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#ticker tape parade
newyorkthegoldenage · 10 months
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This picture shows in wonderful detail what life was like on the streets of New York in the 1920s (be sure to enlarge!). It was, specifically, June 13, 1927, the day the city threw a ticker tape parade for returning hero Charles Lindbergh. These people are scrambling for a vantage point from which to see the excitement.
Photo: Bettmann Archives/Getty Images/Fine Art America
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uswnt-archive · 2 years
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uswnt + ticker tape parade
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it’s past midnight and i need to sleep but more importantly 
I need to talk about Mags Flanagan from the Hunger Games
Listen. Listen. She might be a minor character who dies halfway through the book she arrives in. But her story is fucking fascinating. 
First of all, since she’s 80 years old during the 75th Annual Hunger Games, she would have been 5 when they started. That means that she’s the only victor we know of that’s guaranteed to have memories of the beginning of the games, not to mention the rebellion itself.
Second, there’s a promotional poster that has a photo of her Victory Tour and the Implications it accidentally has are staggering
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her expression and the fact that they dressed her in a military uniform with medals is captivating in its own right but. She’s the victor of the 11th Hunger Games. That doesn’t sound like a big deal but it is.
The 10th Games, featured in The Ballad Of Songbirds and Snakes, took place in a literal arena. They were the first Games to feature sponsorships and betting, which meant they were the first Games where a tribute’s ability to play to the camera mattered. Lucy Gray, their victor, did not have a victory tour.
Mags Flanagan having the 11th games means that she was the first tribute to know that winning over the audience was a factor from the minute she was Reaped. She was the first tribute with a Victory Tour. It’s likely they she also may have been the first tribute to fight in an arena of the kind that’s shown in the actual Hunger Games trilogy.
So she goes from a witness to the fall of the rebellion and the Capitol’s new horror, to a record-breaking and possibly crowd-favorite Victor. That’s already a lot and we’re only 20% through her life.
She then went on to be a seasoned mentor for Four, possibly shaping it into a Career District. She played the Capitol’s games, while eventually becoming a rebel conspirator.
Speaking of the rebellion-Her district’s victors were far more onboard with fighting against the Capitol than any other Career District. If not for Lyme from District Two (shoutout to Lyme from District Two), Four’s victors would be the only career district victors that actively plotted against the Capitol. Why? When did this start? What was Mags’ hand in it?
I have a million questions about her. Mags Flanagan appreciation please
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hearts-hunger · 1 year
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everybody throw me a party bc i just responded to all of the texts and emails i've been ignoring in anguish for days and even weeks
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fazcinatingblog · 3 months
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I can't believe stars won, you guys, it's amazing. (((Pink Sydney are washed))))
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artbyblastweave · 4 months
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There's a question which the west coast Fallout games are quietly litigating, which is that age-old gotcha about what you do with the remaining orcs once you've deposed Sauron. In the original Fallout, the Super Mutants are basically universally aligned against the quote-unquote "good guys," for whatever value of that term is applicable to the wasteland at large, but subsequent games make it clear that this was an ideological thing, and a product of the political moment of the mutants creation rather than an ontological quality that they have. The game is very aware that this is something that was done to them, and the tragedy of that; the first mutant you're likely to run into is dying scared and alone.
Fallout 2 presents super mutants who've broken in every direction ideologically in the aftermath of the Unity's collapse; the peacemakers under Marcus at Broken Hills, Gond as a member of the abolitionist NCR rangers, reactionary remnants of the original mutant army, genocidal self-hating fascists like Frank Horrigan. Fallout: New Vegas iterates on this beautifully. The mutants dovetail perfectly with the theme of how every faction in the wasteland is trying and oftentimes failing to reckon with the weight of history. Their utopian movement imploded outside of living memory, closer to the apocalypse than to the present day. The survivors- who can only dwindle in number due to their sterility- have been left to reckon with that in whatever way they can. And they have their backs to about a hundred and twenty years of that reckoning not going particularly well, of being the bugbear and boogeymen for bullies and ideologues whose grandparents weren't even alive to suffer from the Unity's actions. The lack of a collective future for mutantkind casts a pall over even the best ending for Jacobstown; humans are collectively resilient within this setting, but through violence, and accidents, dementia and senility, the day will inevitably come when there are no mutants left. And worse still will be the day before that, when there's only one mutant left. Finding some form of satisfaction or contentment within that dwindling window, with the world against you, is a task that falls to the individual mutant. (Take Mean Sonovabitch, for example. He seems to be doing alright for himself.)
Then we slide on over to the east coast games, where the mutants are.... morons. Cannibals. Marauders. And when you meet one who isn't, the game throws itself a ticker-tape parade for containing such an audacious twist. To go back to the orc thing, it's like if The Hobbit had contained a lengthy, empathetic subplot about the rich internality and fleshed-out-if-deeply-flawed ideology of the orcs, and then there was a pivot to treating them like a monolithic block of ontologically evil marauders in LOTR. While staring you straight in the eye the whole time, unblinking. Daring you to say something
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thecsquirrel · 5 months
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When us Queer folks yell about getting more shows with Queer characters we mean what Mike Flanagan is doing with Fall of the House of Usher.
People be gay. Period.
There's no fanfare. No crisis. No trauma. No ticker tape parade. It's often not the point of the story. The characters are Queer and the earth has not shattered. Some of them are boring, some are the worst people in the world, some are even nice. They are just Queer.
I want the Sci fi, the fantasy, the horror, the period romance, the procedural, the rom-com, etc.
(Side note: this show is insanely well written and directed. Like I absolutely know what's going to happen in each ep, but my word, it's so wonderfully woven together.)
P.s. Carla Gugino is just never not a pleasure to look at. Whew!
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zepskies · 11 months
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Break Me Down - Part 1
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Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Female Reader
Summary: You’re a private investigator by trade, but now you happily sit at a desk — leading a surveillance team at Supe Affairs. After managing to end Homelander in New York, Soldier Boy escapes custody. You are recruited for the manhunt, joining Butcher’s team.
Truly, you joined the S.A. for the right reasons. But after you become his accidental hostage, Soldier Boy will break down every single one of them…
💚 Break Me Down Masterlist
Word Count: 5,200 Warnings: Some male skeeviness lol.
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Part 1: The Game Begins
Two months ago…
You and M.M. continued to pour over all the records that the CIA had been able to pull on Soldier Boy.
This had been your life for the past month: locked in one hotel room after the next, up to your eyeballs in research. Or pounding the pavement in the sweltering summer of Brazil, on any whisper of Soldier Boy.
Right now it was the former. You all were piled into M.M.’s room, as it was the only one with a kitchen.
You smiled at Frenchie and thanked him when he offered you a steaming mug. At least you would finally get to experience Brazilian coffee.
You hiked a foot on the table where you and M.M. were working and sipped carefully; the mug was filled to the brim. Your companion eyed your pajama-clad leg, which only encroached an inch or two into his space.
“Excuse the fuck outta me,” said M.M. “Can you not?”
You briefly looked up from the (completely fabricated) biopic you were reading on Soldier Boy. “Hmm?”
M.M. gestured to your bare foot on the table. “Hello? What, were you raised in a fucking barn?”
With an amused smile, you lowered your leg. “I’m cramping up. We’ve been at this for six hours.”
“And counting,” Hughie said with a tired sigh. He and Annie had just come from scoping the local tourist spots and dive bars in the city. It wasn’t for pleasure though. You all had arrived in Brazil last night on a rumor that Soldier Boy had been spotted at a club a couple of days ago. 
Annie heaved a sigh as she dropped into the seat next to you. She stole your paper fan on the table and tried to dry the sweat on her face and neck. You smiled and passed her your bottled water as well.
You and Annie had been “work friendly” at Supe Affairs. Now you felt like she had accepted you the most readily into the group. She seemed genuinely interested in who you were as a person as well.
Though you tried not to give too many personal details about your life, she had a way of disarming you, getting you to open up with her genuine willingness to listen. 
You were friendly enough with Hughie and Kimiko as well, and you could also admit, you liked M.M. He was a straightforward man (and fun to tease with his anal idiosyncrasies). You got the most done with M.M. by your side. And watching him with Frenchie was pure entertainment. 
Overall, you felt respected by them, even if you knew you weren’t as close as the rest of them seemed to be. You just hadn’t been on the team long enough. 
The only one who mostly ignored you was Billy Butcher.
Butcher didn’t want you on the team. He’d made that pretty clear from the beginning.
What had his words been? Oh, yeah.
She’s a fucking amateur. Won’t last thirty seconds if, heavens for-fuckin’-bid, she encounters an A-lister like Soldier Boy. 
You knew he considered you dead weight. But as Grace had told him, her track record speaks for itself. 
No, you weren’t former SAS, like Butcher. You weren’t CIA, or any other military alphabet soup. But if there was one thing you knew how to do, it was tracking people down.
You were currently flitting through Soldier Boy’s sham career: the shitty music videos, the starlets, the ticker tape parades, and what precious little there was about his beginnings: about “Ben.” 
You did find out that his family was from Hartford, Connecticut, and stupidly rich too. You found his parents’ names to go along with that. 
And then it was a hop, skip, and a jump to him being unveiled as Soldier Boy.  
“That is curious,” you murmured. 
“Curious about the world’s most infamous granny fucker?” Butcher remarked. You slid him a wry look. 
The fact that he tried to erase his past is interesting,” you said. “The details that aren’t here are just as important as the ones that are.”
Butcher hesitated a second, an ice-cold beer poised to his lips. He tipped it toward you in acknowledgement. “On that, we actually agree.”
“What do we know about his real life? Before he became Soldier Boy,” you asked.
Butcher sat down across from you and shaded in the details he knew, mostly about a disappointed father. 
“Didn’t get enough hugs as a lad,” he surmised. 
You suspected he was understating the truth. If there weren’t that many recorded accounts, pictures, or footage of Soldier Boy’s parents and home life, then he didn’t want people to know. 
Interesting, you thought. Eventually Butcher got up to run down another lead that came in via text from Grace. Frenchie came back from the kitchen and saw how intently you were staring at your computer screen, eyes rapidly scanning. 
“Ah,” Frenchie said, gesturing between you and the departed Butcher with a hand that held three alfajores cookies. “I see the same anal tenacity that fuels Monsieur Charcutier.”
You raised a brow. “My tenacity is for the case, not Soldier Boy.”
This wasn’t a vendetta for you. This was just business.
“For money,” M.M. correctly guessed, but his eyes held no judgment. “Been there.”
You sighed, smiling a little. Yes, you were doing this for money. They didn’t need to know anything more than that. 
You liked this team well enough, but this was a job. The way you protected your family, and yourself, was by not talking about them.
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That night, Frenchie’s ordered “package” arrived, courtesy of Grace. It was a healthy dose of Novichok gas—perhaps one of the only substances on Earth that could put Soldier Boy into a peaceful sleep. 
Well, you didn’t know if it was peaceful, exactly. But he’d be asleep. That was all any of you cared about.
“At least it’s in proper containment this time,” M.M. said, examining the large cannister. Annie peered at it over his shoulder. 
“I don’t know. My shitty perfume case seemed to hold it just fine,” she quipped. 
You smiled from your usual seat at your computer. Annie came over with a sandwich for both of you. It was from the café down the street, and you’d been meaning to try it. Every time you stood out on your hotel room’s balcony, you could smell fresh bread and smoked meats coming from the café. 
“Oh, yeah. How’s your sister?” Annie asked around a mouthful of sandwich. “She’s in college now, right?”
She had a good memory. Annie had heard you on the phone with your sister before you all left last month. You’d said one last goodbye, knowing it wouldn’t be safe to talk once you were locked into this mission.
While you were reluctant to answer Annie’s question, the others seemed distracted in the kitchen, fighting over who ordered chorizo and who ordered steak on their sandwich. 
Still, you lowered your voice, even as a proud smile graced your lips. “She got into Julliard.”
Annie grinned and set her food down to give a little clap. 
“She starts in the fall, so a few months,” you added.
“Aww, you’re glowing with pride,” Annie teased. And you laughed, but it was true. You wouldn’t hide that you were very proud of your little sister’s accomplishments. 
“She’s worked hard, and she deserves it,” you said. Though your eyes dimmed. “I just wish I could help her celebrate…she’s on my case for taking this job.”       
Quite simply, she worried about you. You were good at your job, but you were still human. She’d seen you come home banged up and bruised more often than you cared to admit…
Annie gave you a knowing look. “If you don’t want to be here, you don’t have to. I’m sure you can get other jobs—”
“Getting into school is just the beginning,” you said. “She’s got four years to go. Then her master’s. Hell, her doctorate if she wants.”
“There are scholarships…”
“It’s not enough,” you said with a sigh. It’s never enough.
“All right, lads,” Butcher said. He wiped his mouth with a napkin as he read off his phone. “The new Strongest Cunt in the World has been spotted. Suit up.” 
“Where’re we going?” you asked, closing up your laptop. 
Butcher shot you a wink. “Colombia.”
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While on the private plane, you were the only one still awake as you continued to watch the archival footage with your Airpods in. Reel after motherfucking reel of Soldier Boy. 
You really were starting to get sick of his smug face. He was clearly a good actor, if nothing else. 
Then you came across the Russia files. 
Part of you didn’t want to watch. You knew exactly what they were, and you didn’t want to see anything that would make you sympathize with him in your mind…
And yet, your father’s training was ingrained in you—like fingerprints on your skin. Like a vice grip around your throat. 
Everything is relevant, always. Even if it isn’t.
…That, and maybe your own insatiable curiosity won out. 
So you steeled yourself with a breath, and you hit the play button. 
Gradually, your eyes widened. 
You had seen awful things—as a private investigator at your father’s firm, and at Vought. 
You had filled your quota of blood and death. And you had already seen the footage of Soldier Boy blasting a tower full of people in New York with the nuclear power now housed in his chest. 
You also knew what he did to M.M.’s family. But after watching several minutes of Soldier Boy's torture, hearing his struggle, his outbursts of rage, the ragged gasps for breath, the clawing, traumatized sounds...
It was like stereo between your ears, and it was...too familiar. Too much.
So you finally turned it off, closing your laptop with an unsettled breath of your own. 
And you were unable to sleep that night.
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When you all finally arrived in Colombia, you and the team surveyed the wreckage in the casino.
It was a fucking blood bath.
As you stepped carefully through the wreckage of bodies and gambling chips, you looked for clues. Anything that might tell you about what Soldier Boy was doing here (though you could guess), and however unlikely, where he might go next. 
You were disheartened to find the body of a young woman. Her big blue eyes were vacant, her blonde hair caked with blood from a head shot. On further inspection, you found a small room key in her hand. 
With a sigh and a gloved hand, you took the key. You also closed the girl’s eyes. 
You kept looking while the others had fanned out in the opposite direction. When you came across a small table that wasn’t turned over or splintered into fragments, you raised a brow. There was a napkin pinned to the top with a steak knife. 
You yanked it out and examined the flimsy napkin. Noticing that you’d found something, Butcher came over to your side. He was much taller than you, fairly looming over your shoulder. You angled the note toward him. 
Try harder.
S.B.
It was more than just a taunt. 
It was the beginning of a game. And it made you smile. 
“What the hell’re you smiling about?” Butcher asked. 
“I like it when they’re cocky,” you replied. Butcher shot you a sideways glance, one that said you were maybe more deranged than even him.
“All supes are cocky bastards.”
You eyed him with a teasing grin. “On that, we actually agree.”
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True to Grace’s word, she provided you all with the full extent of the CIA’s resources. While Butcher tracked down the hotel of the room key you found, you and M.M. were able to tap into any and all local street cameras and map out the likely points Soldier Boy had hit in this city—and where he could be going next.  
According to the hotel manager, Soldier Boy had paid for a month’s stay, but hadn’t checked out after coming back for some of his belongings. The security cameras had caught him leaving his hotel room with a few men—armed ex-military types, and possibly his new entourage. 
But the trail ended there. 
Over the next two months, Soldier Boy continued to be one step ahead of you in the chase. 
Though his movements were calculated (disappearing like a coil of smoke whenever you caught his scent), he seemed to be taking an extended vacation surrounding strip clubs, casinos, and other likely destinations for sex, drugs, and money. 
And he’d evaded capture after hitting at least three banks on his way out of the U.S. alone.
At the current crap motel of the week, you shared the couch with Kimiko and Hughie while you surveyed traffic cameras.
“What’s the likelihood that he’s even still in Colombia? In South America, even?” Hughie asked. It was a good goddamn question.
“We have agents covering every major port and air hanger,” M.M. said. “If he wants to escape the continent, he’s gonna have to fight his way out, or rent a dingy and float his motherfuckin’ ass across the Atlantic.” 
“I wouldn’t put anything past him,” you remarked. “What connections does he have?”
It wasn’t the first time you’d asked that question, but it was the first time you got a straightforward answer. 
“Who knows,” said M.M. “He’s an ancient fuck.”
“Who killed all his old friends,” Hughie supplied.
“Well, his team, to be fair. I don’t think he ever had friends,” Annie said. “...Plus his old girlfriend.”
“What a spectacular bonfire that was,” Butcher dryly quipped. 
Nice, you thought, heavy on the sarcasm. 
You sighed. Clearly, you all would have to be prepared for anything.
When you weren’t pouring through surveillance, you took to the streets with Annie, playing the part of American tourists. 
“Soldier Boy don’t know who the fuck you are,” Butcher had reasoned. He’d then pointed at Annie.
“Her fame as Starlight can get you two into whatever bar, club, or fuckhole that might’ve let him in. She’ll park it at a table, attracting attention. Meanwhile, you’ll circle around and look for him.”
It was actually a sound plan, and you could be a decent actor yourself. This wasn’t the first time you’d adopted a role to find your target, and on this mission, it probably wouldn’t be the last.    
Well, a week later, the plan worked. You and Annie encountered a woman at a bar who waited tables at a nearby club, in Medellin. She’d served Soldier Boy just last night. 
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Medellin was considered the party city of Colombia, and for good reason. 
Butcher had cleverly found your “disguise” for tonight, though you hadn’t liked the smirk on his bearded face when he gave you the shopping bag. 
It turned out to be a semi-legal black leather dress, along with thigh-high boots possessing a sharp heel. Annie’s dress was just as short, and gold. With her blonde hair and shimmering makeup contrasting your black dress and smokey makeup, the two of you looked like night and day. Light and dark. 
While Hughie manned surveillance in a rented van, parked outside the club, the rest of the team had found strategic points to cover in the club: M.M. was at the bar. Frenchie and Kimiko had found a table to watch the area in front of the stage, while Butcher was somewhere clinging to the shadows. 
You followed Annie into the club. Once they’d recognized her as Starlight, they’d let her right in, and you by association. You didn’t envy her fame, but you could admit, it had some perks.
Inside, the club was dark and loud, and packed with people and streams of colorful light bouncing off the walls. This isn’t going to be easy. 
Both of you scoped the area subtly before joining M.M. at the bar. 
Well, you two found your own opening further down. Sitting next to him would be too obvious.   
You subtly pressed a finger to the communicator in your ear while Annie ordered drinks. 
“It’s gonna be hard to find my own ass in here,” you said to the team. You scanned the place and noticed an entire second and third floor. “This place is huge.” 
“Then get crackin’, love,” Butcher’s voice reached you. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, but you did take the vodka martini Annie offered you. 
“Ah, you beat me to it,” a man said, his richly accented voice hovering near your ear. You turned your head and had to lean back a bit. You were met with blue eyes, tan skin, and an attractive smile. The man tipped an imaginary hat, letting his shoulder-length dark hair dip into his eyes. 
“Good evening, mi vida,” he said. “I was gonna buy you a drink, but I see you’ve got one. Mind if I finish my beer with you?”
Inwardly you wanted to sigh, but you gave a flirtatious smile to keep up appearances. “Sure.”
“Where are you from?” he asked, and with a more teasing smile. “I’m having a hard time placing your accent.” 
You affected a giggle. “Oh, really? You mean I don’t have a massive, neon sign over my head that says, ‘American Tourist?’”
“Well, maybe not neon,” he joked. “I’m Antonio.”
“I’m Jess,” you lied, shaking his hand. He turned it over and pressed a kiss to the back of your hand. Annie raised a brow behind you, but she sipped her drink.
Antonio must’ve been a local. His dark blue buttoned-down shirt, jeans, and boots were more casual than the obvious tourists with their flashing finery. And by his accent, you could guess that he was at least Latino. Colombian, most likely.
You were able to subtly dodge the question of exactly where you were from. And the two of you flirted for a few minutes while you continued to survey the people passing by, scanning the gaps between bodies.
When Antonio finally asked you to dance, you agreed. It would get you further into the club with a better excuse than walking around aimlessly. You turned to Annie.
“Catch you later?” you asked. She tossed you a wink.
“Yeah, girl. Have fun!”
You smiled and let Antonio lead you to the dance floor. You discreetly used every movement to your advantage, looking beyond your dancing partner to continue your search. If Soldier Boy was here, you would find him.
“He’s not here,” said Antonio. It actually managed to jerk you out of your focus.
“Who?” you asked, feigning confusion.
“Whoever you’re looking for that isn’t me,” he said, injecting a fair bit of charm into his voice. 
You actually felt your face warming up at that. The way he was looking at you now, there was very little doubt as to what he wanted. His grip on your hips tightened. 
Part of you was getting impatient with this part of the game, but at the very least, he was a good dancer. He pulled you effortlessly through the cumbia, Colombian salsa dancing, even if he was starting to sweat on you. 
Now, you could almost swear someone was watching. Though it might’ve been the sweat dripping down your spine, you felt that strange prickle on the back of your neck.
Well, besides Annie. You knew she was keeping an eye on you from the bar, as were Frenchie and Kimiko as they joined a poker game in the far corner, away from the dance floor.
Your gaze continued to flit through every corner of the room between spins and the movements of your feet and your hips. 
When Antonio’s hands started get a bit too familiar with the curve of your ass, you took his hands and used them to spin yourself. He brought you back in tight. A bit too tight.
“Come on, baby…” he whispered in your ear.
And you felt his hand slide up the inside of your thigh. He even had the audacity to try and slip past the lacey front of your underwear.
That’s when your patience snapped. 
You grabbed his wrist and “accidentally” drove your heel into his foot. With precision you felt it land between two vertebrae. 
The girlish yelp he made brought a flicker of a smile to your lips, but you covered it with a doe-eyed look and many bumbling apologies. 
“Oh, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”
He all but shoved you as he limped away, cursing you in Spanish. You’d taken four years of it in high school, and you still only caught half of it.  
Hiding your smile, you walked away and pressed a discreet finger to the comm in your ear. 
“The stage front is clear. Scoping the back.”
“Wait for me,” Annie said. She was still sitting at the bar. “I think you broke that guy’s foot.”
“He had tenacity,” Frenchie remarked.
“All balls and no brains, as usual,” you muttered. “Stay there and look shiny, Annie. He’s less likely to recognize me, but he might come out to play if he spots a familiar face at the bar.”
“She’s right,” Butcher said to Annie. “Stay where you are.”    
You made your way to the bathroom and scoped the hall. There in the privacy of the shadows, you adjusted the gun holster on your thigh. It was a miracle Antonio hadn’t felt it. 
Not that a gun would do much against Soldier Boy, but you didn’t feel right without it. 
Then you kept moving and dodged various couples making out (and more) on your way upstairs.
“Going up,” you informed the team quietly. The second floor was a series of rooms, none of which you wanted to pop in on without an invitation.
After you made it to the end of the hall, you turned a corner and noticed a door hung open a crack. Sliding it open, you found a wall of music there to greet you.
And that wasn’t all.
Inside was a room of people drinking and drugging and generally doing things to one another. You didn’t want to go in, but you wouldn’t put it past Soldier Boy to get caught up in a mass orgy. 
You walked through the room, only taking in what you needed to with your eyes. 
Focusing on the far wall, you saw a leather chair by the window, with a still smoking cigar laid to rest in an ash tray on a small table. Your head tilting with interest, you went over to the table and found another hand-written note. 
Once again, you sighed. “He’s not here, guys. He bounced.”
Once you all regrouped with Hughie outside the club, you handed the note to Butcher with a grimace.
“You have a love letter,” you said. And Hughie too.
With a wry brow raise, Butcher looked down at the scrap of paper.
Butcher, you’ll die first. Then the cum-guzzler. 
S.B.
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That night at the hotel, after you'd showered and peeled off that ridiculous dress, you poured over the Soldier Boy files again.
You hadn’t touched the Russia ones since that first night, but you knew you were missing far too much. In order to anticipate his moves, you needed to understand how he thought.
You couldn’t do that if you didn’t even have the full picture of who he was. And the movies, the silly music videos, even the exploded skyscraper and Homelander’s death—none of it told the full story of Ben. 
It didn’t tell you what he wanted. What he cared about. Why he was playing cat and mouse instead of just taking his stand, like his soldier persona would’ve demanded of his pride.
Or maybe that pride's just like everything else: a well-crafted costume.
A knock at your door jolted you out of your thoughts. 
You got up to your feet, briefly looking down to make sure you were decently dressed (you supposed pajama shorts, a bra, and a tank top would suffice). You grabbed your gun and checked the peephole before you answered the door with a smile.
It was M.M. with a mug of tea for you. “I knew you’d still be up, killin’ those files. It’s almost morning, you know.”
You accepted the mug with a warmer smile.  
“Aw, you do care,” you quipped. He rolled his eyes. 
You laughed a little. “Seriously, thank you.”
He pointed at you.
“Go to sleep,” he said. You raised two fingers to your temple in salute. 
“Sir. Yes, sir!” you joked. Really, you appreciated his concern. After hearing many a story about his daughter Jennine, and seeing how the rest of the team respected him, you knew that he was a good man. 
And thanks to him and Annie, you were actually starting to feel like part of this team.
After you wished him goodnight (or good morning, at this rate), you closed the door to your hotel room, followed closely by your laptop. 
You took out your phone, silently contemplating what time it would be in New York right now.
Well, it would be very early in the morning. Still, you thought it was worth a try, since you had the time.
You dialed your sister, Luisa. While it rang, you remembered just how thin these hotel walls were. So you stepped out to the rickety balcony. Jeez, hope it holds my weight throughout this call.
When your sister eventually answered, she murmured your name sleepily in confusion.
“Hey, sorry for waking you up,” you said, feeling bad. 
“It’s okay.” She yawned. “I should be up soon anyway. Got 8 am classes Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”
“Ech. Screw that shit,” you teased. 
“You’re the one sweating balls in South America.”
“I’d rather be drowning in my own sweat than listening to some old bag drone on for eight hours,” you volleyed back, and leaned against the balcony’s railing, even as it creaked suspiciously with your weight. 
“You, my friend, are uninspired. You mean to tell me mosquitoes and drug cartels are better than Mozart?” your sister asked incredulously. Her sleepy voice was starting to lose some of its gravel as you two fell into familiar bickering. 
“Wow, way to type cast. Not all of South America is about drug-running,” you pointed out. 
“Aren’t there, like, entire shows about people shoving cocaine up their ass to get from Colombia to Miami?” Luisa asked. 
“…Yes, but that’s not the point,” you said with a giggle. “And good guess. I’m actually in Medellin right now.”
“Are you supposed to tell me that?”
“Not really, no, but I don’t think you’ll sell me out to the cartels,” you joked. Or to the Russians, your mind added. That thought made your lips twist sourly. 
“Anyway, are you okay? How’s school, really?”
“It’s good, sis. You know I’m good. I’m worried about you,” she countered, and you could hear the concern in her voice.
“You know me. I’m always good,” you replied with good humor. The silence on the other line told you that you hadn’t been quite convincing enough. 
“When do you think you’ll come home?” she asked.
For what seemed like the hundredth time that night (or morning), you sighed. “That’s hard to say.”
The answering silence told you even more about your sister’s thoughts, and you felt guilty for it. 
“I’m happy just knowing you’re doing so well. With school, starting your adult life, doing your thing,” you added.  
“You need to start thinking about yourself,” she told you.
“What do you mean, Lou? I’m fine.”
It was Louisa’s turn to sigh.
“You know, I was so proud of you when you decided to leave Vought," she said. "When you finally got out from under Dad. When you started working at Supe Affairs…you seemed happy, like you were finally proud of yourself too.”
Emotion started to burn behind your eyes. Part of it was probably sleep deprivation, but you heard the sincerity in your sister’s voice.
She just knew you so well. And she wasn’t lying there—what she’d said was all true of you. However, after the joke that was Victoria Neuman running Supe Affairs, you didn’t know what you could trust anymore. 
Maybe not even your own judgment. 
“But I really wish that you’d consider more than just your work,” Luisa said. “Like a hobby. Take a painting class. Go to karaoke, like we used to do in grade school after Choir practice. You have such a beautiful voice! Like Grandma’s was.”
“I’ll leave the performing to you, Lou,” you said with a chuckle. She was serious, however.
“Work isn’t everything,” she reminded you. Now her voice was firm. “You should go out with your friends. Go out with Annie! Rub shoulders with her celebrity friends.”  
“Right.” You huffed a laugh. You’d been around plenty of famous supes while at Vought. You’d ran down the leads and tracked down the criminals, just for the supes to swoop in and “save the day.” You did the grunt work, and they claimed the credit. 
You’d had enough of “celebrities” to last you a lifetime. 
“Maybe then you’ll—and let me not shock you here—meet someone,” Louisa said. “And finally put an end to that goddamn dry spell. What's it been, like three years?” 
“All right, all right.” You held up a hand of surrender, even if she couldn’t see it. You were grateful she couldn’t catch you blushing. “That’s enough about my non-life, thanks.” 
You shook your head. Embarrassment actually clawed inside your belly. 
Yes, it had been a while since you’d actually been with anyone, relationship or otherwise. You just didn’t have time to have a life, you’d reasoned. Working at Vought had been grueling, and your hours at the S.A., while better, were still demanding.
…Still, you could appreciate that your work-life balance left much to be desired. And that was on you. 
Case in point, you were on this job.
You tipped your face heavenward, letting the sunrise spill some warmth on your face. 
“But…I hear you, okay?” you replied with your eyes closed. 
“You do?” she asked suspiciously.
“Yeah. When I get back, I…I’ll work on it, okay?” you said. “I love you.”
“Love you too, sis. I should probably get going, but…please be safe.”
“Always,” you promised.
After you hung up, you finally opened your eyes. 
That prickly feeling was back, almost like you were being watched.
You scanned around, but your human eyes didn’t find anything out of the ordinary in the sunshine pouring in between the rows of buildings. 
In fact, you didn’t see a damn thing that wasn’t supposed to be there.
So you clutched your phone to your chest, letting out a deep breath. Then you headed back inside.
But mere feet above you, if you had only looked up to the roof, you would’ve seen a hunter lazily eyeing his prey.
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AN: Ok! So a little bit slow in this chapter, but it’s all important setup.
In the next chapter, the reader meets Soldier Boy:
You laid a hand on his chest, fingers spreading between the open buttons, and felt his warm skin. 
He glanced up at you with another challenging tilt to his head. What are you gonna do now?
You met that challenge, boldly leaning down to press a kiss against his lips.
Keep Reading: PART 2
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wolven91 · 2 days
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Inventors
When humanity joined the rest of the races amongst the stars, it was a cause of celebration across the stars as they paraded the humans through the GC ring world, regardless of the gaunt and tired faces that the ticker tape and confetti fell upon.
The celebration was confirmation that there was yet more to the universe to see! The melancholy that had plagued the races for two hundred years was over! There was yet more life in the galaxy! What humanity learnt in the coming weeks and months, was the reason *why* humanity being found and brought into the fold was so important.
It was because the wider galaxy; had stagnated.
No new ideas were being made. No new technology besides mild improvements of what had already been there. No new fashion, just old things recycled again and again. Not even concepts that were commonplace and obvious to humanity had been even thought about by the wider GC. It was so bad, for so long, there was a statement that confused most humans when they heard it. The galaxy was so stagnant, that not even so much as a new recipe had been discovered in over a hundred years.
So, when humanity appeared, most of the races didn't even *think* of asking them whether they had any new ideas they wanted to share with the galaxy, they assumed that the races had not only thought of everything, but that humanity couldn't have possibly discovered new things on their own.
In the end, it was little things that were slowly added to the combined technology of the Galactic Community.
An 'umbrella' was created on a planet that only ever had rain. A blanket with sleeves in was invented for a long-haul transport trip.
'Unique' and 'inspired'.
So obvious most of the races from the stars merely blinked and wondered how they could have possibly missed such marvellous and simple ideas.
Humanity! The little inventors that *could*!
It was brilliant PR for the little race to buck off the sombre knowledge they were nearly extinct to add their own work into the tapestry of the GC. The heads of state even gave a small speech of how, regardless of whether in a hundred years humanity was still with the GC, their little contributions would mean they were remembered forever!
The console screen snapped off and the remote thrown across the room, hitting a cushion with a solid 'thud'.
"Fucking twats." Growled the human, still glaring at the now blank screen, fuming.
A canid's head popped around the doorframe at the outburst with his ears perked and eyes attentive. The human was facing away, but the tense shoulders and anger in Ted's voice told Kiv that the human needed him. The scent was acidic and figuratively burnt the back of Kiv's snout.
"You okay Teddy?" Asked the canid, quickly washing his hands and running them down the messy grey fur of his thighs to dry them. Padding into the room, the human now had his hands on his hips but was staring at the blank console screen mounted on the wall. From Kiv's perspective, he was like an ursidain; a living mountain. The tight green shirt running along and highlighting the corded muscles of his back, neck and shoulders.
"Teddy?" Asked the canid again, gently. He stepped around the oversized sofa and tapped the tips of two of his claws together, holding his hands in front of his chest as a nervous tick. Kiv was a nervous soul and despite doing nothing to earn the ire of the human, there was still a part of the canid that blamed himself for anything negative in the world around him.
The human turned to face Kiv and the mostly fleshy face broke into a tired smile, easing Kiv's fears.
Kiv was not your average canid. He was an outlier by a large margin. As a canid, he was considered 'disabled' despite being perfectly capable to exist in society without the need for help. But Kiv wasn't considered 'capable' in his own species' eyes.
Kiv was a runt. Incapable of serving the military or even private security in any capacity.
At barely 5'5, the canid had to look up at the 6'3 human who dwarfed him in all ways. Kiv practically had to bend his back and crane his neck just to look his fellow canids in the eyes, saying that they could reach up to 10 feet in height. The human blinked and sighed through his nose before speaking. 
"Sorry Kiv, I got... annoyed at the TV." Replied the human, gesturing with a limp arm and allowing the tension that was in his broad shoulders to melt away with another sigh. The human merely turned to the canid and wrapped his arms around the short, furry alien. Kiv closed his eyes and rumbled into the nap of Teddy's neck, relishing the thick broad arms of the human, holding him in place. The human, without issue of effort, lifted the wiry canid from the floor and flopped down onto the sofa. It had been built for the titan-esque ursidains in mind; the furniture barely noticed both the human and the tiny canid.
Relaxing into Ted's hug, Kiv didn't know what a 'TV' was but could guess that it was the news that had annoyed Ted. It usually was.
"What were they saying?" Kiv asked quietly after a moment of them both laying there.
"Congratulating us poor, helpless humans and how we're doing *super* and that if we die out, that's okay; we invented stuff." Ted replied with a gruff, annoyed tone. It still made Kiv nervous. The mere tone was enough to set him on edge despite Teddy never *once* raising his voice in anger for frustration at the canid.
Kiv's ears laid flat as he gazed up at his human longingly. Kiv never believed he could be a real canid before meeting Ted. Canids each had an instinctual drive to protect and defend others. It mostly meant one's pack, but when Kiv simply wasn't included in a pack, all he wanted was someone who could rely on him, despite being a runt.
Then he had bumped into the mountain of a creature that was Theodore. Ted or 'Teddy' for short. Kiv liked how only *he* was allowed to call the human 'Teddy'. The human had mistaken Kiv for a cub at first, which the canid couldn't blame the human for. But after that crash introduction, the pair of them had become close friends. Kiv had shown the human around the station in a manner not approved of by the administration and the human had met an equal, one that didn't treat him like a lesser being. Kiv had to admit that he had fallen for the human almost instantly in the beginning...
Moving in together had been pragmatic. Sharing each other's bed was merely the natural progression of things, much to the canid's absolute joy. He had never dreamt that he could have had such a wonderful life when he was growing up.
Kiv gently licked the underside of Teddy's chin, pulling the hulking figure out of his thoughts again.
"You don't need their approval. Since when have you needed anyone's?" Asked the canid carefully, pointing out the truth. The human grinned and planted his soft lips against Kiv's leathery nose once. Kiv licked it as a habitual response.
"You are the only one that matters to me. Just annoyed. I feel called out." Replied the human, merely articulating his feelings for the alien.
"Don't! You're a brilliant inventor! Your invention is going to change the stars! Every canid from here to Anul-6 is going to want one! Even if you only sold them for a single credit; you're never going to have to work another day in your life! We could-"
But Kiv stopped himself and laid his muzzle flat against the human's chest, preventing him from spiralling and talking too fast and too much. He had a habit of getting excited then speaking so much that people found it annoying. Kiv didn't want to annoy Teddy...
"Hey! Hey, hey hey..." The human coaxed, aware that the canid was once again silencing himself. The human used his arms to hug and squeeze the canid to get his attention. Ted was aware that Kiv was used to being shut down by others, merely because his opinion was worthless to them thanks to his size. "What was it? 'We could' what?" The human asked calmly.
"You'll laugh." Accused Kiv, nervous and feeling vulnerable.
"Never at you darling. *Never* at you. What could we do if this works?" Promised the human, using his finger and thumb to being the canid's head up and catch his gaze, holding it; silently promising nothing but respect and love.
"We could... get a little plot of land..." Whispered Kiv in a tiny voice.
"Oh? That would be nice... Whereabouts?" Whispered Ted right back.
"...I always liked the looks of the ursidain forestry worlds... They sell little parcels... I... um... That was my dream. To earn enough to buy one..." Mumbled the canid directly into the chest of the human, the insides of his ears turning a bright pinkie red, that had the human grinning from ear to ear.
"Alright then. That's the goal." Ted said with a firm tone and a curt nod.
Kiv's head snapped right back up, nearly clocking the human under the chin with the canid's skull.
"But what about you?" The furry, wolf-like alien demanded.
Teddy snorted.
"Like I had a 'plan'. Until you came along, I didn't have anything, or anyone left to make plans *with*. At least now..." He touched his nose to the canid's muzzle again. Kiv licked again. "I have someone to dote on."
The pair laid there for a time on the sofa, merely enjoying each other with their eyes closed. Eventually Ted sighed and with a single hand, reached out to the coffee table where one of his prototypes laid there. Grasping it, he held it up in one hand and turned it over.
'This is so stupid' Ted thought to himself, only to have Kiv, seemingly read his mind and pipe up.
"They're brilliant you know. I mean it."
"You really think they'll be popular?" The human gave it a squeeze and physically felt the response from Kiv as he laid on the human. The rubberised material deformed in the human's grip and forced the air out of the hollow insides through a squeaker. The high pitch squeal gave one note, then drawled another as air flooded back in once Ted had relaxed his grip.
His eyes flicked to the canid, who despite living with these things now for a few weeks, was still; completely and utter enraptured by the object. His eyes and ears were locked on and as Ted held the toy still, raised above the canid, Kiv could help but lick his chops and begin to shake in anticipation.
Ted broke out into laughed and scooped the canid up into a hug and rolled the alien against the back of the couch as he began peppering the smaller creature with kisses, his foul mood; long forgotten.
[r/WolvensStories]
[Ko-Fi]
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On May 20th, 1927, Charles Lindbergh took to the skies of New York almost entirely unknown, and 33½ hours later landed in Paris the most famous man in the world, the first to fly solo across the Atlantic.
A crowd of 150,000 people greeted him there, causing the biggest traffic jam in France's history. They dragged him from the cockpit of The Spirit of Saint Louis and paraded him around on their shoulders for more than half an hour, while others stripped the plane bare of souvenirs. After patching it up again, he flew to Belgium and then London, where similar scenes unfolded and he was taken first to visit the Prime Minister and then King George V, who awarded him the Air Force Cross.
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Then the President of the US sent a navy cruiser to pick him up and take him back home to America, a fleet of warships escorting him up the Potomac River to the Washington Navy Yard, where President Calvin Coolidge awarded him the Distinguished Flying Cross. From there back home to New York on June 13, where a ticker tape parade awaited him like few others and 4 million people turned out to see him.
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It certainly was a busy old month for Charley Lindbergh, Time Magazine's first ever 'Man of The Year".
The winner of the 1930 Best Woman Aviator of the Year Award, Elinor Smith Sullivan, said that before Lindbergh's flight:
"People seemed to think we [aviators] were from outer space or something. But after Charles Lindbergh's flight, we could do no wrong. It's hard to describe the impact Lindbergh had on people. Even the first walk on the moon doesn't come close. The twenties was such an innocent time, and people were still so religious—I think they felt like this man was sent by God to do this."
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venus-haze · 1 year
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Why Don't You Do Right (Soldier Boy x Reader)
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Summary: You’d known him as Ben, the asshole rich boy whose family employed your parents on their estate just outside of Philadelphia, the mean streets that you grew up on, not him. When he returns from Europe to adulation and ticker tape parades in response to his heroic exploits during the war, he’s not happy when you echo his father’s sentiments about his praise being unearned. As time goes on, you find your own professional exploits make you begrudgingly more sympathetic to him, especially when you unexpectedly run into him again before the 24th Academy Awards.
Note: Reader is a woman, but no other descriptors are used. I don’t know how I feel about this fic, I guess I kind of left it open to another part. Soldier Boy’s background is so interesting even though we get so little of it in the show, I wanted to go ahead and explore it more from the perspective of someone who knew him back then. I decided to go with the last name Conway since as far as I know, the show doesn’t give Soldier Boy a canon last name. Feel free to picture any DILF of your choice as Ben’s briefly appearing father. Do not interact if you post thinspo/ED content or are under 18.
Word count: 3.5k
Warnings: Period typical (and Soldier Boy typical) misogyny. Morally gray reader. Dacryphilia, slapping, spitting. Some dubcon elements. Complicated and toxic relationships. Do not interact if you are under 18.
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Over two decades’ worth of catharsis rushed through your veins as you eavesdropped on the heated conversation taking place in Cliff Conway’s office, his son’s voice steadily rising while his own remained cool and nonplussed. The steel magnate wasn’t your favorite person, but he kept your parents employed during the depression when so many of your classmates’ families were out of work. Your father worked as one of half a dozen chauffeurs on staff, your mother a cook, though you didn’t see much of either of them growing up, as they spent most of the week living in the servant’s quarters on the estate while you lived with your grandparents in their small South Philly apartment. 
It never failed to make your blood boil that Ben saw more of your parents than you did. You could remember taking a swing at him when he called your mother “mom” not long after he got kicked out of boarding school. You had made the trek to the Conways’ estate after a long day of your apprenticeship with a local seamstress, enraged to see Ben sitting in the kitchen, joking with your mom who you got to see twice a week if you were lucky. Though it was years ago, the betrayal when she angrily shooed you out of the kitchen still felt fresh.
When you were older, you discovered that Ben clung to your parents since his own were unimpressed and disinterested in him. In contrast, Cliff lauded your ingenuity in working hard at your apprenticeship, building up clientele, and opening your own shop. Of course, it helped that he would drum up business for you among his wealthy friends, having you custom-make his suits and his estranged wife’s evening gowns for the high society events they masqueraded as a happy couple at.
In fact, you’d been in the man’s office for a fitting when he received a call that Ben had shown up unannounced, wishing to speak to him. He had shaken his head as he dismissed you with a wave, instructing you to stick around the mansion until his conversation with his son was over. ‘It won’t be long. I don’t have anything to say to him,’ he had assured you.
So you stood with your ear pressed against the door, the men’s muffled voices traveling through the expensive wood grain, a thick, dark mahogany that turned visitors into vampires seeking permission to enter, impossible to sneak in or out of without concerted effort. Being his father’s only child didn’t make Ben exempt this unspoken social ritual that Cliff enforced. Perhaps he thought things would be different for Soldier Boy.
“What do you want me to do? Congratulate you for taking a shortcut?” Cliff said, his tone even. “A real man doesn’t take shortcuts.”
“Compound V isn’t a shortcut—“
“I tried with you, Ben. I really did, and somehow you ended up with no work ethic, no sense of purpose. Instead, you think you can cheat your way to greatness.”
“I signed up to fight, and I did,” Ben retorted, his voice wavering, “in Normandy, in Belgium—“
“On Hollywood sets where you fool around with movie stars and play pretend. Believe me, I’ve had my fair share of starlets, but I didn’t get ticker tape parades or national holidays for it.”
Ben scoffed. “President Truman said I’m a hero—“
“No, the boys who came back and haven’t had a good night’s sleep since, the ones who didn’t come back at all, they’re heroes,” he said. “You, Ben? You’re a disappointment. I’m ashamed to even call you a Conway.”
Your hand flew to your mouth. In your dealings with Cliff, you had an idea about his feelings on his son’s fabricated exploits, noticing the newspaper pages with photographs or even mere mentions of ‘Soldier Boy’ crumpled in his wastebin. You knew none of the stories were true, anyway, not when Ben’s anecdotes about growing up in Philly were almost carbon copies of yours, from the fights to the laughter. It was all a lie, and no one would back you up even if you went public with it. No one but Cliff, anyway.
The whole situation had been odd from the moment you saw Soldier Boy in a newsreel before a Gary Cooper movie. Despite the helmet and mask that obscured his features, you’d recognize Ben anywhere. As much resentment as you harbored toward him, you’d have to be blind to ignore how attractive he was, thinking it was a shame that his striking green eyes and pouty pink lips were imprisoned in black and white. He spoke to the camera, proud and confident, the hot-blooded, all-American hero with the strength of a hundred men. The living, breathing embodiment of the American spirit was nothing if not an excellent liar, willing to do whatever it took to get what he wanted. 
What really threw you for a loop, however, was the lie whose tendrils arrested the minds of your fellow countrymen. Soldier Boy was born great, blessed by god with these superhuman abilities that he used in the fight against evil and anything that threatened the American way of life. His very existence proof of divine intervention in the land of the free. No, you’d wanted to argue, he’s just Ben, and he cheated.
As you heard shuffling in the office, you slipped away from the door and into one of the nearby parlors. Despite spending so much time in the Conways’ mansion in your youth and then in a professional capacity as an adult, it never ceased to amaze you how many rooms were in the place. Some of which, like the one you decided to lay low in, served no other purpose than to display the family’s ornate possessions—Persian rugs, imported chaise lounges, commissioned artwork, vases and statues from places you weren’t even sure you could point out on a map. It was almost sick how the objects in that room alone were worth more than what you’d ever make in your life.
You couldn’t privately lament your financial woes for long, as despite your efforts, Ben noticed you ambling around the room as he stormed out of his father’s office. He stopped in his tracks, rerouting his direction to join you. The costume he wore certainly wasn’t awful, and from a quick glance you could admire the effort that went into putting together such a vital aspect of his persona. Still, it wasn’t him, no matter how hard he tried. 
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he mused, his voice low as he took you in.
You gave him a curt nod. “Ben.”
“You and my old man are the only ones who call me that anymore.”
“Yeah, well, it’s the only thing about you that’s real.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know, I understand the ‘scrappy young fighter from the rough streets of Philly’ is a lot more sympathetic than ‘spoiled rich boy who wants to feel special.’ It’s the part where you stole my life that really gets me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Cut the bullshit, Ben,” you said. “You’re a fraud, even your father says so.”
“I’m a fucking hero, sweetheart. You’re a washed up old maid who’s lucky I’m even looking in her direction,” he said, shooting his insult back at you.
It stung every time you were reminded of how many people thought there was something wrong with you for choosing your career over marriage. You’d have been offended by his words if it weren’t for the cheek twitch that gave away just how bothered he was by your statement. His tells were few, but they were distinctly his, and in the years you’d spent orbiting the spoiled brat turned man-child, you’d learned to recognize all of them. He was fundamentally insecure, always trying to prove himself to his unimpressed father and failing every single time. It seemed Soldier Boy was no exception.
Before you could respond, he grabbed your face, backing you into a wall. You knew whatever he’d been shot up with had made him strong, but you weren’t expecting the steel grip that encased your jaw, one squeeze away from turning it to dust. He could do it, and probably would if you pushed him enough. 
“What’re you doing here anyway? Don’t think I didn’t see you slinking out of my father’s office like a fucking whore,” he asked, releasing your jaw to drag his fingers across your lips, smearing your lipstick onto your cheek.
“I was in the middle of fitting Cliff for a new suit before you showed up,” you said, your voice quivering as you tried to compose yourself.
“Cliff? My mother hasn’t even called him Cliff in years,” he scoffed. “Jesus, the old man gets on me for taking a shortcut, but you’re just fucking your way up to the top, aren’t you?”
Impulse overtook your reasoning as you spat in his face, an acidic combination of satisfaction and terror wrestling in your gut as he stood frozen in shock, your saliva dribbling from just below his eye down to his chin. It wasn’t like you’d justify his insinuation with an answer, regardless of its validity. 
Suddenly, you felt stupid for taking the bait. Ben’s bite was always worse than his bark, practically trained by his father’s neglect to be desperate and snarling so that it was impossible to be near him without his foaming mouth claiming his pound of flesh. He had been jilted by his father yet again, becoming the world’s first superhero only to be told he was a failure for it. You, on the other hand, received his father’s praise and approval in kind, the street dog treated as pedigree. 
He wiped away the spit with an open hand, and in the same instance landed a harsh slap across your face, leaving your cheek stinging with the force he used. Fat tears clouded your vision and rolled down your cheeks as you trembled under his unrelenting gaze.
“I fucked every USO broad I could get my hands on, and none of ‘em could cry as pretty as you can,” he whispered, the barbs of his taunt cushioned by the cruelest lilt of nostalgia.
You’d seen how you looked when you cried before, having locked yourself in your fair share of bathrooms after being brought to tears by his words growing up. Your face always contorted, pained and puffy as tears fell from your red eyes, snot dripping from your nose. You never cried neatly, it was always raw and painful, your grief clawing its way out from deep within you. He liked that, though, the mess, the tangible evidence of how sensitive and vulnerable you were compared to him. 
How greedy, to have the adoration of the American public and it still not be enough, to trek to Philadelphia just to get affirmation from his father and now, you–as if you mattered, as if Vought and the military gave a shit what you thought of Soldier Boy. He cared, though, enough to take out his anger twofold on you for having the audacity to be favored by his father. 
“No one can make me cry like you can,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady despite your tears.
You had fucked him once, or more like he fucked you, a few days after he got drafted and his parents unexpectedly threw him a farewell party. People are creatures of habit, and the circumstances, even the room were almost identical to that night you stumbled back into the party–mascara absolutely ruined, your legs too weak to dance, and the taste of his cum spoiling the expensive wine that was being served. You didn’t have illusions of any sentimentality behind the encounter. There was a decent chance he wasn’t going to make it back home, so you both seemed to figure ‘why not.’ With the self-loathing that had crept up on you as the night went on, you almost hoped he wouldn’t.
That didn’t stop you this time from letting yourself kiss him back when he pressed his lips to yours. His lips were soft, his hands too as he cradled the cheek he smacked, the contact causing you to gasp in pain. His other hand was on your waist, holding you steady in place. You were sure you couldn’t move if you tried, but you didn’t bother, allowing his tongue in your mouth. Part of you wanted to bite him, for spite and to see what would happen, if he could even feel something like that, but you decided against it when he brushed his thumb against your sore cheek again. He’d use any excuse to pull more tears from you.
You put your hands on his, hoping he could at least feel you trying to push them away. “He’s waiting for me.”
“‘Course he is,” he sneered, gripping your waist a bit tighter before releasing you.
The room was silent for a few moments before you said, “See you around.”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t bet on it, sweetheart.”
As soon as he stormed out of the room, you could feel yourself breathe better. You hurriedly ran into a nearby bathroom to straighten out your appearance before returning to his father’s office, giving a courteous knock before hearing a muffled ‘Come in!’
The ashtray was considerably more full than when you’d left, and the cigarette between Cliff’s fingers was steadily smoldering down to a nub. You figured it best not to ask him about it.
“What took you so long?” Cliff asked.
“Ben and I were just catching up.”
His eyes landed on your bruised cheek, and his tongue darted out from between his lips. “Alright. I suppose we should get back to it, then.”
Nodding, you went over to your bag in the corner of the room, searching for the measuring tape you’d been using while trying to ignore your patron’s burning gaze you felt on your back. The irony wasn’t lost on you that like your parents, your livelihood depended on him. You wondered why Ben so desperately wanted that same fate.
By 1952 you’d gotten married and promptly divorced after less than a year and a half of marriage, moving to Los Angeles and setting up shop there not long after the deaths of your father and mother in quick succession. Both decisions took you out of Cliff Conway’s good graces, though your reputation and talent preceded you. Within a few months of opening your new shop, your clientele had expanded to Hollywood stars, and you had to hire a handful of employees to help run the front end of things while you toiled away at your sewing machine most days. As awards season rolled around, you found yourself turning away customers as you simply didn’t have the time or resources to handle them all.
Plenty of people you’d never expected to see in person came into your shop, but you were particularly taken aback a week before the Oscars when a no-name starlet bleached hair and what you could assume was equally bleached teeth came ambling in with Ben–no, Soldier Boy, right behind her in the same costume he had been wearing the last time you saw him in 1945. The two of you made eye contact, and though he gave you the slightest smile, he made no other effort to indicate he knew you. Discretion, she was the jealous type.
You’d found the starlet’s dress, pointing out the customizations you’d done based on her request. She beamed at you before disappearing into one of the dressing rooms with it.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you said.
“Me either, ‘til Darlene mentioned the shop name, same one as back in Philly.”
You shrugged. “Things aren’t so bad out here. Fresh start after the divorce, ya know?”
“You seeing anyone?”
“No, but you are.”
He scoffed. “She’s an easy fuck, besides MGM is paying me out the ass to bring her as my date to the Oscars.”
“Congratulations on the Best Picture nomination, by the way,” you said.
You had seen the movie, his fabricated life story, but the rage you felt upon seeing him seven years prior was no longer existent. He’d cemented his place in American history on lies, and there was nothing you could do about it. Besides, you felt too old and far too busy to let yourself get mad about things like that the way you used to.
“I think we got a pretty good shot of winning,” he said. “It’s all about who you schmooze, and I doubt Gene Kelly’s got a company like Vought sending blank checks and gift baskets to the Academy.”
“You never know.”
His response was interrupted by a squeal, though you couldn’t tell until the girl shuffled out of the dressing room whether it was in horror or delight. To your relief, it was the latter, an almost painful looking smile plastered across her face as she posed in her dress for Ben.
“So? Isn’t it perfect?” she asked, nearly glaring at Ben for not complimenting her quickly enough for her liking.
“Goddamn honey, you look like a million bucks. They’ll start casting you instead of that Marilyn Monroe girl.”
You nearly snorted. Marilyn wasn’t all that well known, but she had the makings of a star, and the kindness that made her one of your favorite customers as opposed to the more demanding clients that would come in and expect you to drop everything for them. It was almost painful watching the starlet fawn over herself while trying to pull as many compliments from Ben as she could. What a floozy. Then again, you hadn’t done much different when you were first starting out in your own career.
Finally, when it seemed like she had enough of herself, she retreated back into the dressing room to change.
“You know, I’m staying at the Roosevelt.”
“That’s nice. They have a great bar.”
“Why don’t you let me buy you a drink later, then?”
You nodded your head toward the dressing room. “She won’t have a fit?”
“She’s got a place with half a dozen other MGM broads,” he said. “She can cry on cue, but it’s still not as pretty as when you do it.”
You narrowed your eyes a bit, considering the implications of his proposal. The judgment you’d made on him years ago came back to you, he’s just Ben, and he cheated. Though not on the same scale, you supposed you had too. Besides, Los Angeles wasn’t Philadelphia, both of you could get away with a lot more here than under the watchful eye of his father. 
Grabbing the nearby receipt book, you handed him a pencil and pointed to a blank receipt, his conspiratorial tone rubbing off on you. It was odd, him speaking to you as if you were old friends or partners in crime, even. You’d never considered him like that, the differences in status made apparent to you from an early age. Even still, you certainly weren’t America’s hero.
He scribbled the room number and reservation onto the paper. “It’s under a fake name.”
“Alright, maybe I can get there before midnight. No promises,” you said, flipping to a new page just as his date emerged from the dressing room, her Oscar-night gown back in the protective bag you’d provided.
The dress had already been billed to MGM, though you knew by now it came out of whatever stipend the production company gave her, a move meant to make up-and-coming stars seem more important than they were in hopes of catching the attention of the right people. She had to know her chances were slim to none on her own, it was for everyone. For a moment you felt a bit bad for being so quick to judge earlier, even if you didn’t particularly like her attitude, she wasn’t the only one trying to claw her way to top billing in a uniquely cannibalistic city. In the nearly two years since you’d opened the shop, it stopped surprising you when certain clients wouldn’t come in anymore or would come in months after whatever event you’d styled them for to sell their dresses back to you to make rent. 
Ben glanced at you one more time before the starlet eagerly dragged him out of the shop, onto the next pre-Oscars errand. Funny, him putting up with a day of bullshit just to see if you’d be here. Maybe he’d find an excuse to blow her off now that he did what he’d set out to do. You looked at the clock on the wall and then to the unfinished orders laying on your sewing machine or draped over mannequins. There was no way you’d make it to the Roosevelt before midnight, and you weren’t sentimental enough to feel particularly bad about it.
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newyorkthegoldenage · 2 years
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June 20, 1932: The background is white with ticker tape as Amelia Earhart is borne up Broadway in her triumphal procession from the Battery to City Hall. In front seat of the car is George S. Mand, who represented the mayor.
Photo: NY Daily News via Getty Images/Fine Art America
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justjensenanddean · 2 years
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“You ever see The Soldier Boy Story? 
Must've missed it.
It's a classic. We lost Best Picture to An American in Paris that year. At least I got to fuck Jane Wyman in the coat check. About a poor kid from the streets of South Philly. Discovers he's got incredible powers to match his... heart of gold. It's all bullshit.
Blimey, you don't say?
Actually my father owned half the steel mills in the state. I went to boarding school. Got kicked out of boarding school. Because I was a fuck-up. But he made sure I knew it.
He used a belt, didn't he?
Never laid a hand on me. He couldn't be bothered. Said I was a disappointment. Not good enough to carry his name. So I went to his golf buddies in the War Department, and they got me into Dr. Vought's Compound V trials. I became a superhero. Strongest man alive. Fucking ticker tape parades when I came home.
And what did the old man say then?”
Soldier Boy | The Boys 3x08 “The Instant White-Hot Wild”  
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wayward-dreamer · 6 months
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Soldier Boy Masterlist
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Drabbles
After The Ticker Tape Parades*
One Shots
Enrapture*
Two Ways To Love Him
New Blood*
Father Material*
Pillow Talk*
Series
Far From Innocent* (mini-series)
*contains smut
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mydaddywiki · 5 months
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Norman Schwarzkopf Jr.
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Physique: Stocky build Height: 6'3" (1.91 m)
Herbert Norman Schwarzkopf Jr. KCB (August 22, 1934 – December 27, 2012) was a United States Army general. While serving as the commander of United States Central Command, he led all coalition forces in the Gulf War against Ba'athist Iraq. Schwarzkopf retired shortly after the end of the war and undertook a number of philanthropic ventures, only occasionally stepping into the political spotlight before his death from complications of pneumonia in late 2012 at the age of 78. Schwarzkopf was survived by his wife Brenda and their three children.
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The Trenton, NJ native was one of the memorable things about the Gulf War, at least for me. Just by the look of him, I think the 6-foot-3-inch 240-pounder with grim determined eyes, Schwarzkopf might have been a hell of a good fuck. And with nicknames like 'Stormin’ Norman' and 'The Bear,' it really helps the fantasy. Schwarzkopf came home to a hero’s welcome, appearing at a ticker-tape parade up Broadway, the Pegasus Parade at the Kentucky Derby in Louisville and an unusual joint session of Congress, where he received a standing ovation. Even Queen Elizabeth II awarded him a knighthood. And I would have offered him 'the goods' if given the opportunity.
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Schwarzkopf was a burly highly decorated Vietnam War veteran who was easily angered considered an exceptional leader. But they miss the gentler man who listened to Pavarotti, Willie Nelson and Bob Dylan; who loved hunting, fishing and ballet; and, like any soldier, called home twice a week from the war zone. Awww… now I feel bad for wanting to fuck him. Not really.
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play-now-my-lord · 9 months
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from "a ticker tape parade at the end of the war", the last piece of short fiction i wrote
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