#i hope one day i can make something people like or that i can be proud of
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I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar
Alexia Putellas x Explorer!R
8.5k Fluff, Fun, Minor Angst
Hi Guys,
This is pt4. in the 'I Would Climb Every Mountain With You" otherwise known as Explorer!R Universe. TW: description of killing an animal.
Highly recommend you read those 3 first, as this is entrenched in lore. Pt 1 can be found here.
It's developed from an ask I received from @karsonromanoff so thank you so much for the idea! I hope I did it justice and I'm sorry for the delay and the words. ha.
This is the first time I've written since my dad died. I'm not being emo or heavy about it but I am asking to please, be kind. I know there's nice people out there but often they're drowned out by the loud haters.
So throw us a comment, like or reblog if you enjoyed. I'm just trying to get back into something that brought me joy. I know I enjoyed writing it.
Also, may be weird for a fic about a spanish gay footballer, but you probably need a good working knowledge of Bear Grylls to understand 80% of this. ha.
As has become tradition, here's the song running though my head when writing! Yes, my music taste remains to be that of someone born in 1962. God love Helen Reddy.
“Vamos Ale! I don’t like to make Miguel wait…” you shout from the kitchen, bag resting on the countertop as you try to fix your bracelet with your left hand,
“Deja de preocuparte, a él no le importa, I will be one minute…” you head called back from the bedroom where your wife had been getting dressed for 2 hours now.
Yes.
Your wife.
Sometimes you couldn’t believe it.
Sometimes the weight of the band on your finger catches you by surprise and you’d remember.
Sometimes Alexia would place her hand on your bare thigh and you could feel the cool metal on your skin and you’d remember.
Sometimes you’d get called “Mrs Putellas” at a school talk, or at the Doctors, and you’d remember.
It felt so natural that sometimes you’d forget that you weren’t always Alexia's wife.
But now you are. And had been for almost 6 months. And married life couldn’t have suited you more.
Your wedding ring was your new favourite accessory, you never took it off.
In a fire you would save Alexia and your ring.
Maybe even your ring first.
It was embossed with the imprint of grass that Alexia has been collecting from each pitch of each game she had played in since you had met. The intricate design brought tears to your eyes as soon as you saw it. Made even worse by the inscription “’cause you are my goal”.
You would be embarrassed if Alexia hadn’t cried like a toddler when you presented her with the ring you had made for her, which had rock from each of the 7 peaks you had scaled, as well as a granule of sand from the Dead Sea set within it. Integrated into the metal, visible but smooth to the touch.
The inscription 'every mountain high, every valley low' on the inside of the band.
You knew you’d done good and you knew your Ale well enough to anticipate the absolute mess she would be when presented with it, ensuring you had a pocket full of tissues for the inevitable waterfall.
You weren’t wrong.
You had to assure a passing couple on the trail you had chosen that she was fine, not having a medical incident and you were definitely not mid break-up but in fact exchanging wedding bands early because you knew your fiance well enough she didn’t need her teammates to witness this much of her soft side.
Though you tried, they still saw enough on your wedding day to tease her for the last 6 months with no sign of slowing down.
Though right now your wife's behaviour was nothing but unexpected. You had agreed to attend one of Alexia's events this evening. Since getting married you had felt more of a duty to attend and make up for the years you’d left her carrying her own handbag whilst you trotted over mountains on the other side of the world.
She insisted that you didn’t have to. Like she always did. You weren’t one for the fancy dresses and the flashing cameras. But you saw the gleam of hope in her eyes as she insisted she would be fine on her own.
You couldn’t let that sparkle dim.
Also you had to set off for a camp in a few days and you had gotten seriously stuck in the honeymoon phase meaning that an evening without your wife by your side wasn’t something you could stomach.
Not that you would admit to being so clingy.
But it wasn’t like Ale to take so long to get ready, neither of you being particularly fussy, usually she would throw on some light makeup, smack your bum whilst you ate nutella off a knife under the hob light, procrastinating getting ready until she dragged you and dropped you into the ensuite, steal a kiss and a spray of perfume, and wait for you whilst watching old football clips in the living room.
But now, as you still struggled to attach the clasp of your bracelet and you had one eye on the poor Barca driver, Miguel, waiting in your driveway, you started to grow frustrated at your wife's sudden vanity.
You smelt her perfume invading your senses as you felt her arms envelope you from behind, moving your uncoordinated left hand away and easily attaching the clasp of your bracelet for you, pressing a kiss to your neck as she did so.
“Finalmente… Let’s g-...” you spoke as you turned in her embrace, finally taking in her attire which stopped you in your tracks.
“Boobs”
You had suddenly turned into a 14 year old boy and you couldn’t explain it.
You had seen your wife naked hundreds of times.
Hundreds of fantastic times.
But here she stood looking, regal. Her hair falling lightly over her face, her dark sparkly dress with wide shoulders and only what you could describe as a boob portal you had been rendered speechless. Mouth gaping open like a fish.
“...Amor?...” you heard the delight in her voice. “Are you listening to me… my eyes are up here.” she jokingly clicked her fingers in front of your face which took you out of your breast-inspired trance.
“Ale you are so beautiful” you looked deeply into her eyes but you didn’t miss the blush rising from her neck. And you meant it. She was. Wow.
“Do you like it?” she asked, shyly, “You don’t think it’s too much? It’s just the first event we’ve gone to together since we got married and I wanted to…”
You interrupt her but pressing a kiss to her lips, and, well, if you slipped a little tongue in there then fine. She was your wife after all.
“What? Show the world what they're missing out on? I am so proud to stand by your side, my love.” you whispered into her lips, as you toyed with her wedding band.
You couldn’t help yourself…”and your boobs are fantastic.”
She barked out a laugh as you leaned back into where you left off, but she took a step back, her heel clicking against the tile floor, to which you let out an annoyed grumble.
“Oi Oi, Mi Amor. What about poor Miguel, he is waiting, Si?” she teased.
“He doesn’t care… Cálla y bésame.”
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You took a deep breath and leaned back on your chair at the round table you found yourself at. Alexia had been pulled from your side which she had stuck to like glue all evening, to go and present the final award of the evening which she had just done, very sexily if you do say so yourself. All confident and boob-y.
You smiled, imagining her now making small talk backstage, eyes bored but a smile plastered on her face as she tried to make her way back to your table.
Your other table-mates seemed to take the opportunity of the break in the ceremony to raid the free bar put on by the charity. Which seemed very uncharitable of them. But, as you toyed with the rim of your glass, who were you to judge?
Stomach full from a mediocre-mass produced meal and head happily fuzzy from the bubbles you had consumed you found yourself oddly satisfied as you sat here. In this conference room-turned auditorium in the middle of Barcelona, here, loudly and proudly as Alexia's wife.
Mrs Putellas.
You couldn’t help but smile to yourself, you felt weirdly grown-up. With your wife, your house, and your business. You blinked and missed yourself becoming so settled and for once in your life you weren’t terrified of the idea.
You saw the glint in Alexia's eye. When Irene and her wife would come round for dinner and bring their kid. She’d surrender all hostess duties and sit on the living room floor, crawling around at the beck and call of whatever imaginary game the 5 year old insisted on. You’d seen her perfect her lion roar in that very spot. It probably matched the glint in yours when you were grocery shopping and a child being pushed in a trolley would go past shoving cookies into the trolley without their Mother seeing.
Maybe, you thought, maybe it was time…
“It is you! I am so sorry to interrupt. I had to come over to introduce myself. I am such a fan…”
You glanced around, expecting Alexia to be standing over your shoulder and smiling politely at the person who had approached your table to meet her… but you were met with blank space and then you engaged your silly brain and realised the person was speaking English and looking at you and…
Oh My God.
It’s Bear Grylls.
“Oh My God. You’re Bear Grylls.”
You let out.
Stupidly.
Standing and thrusting your hand out like an idiot to your legitimate childhood hero.
You and your brother would watch his series for hours as children. Sat cross-legged 2 inches from the TV on your living room floor, eating up every second of his adventures. Your mum had to stop you from eating a woodlouse once in your garden because you’d seen him eat a cricket in the Amazon the evening before. Your brother smacked upside the head for trying to drink a cup of his own wee for the same reason.
Now you were a well-seasoned adventurer yourself you knew that all of that was for theatricks.
You had spent more than 7 weeks wandering the Amazon yourself once, and not one drop of urine passed your lips. Not one 8 legged insect had you gulped down in one.
But still.
Hero.
He took your hand graciously, as you both sat back down you prepared to barrage him with questions but before you could he jumped right in…
“I have been wanting to meet you for years. But my team said you had disappeared off to Spain and couldn’t be tracked down. Please, I've been desperate to know. .. Tell me all about summiting Orjas del Salado…”
So you told him, and you asked him about his adventures, and you chatted for what could have been hours, sharing stories and advice with Bear-fucking-Grylls.
He blushed as you pointed out his for-TV tricks and you thanked him for being a portal into the wider world from your living room.
At some point you felt Alexia return, a strong hand on your shoulder. You paused your monologue about Patagonia and giddily took her hand in yours, introducing them to each other.
Polite pleasantries exchanged you could tell she had legitimately no idea what was going on or who this middle-aged English guy at your table was, but judging from your excited eyes, she didn’t need to interrupt.
It didn’t take too long for someone from his team to pull him away for an interview with the charity. But as you stood to say your goodbyes he made an offer, “You know, me and the production company are making a special about survival in the Alps… I would love for you to be a guest star.”
You stood there like a gaping fish for a moment. “Really?” you asked, in wonder, your 7 year old self spinning around in glee in your chest. Alexia smiling up at you from her chair at the joy in your voice.
“Of course! I would be honored, it’s especially about how to survive in an Avalanche situation. Obviously, with what happened in Nepal…you are an expert in that fie…”
At that point, Alexia stopped her polite silence she had been maintaining whilst you had your moment with your childhood hero. And abruptly stood, clutching your hand hard in both of hers, stern look on her face.
“No.”
From the look on his face you gathered that this successful upper-middle class white English man had not been told no too often, and a beat of silence followed which Alexia was more than happy to fill.
“Sorry Señor Oso. She doesn’t do snow now. Thank you for the offer though.”
She said it with such finality that even you didn’t think to question it. Her mis-translation brought a smile to your face. Her hands still encompassed yours, her eyes didn’t leave his face. As though daring him to rebuff her.
He looked at you as though to confirm she could answer for you. Of course she could. But you knew this refusal wasn’t just about you, but about her also. You knew the anxiety it would cause her for you to put yourself in that situation wasn’t worth anything on this planet.
Nevermind the trauma it would dredge up for you. So obviously, you agreed.
“Sorry Mr Grylls. Not my rodeo anymore. I’ve got some contacts though who you could work with” you politely confirmed your refusal and felt Alexias hands lessen their grip on yours in relief.
“No, no, of course. Sorry. But no. I would really love for you to be involved in the series. We have an episode about promoting women in outdoor pursuits. It's still on the drawing board, but if you are interested I’ll get our people to liaise with each other!”
“That sounds amazing but… I don’t have any people for you to…”
“Don’t be silly Mi Amor” Alexia interrupts again, hand still in yours and the other expertly reaching into her clutch and pushing a card into his outstretched hand… “We have people. Please, Oso, be in touch.”
Smiling vaguely and confusedly at your wife, still clearly mildly terrified of her, he takes the card as he's dragged away by his handler. He's probably still in hearing distance as you squeal in glee and throw yourself into your wife's arms, making her spin with the momentum.
“Ale, Ale, Ale!!! Do you know who that was….” you exclaim.
She can’t help but laugh aloud at your antics, soft look on her face as she lifts you lightly off the ground to stop your spin.
“Si Mi Amor, ese era el hombre oso de la televisión. Tu favorito.” she replies with a smile on her face, speaking softly, somehow, in the middle of this event where she was the guest star, making you feel as though you were the only person in the universe.
“No.” you corrected “..eres mi favorito.” You sealed your words with a light kiss to her lips, chaste but warm.
“Ah, Si. And you have had some wine. You always get soft after wine.” she lightly rolls her eyes with affection at your gushing over her.
It’s your turn to roll your eyes as you pull her into a soft sway, your childhood hero quickly forgotten now you’re in the company of your wife.
Though the giddiness in your bones from your encounter remains.
“Si the wine.” you agree moving your lips close to her ear as you whisper, breath dancing against her cheek, your hand moves to her chest and you feel her breath falter at your closeness,
“but also your boobs.” and you quickly poke her exposed chest between her breasts before she can stop you, and you move away from her pulling her behind you as you rush off to the bar.
“Amor!” she cackles.
“Vamos Ale! A La Barra!”
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Estoy Muerta.”
You grumble in complaint into the chest of the warm and moving pillow that you had clearly settled on in the night.
“Shh Ale.”
“Me estoy muriendo y a mi esposa no le importa.”
“You are not dying Ale. You are hungover and over 30”, you mumble in reply, moving away from resting on her chest, the heat becoming too much for your own fuzzy brain.
“Explain to me how that is different.” she doesn’t take kindly to your light chuckle in reply, as you move your hand to cover your eyes from the sunlight starting to bleed through the curtains.
You peek an eye open and see the remnants of your previous night strewn across the bedroom floor.
You take in the glorious dress of your wifes thrown across your chest of drawers. You recall unzipping it with your mouth after making very good use of the boob portal. Much to Alexia's delight.
You had probably taken it a little bit too far at the bar. Your giddiness let your binge-drinking brit out a little too much.
You had a flash of memory at dancing on a table at a dive bar in the town centre, before being brought down by Alba who you had called and demanded come and dance the night away.
Meanwhile Alexia had been in the corner trying to drunkenly explain to Mapi a set of complicated tactics that they should try out at an additional training session in the morning.
“I thought you had scheduled extra training today Ale” you teased after taking in her pasty complexion as you rolled over and settled back down onto your, cooler, side of the bed.
“I hate you.” she replied, quite seriously, as she moulded herself against your back, taking your hand in hers and burying her face into the back of your neck.
“Of course you do, dear, it feels like it.” you tease again, wiggling yourself and making her grumble again.
You rest there for a few moments, before you’re dragged onto your back again and pulled into Alexia's embrace as she moves you around like her own personal teddy bear.
You go with the flow, quite used to your wife's clingy nature, especially when she didn't feel well.
But your silence doesn’t last two minutes before she rolls you over again, now onto your back, “Oh bloody hell, where are we going now.” you mumble, as she rests her head on your chest this time, nuzzling into your breasts.
“me estoy poniendo cómodo.” she mutters into your bosom, “allá. ahora estoy cómodo”. You run your hands through her hair, smiling down at your wife who is practically purring at the attention.
“Bebé…”, you make a noise of affirmation.
“Will you…” you know what she wants, and you know she must be feeling bad if she’s asking for attention.
“Si, my love. voy a trenzar tu cabello. One big plait or lots of little ones?”.
“The tingly ones por favor” she mumbles into your chest. Your heart expands at her adorableness, never quite learning the English for ‘french plait’ they became known as the ‘tingly ones’ in your household, because of the feeling she would get as you plaited her wet hair after a game, hands working through her scalp.
It brings a smile to your face and you can see the lovesick smile on hers where it is squished against your chest.
You start to section out her hair as she lies still, your ministrations slowly putting her to sleep, working methodically in the quiet morning.
Moving strand over strand in intricate braids, lightly tugging her scalp and undoing when it's not perfect and redoing, giving her an extra scratch to the soft skin behind her ear when you get there, knowing it's her most sensitive spot. Receiving a sleepy purr in satisfaction as your reward.
You hear the animals from the national park outside, feel the sun starting to warm the room around you. Her chest rising and falling against yours hypnotising you further into the moment. You’ve got grand plans, brunch and a walk along the beach in your mind, maybe a lazy afternoon swim, hold on no. Maybe a lazy afternoon skinny dip. Yeah.
That sounds good.
You’ve almost finished tying off the last plait when you are startled back into the moment by the buzzing of your wifes phone on the bedslide table.
You fight back a smile at the groan that is emitted from your fully grown-pro-athlete-wife. It resembled that of a teenager who’d been asked to clean their room or no dessert. When she doesn’t go to make a move you nudge her shoulder.
“Ale. Ale, your phone."
“No.”
“Yes."
“No."
“C'mon Ale.” you reach across and pick the phone up. “It could be important. It could be your secret wife wondering where you are.”
She rolls off you at your tease, throwing you a glare that resembles more of an angry kitten than anything, “It could not be, she knows where I am. I snuck out whilst you were dancing on the tables in that last bar to make plans for dinner.”
“Ah, Si of course. My mistake.”
She surges up and gives you a completely unnecessary chaste kiss, as though even the joke is too much and she has to confirm she’s kidding. The phone has stopped vibrating against the bedside table and the silence that settles over you both is welcome.
“How are you so okay? I feel like I have been run over by a truck.” she states as she rubs her face, finally sitting up to start the day.
“You are old.
“I am 2 months older than you.”
“Two, very long, months my darling.” you tap her cheek lightly as you move to get out of bed, throwing on one of her oversized t-shirts you find on the floor.
“Seria, how?” she asks again, now sprawling across the space you have vacated.
“I am English. I once did a vodka shot through my eyeball in the park. I was 14.” you state, plainley, eyebrow raised in challenge as she just looks at you, open mouthed.
“Ojalá no hubiera preguntado.” she mutters, as her phone starts to ring again.
“Ale, phone.” you say, just to annoy her.
“¡lo sé!” you hear thrown at you, as you head downstairs to set some food out for Billy-the-Goat, and make a coffee for your dying wife.
Soon after, you feel her presence behind you as you stir her coffee, turning as you feel her hands wrap around your waist and presenting her coffee and she takes it from you as though it's a ballon d’or. She takes a sip before she presses a kiss to your head.
“That was my agent.”
Your heart drops, and you can’t help the petulant whine that leaves your lips.
“No, Ale! I wanted to spend the day together. Try that new brunch place Alba told us about. Have a swim, just be together. Whatever brand needs you can wait. Tell them no, please” you finish your little monologue with a pout, and you feel a childish frustration rise as a laugh teases against her lips. You don’t get very far when a kiss is pressed against your lips.
“Well that sounds like the perfect hangover cure Mi Amor. Do you not want me to tell you what it is before I tell them no though?” there's something in her taunt, a glint in the eye that makes you think twice as your mouth already wraps around the refusal.
You take a moment too long apparently, and she takes things into her own hands as she clutches her coffee happily and spins around, “I’ll tell them no! Don’t worry Mi Amor…” teasing lilt in her tone. Whatever the news is, it has pulled her from her hangover.
You wait a beat
Another.
“Fine, What is it!” you groan out in defeat, hands raised to the sky, Alexias t-shirt riding high on your thighs as you raise your arms.
Your wife turns and is distracted momentarily by the flesh on display. Before you cough and she remembers what she's supposed to be doing. Coy smile on her face returning.
“That was my agent…” you huff out at her drawing out the anticipation. “Or should I say our agent.” your brow furrows in confusion as she continues… “she has been contacted by a muy interesado oso.”
Realisation starts to dawn on you, memories of the previous night flashing in your mind and you can’t help the grin that forms.
“Si, Mi Amor. It turns out he really meant it. She said they were willing to offer anything to get you on. She’s getting the details now and will contact us again after our day together today to see if you are interested”.
“I am interested!” you exclaim with glee, Alexia throwing her head back in laughter.
“I know Amor, but let's let them sell it to you. You need the details. Though… I am sure it is no more dangerous than ojos de vodka.”
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Hola, love!” you shout into your empty hallway, hands full of groceries, you shuck off your trainers, hearing them thump against the wall as you struggle into the kitchen.
Tonight was the premiere of “Man Vs Woman” , the special episode of your and Bear's adventure. After the offer was made you met with the TV production company via Zoom to go through ideas.
You pretended you didn’t know Alexia was standing just outside the door to your study, listening and clearly deciding if she thought it was too dangerous or not. At least that's what you deduced from her interrupting with a cup of tea every time a particularly hairy idea was mentioned.
When you brought this up with her you pretended you didn't see her blush creeping up from her neck. Because you’re her wife and it was the wifely thing to do.
The concept was a really cool one. You were excited from the start. The idea was that you and Bear would both be dropped in an inhospitable environment with a map and a knife and nothing else. Neither of you would be told what type of environment but you had assurances in your contract that it wouldn’t involve snow. You had 28 days to get to the muster point. Whoever got there first won.
Simple.
Convincing Alexia it was really cool. Less simple.
“Amor what if there are animals!”
“I know how to avoid dangerous animals. And there will be a medical team on standby,”
“What if you fall and cut yourself on your knife."
“What if you get tackled and break your leg?”
“That's different. What if you lose your map and can’t find your way out and you have to live out there forever”
“I will always find my way back to you.”
“What If-”
“Ale.”
You stopped her rambling with a kiss and when you pulled away you looked deeply in her eyes.
“Que pasa I miss you too much?” eyes wide and vulnerable.
There we go. Her real source of anxiety.
You had spent more time apart than most couples but since you scaled down your travels you had fallen into a sweet domesticity you could admit was a struggle to pull yourself from. 28 days plus the week before to get to the location is longer than you’d like. But it was an adventure of a lifetime. Maybe… maybe your last adventure? The thoughts had been creeping in more and more recently.
Of early mornings chasing more than sunrises, maybe rising due to a baby's babble instead?
You’d made sure that Alexia really knew how much you’d miss her the night before you flew out. On reflection maybe you should have rested your muscles a little more before such a physically demanding month but. Be serious. Look who your wife was.
You are not God's strongest soldier.
So, off you had gone. Competing against your childhood hero for all of womanhood. And you couldn’t lie. You loved it.
Being blindfolded and dropped in an unknown location was exhilarating. Learning the land as you went, with only a map and a knife in hand it was one of the biggest challenges of your life.
The team had made good on their promise and the tropical rainforest you were in couldn’t be further from a snowy mountain range.
You’d refused to let anything slip to Alexia in the 3 months you’d been back. Lips tightly sealed no matter what she tried. You wanted her to be surprised and watch it in real time with you. In all the games you'd attended since you had to deal with an injured Mapi yapping your ear off whilst you tried to concentrate on the game, probing for hints about if you won, what you won, where you were, if you wrestled a snake, how big was the snake you’d wrestled.
“Maria stop with the snake!” you’d finally snapped during the tense quarter final of the Queen's cup.
Which had worked.
For all of two seconds.
“What did the snake taste like?”
You’d originally planned to go home to England with Alexia to watch the premier with your family. But then a schedule mess-up in the league had meant that Ale had to play in a rescheduled game the day after the premier. It just didn’t work for her to come to England.
She insisted you still go, but you refused. You wanted to watch her game. And you knew she’d need you when the show was on. Even if she didn’t know that yet.
You started to unpack your groceries mindlessly, you’d picked some great snacks for the evenings viewing, you suddenly were hit with how suspiciously peaceful your house was, though, you were sure you’d seen Alexia's car in the drive.
“Ale! Love!, ¡Estoy en casa! Come help me unpack!” You shouted into your empty kitchen, back turned to your living room, you had a few hours before the show was on air, “I got that ice-cream you like! I know it gives you a tummy ache sometimes but don’t worry, I'll rub your tummy how you like afte…”
“Amor!”
You turned around at the panic in her voice, “Wha–”
“SURPRISE!”
Ale stood in your living area, face reddening, surrounded by her closest Barca teammates as well as Mario, his ever pregnant wife and his kids, your mum and brother as well as Eli and Alba. Everyone comically in paper party hats and some lop-sided bunting was up above your couch,
“HOPE YOU BEAT THE BEAR SNAKE!” it read, and you immediately knew who was on the decoration committee.
You jumped in surprise, dropping the ice cream and immediately ran into your mum's open arms, “Mum! You’re here!” you squealed into her neck, hiding the tears that had appeared in her presence.
“I am, love. Alexia literally wouldn’t let us refuse the flight. She pretended she didn’t understand English when we tried to at least pay for it. And you know I have a 265 day streak on duolingo but my accent must need work because she didn’t understand my Spanish.”
You pulled yourself from her neck with a wet laugh and transferred yourself into your wifes open and familiar strong arms. “Aleeee” you whined. She knew you meant thank you. And I love you. And you mean the world to me. But you were too British to do that infront of people.
“You need to stop pretending you don’t speak English when you don’t like what you hear.” you muttered without malice after placing a kiss below her ear.
“I know amor. I love you too. And your family needed to be here for your big moment! You couldn’t miss this with them because of me. And then also. Mapi happened and now we’re having a viewing party! There's a cake!”
“And Ice Cream Ale! Don’t worry, I’ve saved it! Though we don’t want your barriga to hu-” Mapi stands the space you'd just vacated holding up the abandoned and slightly battered carton of ice cream. She's stopped from her gleeful teasing by Ingrid covering her entire face with one big palm.
“We wanted to be here to support you.” Ingrid interrupted her girlfriend, addressing you kindly.
“We all did!” you hear from Alba in the back, already tucking into the buffet set up on the coffee table, paper hat skew-whiff on her head. You have never felt so loved. It was perfect.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“So, when are you going to tell her you’re ready for them?”
You are brought out of your daydream by Ingrid sidling up to you and addressing you with her familiar soft lilt.
“Huh?”
She doesn’t reply vocally, just nods her head towards your wife, who is currently having a very intense game of 2v2 in your garden with 2 of Marios youngest and Mapi.
The kids little legs making them toddle around after the small ball adorably, Mapi and Ale giving soft touches they would easily catch up with.
You can’t help but laugh out loud as Ale takes Mapi by surprise and takes a shot against her hard, the ball catching her bare thigh in a manner which must have left a sting much to the small Spaniard's disdain.
Her and the two kids start to chase Alexia around the garden, dramatically tackling her as she suddenly becomes some sort of football monster, rolling around and blowing raspberries on their stomachs as Mapi cheers her toddler army on from the sidelines.
You feel another knock against your arm, dislodging your hand which is supporting your head as you lean over the breakfast bar facing the garden. Lovesick looks clearly on your face, going off Ingrid's coy smile.
“You know, barn. Kids. Munchkins…”
“Yeah, Yeah I get it Ingrid…” you steal another look outside at your more-often-than-not-stern wife getting grass stains on her comfy shorts for the entertainment of your best friends' kids, suddenly you feel like being really really honest. You turn to Ingrid with a shy smile of your own, “soon.”
Her face lights up, teeth on display unable to disguise her smile. “Yeah?” she asks, before turning to look towards the garden, “Me too.”
You smile to yourself and drop your head onto the dark haired girl's shoulder, you both taking a moment to watch your partners play with the kids. The moment is ruined by your mum mussing up your hair on her way past,
“Come on Love, we need to wrangle these last-minute spaniards, it starts in 10 minutes!”
She had a point to be fair. A very chaotic 8 minutes later you practically push Eli into her seat on the couch after she tries to get another plate full of food for Mario’s wife, “¡Está llena de Eli! ella esta embarazada no tiene hambre!” you cheekily remind her, your wife looking up at you from her place on the floor with tender eyes.
“And you…” you turn your attention towards her as you make your way to your seat, “get up here.” you demand, patting the empty space next to you.
“I’m bueno down here Mi Amor, me and Bruno can watch from down here.” she insists. the 4 year old of Marios nestled on her stomach, her arms wrapped around his sleeping form where he attached himself to her after being forced back inside.
You hesitate for a moment, not watching to make a scene or be too needy in front of all your closest family and friends, but you knew that Ale would need to be within touching distance of you in the next hour.
You’re about to make your peace with it when Mario glaces your way. You and Mario have worked together for years. Years before you met Ale and the girls.
You’ve battled more than just bears together. Weeks spent isolated in the mountains. And a bond like that means that you can communicate with just a look.
With just that glance he’s up and pulling his toddler into his own burley arms. Bruno remaining in his deep sleep through the change.
“I’ve got el monstruo Ale. Go sit with your wife."
She doesn’t need any more direction, the small interaction is subtle and missed by everyone, except your brother who sends you an exaggerated puppy dog look.
“Fuck off” you throw at him, finger in the air, quickly grabbed by Alexia, “Hey, I thought you wanted me to sit here!” she teases, sending your brother a wink.
“Stop ganging up on me…!” you’re about to protest further before you’re shushed by Mapi, of all people, sitting on the floor between Ingrid's legs who sits on the couch above her. “It's about to start!”
She has a point, a familiar British accent fills the living room, Spanish subtitles appearing on the bottom of the screen for the Spanish contingent. Bear’s voice is as dramatic as ever, long sweeping scenes fill the screen of intense jungle, a crocodile and an action shot of a snake thrown in for good measure.
“Serpiente!” Mapi shouts, pointing at the screen, before Ingrid hushes her and pulls her back against her legs.
“We all know by now that humans are masters of the jungle. But the unanswered question remains. Is it the King, or Queen of the Jungle? Find out tonight in Man V Woman.”
The title fills the screen with a dramatic crescendo of music. Your friends and family whooping as though it's the champions league final. Alexia barely contains her excitement next to you. You had been steadfast in your refusal to tell anyone the outcome.
The next shot is a recognisable one, the sound of trees being hacked with a machete accompanies a close up of a muddy puddle set deep in the jungle, until the water is disturbed by a ever-familiar battered boot stomping in the puddle, blaugrana laces pulled tight, as proudly as ever.
This prompts another wild round of jeering from the crowd around you as the camera pans out and reveals your full profile as Alexia places a loving kiss onto your shoulder, “That's my wife!” she shouts, proudly, making you laugh.
Bear's voice over continues as you pull Alexia's hand into yours, half pulling her on top of you, she gives you a peculiar look, this being more PDA than you would usually allow in front of your English family, but she goes with it, too full of pride to be worried otherwise.
As the voiceover continues, highlights of your career flash across the screen to introduce you to the audience.
Mountains in Peru, Arctic Explorations, Treks across Siberia, all flash across the screen, mixed in with childhood pictures your mum must have supplied painting a picture of your career so far and your expertise in your career.
The music turns more dramatic as you shift uncomfortably, being the only one to realise in the room what's about to happen.
A picture of you smiling with Arjan at the peak of Everest, ice picks raised proudly in the air. You feel Alexia stiffen on your lap, ever so subtly. Stock footage of snow hurling down a mountain as Bear describes the avalanche you got trapped in.
He gives out stats and figures to heighten the drama… “your chance of survival drops 3% every minute you are trapped after the first 15 minutes… being trapped for 2 days… our guest star did the unthinkable…”
The room is bathed in a white light as the screen changes. Camera shaky and audio changing to the shouts and heavy breaths of whoever the body worn camera is strapped too. “Yahām̐, Yahām̐, she is here!”
The camera catches Arjan digging desperately, it's clear now the camera is strapped to a rescuer on the slopes of Everest, the TV production company having access to the footage through a sister company who were filming a documentary about altitude rescue at the time.
It shakes as the man helps dig, grunts of exertion as the spade digs desperately. A flash of colour and your snow suit is revealed, face pressed up against the rock you had found shelter near.
Arjan clears snow from your face desperately and puts his head close to yours, “She’s breathing!” he pulls you up and your hand, satellite phone frozen in place, falls from the side of your ghostly white face as the camera fades out.
The whole segment couldn’t have lasted more than 32 seconds. But it had felt like time had slowed. You could feel from her placement on you that Alexia hadn’t taken a breath. Her eyes remained wide as she stared at the screen.
There was a heaviness in the room around you.
The voiceover continued, explaining the challenge to the audience but the silence continued. Eli glances at her daughter worriedly, every few seconds.
Just as you thought the tension couldn’t get any more intense… “That's what Alexia looks like when she visits England for Christmas and mum won’t let us put the heating on.” your brother jokes, awkwardly, a crooked smile on his boyish face.
The room is silent, your mum hiding a smile behind a hand only you notice. He goes to speak again, probably to apologise when-
Alexias' laugh shocks even you, bubbling up from deep within her chest. She closes her eyes, a stray tear escaping at the pressure. Laugh still rumbling deep in her chest, slowly the room joins in, as though they’ve been given permission, and soon your in a choir of laughing spectators, your brother blushing deep red at the attention.
“Thank you” you mouth to him across the room, as you wrap your hands around your wife, whos body still shakes with the odd giggle.
He tips an imaginary hat at you in return.
Because he is an idiot.
The challenge begins, unhelpfully, with you throwing yourself out of a helicopter into the rainforest, “Oh Dios Mio” she mumbles, heard subtly under Mapis, “Cool!”.
You press your lips against her shoulder again and mutter into her skin; “I am here, I am warm, I am Safe.” Like a mantra, you feel her nod and grip your hand tighter.
The thing about being in the environment completely opposite to an avalanche inducing mountain range, was that it was hot. Hot and wet. The camera follows both you and Bear as you struggle through the elements seperatly, deciding when to camp down and preserve energy and when to try to gain more miles.
Bear goes hard, and Mapi looks up at you aghast as you decide to build a shelter and bunker down for seven days straight. The heat zapping any energy you had.
“What are you doing! It's a race!” she exclaims, to which you laugh and zip your mouth closed with your fingers, cocking an eyebrow at her as she eagerly looks back towards the TV like a small child.
You spend two days collecting water and, seemingly, according to Mapi, wasting time cutting palm leaves and collecting bark to make twine. Meanwhile Bear is hacking down trees, making spears out of sticks and rock and throwing himself at seemingly anything that would give him a bit of protein on the move.
You’ve ridden yourself of most of your clothing due to the heat. Smothering yourself in mud from the riverbank you were camped next to, you explain to the camera its sun-cream qualities and how it’s safer than clothing as it also protects you from dehydration.
All the while you weave and weave and weave your leaves together, quietly, assuredly.
You explain to the camera; “I am a master weaver. My wife likes it when I plait her hair. Alot. She’s cute. Sorry Ale.” you wink at the camera as your wife groans on your lap and her teammates start to tease her, “Amor! Why!”
“Now. Let's see how this works!” you grin and pull up a large basket to the camera.
The screen shows you scantily dressed, boots safely on a rock in the background, in the river, moving twigs into position to make a run for the fish to swim directly into your basket.
You explain the contraception, set some bait and say your goodnights to the camera, crossing your fingers for a full basket in the morning.
Cheerful music begins as the camera fades back into your campfire, fish on a stick roasting and cooking heavenly, your muddied but smiling face coming into view.
“Bear can eat his roaches and drink his wee. I’ll be here with my fish buffet!” You joke, under your shelter, camera panning to tens of fish in your basket waiting to be smoked.
The next scene shows Bear explaining the protein benefits and the unusual flavours of a witchetty grub as he struggles against the rainstorm.
The music begins to ramp up. Graphics on the screen showing both of your progress. Bear has made much more progress than you. But struggling physically. He’s developed a terrible case of trench foot but was still making steady progress with his machete.
You chose to travel up the river. Walking along its bed you are able to make more direct progress, but it’s more energy draining wading through water. You have, however, had a relatively strong diet over the last 3 weeks.
You’re sitting on the river bed, tending to your basket of smoked fish you’re carrying with you for energy when you suddenly remain completely stock still. Dramatic music begins. Your head raises subtly and then out of nowhere.
“Serpentine!”
A snake strikes at you from the shallows, clearly after your basket, or you, or whatever it can get its fangs in. You react quickly, crouching down to your knees, keeping a low centre of gravity to keep your balance as your right hand reaches into the shallows.
You and the snake strike at the same time, and you throw yourself to the side as you bash a jagged rock against its head.
The next scene shows you taking a mouthful of grilled snake; “Tastes like chicken!” you joke at the camera. Before popping a piece of charred snake skin into your mouth.
You feel Alexia shudder in your arms.
"I'm never kissing you again" she lies.
Mapi slowly turns around, mouth agape, gobsmacked look on her face. “Snake!” she whispers, in disbelief. “You beat a snake!” You can’t help but laugh and lean over to turn her head back to the TV.
“Told you you’d find everything out tonta.”
The map on screen shows the last day of the challenge, Bear's voice over explaining distances to the muster points, as well as geographical challenges. The screen swaps quickly between the two of you, running, climbing and swimming to where you both believed the finish line to be.
You were making good progress, as was Bear.
A close up of a Brazilian flag on the edge of a waterfall.
A close up of you throwing yourself into the river.
Bear gripping a cliff edge and heaving himself up. The camera shows the bottom of the flag pole as he pulls himself up. The camera pans up. And the flagpole is bare.
The screen changes to you.
Standing, still relatively scantily clad in your battered boots, your hiking shorts cut down to short-shorts and thin vest muddied and holey, fish blood staining your arms,holding the flag proudly up in one arm.
The room around you erupts. “She did it!” “¡Jefe de la Jungla!!!!” “I always knew!”, “She killed a snake!”. You find yourself at the bottom of a pile of bodies as Alexia's teammates celebrate in the way they know how. Which is apparently to throw themselves at you in a pile up.
“That's my wife!” Alexia chants proudly from within the pile, laughing gleefully, all earlier angst forgotten.
The screen goes blank, and the image shows you and Bear embracing, laughing as the voiceover continues; “... at least this time. It's a Queen of the jungle… or should I say. La Reina de la Jungla.” Bear quips, as Alexia groans, forever hating her nickname, and the screen cuts to black.
—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It’s hours later, many more plates of food, celebration toasts and questions from Mapi about the snake later. That you're finally in the quiet of your bedroom in your wife's arms.
Your mum and brother are set up in the spare rooms and you have all got plans to meet up with the Alexias family at the game tomorrow before going out for a meal.
Your head is settled on her chest as she plays on her phone above you, struggling to calm down from the evening's events, and as usual, struggling to sleep before a game. You play with her wedding ring on her spare hand. Feeling the cool metal beneath against her warm skin.
You feel her swipe furiously through her phone, getting more agitated as time passes, grumbles that are not-quite words emitting from her chest.
“Hey. Love.” you sit up and pull her phone away. “What's the matter?”
“Nothing.” she replies, bottom lip out in a pout, pulling her phone back into her hand.
“It’s not nothing. Tell me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Alexia.” you sigh, “We aren't doing this.. What's got you so…” you look down onto her phone and see. Yourself? It's her tiktok open and you see an edit of the show being played over… “Hot Stuff? Ale. What's this?” you glance at the comments section and see a selection from seemingly anon accounts;
‘I have never understood Alexia more’, ‘I wonder who calls who capi.’ ,‘Capi, your wife's thighs are bigger than yours’.
“Nothing!” she grabs her phone back from your grip… you arch an eyebrow at her which crumbles her resolve in 3…2…
“Fine! It's all over my TikTok. The comments about you. The fans have made these edits. Of you! All, wet and… muscley and… nearly undressed.”
“And you…don’t… like me wet, and muscled and… naked? Cause, love, I have evidenced otherwis…”
“Shut up! Of course I do but you're mine!”
Oh. Realisation dawns on you and you can’t help but smile.
“Don’t laugh!” she grumbles. “You’re jealous….” you tease in a sing-song voice. “I am not jealous!” she insists, “It's just… tu eres mio! And these people are all looking at you”.
“I am,” you agree, with a smile. “But, love. Try being married to Alexia Putellas. Maybe you’ll keep your shirt on at games now.” you tease, making her smile and roll her eyes.
Eyes softening as you pull her phone from her grip and plug it in for her. Settling back into her chest, nuzzling against the warm skin you find there.
“I am so proud of you.” she whispers into the now dark room, placing a kiss on your head. The moment became more serious and tender.
“I love you” you reply, softly, the moment feels weighted, and you’re not sure what makes you do it. Maybe it's the adrenaline of the evening, having completed your life's ambition, or maybe it's the wine you drank.
Though, really, you know it's because of the images of your lanky wife curling herself onto the rug in the living room because Bruno had decided she was the world's best pillow again. But you can’t stop yourself.
“Ale. I want to have kids with you.”
Her hand stops its movement in your hair and she rushes over to turn the bedside lamp back on.
“Que?” she breathes out. Hands finding their place softly on your cheeks, a look of urgency in her eyes.
“I want us to have kids. Me and you. I want that with you. Is that something you’re ready for?” you whisper, eyes looking deeply into hers.
“En serio?” she asks, as though she's afraid of the answer.
You nod in response. Moving your hand to wipe away the tears that have appeared on her cheeks.
“Sí, Mi Amor. Quiero eso contigo. Mucho.”
You're both smiling too much to kiss, but you make a good go of it anyway. And as you bury yourself into your wife's arms. Hands roaming and adrenaline of a decision made rushing through your body you can't help but think.
This is the beginning of the biggest adventure of your life.
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Philosophically speaking (and speaking as someone who is proooobably neurotypical but has autistic children as well as a strong tendency to end up as the Token Neurotypical Friend in an autistic group), small talk basically functions as a way of saying, "You are a person and so am I. We have identified each other as people and exchanged a brief People Ritual. Hello, fellow person! I may or may not ever talk to you again, but it feels good to acknowledge your existence and I hope that you, too, are a little less lonely knowing that you have made contact with another person." It's like seeing the lights of another ship when you're out on a boat at night. It doesn't directly matter that they are there, but gosh, it's sure a nice thing that there are other people in this universe.
To that end, small talk usually focuses on things that a couple of random human beings may have in common, and the above list is a pretty good one. You can, for example, generally assume that people in your vicinity are experiencing the same weather ("Man, it's a nice day, I know we needed the rain last week but it's good to see the sun again"), the same calendar ("Hey, happy New Year!"), the same general surroundings and local environment ("Do you think they'll ever get done with the construction on I-40?") and so forth. If you cannot safely assume that people are having the same experience of something—"So, like, I feel that Bernie has a point with some nuance on the whole H1-B thing but it is super surreal to see him on the same side as a bunch of idiot MAGAts who think that nuance is probably a Chinese plot"—then you do not put that stuff into small talk. (You have no idea what your small talk partner thinks of Bernie, H1-B, MAGA, China, or for that matter nuance. Too many possible failure points—avoid, avoid, avoid.)
You also want to avoid things that your small talk partner has or may have basically no experience of, which is one place where autistic people sometimes trip themselves up. "So I feel that the Virgin New Adventures in the Doctor Who expanded universe fell much too far on the side of making the Seventh Doctor a scary and near unbeatable chessmaster, when in fact his TV presentation leans far more towards whimsical, Sylvester McCoy is a strongly physical actor who was clearly playing things silly a lot of the time and that's backed up by the costuming and the fact that for heaven's sake he plays the spoons . . ." Nope. This IS a discussion that will be of deep interest to people who share your interest, but not when your conversational partner is scrambling to catch up with what is a Doctor, why are there seven or more of them, and why should I care.
Your goal here is not to inform. Your goal here is not to debate. Your goal is to establish a point of commonality. You are a person and so am I and this is how we experience our world together. And speaking as a neurotypical who struggles with loneliness due to physical disability—it can be really good, getting that little reminder that there are people in the world who are out there experiencing the same weather and the same traffic and the same days and nights.
I'm trying to figure out a good way to say "you really should actually learn the basics of small talk" with sounding like I'm biased against autistic people.
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Sorry about the long ask, but what do you think about this claim: i often see marxists (and adjacent groups, blah blah) say that the united states (empire) is about to collapse or is gradually declining, something along those lines, and specifically with regard to its economy, military and ideology. For example, i was watching a video hosting Richard Wolff, and he claimed that the united states is being replaced by china as the global superpower; he compares the situation to the historical rise of the united states relative to the british empire that slowly took place in the 19th and 20th centuries. I think his comparison is slightly flawed (imo hes comparing apples to oranges here), but in the broad strokes he might be right? I also remember seeing a pretty respectable maoist on here claim the us military is failing. Idk, i would like to hear your take
This answer got real long, so I added a cut. The short version is "people who say things like this are living in a fantasy land, and you can safely ignore their opinions on anything else as a result."
The United States is not the USSR in 1990 or Somalia in 1994 or Rome in the fifth century, or anything similar. Failed states are absolutely a thing, and they're fascinating (and often quite depressing!) historical case studies, and the United States looks nothing like a failed state. It's not even about to collapse in the sense of "suffer a prolonged period of sharp economic decline that forces it to drastically reduce its presence in the wider world and curtails its power in influence." It's not even about to collapse in the sense of "experience significant regime change." The U.S. economy is, overall, doing quite well. There is no significant popular unrest. There is no elite appetite for revolution. There are not competing centers of power that would rather see the status quo burned to the ground than their rivals get power. You might want the U.S. to collapse, and you might not, but the idea it is about to is pure fantasy.
I think before we get to any other specific claims about the United States' position relative to other countries, it's important to note that claims of impending American collapse are, like claims of impending civilizational collapse or Paul Ehrlich's claim of worldwide hunger or breathless claims that the war in Ukraine is going to escalate into WW3 any day now, IMO affective claims about how the speaker feels about the world: there is a certain class of person who, whether out of nihilistic glee, hope of revolutionary change, or simply untrammeled anxiety sees the signs of collapse all around them, Doom-Is-Nigh streetcorner prophets who are emotionally invested in the idea of collapse, for whom the idea of collapse would often justify some pillar of their politics. If, after all, the US is a failed state about to be toppled by its own decadence, this would justify their inordinate degree of contempt for the US.
On another recent post someone phrased claims like this as often being more about "what would be necessary for someone's politics to be justified," and I think that's an important part of it! In fact I think "affective claims about the world being distorted into factual claims about the world bc they are what would be necessary to justify someone's politics" is a fully general phenomenon, regardless of political orientation. There are much milder forms of it than out-and-out doomerism, though of course the absurdity of doomerist claims to this degree make it really hard to take someone's claims about the state of the world seriously.
About the specific claims here:
Re: China: China has experienced terrific growth since the end of WW2, and that's great! A country of over a billion people should by any reasonable metric be one of the largest economies on Earth, and China is, it seems, taking its inevitable place internationally as an economic powerhouse. It's a big country with a ton of people, and it's terrific that it has been able to lift so many people out of the grinding poverty that prevailed throughout much of the country in the 20th century. But like a lot of middle-income countries it seems to be having a ton of trouble, for significant institutional reasons, transitioning from an industrialization-focused economy to one driven by consumer demand and consumer spending. AIUI (and I am so, so far from an expert; mostly I just read what folks like @argumate post from other sources), China has a lot of debt dragging down its economy, and weak consumer demand. China is still much poorer than the United States on a per capita basis, and though it has a large military, is much less capable of projecting its power beyond its borders. It has aspired to increase its economic and diplomatic influence through the Belt and Road initiative, but returns on this project have been decidedly mixed, and China's military and strategic focus remains decidedly confined to its neighborhood. It wants to absorb Taiwan and protect its interests in the South China Sea, and prop up North Korea and such, but it's not able to or interested in, like, fielding large carrier groups that routinely sail up and down the world's oceans or conduct invasions of distant countries like the U.S. is able to. N.B., I'm not saying those invasions are good, just that the U.S. can historically, if it wants, invade and occupy basically any small-to-medium sized country on the planet in a few weeks, and that's not the kind of capability China has, or--AFAICT--is interested in developing.
The British Empire comparison is also, I think, very misleading, and gets at something I find frustrating about a lot of modern Marxists: they want to fit everything into the model of 19th century capitalist imperialism, when the modern global system doesn't look too much like that anymore. Mostly countries like the United States, if they have economic interests in a country, don't invade and reduce the country to a status of colony to extract raw resources from. The Cold War supported a fair bit of regime change in the service of commercial interests, even in the aftermath of post-WW2 decolonization, but nowadays the tools used to develop and enforce the international order preferred by the Status Quo Coalition (which is led, but not commanded by the United States) are much more indirect. They don't involve directly administering colonies, which is significant because colonialism is, for the states that run it, expensive as hell. Sure, it's great for commercial interests--but it's often more a drain on state finances than anything else. I have come around to the view that colonialism was as much an expression of wealth as it was a means to acquire more. Britain was always a small-but-wealthy island country whose empire was much, much larger than its metropole. The vast majority of the population and wealth controlled by the United States is within the fifty states which comprise the core territory of the United States. This isn't Britain with a far-flung overseas empire which is expensive to administer and a minority of Britons on the island itself--this is a country whose wealth and industry is built on a population of 350 million or so which identifies as American first, which speaks English and votes for President and congress. Most of the United States' actual imperial possessions are tiny archipelagoes these days that are economically marginal, or else military bases overseas--these do not generate American wealth and power, they are expressions of it. For the United States to collapse like the British Empire did, it would have to lose control of California and Texas and the Midwest or something like that--which is a goofy-ass fantasy, because if the United States federal government disappeared tomorrow, I think the vast majority of the 350 million or so people living in the present borders of the United States would support re-establishing the United States federal government. Americans like and support the country they live in! This is very different from the subjects of the British Raj, or even the people of Australia and Canada, who had begun to develop their own identity (and thanks to distance from the metropole, completely divergent economic and political interests).
"The U.S. is an empire analogous Britain" is only true if you squint from very far away and don't care about the specifics of history, economics, or politics. But I think again the way to understand this claim is partly affective. If the U.S. really is the second incarnation of the British Empire, then you can cast a lot of disparate conflicts that otherwise don't fit the mold under the aegis of a broad anti-colonial struggle. It also facilitates a certain sort of base campism that some people love to indulge in--the NATO-is-always-evil-so-anything-NATO-doesn't-like-is-good angle, which has a lot of self-described leftists backing in to saying that Putin's Russia is somehow an antifascist or anticolonial force for good in the world.
"The U.S. military is failing" is pure cope. There's no country or active coalition of countries that's even remotely close to the U.S. military in capabilities. Though there is always going to be a stream of waste and corruption and medium-sized bureaucratic fuckups streaming out of the U.S. military, it remains without peer simply by virtue of one of the largest economies on the planet being willing to spend like 4% of its GDP on military stuff. The EU or China might in some counterfactual world be able to field a similar military if they spent a comparable amount, and had similar strategic aims, but they won't and they don't, so unless U.S. foreign policy drastically changes and military spending is slashed as a result, I don't see that changing at any time in the near future.
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can you write fluff for thanos x reader?
«—Thanos/Choi Su-bong x Reader—»
Summary: You're anxious and nervous. Close to having a panic attack— but thankfully Thanos is there to help you stay calm. (Thanos kinda has a soft spot for reader?)
A/N: Another rushed fic! Hope you guys would like this one🫶 it's literally midnight here, this'll be my last fic for the day. Can't say I'll post tomorrow though, I'll be busy😓 but I'll try¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Warnings: None♡
Meeting Su-bong or, well, Thanos, as he liked to be called wasn't all that bad as people made it out to be. He didn't seem to be brash and rude and loud. Well, at least not to you.
When one of the games ended, one where so many of the players died, got eliminated, you were in a state of shock. You thought you could get used to people dying around you after your first game, but you just couldn't... And here you were, in your bunk bed, hugging your legs against your chest. Rocking yourself back and forth, taking slow deep breaths. Trying to calm yourself before the chances of you going into a panic attack rises.
You didn't even notice Thanos approaching your bunk bed until he sat down beside you. His other friend wasn't with him, which was surprising to say the least.
"Hey, señorita." He placed an arm over your shoulder, making himself comfortable in your bunk bed with you. He seemed to observe you for a while with that same smile he always had on. "What's wrong princess? Something bothering ya?" He asked, tilting his head slightly to the side.
"No, nothing's wrong. Thanks for caring though." You replied, resting your head against the metal bars of the bunk bed. "I noticed you've been trying to calm yourself down since earlier by the way you're acting." He shared, fishing out his cross necklace from under his shirt. "You can have some—" "No! I don't want your drugs, Su-bong. I've told you that already." You cut him off, a small frown forming on your face. "Woah, alright, alright." He closed his necklace and hid them back under his shirt. "Calm down, not like I'm forcing ya or anything." He sighed, scooting a bit closer to you.
He gently guides your head to rest on his shoulder, leaning back on the black metal bars of the bunk bed."Hey, it's alright," He whispered, running a gentle hand through your hair. "You can take a nap, hm? I'll be right here. I'll wake you up once the guards are givin' out dinner." His tone was soft, gentle. It made you curious why you were being treated so differently by Thanos. But you didn't complain. You liked having him as a friend..
You took another deep breath, letting your head rest on his shoulder. You closed your eyes, you could already feel yourself calming down. Thanks to Thanos. By the time you know it, you were already drifting to sleep. With Thanos' arm wrapped around you, making you feel safe. It was odd, how you'd feel safe with a person like him, but you don't mind it...
.
.
.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁
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So I had one holiday prompt that I couldn't include in the big holiday prompt fic I posted last week, and I also have been receiving some really sweet and cute ideas that weren't exactly requests, but the ideas were so nice that I wanted to write something for them. I've gathered them into one story that I hope isn't disappointing. I had intended to do separate, cute little drabbles, but I had a bad day the other day and somehow uh, really dark angst happened, and then I used the ideas people sent for the comfort half of the fic? So please forgive me for just... taking it as dark as you can go before including the sweet, cute ideas that people requested. I hope you like the result anyway, although please read the content warnings. Several of the people who sent requests/ideas apologized for doing so, as if sending the ideas was 'too much', but you don't have to apologize for sending asks. My requests are open, and I like seeing everyone's ideas even if I don't end up being able to write for them, or if I tweak them a little to make them work for the story that comes out of my brain despite my best laid plans to stick to an outline.
The river | ao3 | masterlist
It's Christmas Eve, you're at the end of your rope after an absolutely awful year, and you decide to end it all after pushing everyone in your life away. Sylus pulls you from the brink and convinces you to keep going.
Sylus x fem reader, Sylus x mc, hurt/comfort, angst, grief, banter, fluff. CW: attempted suicide, depressed thoughts, NSFW, Sylus penetrating reader (this is not sex ed, do not follow these idiots' example, no discussion of condom or birth control, this is fantasy and we're not going to worry about that in the fic)
Ask #1 You asked to keep sending silly little ideas for you to write so I thought I'd give my own request! After Caleb and Gran (supposedly) die it's pretty much canon that MC refuses help from their friends and isolates themself in certain ways. I always imagine MC sometimes sees Sylus as "the only one they have left" since he is the only one who goes out of his way to check up on MC. But MC kinda grows to resent this and has a moment when their drunk/really going through it and basically ask Sylus why he doesn't leave them be so they can just rot away in peace. Sorry if this is too lengthy or I'm overstepping! Brain worms are getting to me
Ask #2 Okay, so random thoughts here, but do you know that superstition that’s like, “the places where you have moles on your body show where your lover kissed you in a past life”? But like… can you imagine what it would be like if MC had a mole in the exact spot where Sylus bit her during Abyssal Mark (cus I have one there lol) and then that superstition randomly gets brought up, only for MC to show him that mole and Sylus is just s h o o k??? N e way that’s my random thoughts lol (sorry if this is a lot 💀)
Ask #3 I love the way you write the MC and I find myself relating to them at least 99% of the time. Sometimes I just imagine them giving Sylus one of those "Do you like me? Circle yes or no!" Love letters to Sylus because they are terrified of rejection -> i wrote the MC in this story really, really depressed, so if this didn't hit the spot for you in terms of fear of rejection, let me know, and I can include your prompt in another story idea I had before this one that's a lot lighter and sweeter before I got hit by the angst truck that this fic turned out to be. just let me know!
Ask #4 the last holiday prompt! -> idk if anyone sent it yet but from the xmas prompt list, i would love to see what you do with number 8 -> I'm so sorry that this is what I did with it, I hope you like it anyway😭
Thank you everyone who has sent me ideas! If you've sent me a request and I haven't answered it yet, it's because I'm still intending to do something with it.
Here you are. Again.
At the end of a long day. A long week. A long year.
A long rope.
It’s the dark, this time of year.
Maybe.
You’re restless. You’ve passed through the Deepspace Hunters Association doors for the last time this year. Empty days of leave stretch before you.
Normally, it would still be light out, leaving this early. But not now, this deep into the year—it’s already full night, as you leave work early.
The bright lights of the building pour over your upturned face as you look back, just once. You don’t know what for. You’ve successfully severed most of the ties you had built before.
Before everything.
Tara, Xavier. After Caleb, Josephine—they reached out, over and over, and you bit their outstretched hands with your sharp, sharp teeth.
You snapped enough times that they keep their distance, now.
They’re still kind.
Tara still comes, sits on your desk, shares tidbits of gossip during the workday. But she no longer invites you along to karaoke, to after-work drinks with other coworkers.
You and Xav work in sync, as you eliminate wanderers. He walks you to your door at the end of the day. But he no longer offers to lend you books. No longer invites you to the bookstore, or to try new restaurants.
You watch his broad back as he walks away from you, down your apartment building’s hallway. He feels as far away as a star in the velvet night sky.
It’s not their fault. You did this.
You wanted this.
You turn away from the warm light beaming from the Association as you leave early, the Christmas lights glittering in the windows, the holiday party you’re skipping still in full swing in the open, sleek company restaurant area on the ground floor. A division-wide shindig, to celebrate the end of the year, the holidays.
The night is cold. Fairy lights, nets of bright pinpricks in the dark night, cover the trees lining the sidewalk. Decorative light displays stretch across the busy road at periodic intervals, over the canals that parallel the streets, the gondolas and tour-boats festive under their own lights, red ribbons flapping in the cold winter wind.
You think about how they never recovered a body.
Only Josephine’s ashes fill an urn, sitting in a cold niche of a quiet columbarium. Caleb’s urn is empty.
You start walking, fast, along the busy sidewalk. People are out shopping, scurrying to tie up last minute errands before the city shuts down for the holiday tomorrow.
You want to unzip your coat. Unzip your uniform. Unzip your skin, your ribcage. Leave all these pieces of yourself behind, for others to puzzle over. To sweep up with the rest of the refuse left over from festive party goers on the street. You want to dissipate in the cold winter air like your breath with each cursed inhale, exhale.
You settle for beginning to jog to the metro station, your feet carrying you faster, faster, your boots heavy on the sidewalk. You see it lit in the distance, but you can’t stand the thought of being underground right now. Buried alive, with all the other people. You sprint past it.
You’re graceful enough to duck and weave, not disturb anyone else, until the crowds thin.
You’re running, running, the city is streaming past, like the tears from your eyes. Wet from the cold, because you haven’t cried since waking up, your ears deafening, Caleb’s silver chain glittering in the firelight on the walk up to your grandmother’s burning house.
Tears won’t bring a body back.
You don’t know how much longer you can stand this.
The days, one after another. Alarm, moving through the dark to get to work. Moving through the dark to get back to your apartment at the end of the day.
The pain—your only constant, now. The only thing you expect, have to look forward to, day after blurred day.
An echoing emptiness, like an urn without ashes. An emptiness that feels so full that your skin could burst with it.
You think about your apartment. The festive city outside its windows. The half-opened bottle of wine in the fridge, the only thing in it.
You veer from your neighborhood. Keep running. You’re sweating under your winter coat, your heavy Hunter uniform. It doesn’t matter.
You run, and run, and run, until you run out of streets, sidewalk.
Just the river, wide and black. There is a bridge, soaring over the water, in the distance. Its lights reflected in the water, along with the urban nightscape. Stars above, stars below.
You could drown in them.
You look at the bridge.
You could drown in it all.
There’s no one left, after all.
Who will miss you?
You slow. Stop.
Your breath is heavy in the quiet air. Fairy lights sparkle here, too. Pretty swooping light displays top each lamppost along the river path.
You would have gone to identify the body, as you did with Gran. She didn’t look like herself. Not even a sleeping version of herself. They did their best, reconstructing her face. But it wasn’t the stitches, the bruising. It was that she simply wasn’t there anymore. Like a stranger’s body on display. An empty house after the residents have been forced to flee in a night of unimaginable violence.
But running your hands through her hair, one last time. It soothed something in you. Enough that you could breathe in the cold mortuary air. Could nod. Could watch as they covered her again. As they escorted you out into the bustling hospital hallways, to stand under cold fluorescent lights. To stare vacantly at the wall, until you felt a strange, familiar feeling. You looked up, saw Zayne watching you, at the end of the long hallway. You stared at him, memorizing his beautiful face. His dark hair. His severe, cold loveliness. You let yourself look one last time, and he let you. Through the people filling the hallway, each walking with purpose, they were a blur and he was across the world, across time, a part of your past that should never have reappeared in your present. It hurt too much, to look at his beautiful, distant face. He left you behind, once. He should have stayed gone. You can’t stand to experience the loss again, the loss you felt every time he listened to your heart, expressionless, a stranger with a beautiful, familiar face from your past, a past in which Caleb was still alive.
You looked at Zayne one last time, across a bustling hallway in a place full of life, of death, and he let you. You then turned, headed to the reception desk. You switched doctors, hospitals.
You blocked his number, so you’ll never know if he sent you a text, tried to call and ask why, after. He let you walk out. Which is as it should be.
You wanted this.
The water churns under the whipping wind, the fast current. It looks so cold. Cold enough to numb. Cold enough to finally put out the fire that’s been burning in you, ever since you woke up, your ears deafening, Caleb’s necklace shimmering in the flames.
You think of running your hands through his hair. Something the fire robbed you of—it would have been your first time, your last time. He would pat your head. Call you pipsqueak. Ignore your protests to not mess up your hair, to not treat you like a little kid. But he would always duck out of the way anytime you tried to return the favor, tease him, tousle his hair. His pretty brunette hair that always looked so soft. Now you’ll never know how soft it really was.
You look at the water. You look at the bridge. The car headlights meteors streaking along their guardrail-gated orbit.
You think about going home. Waking up tomorrow, Christmas Day. The silence. You think about going back to work. Killing wanderer after wanderer. Wondering which one will be the one to finally kill you.
The days blur. The constant emptiness echoing inside your apartment, inside your ribcage.
You look at the water. You look at the bridge. You imagine running your hands through Caleb’s hair for the first, the last time. A tender goodbye you’ll never have, because they never found his body.
There’s no one left to miss you.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket. You fish it out.
Rafayel no longer calls, or texts you words. He just sends photos, every once in a while. Mundane details of everyday life, rendered extraordinary through his artist’s eye. Paintings he’s working on. A foreign landscape. Leaves glistening with dew. The moon, waxing full.
You haven’t answered in months. You look at each one, tuck your phone back in your pocket.
You look back at the water. Think about taking a photo of the reflected stars, the thin crescent moon in the black waves, think of sending him one last response. But even you’re not that cruel. You don’t want him to realize later, that he was the last one to say anything to you.
You don’t open his text. You block his number. Tuck the phone back into your pocket.
You start to walk toward the bridge. As you walk, you keep your eyes on the path, its edges. Decorative, smooth stones line the walkway along the river embankment. You pick them up, here and there, as you walk. Slip them into your coat pockets.
Eventually you run out of room in your coat pockets, add more to your pants pockets.
You turn your eyes back to the bridge, looming now.
You think of your empty fridge. Josephine’s empty face. An empty urn.
You’re ready to scoop out what’s left of you, leave it behind on the sidewalk, smoldering as the cold night finally smothers the endless fire, the only thing left inside you. Maybe it will warm someone else, in passing. A last good deed, from you to someone in the world.
A metal staircase, leading up, up, into the black sky, mirroring the dark river, your heavy boots echoing. The cars are loud. If you close your eyes, they could be the rushing waves of an ocean, instead of a river of traffic, above a river of water.
You keep your eyes open. You’re not going to pretend that you’re not doing what you’re doing, now. You’re not at the ocean, its pure salt air drifting through your hair, now whipping around your face. You’re on a busy, exhaust- and oil-stained commuter bridge on the night before Christmas, having cut your ties with everyone you have always known never wanted or needed you in the first place. What’s the difference if a wanderer kills you tomorrow, or if something kills you today? Just empty time, blurry days, photo frames without pictures.
The guardrail isn’t so high as one would guess. It’s an easy step up. An easy step over. You stand, looking back over the city where you were raised. The city that contains all the past versions of yourself, from the moment you were pulled screaming into life from a mother whose face you’ll never know, through to now, an empty shell of a person. If your fellow hunters could see inside you, they’d mistake you for a wanderer and put you down, like the scientists who experimented on you, your own grandmother, did years ago.
Since learning that Gran was one of the people who fucked with your heart, you have often resented that she and her colleagues weren’t successful in finishing the job years ago, when they had the chance.
But now you wonder, standing over a dark, freezing river that reflects what’s inside you now, maybe they did finish it. You just didn’t realize it. Not till tonight, as you look down in the mirror of the rushing water, far below.
Even now, the tears won’t come.
What use are tears, when they can’t bring a body back. When they can’t wash it clean. When they can’t lovingly touch it, one last time, soft strands of hair under your fingers.
Your tears, your heart, your suffering, your existence—useless, for the entirety of a life you can only half remember.
You wonder if it’s the dark, tonight. Why tonight, and not yesterday? Why not six months ago?
Because it took that long to sever the ties binding you here?
Now you are assured, no one will miss you. It will take days before anyone even notices your absence because of your holiday leave.
You hope that they’ll assume it was a wanderer. Bad luck. Wrong time, wrong place. A modest little plaque on the wall of heroes, even though you know you’re no hero.
In the end, it doesn’t matter why it’s tonight, and not any other night.
No need to be dramatic, pretending there’s meaning in the meaningless.
You put your hands on the guardrail, the metal colder than your freezing hands. You lift a heavy booted foot. Take a deep breath.
It’s so cold. It will be over before you know it. You’ve read that from this height, it’s the impact, and not the drowning.
You’ve always had dreams of flying.
You lift your other foot, arms thrown wide for balance, just for a moment. The world feels so big, here at the end. The stars above, the stars below, the doubled crescent moon. You’re ready to drown in it all.
You only have one hope.
I don’t want to be reborn.
You breathe, empty your mind of Tara’s earnest smile, Xavier’s soft laughter, Zayne’s steady hands, Rafayel’s flashing violet eyes. Josephine’s empty face. Caleb’s soft, untouchable hair.
You let yourself fall.
You’re flying. Your heart is soaring. Your heart is seizing. The relief, the terror, mingle. You can’t scream, even if you wanted to.
You’re flying and it’s everything you ever dreamt, until it’s not.
Your body jerks, abruptly. Your hair whips down, lashes your face. You grunt with the impact against… nothing. You’re suspended over the water, drifting in the air. The wind tugs at your stone-weighted coat.
You twist away from the water, craning your neck to look up, up, back at the bridge.
You have withstood the uselessness of tears for almost a year now. But now, you want to cry so badly the pain of the need steals your breath.
You knew he was cruel. You knew he was merciless. You knew that he hated you. You just didn’t realize how much, until now.
You hang suspended over a dark, rushing river, wrapped in scarlet and ink tendrils, looking up into the sneering face of the one person you refused to think about as you made your final decision tonight, at the end of your desolate, half-remembered life.
His evol begins to lift you, away from the merciful impact, the numbing water. You, your past, your heart, the memories and despair and stones filling your pockets seem weightless, wrapped in his power.
His usual mask of bored indifference is gone. He is finally showing you his true face, what he must always feel when he looks at you—fury and disgust.
He says nothing, as he pulls you from the depths, back into the world. As he sets you gently back on your heavy feet on the sidewalk in front of him. His evol evaporates, winter breath in the wind.
He looks at your face with his wine-dark eyes. Looks at the water. Flicks his gaze back to your face.
You will not cry in front of this man. This man who hates you so much he won’t even let you seek the peace of death. Death, which has always been too good for you, but not for the people you loved the most.
You clench your jaw as the fire re-ignites in your chest. The flames you had tried so hard to scoop out, to leave behind.
You don’t want to feel this much anymore.
If you speak, you know you’ll cry. You can’t stand it.
Maybe, with enough repetition, he’ll get bored. He gets bored so easily, after all.
You turn, try to launch yourself over the guardrail again.
This time, it’s not his evol, but his arms that wrap around you, pull you back from the fall.
You struggle, throwing your elbows, kicking, throwing your head back, hoping to catch his perfect nose, break it under the hardness of your stupid, useless skull.
He says nothing, just holds you tighter, wraps one arm around your waist, the other over your chest, his big hand cradling the side of your face, pressing your head back into his own chest, as he hunches over you, an immovable wall of warmth. As you fight to break free of his hold, you are wrapped in his scent—cloves, gun oil.
Sylus.
Eventually, you tire yourself out—despite all of your strength, it is no match for his. He holds you against himself easily, as you pant, lungs burning with the effort, the sweat warm once again under your Hunter’s uniform. You become aware of a whimpering, the keening of a wounded animal.
It’s coming from your throat. Your eyes burn. You go limp in his arms.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. A voice like warm liquor in your veins. You think he’ll let you go. You prepare, hoping you can get to the guardrail again. Maybe this time he won't be so fast. But instead of releasing you, getting away from you as fast as he can, the arm around your waist moves up, cradling your upper back. He scoops his other arm under your legs, holds you against himself like you’re a delicate princess, if you were anyone else. But because it’s you, he’s probably just holding you like a useless sack of shit that would be too annoying to drop. He begins to walk, his stride steady, brisk.
He looks down into your face. “I bought a dress for you. Silk. A design like stars over a flowing river. That’s the only river you’re allowed in tonight, kitten.”
You stare at him. His breath puffs white in the cold air. The face of disgusted fury is replaced by his usual bored mask.
Why is he doing this to you? He wanted to kill you, just a few months ago. Why not let you do the job for him?
He is the only person in your life who didn’t take the hint. Who kept showing up, after you made it clear that you didn’t want their presence anymore. That you couldn’t handle the ties, because ties become nooses, snapping your neck when the other person leaves you behind.
When he showed up where you were, in a ‘coincidental’ meeting on the street, on a jog, you would turn, move in the other direction. He would match your stride, doggedly pestering you with questions, asking you about your evening or weekend plans, telling you silly stories from the N109 Zone, Luke and Kieran’s latest antics. Sometimes he’d just walk in contemplative silence, thumbs hooked through his belt loops, or jog quietly next to you, never losing his breath, never complaining about the pace.
When you would routinely see him at various restaurants you were headed to in order to pick up takeout, you’d leave your food, immediately turning and hurrying away. When the same food was delivered to your door half an hour later, you’d refuse to answer, letting the confused and irritated delivery man leave. A half hour after that, the same man would be back, yell through the door that he had instructions to leave the food even if no one answered, and then he’d make good on his promise. You were faced with the choice of either letting the food go to waste, or eating it guiltily at your kitchen island.
No matter how many times you told the delivery person of the almost daily packages you received with no return address that you didn’t want to accept delivery, they would always insist that their instructions were to deliver regardless of recipient response. You were welcome to bin the items after receipt, but if you didn’t accept, the packages would just pile so high outside of your door that you couldn’t reach your apartment anymore.
You would accept, and then donate whatever exquisite item was inside to women’s shelters, children’s homes, university museums, soup kitchens, fundraiser auctions. No matter how clear it was that you wouldn’t accept anything from him, Sylus never stopped sending you gifts.
When you were sick, he’d show up personally, barge into your apartment when you were too tired to look at the doorbell camera before answering, a duffel bag gripped in his big hand filled with fever reducing medicine, homemade soup from his home chef, painkillers, hot water bottles, cooling pads, muscle pads, vitamins. He’d lounge on your couch, manspreading, insisting that he wouldn’t leave until he saw you swallow the pills and drink a gigantic glass of water.
He’d wait until you lay back down on your messy bed, until you fell asleep. He’d be gone when you woke again, but your apartment would be clean and your fridge and freezer would be stuffed full of healthy pre-prepared food.
You were half-convinced he was just buttering, fattening his prey before getting bored and mercifully ending its life.
Tonight, you are now fully convinced.
“Did your tongue freeze in your mouth?” he asks, descending the stairs you had just walked up, thinking it was your last time ascending them. “Do you need mouth-to-mouth to warm it up again?”
You scowl at him, at how appealing the idea of Sylus’s tongue in your mouth is, even now. You hate yourself, your traitorous body for being drawn to him, even now. “What’s the point of talking, when you never listen?” you grind out, your throat sore. You hadn’t realized how much your animal wailing had wrecked your throat. At least the tears are no longer so close to the surface that they’re threatening to spill.
“I listen to every word out of your beautiful mouth,” he counters serenely, with that same inexplicable kindness that makes your heart hurt. So at odds with how you know he must really feel about you. “I just listen to more than your mouth in order to hear what you’re really saying.”
“What?” You stare at his beautiful face, the way the lamplight illuminates its sharp features for a brief moment, before the night swallows it again as he moves between lampposts on his way… somewhere. Back the way you just came from.
He spares you a glance. “Your mouth says one thing, while the rest of you is screaming something else.”
You feel the blood draining from your face. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
One corner of his beautiful mouth lifts. “Don’t play dumb, kitten. You’re too smart for it to be convincing.”
You were just falling into the river. You were just about to be free. How did you get here again? In this man’s arms, his smug, roguish smile filling you with the unease of being seen.
“I mean, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little more honest about the fact that you want people to fight for you, right?”
You begin to struggle again, shame lancing through you, making your body unbearable to be in. You know it’s weak, to have wanted so desperately that the people you were carving from your life would see what you were doing and stop you, place their hands over yours holding the cleaver, gently push it down, down, until it dropped from your grasp—how desperately you wanted them to step into your space, hold you tightly, just like this man who sees right through you is holding you now. You wanted Tara to keep inviting you out with your ridiculous colleagues, to sing your heart out at shitty karaoke clubs, to forcibly drag you to sleepovers and arcade nights. You wanted Xavier to push himself into your apartment, try to bake something horrible in your oven, sheepishly offer to go to the bakery with you instead when the fire alarm inevitably went off. You wanted Zayne to walk through the crowd to reach you at the other end of the hallway after you identified Josephine’s body, to ask to take your hand, to ask how you were doing, even though you knew you wouldn’t have been able to answer. You wanted Rafayel to keep inventing excuses for you to visit his studio, to keep insisting that he needed you to accompany him to expositions and fancy lunches as his bodyguard.
But none of them did in the end, and that’s okay. You kept pushing them away, because your terror of their leaving was apparently bigger than your need for their presence in your life, and at least if they were already gone, as they inevitably would be, you’d finally be free.
But the last person you would want to see this utterly humiliating need inside you, exposing you like this, is the one looking down at you right now with deceptively soft, all-seeing eyes.
You know the feeling, this need, of pulling away and pulling away and then being heartbroken when people finally let you is weak, and pathetic.
You may experience weak and pathetic feelings, but you’re not weak or pathetic. Not at your core. You were prepared to do what was necessary, to save yourself from the pain of your emptiness, the fire raging inside your chest. You weren’t asking anything of anyone. You were doing it all on your own.
Not a burden.
Never a fucking burden.
You clench your teeth, buck in Sylus’s arms.
He just holds you tightly, a straightjacket for the insanity that you’re feeling, the insanity of this man, out of all the people in your life, stripping you of your masks, flaying you so that all of your most tender, shameful parts are exposed to both him and yourself.
“Stop that. You’re just going to tire yourself further, when I need you tonight.”
Of course. The quid pro quo. He helped you with the auction, the Aether Core. Now you owe him. He doesn’t give a fuck if you live or die—he just can’t let one of his assets destroy itself before it fulfills his purpose.
You go limp in his arms. Turn your head away from him.
He continues his train of thought. “No, it wouldn’t kill you to tell the truth to your friends, so you decided to take matters into your own hands, huh? Telling the people in your life that you actually need them wouldn’t kill you, so why bother, right, when you can just jump off of a fucking bridge?” His voice sounds like the night you met him. Controlled anger. Disgust. Accusation.
Then there’s something wrong with her.
You thought you had killed everything inside of you already. The yearning for human connection. The kindness of a friend. Family holding you in their arms. You thought you had scooped out most of it, even as some of it rekindled when he pulled you back from the fall.
But the way you’re hurting now, at the memory of his hate, the reminder that the people you love won’t fight for you even if it would be fighting against you, and that this man, for all of his false generosity, never cared for you from the beginning, that his gifts and his visits were all what you knew them to be, all along—a bored predator toying with its prey before using it and consuming it.
You let your thoughts drift back to the bridge, push your pain away. Feed it to the fire. When he’s done with you, maybe you won’t even have to jump.
“Just shut up, Sylus. I’ll help you with your problem tonight. Just promise me you’ll toss me over yourself, when you’re done with me,” you tell the night, because you still can’t bring yourself to look at him.
He stops walking. The wind is so cold against your face. You wish he’d snap your neck, right now. You’re so fucking tired.
“Look at me.” His voice is low. Menacing.
You watch the water. Wonder how long it would take if you just walked out into it, without jumping. Just walk in with your stone-weighted coat and let the cold paralyze you, the current pull you under.
“Look at me, my heart,” he whispers. The change in his tone, his bizarre endearment, has you turning your head, looking up into his face. “That is one promise I can never make you.” He looks like he’s in pain. You don’t know why. He leans down, rests his forehead against yours, hunching his big shoulders, lifting your body in his arms so he can meet you. His breath is warm against your lips. “Please don’t talk to me like that.”
You want to snort. It’s rich, coming from him—the same man who is telling you not to tell him to shut up, after all the things he said to you as he starved you, strangled you.
“Please don’t tell me to kill you. To hurt you. That hurts me.”
You stare up into his face. See the sincerity in his eyes. The wind whips your hair. He wasn’t upset that you told him to shut up, but that you asked him to kill you? “What does it matter? Aren’t you going to, in the end?”
“Why would I stop you tonight, if I wanted you to die?”
Of course he won’t answer outright. When has Sylus Qin ever answered a direct question?
“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. Why bother stopping me, unless you just need to use me and then be done with me? I can’t be that irreplaceable. Just get someone else to put on the dress, and let me get on with my fucking life. Someone who you can train to say just the right things, at just the right time, who’ll look good in whatever fancy shit you want to put her in. There’s gotta be easier idiots than me to serve your purpose.”
He closes his eyes, breathes in the cold night air. When he opens them, you have to look away. You can’t handle whatever is in them. “I know I hurt you, when we first met. That I said cruel things to you. I’m sorry.”
You laugh, even as your heart wrenches at this strange apology. Of course he doesn’t explain what offended him so much about your existence at the beginning. Why he treated you exactly how you deserved. Probably just whatever he saw when he used his Aether Core on you. He saw the echoing chambers of your empty, fucked up heart and was enraged that it was you, and not someone worthy, who would absorb the Aether Core. “There’s never been any need to varnish the truth, Sylus. You almost choked me to death the day we met. You should have fucking finished what you started,” you sneer. “Why does no one ever finish what they start?” You think of Josephine, her researcher cronies. Think of Caleb, his promise to return, the last text he ever sent you. Your fucking parents, who you will never know.
You don’t expect an answer.
And yet, you’re surprised when Sylus wordlessly releases his hold on you. Lets you slip from his arms, sets you back on your feet. You settle in your heavy boots, the weight of your coat, the stones in your pockets, grounding you to the earth.
The lamplight shines in his silver-sheened, wind-tousled hair. His cheeks are red from the cold.
Of course. Of course.
No tool is irreplaceable.
You’re not irreplaceable.
You finally said the right thing, to push him away.
This is it. This is it. This is it.
Your mind returns to the bridge. Your hand is holding the cleaver, dripping with the blood from the last unwelcome tether to your life.
You try to memorize his face, just as you did Zayne’s, but for some reason looking at Sylus’s face hurts you so much more despite having known him for so little time. Just a sigh, in the timeline of your life. The warm glow of his irises. The softness of his lower lip. The pride in his shoulders, his nose.
Maybe you didn’t want to think of him before jumping because you had fallen in love with him, despite the fact that any affection he offered was counterfeit—the steady way he breathed next to you on a jog, the way he spread out on your couch, his dry humor, his intelligence, his piercing gaze, his kindness that was actually more cruel than if he had just tossed you out and never bothered to look for you again after the auction.
You knew it was fake. You knew it was calculated. You knew that the reality was, because he had told you from the very beginning—
Don’t tell me that you like me. Is this all so you can get my attention?
Clearly you’ve read too many fairytales.
And yet you had believed, in the bright moments of receiving his kind attention, in the fairytale. Just for a heartbeat. A raindrop, splattering on the ground.
You thought that you couldn’t bear to see what it looks like when Sylus finally tires of you pushing him away, and stops reaching out, as everyone else has.
But with just a few words, you’ve finally managed to do it. He set the burden of you down, and now he’ll walk away, replace you with some other beautiful, breathing tool.
You learn in this moment that you actually can bear it. You can bear anything, as long as you know that very soon, you won’t have to bear anything at all.
“You wanted the truth?” you say, suddenly, the relief flooding through you that the worst has happened, that you’re now actually free. You think of the fabric of the dress, liquid stars over a night river, and wonder whose body it will caress, with Sylus’s big hand on her waist, his gentle fingers drifting across her collarbone, his forehead pressed against hers, for whatever ruse he needs to run tonight, on Christmas Eve.
He grows still. Watches you carefully, as if searching your face for a trick. You look back at him steadily, scooping everything inside you out, letting it splatter onto the sidewalk, here along this dark riverbank.
“Will you give it to me?” he finally asks.
“As a parting thank you gift, for cutting me loose.” You nod. Take a shuddering breath of the frigid air. “Here is me telling you the truth: you should treat the woman who ends up wearing the dress you got with more gentleness than you did me at the beginning. You could have the world eating out of the palm of your hand, if you skip the cruelty at the beginning and just treat people the way you treated me in the last few months. She’ll do anything for you, I think, if you do. Because somehow you made me love you, despite our beginning. I could bear to cut everyone else loose but you.” You laugh, and the sound is like icicles snapping, shattering on the ground. “Thank you for doing it for me, instead. It’s probably the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
You smile at him.
You don’t know why you’re surprised that he just frowns deeply, brow furrowing.
Well. That’s okay. You never expected him to be pleased to see your face, smiling or not.
“Good luck, Sylus.”
You turn, begin to walk back the way you came, for the second time tonight. Your thoughts are already at the bridge. You’ve been falling for months now. Soon you’ll finally hit the crystal water and shatter.
You hope you won’t be reborn.
“You said you love me.” His deep, low voice is carried by the wind.
You stop, turn your head. “Stupid, huh?” you ask, wondering if he wants to pour salt into the wound you just willingly exposed to him.
“Why would you love someone who treated you the way I did?”
You turn fully, face him across the night, one last time. “You’re so fucking funny. I’ve always appreciated men who can make me laugh.” You shrug. “And I’m a pathetic fool. You pretended to be kind, and I lapped it up like the thirsty dog I am.”
He tilts his head, takes a step towards you. “That’s all?”
You take a step back. You don’t need him and his pretty face, his delicious scent any closer to torment you.
You offer him more truth. “Of course not.”
“What else?”
You sigh. “What does it matter? We’ll never see each other again.”
He shakes his head. “Indulge me.”
So salt, it is. You press your fingers into the most tender part of yourself, peel yourself wide open. “Your cleverness. How sweet you can be when you want something—strangely pliant, for such a big, powerful man. The self confidence you have. I could say, do anything and you did so well pretending to never be embarrassed of me. You made me believe, very briefly, that you really wanted to be with me, do anything, go anywhere, just because I was there. It’s quite impressive, really. I can see why you’re so good at business. You’re competent. You’re beautiful to look at.” You pause, shake your head in turn. “But you already know all that. You know why you’re loveable. You made me feel cherished in a way that no one ever has, even as I was pushing you away. But honestly, those are just parts of you. They don’t fully cover what it is about you that makes my heart ache when I look at you. I love you because you’re you. Even hearing your name makes my heart race. Seeing your shoes in my foyer, because they were on your feet. The curve of your wrist, because it belongs to you. I know it’s pathetic, and stupid.” You shrug again. “Can’t help it, though.”
He stares at you.
You prod him. “Is that enough?”
“How can you ask if that’s enough, when it’s everything?”
You look at him in confusion. “Huh?”
He takes a step towards you, frowning. “Are you only telling me all this because you think I’ve finally given up and allowed you to push me away, because I set you back on your feet?”
You take a step back, as he takes another step forward.“What do you mean ‘I think’ you’ve given up?” You squint at him.
“Did you only tell me all this because you’re going straight back to the bridge to try again?”
You take another step back at the intensity of his face, his question. “What does it matter? You don’t have to worry about what happens to me after this.”
He takes two steps. “You tell me you love everything about me, and then you plan to fuck off and leave me alone again?”
Okay, this was a mistake. You don’t know why he’s mad, but he’s mad again. “I’m sorry.”
You don’t know what else to say. You’ve been sorry your whole life. This is yet another miscalculation. You should have just left. What did you think would happen if you told him how you feel? That he’d be happy about your pathetic heart bleeding pitifully for him?
He strides over to you, his long legs outpacing your own. “If you’re sorry, don’t fucking do it.”
“What?”
He looks down into your face, so close you can smell him again, you can see the fine lines around his eyes as he frowns. “If you’re really sorry for loving me, for ever meeting me—which are the only things you have to be sorry for, then make it up to me by staying. Don’t leave me. Don’t push me away anymore. Just stay, and love me.”
You huff. “Are you really that desperate for help tonight?”
He lifts his hands, places his palms on your cheeks, his long fingers dipping into your hair. “No, I’m desperate for you tonight. It’s Christmas—I don’t give a shit about the holidays, but I know you do. I want to spend it with you. You made me watch you jump off of a goddamned bridge. What would have happened if I hadn’t already been on my way to you?” He sounds so upset. You’ve never seen him like this. The fear is naked on his lovely face.
“What the fuck are you talking about? What does it matter? You said you could get someone else for the dress, for tonight.” You’re so confused. Why is he acting like this?
“I didn’t say any of that. You suggested that I replace you with someone else, I set you on the ground to make sure you were looking at my face, that you were listening to my words when I told you that you’re irreplaceable. That no one else will do. That after watching you almost die, I can’t continue being cautious and trying not to frighten you away anymore.”
“You… what?”
“You love me. Right? You weren’t lying?” he looks uncertain, like he can’t quite believe it.
You can’t bring yourself to lie. The truth is out. You’re witnessing the fallout. There’s no point in backpedaling. “Yeah.”
He nods, once, decisively. “Okay. That’s enough.”
You sigh in relief. Maybe he’ll let you go, finally, finally.
He checks his chunky watch, the platinum flashing in the lamplight. “There’s still time.”
“Time for what?”
“For my plans tonight. Come.” He closes the distance, sweeps you into his arms again, cradles your body against him like something fragile.
“What plans? Listen—” you start to argue.
“No. Now it’s my turn to speak, and for you to listen.” he squeezes you tightly. “Today was the last day you spend alone. If you can’t live for yourself, then you can live for me, until you remember why you want to live for yourself again. No matter what you say, or what you do to get rid of me, it’s not going to work.”
You can’t even process what is happening. “What are you—?” you begin, but he cuts you off again.
His voice is strained, rough. “You love me. So you have to take responsibility. You have to stay.”
You don’t know what to say.
I’m desperate for you tonight.
You can’t believe this. He hates you. He has hated you from the beginning. He was so kind to you because he wanted to use you for something he never bothered explaining to you. He needs you for your resonance, your amplification of his powers.
You’re irreplaceable. No one else will do.
Because of your resonance?
I don’t give a shit about the holidays, but I know you do.
He carries you along the wind-swept riverbank, through the frigid night. Stars above, stars below.
You made me watch you jump off a goddamned bridge.
You didn’t think anyone was left to care.
You were so careful, severing ties like arteries, so that you wouldn’t leave the world with more pain than you found it. It was already bleeding so much.
You just were so tired of bleeding with it.
As if sensing the turn of your thoughts, Sylus carries you to the edge of the river’ embankment, where the concrete falls away, drops into the water.
He sets you down again, but doesn’t let you go. His big hands slide down the outside of your coat, dip into your pockets.
He pulls out a smooth stone. Turns it in his hands.
“I’ll never understand how someone so light can weigh so heavily in me,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “But you’re a weight I’ll carry for as long as you let me.”
His ember eyes flick back to yours. He hands you the stone.
“This is your conviction that the world won’t miss you, if you’re gone. You will hold it in your hand, one last time. And then you will throw it in the water.” He wraps your cold fingers around the stone. Somehow, his fingers are still warm.
You grasp it, look up into his face. You see yourself in them. It hurts, to be seen so clearly. You’re so ashamed. “How did you know?”
He closes his eyes, shakes his head a little. Opens them. “I looked into your soul, the day we met. I know you’re too soft-hearted in this life to kill yourself if you thought it would hurt someone else. You don’t carry that spite, anymore.”
In this life.
Anymore.
You can’t bring yourself to ask him what he means. You only know that once again, Sylus Qin has seen inside you, has seen you, in a way no one else ever has.
“But I don’t think anyone would miss me. I made sure of it.”
He huffs. “You’re a fool, if you actually believe that. The people you’ve pushed away still love you. But if you can’t believe that yet, then you can’t pretend to yourself that you’re disposable anymore, if for no other reason than I’m standing here now, telling you that I would miss you.”
You think of Tara, sitting on your desk, nudging a steaming latte she got for you on her way to work toward you, asking if you’ve heard the latest about Simone and Andrew.
You think of Xavier, walking you to your door at the end of a nasty wanderer encounter, reaching out, brushing a bit of mud off your cheek, then smearing it across his own cheek. See, we match now.
You think of Zayne, waiting across a busy hallway, patient, letting you choose to approach him, and respecting you by letting you walk away.
You think of Raf, the beauty he shares with you with every photo, the funny strings of emoji that don’t demand an answer.
“How do you know, that they would miss me?” you ask Sylus quietly.
“I’ve been watching you for a long time, sweetie. Do you think I haven’t seen your friends’ faces when you walk away from them?”
You clutch the stone in your hand. “I don’t think I can change my thoughts, my conviction, just like that.”
“You love me, so you have to try. Throw it. Every time you try to drag it back up, I’ll remind you that you threw it away, and you can let it stay at the bottom of the river.” He reaches up, caresses your cheek with his fingertips.
You want to cry. You want to cry, because you’re so afraid. If you let yourself believe that people love you, you have to stay, for them. You have to feel, every day, the weight of grief, of existence, the pain of being alive, of being inside yourself, your body. The hollowness will return, even with your friends, even with Sylus filling most of it.
It’s like he can read your thoughts as his eyes devour your face, as his fingers tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “I won’t let you pretend, anymore. You love me, and I will not survive if you aren’t here with me. So you have to stay. We don’t have to accept that life is a curse. We can fight back. Make it something better.”
“I’m scared,” you say.
His eyes are so tender, as he watches your mouth form your biggest truth, set it free in the night. “I will protect you, until you can protect yourself again. There’s nothing to be afraid of, if we’re together.”
You want to believe him. Your heart beats painfully behind your ribs. The moon is a sharp crescent in the sky.
But you’re a weight I’ll carry for as long as you let me.
“You’ll really stay?”
He finally smiles, a faint Sylus smile that feels like a grin. “I told you. Today was the last day you’ll ever be alone. You can’t get rid of me now, no matter what you do, or say.”
You turn, holding the stone in your cold hands. You think of all the lies you’ve been telling yourself, about your friends, your place in their lives, because you were so tired of living with an unnameable grief, one you carried inside you long before Caleb and Josephine died, but whose loss compounded, made unbearable the original sorrow.
And I will not survive if you aren’t here with me.
You don’t know why he feels this way. Does he love you too? He hasn’t said so. Can he even love you, in the way you love him?
Does it matter?
It’s enough, that he says he’ll stay. That he wants you to stay alive. That he’ll help remind you, when the whispers drift back in your mind, telling you that you’re just a burden, that no one actually loves you, would miss you when you’re gone. When the hollowness echoes so loudly it’s all you can hear.
You lean back, lift the stone, throw it as hard as you can, as far as you can, into the rushing river.
You don’t hear its splash over the wind.
You turn back to Sylus.
He dips into your pocket again. Pulls out another stone. “Your guilt, for having lived. For having been born.”
You take it from him. Let your mind drift. Feel along the contours of your memories, the jagged, missing pieces, all the way back to when it fades to black. You throw the stone.
You don’t see it sink to the riverbed.
He dips into your pocket again. “Your shame, for needing others. For being human, and imperfect. For not being able to do it all alone. For wanting to be loved.”
You take the stone. “Is it really okay?” you ask, helplessly. There’s no point pretending everything he is saying isn’t true. “To want these things, when I haven’t earned them?”
He steps closer to you. Places his hands on your shoulders, draws you in. “There is no okay, or not okay. There is no crime and punishment, no transgression, no sin. How can it be shameful, to want what you were born to want? Why does love have to be earned, instead of just given?”
You lean into him, press your face into his chest, his thick wool coat soft against your skin.
“I don’t know.”
He reaches into your pocket, places a stone in your other hand. “One for your shame, one for the idea that love must be earned. Throw them.”
You lean back again, and it’s already too far away from him. But you throw each stone, and they disappear under the cold water.
“That’s enough, for now. We’ll take the rest home.” He draws you back into his arms. Lifts you without effort, stone-filled pockets and all. The weight of all of you. “When you have thoughts of shame, of guilt, of not being loved, we’ll come back. You’ll throw them again. Until they’re all gone. We’ll gather other stones, when other feelings make life unbearable. I’ll come with you, as many times as you need.”
Sylus carries you along the path back to the road that snakes along the river. His motorcycle gleams under a bright lamppost.
He settles a helmet on your head, checks to make sure it’s secure. Puts his own on. You sit behind him, cling to him. Rest your head against his broad back, close your eyes. The motorcycle is loud, and he drives it carefully through the busy, holiday bustling streets, until he reaches your apartment building. He holds your hand as he leads you through the front doors, as he stands quietly beside you in the elevator, his red, warm eyes never leaving your face in the elevator mirrors. He leads you to your front door, waits patiently while you unlock it with your cold finger.
In the hallway, he kneels at your feet, unlaces your tall boots while you look down at him, the soft fall of his silver hair, his big, nimble fingers working the laces.
He then removes his own boots. His coat. He’s wearing a garishly bright Christmas sweater, with prancing reindeer. He hangs his coat on a peg in the wall. He turns, slowly unzips yours. Eyes flicking between the zipper and your face. He gently lifts it from your body, again like it’s weightless, even though it’s still filled with stones. He pulls it from your arms, hangs it next to his.
He pulls you further into your place.
The first thing you notice is the warmth. It’s so warm, like someone came in while you were gone and turned on the heating.
The next thing you notice is the Christmas tree. The one you didn’t get this year, because the thought of the holidays without Caleb and your grandmother was unbearable.
Beautifully, tastefully decorated. Silver and gold, twinkling lights. Its pine scent fills your place.
Sylus moves to a record player on one of the cabinets along your living room wall. A record player that wasn’t here before you went to work today. He fiddles with the arm, and suddenly Joni Mitchell’s River fills your house.
It’s coming on Christmas
They’re cutting down trees
They're putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on
He walks back to you. “Is this okay?”
I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
Whoa I wish I had a river I could skate away on
The music flows around you, paralyzing you. You stare into his face, into the warm glow of his eyes. How could you have missed this? The way he’s looking at you now? Through all the long months since the auction?
He tried hard to help me
You know, he put me at ease
And he loved me so naughty
Made me weak in the knees
Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on
The words wash over you, through you. The scent of pine warms you, memories without form filling you with the sense of home, safety, love.
I made my baby cry
I'm so hard to handle
I'm selfish and I'm sad
Now I've gone and lost the best baby
That I ever had
Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on
He takes your hands in his, thumbs across your skin. “Is it too much?”
You think of how cold it was, standing on the guardrail of the bridge.
You were running toward the bridge, while Sylus was filling your home with warmth.
What would have happened if I hadn’t already been on my way to you?
You think of him spreading out on your couch, as a fever raged through your body. You think of your freezer, filled with food. You think of the takeout boxes, still steaming, sitting in front of your closed door.
You think of him hanging delicate ornaments on a fragrant tree.
I made my baby cry
You shake your head, the enormity of what almost happened filling you. The enormity of the choice you made, that you enacted, until Sylus pulled you back from the rushing dark.
You start to shake.
“Kitten?”
“It’s not too much,” you say, teeth chattering. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”
He stares down at you, seems to make a decision. “Shower. Now.”
You nod, moving away from him, but he follows.
Inside your small bathroom, he takes up the entire space. He peels off your hunter’s uniform, tosses it beyond the open bathroom door. His gaze flicks from your undershirt, your underwear, to your face. “Do you want me to leave?”
You think of the dark water, an impact that never came. Sylus plugging in the record player, choosing a record with one of your favorite Christmas songs on it. Placing it delicately on the turntable.
“No. You promised you’d never leave me alone again.”
He smiles a little. “I mean, leave the bathroom.”
“No. You promised you’d never leave me alone again,” you repeat.
He stares into your eyes. Nods. Lifts your undershirt. He reaches behind you, unhooks your bra with the same agility that he unlaced your boots. He lifts it from your body, watches you as he lifts it to his nose, inhales.
You shiver.
He tosses the bra behind him. Kneels. Pulls your underwear from your hips, down your legs. You step out of them. He stands again.
He leans over, his ridiculous, festive sweater soft against your cheek, as he reaches past you to turn on the shower faucet. As he messes with the knobs until steam begins to fill the small space. He nudges you forward, past the sliding glass door and into the small shower cabin, letting the hot water pour over you. You turn, watch him through the clear glass. He picks up your underwear, watches you as he lifts it to his nose, inhales as he did with your bra. His eyes close for a moment, and then open. He tucks the little slip of fabric into his pants pocket, sits on the closed toilet, rests his elbows on his knees, and continues to watch you.
You let the hot water flow over your tired, cold body. You stare at Sylus’s face, let it fill your vision, blot out the rushing river, the impact that never came, the idea of everything you would have missed, if he hadn’t pulled you out. Everything you would have missed, in such a short amount of time. What else would you miss, if he hadn’t caught you? If he could give you so much within an hour, how much would you have missed in a day? In a week?
What have you been fighting, this whole time?
Just yourself.
You think of the stones at the bottom of the riverbed, instead of your body. Your conviction that you’re not loved, your guilt, your shame, instead of you.
You stare at the man who handed you each one, and told you to get rid of them, instead of yourself. The man sitting in your tiny bathroom, filling it with his big body, his even bigger presence, staring at you, staring at him.
You stop shaking.
Reach for the body wash, lather your hands. Run your hands along your body, under your armpits. He frowns, eyes on your hands. You palm your breasts, dip between your legs.
He lowers his head, eyes still on your hands, rests his full lips on his long steepled fingers.
You finish lathering your body, let the water wash it away. He’s too far away, even this close, on the other side of the glass.
As you turn off the water, he stands, lifts one of your towels from the rack. Holds it out for you. You step into it, him, let him wrap it around you. He turns you both, so that you’re looking in the bathroom mirror, which is mostly fogged.
“Better?” he asks.
You nod, soaking in his warmth at your back, the steam of the bathroom.
You have a question, a question you can’t bring yourself to say out loud yet.
You reach out with one hand. Trace a finger through the fogged mirror.
Sylus watches you, resting his chin on your shoulder.
Letters, a question.
Do you like me? Circle yes or no
Sylus smiles again, lifts an eyebrow. He reaches out, takes your hand in his. He circles no with your finger.
You frown, heart sinking, but Sylus just whispers, “Patience, kitten,” and flattens your palm across like. Guides your finger again, just above the erased like, drags it through the moisture in an elegant script.
love
He then gently sets your hand down. Lifts his own, circles with one long finger, yes.
He watches your reaction in the mirror.
You had no idea.
This whole time, you had no idea, even though he was showing you, with every ‘chance’ encounter, his pestering you with questions about work, life, his silly stories about the N109 Zone. His packages at your door. Fever medication, a big glass of water shoved into your hands.
You think of the rushing water, what almost happened. What you almost missed.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me believe you still hated me?”
He looks down at you now, away from your reflection in the mirror. His eyes trail your face, down your curved neck. He palms the back of your neck, his thumb drifting along the side, over a mole there.
“Have you heard of the myth that where we have moles is where someone kissed us in a past life?”
Even if so much has changed between you in just the last few hours, you’re reassured that Sylus Qin still can’t answer a straightforward question with a straightforward answer.
You shake your head. “No, I had never heard of that.”
Sylus smiles, and it looks a little sad. He leans down, presses the softest of kisses against your skin, the mole there. “Like most human legends, it’s a pretty lie. Not quite true.”
You laugh. “I could have guessed as much.” You tilt your neck, enjoying the press of his warm lips on your skin for the first time.
He opens his mouth, runs his teeth over where he just kissed you. Bites, gently.
You shiver again. Press your neck into, instead of away from his teeth.
He bites harder.
You gasp.
“I was afraid I’d frighten you with the enormity of my feelings for you, when in your mind, we’d only just met,” he murmurs against your neck, his saliva, the indentation of his teeth hot on your skin.
He bites again, presses himself into your ass through the towel. You realize he’s hard.
You forget about the last part of his sentence. Had you not only just met?
You lift your hands, let the towel unfurl from around your body, let it drop to the floor.
You almost died tonight.
What have you been fighting this whole time?
Just yourself.
He tried hard to help me
You know, he put me at ease
You turn in his arms. He’s breathing hard, cheeks pink.
“You love me?”
He closes his eyes. Opens them. Shakes his head. “Love isn’t intense enough.”
“Adore me?” You lift your arms, wrap them around his neck. Pull his face closer to your own.
He shakes his head again. “Still not enough.”
“You won’t survive without me?” You lift on your toes, his soft sweater almost unbearable against your sensitive nipples.
He nods. “You’re getting closer. Can’t breathe without you. When I saw you jump…” He swallows, thickly. “You might as well have pulled me down with you, beloved. If it ever gets to be too much again, take me with you. I’ll never leave you alone again. Promise me the same,” he demands, big, calloused hands running up your naked sides, the fabric of his dark jeans rough against your body, where your thighs meet, as he helplessly nudges against you again with his hips, his hard dick behind his zipper.
I'm so hard to handle
I'm selfish and I'm sad
“I wouldn’t have known, unless you told me,” you breathe against his lips. “Promise that you’ll tell me how you’re feeling from now on, and I’ll promise to take you with me if I can’t leave the stones in the riverbed, even with you here.”
His voice is deep, rough like the fabric of his pants against your sensitive skin. “Deal.” He closes the distance, presses his soft lips to yours. Licks into your mouth.
And he loved me so naughty
Made me weak in the knees
His hands drift down your sides as his tongue dips into your throat, as he swallows your noises of pleasure, just from kissing him, his hands on you. He grips your ass, urges your legs around his waist. He carries you out of the tiny, steaming bathroom, manages not to knock you against the doorway, or into any furniture on the way to your bedroom, even as he continues to kiss you, as your hands in his soft hair probably block his peripheral view. He lays you down on your bed, the puff of your duvet. It’s so warm in your place that you’re not even shivering. You watch as he pulls his cheerful sweater and undershirt over his head, tosses them to the floor. As he unzips himself, hastily yanks down his pants and boxers, his socks. He blankets you with his big body.
You wrap your arms around him, pull him tightly to you, arch your breasts into his chest. He leans down, runs his nose along your cheek, inhales the scent of your hair at your temple. You just feel each other, for a long stretch of time. His soft chest hair against your skin, the silken skin of his dick between your thighs where he just leisurely rubs himself against you, as your palms run down the muscles of his back, the line of his spine. You’ve refused to think of him like this, ever since he wrapped his hand around your throat. You couldn’t bear his beauty, through all the long months that followed. You fled, every time your heart raced at the flash of silver as he approached you, met you where you were, over and over and over.
But now he says he has loved you, through it all. That he’ll never leave you alone again.
You let yourself feel him, under your hands, under your tongue, as you lick into his ear, feel him shiver. As you squeeze your thighs together, offering him a tight, snug space for him to keep pleasuring himself, as you feel your own wetness begin to coat your inner thighs, his cock, the longer you feel him on top of you, inhale the scent of his skin, the ever-present gun oil, the cloves, his clean sweat underneath it all.
After a lifetime, or only a few minutes, he leans down, says softly into your ear. “I want you. Tell me you want me too.”
“Can’t you tell?” you ask, bucking a little, squeezing him with your legs again.
He makes a low, pleasured sound in his throat. “I want to hear you say it. You’ve gone through a lot tonight. I need to know you actually want this. That you’re not just—” his breath hitches, as you move your hips again, as his dick slips between your wet, soft places. “That you’re not too tired to say otherwise, not thinking straight.”
“Use your Aether Core on me. Then you’ll know that my body is telling you what my mouth would, if I said the words.” You smile at him, teasing.
I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
You had wanted to fly. You had settled for flying for a brief moment, before shattering.
But Sylus is offering you constant flight, under, over, along his crow’s wings.
You think of the rushing water. The tide of cars behind you, the wind whipping your hair. You almost missed this. You don’t want to waste any more time.
He lowers his forehead to yours, breathes, speaks against your saliva-slick lips with his own. “I don’t want to use my Aether Core on you. I want the words in your mouth, in your heart. I want your free will, your freely given consent. I almost lost you because I tried to force you, at the beginning. You believed I hated you, this whole time. Don’t ask me to force you again, my heart.”
You understand. You accept his request, his demand. “I want you, Sylus.”
He exhales, shifts above you, slips his wet cock between your legs, slides into your body with gentle, firm, graceful waves of his hips.
You whine, the feeling of fullness layering into the pleasure of the warmth of his skin, the taste of his tongue. For once, the feelings inside you threatening to burst out of your skin are so good, instead of painful, so pleasurable, that you can barely stand it.
He kisses you, his velvet tongue big, heavy in your mouth. You suck, whine again as he lifts a hand, palms your breast, begins to thrust into you.
You are filled with him. His warmth. The size of him.
You widen your legs, wrap them around his thick ass. Urge him with your own body to move faster, to fuck you harder. He gives you everything you want. Just the pressure of his body against yours has you coming, the release bright, sudden—you shake with it.
Your pleasure seems to trigger his. He grunts, roots into you, buries his teeth in your neck, bites where he bit you before, over the mole on your neck. The sting makes you clench, and he whimpers, groans, comes with a jerk of his hips.
He slows, still filling you, still pleasuring you, as he lifts his head to look into your eyes.
You stare at each other, breath mingling, warm between you.
You smile at him.
He smiles at you. Nudges your nose with his.
“Can we do that again?” you ask.
He laughs, low and surprised. “Yeah,” he says, kissing you softly. “Just tell me, and I’m yours, anytime, anyplace.”
“I’m telling you.” You move your hips, feel his cum drip drown your ass. Feel him gasp at your movement.
“Now?” He’s surprised again.
“Problem?” you grin at him.
“Fuck no.” He kisses you, hard. Slips out of you. Flips you over, lifts your hips with one big hand, pressing his other between your shoulder blades.
He presses his cock back between your legs, the slide easy and wet, and fucks you until you come again, until he blankets your back with his sweat-slicked, matted-hair chest.
“Was that enough, your highness?” he teases.
“I’m telling you,” you pant, wondering what he’ll do.
“As you wish,” he murmurs, before flipping you again. Before watching your face as he slowly, leisurely works himself, his cum into you, makes you come again.
In the morning, the sky through your windows is heavy, dark, gray. You wake slowly. Turn your head, find Sylus’s sleeping face next to yours on the pillow. He’s lying on his stomach. You take in the dark sweep of his lashes, his generous mouth, slightly parted.
You slip out of the bed, use the bathroom. You wander into the living room, gaze at the Christmas tree, its twinkling lights.
It’s Christmas.
Caleb and your grandmother are dead.
But you’re still alive.
Your body aches from Sylus’s efforts, but it feels good. For once, it feels good to be inside your body. To breathe deeply.
You think of riverstones, sinking deep in the riverbed.
You know that the feelings tied to them will try to rise, clawing to the surface again.
We’ll gather other stones, when your feelings make life unbearable. I’ll come with you, as many times as you need.
Your eyes drift to the top of the Christmas tree. It’s empty.
“I thought we should finish it together.” Sylus’s warm arms wrap around you from behind. He leans over your shoulder, kisses your cheek softly. “Do you want to do the honors?”
You smile, wrapping your hands over his forearms around your waist. “You’re taller.”
“Use me as much as you like, kitten.” He turns, grabs a pretty golden glass tree-topper from your kitchen table, hands it to you. He lifts you up onto one shoulder, easily, and you fit it gently over the highest point of the tree. He holds you against him, as he lowers you. You slide along his body, until he sets you gently on your feet again.
You both stand, admiring it for a moment. It’s beautiful, like the rest of the decorations.
You hug him, look up into his face.
“Merry Christmas, Sylus.”
He smiles down at you, ruby eyes twinkling with reflected light from the tree.
You would have missed this moment, and all the moments like it, if Sylus hadn’t stopped you last night. You shudder, hug him more tightly.
You know your feelings will return. That no one person can solve a lifetime of wounds. But you promised him that you’d try. That you’d stay. You can only do your best.
You hear your phone vibrating, reluctantly pull away from him, head to your coat in the hallway where you thought you left it last night, but Sylus stops you. He points at your kitchen island. Your phone is lying on the counter. You look at him in confusion, but go to check it.
You’re shocked at how many missed texts you have.
From Tara.
Xavier.
Your eyes widen.
Zayne, who you thought you had blocked, months ago.
Rafayel, who you’re sure you blocked last night.
Each one is a response from a text you never sent. Telling them Merry Christmas. Telling them you love them. Telling them you hope to spend time with them soon.
None of them shame you, call you out on your behavior of the last year. Even Zayne simply suggests that you try a new bakery, that you’ve been in his thoughts, that he’s relieved you felt comfortable enough to reach out. Rafayel sends a bunch of firework emojis, suggests blowing shit up on the beach for New Year’s.
You turn to Sylus.
He looks steadily back at you, silver hair sleep-tousled, wine-bright eyes glowing.
Your eyes feel hot, and you realize you’re crying, the tears fat on your cheeks, dripping down your neck.
This is the first time you’ve cried since you woke up, your ears deafening, Caleb’s necklace bright in the reflected fire.
Sylus walks over to you. Leans down, licks the tears from your cheeks with his warm tongue, one after the other. He kisses you, ignoring your suddenly snotty nose, your morning breath.
“If it’s too much, we can take it slow. We can throw more stones in the river. But please answer your friends. You need them. And you’re a fool, if you can’t see that they need you too, if that makes you feel better about your own need.”
You continue to cry as you wrap your arms around Sylus’s neck. As he gently sways with you, to music that isn’t playing. He hums, and you think it’s Joni Mitchell’s The River, but you can’t be sure. You smile against his chest.
A thought occurs to you.
“Last night, you said there was still time. That you had plans for us, a pretty dress for me. What did we miss?”
Sylus sighs, holds you closer against himself. “Don’t worry about it.”
You stop, look up into his face. “What did you have planned, Sylus? Are you sorry we missed it?”
He smiles at you. “Oh yes, so sorry I got to spend all night fucking you instead of going to a holiday concert featuring the organ.” His voice drips sarcasm. “But we can go tonight, if you’d like to make it up to me.”
You laugh, bury your face back into his chest. “And here I had planned to suck your cock while watching a black and white Christmas film marathon tonight,” you say forlornly. You smile into his chest as he chokes. “Oh well, the concert it is.”
He just laughs, rich and deep, and continues to sway you slowly in your living room.
“Merry Christmas, my heart,” Sylus says against your hair, in your pine scented apartment, as snow begins to fall outside your windows, as your phone continues to vibrate, filled with the love of your friends.
Here you are. Again.
You’re so grateful, to be here, again.
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[Behold! More! As requested by a lovely person on my kofi]
It had been a weird week if you're being perfectly honest.
Your usual bread guy was held hostage by one of the new weird upstart villain that has been bucking the trend of signing up with the Villain Union, so you didn't have the good sourdough for a few days. Which would have been fine if you had the time to make it yourself but you haven't had the time. And honestly your sourdough isn't nearly as good as Jesse's.
Fearsome Night has been coming in as something of a weird regular. He's... not subtle.
And you don't want to cast aspersions on anyone, especially a super villain. But like... he came in whatever he considers his non-villain persona to scout the place, and it was clear that he was a super villain.
He might as well have had the newspaper with the eyes cut out for as subtle as he was being in your shop.
Still ordered the Equinox and chips.
And, again, he was extremely not subtle, since someone in front of him ordered the Fearsome Night with "extra fearsome" he let out a loud whoop that he utterly failed as disguising as a cough.
If you didn't know any better, you'd suspect that he was waiting to see if Equinox would come in and order from you.
He didn't, at least not while Fearsome was lurking around.
Adrienne Moore did come in and get a double Vestige on rye though. The entire shop went eerily silent as you made the sandwich. She was intimidating as hell. And it was interesting to see Fearsome make eye contact and not react or do anything to notorious rule breaking hero.
You could have sworn there was some recognition there.
No one in the shop dare commented on her ordering the sandwich named after her infamous villain mother.
At least Adrienne tipped super well. Always did.
Eventually Fearsome Night didn't come in for a few days, and you were honestly a little grateful. This weird energy he was bringing in was not making for a healthy working environment and you don't know how chummy you want to get with a super villain.
Finally at the end of the week, you were close to finishing up for the night. You needed to bag up the last of the day old bread to take to the local homeless shelter, mop, and then lock up.
The bell over the door rang and in walked Equinox of all people.
You tried to bite your tongue, you really did, but you hadn't managed to fully leave 'customer service' mode yet.
"Hey there, haven't seen you in a little bit. You good?"
You shouldn't have asked. You shouldn't have opened that door.
Very rarely will someone see the opening created by small talk and just answer honestly. It's always off-putting.
"Yeah, been busy. You know, the job," they say as they gesture to their elaborate costume.
You nod politely. "Usual?" you ask to try and shift the subject but somehow you know that it isn't going to work.
"Yeah, Fearsome Night on sourdough."
You grimace. "Out of sourdough this week. Sorry. My guy got held hostage by Siege Works or whatever that new guy was that took over the library. He's taking some time off to recover and stuff."
"Damn that villain! He can't stop until he ruins everything he touches!"
"Sorry. I can do any of the other usual breads."
"Fine, can I get it with rye then?"
"Sure," you mutter and try to distract yourself with the sandwich crafting.
"Yeah I was going to come in," Equinox says to fill the dead air, "but I saw Fearsome Night was here. So I thought it would be awkward if I ordered his sandwich in front of him."
"Yeah... he's been something of a regular this week. He's ordered like 12 sandwiches from me this week."
"Really? Do I want to ask?"
You plead, beg, silently, that they don't ask what you know they are going to ask.
"What sandwich does he get?"
You look up from the mostly completed sandwich. You hope that your look is conveying enough sad pleading to get them to relent the question. You don't want to be in the middle of this. It's so weird. It's awkward.
But they don't relent.
"He's a vegetarian apparently so he gets and Equinox. Anyways! Here's your," you say. As you hand them the sandwich and start to say the name outloud when who should bust in, causing the bell over your door to dance and happy little jingle.
"Fearsome Night," all three of you say at the same time. No one else adds the "on rye" but you do.
"I KNEW IT!" he shouts.
"Don't read into this! They make a great sandwich!" Equinox says, trying to defend themself.
"Yes I do," you say at the same time that Fearsome Night says, "Yes they do!"
"YOU LIKE ME! I mean... YOU LIKE MY SANDWICH!" Fearsome Night declares.
"We're closing soon. I have to mop," you say, but no one is paying attention.
"That doesn't mean anything! Don't you dare think any more of this!" Equinox counters.
"It's going to be eight dollars. Here's your chips."
"HA! YOU EVEN LIKE BARBECUE CHIPS! THE MOST SUPERIOR CHIP FLAVOR!"
"What does that even have to do with anything?" Equinox counters.
"It doesn't," you mutter, even though neither of them is paying attention to you.
"IT HAS EVERYTHING TO DO WITH!"
"TO DO WITH WHAT?"
"I KNEW THERE WAS SOME SEXY KIND OF SPARK HERE! WHEN WE FOUGHT BY THE LIGHT HOUSE LAST YEAR!"
"WHY DO YOU ALWAYS SHOUT?"
"STOP DEFLECTING THE QUESTION!"
"Mister Fearsome Night," you try to interject and get nowhere.
"You are insufferable!" Equinox says.
"You like it!" Fearsome Night counters.
"GUYS!" you finally shout. They turn to you as if they just now realized that you were still there. "I'm closing shop now. Here's your Equinox and chips. Here's your Fearsome Night and chips. This is on the house. Now please leave."
"I DID NOT ORDER A SANDWICH!"
"I KNOW!" you shout back. "But now you don't have an excuse to not sit and eat together. There's a nice secluded little park a block north. Now I really have to mop so I can go home and shower!"
"OH! Uh... thank you," Fearsome Night said awkwardly.
Equinox took their own sandwich with some reluctance and a little shame, like they had just gotten caught doing something embarrassing.
"Thank you," they muttered.
"Yes, yes, you're welcome, now please, please leave. And I swear if you ever do this kind of thing in my shop again I will ban both of you from ever returning. And you may be thinking 'oh this cute and very talented sandwich maker can't ban a super villain and super hero from their shop who do they think they are to challenge us?' I want to remind you that I have a standing order for Mariana and their whole entourage. And Dayline comes in every Sunday for a coffee and a breakfast sandwich. If you want me telling my best costumers why they might not be getting their stuff, try me."
Suddenly both supers were very humble.
"Thank you," they both say quietly.
"Go. Eat. I'll see you later," you say as you push them fully out the door.
The bell jingles as the door settles into it's closed position.
You turn the lock, and flip the open sign to closed. The last thing you hear is, "I guess we should go to the park?"
"I HEAR IT IS LOVELY THIS TIME OF NIGHT!"
You own a sandwich shop in the heart of a superhero city. After gaining customers by making sandwiches based on heroes, you decided to try making some based on villains. Today, a villain stopped to review theirs.
#super fiction away!#writers on tumblr#writing prompts#writeblr#someone asked me for more and i had to oblige#i initially had no ideas and then suddenly at 1am i did and this is the result
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🪶 anon here! Can I request headcanons for ZZZ Lighter, Billy, Anton, Ben Bigger, Wise, and Lycaon reacting to being under a mistletoe with his gn crush please?
Oh my God Oh my God I'm so late.
Pretend it's Christmas! just pretend! shut up!!
ZZZ Boys react being under the mistletoe
You smiled and chatted with a little group of your friends, the managers at random play hosted a Christmas party in their parking lot and who are you to decline your best friends! With a few chairs and tables Christmas lights and even a giant projector playing classic Christmas movies it quickly became very lively Even some of the people running the shop next door brought homemade food and treats, and some alcohol. After a drink or two and introducing yourself to a few people, You somehow made your way under a familiar green plant with someone you knew.
Lighter Lorenz
He'll try to act like he wasn't the one who tried so hard to look so casual standing close enough between you and the mistletoe. He'd been trying to get you underneath all night, And now that you're right next to him he had to hold back how much he was smiling as all he did was look up.
"Well, would you look at that... I'm not too familiar with the rules, are you?" The big fat liar said, letting a little curve of a smile grace his freshly moisturized lips from the chapstick he had used earlier. He was already sneaking his arms around your waist pulling you closer to kiss him. You decided to not call him out for his blatant lie as he almost completely took the lead and kissed you.
Billy Kid
He generally thought mistletoe was a myth, a myth that someone like him would never be under a plant like that. He didn't even know that The plant actually was a real life plant until Nicole had to explain to him what he was underneath. And once everything hits him all at once.
Billy.exe stopped working
He doesn't care if he can't feel your soft lips, the fact that you kissed him counts. But damn it was one of those days where he really wish he could feel maybe he should get that skin sensation update. It's expensive but any price he would pay to feel your lips again.
Anton Ivanov
The most chill out of everyone. "Oh I'm just giving you a kiss? Sure!" As he goes in to kiss you. Using the mistletoe as an excuse to kiss you has him fist bumping the air.
Anton is the kind of guy who makes his feelings for you known. He's also so blatant with his feelings that you think he's joking. If it was anywhere else on that mistletoe, he would have kissed them on the cheek or something, but no, for you. He makes sure to kiss you where it counts. He'll even ask "do you want more?"please say yes he would like that.
Ben Bigger
Poor bear he's practically shaking. Despite being twice your size He scared that he might hurt you or nip you on accident with his sharp teeth. "You don't have to if you don't want to... You can just kiss me right here." He says with a smile His claw pointing to his cheek. He could never accept a kiss from your lips. It's not the right time!
He'll make sure to bend to your height. His eyes closed, bracing for your soft lips. He could hear his heart pounding so loud that it drowned out everyone else. He hopes no one is looking. He might die from embarrassment or cardiac arrest, whichever one comes first.
You surprise him by touching his cute face and kissing his little nose. He hopes that you can't see his blushing face through his brown fur, but he's not helping to hide how he feels with his paws covering his face.
Wise
Damn it! He told his sister not to hang up that thing! And when trying to take it down you just so happen to bump into him. His eyes went wide as his heart jumped in his throat instantly forgetting what he was doing. His voice cracks as you point out the mistletoe that he's trying to reach for.
"Y-yeah That's there... Um... So listen you don't have to if you-" You were done hearing it as you kissed him on the lips. Thanking his self-restraint that day for swallowing his internal screaming. But he couldn't do much to hide the blush on his face as he smiled. "Forward aren't you... Save some for me." Four words that he will be regretting for the rest of his life.
Fine, the mistletoe can stay... For now, he'll have to thank his sister later.
Von Lycaon
To him a mistletoe is childish, Even as a younger pup He thought it was a little stupid. But with that bright smile on your face how could he refuse. Why spoil your fun? You look so happy to see him and you're cute face always makes his tail wag.
"where would you like my lips to lay?" He asks. When you appoint to your lips his eyebrows flick up for just a second before his smile widens. "Who am I to turn down such a request." He can't help but give you a little extra pressing his nose against your hand before moving to kiss your lips. Now he definitely understands the appeal of mistletoe.
Asaba Harumasa
He would probably take the mistletoe that is tied to the ceiling and bring it over to you. He taps your shoulder and jiggles it in his hand with a smug smile. He will regret this for the rest of his life, but who cares? He has a little alcohol in his system, and you're right there. His heart could burst when he felt your lips against his. He wanted more so badly. He tried to pull you in closer. His eyes were half-lit as if he were under a spell.
He had to stop himself from going in for another kiss. Your lips were so perfect. He wished he could do more than a quick peck, but with people watching, he couldn't just slip his tongue in your mouth.
#zzz#zenless zone zero#von lycaon#lighter zzz#lighter lorenz#zzz anton#zzz ben#ben bigger#anton ivanov#zzz wise x reader#zzz x reader#zzzero#zzz harumasa#asaba harumasa#harumasa x reader#lighter x reader#anton x reader#lycaon x reader#wise x reader#ben bigger x reader#hoyoverse
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I Hate The New Hero!
Pt 9 - Smackdown
Warnings: Physical abuse
You wake up to a painfully bright light. Opening your eyes you notice you're in a hospital.
So, like any poor person who can't afford a trip to the hospital, you panic. You sit up straight and try to ignore the slightly discomfort in your body. A hand rests itself on your shoulder and you jump slightly, your spider sense were muddled up currently due to the cafe incident.
When you turn to see who placed the hand on your shoulder you almost scream.
Duke Thomas. Duke fucking Thomas.
This is officially the worst day of your life. How could it not be?
Duke seems to be saying something but you can't find the motivation to listen, he looks worried. People could say Duke was the kindest, most normal person in the Wayne family but you could see right through him.
Something was wrong with him. He's dangerous. He has to be, why else would your senses go into hyperdrive whenever he's around. Sure, he's the most tolerable out of them all but that doesn't make him instantly better.
-
Duke stops talking once he notices your dazed look. You look scared.
He furrows his brows and removes the hand from your shoulder, he slowly grabs your hand - so gentle he may as well think it was cracked glass.
"Y/N..?" He mutters, cursing himself silently due to how awkward it sounded coming out of his mouth. Your name was rarely uttered in the family, all talks being through messages and when talking in real life it was always 'that girl' or 'Aranea's hater'.
Never Y/N.
Duke had mixed feelings about you. He doesn't know what to think.
If only you'd just speak with Aranea, things would be so much easier. You wouldn't be so tormented. That look in your eyes - apprehension, fear, and something else he can't decipher - makes him pity you, you have opinions, they just happen to be the wrong ones.
Before Duke can speak up once more to try and snap you out of your dazed state the hospital door slams open.
Both your heads whip to the door a disheveled looking Dick Grayson is leaning against, heaving for breath.
It certainly snapped you out of it. Great. Just your luck. What is he even doing here? Gonna dump more water on you? Ruin more of your belongings? Rub in the fact you ended up in hospital?
To your surprise - and, honestly, horror - Dick rushes to your side and looks you over...
As if afraid of losing you..? What? Are you hallucinating?
You manage to hear his mutterings, his breathless whispers. It immediately enrages you.
"Thank fuck you aren't dead... I would feel so guilty.."
He would feel guilty? Him?
What about you. Not everything revolves around him.
You're the one that was 'pranked'.
You're the one that had the allergic reaction.
You're the one who now has to deal with her parent's wrath once they see the hospital bill.
With all the strength you have you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and stand up. None of them reach out to try and stable you when you stumble slightly.
You take a deep breath before glaring at Dick, you hope your hatred can override your exhaustion so you can actually look threatening.
"What are you doing here." You ask, though it wasn't phrased as a question - moreso a demand. You watch as Dick fiddles with something behind his back before sighing and handing it to you.
"I.. I wanted to apologize for the stunt I pulled. It was shitty of me to do. I bought you a new phone to make up for it though!"
You can do nothing but stare down at the phone in it's box. It was one of the expensive ones your parents always talk about wanting. You know for sure that if you arrived home they'd snatch it from you and hand one of their beat up phones in exchange.
So generous.
"Thanks, Dick..."
What else was there to do but sigh and thank him? He seems proud at your gratitude before turning and heading for the door. He stops before leaving and looks over his shoulder.
"No wonder you're a shitty person, you're room is super shitty." With a chuckle he then, finally, leaves. You hunch over in agitation. You are so done with the Wayne family - and you still need to deal with Duke.
Speaking of, his voice finally reaches your ears.
"Y/N..? Sorry for Dick's comments. That was super underhanded." You side eye him while he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly - what is he? an anime protagonist?
"And, uh, about the whole hospital thing, I can pay if need be!" He looks like he's ready to argue with you about it, as if you were going to reject his offer.
And at first you were, before you realized being indebted to the Waynes is infinitely better than being beaten so hard you see Bruce's parent's stupid faces by your dad.
"Okay." Is all you say, shooting him a thumbs up before looking to see if you had your bag - nope! You just gotta hope Sherri or Tia have it.
Duke looks flabbergasted for a minute before composing himself. "R-Right, yeah, sorry, I expected more.. Fight?" You watch as he visibly cringes and you can't help but deadpan.
You're from an impoverish family, one that wouldn't hesitate to hurt you. You are NOT risking anything.
"Hm. Well, you offered. I'm not going to decline such a wonderful and generous offer!" You try to hide your sneer but it seeps through your words no matter how hard you try.
With that you walk out of the room and to the receptionist at the front of the hospital. You explain how Duke is paying and leave.
The only good thing in Gotham is that the Hospitals are so out of line you could claim Bruce Wayne is paying and they'd just put him down.
Obviously no one is bold enough to do so in fear of Bruce noticing.
Walking home seemed quicker than normal, maybe you were just too eager to go home and collapse on your bed.
You quietly open the door to the apartment, it was already getting dark so you had to be careful.
But, once more, this is most definitely not your day.
Both your parents are up, you can hear your mom muttering to your dad about having a visitor. You walk into the kitchen, hungry, tired, and so done with everything you don't care if your parents hurt you.
Your mother shoots a glare to you while your father busies himself with his food - eating like a greedy pig.
"Where have you been?! We had a HIGHLY important guest here for you and you never arrived!" Her shrill voice grates on your ears and you turn to the pantry, hoping there would be something to eat.
"I was busy... School work and stuff.." You mutter, if you told your mom about the hospital visit she'd lose her head and you'd be on the streets in the blink of an eye.
That would mean your begging with Tim would be for nothing - you'd look like a fool for nothing.
"Stop muttering, child! That's not excusable! Now- What's that..?" You're mother cuts herself off once her eyes catch onto the new and expensive-looking box in your hand.
You hesitate before holding it out, she would've taken it from you anyway, best not to put up a fight.
"... Mr Grayson got me a new phone after accidentally breaking mine" You speak up, louder than before. You mom hated when you spoke under your breath, made her feel like she is the only one who can speak in the house.
She yanks it out of your hands and looks over it, your dad also seems to draw his attention to it. His eyes narrowing as he takes in the fancy thing in your mother's hands.
Your mother turns it around in her hands "Hm... You know, you don't need such a nice phone... You're only in high school. I'll take this and you can have my one!" She grins cockily.
Your dad slams his hands on the table and glares at you and your mom.
"Where is my one" he signs angrily. You gulp, you're in serious danger now..
"I.. Dick didn't get a second.. The phone was meant for me is all!" Your words falling out of your mouth like vomit.
To say your dad isn't happy would be an understatement. Your mom, noticing his demeanor, hums and says something about taking a shower as she leaves the kitchen.
Your dad stands up, fists clenched, he walks around the bench and stalks up to you. You take a step back, you can see your hands shaking in front of you as you brace for impact.
One punch across your jaw, a kick to the knee, a pull to your hair that brings you to the floor with a cry.
if it was a criminal and you were Aranea you would fight back, defend yourself. But, this is your dad, you can't bring yourself to fight back - you hate him, god you hate him.
A kick directs itself into your stomach, then your lips, then back down to your ribcage. You swear your gums are bleeding, you feel blood drip from your busted lip.
You do what you usually do when confronted with this situation.
You zone out, pretend you're in a better world, a better life.
Eventually you go unconscious, unaware of when or how. When you wake up you're on the kitchen floor and the morning light casts in your eyes like a lamp that's too bright.
You groan and sit up, blood on your tongue, your clothes, and your skin. You'll need to have a quick shower because school starts in an hour.
~
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Daryl x Reader fluff
prompt: "You can stop hugging me now." | "No, I don't think I can." @creativepromptsforwriting
Summary: Daryl returns from a long trip with something he found, quietly revealing that you’ve been on his mind all along. fluff. drabble.
a/n: just trying to get the writing juices flowing again, been feeling a little bit of a block so thought I'd try this prompt!
The sun hangs low, painting the woods over the fence of the watchtower in warm amber hues. You're peering through your binoculars as Alexandria stretches out behind you, quiet except for the occasional clatter of someone working on the fences. You have one earbud in, listening to your Walkman that's strapped to your hip. The tiny device is temperamental, but it still works, and it’s the one thread tying you to the world before everything fell apart. The music is just low enough that when you adjust your stance, scanning the perimeter again, a distant rumble draws your attention.
You lower the binoculars, squinting against the light until you spot it. The familiar shape of Daryl’s motorcycle cuts through the dusty road leading to the gates. A smile tugs at your lips as you turn to look over the railing down at the gate.
“Sasha,” you say, snagging your earbud out by the wire, “Daryl’s back. Open the gate.”
“Copy that,” she replies, composed and straight faced.
You watch as the gates roll open and Daryl rides in, the low growl of his engine fading as he kills the ignition. He swings off the bike, crossbow slung over his shoulder, and pauses, his eyes lifting to meet yours. Even from this distance, you catch the flicker of something in his gaze—relief, maybe, or something warmer.
“You just gonna stare, or you comin’ down?” he calls, his voice carrying easily in the still evening air.
You smile as you shout down at him, "I'm on duty!"
You watch as he shakes his head and makes his way over. Backpack in hand, he starts climbing the ladder to your perch. By the time he reaches the top, you’re already leaning against the railing, looping your ear buds up to put away. You really hope he can't see how your heart hammers in your ribs when he is near.
There’s something about him that always pulls at you, no matter how much you try to ignore it. Maybe it’s the way he moves, like he’s part of the world but never tethered to it, or the way he notices things without ever calling attention to himself. It’s in the roughness of his voice, the quiet steadiness of his presence, and the flashes of something softer beneath all the grit. You’ve caught yourself watching him more times than you’d like to admit—how his hands move when he works on his bike, the way his brow furrows in thought, the rare curve of his lips when he smirks. And now, with him this close, the familiar tug in your chest feels undeniable.
“Got somethin’ for ya,” he announces when he reaches the top, his voice hoarse from not seeing people for days. He crouches down in front of you, awkwardly pulling something from his bag. A small, rectangular cassette tape catches the light as he holds it out.
Your breath catches when you see the cover. It’s your favorite artist, one you thought you’d never hear again.
“Figured....well, you’re always listenin’ to that thing,” he says, gesturing toward your Walkman. His voice is gruff, but there’s a nervous edge to it, like he’s not sure how you’ll react. “Saw it. Made me...made me think of ya.”
You take it from him, fingers brushing over the cracked plastic of the case, lingering on the edges as if holding it too tightly might make it disappear. Flipping it over, you see the album cover, worn but intact, its familiar image bringing an ache to your chest. Your thoughts stumble, scrambling for something to say, but all you can focus on is the fact that Daryl thought of you.
He thought of you.
While he was out there, risking his neck for the group, scavenging scraps of the old world, searching for strangers who might one day be allies—he thought of you. The image of him out there, surrounded by danger at every turn, with walkers and worse waiting in the shadows, and still having a moment to think of you, makes your chest tighten. Despite the chaos, the noise, the relentless fight to survive, you were on his mind. Not just as another member of the group, but as someone he cared about enough to bring back this small, fragile piece of comfort.
The thought is overwhelming, pulling the air from your lungs, leaving you dizzy with the weight of it. Because in a world where everything is fleeting, Daryl Dixon thought of you.
Before you can stop yourself, you’re moving. Your arms wrap around his neck, catching him off guard. He stiffens, his hands coming up to hover over you, almost unsure if he should touch you. After a heartbeat of not letting go, you feel his voice vibrating in his chest.
“You can stop hugging me now,” he grumbles, though his voice wavers just enough to betray him.
You tighten your grip, pressing your cheek against the warmth of him, breathing in the smell of musk, of pine and leather and cigarettes--so uniquely Daryl, “No,” you whisper, the words soft but sure. “I don’t think I can.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Then, slowly, his hands settle on the small of your back, tentative but steady. The air between you shifts, quiet and charged, the unspoken things you’re both too afraid to say hanging in the space.
When you finally pull away, his cheeks are tinged pink, and he’s looking anywhere but at you.
“Thank you, Daryl,” you say, holding up the cassette tape like it’s the most precious thing you’ve ever owned, "Seriously."
He shrugs, his eyes flickering to yours for just a second before dropping. “Ain’t nothin’.”
But the corner of his mouth quirks up, just a little, as he turns to climb back down the ladder, leaving you with the music, the sunset, and a heart pounding harder than it should.
#daryl dixon drabbles#daryl dixon#daryl dixon x you#daryl dixon x reader#the walking dead#twd daryl#daryl#the walking dead daryl#daryl x reader#daryl twd#daryl one shot#daryl dixion imagine#90s walkman#daryl fanfiction#daryl dixon the walking dead
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New Girlfriend III
Lucy Bronze x Ona Batlle x Teen!Reader
Summary: You make a game
When Lucy cracks open your door, you're as you always are.
You're hunched over your computer, clicking around some game level aimlessly with your tongue sticking out in concentration.
Your mice, like they always are when you're in the room, are running riot in their pen.
Outside of their cage and on the floor, you've set up a little pen for them to roam around and play in.
Lara and Zelda are wrestling like always as Clementine tries to work through the enrichment puzzle full of food. Ezio is asleep, flopped over on your shoulder as you study whatever new game you've found.
"You ready for dinner?"
Now that it's gotten colder, you've managed to get even moodier than before and even more of a shut in.
"One sec," You say. You click around the game level a bit more before pulling up a separate tab to type a long string of something Lucy can't even hope to understand. "Alright, I'm done. What's up?"
Lucy rolls her eyes fondly. "Dinner. Now. Ona cooked."
You push your chair out from your desk and stretch, your back cracking from the long hours you've spent hunched over.
You put the mice back into the cage, each of them getting a quick snuggle and kiss before you bolt it shut.
"Is it good food?" You ask as you go down the stairs.
"It's better than your mum makes!" Ona calls out and you grin.
"Yeah, but anything's better than Mum's cooking!"
Lucy grumbles, shaking her head. "One nice meal is all I ask. One meal where I don't get horrifically bullied!"
"We don't bully you," You say," It's character building!"
You and Ona laugh and Lucy just rolls her eyes. Sometimes, you think she would prefer if it went back to what it was like when you were first adapting to Ona.
"Oh," She says," I sent you those audio files you wanted."
"Thanks."
Lucy frowns. "She's been making you do those too?"
"Yeah, it's for a school project, right?"
You nod. "Uh-huh. It's for programming."
"I know I shouldn't have let you sign up for that," She says," It's all you ever do. I think you're losing sleep over it."
"You'll like it," You declare," What I'm working on. I promise."
"I'm sure that I will but it doesn't mean I think you're sleeping well. Put it down for once, that's all I'm saying."
You roll your eyes.
Lucy's always like that about your programming. Sometimes she lays asleep at gone three in the morning and can still hear you typing away on your computer for hours on end.
You return to your room after dinner ends and briefly come out to show Ona what you're working on while also denying Lucy the same opportunity.
"You've love it," Ona assures her at training the next day.
"Love what?" Keira asks," Oh, y/n's game? Yeah, you'll love it, Luce."
"Am I the only one that hasn't seen it?!" She demands, glancing around the room at people who are trying to not make eye contact with her. "Seriously? Raise your hand if you've seen it?"
Slowly, everyone raises their hand.
"This is so unfair!"
When you first got given the project, Lucy had been the first person to be clued into your plans. You showed her all your design sketches and all your ideas as you jumped between them.
At one point, one of your bedroom walls had been covered in concept designs and you would stand in front of it and point out certain aspects you liked and things you didn't think were quite perfect yet.
Lucu had been integral to your thought process and then all of a sudden she was shut out. You'd ask her to record voice lines or demonstrate doing something but you'd never explain why or what it was for.
You all but unplugged your computer when she came in unexpectedly and tried to get a sneak peak.
"Alright," Lucy says when she gets home to see you and Ona giggling on the sofa together," I've had enough. Show me your project."
You sit upright immediately, eyes wide.
"No-"
"I'm not taking no for an answer. I've had enough of the secrets."
She's serious. You can tell by the clench in her jaw and the way her arms are crossed over her chest.
Lucy's stubborn but you inherited from her so you're stubborn too.
Your cross your arms in the same way as you stand. "No! It's not finished! You can see it when you're finished!"
"Hey," Ona intervenes before the argument can truly get heated. Her hand rests on your shoulder. "It's okay. Just show her."
"I can't! It's not ready!"
"Come on," Ona says," Show her."
You glance at your Mum, who is staring at you with that same stern look and crossed arms as the one that she came in with.
"Fine. Give me a sec."
Lucy sits on the sofa as Ona hooks up a laptop to the tv.
You come back in with a disc and nervously put it into the dvd slot.
Lucy doesn't know what to say when the opening credits appear.
'Lucy Bronze: The Game' with a little pixel version of her holding the Champion's League trophy up on her head.
"We were meant to make a game about a hero," You say," And you're my hero."
#woso x reader#lucy bronze x reader#lucy bronze#ona batlle x reader#ona batlle#woso community#woso imagine#woso fanfics#woso
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LOOK AFTER YOU…
pairing: jj maybank x bsf!reader
summary: an alternative universe to my own bsf!reader, where her parents aren’t supportive of her and jj’s relationship and the consequences of that.
warnings: graphic description of injuries, mentions of physical, mental and verbal abuse, underage use of tobacco, hurt/comfort.
a/n: literally came up with this in ten minutes and binge wrote it in an hour, wasn’t even initially gonna be based on any song but this one just fit so well so why no lol. i guess this is kinda the start of my comeback for the new year, hope you all love ♡︎
♪ Look After You - The Fray ♪
Honestly, JJ didn’t know how he ended up dating the girl who’d been his best friend since elementary school, how sharing beds after a long day of surfing in middle school turned into them smushed up against each other only three years later, limbs tangled and breath mingling, completely drunk off of each other, completely enamoured by the other like it was the first glimpse.
He knew she was a bitch sometimes, he knew she was sweet sometimes, but only ever around him and when they’d completely stripped each other of every wall they’d put up, emotions raw and throat’s even more so from whatever had gone on with their own parents in the place they were supposed to call home. Neither of them knew the meaning until that night.
That one night that changed the entire rest of their lives, for better or worse? Neither of them knew. The night when they both separately hit rock bottom. Absolutely nothing to lose, now. The lowest of the low. Hell.
She’d just been kicked out by her parents for good, and it really was official this time. Something stupid she’d done with JJ that really wasn’t as serious as they were making it seem, but it seemed to be the straw that broke the camel’s back, the final push that made them force all their walls up against JJ, but they were a team, two halves of a whole, so in her eyes, if they were denying JJ they were also denying her, and she didn’t have time or the energy to deal with people like that, so she up and left that night. Sending JJ a quick text before shoving her dying phone in the pocket of her battered shorts and setting off to where she knew he’d go to first.
Unbeknownst to her, JJ’s situation was similar, something simmering on a low heat in Luke’s body for a few days previous, a few too many pills popped and he was ready to burst, and who better to take it out on that his sixteen year old son? No one, supposedly. This is how JJ ends up shoving open the door to the wooden lodge he’s supposed to call home, body aching as he forces himself down the steps, stumbling on an already bruised leg, until he reaches the edge of the lawn of the Maybank residence. The last thing he hears is the raw, blood curdling yell of his father, ‘Run and pray I don’t find ya, boy!’, the blood rushing in his ears and the soft beating of his combat boots against the dead grass, a baffling contrast to the absolute war in his mind.
His bruised legs carry him all the way across the island, the only thing in his mind is her, and it’s the only thing keeping him on his feet, head spinning, as he continually tells himself, ‘Just a little longer, J’, ‘A little longer than you can take a break.’ He doesn’t let himself stop until he gets there, lungs gasping for a breath of fresh air as the wind rushes past his ears, legs aching and stinging but he fights it until the image he’d been imagining comes into view through the weeds of the marsh. The lighthouse.
He’d found her on the rocky island, as expected slumped against the rocky wall of the structure, red and white painted chipped to hell. She was wearing an oversized black tank top, assumably his, the usual pair of denim shorts, and some beat up sneakers, hair falling in front of her eyes, cigarette already burning between her lips.
It’s late, the moonlight bathes her body, forearms resting on her knees, friendship bracelets dangling from her wrists and brushing against the grazed skin of her legs. He wordlessly slumps down next to her, groaning softly as his beaten body hits the rocky floor, a streak of white hot pain passing through his chest.
She obviously senses his presence, it’s completely un-ignorable. She makes brief eye contact with him in the pale light, a warm glow casted over her face from the flame at the end of the cigarette, highlighting the tear marks down her freckled cheeks, now dried and assumably sticky in the soft wind of the late night.
She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to, and neither does he.
That’s one thing that was so special about them, even before they’d gotten together and were just best friends with insane sexual tension, they could always read the other’s mind without sharing any words, could read each other fluently with just looks and body language.
The toe of her beat up sneaker digs into the rocks scattering the floor, and he watches her from the corner of him eye, chest still heaving, her head falls back against the concrete wall of the lighthouse, exhaling into the cold night as she passes off the burning stick to him. He notices how her fingernails are painted shimmery purple, or were, now they’re all chipped and her fingernails are bitten.
He accepts the cigarette, the familiar bitter tobacco and smoke slip past his chapped lips, gash on the lower corner re opening as he inhales. He couldn’t care less in this moment as they both sit wordlessly in the moonlight. She could practically feel the tension in his shoulders and the inevitable tightness in his chest, maybe this cigarette wasn’t the best thing for him right now, but everyone’s got their way of dealing, so she keeps her mouth shut for once.
He glances at her through his peripheral, pulling his legs up into a similar position to her, arms aching as he rests his forearms against his bloody knees. His hooded eyes frail over her tear stained cheeks. She’s tough. Tougher than anybody he’d ever met. He knew not to push her to talk. She’d talk when she was ready, and he wasn’t exactly eager to tell her about what went on tonight, either.
Her softer fingers brush his calloused ones when he passes it back, taking a drag and holding it in her lungs, letting it burn, because in this moment she wants to hurt, the pain is almost a comfort.
She exhales, smoke clouding his image of her for a second as she passes it back off to him, the orange glow lighting him up for once as her lips part to speak.
It’s raspy, like she’d been screaming, or crying, or both. He assumes both because he knows how it is in her house, much like she knows how it is in his. The precise reason why she doesn’t question the cuts on his cheekbones, or the grazes on his knees and elbows, and knows that there’s bound to be a ton more all over his body, concealed by his threadbare shirt and cargo shorts, curtesy of his deadbeat father.
“Got thrown out.”
Her voice pierces the bitterly cold wind that blows, blowing his sweaty, blonde tresses every which way, he lifts a hand to cover the end of the cigarette, blocking it from the strong gusts, the silver of his rings glinting in the orange glow.
He nods once, taking a hit as he takes in the information, he’s not all that suprised though, it was only a matter of time, he knows they’d been waiting for anything to happen to get rid of her for good.
“Same here.”
He says with a soft chuckle, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes and she doesn’t wonder why. He doesn’t want her to know the extent of it though, he doesn’t want her to know how bad it gets. Doesn’t want her to worry.
A small smile graces her lips, the skin stretching tight from the cold, licking over her lips once as she glances at him. She doesn’t even know why, she’s got absolutely nothing to smile about, sixteen, homeless, not even a dollar to her name, but just a glance at him smiling lifts a weight off of her, like maybe things weren’t going to be so bad.
She takes the cigarette back from him, mock forcefully, a ghost of a smirk still lingering as she takes another drag, shorter this time, sucking and blowing before speaking again, forearms adjusting on her grazed knees with a silent hiss, teeth gritted.
“What for?”
He lets out a bitter scoff, staring at his shoes so he doesn’t have to meet her eyes. The moonlight is making her look a fallen angel, all soft and pretty but still a little rough around the edges, just like him. He shrugs like he doesn’t know, pretending like he doesn’t know she can read him like a book.
“Same old bullshit.” He mumbles around the cig, taking a second drag since she’d passed it back, like he was trying to drown out the memory. She scoffs, mirroring his own reaction. Two halves of a whole. She can’t stop her eyes from wandering to his side profile, illuminated by the soft amber glow of the flame, highlighting the slope of his angular nose, the chisel of his cheekbones, already blooming with black and purple splotches, but he’s beautiful to her nonetheless.
She forces her eyes away and nods. “Same.” Picking at the chipped polish along her nails as she glares out at the horizon, the waves lapping ever so quietly at the rocky shore, the light from the lookout flickering dully above their heads.
He huffs softly, shaking his head, passing back the cigarette with trembling fingers.
Of course that was the reason, on her end anyway, and without her explicitly stating it he knows what her ‘same old bullshit’ is. He had pretty much known from the start that her parents wouldn’t be supportive of their relationship. He was a troublemaker, a bad kid, the kind of boy parents warned their daughters about.
He looks up at her, fiddling with his fingers between the gap in his bent knees, blonde hair flopping over his sweat slicked forehead, tickling at the gash above his eyebrow. He studies her profile as the glow of the cigarette lights her up. Even with her hair messy and her eyes red rimmed and her eyeliner smeared down her cheeks, she’s still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
A comfortable silence falls over the two of them, the gravity of the situation hitting them both at different speeds. Two homeless, empty pocketed sixteen year olds, only their love for each other keeping them above water. Dodging whirlpools and massive swells with just each other to stay afloat. She digs the toe of her sneaker into scatter of rocks again, the soft clink of them the only thing heard other than the soft lapping of waves and their breathing, which had now synced.
He keeps his eyes on her, studying her and taking in every single detail in the moonlight. He can see every single freckle on her skin, every single eyelash. She’s perfect. Gorgeous. An angel amongst a sea of demons. He leans in closer, gently knocking his knee against hers.
“We’re gonna be okay, yeah?”
He mutters under his breath, so close she can feel the warmth radiating off of him.
She turns her head, hair falling infront of her black rimmed eyes, framing her blood rushed cheeks in the moonlight, nursing the fading cigarette between her fingers. She nods once, it’s small but it’s there, and it’s all the reassurance that he needs that they’re gonna be okay.
She leans a little more into his touch so they stay close, shoulders occasionally brushing and knees pressed together.
“Yeah.” She breathes out, a small smile making its way onto her lips.
He’s tempted to reach for her hand, to tangle his fingers in hers, to hold her as tight as possible for as long as possible, because she’s all he has left, and he’s afraid if he doesn’t hold her close, she’ll disappear like every other ounce of hope in his life.
But he doesn’t know if she’s okay with being touched right now. He knows she can be sensitive sometimes when she’s like this, closed off and thinking. So he keeps his hands to himself, not wanting to overstep. Instead, he just lets himself lean into her a little more, head tilted a little to the side to give her more than enough space if she wants to lean her head against his shoulder like she does sometimes. He’s making it clear that if she needs him, he’s here. Always.
Then, almost as if reading his mind, her hands finds his, soft skin brushing callouses along his pinkie finger, it’s hesitant but it’s not accidental as their fingers intertwine. She doesn’t look at him but he doesn’t need her to to know what she’s thinking. She stubs out the cigarette with her other hand, the ash hissing softly against the concrete wall behind her head before she flicks the butt into the rocks. Waves lap against the shore, sea foam clotting and sticking and forming pretty consolations, her thumb brushes over his bruised knuckles thoughtfully, but it’s natural and unpracticed.
He lets out a shaky exhale as her delicate fingers wrap around his. They’re smaller than his, more nimble, and yet they’re strong. Stronger than normal, like she’s solidifying every word she’s conveying through his simple touch. That this is real. Once that contact is made he feels like he can breathe again. Her skin feels electric against, sending sparks up his arm and signals to his brain that stop him feeling the dull, everlasting ache all over his body, that thrums low but never truly leaves for good. But this feels right. It feels good.
The winds starting to pick up a little now, she has no idea what time it is and neither does he, but it’s a distant worry. She’s got a little niggling at the back of her brain that there’s a storm incoming, but she’s not sure when or where’d she’d heard it, every memory from the past few days blending into one, where she can’t pinpoint any individual words or emotions.
She lets her eyelids flutter closed, head laying down softly onto JJ’s shoulder, incase there was a nasty bruise underneath the worn cotton, he wouldn’t have told her even if there was. She breathes steadily, breathing in the lingering scent of him on the warm skin of his neck: sea water, sweat and a hint of the old spice cologne he’d stolen from his dad in ninth grade, and then kept stealing bottles whenever it’d run out.
She squeezed his hand in hers: once, twice, three times. A silent ‘I love you’. Neither of them had ever been any good with words, but they didn’t need to be.
She doesn’t know whats going to happen and she doesn’t know what they’re going to do after tonight, when they wake up tomorrow morning in the abandoned lighthouse with less than a dollar to their shared name. But she doesn’t let the thought cloud her memory too long, because with JJ by her side it’s hard to worry about things that aren’t facing you yet, it’s easy to just live in the moment with him.
With her head leaning against his shoulder, breath from her nose tickling his skin, he takes the time to study her for the billionth time that night. Taking in the slope of her nose, her jawline, her eyelashes. His heart does all sorts of crazy things in his chest, things he’d never felt before her. But it’s not from fear, or uncertainty, or anything of the sort. Instead, it’s from love. From adoration. From everything he feels for her.
“I love you.”
He whispers, just loud enough for her to hear him over the wind.
Her eyelashes flutter open, kissing at her eyebrows, fingers still interlocked with his as she zones in on him, he notices the way her eyes are glazed over with tears.
It had always been harder for her to say those three words, even though she’d come from a more conventional family than JJ, his full of physical abuse, hers was full of mental and verbal abuse, the pushing down of her feelings to avoid manipulation is second nature to her. Usually.
But now with JJ, she lets out a soft exhale through her nose, pressing it against the side of his neck, breathing him in as she whispers, hot breath ticking the sensitive skin.
“I love you too.”
He can feel his cheeks heat up when her hot breath brushes against his skin. He doesn’t know why it makes him so flustered, because by this point he should be used to her touch, her quiet little declarations of love. He’s spent countless nights wrapped around her, his arms holding her to his chest like she’s his lifeline.
And yet, when she whispers that she loves him, his heart races in his chest. His fingers squeeze around hers so tight it’s bound to bruise. He doesn’t need to say anything back and she doesn’t expect it, he conveys everything he wants to say through the way his breath hitches and his heartbeat quickens under her ear.
Her eyes flick up to his profile after a minute or so, eyes roaming all over his features from this new angle, pressing her cheek against his shoulder, watching him fiddle with his rings on his fingers, twisting at them, pulling them off and putting them on again. She breaks through his quiet thoughts with a soft question, that he misses because it’s caught in the whisper of the wind.
“Hm?” He mumbles, hand reaching down to find hers again, squeezing it reassuringly as he looks down, hooded eyes completely captivated by her.
“Does it hurt?” She repeats softly, no irritation in her tone like normal when she has to repeat herself to him. He’s confused for a second, eyebrows furrowing until he realises she’s talking about the series of bruises across his cheekbone, her wide eyes lingering on the skin. It’s only then he remembers he was even hurt in the first place, and the low thrum of pain comes back all over his body, wound above his eyebrow stinging when a gust of wind blows.
She squeezes his hand again softly, not forcing him to speak if he doesn’t want to, being patient with him. His gaze stays on her, and he’s coming up with a lie, telling her he’s fine and not to worry about him. But the words get caught in his throat at the worry in her soft gaze. He doesn’t want to lie, not to her.
“Like hell.”
He mutters, bringing his free hand up to his eyeline, the one that’s not gripping hers. He stares down at his bruised knuckles, some starting to scab, others not, starting to turn an ugly shade or reddish purple.
“Yeah?” She replies softly, she seems to have thawed off a little, anger not so red hot, scalding in her fingertips. Not so angry at the world. Her free hand comes up to softly brush against the blossom of purple along his cheekbone, and his jaw ticks under her touch, refraining from flinching away from her. She notices, though, and tears spring to the corners of her eyes, tear ducts working overtime tonight, it seemed.
He lets out a shaky exhale, it’s covered by the wind but she doesn’t miss the quiver of his lips. Her gentle touch feels electric against his skin. He doesn’t want to flinch, but it hurts. It hurts.
Her touch is soft and delicate, tracing over the bruise with a feather light touch. His skin is heated and tender, and any contact makes the thrumming under his skin stronger. But at the same time, it feels good, because she’s touching him. Loving him.
His eyes dart up to meet hers, searching them for any sign of fear. Or disgust.
There’s nothing even close reflected in her eyes. They’re soft, softer than he’s ever seen them. That hard exterior she puts up is broken through as she looks at him, beaten and bruised. It makes her heart physically ache in her chest.
“You wanna talk about it?”
She whispers softly, he hears her through the soft gust that comes in, blowing his hair out of his face a little, exposing the gash across his temple. He’s so tuned into her right now, overanalysing every movement she makes, every word, every breath.
He lets out a soft scoff, shaking his head. The last thing he wants to talk about is his piece-of-shit dad. Talking about the events of tonight wouldn’t change a single thing, and it’s just gonna make her worry.
“There’s nothin’ to talk about.”
He mutters under his breath, avoiding her gaze. He knows she’s trying to be sweet, and care for him but he doesn’t want her to pity him. He doesn’t want her to think he’s weak.
She notices his walls coming back up, him pulling away from her a little, if not physically definitely internally. She doesn’t force anything, just nods softly, blinking back the tears in her eyes and slips her hand from his cheek, slumping back against the concrete wall with a soft sigh, knees and shoulders brushing.
The last thing she wants to do it push, make him cramp up and close himself off like he did sometimes.
The part of him that wants to lean back into her touch, to be held and loved and cared for after being beat to a pulp wars with the part of him that doesn’t want her pity.
He settles for somewhere in the middle, their thighs pressing together and shoulders brushing. He’s still avoiding her eyes, staring down at his bruised knuckles, biting back the tears that lodge his throat.
Her gaze stays on him for a long time, even if he’s refusing to reciprocate her longing gaze. She doesn’t mind, she just quietly watches, admires.
He feels her gaze on him and he can’t fight it anymore, he never could. His eyes flick to hers, fiddling with the rings on his thick fingers, forearms rested on his knees.
She’s giving him this look that makes him want to melt, like she sees right through him, for everything he is and everything he will be and the only emotion in her moonlit eyes is love.
“Do you..” She trails off, the wind picking up a little around them, the waves splatter against the rocks, sea foam clinging to the pebbles only a few meters away and JJ’s eyes flick from the shore, and then to her. He knows what she’s trying to ask, or along the lines of her question.
His heart’s doing that fluttering thing again, like a caged bird. He doesn’t need to be told what she’s asking, because he can read it in her eyes. He knows she’s not asking out of pity, or even out of lust. Just a pure, unconditional adoration. A need to hold the boy she loves. A need to be as close to him as possible. He knows there’s no point in denying her, and he doesn’t want to, anyway.
He nods shakily, letting his eyes flutter shut, pleading with him himself internally to not break, not yet.
“What do you need?”
She whispers softly, fingers itching to touch him, to comfort him, but she wants to touch him however he wants to be, and she don’t want to push anything.
He wants her. Needs her. He wants to run his fingers through her hair, feel her heart beating against his, breathe in the scent of her skin. And it’s not out of lustful desire, it’s out of a deep-down desperate need to feel safe. To feel wanted. He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut as he lets out a shaky breath. His eyes flick open, the saddest look she’d ever seen gracing his features, and she can tell he’s about to break.
“C’mere.”
He mutters under his breath, voice scratchy and quiet as he reaches his arms out for her, wincing softly at the stretch of the skin of his chest, littered with purple and blues.
She doesn’t wait to crawl into his lap, slowly, listening intently to every little gasp he makes to make sure she’s not putting any pressure on his major bruises, if they weren’t outside on a rocky beach, slumped against a wall, she’d be the one holding him, but sometimes sacrifices have to be made, and right now JJ needs her, no matter how.
Her chest is pressed against his, strong arms wrapped around her back and keeping her as close as possible to him. He’s holding her tighter than he should, afraid she might slip away if he loosens his grip.
His hands find her hips, snaking under the loose material of the tank top and digging affectionally into the warm skin there. The feeling of her finally being against him is driving him crazy, but in a good way, caged between the wall and her.
He lets out a shuddering breath, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his nose nuzzling at her soft skin.
“You’re okay.” She whispers, resting one hand at the back of his head, fingers carding through the hair at the nape of his neck gently, pressing her lips to his crown. She feels his shoulders begin to shake and the meltdown that he’d been holding back from all night crashing down and overtaking him now.
You know all you can do is be present, and reassure him. “Everything’s gonna be okay..”
He feels the dam inside of him break, like the floodgates had finally opened, and before he knows what he’s doing, hot tears are springing to his eyes.
She’s saying all the right things. She’s touching him like no one’s touched him. And it’s too much. Too much to handle. He buries himself against her chest, his arms wrapping around her torso to hold her close. He lets out another shuddering breath, a soft crying shortly following, and it’s guttural and soul shattering as he shakes against her.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you. ‘M not goin’ anywhere.” She mumbles into his sweaty hair, blonde tresses tickling at her chin, leaving kisses anywhere she can reach, hands carding through his hair, offering the maximum amount of comfort she can in his arms.
“You’re okay, baby.”
Her calling him ‘baby’ isn’t something he realised has such an effect on him until now, and the way her voice is so soft, so sweet and caring, has him melting against her.
Her touch and her words are like a balm on his frayed nerves, extinguishing the fire burning under his skin.
“I love you, I love you, I love you.”
He chokes out, like a mantra, into the warm crook of her neck, over and over again, soaking the skin with his tears.
“I love you more.”
She whispers against his head, leaning sitting up a little straighter against him for a sec, but he’s pulling her down just as quick, pressing a soft kiss to her collarbone as he cries.
“Hey, listen for a sec.” She mumbles, and waits for him to nod against her before continuing, fingernails scraping deliciously against his scalp as she speaks, her words attempting to calm him down from his spiral.
“‘Member what we said? After we figure all this shit out.. gonna get a house t’gether and get married, yeah? You listenin’?”
He nods shakily as she holds him, her hands brushing his sweaty hair at his temples, her kisses along his forehead keeping him grounded to reality. He swallows hard at her words about the future, his heart seizing up in his chest. But he nods again, desperately needing to hear more. He needs to hear about their future together, because it’s the only thing keeping him together right now, when he feels like nothing’s going right, his only way out is her.
“Yeah-yeah, ‘m listenin’.” He murmurs against her hot skin, his hands gripping her hips a little tighter, making sure she was really still there, and this wasn’t some hallucination.
“Good, keep breathin’. And y’know what else? Gonna have so many babies together, yeah? All of our little mini us’s runnin’ ‘round. We’re gonna be so happy, J. Soon as we get outta this mess.”
The very thought of having kids with her has him choking up again.
He can picture it all so clearly, the cozy fish shack by the marsh, a whole football team of kiddos, the little girls beautiful like their mama, getting dressed up all pretty, the rowdy boys the spitting image of JJ, with unruly blonde hair as big blue eyes, tackling and wrestling with each other on the grass outside whilst he tries to teach them to fish.
He can’t help but grip her tighter at the imagery flashing through his clouded mind, ringed fingers digging into her hips.
“Lotsa babies. Lotsa babies. Our babies. Promise?”
She nods with a soft smile, eyes reflecting the same expression as his when his eyes meet hers, glazed over and filled with an emotion unlabelled. Her thumbs swipe at his under eyes, wiping away the hot tears, careful to avoid any gashes or bruises.
“Promise. But none o’ that’s gonna happen if you don’t make it through tonight, baby. You gotta breathe for me.”
Of course she’s exaggerating, and it’s in a hope to bring a little light to the emotional rollercoaster he’s going through right now, and she’s on the same ride internally, but she needs to be strong, for him.
He lets out a shaky exhale, his chest heaving against hers as he forces his body to breathe.
In, and out, In, and out, In, and out-
He wants that life. With her. A life with her in a homey beach shack, a physical place he can call home, instead of the girl he’s holding in his arms.
In, and out, In, and out, In, and out.
But the only way he’s going to get that life is by surviving, together and by getting through tonight, together.
He slowly nods, squeezing her hips again.
“M breathin’.. ‘M breathin’..”
She nods tearfully, sniffling and swiping at her own eyes before he can see them. “Good.. that’s good..” She mumbles in praise, hands still holding his face and stroking at his cheeks with her thumbs gently. “Can you look at me a sec?” She’s careful to keep her touch featherlight over any bruises.
He nods shakily, slowly lifting his tired eyes to look at her, the day weighing heavy on his shoulders and now he’d really let everything out, he was exhausted. His cheeks are still tear stained and his chest heaving. He slowly brings a hand up, cupping the side of her face so he can run his thumb along her tear stained jaw.
“Lookin’.” He mumbles, breath hitching.
“You breathin’ properly now?” She mumbles, jaw moving under his calloused palm as she eyes him sweetly, eyes reflecting all the love he feels for her in this moment.
He lets out a shaky exhale, his eyes slowly raking over her face, taking in all her features like he’d never seen them before, and he’s lost count of how many times he’s got lost in her tonight.
She’s beautiful, he thinks to himself. Stunning in an effortless way, always has been. Like she woke up this morning and was effortlessly gorgeous.
His hand is still on her face, his thumb brushing against her skin.
“Yeah.. yeah baby, ‘m breathin’ normal. You’re makin’ it all messed up ‘gain, though.”
He mumbles, breathing a little heavily out of his nose and it tickles at her skin, a soft smile makes its way onto her face at the look in his eyes, completely enamoured by her.
She lets a breath of laughter slip from her nose, it’s soft and sweet and his eyes visibly soften at the sound, ears perking up.
“You’re so handsome, J.” She mumbles, thumb never stopping it’s comforting ministrations against the damp skin of his cheek.
Her touch on his skin makes him shiver, his mind and body always being so receptive to her. He wants to hide his face when he calls her handsome. He doesn’t think he’s handsome. Hot, sure, he’s been called that many a time. Pretty, meh, makes his heart flutter a little when you mumble it against his ear in bed, but he’d never admit it. But handsome? He’s not handsome.
He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he averts his gaze.
“Don’t. ‘M not handsome..” He mutters under his breath.
Her heart breaks a little at his immediate denial of the compliment.
“You are, J.” She mumbles, hand coming under his jaw to lift his gaze back to hers.
“You are, JJ.” She reassures him again, making sure he really knows it, believes it.
“‘n our babies are gonna be too.”
His heart is doing the fluttering thing again, his stomach flip flopping inside of him as he meets her gaze.
Babies, plural.
Oh, Jesus.
The thought of having little babies running around looking like the perfect mix of the both of you has him reeling. He’s always had a hard time picturing his future, but mostly the father part, after everything he’s been through he could never see it for himself. But with her, the image never seemed so impossible.
He lets out a shaky breath, a tear slipping down his rosy cheek, fingers squeezing at her hip again.
“You think so?”
“I know so.” She smiles, thumb stroking over a larger bruise at his temple.
“‘N I know things are hard right now, but we’re gonna get through this rough patch together, yeah? We can sleep here, at the lighthouse, we’ll get jobs, then eventually buy a house, get married..” She speaks softly, the wind picking up a little and making her cheeks cold and frost bitten. They’re sixteen and homeless, but all they need is each other.
That night they hold each other closer than ever before, knocking out on the old mattress up in the look out tower, limbs tangled together and content just for the night. JJ had calmed down now, stripped down to just his underwear, her too, pressed up against his good side in bed, head rested against his shoulder as she sleeps soundly, for the first time in what feels like forever.
JJ eventually manages to fall asleep, too, her previous words on his mind all through his slumber, dreaming of Maybank family fishing days, and the beautiful house that he would raise his babies in, the love of his life by his side, dreaming of a future where he wasn’t ashamed of his last name, and everyone he loved dearly shared it with him.
#꒰ jj maybank ꒱ྀི#꒰ bsf!reader ꒱ྀི#jj maybank#jj maybank smut#jj maybank x reader#jj maybank blurb#jj obx#outer banks#jj x reader#jj maybank headcanon#jj maybank obx#obx#jj maybank outer banks#jj maybank fluff
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hello! if you have the time could you please write soft Eddie guiding a shy reader when they make out for the first time?
There's a knock on Eddie's door and he hurries to answer it, hoping it's who he thinks it is. He isn't expecting anyone else, but it's not uncommon for people to show up looking to buy from him, but he really hopes it's you. He's been looking forward to tonight for over a week since you suggested it. He opens the door and there you are, beautiful as ever.
He steps aside and you plant a soft kiss on his cheek as you enter the trailer. You hold out a DVD and a few of Eddie's favorite snacks and he can't help but smile at how sweet you are. You've only been on a few dates and hopes he wouldn't scare you off if he proposed. Because if he's being honest, he can't see himself with anyone else.
No one he's dated has ever been so sweet to him. All they seemed to be interested in was using him for his body and rarely anything else. He wasn't really known as Eddie "the freak" Munson (well, maybe in other ways) anymore, but it still seemed like people didn't want anything else from him besides drugs or sex.
But you? All you seem to want from him is his company, genuinely interested in all of his fun facts that he has about random subjects and you even laugh at his jokes. And they aren't pity laughs either. You're a breath of fresh air and he hopes you'll stick around forever.
"You didn't have to do all this," he tells you with a smile as he takes the stuff from you. You're staring down at the floor and he can tell you're getting shy on him again. He doesn't mind, though. He thinks it's cute.
"Of course I did," you insist. "I wanted to treat you for once," you then smile and Eddie never gets tired of seeing it.
"Well I'm not going to say no to that," he responds then takes you by the hand, threading his fingers through yours. "Now c'mon."
You follow him over to the couch and the two of you sit together, but you make sure to leave a little space to be polite. You want to be cuddled up into his side, though. You want rest your head on his chest as his hand lazily runs up and down your back.
A lot of the people you've out with all seemed to be after one thing so it warms your heart that Eddie is willing to go at your pace. He always waits for you to initiate things like hugs or kisses and waits until you pull away, never asking for more. He's nothing but a gentleman and you really like spending time with him.
Eddie spreads out all of the movies you brought, his eyebrows quirking at the variety. You seem to have an eclectic taste and he admires that. He plucks the horror movie from the selection and heads over to the VCR. As soon as his back is turned, you begin to panic. You had only brought the movie to give you excuse to get close to him because of the scary scenes, but now you're beginning to regret your decision.
Eddie turns back to you and you try to hide your fear, debating on telling him that you'd rather watch something else, but you can't yourself to form the words. So you just sit in silence as Eddie moves back over to the couch, sitting even closer to you now and your fear takes over as you throw yourself into his arms.
Eddie lets out a laugh at your eagerness but he wraps his arms around you anyway, pulling you even closer to him as he turns his head towards the screen. You instantly feel better knowing that he'll keep you safe but can't help but think about what Steve told you when he rented the movie out to you.
He told you that it was the scariest movie he'd ever seen and that he couldn't sleep for days afterwards. And you rented it anyway even though he had suggested many more options that weren't nearly as scary and would still help you get into Eddie's arms despite how silly he thought the idea was.
The movie hasn't even started and you're already burying your head into his chest, gripping his shirt in your fists as tight as possible. His hand moves up to stroke the back of your head as he murmurs something to you that you can't quite hear.
"Hey, hey," he says as grabs hold of your face, forcing you to look him in the eye. His are nothing but soft as they look at you, his eyebrows knitting together in concern. "What's going on?"
"Nothing," you shake your head, suddenly feeling silly for how scared you just were. "It's nothing."
"We don't have to watch the movie," he tells you. "If you were scared, why didn't you say something?" It's a fair question, but you stay silent, not wanting to tell him the truth.
"I-" you start to say but cut yourself off, not wanting to admit the truth nor finding the right words to use.
"You what, honey?" He asks, his hands moving up and down your back exactly the way you wanted him to. Sometimes you're convinced he's a mind reader.
"I just wanted an excuse to cuddle you," you tell him, your voice so soft he almost didn't hear you. And at that, Eddie lets out a laugh before pulling you to his chest, giving you a tight squeeze. You have to remind yourself that he's not laughing at you, but because of you.
"You could have just cuddled me," he says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and it is. Well, it should be, but you've always found it hard to voice what you want no matter how badly you want it.
"How about we call off the movie for now?" He asks and turns off the TV then pulls you closer to him, his hands still moving up and down your back. You look up at him as he licks his lips, now unable to think about anything but how inviting they look.
The two of you have kissed multiple times, but it's never gone any farther than little pecks here and there because you've been too afraid to do any more than that. But now you feel the need to go all the way, wondering what he tastes like, if his hair is as soft as it looks.
But you've never made out with anyone and that scares you. Even though you know for sure that Eddie would talk you through it, the whole thing still makes you feel nervous. But apparently not nervous to forget it completely because before you can stop yourself, you're looking up at Eddie, gulping before getting his attention.
"Eddie?" You ask and his head turns to you, those honey eyes boring into yours. You melt under his gaze but trying to muster up the confidence again.
"Hm?" He asks, that stupid smirk making its way upon his face, the same one that's always there when he looks at you.
"Can-" you cut yourself off for the second time tonight but Eddie just sits there, patient as ever as he waits for you to speak. He knows how hard it can get sometimes for you to speak your mind so he doesn't mind waiting for you to finish your thoughts. "Can I have a kiss?"
"Of course you can," he responds, taking your face in his hands and pecking your lips once, twice, three times before pulling away only for you to grumble in response.
"No," you shake your head. "I want a real kiss."
"Oh," he replies, wondering what made you decide on that, but wanting to oblige. He's willing to give you whatever you ask.
His hands move down to neck, his thumbs rubbing back and forth across your jaw as he leans in again, his lips slowly capturing yours as they move together slowly. He's nothing but gentle as he kisses you, showing you how it's done.
Your hands press against his chest and all you can think about how you can't believe you've gone so long without his lips attached to yours. They're nothing but soft and gentle and now you're sure that you can do this for hours.
Eddie breaks away before you're ready and you're breathing hard as you try to catch your breath. He stares down, a chuckle falling from his lips as he presses his forehead to yours.
"You're supposed breathe, baby," he tells you softly and you feel your cheeks heat.
"Can we try that again?" You ask as you pick up one of his curls, twirling it around your pointer finger, staring down at it as you speak again. "Do you think we could...make out? I promise to breathe this time."
"Oh, honey," he sighs before pressing a kiss to you lips. "I'd love to make out with you." Another and another until he's capturing your lips again, taking the lead again. You have no idea what you're doing but Eddie is being nothing but a sweetheart as he guides you through it.
He pulls away again and you whine this time at the absence of his lips, chasing him and getting in another quick kiss before you sit back, waiting for him.
"Do you want to sit in my lap?" He suggests. "I think that'll be more comfortable for you."
Eddie sits with his back against the couch and you do as he suggests and straddle his waist which feels foreign to you but he's right. It's much more comfortable. Your arms wrap around his neck as his rest on the small of your back, a good spot between your waist and upper back because this is just kissing and he doesn't want to give you the impression that he's going to go any farther.
"You kiss me now," he says and your heart races in your chest as you think about fucking it all up.
"Are you sure?" You ask, bringing your bottom lip between your teeth, nibbling on it as you contemplate.
"Positive," he nods. "You've got this. Do whatever you want, baby. This is all about you."
"Okay," you nod, leaning forward and slotting your lips just like he did, Eddie immediately responding to you but he's moving at your pace instead of leading like he previously had.
You remember to breath through your nose as your fingers thread into his hair on each side of his head. His hair is normally off limits because people get too rough with it, but with you, he doesn't care. In fact, he loves when you play with his hair, a little bit of love sprinkles into every touch of it.
"You're doing so good, honey," he murmurs against your lips. "Do you want to try sticking your tongue in my mouth?"
"Please," you whine with a yank of his hair and if you can feel his cock hardening underneath you, you don't say anything. And thank god for that.
"Do you want me to show you first?"
"Yes," you breath against his lips and he's getting even more hard, knowing that he's going to have to get himself off later because there's no way he's going to expect you to go all the way right now.
Eddie captures your lips again as his hands rest against your waist, landing on the strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up. His lips are moving against you to warm you up and then he gingerly flicks his tongue against your bottom lip.
"Open up," he commands against your lips and you do as he says, opening up for him as he slides his tongue into your mouth. He swirls his tongue around yours and you mimic his actions, tugging on his hair as a moan falls from your lips at the feeling of his tongue moving with yours.
Your eyes widen and you can't help but pull away as you suddenly feel embarrassed at the sound you've just made. Eddie, though? Eddie's convinced that's the hottest thing he's ever heard and he really wants you to make it again.
"You don't have to be embarrassed," he says quickly, trying his best to assure you. "It was really hot, actually."
"It was?"
"Definitely," he nods. "Would it help if you made me moan too?" All you can do is nod and before he can say anything else, your lips are on his, only a few seconds passing before your tongue is flicking against his bottom lip. He opens up immediately and you mimic what he just showed you, your tongue swirling around his as you pulling on his hair even harder, a loud moan falling from his lips.
You haven't thought about it until now since you were so caught up in his kisses, but you're soaking wet between your legs and if you had more confidence, you'd ask Eddie to take care of you, but you don't so you don't. You don't think you're ready for that right now anyway.
You try to focus on the taste of him to get your mind off of it. He tastes like cigarettes that you know he smoked before you came over and you don't know why but you can't get enough of it. It's intoxicating.
You stay like that for a while until your lips are kiss bitten and your legs are asleep from you straddling him for too long. You both decide to call it a night and Eddie walks you to your car like the gentleman he is, kissing you one more time before you drive away. He then goes back inside and heads to his room where he collapses onto his bed, deciding that he's probably (definitely) in love with you.
#stranger things#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#eddie x y/n#eddie munson x you#eddie munson fluff#soft!eddie#soft!eddie x shy!reader#shy!reader#eddie munson x shy!reader
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You guys actually make me kind of fucking sick.
Obviously not directed at OP but at the voters. This is the first post I've seen from them.
TL;DR it's fucking disgusting how some of y'all will forgive a neo-nazi that has actively spread hate in-person but not someone who limits it to only words. I will block you if you say something stupid in regards to this.
Let me start out by saying this; I am heavily against JK Rowling's stance on Jewish people, people of color, and trans people. The Holocaust did indeed happen, do proper research on cultures you're unfamiliar with (especially if you putting them into a story), trans men are men, trans women are women, sex and gender are different.
With that out of the way... what the fuck is this?
Taking from one of the comment reblogs, but going off of percentages... more of you would forgive a Neo-Nazi, someone who actively believed Hitler, the man who actively tried killing all Jews, gays, and trans people, and also believed in "the master race" was right?
This might be controversial, so I understand if you disagree with it, but I genuinely believe Neo-Nazis are WORSE than JK Rowling. JK Rowling has, in all honesty, only talked about her views on Twitter, the worse being the Imane Khelief situation, which... only caused cyberbulling. Still really fucking bad, don't get me wrong, especially since she refuses to listen to what anyone says.
But Neo-Nazis literally try to enact what Hitler wanted. They actively go out and protest, trying to preach Nazism. Just looking up images, one result talks about them preaching anti-semitism, homophobia, and white supremacy in front of DISNEY WORLD in Orlando. In front of LITERAL CHILDREN.
I can not FATHOM how you could forgive someone willing to expose children and even literally babies to sheer hatred but not someone who limits their hatred to tweets. This is absolutely fucking revolting.
And reread the second poll. This isn't some "edgy phase" from middle school, where people like to make the "funny communism haha" type of jokes. No, it explicitly says "a nazi phase in their adult life." Someone who is grown and mature enough to know EXACTLY what they're doing and preaching.
Either some of you are lying straight out of your fucking ass, or some of you are just plain fucking stupid. If you either believe JK did nothing wrong, think JK denying the Holocaust, using racist stereotypes, or outright calling trans people a danger is good, or you would just... straight up forgive a neo-nazi no questions asked, then fuck you. I hope you get what you deserve.
And note; I block quite freely. So if you say something just outright fucking stupid, like "JK is actually based for that" or something, I am not giving you the time of day. Go fuck yourself.
IF and ONLY IF she apologized genuinely, donated a large sum of money to appropriate charities, and showed genuine and sincere efforts to remedy and repair her behavior: would you forgive JK Rowling?
#jk rowling#polls#poll#tumblr polls#neo nazis#what the fuck guys#long post#this is actually revolting#fuck you.
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I'm still busy thinking about that comment that said that Vivzie said season 3 would have a focus on 'family and addiction', and now that I think about it, the show really does appear to be heading that direction. (Again, I do not have the clip to confirm this claim at this moment in time.)
As for family, let's start with Stolas and Octavia, we know that their conflict is far from being over at this point in the show for a few reasons, but the biggest one is the fact that Blitz makes it especially clear in the last few moments of the episode, with the lines 'You just gotta give her time.' and 'You just gotta keep trying.', so we definitely have more plotlines involving these two in season 3 (and Andrealphus + Stella).
Wherever the show decides to go in regards in Millie's pregnancy and the fact that Sallie May knows about said pregnancy, and I also imagine it's likely that the rest of Millie's family is also going to find out about Millie's pregnancy at some point during season 3 as well, so Millie's family is likely going to make more appearances during season 3 as well.
Blitz mentions Barbie Wire towards the end of the episode as well, in which I can only imagine that it's foreshadowing more Blitz and Barbie Wire interactions, and potentially some sort of resolution to their conflict at some point during season 3 as well.
Something else that the show makes quite clear is just how much the circus fire + Blitz's upbringing with an abusive parent still deeply effects Blitz to this day, (and quite frankly, the events of that fateful day will probably still continue to effect Blitz, forever.) so we're probably going to see more regarding that and potentially some more flashbacks to the pre-circus fire days, especially in regards to Blitz's mother and Blitz's abusive father, even more so if Blitz is referring to said circus fire with the line 'for something that I did.'
Considering how s2 e3 and s2 e6 went for Crimson, I imagine he's going to be plot relevant next season as well, which likely opens the gates for more flashbacks and such regarding Moxxie's upbringing in the mob family, potentially showing us more scenes of Moxxie's mother as well, who, as I've said before, was likely murdered by Crimson when Moxxie was very young.
I have no idea if they'll make an appearance next season, but I do still find it interesting that Stolas' mother just appears to be non-existent, so I do wonder if they have a plotline involving her, or if they have plotlines related to Stolas and Paimon at some point during season 3 as well, although probably not tbh.
Of course, I can't finish off this section without mentioning I.M.P, and all the people within it, which is it's own found family at this point tbh.
And this scene as well, we absolutely cannot forget the Stolitz domestic family moment that we saw in Sinsmas, aka, the scene where we see some of Blitz's hopes and dreams.
As for addiction, we have Stolas' alcoholism, which alongside being something that the show has pointed out in some form time and time again, Bryce has mentioned at a panel or whatever that it is something that Stolas struggles with, so I imagine it's probably going to get a mention in season 3 at some point.
Stolas and smoking might be something that comes up at some point, but I kinda doubt that considering that we've only seen Stolas smoke once before, all the way back in s1 e5, but for now I do think it's something worth keeping an eye on.
The fact that Verosika also appears to be an alcoholic, it got mentioned once in s1 e3 that she went to rehab, but got out early because she was famous, while still very clearly being an alcoholic, so I wonder if that's going to get a mention at some point during season 3.
And finally, Blitz makes a comment about the fact that Barbie Wire used to be on some sort of drug named H-8, which she went to rehab for at some point considering Verosika's earlier statement, so I wouldn't be surprised if this detail gets brought up again tbh.
So yea, considering that alleged statement from Vivziepop saying that season 3 is going to have a focus on 'family and addiction', I can already see quite a few potential plot points the show has potentially been setting up for that's relevant to either the themes of family or addiction. (Obviously there's also other ones that's going to relevant as well like Blitz and Loona, but I just want to focus more so on the plot points that the show appears to be directly setting up for season 3.)
#helluva boss#blitzø#blitzo#stolas#helluva boss stolas#stolitz#moxxie helluva boss#helluva boss millie#sallie may#verosika mayday#crimson helluva boss#loona helluva boss#helluva paimon#octavia goetia
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hey! i hope you’re having a good new year! i didn’t have the best holiday season, so i was just wondering if you could do joe quinn x reader on christmas or new years? or if possible reader with seasonal depression?
Loved
Joe Quinn x Reader
Summary: your boyfriend has immense amount of love for you
Warnings: fluff / angst, mentions of depression, does not say what holiday is being celebrated or the gender of reader.
Note: i’m so sorry to you and to anyone who had a rough holiday season, i did aswell and i would’ve killed for someone to say these things to me over the past few weeks. Hope the rest of everyone’s year is filled with love ❤️
NONE OF THIS IS PROOF READ IM LAZY
The holiday season was always hard for you, every year you find yourself sitting in your bed scrolling on your phone looking at everyone’s holiday pictures. Reminding you that your behind everyone in life, but also too ahead in the same way. However this year was different, you had joe. He’s the light of your life and the best thing that’s ever happend to you.
But over the holiday season you couldn’t scratch the feeling that you’ve been ruining it for him. The holidays were his favourite time of year and you haven’t exactly had time to share with him how you feel about this time of year. It wasn’t his fault, you just care for him so much. Going to every event, every dinner, every party with a smile plastered on your face hoping to not ruin this moment for your boyfirend
You felt like you were hiding it nicely, never stopping a smile, starting conversations with people, and playing the perfect part. But your boyfriend could see straight through your facade, every time you would slowly dissociate yourself when people would start talking about certain things. his heart ached at the sight of this but he wasint exactly sure how to have this conversation, he didint want you to fully shut him out but he also wanted you to know he cared for you and wanted to help you.
it was new year’s eve and you were getting ready to go to one of joe’s friends party. ask you looked at yourself in the mirror you feslt the exhaustion that crept up onto you from the season, feeling drained and in need of laying down. But on queue Joseph walked into the room, you straightened your posture out and went back to clasping your necklace. Joe knew right when he walked in you weren’t okay, and today was the day he would say something.
“Sweetheart, can you come sit on the bed with me” he said softly, you took note of how he hadn’t started getting ready. “i need you to know that i care about you and that you are in such a safe space when your with me right?” he said with almost a worried look. “yeah of course babe”. you said with a smile, but he couldint shake the feeling thag more was going on. “How about me and you just spend new years together, we can relax, do anything you want and just spend time with eachother, no one else no distractions”. “what! no” you said with almost a fear in your eyes. joseph gave a confused look trying to see i side your mind.
this is something your boyfriend wanted something important to him, but now that you aren’t going to his friends party their all gonna think that it’s your fault because if it wasint for you joseph wouldint come. Your chin quivered quick as you shit your head down releasing everything in a huge eruption. tears streaming down your face as you let every emotion from the past couple of weeks consume you. Your boyfriends heart shattered at the sight of this, because he didint know what was happening or how to get you to tell him. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his chest, trying to make you feel grounded so you knew he wasint going anywhere
He rubbed your back in small patterns and tried to steady your breathing. “look at me” you glanced up at his freshly shaven smooth face. “It’s not your fault, you can’t control how you feel during this time of year and it’s selfish of me that i didn’t say anything sooner about how you’ve been feeling. That’s why i suggested about tonight, spending the new year with my amazing partner, i couldn’t ask for a more amazing person that i get to share my life with, your always there every step of the way and you must know that you are what leads me to every step of my life. Everything is for you and i love you with everything in me”.
You looked at him in awe, he cared, he listened , your worries of showing your true emotions melted away as you truly realized how important and loved this man made you feel. He placed his tender hands on your cheek and gave you a soft kiss on your forehead and continued to keep rocking you back and forth, easing you out from your stress.
#joesph quinn#joseph quinn fluff#joseph quinn angst#joseph quinn x reader#joseph quinn x y/n#emperor geta x reader#emperor geta#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson
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I don't think I would like to tell someone who I don't know why I like what I like sexually.
I hope someday you understand that as long as no one is harmed in the making of something, it's harmless.
I hope you have a good day, but I'd prefer not to debate someone who's entire blog is dedicated to hate and negativity anymore. Because it's useless at the end of the day, neither of us are going to change our opinions. I hope one day you can learn how to live alongside those with different opinions than yours and learn that at the end of the day, we are all people. I think we should both stay in our own spaces and tolerate one another on this site and never interact again.
"miku is a minor" "stop sexualizing miku"
well actually, miku is my wife and she likes being sexualized. sexualize her more. write that fic. draw that pose. imagine that scenario.
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