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birdiewriteslit · 27 days

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“so american”

nico hischier x f!reader

masterlist

inspired by “so american” by olivia rodrigo

warnings: fluff, kissing

can you tell i love nico in a hat

You were sitting in the passenger side of Nico’s car with your feet up on the dash. The window was down, and your arm was hanging out of it, the cool wind blowing your hair around your face.

It was spring, and the weather was just starting to feel like it. It had been cold for the past few weeks, and both you and Nico were happy to finally be able to enjoy semi-warm temperatures.

You loved driving around Jersey with Nico. You loved sneaking glances at him while he was too focused on the road to notice. You loved how warm his hand felt on your thigh. You loved how his t-shirt fit you and how it smelled like him. You also loved that he let you have aux privileges.

Nico frowned at you as one of your country songs came on the playlist. If his brown puppy dog eyes weren’t covered by his dark sunglasses, they would probably be enough to convince you to change the song.

You giggled at his displeasure, consoling him by lacing your fingers through his that rested on your thigh. He seemed to accept this, a small smile on his face as he shook his head.

He gave you one last once over before focusing on the road again. His smile grew wider. “You look so American.”

You let out a surprised noise. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Nico shrugged. “You’re listening to country music, for one. I only ever see people’s feet on the dashboard in movies, very American.”

“You don’t do this in Switzerland? You don’t relax with your hand out the window like this?” you teased, making wave motions with your arm in the wind.

He laughed, squeezing your hand as he did so. “We relax. It’s just different here. I like your Americanness. I guess the exception is that you’re wearing a Swiss’s shirt, which you look very pretty in, by the way,” he said slyly, raising your hand to his lips to kiss it.

You felt your face heat up as you watched the smile that spread across his face as he pulled away. “God, Nico, don’t make me blush.”

But that’s really all he did, it was what he was best at. You knew he loved how flustered he could make you if he wanted to. He loved how after five months of dating, he could still easily make you nervous.

The next day, at brunch with your friends, you expressed your utter happiness, but at a table full of mostly single women, it wasn’t received the way you intended.

“I’m serious when I say that I have never seen a more attractive man in my life. Like, seriously, compare him to any celebrity crush you’ve ever had, and multiply that attractiveness by a thousand,” you babbled mindlessly to your friends, who were giving each other looks. “And, ugh, don’t get me started on his accent. It’s so hot, especially when he talks me through it.”

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” your friend said, holding up her hand, a disgusted look on her face. “Frankly, it’s rude to talk about this during brunch. I mean, right in front of my french toast?” She gestured to her plate.

Another friend snorted. “I hate to say it, Y/n, but I agree. You literally only talk about him anymore. It’s like you’re gonna marry him.”

“I might,” you blurted.

Their eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Are you serious?”

You gave a small nod, suddenly uncomfortable by the amount of eyes one you. “I know it’s early but—“

“But you love him,” one of your married friends sighed. “It certainly sounds like you do,” she added after getting some looks from the other women at the table.

You didn’t respond, instead choosing to remain silent as the conversation steadily flowed away from you. You but the inside of your cheek, thinking about how you definitely loved Nico. You knew this before today, but with your history of failed relationships, you figured taking it slow with him was a good idea.

You weren’t lying about marrying him. If he kept this shit up, you were going to.

That night, you were lying in bed, eyes on the bathroom door, where Nico was on the other side. In your shorts and tank top, you were a little cold, and the top blanket wasn’t doing much for you.

When Nico slept over, you rarely made it under the covers. He naturally ran hot, and if you were covered by more than one blanket, you would literally overheat.

Finally, he came out of the bathroom. He was wearing a Devils t-shirt that was well worn and mostly likely from several seasons ago. He wasn’t wearing pants, his boxers out for you to ogle at, although you knew you shouldn’t.

Nico walked over to his side of the bed, stopping before he climbed under the blanket to pick up a book on your nightstand. You’d both read it and come to the conclusion that it was a waste of your good money.

“Why do you still have this?” he asked, showing you the cover. “I can’t believe your friend recommended it.”

“I like reading your notes. I think it’s cute how angry you get,” you admitted.

He set the book down and got into the bed, covering you with his body, instantly warming you up.

Wrapping his arms securely around you, he pressed his face into the crook of your neck. He sighed into your skin, his warm breath fanning out and his stubble tickling you.

He placed small kisses up your neck, trailing along your jaw before capturing your lips with his. Between kisses, he said, “Missed you today.”

Your heart fluttered at his words. “Yeah?” you said, smiling against his lips. “I missed you.”

He pressed one last kiss to your lips before pulling away. He brought a hand up to your face, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear, and stroking your face with his thumb. His lips parted, and his eyes were so big and brown that you genuinely felt like you could lose yourself in them.

“I wish you could come with us when we leave.” Nico was referring to an upcoming roadie. He would be gone for a week.

He was looking at you so sincerely, so vulnerably. “I’ll go anywhere you go,” you whispered.

You knew you couldn’t go with him. It wasn’t realistic. But with the way he was looking at you, you really couldn’t hold back from saying something so sappy.

He glanced down at your lips quickly before meeting your eyes again, his thumb continuing to stroke your cheek. “You would?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “I love you, Nico.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it. His lips parted to speak, but nothing came out.

“Sorry if it’s too soon. I know I’m in love with you,” you spoke quickly. “I don’t wanna just assume that you feel the same about all of it.”

He took your face in his hands and kissed you. When he pulled away, he kept his hands on your cheeks and looked at you meaningfully. “I’ve been wanting to say that for months. Trust me, I feel the same. I love you.”

Your face warmed as he looked deeply into your eyes. You surged forward to kiss him again. You peppered his whole face with kisses, and he laughed as he gripped your waist and flipped the two of you over so that you were on top of him.

He grinned at you when you pulled away, his cheeks rosy and his hair slightly messed. “I don’t think I’ll be getting much sleep tonight,” he said.

Your expression matched his perfectly. “I don’t think so either.”

Even though you didn’t confess that earlier that day, you’d thought about marrying him, this was still just as good.

#birdiewriteslit #birdiewritesfics #nhl #nhl blurb #nhl player x reader #nj devils #nico hischier #nico hischier x reader #nico hischer x reader #nico hischier x y/n #nico hischier x you #nico hischier imagine #nico hischier blurb #nico hischier one shot #nh13 #olivia rodrigo #so american #new jersey devils #hockey imagine

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doyoulikethissong-poll · 5 months

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Metallica - Wherever I May Roam 1992

"Wherever I May Roam" is a song by American heavy metal band Metallica, and was released in 1992 as the fourth single from their eponymous fifth album, Metallica (commonly known as The Black Album). The album marked a change in the band's music from the thrash metal style of their previous four albums to a slower, heavier, and more refined sound, and "Wherever I May Roam" along with the other 4 singles released from this album ("Enter Sandman", "The Unforgiven", "Nothing Else Matters", and "Sad but True") have all been considered to be among the band's best-known songs. Metallica received widespread critical acclaim and became the band's best-selling album. It debuted at number one in ten countries and spent four consecutive weeks at the top of the Billboard 200, making it Metallica's first album to top the album charts. With over 30 million copies sold worldwide, Metallica is one of the best-selling albums worldwide. In December 2019, Metallica became the fourth release in American history to enter the 550-week milestone on the Billboard 200. It also became the second longest-charting traditional title in history only behind The Dark Side of the Moon (1973) by Pink Floyd, and the second to spend 550 weeks on the album charts. "Wherever I May Roam" reached number 82 on the US Billboard Hot 100 peaked at number twenty-five on the Billboard Album Rock Tracks chart, and peaked at number two in Denmark, Finland and Norway. The intro of the song is notable for its unusual instrumentation for the band: Asian instruments such as a gong and sitar, along with an overdubbed Warwick twelve-string bass. This 12-string bass was only used for effect during the intro to emphasize several accented notes and then a standard tuned 4-string bass was used as the main bass instrument throughout the remainder of the recording. "Wherever I May Roam" received 70,4% total yes votes!

youtube

#finished #high yes #low reblog #metallica #90s

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luna-rainbow · 7 months

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The reason people were saying don’t forget fandom history isn’t because anyone thinks Stucky is the oldest MLM ship, or the biggest MLM ship, or the only MLM ship of its time. It’s because it was 2014 and gay marriage was still illegal. It’s because it was 2015 and MAGA was flying everywhere. It’s because it was 2016, people took to Twitter and trended #givecapaboyfriend. Mere weeks later, comics Steve Rogers was written into a Nazi.

It’s because it came at a turning point not just in superhero history but American history. MCU Steve Rogers was a return to a more sincere worldview after two decades of grim dark cynicism. The MCU, previously the domain of (mainly cis white) dudebros — you only have to look at the way Nat and Peggy were written in the early movies to know that women and other minorities, whether as characters or audience, were a distant afterthought — has gained traction with the mainstream audience. The advent of social media and internet accessibility meant a blossoming abundance of fan content that previous generations didn’t have.

This coincided with a time of intense ideological clash between progressive and conservative voices. Unlike what dudebros say, very few people believed the MCU would actually give Cap a boyfriend, but it did squarely place Captain America on the side of the LGBT community. Up until this point, MCU Steve in both canon and fanon has often been portrayed with hazy nostalgia for “the greatest generation” and the white picket fence dream. The hashtag trend was a reclamation of a character who was written by a minority, whose origin was a marginalised group for his time, and whose moral code was always supportive of people sidelined by history.

There will always be older ships, bigger ships, “more canon” ships, but you’ll never get another ship that rode the nexus of social media growth, genre popularity, LGBT recognition and political tug-o-war to breach containment the way Steve-Bucky did.

Don’t forget the history of #GiveCapABoyfriend, the BBC Steve-Bucky fan video, the “of course it’s a love story”, the “we went a little Brokeback” and the “Bucky is his home”. All of these were acknowledgement of the sheer size and international reach of the fandom. With a character many people thought of as the face of conservative America, it brought gay romance into the mainstream consciousness…and yes, without Steve-Bucky and several other concurrent massive MLM ships laying down the ground work, many of the newer canon gay romances would not have been green lit by profit-hungry studios.

#stucky #bucky barnes #steve rogers #stevebucky

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alwaysbewoke · 4 months

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Ota Benga was born around 1883, in what is now the Republic of Congo. Theirs was a hunter-gatherer society. When he became a man, his teeth were chipped into sharp points, part of his tribal customs. His world came crashing down when King Leopold II of Belgium (The butcher of Congo) established a colony in the Congo to exploit its valuable resources. The demand for rubber was increasing around the world and Leopold wanted to corner the market. He subdued the native population to force them into laboring on the rubber plantations. In Belgium Congo, women were held hostage until their men returned with enough rubber for the colonizer King Leopold. Some had their hands chopped off for not meeting rubber quotas. Ota was out on a hunting expedition when his village was attacked by the slavers. Whether they were Force Publique or an African group working to collect people to sell to them varies from story to story. He was taken captive. On the other side of the globe, a man named Samuel Verner was preparing exhibits for the 1904 World's Fair. The fair's organizers wanted to do an exhibit showing the progress of mankind “from the dark prime to the highest enlightenment, from savagery to civic organisation" He was given a hefty budget to collect living "specimens" of people from Africa to represent the "savage depths" from which mankind had sprung. The experience of young African men at the 'fair' aka Human Zoo, was not a pleasant one. Billed as cannibals, they shook spears at the crowd and grimaced with their filed teeth, modeling their "war dances" Verner sent Ota to the American Museum of Natural History in New York City. In 1906, Verner found a new home for Ota: The Bronx Zoo. Ota was put as an "exhibit" A plaque was erected, describing him in the same way an animal would be described and put into a cage in the monkey house. The Minneapolis Journal declared Ota to be the "missing link" between chimps and humans. On March 19, 1916, he stole a revolver gun and shot himself through the heart.

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aheavenofhell · 8 months

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Book!Aziraphale things you should know (based on this post about Crowley)

1. When the Bentley gets a parking ticket he’s the one who blows it up.

2. He’s so good at his taxes he’s been investigated for fraud.

3. He intimidates “men in dark suits” trying to buy his shop.

4. He just Takes Bites of Crowley’s food.

5. When Warlock got older, he became his tutor. Neither he nor Crowley wanted to teach him math, but they both taught him very different history.

6. He fights with Crowley about directions.

7. At Warlock’s birthday, Warlock takes a gun from a security guard and accidentally fires it at Crowley. Aziraphale turns it into a water gun (and then feels embarrassed)

8. He (Aziraphale) also gets hit with a cream cake at said party, which he swipes off his jacket and licks off his fingers in the Bentley (because free snacks).

9. Aside from books of prophecy and Wilde first editions, he specializes in Bibles with printing errors.

10. “Are you going to introduce me to your new body?” “Oh? Yes. Yes, of course—“ The way Michael Sheen delivers the “oh” in the audiobook is exactly what you’re imaging.

11. He can’t beat the gay allegations. Not that he actually tries.

12. When looking for a body, before he finds Madame Tracy, he lands in an American televangelist preaching about armageddon. He gets so annoyed that he starts correcting the sermon (then gets excited when he realizes he’s on television).

13. He and Crowley can’t stop having little side chats while trying to actively stop the Apocalypse from starting.

14. He’s ✨touchy✨ with Crowley.

15. READ OR LISTEN TO GOOD OMENS YOU WILL NOT REGRET IT

#do it!!!#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #aziracrow #book!aziraphale #book omens

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colorisbyshe · 9 months

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A lot of the response to Oppenheimer criticism has been "Clearly, you haven't watched the film, it isn't celebrating him! It shows all the things he did wrong" and I have to say... that's... still... missing the point of the criticism.

Oppenheimer occupies the same space as all the war films--like Dunkirk--that say "War is hell." While these films could and do skew towards "War is bad, let's avoid it," they still often... really end up saying "War is hell but let's pity the warriors and maybe consider the ways in which it was worth it."

The "war is hell" films end up completely missing the "anti war" mark because they choose to focus on the people waging the war, painting them in a sympathetic or at least humanizing light even when they're in the wrong. You feel bad when a soldier has to kill a kid on the other side--even if the kid is unarmed or begging for their life--because it's sooo sad that the soldier was driven to that point. And because... well, what else could they have done?

A much more effective "war is hell" film would be focused on the people whose land is ravaged by bombs. The civilians. The families. The people who lose their homes, their schools, their hospitals, their lives. Not in waging war but just in happening to live where war is happening. THEY are the real victims. They are not victimizers who might come to regret it (like warriors, like Oppenheimer) but like... actual victims.

In choosing to make a film about Oppenheimer and not about his victims--the people of New Mexico, the people of Japan, people forced into internment camps on US soil, and broader even then--you are saying "This man is responsible for great evil but let's humanize him too. Let's recognize that he didn't really have a choice or that maybe he felt bad about it. It was out of his hands."

Beyond humanizing him, it gives this history an element of inevitability. He HAD to do it. This HAD to happen. It's horrible that it happened but it was always going to happen.

If you focus instead on all the people victimized, you see all the reasons why it didn't have to happen.

And if Christopher Nolan isn't equipped to tell the story of New Mexican civilians who weren't given protective gear when the only jobs they had left were at all the labs or the stories of what a Japanese child does when his family is ravaged by American war crimes... he doesn't have to tell that story. The option isn't "Tell Oppenheimer or tell an intimate story he can't at all relate to." He could just... not tell this story.

Some stories really are not meant to have entertainment value. Some stories are not meant to be human stories but rather just facts on paper. Or told from the other human side. Sort of how like documentaries on serial killers often get it wrong but the fictionalized tv shows exploring ~what made them serial killers are ALWAYS wrong.

Some perspectives don't really need to be explored, is what I'm saying. Oppenheimer shouldn't be a grey or even dark protagonist. Some atrocities do not need to be humanized in any way, even if the humanity mostly culminates into "He was still wrong, though."

There are more efficient, less troubling ways to explore the motivation (the greed, the nationalism, the racism, the hatred, the warmongernig) behind bombings and wars like this. That would be better tools at realizing how we are repeating history, right now, in 2023.

That don't involve having to paint atrocities and the people behind them as grey or human or pathetic or pitiable.

#wrote this at 2am #whoops

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david-talks-sw · 10 months

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As a quick addendum to this recent post:

Could the Jedi have done more to help Anakin? Sure. There's myriad more things that could've been done. For example, Mace could've sat Anakin down in the Council Chamber and gone "Skywalker, tell me what's really going on."

But it bears mentioning that the above scenario ⬆️ likely wouldn't yield any results. Because, well, Anakin barely ever opens up about his feelings or fears or past trauma.

He doesn't do it with Yoda, when the latter asks for more tangible information so he can tailor his advice.

He barely ever opened up to Ahsoka.

He barely did so with Obi-Wan.

And by Revenge of the Sith, he's even shutting Padmé out.

(Yes, part of it is due to the secrecy surrounding his marriage, but I've already explained my thoughts on why it's an unfounded fear at that point in time, and it's not the only factor behind his silence as he already didn't open up as far back as Phantom Menace, nor is it his only secret)

The only person he does confide in is Palpatine, who:

keeps enabling Anakin's flaws instead of letting him learn to overcome them,

keeps isolating him from everyone else.

And Palpatine's both the most powerful Sith in history and the leader of the free world, so he's always gonna find a way to worm himself into Anakin's life.

As long as Palpatine's in the picture, no matter what the Jedi or Padmé do, he'll be right around the corner, ready to undo it.

So at some point - short of Palpatine tripping into an empty elevator shaft and falling to his death - the only person who could've gotten Anakin out of that mess... was Anakin himself.

Would it have been difficult? Hell yes.

But as Shmi Skywalker (who let go of her attachment), Padmé Amidala (disciplined and principled), Obi-Wan Kenobi (refused to give in to anger upon losing the love of his life), Ezra Bridger (rejected the Emperor's promise of power and reunification with his loved ones), Luke Skywalker and Quinlan Vos (pulled back from the Dark Side against all odds) have shown us... it wouldn't have been impossible.

"All of my movies are about one thing, which is the fact that the only prison you’re in is the prison of your mind. And if you decide to open the door and get out, you can. There’s nothing stopping you." - George Lucas, SirusXM, American Voices, 2012

#anakin skywalker #the story is about personal responsibility #if the jedi are to blame for Anakin's downfall then that conflicts with the film's major themes #meta #star wars #sheev palpatine

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mightyflamethrower · 8 months

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“Name me a single objective we’ve ever set out to accomplish that we’ve failed on. Name me one, in all of our history. Not one!”

-President Joe Biden, August 16, 2023

Joe Biden in one of his now accustomed angry “get off my grass” moods dared the press to find just one of his policies/objectives that has not worked. Silence followed.

Perhaps it was polite to say nothing, given even the media knows almost every enacted Biden policy has failed.

Here is a summation of what he should instead apologize for.

Biden in late summer 2021 sought a 20th anniversary celebration of 9/11 and the 2001 subsequent invasion of Afghanistan. He wished to be the landmark president that yanked everyone out of Afghanistan after 20 years in country. But the result was the greatest military humiliation of the United States since the flight from Vietnam in 1975.

Consider the ripples of Biden’s disaster. U.S. deterrence was crippled worldwide. China, Russia, Iran, and North Korea almost immediately began to bluster or return to their chronic harassment of U.S. and allied ships and planes. We left thousands of allied Afghans to face Taliban retribution, along with some Western contractors.

Biden abandoned a $1 billion embassy, and a $300 million remodeled Bagram airbase strategically located not far from China and Russia, and easily defensible. Perhaps $50 billion in U.S. weaponry and supplies were abandoned and now find their way into the international terrorist mart.

All our pride flags, our multimillion gender studies programs at Kabul University, and our George Floyd murals did not just come to naught, but were replaced by the Taliban’s anti-homosexual campaigns, burkas, and detestation of any trace of American popular culture.

Vladimir Putin sized up the skedaddle. He collated it with Biden’s unhinged quip that he would not get too excited if Putin just staged a “minor” invasion of Ukraine. He remembered Biden’s earlier request to Putin to modulate Russian hacking to exempt a few humanitarian American institutions. Then Russia concluded of our shaky Commander-in-Chief that he either did not care or could do nothing about another Russian invasion.

The result so far is more than 500,000 dead and wounded in the war, a Verdun-stand-off along with fortified lines, the steady depletion of our munitions and weapon stocks, and a new China/Russia/Iran/North Korean axis, with wink and nod assistance from NATO Turkey.

Biden blew up the Abraham accords, nudged Saudi Arabia and the Gulf States over to the dark side of Iran, China, and Russia. He humiliated the U.S. on the eve of the midterms by callously begging the likes of Iran, Venezuela, Russia, and Saudi Arabia to pump more oil that he had damned as unclean at home and cut back its production. In Bidenomics, instead of producing oil, the president begs autocracies to export it to us at high prices while he drains the nation’s strategic petroleum reserve for short-term political advantage.

Biden deliberately alienated Israel by openly interfering in its domestic politics. He pursued the crackpot Iran Deal while his special Iranian envoy was removed for disclosing classified information.

No one can explain why Biden ignored the Chinese balloon espionage caper, kept mum about the engineered Covid virus that escaped the Wuhan lab, said not a word about a Chinese biolab discovered in rural California, and had his envoys either bow before Chinese leaders or take their insults in silence—other than he is either cognitively challenged or leveraged by his decade-long grifting partnership with his son Hunter.

Yet another Biden’s legacy will be erasing the southern border and with it, U.S. immigration law. Over seven million aliens simply crossed into the U.S. illegally with Biden’s tacit sanction—without audits, background checks, vaccinations, and COVID testing, much less English fluency, skills, or high-school diplomas.

Biden’s only immigration accomplishment was to render the entire illegal sanctuary city movement a cruel joke. Given the flood, mostly rich urban and vacation home dwellers made it very clear that while they fully support millions swarming into poor Latino communities of southern Texas and Arizona, they do not want any illegal aliens fouling their carefully cultivated nests.

Biden is mum about the 100,000 fentanyl deaths from cartel-imported and Chinese-supplied drugs across his open border. He seems to like the idea that Mexican President Obrador periodically mouths off, ordering his vast expatriate community to vote Democratic and against Trump.

Despite all the pseudo-blue collar dissimulation about Old Joe Biden from Scranton, he has little empathy for the working classes. Indeed, he derides them as chumps and dregs, urges miners to learn coding as the world covets their coal, and studiously avoids getting anywhere near the toxic mess in East Palestine, Ohio, or so far the moonscape on Maui.

Bidenomics is a synonym for printing up to $6 billion dollars at precisely the time post-Covid consumer demand was soaring, while previously dormant supply chains were months behind rebooting production and transportation. Biden is on track to increase the national debt more than any one-term president.

In Biden’s weird logic, if he raised the price of energy, gasoline, and key food staples 20-30 percent since his inauguration without a commensurate rise in wages, and then saw the worst inflation in 40 years occasionally decline from record highs one month to the next, then he “beat inflation.”

But the reason why more than 60 percent of the nation has no confidence in Bidenomics is because it destroyed their household budgets. Gas is nearly twice what it was in January 2021. Interest rates have about tripled. Key staple foods are often twice as costly—meat, vegetables, and fruits especially.

Biden has ended through his weaponized Attorney General Merrick Garland the age-old American commitment to equal justice under the law. The FBI, DOJ, CIA, and IRS are hopelessly politically compromised. Many of their bureaucrats serve as retrieval agents for lost Biden family incriminating laptops, diaries, and guns. In sum, Biden criminalized opposing political views.

Biden has unleashed the administrative state for the first time in history to destroy the Republican primary front runner and his likely opponent. His legacy will be the corruption of U.S. jurisprudence and the obliteration of the American reputation for transparent permanent government that should be always above politics, bribery, and corruption.

If in the future, an on-the-make conservative prosecutor in West Virginia, Utah, or Mississippi wishes to make a national name, then he has ample precedent to indict a Democrat President for receiving bad legal advice, questioning the integrity of an election, or using social media to express doubt that the new non-Election-Day balloting was on the up-and-up, or supposedly overvaluing his real estate.

The Biden family’s decade-long family grifting will likely expose Joe Biden as the first president in U.S. history who fitted precisely the Constitution’s definition of impeachment and removal—given his “high crimes and misdemeanors” appear “bribery”-related. If further evidence shows he altered U.S. foreign policy in accordance with the wishes from his benefactors in Ukraine, China, or Romania, then he committed constitutionally-defined “treason” as well.

Defunding the police, and pandemics of exempted looting, shoplifting, smashing, and grabbing, and carjacking merit no administrative attention. Nor does the ongoing systematic destruction of our blue bicoastal cities, Los Angeles, New York, Portland, San Francisco, Seattle, and Washington, D.C. All that, along with the disasters in East Palestine or Maui are out of sight, out of mind from a day at the beach at Biden’s mysteriously purchased nearly 6,000 square-foot beachfront mansion.

Biden ran on Barack Obama-like 2004 rhetoric (“Well, I say to them tonight, there is not a liberal America and a conservative America — there is the United States of America).”

And like Obama, he used that ecumenical sophistry to gain office only to divide further the U.S. No sooner than he was elected, we began hearing from the great unifier eerie screaming harangues about “semi-fascists” and “ultra-MAGA” dangerous zealots, replete with red-and black Phantom of the Opera backdrops.

What followed the unifying rhetoric was often amnesties and exemptions for violent offenders during the 120 days of rioting, looting, killing, and attacks on police officers in summer 2020. In contrast, his administration lied when it alleged that numerous officers had died at the hands of the January 6 rioters. In addition, the Biden administration mandated long-term incarceration of many who committed no illegal act other than acting like buffoons and “illegally parading.”

The message was exemptions for torching a federal courthouse, a police precinct, or historic church or attempting to break into the White House grounds to get a president and his family—but long prison terms for wearing cow horns, a fur vest, and trespassing peacefully like a lost fool in the Capitol.

Finally, Biden’s most glaring failure was simply being unpresidential. He snaps at reporters, and shouts at importune times. He can no longer read off a big-print teleprompter. Even before a global audience, he cannot kick his lifelong creepy habit of turkey-gobbling on children necks, blowing into their ears and hair of young girls, and squeezing women far too long and far too hard.

His frailty redefined American presidential campaigning as basement seclusion and outsourcing propaganda to the media. And his disabilities only intensified during his presidency. Biden begins his day late and quits early. He has recalibrated the presidency as a 5-hour, 3-day a week job.

If Trump was the great exaggerator, Biden is our foremost liar. Little in his biography can be fully believed. He lies about everything from his train rides to the death of his son to his relationship with Biden-family foreign collaborators, to vaccinations to the economy. Anytime Biden mentions places visited, miles flown, or rails ridden, he is likely lying.

Biden continues with impunity because the media feels that a mentally challenged fabulist is preferable to Donald Trump and so contextualizes or ignores his falsehoods. Never has a U.S. president fallen and stumbled or gotten lost on stage so frequently—or been a single small trip away from incapacity.

So, yes, Biden’s initiatives have succeeded only in the sense of becoming successfully enacted—and therefore nearly destroying the country.

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synergysilhouette · 5 months

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Everyone keeps talking about "traditional villains," but in retrospect, I wish Disney had gone in a different direction for the Revival Era. Hear me out...

King Magnifico's failed characterization and poor writing in "Wish" really bummed me out. I was looking forward to a complex villain who was kinda right. I was hoping it could usher in a new age of Disney villains who were more grey than black and white, who made the characer grow as a person because they challenged their perspective. But then I realized that the opportunity existed in earlier revival-era villains:

Dr. Facilier is a villain first and foremost, though thinking back on it, I do think he is kinda proto-Magnifico, granting people's wishes, only for them to find that what they wanted isn't what they expected. I do wish he tied a bit of truth in with his scams, mentioning (similar to Magnifico) how people's dreams are very difficult to achieve--especially in the post-WWI American South, particularly POC. Naveen is generally assumed to be a POC himself, so he could juxtapose this viewpoint as someone who's never really had to experience such hardships. Dr. Facilier could still be 100% villainous, but further emphasis on dreams, wishes, and hard work would be part of his character. However, this is the reverse of "Wish"; Tiana has already worked hard, but she's lost a lot of her innocence and light-heartedness trying to achieve it, thus causing her to reevaluate how important love is and how she may not have realized it, being more practical about her dreams. It all starts with a wish.

Mother Gothel was already right; the world can be dark and cruel, and will destroy any light it finds. However, similar to Magnifico, since she's completely evil, the protagonist she goes against doesn't really change to understand what she's saying. Rapunzel doesn't see the world as dark or dangerous anymore; it's the opposite, thanks to her experiences. Because of this, I do wish Rapunzel did have a bit more negative experiences independent of Gothel to prove Gothel's point rather than it being "hey, she's just saying that because she's the villain." Maybe Rapunzel tries healing someone and people start lusting after her hair.

Hans is DEFINITELY a missed opportunity. He was the anti-Anna; isolated and alone, and he became bitter and cruel because of it. It's mentioned that the deleted song "More than Just the Spare" was removed because it made Anna too much like Hans. I don't think that, and if anything, it furthers my point: Hans gave up on his brothers, who he felt overlooked by and pestered by (he doesn't even mention his parents). Maybe give Hans less brothers and feature them a little in the movie so we can see how they interact with Hans and how it's a "what could be" for Anna and Elsa. His evil character is exactly what Anna is trying to avoid, but she understands how he became this way rather than it simply being for shock value.

Yokai was a great villain to me, but the reveal happened too late. I'd have loved seeing a more thorough exploration of his character and parallels to Hiro (which were done great in the film; I just wish it was expanded on). Highlight how people quickly forget about the dead and don't always learn from history, how there's this cycle of loss and hatred that you have to break.

Bellweather was on a power trip, but I do wish she had a storyline similar to Judy and Nick, since--in an interesting twist--they come off as more interesting and complex than the villain. She doesn't really say what made her act like this, and comments that "fear always works." I wish we got more of that, especially to play the two sides card; Zootopia is mainly predator-phobic, and challenges to this, ie predators playing down predator-related crimes in order to get people to look past their identity (and the fact that many predators are in positions of power) may have caused Bellweather's abuse by predators to be overlooked, causing her to want them all gone.

Te Ka is interesting. Despite "Moana" being a great film, I do feel like Te Ka and Maui's storyline was underutilized. It's revealed Maui stole Te Ka's heart for humans, but from what we see, Moana lives in this ideal community where their heritage, culture, and nature is loved and respected. Maybe embrace the fact that Tala is the only one who tells the story of the ancestors and how being they became "comfortable" since they were no longer voyagers, being used to the hierarchy and their stagnant society. Highlighting some humans' selfish natures would've been nice rather than Maui just telling us about it, with Te Ka being a metaphor for the destruction and disregard for nature and love.

Namaari is such a missed opportunity. Despite caring about her community, she comes off as more villainous than an antihero since she doesn't show any sympathy or care for Raya--in fact, she seems rather smug about hurting her. By making her a villain burdened by expectations and love for Fang while slowly being redeemed would've been better to me, shifting her POV slowly, making Raya angry with Namaari but understanding her motives. Having some regret about her choices--even if she believed they were the right ones--would've gone a long way for Namaari's characterization.

Magnifico...well, you already know he could've been one of Disney's most complex villains. Horrifying backstory and powers that are the result of hardwork left him with a jaded view on wish granting. He wants to help others, but has MANY reservations about it.

This is just my POV, of course; some of you may disagree (or feel like the aforementioned villains already achieved what I ask for), but I do hope future Disney villains have that "they're kinda right, even if they're wrong" characterization. It'd be a nice new era as the successor to traditional villains and twist villains--though just like twist villains, this trope requires VERY good writing.

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horreurscopes · 4 months

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So, I could be out-of-bounds here since I think you meant it as dark humor, but what did you mean in the tags of that 'israel-hamas war' post? I suspect you(and op) are criticizing that framing because Israel is obviously demolishing much more than 'Hamas'(and probably doing a terrible job of actually targeting terrorists- they seem content to reduce Gaza to rubble even if the brass of Hamas escapes). I'm guessing that by saying "joining the Israel-Hamas war on the side of Hamas" you mean, if they're going to conflate Palestinians with Hamas unilaterally, then you're saying, whatever the media wants to call Palestinian civilians- you still support them. I am asking anyways though bc, given reports of increasing antisemitic activity in the US and Europe, I am worried about the potential for blurring lines between the cause of Palestinian civilians and the alt-right individuals who are likely masking their antisemitism in the context of being anti-Zionist. Although Israel's government has been the source of Palestinian loss for decades, (it seems to me that) even joking about supporting terrorism is enough to reinforce the persuasion that Israeli/Palestinian Jews and Palestinian Arabs must be mutually-exclusive peoples. I don't think it's fully rational per se(tho I'm not claiming to have all the relevant information myself, and I'm white US American goyim so like- grain of salt-), but I think that existential fear is the incredible hurdle facing Zionist Jews. (Idc too much about the opinions of non-Jewish Zionists bc I don't grant that they are dealing with the same emotional complications at this time, although that doesn't stop me from arguing w my acquaintances abt their callous acceptance of US/Israeli propaganda.) I just think..... isn't it overall harmful to allow anti-semitic rhetoric, even used sarcastically, to enter the genuine humanist cause for Palestinian liberation? Or, have I misunderstood, and you actually are not in opposition to Hamas, or something else I didn't think of?

hi! thank you for approaching the question thoughtfully and with curiosity, i really appreciate it. i was being kind of flippant with that meme, but this is the only ask i'm going to reply to on the matter given that i am neither jewish nor arab, so i'm going to answer in earnest:

hamas is a political resistance movement with an armed wing, much like the black panthers party was, and like the bpp, a large part of the organization is dedicated to social welfare and civic restoration.

they have stated that they are not against judaism, but against the zionist project. they openly support political solutions.

labeling hamas a terrorist group is a propaganda tactic used by the united states and israel to justify the horrors of settler colonization.

hamas is palestine, a part of it, even if palestinians like any other demographic on earth, are not a unified, single-minded people. to declare hamas a separate entity falls prey to the imperialist lie that there is an enemy to fight "fairly" within the people they are displacing and exterminating.

am i rejoicing in the deaths of israelis? of course not. killing civilians and taking civilian hostages is a war crime, whether it is committed by the opresor or the oppressed. the israeli government is not its people, and many jews, within israel as well as in the US, are bravely risking their lives to publicly dissent the criminal acts of the israeli government. all loss of human life is a tragedy.

no one should ever be faced with the choice between annihilation and murderous violence after exhausting all other forms of peaceful protest and being massacred like animals.

but why is it that we consider a resistance group formed within a population with a median age of eighteen a terrorist group, and not the IDF, a US-backed military force with an annual budget of twenty billion dollars?

i am currently reading hamas and civil society in gaza by sara roy to learn more about hamas and the history of israel in palestine. i'll remember to post more excerpts which i am admittedly terrible at.

but all of the information above can be found by reading wikipedia. investigating with duckduckgo searches (not gonna pretend google isn't prioritizing propaganda, to be fair), and reading reliable news coverage like aljazeera and the many journalists who are at risk of, or have lost their lives, reporting on the ground.

i have also appreciated reading posts from @determinate-negation @opencommunion @fairuzfan @ibtisams and @bloglikeanegyptian amongst others

in conclusion:

#palestine

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moonlight-prose · 7 months

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✧ MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT ✧

a/n: this fic is without a doubt probably the filthiest thing i've ever written. i had to pause when i was writing cause i felt like i was getting too unhinged. but it's marc spector so are we really surprised i wrote my filthiest thing with him? a massive thank you to @sunflowersteves for beta reading it for me (and screaming with me).

day five - guided masturbation + intercrural sex | kinktober 2023

summary: "in fact you were used to sleep evading you, but something about falling asleep in their bed made things better."

word count: 1.2k+

pairing: marc spector x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, sleep deprivation, exhaustion, intercrural sex, guided masturbation, cumplay sort of, minor dirty talk.

The alarm clock on the side of the bed was taunting you—laughing at how you couldn’t fall asleep. Part of you wanted to chuck it into the other room and be done with it, but you knew Steven had to get up the next morning. He couldn’t risk being late for work again. Which meant you were stuck, staring at the red glowing numbers in the dark—watching them flip higher every minute.

You had been fighting sleep for an hour yet nothing seemed to be helping. No amount of counting sheep, tossing and turning, or even trying to read one of Steven’s history books helped you. So there you were. Stuck in an exhausted haze, waiting for your body to eventually shut down.

This wasn’t abnormal by any means. In fact you were used to sleep evading you, but something about falling asleep in their bed made things better. When you were here, you found that your body melted into the soft sheets—your mind finally settling down. Tonight however seemed to be the exception.

“Dammit,” you sighed, twisting over to your side and trying to force your eyes to stay shut.

A groan sounded behind you—thick with sleep. It caused you to freeze, your body stiffening for fear of waking up Steven. That is until an arm wrapped around your waist, dragging you back towards the hard body behind you—the warm breath you knew now hitting the back of your neck. His nose nudging into your hair. The sensation was soft, achingly familiar, and you fell into his hold without any fight. Already knowing he was seeking you out in his sleep.

That is until—

“You keep tossing and turning and I’ll have to tie you down,” he joked, sighing against your neck.

The voice was so clearly American, meaning you hadn’t disturbed Steven, but instead woken up the man who might be able to help you sleep.

“Sorry,” you whispered, feeling his palm slide along your stomach. “I couldn’t sleep. Brain’s too wired.”

He mumbled something too low for you to hear—his body shifting even closer, the warmth seeping into your skin. “Should have said something baby.”

You sighed, body shivering, when his hand skated lower, dipping beneath the oversized shirt you wore. “Didn’t—oh—want to wake up Steven.”

The grin against your neck was prominent as his fingers trailed along your now wet panties. “Steven’s asleep.”

“I didn’t know—”

He slipped under the fabric, fingers sliding through your slick and groaning at the feel of it. “Fuck you’re soaked.”

Something shifted in the air, sparking to life as he circled your clit and suddenly you didn’t want to sleep. Instead you allowed the feeling he brought out to consume you—wrapping you up in its hold so tight you’d never be able to escape. Yet you didn’t want to. You wanted to drown in the sensations—allow your entire self to be nothing but this.

He grunted, shifting behind you as he shoved down his sweats—the feeling of his hard cock pressing against your lower back sending shivers down your spine. Your mouth went dry, heart racing as he maneuvered you, his hand cupping your breast in his palm. Rolling his thumb over your hardened nipple.

“Alright baby,” he said—the rasp evident in his voice. “Wanna try something?”

You nodded frantically, willing to do whatever he asked of you. Marc often took control when it came to sex, but you weren’t one to argue. You trusted him, felt safe within his hold, and that was all you needed. All you wanted.

His hand slipped down, grasping yours and leading it down to your throbbing clit. Just the slight touch of your fingers had a moan tumbling from your lips—your body alight with that burning flame that threatened to consume you. Something about following his lead only heightened every single touch. Turning you into a pliable version of yourself. Someone he could mold.

“F-Fuck,” you whimpered, grinding back against him as he held your hand still, barely brushing where you needed it most. “Marc I need—”

Teeth scraped your ear, his hand shifting your hips back. “I know what you need. I’ve got you baby.”

His cock slid between your thighs and you could feel your pussy gush, coating your skin in slick as he fitted himself closer. A soft grunt echoed in your ear when he thrusted forward, his hand pushing yours down finally. He guided you towards your clit, letting you gather up the wetness that practically leaked from you—swirling it around the aching nub.

“That’s it,” he grunted, shifting forward and sliding between your thighs with ease. “Touch yourself for me.”

You moaned raggedly, fingers gripping the sheets as you followed his lead, rubbing figure eights along your clit as his cock continued to fuck the soft meat of your thighs. The sounds that reverberated through his chest right into yours made your body shake. A new kind of high building with every swipe of your fingers.

“M-Marc I’m—” You gasped, eyes squeezing shut. “Fuck, fuck—”

“Yeah?”

Something pulled tight in your stomach, spreading throughout your body and nearly sending you over the edge, but Marc had other ideas. Rolling onto his back, he dragged you with him until you lay on top of him. Your body pressing him down into the mattress. A yelp escaped you, but it was quick to shift into a moan when he wrapped his legs around your thighs, keeping you right where he wanted you.

“Other hand,” he panted into your ear, gripping both of your hands now and leading them to your aching cunt. “That’s it.”

“Oh—fuck—” you garbled, bucking into your touch when he sunk two of your fingers into your entrance, keeping the pace as he gripped your wrist.

He thrusted up, the head of his cock peeking out—precum dripping along the top of your thigh. Heat spilled through your body, curling tightly around your nerves and nearly setting you aflame as he continued. Bringing you even higher than you expected. Moans tore from your throat, echoing off the walls of the flat, which only seemed to spur him on further. A throaty groan was pressed to your neck, his lips sliding along the sticky skin damp with sweat—his tongue licking up the salty taste.

“Gonna cum,” he grunted, plunging two of his own fingers into your cunt. “Wanna feel you.”

His name was a ragged sob on your lips, your eyes rolling back when his fingers curled perfectly, nudging along the spongy part of your walls. He sped up, fucking your thighs as if he was buried inside of you until you felt it. The hot sensation of his cum spurting along your thigh, coating your already wet pussy as he lost himself in bliss.

Your breath caught in your chest, eyes squeezing shut as you followed him, a searing heat burning through you. He continued to pump his fingers, drawing you even higher until a loud shout bounced off the walls. No doubt alerting Steven’s neighbors to what was happening. He smiled, kissing your jaw when you came down, practically melting into his hold and sinking against his body.

“That was…” You panted, reaching for his hand that trailed shapes along your stomach.

“You tired now?”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he breathed, nipping at your jaw. “Go to sleep baby. I’ll clean you up.”

“But Steven—”

“Will wake up when his alarm goes off.”

You nodded, allowing your eyes to slip closed, sleep pulling you in softly. But not before you heard him mutter three words against your ear, his arms tightening around your torso.

#marc spector x f!reader #marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #marc spector x y/n #marc spector smut #marc spector #moon knight fic #moon knight smut #my writing #kinktober 2023

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apricitystudies · 8 months

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what i read in aug. 2023:

(previous editions) bold = favourite

race, gender, sexuality

the blind side was always trash

he’s the trans son of an anti-trans influencer. it's his turn to speak

'the eurocentric fallacy': the myths that underpin european identity

is there a sinister side to the rise of female robots?

i call myself a spinster, but that doesn’t mean l’ll be single forever

politics & current affairs

the land beyond the drug war (usa)

how torture, deception and inaction underpin the uae’s thriving sex trafficking industry

wa mp james hayward found guilty of child sex abuse, disqualified from parliament (australia)

a north korean defector captivated us media. some question her story (usa)

history, culture, & personal essays

loneliness: coping with the gap where friends used to be

inside barbados' historic push for slavery reparations

ahead of time: on poetry and mourning

dreaming of water with tiger salamanders

i stole my neighbour's tragedy to write a short story

nuclear tech: war, power, & oppenheimer

the cautionary tale of j. robert oppenheimer

315 nuclear bombs and ongoing suffering: the shameful history of nuclear testing in australia and the pacific

revisiting hiroshima in iran (journal of international security, open access)

japan releases treated wastewater from fukushima nuclear plant into pacific ocean

spectre of maralinga hangs over aukus nuclear waste for indigenous communities (aus/us)

the dark history oppenheimer didn't show

don't let the victors define morality – hiroshima was always indefensible

if you're interested in more peer-reviewed resources on the american bombings of hiroshima/nagasaki please let me know!

#studyblr #studyspo #reading recommendations #academia #reading list #reading lists #university #productivity #student #dark academia

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golbrocklovely · 6 months

Text

mr. fantastic // sam golbach

A/N: first off, sorry this is getting posted so late. had to make some last minute revisions. so, for this one and colby's fic later on, i need to give some slight context. basically in both of these, they are AUs were snc are corrupt ppl, or have a bit of a corruption aspect to their personalities. some of these fics are/can be seen as dark, so i totally get if you don't feel comfortable reading it. just give a good look over of the trigger warnings and see how you feel. if you do enjoy it, please lmk what you think. also this fic is very vaguely based off the boys, the tv show/comic book series. sam is a smidge (and i mean a very tiny amount) reminiscent of homelander. do with that information as you will. happy haunting!

prompt: everyone around you loves sam, or as he's commonly known as - mr. fantastic. but you can see right through his facade. but when he starts winning over your friends, you know something is going on, and it's not good. || AU!superhero!sam x fem!reader

trigger warning: SMUT, enemies-to-lovers, you used to have a crush on sam in high school and now he's a superhero, superhero!sam, corrupt!sam, twist ending, i would say a hint of dubcon (but y/n never says no or stop, but just to be on the safe side i'm letting yall know), manipulation via powers and magical handcuffs (it will make sense in the story lol), hate fucking/rough sex, unprotective sex, cursing, mentions of: babygirl, slut, good girl, my girl, baby, degrading language

word count: 6769

I couldn't stand him, or anyone else like him. Everyone praised the ground he walked on, but me? Every time I saw him, he made me sick to my stomach.

Well, maybe not sick. But I did hate seeing his dumb, stupid face.

You would think with superheroes becoming known to the public, life would get easier. Crime would go down, more criminals would be off the streets, and the overall quality of life would skyrocket. But that just wasn't factually accurate. Did you know in my city alone, the crime rate has gone up 25% since last year? And what exactly are the superheroes doing about it? Causing more destruction and chaos. I swear, bad things only truly started happening once they came out to the public all those years ago.

The only saving grace I had in my life was that I wasn't alone in my feelings towards superheroes. I had my two best friends, Macie and Rachel, and they both felt the same way I did. Especially towards the best-known superhero in our city, Mr. Fantastic. His real name was Sam Golbach, and I hated him deeply.

He and I had history, you could say. We both went to the same high school. We were both nerdy, and just overall losers. We graduated and moved away to the same city, and then a couple years ago, all of a sudden, he is shown on the news as the newest superhero to save us. It made no sense to me because I remember him from high school. He never had powers. And there's no way that he, the guy that got shoved into lockers and made fun of for being a band nerd, would have tolerated being bullied like that if his powers were super strength and flight. And not only that, but the way the news describes his upbringing: it's all a lie! They paint him to be this all-American boy. They say he was a jock and just a bit shy for most of his life until finally growing into his powers at 19. Most superheroes get their powers by 16, so that alone should be telling that something is off with him. But no. Everyone just believes the lies he tells them. And that is why I hate him.

I may also hate him because I had a huge crush on him in high school and he never gave me the time of day. But I mostly hate him for all of the superhero stuff, not the high school bullshit.

Mostly.

It was like any other normal Tuesday in our office. Our manager, Sally, would bring in donuts, George would make some comment about the week moving too slowly, and around ten o'clock we would all have to stop working to watch the daily superhero news. It was mandatory in our office, as our jobs revolved around fixing superheroes’ fuck ups.

It was almost ten, and we all sat around the flatscreen hanging in the middle of one of our bigger conference rooms, waiting for the news to begin. I glanced around, noticing that Rachel wasn't in. I furrowed my brow, leaning towards Macie.

"Have you seen Rach?" I asked.

She shrugged, "No but I talked to her last night and she seemed fine. Maybe she's just running late or is taking a half day."

I hummed, "Maybe..."

The news turned on loudly, quieting everyone in the office. I leaned back in my chair, sighing deeply. God, please let today be a normal, boring news day.

"Hello everyone, thank you all for coming out this morning," the police commissioner nodded his head, looking at the audience that had formed outside of the precinct. "As always, we like to start with the positives and then move onto the, uh, wreckage. Please hold all questions until the end of the press conference. And now, I pass the stand to Mr. Fantastic."

A bunch of people clapped in the office, some wooing lowly. I grimaced, rolling my eyes the moment he popped on screen.

"Good morning, hello. Oh no need for cheering, thank you. You're too kind," He smiled brightly, shushing the crowd politely. "First, like I always say during these press conferences, thank you for letting me protect this city. I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I couldn't protect the lovely citizens of this place."

"You'd probably be working at a Burger King by now." I mumbled, getting close to Macie. She snickered, gazing back at the screen.

"So last night was eventful, like most nights here. I was able to stop two car jackings, and finally put an end to the mask thief that's been vandalizing all of the inner city's school buses. You can all be glad that today, your kids are riding on safe, clean transit." Sam pointed, giving his trademark wink and smile.

I groaned, lulling my head back in the chair. Could this day get any more boring?

"I also have some fantastic news to share with you all," He chuckled, the crowd following suit. "I saved a special young woman from a purse nabbing and possible assault last night around 2:30. Now as you all know, I know many of the people I save like to remain anonymous, but this one really wanted to let you all know how she felt. And of course, I just can't say no to any of you. So please, allow me to give her the floor." He let out another laugh, backing away from the mic. I glanced at the clock, realizing only five minutes had passed. God must have been punishing me, specifically.

Suddenly, everyone in the room gasped, Macie being the loudest. She slapped my leg, pointing at the tv. I turned and my eyes widened at the sight. Rachel, with tears welling up in her eyes, stood at the podium, smiling brightly. "Thank you all. I just wanted to say that Mr. Fantastic," she turned to him giving him a sensual gaze, "Sam, is one of the best superheroes around. This man saved my life, and I couldn't be more grateful for him. He is amazing and so handsome, and this city should be thankful to have a man like him. I love you, Sam. Thank you so much."

She reached over, giving him a huge hug. He accepted her embrace, allowing her to run her hands almost up and down his body too many times.

My mouth dropped open, unable to comprehend what I was watching. Rachel hated Sam just as much as I did. Literally last week she wished a car would fall out of the sky and squish him because he held up her commute stopping a supervillain from breaking out of the state prison. And now she was on tv, basically ready to suck his dick, because he saved her!

Macie and I looked at each other, knowing we needed to talk to Rach as soon as possible. I sent Rach a quick text, telling her to meet us at our usual lunch spot.

~~~~

My eyes narrowed at Rachel, her smile irritating me. "Please, repeat the story one more time for me."

"Okay, if I must," she giggled. "Last night I went to the corner store because I was craving some ice cream. As I was walking home, a man rushed me and stole my purse. I tried to chase after him but couldn't catch him. He ran across the street, and out of the shadows... there was Sam. He swooped in, grabbed the man, roughed him up, and got my purse back to me. God, it was seriously so hot to see him in action like that."

Rach lightly fanned herself, and I had to hold back my vomit.

"So, he saved you, gave you your purse back. And then what?" Macie questioned.

She continued, "He walked me home and... I woke up this morning knowing I had to thank him for saving my life. So on my way to work, I stopped by the police station, saw him and begged him to let me speak at the conference."

I blinked hard, "He didn't save your life. You weren't threatened. Some random dude just stole your purse."

She pouted, "Yeah, but he saved me so much hassle of having to call my credit card companies and tell them to shut everything off and having to get a new I.D.-"

I jumped in, "I get that, and I'm not trying to downplay it, but like.... last week you wanted a car to fall out of the sky on top of him."

"And the week before that we betted on the subway crushing him between the tracks during that pipe burst. What's changed?" Macie argued, taking a sip of her coffee.

"He saved me," she stated plainly, with a soft smile. "You know, I think we've been so focused on this idea of him that I think if we got to really know him, we would know he's a great guy."

"Have you forgotten that he is lying to the public about his upbringing and reputation? Or the fact any time he saves someone, there is destruction in his wake that our company has to clean up, causing our jobs to be more difficult?" I scowled at her, unable to hold back.

She rolled her eyes hard, "Oh, come off it, Y/N. The only reason you care about that is because he rejected you in high school and you're too hung up on it."

"Excuse me?" I deadpanned.

Rach crossed her arms defiantly. "You heard me. I will no longer be a part of your rain-on-Sam parade. He is an amazing man. And a great superhero."

"Even if any of that were true, you gotta admit that this 180 you're doing is weird. You fucking hated him last night." Macie argued.

"And now I want to marry him." Rach smirked.

My eyes widened, "What the fuck did you just say?"

"If you want me to be honest, I'll say it. I think he is the man of my dreams and everything I could hope for in a partner. I want him, and I hope he'll have me." She turned to Macie, almost giggling, "I slipped him my number at the conference."

"You can't be fucking serious, Rach." I groaned.

"I just know he’s great in the bedroom..." Rach thought out loud.

"Oh... so you've completely lost it. Good to know." I remarked, taking a quick sip of my coffee.

"Don't be jealous of our love. Maybe one day he'll save you too." She quipped.

I laughed sarcastically, "I would rather get crushed by a car, thanks."

~~~~

Two weeks had passed since Rach's incident with Sam. We hadn't been talking to one another all that much, just casual conversation in passing. Maybe she was right to some extent. Maybe I was holding onto this hatred for Sam just because he didn't care about my existence back when we were kids. I should let it go, and stop being such a hater.

At least, I thought that way, until this morning.

I had tunnel vision as I glared at the tv, unable to peel my eyes away as I watched the news. Another press conference. Another day of kissing Sam's ass. But this time, he again introduced another woman that wanted to thank him publicly. And this time... it was Macie.

Her spiel was the same, her mannerisms almost identical to Rach's speech. I watched, my mouth a gaped, as she thanked Sam profusely for saving her from the purse nabber. She leaned up and kissed his cheek multiple times, her hands gripping the collar of his shirt desperately.

You've got to be fucking kidding me. There's no way that this was actually happening. Something fishy was going on, and it had everything to do with Sam. I fucking knew he was trouble. I just needed to get proof.

I met with Macie alone at our usual spot. I begged her to tell me everything in detail, and her story was eerily similar to Rachel's.

"So a guy stole your purse as you left some club, Sam got it back to you, walked you home, and then you woke up today knowing you had to tell the world how great he is." I reiterated her story, annoyed.

"Exactly. He really is truly a fantastic guy." She snorted, rolling her eyes, "Oh my God, sorry. Such a bad pun."

"Yeah... that." I blinked, holding in my rage. "So, you don't happen to feel the same way as Rach, tho, right? Like... you're not in love with him?"

She thought about it for a moment, "I do think he's amazing, and I would love to be married to him... So I guess you could say yeah. I am in love. Am I blushing?"

I sighed deeply, "What exactly changed? I know he saved you, or your purse, and that's great. I'm so happy he did that. But what exactly made you wake up today and feel this need to wish to have his children?"

"I don't know. It's like... this light just switched off in my head. I just feel that deep down in my soul, I want to be his. And I really hope he'll have me." She smiled dreamily.

Hearing her say almost the exact same thing as Rach made my composure crack. "Do you hear yourself? You want to be his?! He is a douchey superhero who makes our jobs harder, and not to mention barely does anything to actually help the crime rate in this city! He got you your purse back, and all of sudden you want to... be his? You can't be serious."

She shook her head, glaring. "You know, I think Rach was right. You are jealous of the love he and I share, all because he rejected you."

"He didn't even reject me! He didn't know I existed! There's a difference," I took a breath, trying to calm down. "You don't think it's odd that all of sudden you want to have his children? You don't even want to have kids."

Macie ignored me, continuing her argument. "Either way, you come across really bitter and I hope if he comes to save you, you change your attitude. To be held in his arms would be a dream come true."

She stood up dramatically, leaving the restaurant in a huff.

~~~~

After the shitty month I had, I needed to buy some alcohol to drink my troubles away. Rach and Macie hadn't talked to me since their "savings", so work had become even more tedious and annoying. And now, it seemed like I was the only one in the office that didn't like Sam. Morale had really gone up once he saved two of our coworkers, and I had to quietly sit there, pretending I did despise the man or the situation as a whole.

As I walked home from the liquor store, I noticed how quiet the streets had become as I got closer to my apartment. It was like anyone that was out on the street moments ago disappeared. There were sirens off in the distance and the light rumble of the subway underneath the streets. The low buzz of the street light above me caught my eye, and as I looked up, the light flickered. A chill ran up my spine suddenly.

Okay, maybe I was just freaking myself out for no reason.

A body slammed into mine from behind, almost knocking me flat on the ground. A man wrestled my bag out of my hand, sprinting off down the street.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me!" I screamed. I began to chase after him, my speed not even remotely catching up to him.

My thoughts swirled of all the things I had in that bag. My wallet, my phone, and my key to get into my apartment. I groaned loudly, annoyed.

Where the fuck were any of the superheroes when you needed them?

The man ducked into an alleyway, a loud crash coming from there. I ran to where he was, finding him passed out in the street. His nose had blood running down it, like someone punched him. My purse was nowhere in sight.

"Are you looking for this?" A voice said from behind me.

I spun on my heels, coming face-to-face with Mr. Fantastic himself, Sam.

I opened my mouth to speak but was unable to say anything. I had so much I wanted to say, but couldn't decide on what.

"No need to be shocked, miss. I know, superheroes are a lot to take in." He smiled softly.

Hearing his voice brought me out of my stupor. "That's not why I'm shocked. You kinda just... came out of nowhere."

His face dropped, surprised by my tone. "Oh..."

We stood there awkwardly for a moment, both unsure what to say next.

He reached out, my purse in his hand. "Um, here you go, Miss...?"

"Y/N. My name is Y/N." I stated.

"What a beautiful name for a beautiful girl." He complimented me.

"Thanks, I guess," I mumbled. "And thank you for getting my purse back. It means a lot."

"It's all in a day's work. Or night's technically." His well-known laugh escaped his lips.

I blinked, slowly walking away from him, "Yeah.... Anyway, I gotta get back home. It's late, and I wanna get drunk."

"Oh, well, why don't I walk you home?" He asked, keeping in step with me.

"I don't think there's any need to." I argued politely.

"No, let me. It's clearly unsafe on these streets." Sam responded.

"Well, you just stopped the purse nabber... again. For the third time. Maybe this time he can finally get arrested." I smiled bitterly, trying not to sound it.

"The police have already been called and they are on their way. So, why don't I walk you home?" He stopped in front of me, looking me in the eyes genuinely. "I will be worried if I don't make sure you get there safely."

I exhaled, "...Okay, fine."

I walked home silently, not wanting to speak to Sam. He stepped in time with me, never speaking. I almost forgot he was with me, until he cleared his throat once or twice.

I pointed up at my building, pulling my keys out to go inside, "Well, we're here. Thanks for walking me home, I gotta get upstairs and get to drinking. So, goodbye."

"Wait, before you go up, can I ask you something?" He queried.

I squeezed my eyes shut, opening them again and turning back to him. "Sure, I guess."

He crossed his arms, cocking his head. "How did you know I stopped the purse nabber before? Those were such minor crimes I solved; I'm surprised anyone would remember them."

"Well, you didn't really solve the crime since clearly the man never got put away." I retorted; my voice sickeningly sweet.

Sam raised an eyebrow at me, waiting for me to answer his previous question.

"My friends were the two you saved." I deadpanned.

"Oh really, what a small world." He pursed his lips in thought, "Their names were... Rachel and Macie, correct?"

"Yep, them exactly." I nodded.

"They were kinda like you, in a way." He mentioned.

I furrowed my brow, "What do you mean by that?"

His tone shifted. It was no longer the public persona one he used on the news. Now, it was more... casual. Equally as snarky as mine. "They too didn't like me. Or were a little... snippy with me."

Oh, well if you wanna play like that... "Yeah, and weirdly now, they want your babies."

He faux-gasped. "What a strange turn of events."

"I guess you changed their minds. How exactly did you do that?" I glared at him, accusatory.

"My charming personality." He smirked.

"Right." I jeered.

"I mean, if you really want to know the answer, let me into your apartment," his voice was almost sultry, his eyes mischievous. "Let me have one drink with you."

I narrowed my gaze at him, blinking slowly. "You're serious."

"100%. But I mean, if you don't want to know, then I can just leave." He pointed to the street, backing away.

"No, you can come up." I felt this overwhelming sensation that I had made a grave mistake, but I continued. "But if for even a second you make me uncomfortable, I have every right to resend your invitation."

"You know I'm not a vampire, right?" Sam snickered. "I'll respect your wishes regardless, but you can't just kick me out that easily."

"Okay fine, if you don't get out of my house when I say so, I'll stab you. Got it?" I grinned crazily.

He raised an eyebrow playfully, "Feisty... Sure, I hear you loud and clear."

We walked up to my place, my eyes catching his form out of the corner of my eye. What the hell was I even doing? Why was I inviting this asshole to my apartment?

I mean, I know why. But God, I just hope this ends quickly.

I cleared my throat as we both stepped in. Sam glanced around my apartment, giving a soft whistle. "Fan-cy."

I rolled my eyes, knowing he was joking. "Well, some of us aren't government paid employees with apartments in skyrises."

"You are a very defensive person. Do you always feel like you're being attacked, or is that just your general tone with me?" He shot back.

"I guess you just bring it out of me." I popped the bottle of whiskey open, the sound reverberating as I smiled bitterly. I poured two cups, dropping a cube into both.

"You're into whiskey, huh?" He gave me a quick once over, "That's kinda sexy."

"No one asked." I raised my glass, "Cheers."

"To new beginnings." He toasted.

"Sure..." I took a long sip, the whiskey burning a little extra hard.

He let out a light cough. "Hooo, that's has a kick."

"So, are you gonna tell me how or why my friends all of sudden started liking you or not?" I asked coldly.

"You don't mess around." He chuckled.

"I only invited you up here for that reason." I replied honestly.

"It wasn't to sleep with me?" He hummed, "I'm surprised."

"I wouldn't sleep with you if you were the last man on Earth." I spat.

"Well, thank God I'm not." He quipped.

I placed my hands on my hips, annoyed. "So... the reason?"

Sam walked over to my living room, taking in everything. His eyes scanned my bookshelves, stopping suddenly. "Hey, how do you have this?"

I glanced up at the ceiling, hoping God could feel my glare from down here. "Have what?"

He pulled a book out, its green and white cover I knew all too well. "This yearbook. This is the school I went to, the year I graduated."

My heart dropped and I raced over to him, "Hey that's mine!"

He flew across the room easily, flipping through the book. "God, I haven't seen this in so long. But again, how did you get this?"

"Give it back to me." I demanded, stomping up to him.

"Wait a second. Is this you?" He opened up to a page with my high school portrait, little writings around it from friends of mine from back then.

I felt a rush of heat to my cheeks, making me speechless. I yanked the book out of his hands, going back to the bookshelf.

"You went to my high school. Wait, Y/N...." He gasped suddenly, "I remember you! Wow, you got a lot hotter."

"Thanks. Can't say the same for you." I grunted, hating how warm my face felt.

He spun me around, his eyes staring into mine. "Now, there's no need to lie to me."

"You don't understand personal space, do you?" I bitched, trying to push him back.

He barely moved; his eyes unchanging. "Am I not allowed to be close to you? Do I make you nervous or something?"

"No, I just hate your presence." I did my best to hide the shakiness in my voice, my body hitting the edge of my window and radiator.

"Strangely, you are the only woman that's like that." He jested, "Is it because you're hiding a crush or some-"

"No!" I cleared my throat, huffing. "No. I don't have a crush on you."

For a second it looked like he moved, his face holding back a smile. "Can you say that again for me?"

"I definitely have a crush on you." I breathed, my brain feeling like it buffered for a second. Why the fuck did I just say that?

He backed away, cocking his head. "Oh you do? Glad you could admit it."

"I wasn't admitting anything. I was just joking, and the joke is that I've had feelings for you since high school." I gasped, "What the fuck?!"

He teased, "I'm so happy you feel comfortable telling me the truth."

"Why am I saying this?" I whispered to myself.

He pointed down to my hand, "It probably has something to do with the handcuffs I put on you."

"Wha-?" I glanced down, and sure enough one of my wrists was handcuffed to the radiator by my window.

"You gotta be a bit more observant than that." He laughed sincerely, lounging on my couch.

I let out a ragged breath, pissed. "How the fuck did you-"

"Those handcuffs are really only meant to be used by me on criminals, that way they confess. But sometimes I like to use it for more..." He gazed at me longingly, "spicier reasons."

"You're a fucking creep." I hissed.

"And you're into it." He snapped.

"Yes I am." Oh my God...

He bit his lip, pleased at my answer. "So, your friends actually told me, without needing the handcuffs B-T-W, that you had a crush on me since high school. And now seeing you, I remember who you are. You were just as nerdy as me."

"Oh, at least you're admitting that now. Why, because there's no cameras around to lie to?" I sassed, pulling at the handcuffs.

"Hey, it's not a lie that I tell. I just... fib a bit." He settled into my couch, fluffing up one of the pillows, "I did play sports, so that would qualify me as a jock."

I scoffed, "Ping-pong is barely a sport."

"Says you," he grumbled. "But that can't be the only reason you hate me slash love me."

"I don't love you." I stated honestly.

"Oh, but you will," Sam uttered lowly. “You still didn't answer my question though. So, is it really just the crush bullshit?"

"No. It's not just that," I started. "You lied, not only about your upbringing. But your powers. You didn't have them in high school. You got bullied just as much as me, if not more so. If you had super strength, you would have kicked Joe's shins in."

He chuckled mockingly. "God, are you, like, obsessed with me? How do you know so much?"

"Joe bullied me too, dumbass. I'm not obsessed with you, I just don't understand you at all. And I know you're a liar. And I try to use those reasons to hide the feelings I still have," I groaned, pulling at the handcuffs more. "Jesus Christ get these handcuffs off!"

"Not yet," Sam commented. "So... you are right. I do lie, in a lot of ways, to the general public. Sometimes I throw in extra crimes I 'solved' during the night, when usually I'm just chilling at the 24-hour Taco Bell."

I gaped, "I fucking knew it!"

He sat up, sitting on the edge of the couch. "Jokes on you, it's actually the 24-hour Wendys."

"Why do you lie? People love you. There's no need to pretend." I argued.

"Ahh, but there is. I have a lot riding on me to be one of the best superheroes around." He remarked.

I hid my eye roll. "Like what?”

"You're right about one thing. I didn't have superpowers in high school. I wasn't born a superhero. When we graduated, an up-and-coming bio-tech company, Malusvir, reached out to random people asking if they wanted to be part of a study for $50k. I thought, I have no idea what I'm doing with my life, might as well go see what's up. Go be a guinea pig for some money." Sam shook his head, his anger brewing, "Come to find out, they were testing out if they could grow superheroes."

"What the fuck?" I squeaked.

"I was injected a whole lot of times with... something. And while I was basically comatose for months, all of a sudden, superheroes started bursting on the scene. The government was finally letting them out of the bag, and they were allowing all heroes to sign up to become part of the Superheroes Task Force." Sam stood up, starting to pace. "When I awoke, I was one of the only ones that survived the trial run. This company ended up getting bought out by the government, and they covered it up by going bankrupt and saying they were making chemical weapons, which isn't technically wrong."

"Does the government know about you being... home grown?" I inquired.

"No. The bio-tech company used an alias for all of us, so no one found out. And the secrets disappeared with the CEO when he flew out of the country back to his home country and mysteriously died. I'm pretty sure he's just hiding. Or was killed for what he knew." He informed, his eyes almost glazing over.

"Why are you telling me all of this?" I questioned, confused.

"Because no one will believe you." He replied softly, his voice taking me back. Then, he switched back into his cocky self. "So... that's my story. But back to you, how long were you into me?"

"Since junior year." I confessed.

"You liked 17-year-old me?" He winced, "Oof, now that's a choice."

"So was that haircut." I quipped lightheartedly.

He leaned towards me, whispering. "And those cargo shorts."

I snickered, and he smiled genuinely for the first time.

A silence fell over us for a moment, then he looked up at me and asked nonchalantly. "So... do you wanna fuck?"

I choked, "What?"

"Is it really that surprising of a question? You're into me, and I find you hot," his eyes snaked down my body. "Especially handcuffed."

I stammered, "I-I don't-"

"Look, if you don't want to, understandable. I am a bit of a dick. But let me put it to you this way, have sex with me and get all that anger out that you feel towards me." He stepped closer to me, teasingly. "A good hate fucking helps out everyone involved, really."

I breathed, "You're insane."

"Or, if you have sex with me, and I'm bad... you can brag to your friends that I suck." He offered.

I sucked in a deep breath, already knowing my answer. "You raise a good point there."

"So, will you let me make you feel good or no?" He wrapped an arm around me tightly, bringing his face close. Our bodies were pressed together, my heart speeding up. "Do you wanna fuck me or not?"

"Yes I do." I admitted.

"See, and I didn't have to keep the handcuffs on you for you to tell the truth." He raised up his hand showing the cuffs, smirking.

I scoffed, shoving him back. "You are such a dick."

"And you love every second of it." He taunted, back up to the couch.

"I do, I can't lie." I bit my lip, staring at his mouth.

He sat down, pulling me towards him. "Go ahead, sweetheart. Fuck me like you hate me."

I straddled his lap, grinding down on him as our mouths connected. He shoved his tongue into my mouth, a moan falling from my lips. He gripped my ass, pushing me down more onto his lap. I yanked on his hair, digging my nails into his scalp and chest.

He winced, chuckling darkly as he pulled away from our kiss. "Oh you like it rough, baby?"

"Yeah." I smirked.

"Well good," he bunched up my shirt, tearing it away from my body suddenly. The ripping fabric fell apart in his hands and he chuckled darkly. I gasped loudly, a pleasurable chill running down my spine. "Me too."

I whined, "I liked that shirt."

"I don't care." He slammed his lips back onto mine quickly, taking my breath away. He nibbled on my lip, our teeth clashing together from the intensity of the kiss. I grinded myself against his growing bulge, my wet panties pressing into my sex achingly. I hadn't even realized how hot and bothered he had made me, but I wasn't complaining. I needed this, and clearly so did he.

We removed our clothes desperately, needing each other. He sat back against my couch, gazing up at me hungrily.

"God, your body is killing me." He grunted, "Give it to me."

I settled back down onto his lap, my sex grazing his leaking cock. Our breaths stifled, hitching at the feeling of our bodies being so close and so bare. I lined up my hips, slowly taking in every inch of his dick.

Breathy moans fell from my lips, his groans almost covering up my sounds. Once he was completely inside of me, we stared into each other's eyes intensely.

He began moving his hips, his eyes never leaving mine. "How's it feel, baby? Riding the dick of someone you hate."

"I love it." I whimpered.

"Of course you do. You take me so well, babygirl." He grinned.

I grimaced, "Ew, don't call me that."

"I'll call you whatever I want to, and you'll enjoy every second of it." He slapped my ass hard, pushing into me harder, "Won't you?"

"Yeah, I will." I laughed, moving up and down on his cock, "Fuck, you are so annoying."

His voice was raspy as he glared at me, "Oh, I am? Well, you ain't any better."

I snickered, "Nice comeback, nerd."

He grabbed my face, forcing me to look into his eyes. He pounded into me faster, "Nice cunt, slut. Take this dick."

"Oh my God, fuck yes Sam!" I whined.

I bounced up and down on his cock, his hips meeting with mine, making him go deeper and deeper each time. Sweat slid down our bodies, the room rising in temperature from our movements.

His lips brushed against my ear, nibbling along my neck. "Baby, baby, do you wanna know something? I forgot to tell you something."

I groaned, displeased. "Do you know how to not fucking talk?"

"But babygirl, I think this is really important. You'll want to hear it." He hummed, his thrusts stopping.

"What? What is it?" I slowed my hips, my pussy quivering around him, needing more.

He let out a breathy laugh, pushing my hair out of my face. "So, I forgot one major detail when I told you about the bio-tech company that made me the way I am."

I rolled my eyes, not interested in this conversation at all, "What did you forget to tell me?"

"Malusvir..." The lights behind Sam's eyes dimmed, his face dropping. "They weren't making superheroes."

My heart skipped a beat, my eyes fluttering, "What do you me-"

His hand wrapped around my throat quickly, squeezing tightly. My breath hitched, and Sam began to pound into me again, his hips picking back up the pace they were at once before.

"You are such a silly, dumb girl. Your friends were just as dumb as you. Maybe even dumber." His almost sinister gaze sent shivers of pleasure down my spine as his grip tightened.

I held onto his shoulders, my heart rate picking up as he made it harder to breathe. "S-Sam, fuck."

"You wanna know how I got your friends to fall in love with me?" He pressed his mouth against my ear, whispering harshly. "I fucked them. Just like I'm fucking you. All three of you were so desperate and needy for this dick. But you? God, you're so much sexier."

I shook my head, "You're fucking joking..."

"No, I'm not. And yet, even as I tell you this, you're still riding me." Sam smirked, growling, "God, aren't you pathetic? Your crush runs real deep. Just like my cock."

"Fuck you." I spat.

"Fuck you right back." He leaned in again, biting my earlobe and neck. "I could literally feel you squeeze around me when I called you pathetic. Don't pretend you don't like this."

I tried ignoring him, but he was right. My body reacted to him saying it again, throbbing around him. "How did you make them-"

"Love me? Pheromones, mostly. Thanks to all of those..." His eyes closed tightly as he got lost in thought. "Injections. Fuuuck. God, you make it hard to think sweetheart."

He had to be lying. He had to be fucking with me. "So they fucked you, and that made them fall in love with you? But Rach said-"

“I fucked them but made it so they can't tell anyone. They remember it, but will never say a word. No one would believe them anyway." He winked, releasing his hand from my neck and sliding it down my body to my clit. "Oh baby, you are in for a world of change once you come. Or once I come inside of you."

"S-Shut up Sam. Shit, fuck yeah..." I let out a breathy moan, my hips stuttering. His cock was hitting the right spot repeatedly, his thumb rubbing my clit gently, making it hard to do anything but whine. "You're just fucking with me."

"Believe what you want to, Y/N. In the end, you're gonna be mine." His lustful blue eyes bore into mine, his voice husky as he continued fucking me. "My girl to use whenever I want to. My girl that gets love drunk on my cock. Aren't you excited for that? Don't you want that? To be my little plaything forever?"

"Yeaahhh," I mewled. My eyes widened, realizing what I said. "Fuck, h-how did you-"

"It's already happening. You can't stop it now. But you don't want to, either. Take this dick more and more, slut." He gripped my hips, slamming me down onto him over and over again. My brain grew quiet, mindless. All I could think of was his leaking cock deep within me and needing him to come inside of me. I needed his come. I needed him.

"Aww, baby. You're in love, aren't you? You love me, don't you?" He mocked, a feign innocent smile on his face.

I tried shaking my head. I was not in love with him. But my body didn't listen to me anymore.

I nodded my head, unable to stop myself. My heart surged, a wave of adoration washing over me as I took in Sam's face. God, he was so handsome, even more so when he was fucking me. I cried out in pleasure, my hips bucking hastily.

He bit his lip, his head falling back against the couch. "Good girl. You're my good girl. Forever."

"Forever." I repeated, my heart soaring.

"Who's are you? Tell me." He ordered, his eyes staring into mine.

"Yours." I whined wantonly.

He sped up his actions, fucking me faster and deeper. "Say it again."

Borderline sobbing, I stuttered out, "I'mmmm youuurss."

"Again!" He yelled, rubbing my clit harder.

"I'm yours, Sam!" I panted, bouncing on his dick as fast as I could.

"That's it, baby. You're so close. Get close for me!" He shouted darkly.

I begged desperately, my body overwhelmed, "Fuck Sam, please! Let me come! I fucking need it! I need you."

"That's right babygirl." He grabbed my neck again, growling, "Fucking come! Come for me!"

I exploded in ecstasy, my brain turning off as I came the hardest I ever had before. My body took over, my hips rutting against Sam's. My nails dug into his arm and shoulder, holding onto him for dear life as I rode him through my orgasm. Suddenly, he came inside of me, his groans thundering off the walls of my apartment. His hips bucked into me with abandon, pounding me once more before dropping back down onto the couch. I felt his cum leak out of my cunt, sliding down my inner thigh. Our bodies collapsed against one another, completely spent.

As I passed out, the last thing I heard was a small whisper that escaped his lips. "Mine."

#sam golbach #sam golbach fic #sam golbach fanfic #sam golbach fanfiction #sam golbach oneshot #sam golbach one shot #sam golbach smut #sam golbach x reader #golbrocklovely's 13 nights of halloween

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heli0s-writes · 7 months

Text

forget your perfect offering*

summary: Captain America hasn’t been home in years and it’s turned him into something a little lost, a little broken.

a/n: Hi hi!! Guess who's back on the Nomad Steve angst/smut train after 5 months??? 3k words. Please stop reading if you're not 18+ This is very Clumsy adjacent.

Captain America hasn’t been home in years and it’s turned him into something a little lost, a little broken. Going dark on the United States government when it’s put a price on your head will do that, he supposes. He’s even picked up a new habit of flinching at shadows despite maneuvering in them for eternity.

Not eternity, but he’s dramatic and full throttle. Never once learned that some things can be half-measures, can be compromised on. He’s got his handful of soldiers—friends— and he can’t forget that they’re friends because soldiers are pawns and friends are crucial.

Back then, he was just a newly reanimated statuette, a votive figurine to justice rendered flesh and bone and so damn brittle. And how could he believe it would last? The entire thing fell apart within a few years—a team scattered to pieces; an entire nation’s vision discarded on the side of the road.

A lot of Americans are angry with him for that, and most days he tries not to be angry at himself, which is stupid according to you and Sam and Nat. But being angry at propaganda and history and circumstances is too intangible to do much with, so at least being angry with himself means he can kneel into a fight, leave too little in the tank for the trip back, find a way to be punished for his transgressions.

He’d always been reckless, but it’s becoming a flag much to red to ignore.

You tell him he’s got a death wish. Plain and simple: keep it up and you’ll die, and nothing more, leaving the jet ride in silence, everyone averting their eyes. But he just wipes the blood out of his mouth and says, “Hasn’t seemed to work out for me yet.”

Back at the house—the house, not his house, or anybody’s house, certainly not a home in its unremarkable exterior, interior, living spaces cobbled together with rickety, mismatched furniture and chipped ceramic kitchenware—he returns to his book. Sinks himself into the reading nook and opens it up to a page he’s been pretending to pay attention to.

Natasha showers first, Sam crashes into his bed face-down, and you linger by the old T.V., poking at the adjacent radio.

“Hey, death boy.”

He looks up, startled. “Death boy?”

“Yeah,” you grin, glancing over your shoulder. “Death boy. Your new superhero name.”

You say it breezily, eyes half-mast because it’s been a real dog-shit kind of day and even Steve can hardly focus.

Sam’s dead to the world and Nat’s going on 30 minutes under water, so it’s a fair estimate to say that it’s to the point where he can feel how powered-down his brain is, and that if he tries to speak more than three phrases at a time, it’ll hardly make any damn sense. Or, inevitably, make matters worse.

He tries for controlled, comes out not so much. “It’s a little morbid, don’t you think?”

You gasp, scandalized. “Silly me, you haven’t been morbid at all recently. Gosh, it’s not like you were trying to get gutted—he was swinging so wide and slow, how could I think you’d manage dodging in time?” You clasp your hands over your mouth dramatically, “How could I suggest—”

“That’s enough.” Steve pinches his nose-bridge with one hand and closes the book with the other. He’s going to drown himself in the bathtub when Natasha’s finished—go drama—but he’s grinning a little bit, not dumb enough to hide when he’s been caught out.

You punch a button on the radio, tune it to a station that’s only slightly screeching with interference. There’s a discernible piano melody but he doesn’t know the song. You tap along, feeling out the rhythm, and then you cast your eyes to the reading nook he’s crushed into before pointing at the middle of the floor.

For all his miserable ruminating he always forgets to account for you at the end of the day, standing there and waiting for him like he’s got any choice. He declares all sorts of bullshit about how making the right decision can feel like no decision at all when it’s inherently justified; reason should feel like reflex, ethics an extension. But lately, the only reflex he’s felt is closer to vanishing.

He’s disappearing from view a little more each night, reduced to a crumbling idol of an endangered faith because humanity’s stopped believing in him and part of him is following the same course. He’s become an old relic chipped away in the flow of time, and some days he’d rather just be good and gone.

Keep it up and you’ll die.

Part of him already has. Part of him’s already in the ground.

“Come on,” you say with a surprising amount of patience, eyes soft and hand extended. “Are you gonna get up or am I gonna have to drag your ass again?”

The song is plunking away, cutting in and out intermittently, notes quivering on scratches of static. Nat’s started to dry her hair, the sound like a tornado alarm trapped in a bathroom but it’s persistent, fighting the wailing blow-dryer for an audience. She’s probably freezing cold because the house’s water heater is shoddy at best and Sam can fix that but he’s been exhausted lately and no one’s going to complain because they’ve never complained about their situation-- not once.

He bites down, frowns a little deeper, but then he’s on his feet, giving chase like you could take him somewhere whole and unbroken. Somewhere he’s been craving for. His hands around your waist are careful, resting his chin on top of your head as you nuzzle in.

He asks through gritted teeth, “Listening for a heartbeat?”

“I know where your heart is.”

He’s so goddamn maudlin, can’t stop the bitterness from lashing out. “Where’s that?”

“With us, death boy. With me.”

He makes a noncommittal sound, dismissive and very, very rude of him, but he’s on a roll and won’t be appeased. You lazily read the lines of his face with stunned eyes, then touch your nose to his bearded chin as you lean up.

You stroke his scalp, spinning the feathery ends of his long hair. “You want to be hurt so bad, don’t you?” Your nails rake down the length of his strong neck. “Is that what you’re used to? Is it more comfortable that way?”

“Enough,” he murmurs faintly, but makes no move to push you away, only stepping in time, rocking along. When your hand tightens into a fist to pull at him, he bites down, shuts his eyes. You do it again, harder, and then let go, letting your fingers spread at the base of his skull, cradling it like a child.

“You want to be beaten within an inch of your life, want to be pried open so you can check if you’re still capable of dying.” Cold words, but your breath is hot, and he’s starting to feel it—that telltale shiver at the base of his spine at the way you won’t break eye contact.

“I know, I know,” you coo, “it hasn’t happened yet.” You move away, smiling big and dark and glistening with promise. “But listen, Steve, all you have to do is ask.”

He can’t tell what expression he’s making, only that your pupils open to swallow him. You’re staring at him, not through him. Taking in his flesh and the warm blood cascading down his face.

The night is taking its toll, it seems. Collecting on long, hard hours, making the both of you reckless.

He thinks about months ago, and the complication of ethics in the way.

Not sleeping with teammates, not losing the fucking plot no matter how much he craved losing it for a couple of hours. There were several weeks before it went sideways, before Bucharest and the Accords, where he spent doing nothing but dedicating himself to daydreaming. He sank into the quiver of his own body as he imagined you and everything he wanted to know by touch.

There were dances, like this. Swaying back and forth in Sam’s backyard and gala celebrations, onlookers getting a few ideas about what his eyes were communicating when he’d trace the curve of your shoulders or the delicate insides of your wrists. How everyone else might follow Captain America into the jaws of death but he’d follow only you, headlong, beyond, and into the goddamn afterlife if you asked him.

But there was a line he couldn’t cross. A soft, tangerine horizon much too far out of his reach when the dark was at his back, beating him to the ground. Making him flinch from warmth because entanglement was too complicated and love was too kind.

Tony asked him what it felt like to fuck up so astronomically. Nat only clucked her tongue, more disappointment in a single sound than Steve had heard from many grand lectures.

Because you would have been vibrant and glorious, damn it. You would have giggled— giggled— when you made love, crooned his name like a songbird and touched him everywhere, all at once. You would have kissed fire back into him, licked your way into the center of that votive figurine and traced his broken heart. You would have excavated him, clawed him out clean, led him into the light.

So, he knows. He knew then, knows now, knows for the rest of his days when he’s let a beautiful thing slip through his fingers.

But sometimes, this happens and his hands feel like they’ve still held on despite his attempts. Sometimes you brush his knuckles, smile at him small and sweet and come into his makeshift room, sit on the side of his bed and exist side by side. Sometimes there wouldn’t even be conversation.

But when you linger by the door, gaze slowly raking down the length of his body and his throat, his mouth, all ten of his fingertips—god, what he wouldn’t give then, to take you to the floor and declare fuck it.

Fuck ethics and fuck his entire life, if needed, because there was only you, only what he’d been needing for ages, only that brilliant and terrifying afterlife awaiting him.

The reflex, then, is not to disappear anymore, but to kneel in.

You say, both hands come to rest around his throat— because you’ve seen him now, seen him the entire time, “If you want it that much, Steve, I can give it to you. A hundred tiny deaths, so sweet and good, until it hurts so bad you really do feel like you’re dying.”

He gulps, Adam’s apple catching each of your fingers on the way up and back down. Says, “Yeah,” before he even registers it. He blurts, going cold and hot and shell-shocked, “I’d let you do anything you want.”

Just then, the bathroom door clatters open and Natasha steps out, towel wrapped around her as she pads across the living space toward her room.

She looks from you to Steve, briefly studying the single foot of distance between your faces, the forgotten music, the way he can’t seem to keep his breathing in order.

The way you’ve got his throat in your hands.

She doesn’t even stop as she passes by, carding her fingers through her hair for a final act of detangling. “Wilson sleeps heavy,” she yawns, which implies, I don’t, so keep whatever the hell it is you two are doing down.

Then she’s gone with only pressure left in her wake. Only his breath fighting with his lungs, his belly tight and hot and his flavorless mouth so fucking starved for yours.

You raise a judgmental eyebrow after he does nothing for a beat too long, too lost in potential backpedaling to advance the plot. “That’s not asking, Steve.”

He’s stupid, dizzy, like he’s been dropped on his head, but not that stupid. He can’t keep his eyes off your mouth. Doesn’t even know if he says it, but tries anyway, “Will you please,” and the rest goes out the window. You lean in. You kiss him better than he could ever have imagined.

He’s living the teenage years he never had.

You kiss him like you’ve got all the time in the world—like it isn’t past four in the morning and the both of you are one silent minute away from slipping into unconsciousness. You kiss lazy and slow and sublime. You press a thumb at the corner of his mouth, touch inside of him, and he wants to do it back. But he wants it right.

“This,” he starts, almost whimpering when you run your teeth beneath his ear, molding your body to his, the two of you staggering into the wall and the end table and poor Natasha across the house must be digging up her earplugs. “I’m not good with—casual—”

“Yeah, you don’t think I know that?” You only pause for enough air to hassle him before taking his hands, your own so small over them, so much power over him, and place them on your waist. “You don’t think I know you’re an all-in kind of guy?”

Of course, you know. Of course, anyone who’s ever heard of Steven Grant Rogers can figure it out. It’s always going to be full throttle for him. Casual isn’t a word that exists in his dictionary, and he won’t compromise on that. He couldn’t do this any other way because now he wants to do it all—to feel you, inside out, across time and the universe and infinity.

He shucks off your clothes, doesn’t mind the grit of the day on your skin, wants it even, to know what you’re like every hour of every day. He tears off his own tac gear, can’t keep his mouth off yours for even a second as he stumbles across the floor.

When he reaches the bed, you climb on top, warm between your legs and so perfect over his thigh. He’s rocking his hips against yours, mouthing at your breasts, grabbing your ass and waist and snarling into your neck like an animal. Lazy and slow twists into frantic and desperate, him throbbing and throbbing against your skin.

He leans back, takes you down with him, bra strap limp at your elbows, panties to the side and he wedges back between the space of his thigh and your sex. He wants—wants.

“You’re warm,” he breathes.

When he pulls out, there’s a sloppy noise following your moan and he rubs his fingers together, awed at the glistening web slipping down to his palm.

One finger becomes two, the coat of slick up to his knuckles and he’s using too much tongue when he kisses you but you don’t mind that at all.

He’s not any kind of virgin but he really feels like one. In the sense that he’s turned on by everything. Too much stimulation. On his skin, in his brain, he’s immersed in one second while predicting the next, seeing the possible ways it could go. Too much pent-up desire swells up the length of his cock as he palms and presses it against the underside of your thigh for contact. His chest is heaving, breath stuttery, eyes wild and unfocused.

You grab his face, pull him away from your collar. You’re only a slight mess, but Christ, what a sight. He must be about fifty times worse because you’re grinning wide, looking him up and down as he arches forward to get you back.

You tut, “If I really wanted to kill you,” you say, “I’d leave you right now.”

“Please don’t,” he manages hoarsely, the fire in his belly lashing out.

“Because I’m so nice.”

“Yes.” And suddenly, his sunny face turns overcast, all the joyful cacophony from before muting. “Yes, you are.”

“Steve,” you sigh, rubbing your forehead with your hands for something to do with them.

He hauls himself up on his elbows, starting to feel upset.

You lean back on your palms, head lolling between your shoulder blades, aggrieved.

“Sorry,” he recants.

“Steve.”

He can’t make eye contact, but you don’t ask him to again, only touching his jaw with a finger and erasing the last few minutes with a nuzzle of your nose to his, like saying don’t worry about it, it’s okay.

Then, more kissing, more of that touch he dreamed about and he wants to kick his past self for missing it, for even daring to fantasize when the real thing is so much more.

The night melts away, each hour lasting a blink or an eternity—he can’t be bothered by it now. He figures the sun’s coming up, though, because there’s that haze of early morning past the gauzy, frayed curtain.

Your palms are on his chest, pawing at him for leverage each time you grind down, each time you swallow him back inside of you. You push, like an act of resuscitation— one, two, one, two— a rhythmic, electric, life-giving staccato beat that has him gasping for air, has him keening and groaning without any thought to how loud he might be.

And, fuck it, fuck it all. He is, admittedly, loud.

Sorry, Nat, he winces mentally before his brain’s wiped clear of all thought.

There’s nothing but you, and you, and you.

And that poor, broken heart inside of him, crushed to fine powder, being reworked into brilliance.

He lies there afterwards, gazing into the ceiling as he breathes back down to calm. There’s the thrall of exhaustion behind his eyes but it’s being overridden by a terrible, traitorous voice that’s telling him how he can’t seem to stop fucking up.

He can’t breathe suddenly, the room collapsing into a pinhole, darkness threatening the edges of his sight.

And then you say, because you always know what to say, “It’s okay to be a little broken,” you stroke his chest. “Baby, that’s how the light gets in.”

And the morning is breaking through fully now, streaks of it clearing up his eyes, cutting him to pieces beneath you.

“Yes,” he agrees and meets you for another lengthy kiss, every shrapnel inch of him raw and searing hot. All his exposed parts—the grief and agony and self-hatred—turned to gold. You touch his dark edges with your fingertips. You trace a new dawn’s light in his hair.

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers angst #steve rogers smut

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