and electing to ignore him once the words “article B-55XP2 allows” were said. Instead, he focused on the woman, whose brow was furrowed as she listened to her companion talk. Small tendrils of smoke were rising from her body, and Ben noted the way Cocksucker stood off to the side, attempting to somehow paradoxically hold and elude both Ben’s and the woman’s attention. Her lips were in a tight line now, and she was hugging herself slightly, curving into her own body. The smoke from her had begun to choke the room, and though Ben could hear her level heartbeat, he could also hear her gnaw on her lower lip and the tap of her foot on the floor. When her gaze abruptly slid to his, Ben held it unblinkingly, and the crease in her brow only deepened.

Before Ben could figure out what sat behind her sharp eyes, Cocksucker let out a cough and said a name that made the woman turn.

“Can you turn it down, please?”

“Oh, shit. Sorry, Hughie,” she mumbled, taking another step back as Cocksucker gave a nod of thanks.

“So the big thing to know…” Once again, Ben didn’t hear whatever it was being said. No, he was now fully staring at the woman, her name playing in his head. It wasn’t a supe name, like how Butcher had referred to Blondie. Almost every supe Ben had known preferred being called by their fancy little brand name, but he hadn’t even learned if this bitch had one. Fuck, he hadn’t even heard of her. Last time he had been introduced to a large number of new players, most of them weak, whining pussies with pathetic powers, but this woman was far from pathetic. He hadn’t heard anything about a fire-supe, let alone a doll faced, angry, bitchy one who had to have the resting heart rate of a whale. He bet he could pick it up to match the Cocksuckers, if he really tried. He bet he could make her scream, maybe from being ripped limb from limb, maybe from cumming her brains out all over him. A smirk started to grow on his face as he imagined it, her ice-queen demeanor crumbling from his irresistible charm-

“Are you fucking listening?” The woman herself broke him from his thoughts, her fingers snapping in his face.

“No,” Ben sneered. “Why should I?”

“Well, if you’d pay Hughie half the attention you seem to be paying to my tits, you’d be able to answer your own dumb question.”

“Don’t fucking flatter yourself-“

“Please, I’ve been told you stick your dick in anything with a hole.” She cut him off again, an action that, if she kept it up, would result in her being punched. “Tell you what, I’ll get you a real nice watermelon to play with if you just fucking listen.”

“Fine.”

She paused, but was thrown for only a second. “Ok, great, Hughie-“

“But you do the talking.”

She almost snorted. “Are you that fucking crow-brained that you can’t listen unless it’s something shiny?” She paused. “Sorry Hughie. No offense, you’re plenty shiny.”

The Cocksucker, Ben knew his name was Hughie at this point but couldn’t find himself fucked to use it, just shrugged. “No offense taken.” His attention shifted back to Ben. “Will you really listen if she talks?”

“She talks like a person. You talk like a boring army manual.”

“Could’ve just said book,” Cocksucker said with a frown, but stepped back nonetheless.

“This is fucking stupid,” the woman said with a glare that was somehow stronger than before.

“You wanted me to listen to your stupid little sales pitch, Sunshine. This is what will make me listen.”

She rolled her eyes further back than Ben had ever seen before, but started to speak, her voice dripping with contempt.

“Here’s the deal. You help us with our Homelander problem, we give you immunity for all the definite war crimes you’ve committed and keep you from being Sleeping Beauty for a third time. You’ll stay here, with me, until we have a clear and safe shot at Homelander. You’ll do your little Oppenheimer magic trick, and we’ll take care of the rest. After Homelander's dead, you’ll be free to leave America for good, and live out your shitty immortal life on some stupid island where no one knows who you are.” As she came to the end of her speech, Ben grinned at her.

“See? Wasn’t so hard.”

She didn’t even blink. “Any questions?”

“Questions? Nah. But you should know, this is fucking stupid, and I’m not participating in it. All I’ll get is a vacation, and I could have that right fucking now.”

“Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you can’t leave this room, let alone go on vacation. And I’d say what you’d ‘get’,” she used air quotes, and Ben wondered if he could throw her out a window. “Is us not knocking you out right now.”

“Also immunity,” Cocksucker piped up.

She nodded. “Also immunity. We’re offering you this once.” She gave him a sickly-sweet smile. “Act now and we’ll throw in a second watermelon.”

“I’ll fucking break out.” Ben snarled.

“Take your best shot. This safe house is more durable than a cold-war bunker, inside and out.”

“I’ll kill your team.”

“Try it. I’ll burn off your money maker.”

“I’ll heal.”

“Doesn’t mean it won’t hurt.”

“I’ll go back to Vought.”

“Please, you hate them almost as much as me.”

“I doubt that.”

Her voice was coated in visceral, hot rage when she answered. “Don’t.”

Ben paused at that, squinting at her. “Why do you hate them?”

She shrugged. “Not your concern. But for the record, if you did try something that ass-brained, I wouldn’t just burn your face.”

Ben almost flinched when he saw her eyes flick down.

“What if I fail?”

“You won’t.” Her tone made it clear that there wasn’t room for debate.

“What if I want to stay here after, then?” Ben snapped. “I just spent forty years away. I’m not going again.”

“Fucking earn it.”

Ben let out a slow breath. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew when he was backed into a corner. But he had been against walls that were far more dangerous, and far more painful. He would play this little game until he figured out how to take her, the only player aside from him that mattered, out. But he wasn’t going to make any of this pleasant. If they wanted pleasant, they shouldn’t have crossed him in the first place.

“I want my fucking shield and suit back.”

She smiled with teeth for the first time. “I’ll see what I can do.”

——-

This had been a mistake. Now that everyone had left, you could admit—to yourself and no one else—that this was a stupid, arrogant mistake.

The first day had been… rough. There were three bedrooms, all with identical queen beds and equally generic decor. Solider Boy had insisted on laying on all of them to “test their durability." When you had told him they were all the exact same, he had called you an “uncultured hick." You had explained that you were from Boston and currently lived in New York, two urban areas that rendered “hick” an unsuitable title for you, offering “street trash” as a replacement. He told you he’d call you whatever he wanted, utilizing his nickname of “Sunshine” once again. You reminded him of your threat to burn off his favorite part of himself, he said that you would be only depriving yourself of it, and you left the conversation before you could make good on the promise.

Eventually he came down the stairs and gruffly told you that the bedroom with the attached bathroom was his, before stomping back into the said room to do something undoubtedly disgraceful .

Day two was only worse. You had collapsed in the bedroom with the five horse paintings, as it had been closest to the stairs, and you were exhausted from a day of verbal sparring and worrying if you’d have to go back to MM, tail between your legs, and admit you’d been wrong. Now, having gotten a whopping 4 hours of restless sleep, you just wanted coffee. Mallory told you she would send someone to drop groceries overnight, the safe house door having a bank-like slot for packages, and she had made good on her word. You had been able to tell this because when you walked into the kitchen, it looked like a food bomb had detonated.

“What the shit is this?” You said, your voice more tired than angry.

Soldier Boy, sitting at the counter, glared at you. “You’re up late.”

“It’s 7am. In nobody’s world is that ‘late’.”

“I’ve been up for 2 hours.”

You shrugged. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“I had to eat a sandwich.”

“Yeah, that happens.” You survey the mess for anything that you can use, hoping to see a box of cereal buried somewhere. You find what you’re looking for, along with some coffee that you put into the filter and stare at with blank exhaustion. In your sleepy haze, you block out Soldier Boy’s ramblings of hunger and shitty, crunchy peanut butter, hoping he tires himself out and leaves you alone. 

You were startled out of your head by the sound of your name.

"Huh?"

“Whatever you’re making, I want some too.” That gets through to you, and your head snaps up.

“How do you know my name?”

"Cocksucker said it."

"Cocksucker?"

"The little puppy that follows Butcher and Starlight around."

"Hughie?" 

"Sure." He rolled his eyes. “So, what are we eating?"

"We?"

"I asked you, very nicely, to cook me some of whatever you're making too. Or are you fucking deaf?"

“I’m not cooking anything.”

His brow knit in confusion. “You’re not going to eat? I thought all the feminist shit stopped that.”

“I’m going to eat, Jackass. But I’m not going to cook anything, I’m just going to throw cereal and milk into a bowl. You can do that yourself.” You decided not to touch the feminist comment, focusing on pouring your coffee instead.

“Well, what are you going to cook for lunch.”

“Well, if Mallory followed my list, I’ll heat up chicken tenders.”

“Dinner?”

You tilt your head. “Not sure. That’s like, twelve hours away.”

“But you’ll. You’ll cook something.”

“No.”

“Why?”

You sighed. “I don’t know how to cook.”

“What?!” He looked horrified now. It would almost be funny, if it were any other circumstances. “How?”

“I never learned.”

“But you’re a woman!”

“Yeah, no. We’re not having this conversation.” You turned on your heels to leave the room, coffee in hand, trying to ignore the hot feeling bubbling under your skin. You paused only to call back over your shoulder. “And clean up your fucking mess!”

Thankfully, after that, the morning was uneventful. You avoided Soldier Boy, he avoided you. All the way into lunch, you were almost able to forget your situation.

Almost.

“Fuck!” You tripped over a bag of apples on the floor, your eyes having been glued to your phone as you entered the kitchen. You looked around, seeing the mess from this morning sitting just as you’d left it.

“Keep it down!” Soldier Boy’s voice carried down the stairs. You ignored his request, raising your voice to a shriek.

“Get your manwhore ass down here right now, before I make you!”

You stepped further into the room, the bubbling feeling returning, and surveyed the area that somehow looked worse than before. Picking through the melted frozens, scattered produce, and loose cans and boxes, a dirty knife and plate on the counter.

“What the fuck is a manwhore,” he grumbled as he walked through the door.

“What the hell is this?” You ignored his question, gesturing around you.

He frowned. “The kitchen.”

“No, you ass. Why is all the food still out.”

He glared at you. “Because I’m already doing enough for your sorry ass, I’m not cleaning too.”

“You didn’t even put away your dishes!”

Soldier Boy just gave you an annoyed look, turning to walk away. Your vision went red.

“Shit!” He howled, running backwards into the room before turning with a glare. “You bitch!”

It took you a second to understand what he was talking about. You only managed to clue in from the fading scars on his face, and the realization that the feeling in you had boiled over.

If you were a better, less tired and angry person, you might have apologized. Thank god you weren’t.

“I am not going to spend the next who-knows-how-many months cleaning up after you. If you want to make this as difficult as possible, turn this house into a shithole, feel fucking free. I won’t stop you.”

“You don’t know how many months we’ll be here?”

“There’s a lot of moving parts to this operation that don’t concern you, and-“ You held up your hand as he started to interject. “That’s not the point. Clean up.”

“You should be thankful I’m even still here, you bitch. If it matters so much to you, do it yourself.” He growled back.

“Are you really that fucking stupid, or did you not just hear me say that this is not my mess to clean?! Either you do it, or it doesn’t get done.”

“You couldn’t make me with a million dollars and a blowjob.”

“Good thing I’m not offering either.”

A cold silence settled in the room, your arms crossed over your chest, trying to keep yourself from exploding once more. His glare had developed a murderous glint in his eyes, his fists clenched at his side.

“Bitch.”

You raised your chin. “Cunt.”

“You know, if I didn’t think it’d be a shame to ruin such a nice face, I’d slam you into the oven and burn yours off.”

“Oh, so you are that stupid.”

“Watch yourself.” He said your name in a low voice, taking a rough step forward.

“Sorry, for a second there I thought you said you believed you could burn a supe with fire powers. I must’ve misheard you.”

“I could make this very painful for you.”

“As opposed to your cheery compliance so far?”

“Do you think I’m just going to roll over?” He hissed, taking another step forward. “Be you and Butcher’s little lap dog?”

Something grew taut in your gut, but you held his gaze. “I think that if you don’t back the fuck up, I won’t make you roll over so much as physically harm you until you’re crying on the floor.”

"You're fighting a war you can’t win, Sunshine. I’ll kick your ass.” He sneered. “I’ll make you sob back home to Daddy Butcher.”

Your blood felt cold, your jaw almost cracking from the pressure in your chest. “So do it. Or move.”

Soldier Boy’s face was a portrait of rage, and you felt like he was dissecting with his cold green eyes. Looking for any weakness, any exploitable fallacy on your mask, any crack in your head that he could pry open and fill with poison. Make your lungs collapse into your ribs, make you claw and claw in desperation-

“Hm,” he grunted. He pulled himself to his full height before turning and leaving, leaving your anger sizzling at nothing. You watched as Soldier Boy, with controlled and rigid movements, stepped away from you, leaving the room without another word. Leaving you in the slop of the kitchen. He was getting further and further away from you, too far you to do anything about it, except maybe-

Before you could stop yourself, your hands were wrapped around the knife on the counter and the knife was flying across the room. It bounced off of Soldier Boy's back with a pitiful sound, but he stopped in his path, turning slowly. He glanced down, eyes finding the abandoned utensil on the floor before he dragged his gaze back to you.

“Did you just throw a fucking knife at me?”

“Clean up.”

He stared at you with the same eyes as before, the only betrayer of his emotions the twitch of a muscle in his jaw.

“It’ll take more than a bad throw to make me pussy enough to be your maid, Sunshine.” With that, he was gone.

———-

Ideally, the woman Ben would be forced into a lockdown with would be fun. She would give him sweet smiles and syrupy words, laugh at his jokes, and sprout similar ones. She wouldn’t be a sulking, useless, bitter prude whose greatest talent seemed to be finding issue with every word out of his mouth. Every time they had spoken, he had felt that beat in his ribs grow and grow, and it was nothing short of a fucking miracle it hadn’t gone off.

He hadn’t cleaned the kitchen, and he wouldn’t. It was beneath him, and she was the one who had chosen to be here, not him. In a brief moment of weakness, the stench from the rotten produce almost breaking his resolve, Ben had eyed a vacuum cleaner, only to realize he couldn’t use it if he wanted to. There were far too many buttons, weird twisty things lining the handle and bag, and he would take the first flight to Russia before he asked her for help.

They skirted around each other with success for two days after the knife incident, sneaking into the kitchen at odd hours to look for somehow edible food and leaving every possible door in the house locked behind them. A beautiful and well executed arrangement, broken only by her sudden appearance in the living room a few days later, standing behind him as he watched TV.

“We need to talk.” When Ben didn’t answer, she walked around the sofa, and grabbed the remote, turning off the screen. “Now.”

Ben scowled. “I was busy.”

“Watch a re-run of Jeopardy? With categories you don’t even understand?” She crossed her arms in front of him.

“I understood enough.”

She snorted. “One of the categories was ‘Celebrity-Inspired Products’. Name one modern, non-supe celebrity.”

Ben paused. “Marlon Brando.”

“Marlon Brando died in 2004.”

“Gene Wilder.”

“2016.”

“That one funny guy who was on the rise. In that stupid book movie.” Ben frowned. “William Robinson.”

She titled her head. “William Robinson… Do you mean fucking Robin Williams.”

“I was close,” Ben said with a shrug.

“Yeah, well, not really, cause he died in 2014. Now can we please talk.”

“Are you here to apologize?”

“Yes, actually.”

That got Ben’s attention. “Well then. Go on."

She had started to chew her lip again, her nose wrinkling like she smelled something bad. Though, to be fair, she probably did. The milk in the kitchen had become a problem. “I am sorry.” She took a needlessly labored breath through her nose. “I shouldn’t have thrown the knife at you. It was childish.”

Ben waited for her to continue, and when she didn't, he leaned forward. “That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“So you’re going to clean the kitchen?”

She let out a dry laugh. “Nope.”

Ben lounged back. “Then your apology is worthless.”

The now-familiar look of anger had returned to her face. “I am not your maid.”

“And I’m not yours.”

“I didn’t make the mess. And I’m not going to clean it just because you think you’re better than me.”

“I don’t think I’m better than you,” He retorted. “I am better than you.”

“Because you’re a man?” She jeered. “A big whiny baby with muscles?”

“Because I built up the company that gave you your little sparkle show. I am Vought. Those ungrateful backstabbing assholes wouldn’t be anywhere without me.”

She fell silent at that, the victory pumping its fists inside Ben’s head slowing the drum in his chest. If he had observed one thing about her, it was that there was almost never a time she lacked in words. Also, she listened to her stupid music deafeningly loud and had an impressive arm. He had felt that knife hit him, sharp end first, right on his spine, still burning from the heat of her touch. Another deep breath escaped her, a fog that had formed on her face clearing.

“Power and greatness have nothing to do with cleaning. Vought won’t hear about your refusal to run a dish washer and grovel on their knees for your forgiveness.”

“Because when I’m through with them, they won’t have knees.” Ben smiled at the fanstasy on a wheel-chair bound Stan Edgar.

“No, because they couldn’t give a shit about it. I don’t love being here any more than you, but I have to be. This is a marriage of convenience, so we-“

He snorted. “I'm not marrying you, Sunshine. You’re pretty, but too much of a bitch for my taste.”

“It’s an expression, you fucking idiot. It means a weary alliance hinging on a favor. We don’t need to like each other, but we can’t kill each other, or this will be a net loss.“

“Sure.” Ben gave her his cockiest grin. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

“You couldn’t handle me, Grampa.” Despite her mocking voice, her small step back didn’t escape Ben’s notice. Though her heart was steady, he dismissed it as anxiety. Obviously, nobody had helped her relieve any of that clear, needless stress plaguing her in a while. He would. Make this whole situation a little more bearable. Maybe, once she had a good fuck, she’d turn out to be just half as pleasant as his fantasy.

“I fucked Marilyn Monroe. I almost made her leave that pussy, Kennedy. You’d be lucky if I looked at you.”

“I’d say I’m lucky right now. You’re too busy trying to fuck your own reflection to look anywhere else.”

“And my reflection thanks me every fucking night.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” she gave him a toothy, arrogant smile. Ben knew she thought she’d won.

“If you ever want someone to pull that stick out of your ass, I’d be happy to help.”

Her smile faltered quickly, but was plastered back onto her face just as fast. “I’m sure it’ll fall out on its own.”

“In case it doesn’t, my door is open.”

“Thought I was a bitch?”

“You said we didn’t need to like each other to get hitched-”

“Never said hitched.”

“So if you ever want to ‘not like each other,’” he winked at her. “As hard as possible, my door is open. I’m a gentleman, you’d have fun.” He reached to take her, and he had hardly brushed their fingers when she jumped back, recoiling like he was covered in warts.

For the first time, Ben thought that the look on her face might be fear. She rubbed her hand like it had been burned, a part of him thought she might bite through her lips, and her heart had become erratic. But when she spoke, her voice was just as level as always.

“Clean your dishes, and keep your door fucking closed. Or next time I throw a knife, I’ll aim for your eye, and I won’t miss.”

She stomped up the stairs, the room lingering with smoke long after she left.

[keeksandgigz]

Chapter 1: Les Usurpateurs

Part 1 of Words are Futile Devices- A Steddie x Reader Call Me By Your Name AU

Somewhere in Northern Italy, 1983

cw: ~3k words, no smut (yet), EVERYONE IS OF AGE!!!, a lot of unnecessary description for the vibes, reader is a bit of a cunt

notes: I'm back (I think)

Despite the lack of smut in this chapter, this and all my works are 18+ minors do NOT interact

There was something of a quiet intimacy in hearing the summer sparrows in the morning. Nothing but the gentle hum and chirp buried in the ripe peach trees. Thus marking the beginning of your yearly summer stay in Italy, of doing nothing but lounge around and savor the crickets at night, lying down on the couch of the villa your mother had inherited from her great grandparents. 

What you liked about your summers in Italy was that time seemed to go slower, at your leisure, spending it between the lake with your friends, the town just a short bike ride away or staying home buried in the pile of books you had brought over just to keep in your room, a bit overgrown, but unable to make it “too yours” because of the guests you’d have to concede your room to a mere four weeks after your arrival at the villa. 

Every summer, your father would host literature and art history students at the villa, aspiring professors, authors, archeologists, to help with their dissertations. They’d come with their american ways, obnoxiously disturbing the peace that you had created for yourself in the idyllic world you’d surrounded yourself into. Like that was a different astral plane you’d projected into, with the same friends as always, the same views, the same places to go. A different guest you’d have to surrender your room to for ten weeks, while you were banished to the communicating room, divided only by a shared bathroom. A small twin bed, an old desk and chair, a big enough window to let a good amount of light in, so you don’t suffocate and turn into a vampire. You despised that room. 

They always arrived on the first day of July, when the weather seemed to turn from needing a light pair of jeans in the evening  to clothes being unbearable. If you were in your room you’d limit yourself to a long enough shirt to keep you decent for the ghosts in the villa. There were no ghosts, but Giovanna, the housekeeper, would pop in from time to time to drop off your clothes– washed, ironed and folded. They smelled like citrus. 

You were reading The Count of Monte Cristo when the guest arrived. The rippling sounds of the gravel under the heavy tires of the car sounding like an alarm. You placed your book face down on the page you had been reading and ran to the window. Curious to see what the tide had brought this year. Maybe someone whose English wasn’t very good. Or some lunatic who could only stay inside because of his pollen allergy. You wondered what they would have looked like. Tall? Ugly? Obnoxious in the sense where you could hear them play shuffle and slam and bang doors and cabinets and drawers in the morning when getting ready? 

The car came to a stop in front of the door, right under the window of your room. The driver’s door opened, Giuseppe, the groundskeeper of the villa went around to open the trunk. Your heart thumped as you saw the passenger door open. It was a man. He was wearing a pair of white linen shorts, a blue flouncy short sleeve button- up shirt and gold- rimmed glasses. He pushed them up as he placed two hands on his hips, quickly removing one in favor of running his hands through his hair, styled and coiffed like he had not just come off an eight- hour flight. 

“You must be…” You’d heard your father say, placing a finger on his bearded chin, the name of the boy must have slipped him. 

“Steve. Piacere” the boy said, in an Americanized Italian, sounding like he had a hot potato in his mouth. 

“Ah! Steve, Benvenuto” your father said, bidding his welcome and shaking the boy’s hand. Your mother extended a delicate hand as well, introducing herself with a bright smile. At the same time, the opposite passenger door opened. Another boy. 

This one had long, frizzy hair. His face was framed by the bangs that stuck on his forehead. He was wearing a black t- shirt of a band you’d never heard of before tucked inside a pair of cutoff denim shorts held up by a belt, a chain clinking at the boy’s side as he stepped off the car. He wouldn’t let Giuseppe take his bags, insisting he could have done it himself. 

Your father followed the boy with his eyes as he carried what appeared to be a duffel bag and a beat up suitcase towards your father. 

“And this must be Eddie, then” your father said, as Eddie released his suitcase to shake your father’s hand. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you” the boy said, and from this new angle you could see that he sported three chunky rings on his left hand and a chain necklace around his neck. Your father saw you peeking out the window and motioned for you to come down. 

“Shall we go inside? Show you around before dinner?” He motioned towards the boys as Eddie picked his stuff up once again and followed inside. You rolled your eyes. That was your cue to put on some pants and come downstairs. 

Your father’s office was just on the right at the bottom of the stairs, as you hopped down the marble steps. You heard chatter. 

“Oh there she is” you heard your father announce as you leaned against the doorframe of his office. You tended to dislike his theatrics “Boys, this is my daughter” the two guests turned around, reaching their hands to squeeze yours, as you firmly told them your name. 

“Hey, I’m Steve,” he said, fixing his glasses with his other hand. He was soft, but his handshake was firm. Hands bigger than yours. 

“You’re the archeology and history nerd” you quipped, a slight curl of your mouth followed it. 

Steve didn’t seem to like the name, as he let go of your hand, mouth in a straight line. Embarrassed. Put off. You needed them to know that they weren’t welcome here. 

“Hey, what’s up I’m Eddie” the other guy said. His hand was much more rougher and calloused than Steve’s, likely a guitarist. 

“You’re the soon to be failed author?” you tilted your head at him,

 you tilted your head at him, you heard your mother gasp, the indignation dripping from her mouth as she said your name. Eddie chuckled, a bit taken aback, but amused. 

“How do you like daddy’s money, hm?” It was your turn to be indignant. You heard your father snicker behind the boy, followed by Steve. Your hand brusquely retracted from Eddie’s, as your mother poured springs of apologies on your behalf. 

“She’s not like this, usually,” your mother said. Which was a lie. You were always like this. Rude, witty, sour. 

You heard the disappointment in your dad’s tone “Go show them their room” he said, an intimation for you to leave. 

“Make yourselves at home,” he said, before you guided them back upstairs. 

Eddie huffed up the stairs. You didn’t offer to take his bags, as he seemed to not need nor want any help. 

You opened the large pinewood door. 

“You guys are gonna sleep in here. This is my room, but it’s gonna be yours for the rest of your stay. I’m gonna be in the next room over. Unfortunately we’ll have to share a bathroom” You could see sleep calling to them, as their eyes opened and closed slowly at the sight of a made bed. 

Eddie dropped his bags and thumped on the bed, sleep immediately overtaking him. 

“You have to excuse him, this is the first time he’s traveled outside of the States,” Steve said, sitting on the bed, leaning to take his shoes off. 

“Nervous or what?” you asked, examining your bookcase in case you wanted to steal a book to take to your room. 

“Just not as lucky as many” Steve shrugged, laying himself down on the mattress “this is his big shot. If your dad likes his stuff it’s all uphill from here” Steve groans, voice full of sleep “thanks for lending us your room, let us know when dinner is.”

And that was that. The boy fell into the arms of slumber.  

And when Giovanna rang the bell to announce dinnertime, once again you peeled yourself away from The Count of Monte Cristo. You wondered if they were still sleeping. 

You wandered into the bathroom and towards the door as you shot a quick look at the two sleeping bodies on the bed. Eddie was snoring. You were unsure if you should have woken them up. 

You toyed with the bathroom door, swinging it between your hands. A grin decorated your face as you decided to slam it. Steve jumped awake, annoyed and scared. 

“Dinner’s ready” you muttered, reaching for the handle of the door. 

“I’ll pass, thanks” Steve said, shaking Eddie from his almost comatose state. The boy mumbled a semi- discernible “huh?” 

“Dinner, Ed. ‘m not going, but you can feel free to” Steve said to the other, but he just turned around and sleepily muttered an “‘mgood, thanks.”

“He’s good. We’ll apologize to your mother in the morning” Steve said, laying back down, ignoring you completely. 

Where’s my apology? 

You were thankful for the lack of guests at dinner. That way you were able to silently eat and then slither back into your room. Back into your book. Lulled by the crickets, and the whisper of the trees in the weak evening breeze. You ended up falling asleep. 

In the morning, Steve was already outside having breakfast with your parents. He looked like he had showered, but you didn’t recall the faint sound of the water running. He was wearing another pair of shorts, another flouncy shirt. Fumbling with a slice of toast, buttered with jam as he talked to your father about the morning paper. 

“This is gorgeous by the way” Steve admitted, looking around “your orchard?” he looked at your mother, who was smiling proudly at the compliment. 

“We grow a lot of fruit here, Giovanna makes apricot juice fresh every day” she smiled, biting into a slice of bread.

“You had a lot to say yesterday, now you’re a quiet little mouse?” your father teased, elbowing you lightly as you rolled your eyes. 

“It’s okay, she apologized” Steve said, an assuring look in his eyes “she didn’t mean that stuff. She told me, it’s just her welcome wagon” he chuckled, and you felt yourself grow red. Why would he save you like that?

Eddie popped out from the door, hair in a bun, changed out of his shirt in favor for a new one. 

“You should show them around some time, dear. Take them into town, maybe at the lake, I hope your father is not gonna keep them cooped up in his office for ten weeks” your mother giggled. 

“Yeah, no we’d love that. Maybe I’ll get some inspiration for the book” Eddie sat down at the breakfast table, between you and Steve as he fumbled with a soft boiled egg Giovanna had to crack open for him. Embarrassment was veiled on his face. 

You looked at his ringed hands, fumble with the small spoon. Did it always look so small? 

“We’re not gonna start until the beginning of the week, but I might ask you to go get some supplies into town today and take these two with you. Eddie’s gonna need some nice paper for his typewriter, won’t you?” your father gave him a heavy pat on the shoulder, at which he smiled. 

“Have another egg” your mother encouraged the boys. Eddie dug into the pot again, getting more confident with the way he spread the runny yolk on a slice of toast. Some of the runny egg dripped in between his fingers.

Just not as lucky as many.

Steve passed. “I know myself too well, if I have a second, I’ll just have a third and a fourth and a fifth and then I’m just gonna have to get rolled outta here” he joked. I know myself. Self- assured, cocky. You wondered what it felt like to really know yourself, to have everything figured out like he did. 

You lent Steve Giuseppe’s old bike, Eddie got an old one of yours, the squeaky rusted tires alerting the two strangers’ presence. You were afraid you would have been pressured into giving one of them your own bike, seeing as you had already surrendered all of your possessions to them. 

It was a pleasant day. Not too incredibly hot to be embarrassed if the two boys were to see you, face riddled with uncomfortable beads of sweat, breath heaving irregularly from the dry air of July. Instead, a nice breeze came through the mountains, as you debated on going for a swim later in the day. 

That’s what you liked about your summers there. A swimsuit was always the wardrobe of choice under your summer clothes, the freedom to subsist in a plane of existence where your obligations began and ended within the span of a few miles of green grass and honeysuckle flowers. 

The two boys followed you down the graveled road into town, which seemed to be deserted, families abandoning their houses in favor of driving to the beach for the weekend. 

You asked them if they wanted to get a coffee, as you dismounted your bikes and parked them in front of a coffee place. 

You sat outside as you sipped from your espresso cups. 

“So” Steve broke the silence “What does one do around here?” you put down your book, the device you so desperately tried to ignore them with, trying to drown them out. 

“Wait for the summer to end” you mumbled carelessly, going back to the words on the page.

“Ok and then in the winter you wait for the summer to start?” Eddie snickered. 

“Seriously though, what do you do here the whole summer?” Steve interrupted, taking you away from your book again, as you tossed it on the table. 

“I read, mostly. Play music, swim at the lake, go out” you huffed out annoyedly, reaching for the book. Eddie preceded you.

“Kafka? What happened to Monte Cristo?” he flicked through the yellowed pages.

“I finished it. How’d you know I was reading that?” you snatched the book back from his hands. 

“It was on your bed before I slammed onto it. You should read something a bit more substantial,” he said “Kafka isn’t gonna teach you shit, why don’t you read Dorian Grey instead?” it annoyed you how patronizing his tone was. 

“I read that last year, thanks for the help” you retorted, taking the book back from him with a roll of your eyes. 

“Your dad seemed to make it abundantly clear that you need to be nice to us” Steve intervened, whining like a petulant child. 

“Or what? You’ll snitch on me?” you snapped, the two boys looking at each other. 

“Listen, sweetheart,” your nose curled at the nickname, “we’re not your enemies or whatever you think you’ve made us out to be. We really don’t want to be a nuisance to you” nothing about what he said seemed sincere. You rolled your eyes in response.

“Well,” Steve stood up from the metal chair with a violent noise, Eddie following suit “we’ll see you later,” as the both of them mounted their bikes and left. The creaking noises of the rusty old bikes followed in their pedaling. 

They finally got the hint. 

You spent the rest of your day at the lake, not really in a mood to interact with Chiara or Alessandro, two of your longtime friends. Instead, you made the slushing of the water current your friend, staring at the words on the page. Meaningless words. Kafka didn’t seem so enticing after all. 

When you got home it went back on the dusty shelf. Your hand lingered on the spine of Dorian Grey for a moment. The cover was brown and worn, it was your mother’s before it became yours, your heart picked up at the words on the spine, gold lettering. You thought about what Eddie had said earlier. 

You picked up Heart of Darkness instead. 

Read Part 2 Here

tagging: @littlexdeaths, @xxbimbobunnyxx, @aphrogeneias, @rowanswriting, @stveharringtn, @impmunson, @strangerstilinski, @lavendermunson, @rebelfell, @bimbobaggins69, @cryingglightningg, @thornsnvultures, @jamdoughnutmagician, @take-everything-you-can, @eddiesxangel, @ali-r3n, @emxxblog, @corrodedcoffincumslut, @str4ngergirlw0rld, @yujyujj, @gregre369, @subconsciouscollapse, @aol19, @cooljadejacksonthings, @maeneedsabreak, @eddiesguitarskills, @freak-of-hawkins, @eddiesghxst

[matan4il]

IDK how to write today's update post. There were so many things I meant to include info about, but now everything pales in the face of the terrible news we got this morning.

At least 24 Israeli soldiers were killed in the last 24 hours in Gaza.

Here are the faces of some of them:

The terrorists responsible for most of these deaths, attacked in a spot just 600 meters (0.37 miles, with the border breached on Oct 7 in the middle) from a southern Israeli community, Kissufim.

[this paragraph is for the people spewing hate, on and off anon : if you read the news and smiled to yourself, or felt any kind of joy, I want you to know that's vile. It's devoid of any morality or humanity. You can tell yourself and others that you're for human rights all you want, but if you feel joy at the death of human beings, human beings who had the right to live (and would have lived, had it not been for the terrible massacre Hamas carried out on Oct 7, which the terrorists promised to recreate repeatedly, targeting Israelis and Jews alike), then you're not for human rights. It's just an excuse you use to be able to publicly celebrate the death of Jews, and of non-Jewish citizens of the Jewish state who defend their fellow Jews. It's just the same, age old antisemitism under a new guise]

IDK how to explain what that number does to me, as an Israeli, as a Jew, as the granddaughter of Holocaust survivors.

I still remember the morning of Oct 7, as the news started pouring in. First, just talking about the rockets, they had no confirmation of casualties yet. Then, we got the news of one elderly woman, killed by a rocket as she left her home to open the communal bomb shelter for others to use. Then suddenly it was 5 dead, then 10, then 22, along with the news that Palestinian terrorists from Gaza have invaded Israel's south.

And I knew then that the number is going to be higher. The way it normally goes with news of terrorist attack, is you first get a big number, those killed immediately or shortly after the attack, and then there are a few more wounded who don't make it. Basically, there's a big number, and then a small adjustment. Something like... first hearing about the 10 immedaite casualties of an attack, then the number is adjusted to 12 or 13 in the following hours, or days. But here, the jump in the number of dead from 10 to 22 told me we're not in the "small adjustment phase" yet. We're still in the "counting the initial big number phase."

That was so hard, because 22 was already hard to deal with. Up until Oct 7, if I remember correctly, we had lost 38 people in 2023 to Palestinian terrorism. That was already considered the bloodiest year in terms of terrorism victims since the second intifada. People were already grieving, asking questions about what was going on, talking about how the renewal of certain (American) funding to Palestinians (such as the Palestinian Authority's Pay for Slay program) was causing this surge in murderous activity, and what can be done to change the situation. To lose 22 people in one day meant that the number of 2023 terrorism victims was almost doubled already... and we were not yet done counting our dead. The grief and loss of almost 9 months and change almost doubled in a day... and it was likely about to grow.

The number of dead kept rising. We jumped from 22 to 50. From 50 to 100. Then 200. Still no sign of getting to the "small adjustment phase" and it was hard to breathe with every new update. We got to 300, and it was almost unbearable. Then 450. A jump of 150 dead. There was no way to process it, no way to really comprehend it, and the worst was always that the jumps in numbers between updates meant we're still in the "counting the initial big number phase." Somewhere after 600 and before the next update, I realized from an interview (nothing official, just the implication of what one person, who was in the know, said) that it was not going to be less than 1,000 people killed. And I no longer felt like I could contain any of it. The horror, the grief, the shock, the struggle to comprehend that this is real, and not the worst nightmare I've ever had.

At least 1,200 people were murdered during Hamas' massacre. It's been over 3 months, and when I write that I didn't know how to contain everything I was feeling back then, I still don't. So you might think, what's 24 people in comparison to 1,200 dead? But that's not how it works. The death of one person does not pale in comparison with the death of the many.

When I work on Holocaust research, and I work on the testimony of one Jewish girl, who had to watch her father being beaten in front of her eyes by Nazi-collaborating Italian fascist soldiers in a concentration camp in Libya, in northern Africa, when I try to process what the murder of just one parent, just one person means to her, I know it's the destruction of her whole world. It doesn't lessen the pain, that the number of Jewish Holocaust victims outside of Europe is "just" in the thousands, while in Europe it's in the millions. One death can in itself be impossible to bear.

And here's the thing. Those deaths and their impact accumulate. We didn't just learn today that we lost 24 soldiers. We lost 24 worlds (because as the Jewish saying goes, "He who kills one person, it's as if he killed the entire world, and he who saves one person, it's as if he saved the whole world," Mishna Sanhedrin 4.5) and we lost them as a part of now over 220 soldiers we lost in this war (see below a map of Israel with a red dot for every place where at least one soldier was killed), which was forced upon us with the murder and destruction of over 1,200 worlds, which comes after 75 years of a conflict we didn't want, in which we lost 28,000 worlds, and that followed a genocide in which we lost at least 6,000,000 worlds, and that in itself is the peak of almost two thousand years of persecution, during which the full and total number of Jews lost, of worlds destroyed just because of antisemitism, will never be known. All I know is that the Jews we know today, we're not the Jewish people. We are what's left of the Jewish people. And we will live. Am Yisrael Chai. Always. In the face of countless attempts at our destruction, we're still here. But we remember them all. Every single soul lost. Every world destroyed. Every child that had been murdered, every child that will never get to be born. We have lost 24 worlds today, and the fact that we have lost so many before, only makes the loss worse.

And we would not have lost a single person in the fighting in Gaza if we had actually been guilty of the crimes they accuse us of. We could have wiped out all of Gaza from the air, without risking the life of a single soldier on the ground. Every one of the Israeli soldiers killed, died to protect Israelis, as well as to save Palestinian civilians.

The way I feel right now, I think about the words of one member of Kissufim who I heard today: "We are broken, but strong."

May the memory of those lost be a blessing, every single one of them, every Jewish person, and non-Jew killed for standing with Jews, in every generation.

You're all still with me, I carry all of you in my heart, always.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[loviingpedri]

meet me in the afterglow joao felix.

prompt: you blew things out of proportion

warnings: grammar issues, fight between a couple (fluff at end)

credits to owners for images

you felt terrible about how you treated joao. so many things stressed you out like work, babysitting, and other things like your period. the last thing you wanted to do was hurt the only thing that can cause you happiness.

he was having a rough week himself. he was missing you as both of your schedules were very contrasting. he couldn’t focus knowing that he hasn’t seen your smile or heard your voice in a few days. he felt relieved after finding out you were both off on the same day. you felt exhausted from the night shift in the hospital before. all you wanted to do was relax, eat dinner, and hang out with your boyfriend.

things quickly took a turn after you couldn’t even figure out what to eat. joao kissed and hugged you when you got home, but as he was trying to figure out what you wanted, it was a big challenge.

“do you want pasta?” you shook your head no once again. he was starting to run out of ideas for your supposedly romantic date tonight.

“what about american? i know you would love a hamburger.” the thing is, you didn’t even know what you wanted. you wanted food, but everything seemed so unappetizing. “y/n, it’s really hard to read your mind right now. what are you craving?” joao’s face of defeat made you smile a little bit.

“maybe steak?” you looked at joao as his mouth turned into a little frown. out of all the things he suggested, your craving was the one thing he did not want. “okay, fine. you look like you don’t want it.”

“no, it’s fine. let’s just go.” he didn’t wanna stress you out, as you were already hangry.

“i’m not gonna make you eat something you don’t want. let’s go eat somewhere else.”

“well, if you want steak then let’s go.”

“joao, i am not going to push your feelings aside. i know we’ve already been separate enough but for the love of god can we agree on something together for once.” ouch. he knew the gap in the relationship was already getting bigger as time passed, but it became unbearable.

“well, i’ve been trying this whole time. you’ve denied every single one of my ideas. i’m trying to listen to you, regardless of what i crave.”

“do you even know me anymore? this is a relationship. our ideas are suppose to come together. yeah, so what we can’t decide on what to eat. you’re really gonna give up that easily? try harder already.” you should’ve chosen your words wisely. joao has already heard that last sentence way too many times in his life. he didn’t think he would have to hear it coming from the love of his life.

joao’s heart broke. it was already a difficult time during practice, but he didn’t want to bring negativity into his home, his safe place. instantly, you regretted what came out of your mouth. joao went into your shared bedroom as you were telling him to wait. you pushed your feelings behind. you sat down on the floor, thinking about the stupid fight that happened. both of you weren’t in the best mental state. you appreciated that joao tried to fix everything, and you just shut him down.

you knocked on the door, trying to get his attention. “joao? i’m sorry for what i said. i didn’t mean it. it’s on me, and i burned this down. i’m sorry that i hurt you.”

he opened the door. “hey, it’s on me too. i don’t wanna fight with you either. we’re just fine.”

“you’re all i want joao. i don’t wanna break your heart. after all, you’re my afterglow.”

————————————————

author’s note: not my best work, but just a little something. more stories yet to come throughout the week. love you guys and safe reads <3.

[feefymo]

Heart Deco; James Patrick MarchxF!Reader

summary: James Patrick March is still alive and well. Prohibition reigns but he doesn't conform to the rules. With the intention of satisfying his alcoholic whim, he will make your acquaintance.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 5953 words | murder, sex, violence, blood... it would be easier to indicate what is free of warnings!

a/n: little reminder that English is not my mother language so be gentle, please! I hope you'll enjoy this... long thing(!!!), especially @taintandviolent , to whom I want to dedicate it. Bye, little hummingbirds!

Year 1926.

Prohibition dried up the throats of Americans. It spread like a stinging disease, too bad James Patrick March liked the itch. He knew not to scratch but he hated the restrictions, so he was ready to relieve the tingling with a metal rake if necessary - even if it wasn't, in fact. If you're reading this, you know James Patrick March's special habits: he was a serial killer of the worst kind, sure. But that doesn't mean he didn't indulge in "surface" pleasures as well. Gentleman's pleasures, denied by society but still more accessible to the higher ranks. What hypocrisy! James, still alive and well, had received a tip-off and so here he was, heading to his car with fascinating cunning. Delighted by the pale sun that hit his figure, he was preparing to leave, arousing the interest of the ladies and the envy of some gentlemen. He knew the destination: he had decided to go to an isolated distillery in Calico, Ghost Town. A Sunday concession that brazenly opposed religious objections: a pair of sunglasses and the magical disappearance of the car hood were enough. James felt he was being watched, his ego picked up the signals and basked in it. At the same time, Mr. March succeeded in the fleeting attempt of not giving importance to anyone among those who remained entangled in his less dangerous net. Therefore, he set off enjoying the feeling of leaving anyone who bored him behind, there, to get intoxicated in the cloud generated by the exhaust pipe of his car.

The distillery stuck out of nowhere like the only tooth left in a homeless man: rotting, decadent, a building whose exterior was so ugly and run down that it aroused very little suspicion in the rare customers who passed by. For James, however, it was a picnic like any other that didn't affect his ginger mood at all. Indeed, the darker side of his spirit gradually took over, hoping to get much more than a sip of alcohol.

"Mr. March, it's a pleasure to have you here. We've heard about you!" "We've heard great things about you!" Mrs. Holland entered, interrupting her husband. The couple, too warm in their welcome for what James knew about the Dutch, stumped him with idle chatter. Pleasantries, useful insights into his constant thirst for blood which, if he wanted, he could have indulged in the blink of an eye. The man, treated with kid gloves, observed the two foreigners taking turns and competing to see who could best ingratiate him. For his part, the owner of the Hotel Cortez was experiencing a strong intolerance that he would keep at bay for a little while longer, behind a pair of wide, black eyes. Behind a plastic smile that his mustache shaded with surgical precision. While the types of alcohol available were explained to him, James soon realized that he was once again afflicted by the disease of boredom. A boredom that took him down, down, down into a spiral void that met and matched his homicidal instincts. Then came a first taste and his expression lit up faintly: "Aaah!" he croaked smugly, glancing at the bottom of the glass. "I was just impatient to savor what you praise so much." he turned on his heels with a movement tinged with theatricality, determined to take his own space and explore that dusty labyrinth of barrels and bottles.

He needed to stifle his bloody impulses out of mere opportunism and staying close to Mr and Mrs Holland made it unbearable. Almost impossible. So, whistling a dark tune that made him a recognizable target, he continued as if he were at home until a staircase aroused his feline curiosity. "Oh, it goes even lower! Are you perhaps going to distill all the way to Hell?" the man joked before biting the dusty air and performing a sizzling descent into the underworld. He wasn't greeted by a very different scenario, except for one detail that took his breath away once he understood it in its entirety. An arch had been carved into the wall in front of him. A blasphemous niche, made inaccessible by the glass that separated its "contents" from the rest of the distillery.

The content in question? You. Just you: disheveled, wild, ethereal. An otherworldly creature yet so seemingly fallible. Fragile and candid. You sat backwards on an old wooden chair, dressed only in a long cream-colored nightgown. In the center of the chest, sewn onto it, was a very red anatomical heart detailed with inlays and disturbing sparkles. Clinging to the back of the chair, you seemed twisted like the trunk of an olive tree to study the intruder without your expression being able to be deciphered.

For his part, James had been pierced in the chest by the poisoned arrow of a corrupt Cupid. Still, in a sculpted dictator pose, James let your bottled essence seep and nourish him. It seeped into his veins and electrified his brain. He gave you a stunned expression, as if your existence were an irreparable disgrace. "Well I'll be blessedly darned."

"Ah, you have found our Heart Deco." Mr. Holland congratulated, as if it were a treasure hunt. "We brought a gem from Amsterdam." The owner of the shack was pleased with the way James reacted to that vision: no judgement, no disappointment, no threat of turning to the police. What a morally healthy person would have found disgraceful at the very least, aroused in James an atavistic energy that he was just channeling onto this Heart Deco in its entirety.

It was as if Mr and Mrs Holland had totally disappeared from the planet: they spoke to him but James didn't turn around. His attitude had changed, he excluded them. He barely moved from the spot where he was pinned to observe and study you maniacally. For your part, you didn't show any kind of reaction: you didn't seem scared or infatuated. Curious, perhaps. You returned that oily look with equal intrusiveness. Imprudence, perhaps. There was something profoundly naive about you but that naivety was polluted and James picked up on it. He could feel it and appreciate it greatly. That day, he suddenly decided to turn his back on you, as if he had been burned by the mere image of you.

However, he returned. He came back and came back and came back. "Leave us alone." he commanded, his voice no longer composed solely of velvet but also of nails. A multitude of rusty nails. Your meetings, on the surface, were similar. Beneath the surface, something different, growing and perverse simmered more and more. James' ritual was always more or less the same: he also used a chair very similar to yours. It moved slowly, as if you weren't trapped and could escape.

He perceived you as wild and he was right. He sat calmly, sipped his cordial and smoked. Slowly. He stared at you like an artist stares at his unfinished work for hours, searching for the detail that would make it perfect. That same search afflicted James like a disease and made him more and more frustrated. By now, you were able to notice it from small details such as the pulsation of the jaw or the dilation of the nostrils. The very black, compact tuft that fell on his forehead and the pallor that increased on his marble face. You could even glimpse the muscles underneath his clothes so much so that, one day, you stood up.

You took him by surprise, forcing him to straighten his posture and roll his eyes. A few centimeters from the obstacle that separated you, you waited for him until he understood and stood up to meet you. Dazzled by your presence, he would have drawn a hundred fountains of childish blood just to hear you speak and his anticipation grew. It modeled his facial expressions, increased his breathing. In fact, you opened your mouth but to breathe on the glass and plant a kiss on it while your left hand slid in a squeaking sound until it rubbed at the crotch of James' pants.

There was no contact that wasn't imaginary, and yet, the man's erection grew instantly. James exhaled a tremulous sigh as he rested his forehead on the cool surface; he almost didn't notice that he had pushed himself against the glass to rub his cock against it. An uncomfortable, unsatisfying yet necessary friction. It hurt, it tugged at the intimacy of his skin but this increased his raging pleasure. He hated you and, at the same time, he depended on you. From the question he asked himself: "how fast does his heart beat?"

With a fist, he hit the divider and retreated but you were able to cut off his fury by holding on to the long pearly skirt of your dress. Wrinkle after wrinkle, you picked it up, revealing your legs and, after a few seconds, your pussy. Wet and luminous, you pressed her against the glass as well as your breasts hidden by almost transparent fabric. So, James fell to his knees with an expression halfway between disdainful and subjugated, venerating what you conveyed. "Oh, my precious creature…" he opened his jaws and licked nothing as if it were your cunt. He followed the lines of your crotch and worked his way into your tender center. His destiny was already written: he would eternally remain a murderer with the spasmodic urgency of authentic love. Devoted, if not downright submissive.

///

"And yet, we were convinced that you were interested in alcohol. You're ruining us like this!"

"If I really wanted to ruin your suffocating rat existence, I would already have burned you alive in this building. Without wasting even an ounce of creativity on it."

"Please, Mr. March. Leave these grotesque jokes aside. It's not something we can afford to give up!"

"Indeed. It's not a 'thing'… and neither of you take me seriously."

"You force me to be adamant, March: Heart Deco will not go away with you, that's out of the question."

"Adamant, you say? Mh! My dear gentleman, this negotiation has become very tedious and time, alas, is a tyrant. I apologize if the request has got you so… tangled up. On the other hand, you two are not even compelling interlocutors, therefore, thank you. Ad majora! If you allow…"

Errare humanum est, perseverare autem diabolicum. To err is human, but to persevere is diabolical, asserted Augustine of Hippo. And the Dutch had erred while James merely persevered. He traced his allegorical crop circles, pointing out the obvious, in reverse, on the only Bible he has left. What the couple had taken as a joke in bad taste, accidentally exploded together with their Ghost Town and without Heart Deco inside. Heart Deco, you, had sped away together with James, in the car that would take you to the Hotel Cortez. A silent but vibrant journey of adrenaline that, in different ways, you shared electrifying the road.

///

"Mr. March? Mr. March, wait!" a small nervous looking man chased James until he caught up with him but James didn't stop walking along one of the corridors on the first floor of the Cortez. "Forgive me Mr. Shaffer, I am desolated but, as you see, I have an unbreakable commitment." the owner of the hotel began by pronouncing his words. He sped up his march in long, elegant strides that distanced him from any mix-up. For his part, the little man in question was responsible for managing some projects relating to the building and, although he was intimidated by the figure of the other, he tried to insist: - But Mr. March, I need… -

"I must ponder, inept!" James interrupted him with a theatrical gesture of his hand, as if to chase away an insistent fly. "I'm not convinced about the color of the pool lining." he murmured with a caricatured thoughtful expression: although he seemed to be addressing someone, he was talking to himself, appearing and disappearing among the cones of light emanating from the walls. "Cerulean or Powder Blue? Cerulean or Powder Blue?" captured by that Hamlet-like doubt, James stroked his mustache and continued in his vicious circle. Mr. Shaffer stopped, dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and took a breath but the hotelier burst out: "PALE TURQUOISE! … Perhaps." and then he disappeared, swallowed up by the dark secrets of Cortez. One, in particular, who fed his blood with trepidation.

///

Click.

Your breath flickered like a fish, simultaneously with the sound of a pause being pressed. Gradually, the huge room you had been led into began to light up. Small detail of no small importance: you could perceive the light but you still didn't know where you were because you were blindfolded. Blindfolded and with your wrists secured to two heavy iron rings stuck in the floor. Only later, you would discover that there were many others around you. Meanwhile, they kept your arms slightly open at the sides of your torso, in a gesture of false welcome. You remained still as long as you could, then you started to get agitated and not with the aim of escape. You fretted, smiling left and right in hopes of receiving more clues. "Mister… Mr. March?" you ventured, boldly, without receiving an answer. At least not immediately because, shortly after, the echo of slow footsteps began to spread and allow you to guess the owner of the shoes.

"Oh, but look at this. Look at yourself." the man began, as if it wasn't him who placed you at the bottom (extremely deep) of the indoor pool. "You are the Emperor's Nightingale, aren't you? I have always asked myself numerous questions about that fairy tale." James spoke, syrupy, feline and you heard him far away. You felt him close. You felt it everywhere, yet not there with you. "Freedom. A golden cage and no hunter will ever slaughter him. But if a mechanical bird takes over, precious, tireless, without feelings… what do I do with anything else? The mortal one?" a metallic noise interrupted James' prayer for a few eternal moments and a sense of bewilderment assailed you. "There, there dear: I'm here, with you. Who are you?" the strides lengthened and the man reached you, crouching in front of you. Despite exuding the heat of a living being, a drop of icy sweat ran down your vertebrae as if they were stairs. "Are you the living nightingale or the mechanical one? - it came naturally to you to make a gesture in support of your prompt response but this reminded you that you couldn't move your arms.

On the other hand, James was already thinking about it: you could smell the stupefying scent. The alcoholic notes on his breath that blended masterfully with the cologne he was wearing. Which he would soon impregnate you with. "Come closer. Come closer and feel how my heart beats, my Emperor." at that point James took a sharp breath through his nostrils and moved quickly against your chest, to make sure you weren't lying. To make sure there were no squeaky gears inside you. He was a serial killer and not a watchmaker for a reason. So, combined with the palpitations with which you were spoiling him, the man expressed himself in a low moan that was the soundtrack to his hands. He kept them open, caressing your nipples until they became hard enough to scrawl his palms. At that point, he grabbed both of your breasts, pressing his nose between them. You felt the ring he wore on his little finger create an inlay in your flesh and it was a pain that didn't seem enough. "Your ventricles flutter like little wings. Delicious." he noted, panting between his teeth, before grabbing the blindfold over your eyes and slowly but firmly pulling it down. "Good evening, my darling." James greeted slyly, tilting his head perfectly nestled in the hair jelly. A grin opened slowly, like a fan of premises to which you responded with a reverential nod. "Ooh, I like women who are a little formal and have hard nipples. How do you know it? You read my mind, maybe?" James, kneeling between your thighs, straightened his back in order to rummage through his kit.

“Are you going to kill me, Mr. March?” you asked without fear of the answer you would get, so his night gaze darted onto you. "I have the impression that it will entertain you more if I don't reveal it. " quick and imperative, he grabbed your ankle so that it rested on his shoulder and the fabric of the dress slipped, revealing a calf caressed by thick, weak and pale hair. Mr. March didn't care at all if and how much hair covered your gorgeous body, he was already incredibly aroused but he found it useful. They tested his lucidity like Russian roulette. Then, he began to touch your leg with the solemn touch of someone who comes across the fleece of some Greek deity; so typical of James. A master in veneration as well as in sugarcoating the pill. That could mean a night of his more conventional devotion to you or the calm before a storm.

Seeing the sparkle you saw in his fist, a tangle of dread expanded in your stomach. James held a razor in his hand. From the kit, he had taken only that. He slowly raised it so that you could get into visual confidence while he bent over your leg, lightly rubbed one cheekbone and then began to lick it in long stripes down to the knee. His irises, wells of black water, stared at your face, becoming opaque with growing eagerness. "Sometimes the pen hurts more than the blade… do you agree?" James asked in a slightly contemptuous whisper. Swallowing before going back to licking you. He stared at you expectantly, in a position that made his trousers extremely constricting. “Do you want the honest answer or the one you would like to hear?” your ulterior question bounced off the sinister and apparently pleased grin of the man, who snapped the blade and passed it over the (deliberately) insufficient layer of saliva. Once, twice, three times: the aim was not to shave you but to exhaust the viscosity and make you react to the burning. Craving it with the composure of a heartfelt gentleman, until you tried to withdraw and his grip became steel. James' idolatry of blood, your blood, could be read in his expression: "Oh, look at you Deco: I was so certain of your merit." Tiny blood gems decorated you like aristocratic stockings and, for each one, you suffered a little. However, the presence of James Patrick March continued to dominate the rest and your body, which reacted with pleasure.

The luck inherent in that individual lay in his wearing of many masks. Every day a different James, always methodical and lethal but often subject to boredom. He also put your other leg on his shoulder but he wasn't going to torture it, the idea had already tired him - exactly. He would bend over, literally lay between your limbs as the wrinkles in your robe rose and pooled on your contracted belly. Semi-prone, he seemed ready to swim in the absence of water, but instead, he gave himself the momentum to catch you by surprise and lift you up. Pushing yourself off the ground, more than half of your body was raised to his will. He had taken you away from the Dutch couple but not to free you. He had moved you from one prison to another, however, you loved every bar of this one. You stared at your warder with languor in your eye sockets: it seemed that his finely drawn lips were now made up with the blood you gracefully shed. He, however, did not return the gaze: ensnared by your shiny pussy, he had actually made sure of the absence of underwear. You weren't wearing any and it was as if your wetness were reflected shimmering in his dilated pupils; surrounded by the tiny splashes of blood now transferred to his facial features like freckles. He was exasperating you: he studied your sex with growing veneration but only his breath deigned to barely touch it.

"Mr. March… ?"

"What, my dear?"

"Please…"

"What. My dear."

“If you free my wrists, what can I offer you in return?”

Slowly, softly, James's frown became…pitying. He cocked his head to one side again and his eyebrows curved downwards. A vibrant "aaaw" tickled his whiskers. Whether it was a joke or not you wouldn't have been able to define it, especially since his aura made you numb. You were the clew of a sagacious cat whose canines terrified you more than the razor.

"As much as I love seeing your waiting cunt cry…" Mr. March could utter iniquities as if they were arabesques on silk. The premise sounded sinister and tempting: the ellipses were filled by the intrusion of his thumb, which approached your clit but circumnavigated it. It descended in two parentheses between the labia, then collected your juice with the linearity of a surgeon. You meweld impatiently and your thighs trembled. "…I don't see why not." he was indulging you and, even if you trusted him like a scrap of velvet decorated with splinters and glass dust, you couldn't help but rejoice.

"Of course, an exchange is an exchange. Calling it a "barter" sounds higly vulgar to me, so let's see…" he proceeded, crawling against your shaken torso until he stopped near your left breast. He caressed the nipple with a kiss before unsheathing the razor and cutting the edge of the areola in a dry line. Immediately, his mouth returned to collect the blood that rained down along with your squeal. He drank like Romulus with the She-Wolf, at the dawn of the birth of Rome. His eyeballs rolled, showing clearly visible capillaries. In raptures, he insisted on the wave of your snorts and your truncated syllables. As soon as he freed the first wrist, you brought your hand to his hair and, between spite and passion, closed it into a fist. You messed them up and tugged at them, eliciting a joyful, guttural laugh from the man's throat. "Some… milk is a fair price, don't you think? A favorable price." he had transformed you into the mother of sin. That milk had corrupted him and you, under hypnosis, were grateful for it. Electric, you closed like an oyster around him, licking away the crimson traces from his lips that had become your slave. The man's euphoria in seeing you as an accomplice, not at all impressionable, began to crumble his staid movements.

You were quickly reaching the same overwhelming rhythm of desires to express and this was underlined by a kiss that he dared first. His tongue, cryptic, pushed past your teeth in search of its twin. It swirled around it with the exasperation of a lightning-fast, toxic, iron-like love, bringing with it a long, hoarse groan. His beastly verse got caught in your throat and mixed with the notes you sang. Messyly, you grabbed onto James' suspenders and tugged on them in an attempt not to break the now soaked kiss. For his part, Mr. March stepped back with an air of surrender and opened his trousers. He lay down at the bottom of the pool with the sole purpose of dragging you onto him with primordial ardor. His grip on your hips was as merciless as that of a pincer: he was the one orchestrating your movements. The rubbing of the sexes, still hindered by his underwear.

“Are you confused, little creature?” he murmured, like a breathless movie actor. He smiled, though. He experimented, he pressed you against the veins of his cock in a shameless but still elegant dance. He raised his pelvis, rubbing his length between your melting folds. You, sometimes exasperated by the adrenaline rushes that James inflicted on you, tried to unbutton his shirt. "Do you wonder if… I will make love to you like a gentleman or… hm! Like a criminal?" with an abrupt interruption, he slide between your legs until his face could rest between them. “Should I treat you like a goddess or a prostitute?” he spoke deliberately close to your femininity, meeting it in a lustful stroke that turned into wide, slow lapping. He stared at you; he wanted a dirty answer of your reactions to his impromptu meal. He was entranced by the taste of you and he let you know by the moan that preceded the action of his right arm. He grabbed you by the throat but tightened like an hedcherkief.

"I can be… I can… a Greek goddess or not… there will be no difference between grace and dissoluten- oh James… James!" your desire to argue was overwhelmed by the pleasure offered to you. James had understood what you were trying to say and, appreciating your fine brain, had intensified his care. Small flicks of his tongue tapped on your clit, alternating with sucking. He stuck his tongue as deep as he could, fucking you through it before returning to the tangle of nerves. The middle finger took over immediately below and, shortly after, the ring finger. A cry strangled you and you almost lost your balance but the man bent a knee so you could lean against it. You swayed against his face and his fingers in blind desperation, so much so that you spontaneously grabbed the razor abandoned near you. James didn't feel threatened, on the contrary, he let you do it by curving his phalanges and detaching his mouth from your cunt from time to time, to observe how you melted on him. He stretched his solid neck, grinning with exposed fangs and nodding. He followed your moans but without adding sound; the wet chin jutted out and the nostrils dilated.

"Are you a mirage? Hm, are you darling? Prove to me that you're not at all…" you both knew what that meant. The grip around your slender neck intensified and the fingers, inside you up to the knuckles, became ever so slightly faster. Unstoppable like Mr. March's tongue that tirelessly slapped your clit until you heard yourself scream. Your sex pulsating furiously around the offending phalanges, dripping with scorching juices. For a moment you thought you would never recover. It certainly wasn't your first orgasm but you had never, ever experienced one like it and, at the mercy of delirium, you moved your right arm to the left and then quickly returned to the right and thus opened a cut in your lover's cheek. - HA-A! -the hotelier let out a long baritone growl bringing his hand, made slippery by your orgasm, to the wound. He stared at you with his eyeballs poised in their sockets, a furious bull who almost came in his own pants. Disoriented, you felt the need to rest that fought with the expectation of continuing and facing the consequences. You felt James Patrick March's impatience bubbling beneath you as before Pompeii was submerged by lava and you would not disappoint his expectations. Not after seeing him slowly lead the weapon of your defeat to his jaws to test it. Cleaning it of suspicious evidence as he scrutinized you and red flowed from his face. You curled up and licked it.

You looked like a dying candle and the dress contributed to the image, so you raised yourself on tremulous limbs and let it slide over the feline figure of your lover. Completely naked, you allowed yourself to look him up and down, still dripping onto his designer clothes. Juices, blood, tears, sweat. This created a growl in the back of his throat and he decided to get on his knees in front of you. Just like when a glass obstacle separated you. You preceded him, going back down and emulating his position before bending over at his crotch and unsheathing his thick cock. While you were admiring it, the owner of the Cortez proved to be prepared: he equipped himself with a cigarette. He turned it on and he took a greed drag from it. "You're also a warrior, then." The fact that he appeared relaxed was false, however, he guided his figure in sinuous nods that untangled your hair. He caressed your cheek before his cock was grabbed at the base and gently slammed against your cheekbone. Next, the tip passed over your lip perimeter like an obscene lipstick: consumed by haste, you tried to interrupt James but he hit you again with his cock. Harder. "Ah-ah-ah… greedy." he scolded in a grainy voice, as if he wasn't the first to have an insatiable hunger. In a mock bored manner he began to masturbate, his fist away from your initiatives: "Okay, lost creature: eat." March spelled out the order disguised as an invitation, slightly hunched over, before gathering your hair and giving you the go-ahead. You, out of breath, limited yourself to titillating only the frenulum, forcing James to stiffen like a statue of Italian marble.

"I am capable, Sir." you announced with renewed confidence, insisting on that very thin strip of skin. "I know how to pleasure a man with my mouth" you added, hotly, starting to dedicate yourself in great detail to the entire tip of the length. "And with the blade." James added as he studied you with clenched teeth around the cigarette filter, but his eyelids swayed heavily on his voluptuous gaze. Heart Deco, your stage name, emerged more and more from your arched body so that your captor's attention slid down your back to the roundness of your buttocks. "I know how to give an unforgettable blowjob." the punctuation of your provocation was replaced by March's dry groan. You began to repaint each raised vein with saliva, until you deemed it appropriate to go further. You began to swallow James's sex inch by inch, gradually. At the same time, your lover's no longer immaculate shirt fell from his muscular shoulders. He exhaled smoke like a dragon, taking a plastic pose as he held up what was left of the cigarette. Upwards, like a kind of torch to illuminate your sensuality. "Everything, Deco. Swallow it all. More. Mmmmore." declared the rich American, wetting his lips. "I believe you." he added hoarsely, blowing out a nicotine moan that accompanied his hand among your rebellious locks. He forced himself, thrusting his hips forward with the bluntness of a stab. The now extinct cigarette butt fell next to you as you expertly suppressed a retch. Your left palm crashed into James Patrick March's abdomen, enticing him to hold you by the skull. To ruffle you, indulge you…

He didn't warn you. He pulled back and positioned himself behind you in the span of an instant; you almost struggled to realize it. You preferred not to turn around, in fact, the sensation benefited you: now beyond your endurance limit, Mr. March grabbed you under the ribs and entered you in a tearing way. He remained still for a few seconds, exhaling ragged breaths and enjoying the suffocating welcome of your pussy. This allowed you to get used to it before the man began to pound you with the impetuosity of someone who discovers Eros giving in to Thanatos.

"OH MY GOD!" you yelped, snapping your head towards the kidnapper. You found him already looking at you with a pitch black strand cutting his forehead in two. With a caressing movement he pulled you up and leaned close to your ear: "Call upon me, not him: I killed God some time ago." what he said, how he said it, only made you more excited and needy. While he fucked you, vigorously massaging your breasts, you found purchase in his clean-shaven nape, naming him. Making you an echo of yourself. After a while, he responded to you with a roar and walked out of you gracelessly. He forced you to stand up and slammed you against the pool wall. You felt like an orphan but not for long because James came back to fill you, taking the breath away from both of you. Still between your walls moisted with longing, he brought your arms up. Up, up, up in a double and lascivious caress due to which you found yourself tied by the wrists again. You were the longest hand on a clock that now showed another hour.

"Please, James. Can you… hurt me? Can you do me ah-more? More? I'm begging you."

"If I can?" a sharp laugh filled your ear as he backed away with the aim of thrusting back into you like a slamming iron door. "I must." he huffed, continuing to push and push and push. His teeth clinging to the flesh in the crook of your neck: he was now transfigured into a pure beast, his claws stuck in your buttocks as he spread you apart with the sole imposition of his body. He wasn't a stingy or selfish lover, he had proven that to you. Now, however, his hasty descent into the Underworld of an unhealthy form of enjoyment was evident. You were his deadly river. You were his Styx and he had nothing but delirious, hissed compliments for you. One for each thrust into your now happily broken body. He squeezed your hands into fists and you, smiling, cried.

It was when an inhuman noise gradually exploded from James' lungs enough to fill the pool that he pressed his hot seed into your pussy. You, shocked, touched erotic epilepsy through his ecstasy. The tendons in his red neck ready to snap like whips as "Mr. Cortez's" knees buckled in a little snap and his temples threatened to explode. He directed his growl first at the blasphemed God then, with a movement of his head, at his mentor Demon. He fucked you beyond the climax until he suddenly stepped aside and staggered. He stepped back, trying to focus on you as a whole with the tip of his tongue at the corner of his swollen mouth. He nodded. He laughed, softly at first, but you only understood when his shoe hit the ground and made a watery sound. Now that he was settling down very calmly, March's laughter was louder and more theatrical: he was filling the tub and you were tied up. And even if you weren't, you couldn't swim. The color given to your cheeks by sex disappeared, turning into grey. Without the strength to struggle or the saliva to soothe your throat, you simply stared at your tormentor in astonishment. He approached you one last time, gently grabbing you by the chin and bringing your gaze up to his. He kissed you with the sweetness of a good and normal man.

“I could ennoble you with purpose.” James stated from an iron ladder, as if there were an audience watching the scene. "A subversive purpose: the end of Prohibition in America! AH! I could leave you here, soaking in water like the forbidden fruit that rots to transform into something far more diabolical. You could become the secret ingredient in my personal liquor." he insisted lewdly. Subtly morbid but blatantly thoughtful. From the opposite side of the pool, along its decorated edge, he watched you smugly as the water level rose. To the even number of jets, the same number were added. “Let me stay and look at you. Let me… think about it some more. Maybe-maybe, instead, you deserve our hearts hammering together…”

The degree of your agony would have increased along with the pure bliss of the memory. The ghost of James Patrick March's body, still stuck inside you. His cum still dripping down your thighs. His earthly version that studied you and, sadistically, toyed with your life. For you, nothing would have made more sense within the screaming walls of the Hotel Cortez.

"Oh, darling? I really need some advice." James awoke, as if from a long torpor and he grinned. "What color would you make this pool?"

taglist: @silverzoomies @doll3tt33 @wh0re43van @fear-is-truth @lacucarachapisser @nahoyasboyfriend @marchsfreakshow @coentinim (I took the liberty of tagging you but, if you prefer to avoid it, let me know! This tagging thing is unngfhdidsj ouff)

[kandisheek]

FIC REC WEEK 21 – ULTIMATES

A Hundred Times, Once by FestiveFerret, SirSapling

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: E Words: 24,761 Tags: Time Loop, Internalized Homophobia, Falling in Love

Summary: The shrill tone of his SHIELD beeper pulls Steve out of sleep and into battle. He fights robots, he fights Tony's shameless advances, he fights the exhaustion that threatens to take over him, drown him. And then the next morning, he wakes and does it again. Exactly the same. And again. And again. And again.

Reasons why I love it: Poor Steve, oh my god. I really love how the focus of the fic – in a reflection of Steve's mindset – goes from being about the Ultimates and their battles to Steve's fixation on Tony specifically. The way their relationship builds feels so raw and almost painful before it gets easier, and I love every second of it. Plus, the smut is incredible. If you haven't read this one yet, you definitely should!

Every Chance We'll Have by magicasen

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: M Words: 16,835 Tags: Secret Marriage, Hospitals, Established Relationship

Summary: A mission gone south leaves a city block decimated and Iron Man hospitalized, but what makes top headlines is the fact that Captain America has a secret lover. To the man himself, it's a living nightmare. His husband is in a coma, his entire world is falling apart around him, and Steve has to to confront realities he never wanted to.

Reasons why I love it: Yeees, give me all the feels! I love the flashbacks of how Steve and Tony got together, and all the scenes that touch on the topic of Tony's cancer are incredibly heartbreaking. That conversation with Gail towards the end especially hit home with me. This fic is wonderful, and you should definitely read it!

Under God by isozyme

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: E Words: 40,185 Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, Internalized Homophobia, Dom/Sub

Summary: “Captain America represents the values of our country. The recent allegations about his sexuality are specious and designed to smear an American icon. Captain Rogers regularly attends the Church of Saint Agnes and invites the citizens of New York to attend worship with him this Sunday, April 14th. God bless America.” -- Nobody was ever going to know. Steve would be a good husband, a good father, and he’d never give in to sin and touch another man. But Steve makes two mistakes, one after the other: he leaves two words out of the Pledge of Allegiance, and he doesn’t notice a camera flash among the strobe lights of a dark club, because he’s dancing with his clumsy hands on Tony’s hips.

Reasons why I love it: Steve just completely breaks my heart in this one. The man-out-of-time feels are strong, and I absolutely love his inner struggles with not just his sexuality but his fragile masculinity. And oh my god, poor Tony, he really deserves better than this. I'm so glad Steve figures that out too at some point, because the heartbreak is almost unbearable, it's so good. isozyme writes some of the best Steve vs the Modern World fics, and this one is no exception. Go and read it if you haven't, it's amazing!

[knichii]

OK. does anyone else feel irritated that eng dub seems to be favoured in mha? in edits, in fics, it's clear most people watched dub and idk it's been rlly grinding my gears.

okay, to get this out the way, I don't like mha's eng dub. I don't like any of them. half don't fit their characters, 75% of the time the tone lands forced and awkward, and its literally just unbearable for me to watch I'm sorry. I have this issue with a lot of anime and cartoons so this isn't solely a my hero problem, but this is definitely the most severely I've disliked a dub. and yet I cannot escape it.

one of my biggest issues is the nuance that's lost in translation. anyone with any familiarity with the Japanese language will know what I mean. list of examples:

HONORIFICS

1. iida refers to class 1-A with '-kun'

2. yaoyorozu refers to class 1-A with '-san'

3. asui refers to class 1-A with '-chan'

3. deku with '-kun' (m) & '-san' (f)

that says SO MUCH about their characters, how they view their relationships, how they view themselves,, but in dub?? all of that's lost. ESP the significance of deku still calling bkg 'kacchan'. [simplified, '-chan' is used for cute/endearing things. it stemmed from children mispronouncing '-san', and became a childish, cutesy way of calling someone, usually someone you're VERY familiar with. it implies a shocking ammount of intimacy] thru years of bullying, all the rocks and straight up non existent road of their relationship, deku STILL calls him 'kacchan', the ONLY one allowed to do so ("but kaminari--" NEENAWNEENAWNEENAW).

in eng dub it gets reduced to a mere nickname, lacking all of its weight.

another thing is bakugou sub vs dub (...)

URGGGGGGHHHH

the most recent example is when bkg says "of course you pulled it off, Icyhot." (I forgot the context tho) in sub, he says "of course you pulled it off, TODOROKI".

THATS SUCH A NICHE, SUBTLE WAY OF SHOWING HIS DEVELOPMENT THATS TOSSED STRAIGHT OUT THE WINDOW. translation (manga) also has him calling his seniors 'senpai' which is... not what he says in sub????? 'senpai' indicates respect for someone your senior,,,, which. bkg would never show. (or only in EXTREMELY rare cases, MAYBE)

there's also my peeve abt names. this may be an only me issue, but I don't like it when japanese names are written in western format (e.g Izuku Midoriya)... ("this guy cannot be fr rn" unfortunately yes I am). I don't have a reason for this, and I'm aware it's niche and irrational, but I always cringe a little when I'm reading a fic, that's SET IN JAPAN, and their names are written Given Name, Family Name. emphasis on SET IN JAPAN. THEY ARE JAPANESE. THEY ARE NOT AMERICAN.

bkg's hero name. his og one which was translated to King Explosion Murder, losing all of the wit and cleverness in the jp original. this post goes into more detail and is very cool check it out

slightly irrelevant but bkg's jp va, Okamoto Nobuhiko, like. wow. the bkdk fight? the voice cracks? the ANGUISH?? the softness in his voice when bkg was abt to die (the hallucination w all might) ??? like,, wow. the emotion is so much more raw than it's conveyed in eng

I've gotten off point. point is I WISH MORE PEOPLE APPRECIATED AND WATCHED IN JP SUB. IM SCREAMING INTO THE VOID AND MY OWN VOICE IS ECHOING BACK I CANT DO THIS ANYMORE.

(note: jjk was my first anime fandom so I'm probably spoiled. over there, sub seems to be favoured, barring a few iconic lines [ray chase lwk served as sukuna in the shibuya arc] and the fics, like 70% of the ones I read, used japanese honorifics and culture. in comparison, mha was a bit of a shock. the side of the fandom I washed up on is so... American??? maybe I'm in the wrong place idk. everything's just extremely white and slightly uncomfortable.)

this was a bit of a vent post,, obviously ik people are entitled to opinions (even if they're wrong), I js wanted tk if anyone else felt the same way

reading this back, I'm aware of how chronically online I am. yeah. still tho

[unformula1]

jealousy and regret (OP81 x LS2)

part 1 part 2: “eugh… alexander albon” oscar gets smacked in the face by his talk with logan and alex. w/c: 1576 day 28 of loscar posts until we get a loscar podium (series masterlist) masterlist

“I’m sorry. Do you know where… Logan is?” Oscar quietly asks one of the engineers.

“Oscar?” 

Oscar hears the all-familiar voice and turns around.

He’s met face to face with the blonde-haired, blue-eyed American.

“Logan!”

And just like clockwork, here comes Alexander Albon. The British-Thai 2019 rookie who honestly, Oscar has nothing against, other than the fact that he pretty much stole Logan away from him.

Alex slides next to Logan, hand swung around Logan’s shoulder, leaning onto him.

“Morning Oscar.” Alex says.

Oscar purses his lips. 

Shit. Oscar shouldn’t be like this, he should be glad that Logan has someone to support him better. Oscar should be happy for Logan…

He pushes the thoughts to the back of his head and does his best to suppress them as Alex starts invading Logan’s personal space.

He grits his teeth, clenching his jaw. 

“What brings you here?” Logan says with that wide smile on his face. 

That makes Oscar feel slightly better, at least Logan still smiles at him.

“Uhm… you.” Oscar blurts out, clearly something didn’t go through a filter.

The silence in the room suddenly becomes louder, the awkwardness is tangible and the tension grows thicker.

Alex’s arm slides away from Logan’s shoulder, he’s still standing within Logan’s personal bubble though.

Logan clearly doesn’t read the room well.

“Oh… what’s up then!” He says, the excitement in his voice sharply contrasting the clear tensions building up right now.

“We should…” Oscar finally puts his words through a filter, “Talk. We should talk.” Oscar clears his throat as he finishes.

Obviously Oscar sounded awkward because Logan cocks up an eyebrow, which is something Logan does when he’s unsure of what’s happening. Oscar silently bets Alex doesn’t know that.

“I mean…” Logan chooses his words carefully, “Yea. Of course, I think so too. We really haven’t talked in a while.”

Oscar’s uneasiness fades off and he smiles, a small chuckle escapes too.

“We’ll get to talk later, sometime soon yea?” Logan thinks before saying.

Oscar nods, “Yep. Yep!” 

“Right, so see you then?” Logan says.

“Alright!” Oscar says, internally cheering.

It all disappears in an instant when Alex and Logan walk off, being unbearably close as usual. However, something ruins it all, Alex leans into Logan, whispering something into his ear and Logan chuckles loudly at it.

God Oscar absolutely hates it.

The delicate barrier between internal jealousy and external jealousy shatters.

He’s so gonna get Alex out of this story. He’s so gonna get Logan back. He’s so gonna become Logan’s number one again.

Who did Alex think he was?

A few (admittedly painful) hours pass and Oscar sits in his driver’s room. Suddenly Lando’s murder plan doesn’t seem too bad now.

Speak of the devil.

Lando swings open Oscar’s door.

“Osc. You’re acting strange.” Lando says.

Straightforward, as always.

“How so?” Oscar says, hiding his misery with a fake smile.

“Don’t try that on me.” Lando says as he walks into the room, slamming the door shut behind him, “Spill right now.”

“I already told you. Williams drivers. Me and Logan.” Oscar says, his voice with a tinge of annoyance.

“Yea well usually you don’t dwell on it for too long, and haven’t you already talked to Logan?” Lando shrugs.

“Yes but it’s not that simple, Lando.” Oscar says, eerily monotonously.

“So… there’s something more?” Lando inquires.

Oscar rolls his eyes. He’s gonna hate Lando for this.

“I hate how Alex is close to Logan.” Oscar admits.

“Woah.” Lando says, his hands raising up, “What?”

“Alex doesn’t deserve it.” Oscar, once again, feels the jealousy completely removing his filter.

“They’re teammates, they’re going to be close. Just like us!” Lando says.

“Yea well, he wasn’t there for Logan when Logan was crying on a hotel bed.” Oscar scoffs, “You know who was? Me.”

Lando’s taken aback. He processes Oscar’s words first before trying his best to phrase the next sentence nicely.

“That’s very pretentious of you.” Lando says.

And it’s like a slap in the face for Oscar, he finally realises what he just said. Shit. Then the past few hours of murder plotting hit him in the face as well. Double Shit. He’s really letting this jealousy take over him.

“Fuck.” Oscar whispers.

“What?” Lando asks, moving slightly closer to Oscar.

“I feel horrible. That was so horrible of me.” Oscar buries his face into his hands, “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. These past weeks, it’s just been jealousy, jealousy, jealousy.”

Lando nods a few times.

“Well…” Lando thinks, “You should talk to Logan about this. Maybe apologise for being possessive too.” 

It’s obvious Lando means it as a joke but Oscar feels like it’s a punch into the gut. He’s been insanely possessive. 

“But seriously, talk to Logan about this.” Lando shrugs.

“Okay.” Oscar says as he stands up, brushing past Lando and walking out the room.

“I didn’t mean now… but okay.” 

------

Oscar sees Logan filming Williams' media in the garage, right next to Alex. He suppresses the thoughts, constantly reminding himself that Alex deserves it.

They end shortly after and Oscar makes his way over to Logan. He, rather rudely, inserts himself into the picture, standing next to Logan.

“Hi Oscar.” Alex says, which prompts Logan to greet Oscar.

“Hey Osc.” Logan says.

“Can we talk… like right now.” Oscar says.

“I mean, sure, with Alex or…” Logan replies.

Oscar hesitates. Would that help?

“Okay.” Oscar says on instinct.

“Alright, cool.” Logan says and pats the seat next to him for Oscar to sit.

Oscar sits down, in between the two Williams drivers. He takes a deep breath before starting.

“Is this about Lando?” Alex jokes which prompts a laugh from Logan. Oscar laughs too, but with slight bitterness.

“No… it’s about you two.” Oscar says.

“Oh.” Alex replies.

“You know what, this is getting out of hand, I’m just gonna get straight to the point.” Oscar rambles.

“Why the hell are you two so close?” Oscar says, directing the question to Logan.

This question takes both Williams drivers by surprise, and seeing as though this question came without a filter, it surprises Oscar too.

“Because we’re teammates…” Logan says.

“Yes I know that but you two are… close close.” Oscar exaggerates his hand movements.

“Uhm…” Logan hesitates, “I guess Alex has been pretty nice to me, being a great person and all that.”

Oscar can feel his jealousy rising again, even more when Alex smiles at Logan.

Logan proceeds to tell his entire story about Qatar and all the races, along with how Alex helped Logan. 

“Alex sat next to me while I cried, because I had no one else.” Logan says and it feels like he’s on the brink of tears.

Oscar’s jealousy gets replaced by guilt. He had no one else.

“Everyone hated me. Well, exaggeration but that’s how I felt.” Logan says and Alex places one hand on Logan’s thigh, “But Alex was there. So it was better.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Oscar can feel the guilt piling up.

And then it finally dawns on him. Alex deserves Logan, not Oscar. In fact, Oscar doesn’t deserve Logan.

He’s placed everything else above Logan in the past year. Logan and his friendship didn’t matter to him, he was blinded; and while he was gone, Alex was there, to sit next to Logan while he cried on the hotel bed.

God he’s been a horrible friend. Everyone there knows that. Alex knows that, Logan knows that too. 

He let Logan go and now, like some brat, he expected Logan back again. He really was pretentious. He only cared about Logan once it got too late. He pretty much ignored Logan for the better part of the year, burying their friendship 6 feet deep.

Oscar can feel his regret building as Logan looks into Alex’s eyes. Usually it would be jealousy.

This was his second chance. 

“Sorry.” Oscar manages, a sting in his throat preventing him from speaking.

“What?” Logan asks.

“Sorry Logan.” Oscar repeats.

“For what…?” Logan’s oblivious.

“Being a shit friend.” Oscar says as he stifles a sniff.

“No… definitely not.” Logan laughs, “You’ve been a great friend.”

“You don’t need to lie.” Oscar sobs slightly.

Alex pats Oscar on the shoulder.

“Sorry to you too.” Oscar says to Alex.

Confusion builds on Alex’s face but he doesn’t inquire further, which is to Oscar’s benefit.

“It’s alright mate.” Alex says.

Oscar falls into Logan’s embrace, they hug.

Alex winks at Logan and gets up, “I’ll see you two soon.”

“I’ve been nothing but horrible. Please… forgive me, please.” Oscar says, his voice muffled from burying his head into Logan’s chest.

“Mate… I really have no clue what you’re talking about.” Logan says, his voice laced with concern.

Oscar looks up into Logan’s eyes, sniffling. He takes another deep breath, cleaning away his tears.

“You will not believe the things I have been thinking about these days.” Oscar says, “I’ve been so… so horrible.”

Logan cocks his eyebrow up again.

“I’ve been jealous.” 

There, he said it. Somehow it lifts a giant weight off Oscar’s chest.

“Of me and Alex?” Logan asks.

“Yes. Exactly that.” Oscar replies, “But I’ve realised. I’m a bitch.”

“Hey! Don’t say that about yourself.” Logan says, quickly hugging Oscar again.

Oscar struggles to get something out.

“I forgive you man. Let’s start again, yea?” Logan says while hugging Oscar.

Oscar nods, once again.

Logan pats Oscar’s head as they hug for a bit.

------ a/n: hope you like it lol. a little rushed but i tried to make it work.

EXTRA SCENE (Completely non-loscar related btw)

Lando have they talked? tell me they’ve talked Alex They have. Yes. Lando and they talked about their friendship right. Alex Yes Lan They did. Lando great! Alex I know. Who would’ve believed Oscar would be jealous. Lando me. i said it before Alex No one believes you anyway. Lando do you forgive oscah? Alex Yes. Because if I was him, I’d be jealous of me and Logie’s perfect relationship too Lando blah blah shut up. Alex Tell Oscar I forgive him And that Logan is all his again. I’ll still be a great teammate though. Lando Oscar says thank you.

[bloodmoonmuses]

stereo 127 | johnny suh

(for @lovesuhng !!! I hope you like it!!!)

genre: johnny suh x reader, college au, teacher's assistant! johnny, friends to lovers

warnings: none!

summary: johnny is your campus crush. he also happens to be the teaching assistant in your music history class. when you (innocently) ask for help on a project, you end up learning about more than just music.

You’re a bit obsessed with this guy who skates around campus- or the concept of him, more accurately. You don’t even know his name. All you know is that last semester, you (accidentally) memorized his schedule, resulting in you walking to certain classes a few minutes earlier than necessary to catch a glimpse of him. These glimpses were merely a blur, whipping past you like an apparition. He was a ghost to you, and you enjoyed being haunted by him. 

Your friends made fun of you for having a campus crush, arguing that it’s not real since you don’t actually know him. However, you honestly preferred the distance. Then, you could fill in the gaps in your knowledge with your own imagination. Admiring him from afar worked for a while- that is, until the start of Spring semester. 

When you saunter into your music history class, a random elective you took for fun, you’re met with the elusive Skater Boy. You knew he was tall, but he’s even taller than you’d imagined in your daydreams. You glance at him briefly, before going to take a seat at a desk near the back. 

Skater Boy chats with a few of his friends at the front of the classroom, then sits next to the teacher’s desk when the professor enters. You infer that he must be the teacher’s assistant. 

This was a big problem. Surely, you’ll fail this class now. There’s simply no way you’ll be able to focus. The breathy laughs that escape him are already distracting you to the point of being almost unbearable. His smile is so breezy, like a wave catching the wind. He looks just as cool here in the classroom as he does on his skateboard.

The underlying crush that lay dormant in you begins to boil, and you know it will soon bubble over, scalding everything in its wake. You couldn’t wait for the burn. In fact, you aimed to spur it on sooner. 

You make a concerted effort to pay attention to the professor’s spiel, pulling out your notebook to take notes. It's syllabus day, sure, but you want to look studious. The first assignment of the semester is to research the history of your favorite music genre. 

Despite your efforts to focus, your eyes drift to the stickers that adorn Skater Boy’s laptop: Patrick Bateman from American Psycho, an Arctic Monkeys logo and a cartoon surfboard. You want to know everything he likes and commit the list to memory. You want to sew his idiosyncrasies into a quilt and blanket him with your loving knowledge of them.

The professor introduces him as Johnny Suh- a third year music composition major. Now the ghost has a name.

—

You look at the office hours on the bottom of your syllabus. Johnny would be in office in lieu of your professor for the majority of the semester. Would it be so bad to pop in and ask him for help on the first assignment? 

While you admittedly feel silly, walking to the Arts and Humanities building looking a bit too gussied up, you swallow the nervousness. You stand in front of the room, reading the placard:

Professor: Dr. Moon

TA: Johnny Suh 

You knock on the office door. On the third knock Johnny says, “Come on in!”

Meekly, you enter. He’s too real, too tangible, in this small space. You’ve never been within touching distance of him. The prospect makes your fingers tingle. Professor Moon has an insane book collection, two bookcases spanning the walls opposite one another. The rest of the office is cluttered with a slew of instruments.

Johnny is wearing a backwards hat and quarter sleeve sweater. Your eyes graze the expanse of his forearms, then drift upwards. There’s a pen clipped to his collar and another in between his lips. It’s the most tantalizing pen you’ve ever seen. Finally, you make eye contact. 

Introducing yourself, you say, “Hi, my name is _____. I’m in the music history course.”

“Nice to meet you.!” He takes the pen out of his mouth, and your eyes follow it forlornly. That could’ve stayed. “How can I help?” 

Johnny gathers some papers, places them in a neat stack at the center of the desk, then sits on the edge of it.

“Um, I’m a non-major. So, I’m struggling a bit with the first assignment.”

Johnny nods understandingly. “Ah, the dreaded favorite genre assignment. What’d you pick?”

“Pop punk,” you say.

“Fascinating. You don’t strike me as a punk person.”

You shrug. “Grew up on it.”

“Have you been to the record store near campus?”  

You shake your head.

“It’s called Stereo 127. I think it would be cool to listen to some records and base your research on specific albums. Then you’ll have a clearer framework for when it’s time to write the paper.”

“Thanks. Um,” you clear your throat, “Would you mind… showing me?”

“The record store? Yeah, sure. No problem. Does this weekend work for you?” Johnny asks.

“Sounds good!”

—

Stereo 127 is densely packed with all sorts of records, mimicking the state of Dr. Moon’s office. There’s a classmate of yours named Jaehyun who’s keeping watch of the store. He walks around the shop, reorganizing things as he sees fit. As you peruse the albums, you’re peeking at Johnny over the records, trying to catch his eye. Unlike you, Johnny is actually scanning the selection, genuinely trying to help you.

“Let’s get the obvious ones out the way,” he says, holding a Blink-182 record. He’s somehow managed to track down a copy of their debut album, Cheshire Cat.  

“If Cheshire Cat is an ‘obvious’ pick to you, then I’m way out of my depth,” you confess.

“A little pretentiousness never hurt anyone,” Johnny replies. 

So far, you have a copy of Green Day’s Nimrod (which you’re quite excited about) and Paramore’s newest album. As the minutes pass, you get gradually more enraptured by the thicket of albums. Before you know it, you’ve accumulated quite a few records. After a bit, you sidle up to Johnny, peering over his shoulder to check out his picks. You spot a Yellowcard compilation record.

“This is more fun than I thought it’d be,” you pipe, turning to face Johnny. His face floods with fondness when he sees the stack of albums in your arms, caramel eyes warming you from the inside out. 

“Yeah, you have a good eye,” he retorts. “I’ve been meaning to check out a few other shops around town. Y’know. To compare selections.” He’s sputtering now, having fallen into a cough fit.

“You okay buddy?” you say, chuckling. You gingerly pat his back, holding back a full blown laugh as Johnny continues to cough.

He waves you off, but you pat his back once more for good measure.

“I’m good, I’m good,” Johnny says. When he regains his composure, he continues. “I was just wondering… Are you busy on the 27th?”

—

You’re sprinting across campus, eager to meet Johnny outside of the boys’ dorm. It’s been two weeks since you’ve last seen him. He’s leaning against the building as he waits for you, clad in a page boy cap (which he’s wearing backwards again) and tank top. You allow yourself a quick glance at his arms, immediately regretting it as your face heats up. When he spots you, Johnny waves excitedly, the width of his smile making your own double in size.

After your first excursion, Johnny had asked for your number (“in case you have questions on the assignment!” he had said). Since then, the two of you have texted occasionally, mostly about school.

The record store he takes you to this time is called The Boot. It’s less trendy than Stereo 127 and less organized as well. Most of the vinyls are in bins, withering at the edges and clearly sundamaged. Johnny says he comes here to find obscure records to spin during his DJ sets, not to necessarily hunt for additions to his collection. 

“So, you’re a music composition major?” you ask as you crouch down to sift through a box.

Johnny nods. “With a minor in photography.”

“Favorite camera brand?”

“Nikon for sure, but I mostly shoot 33mm film.”

“How pretentious,” you say.

“Oh, you love it.” This is true, you do love it. 

Johnny continues. “I found another record store for us to try out after this one.”

“Yeah, just text me whenever.”

—

You had finished your paper days ago, so the subsequent record store outing was completely unnecessary to a certain extent. Johnny had no choice but to admit that he simply wanted to hang out with you- though, he’s not complaining. 

The final record store you visit with Johnny is called WAYVE. This time, he picks you up in his car to take you there- a dinky pick up truck with a shitty paint job.

“Before we head out- “ Johnny reaches over, opening the glove department in front of you. His hand brushes your leg briefly.. He pulls out a CD case and places it in your lap.

“I made a playlist for you.” He can’t look you in the eyes properly. You’ve never seen him look this sheepish.

Johnny continues. “Not vinyl, I know, but I wanted to decorate the cover.” Taped to the front of the jewel case is a polaroid of you perusing records. In the photo, your brows are furrowed in concentration.

“When did you even take this, you weirdo?”

“A few weeks ago at The Boot. The lighting was nice.”

You’re practically buzzing with excitement when you get home, racing to put the CD in your busted boombox. The first song on the playlist is Going Away to College by Blink-182.

“I haven't been this scared in a long time

And I'm so unprepared, so here's your valentine

Bouquet of clumsy words, a simple melody

This world's an ugly place, but you're so beautiful to me.”

—

You got a B minus on the paper, which is better than you would've done without Johnny’s help. However, the project is the furthest thing from your mind. 

All you can think about is the lyrics of Going Away to College. You’re trying not to read into things, but Johnny wasn’t the most subtle. 

Maybe you should make a playlist for him. Or buy him a record. According to him, Johnny’s not a true collector- that was reserved for cameras. Maybe he’d appreciate it.

Johnny spots you walking to class (though he’s sure your next one isn’t for another half hour). He skates over to you, stopping right at your feet. You shriek, almost stumbling backwards.

“What the hell, Johnny?”

He dismounts his skateboard, holding it under his arm nonchalantly.  “Do you wanna hang out somewhere other than a record store?”

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

—

The skatepark is overstimulating in the best way. After trying (and failing) to teach you how to do an ollie for an hour, the two of you set up a picnic off to the side of the halfpipe. You eat kimbap off Johnny’s skateboard, using it as a little table.

“Sorry you got a B on your paper, by the way. If it’s any consolation, I didn’t grade it.” 

“It’s okay. I’d rather earn a B from Professor Moon than have your biased ass give me a higher grade than I deserve.”

Johnny places a hand on his chest, gasping dramatically.

“Um, what about academic integrity? I would do nothing of the sort!” he insists.

“Oh come on, you’re obsessed with me,” you say, half-joking. To your surprise, Johnny nods to himself, agreeing with you.

“Only a healthy amount though.”

When you and Johnny finish the kimbap, he scooches next to you. The sun is setting, oranges slowly darkening into a wash of deep indigo. You shiver as the sun dips beneath the horizon. Johnny places his jacket across your shoulders.

“Thanks,” you say.

“No problem.”

You place your head on Johnny’s shoulder.

“Um, and thanks for the playlist too. It’s really good.”

“Yeah?”

“It sorta had… a theme to it.”

Johnny suddenly pulls out from under you, leaving you to stumble around for a bit as you catch yourself. When he turns to you, he stares, caramel eyes pouring into your own. You feel warm in spite of the chilly breeze.

“I’ve never really been good with words,” Johnny confesses. “I figured I’d let the music do the talking.”

With that, he takes your face into his hands. He traces your features with the pads of his fingers- running them over your eyebrows, the lids of your closed eyes, your nose and, finally, your mouth. When he’s satisfied, he places a faint kiss upon your lips. 

He pulls back, caressing your cheeks with his thumbs. “I’m so glad my pretentious bullshit doesn’t give you the ick,” Johnny says.

“Only a healthy amount,” you say through a smile. 

Suddenly, you initiate another kiss, your lips crashing into his fervently. When Johnny recovers from the initial shock, you deepen the kiss further. He’s a patient kisser, never demanding too much or taking more than he’s given. This only heightens your hunger for him, throwing your arms around his neck to pull him impossibly closer. When the two of you come up for air, you linger with Johnny still in your embrace, his eyes crinkling at the edges with pure joy.

a/n: currently unedited + feedback is always appreciated! thanks for reading!