#spice wives

[anikamercat]

A scandal, indeed 🪻🌻🌹

The Spacewives Incident reminded me of those faux regency paintings so I decided to execute my vision :)

[youngexwivesclub]

Reneé with Karma Spice

[wyvernspirit]

im actually looping 2 playlists i made for my braintrot rn

one is based on Gem this season of secret life

and the other is for Shiny Duo in secret life

[oldxenomorph]

spice of eternity

pairing: nyx/the reaper emperor warnings: drug use (spice melange), sexual content (alien anatomy, nyx being a soft dom, orgasm delay). 18+ summary: shai-hulud's gift is best enjoyed in the company of one's soulmate.

The Emperor opens her strange eyes that reveal eternity and the death of stars; spice is as essential to the universe as extinction and chaos, it is an engine. She looks at the Night Incarnate, studying her through a heavily lidded gaze. The stars around Nyx’s head shiver; the Emperor could eat them, swallow them whole.

---

Spice burns blue and a small amount can burn for hours.

The Emperor lounges amongst cushions and pillows as she breathes deeply from the long and elaborate kiseru pipe, the minuscule amount of spice in it burning bright embers when it comes in contact with the fresh oxygen from her inhalation. When the entity exhales after holding it in her lungs, plumes of intense blue emerge from her mouth and nose. The smoke creates a deep blue haze in the vast room, like an azure veil that conceals her and the shapes of her daughters that surround her, curled up against her and amongst her tentacles.

Shai-Hulud’s gift reacts differently for her than it does to organic life. The Emperor’s cold body feels warm, it reminds her of when she was a child curled up in her sibling’s protective embrace, when the universe was young. Her body becomes heavier, more tired; spice beckons her to rest, to close her eyes, to be enshrouded and engulfed by its blue smoke. Warmth blooms underneath her sharp and hollow cheeks, it crawls to the tips of her long fingers, it congregates in her chest and forms itself into a mass, a young star on the precipice of being fed to a black hole. 

Her free hand idly cradles the head of one of her daughters that has claimed her lap, sound asleep. A spidery thumb repeats the same motion, smoothing over the biomechanical structure of the xenomorph’s cheek, talons careful not to disturb her slumber. The room is full of xenomorphs, lazy and curled up amongst each other, amongst the softness of cushions and pillows, comfortable and content with where they are because they have their mother all to themselves. 

Whenever the entity exhales, there is blue, it replaces her breath. Spice makes her body its home while she indulges in it. She leans her head back against a cushion, her red and black eyes half lidded as she watches the streams of blue rising up into the Ziggurat’s darkness. The building itself facilitates this altered state, shaping itself around her mind, the low thrum mixes with the blue haze that permeates everything, seeps into everything. The inside of her mouth becomes stained, spice mixing with black tar, black tentacles, to create ultramarine. The longer she indulges in Shai-Hulud’s gift, the more sensitive her body becomes. Memories of the past give way to the present.

In the blue of the Old Worm’s spice, the Emperor sees the figure of her goddess wife, the Night Incarnate. She sees her shape, the smoke forming the flowing silk of her regal peplos, her beautiful hair that always seems unaffected by gravity. Embers create the stars and constellations in her hair, around the crown of her head; the brightest embers form her eyes, hot and intense like the Pleiades. The Emperor gets lost in this vision of celestial beauty, the way it looks at her, beckons her; the vast of night in all her glory, all the stars that yearn to be eaten, to be fed to her, heavy and eager to die.

The door on the far side of the room hisses open, granting access to a figure clad in an ancient, flowing, violet dress. A figure that looks so much like the one the spice melange formed for the Emperor. When they get closer, carefully navigating the room full of sleeping daughters, the entity’s scarred and pitch black lips form a lazy smile.

Nyx parts the veil of smoke.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Red and black eyes look up at the goddess towering above her, a sight that the Emperor always enjoys. Nyx must have recently ended her shift in the Underworld and changed out of her heavy ornamentation. The Emperor exhales and blue begins to curl around her wife, inviting her to come closer. Spice makes the violet she wears saturated and vibrant, it makes the darkness in her jewels pulse in a rhythm meant only for her, alluring, irresistible. Spice makes the gold she wears vibrate with the same frequency as the gold from Carcosa; yellow that is alive, frenzied, and full of eyes. A hum leaves the great entity.

“I did not know I was hiding.” Blue seeps through her black teeth whenever her lips part, whenever she speaks. “Sit with me, my beautiful Night. I have missed you all day.”

Dark amethyst lips pull into a smile and the Night Incarnate takes her place next to the Emperor, who wraps one of her tentacles around her, pulling her closer. The goddess rests her head in the crook of her wife’s neck, while she places a hand on the entity’s middle section, slender fingers idly tracing the lines and ridges and textures of her biomechanical exterior. A low sound emanates from the Emperor, enjoying the touch of Nyx’s cool fingers against her body, how they offer relief from the warmth inside her. The Emperor lazily kisses her forehead, next to the jewel of darkness, her fingers finding themselves in her hair, running through strands of midnight blackness and constellations, stellar formations broken apart and brought back together with every slow movement. 

The two of them stay like this for a while, until Nyx’s hand moves upwards, sliding up the Emperor’s sternum, and cups her face while she places soft kisses on her neck, her lipstick leaving behind faint violet imprints. The Emperor breathes deeply, a sound escaping her. She captures the Night’s lips, her kiss deep and hungry, lingering, insatiable even when it turns soft and sweet. Spice and smoke in her mouth seeks the Night, it wants to crawl into her body.

The xenomorph resting in the Emperor’s lap makes a disapproving clicking sound. 

“I believe your daughters have spoken.” Nyx pulls away, her hand slipping back to where it was originally. “We have to wait.”

The Emperor makes something akin to a groan, slightly annoyed. Yet she still continues to cradle the xenomorph’s head in her hand, even when her daughter shifts positions, facing away from her. Yet she still requires her mother to continue caressing her cheek, soothing her. 

Still, the protestations of her daughters do not stop the Emperor from staring at her wife. Red and black eyes, their edges now searing with spice-blue, linger on the shape of the Night Herself, watching the way it moves underneath the deep violet silk of her peplos, looking at the way the luxurious fabric falls to reveal her shape. The lines of her body call to her, inviting her gaze, the haze of blue intensifying the entity’s desire for her. Her eyes linger on the jewel of darkness sitting perfectly atop the swell of her breasts, her bare neck that begs to be covered by markings from her black lipstick. It takes all of the Emperor’s strength to tear her eyes away.

Another one of the Emperor’s great black tentacles idly wraps around Nyx. It smooths over of her shoulders, settling around her arm and around her waist. The Emperor sinks her head back into the cushions, closing her eyes. She can feel one of her daughters climbing up onto the mountain of softness behind her, situating herself so her eyeless face can be right next to hers, long tail loosely wrapping around her neck. The spice within the pipe continues to burn, wisps of blue smoke rising from it to join the haze that permeates through everything in the room, the dark air becoming replaced with Shai-Hulud’s gift. 

Nyx touches the Emperor’s face, her slender fingers cradling the great entity’s visage, a thumb gently loving over the black of her lips. The Emperor opens her strange eyes that reveal eternity and the death of stars; spice is as essential to the universe as extinction and chaos, it is an engine. She looks at the Night Incarnate, studying her through a heavily lidded gaze. The stars around Nyx’s head shiver; the Emperor could eat them, swallow them whole.

“What does spice taste like to you, my love?”

The Emperor brings the pipe to her lips and inhales deeply, her lungs becoming full of spice. When she exhales, a plume of blue expels from her mouth and a rush of sensations the inform the taste on her tongue and in her throat, the rest remaining in the darkness of her body.

“Star anise. The blessings Azathoth and Shia-Hulud placed upon my cheeks when I was born. The first stars fed to me by Nyarlathotep and Nyog’sothep. The sweetness of our first kiss. The first time I held my daughters, when I named them, when they grew into Queens and I saw the eldest had your colors. Our sons, the end of the universe.” The Emperor’s long fingers ran through Nyx’s hair. “Like our wedding night. It tastes like every one of your kisses and every time you touch me. Like lavender. Like you.”

As she spoke, Nyx’s hand came to rest on her chest, slender fingers gently moving over its biomechanical texture, until it found the perfect place, over the Emperor’s heart. When the entity finished, as stars and constellations coalesced after being split apart, the goddess moves herself until she was eye level and presses her forehead against the entity’s. The violet darkness from the jewel embedded in her flesh meets red scarification as the Emperor leans into her touch, focusing on the new feeling of her wife’s cool hand on her chest.

“May I try?” The goddess asks when she pulls back.

The Emperor hands Nyx the pipe. She watches her wife’s violet lips as they touch the mouth of the pipe, her pale fingers and wisteria nails gently resting on the elaborately decorated stem that depicts the Old Worm of Eternity wrapping around it. Spice in the bowl glows intense with the new intake of oxygen. The Emperor finds herself falling in love with Nyx all over again as she takes in the sight of spice-blue leaving the goddess’s mouth, the edges of her starlight gold eyes become lined with blue, eyes becoming like blue supergiants. Shai-Hulud wants the Night to have this gift, to indulge in its properties. For even she, the darkness of the universe, needs spice.

“What does spice taste like to you, my beautiful Night?”

Nyx hums and exhales, smoke leaving her. The pupils of her eyes dilate slightly as she processes the sensations brought on by partaking in spice.

“Cinnamon. The cradle of Chaos’s voice, their blessings upon my face as the universe was born. The first time I saw you in the Black Palace. Our first kiss. Our lovemaking. The feeling of the black centipede’s legs on my skin. When Nemesis was born and I shaped her to look like you, like us together. Our sons, the end of the universe that looks like you and I.” She holds the pipe up to the Emperor’s lips as she continues, as tendrils of blue smoke and stellar medium slip between her teeth whenever she breathes. “Breathe deeply for me, O Extinction.”

The Emperor obeys and feels the black hole in her chest expand, the event horizon trapping the heat in her body. She brings the pipe up to her lips and takes another long inhale. The spice sits in her lungs for as long as possible, allowing it to fully saturate her insides. When the Emperor exhales, the atmosphere of the room becomes heady, potent. Nyx rewards her wife with a kiss, devouring the rest of the smoke in her mouth.

A chorus of hisses and clicking sounds interrupt the the Emperor and the Night again. In their Rl’yehian dialect, they promise to leave them alone, so long as they get a blessing from their mother. The Emperor can never deny their requests, she would do anything for them. Though it takes a while the Emperor gives each of them a kiss: on their cheeks, on their foreheads, she loves them. The one in her lap is the last one to get up, stretching, taking her time. After she receives a kiss from the Emperor and another one from Nyx, she disappears into the darkness of the Ziggurat, into the labyrinth of vents. 

Then, Night and Extinction are finally alone in this room, in this heavy haze of spice.

Nyx takes the pipe from the Emperor’s hands and draws deep from it. She exhales and the smoke is a magnificent color, intense and royal, the perfection of the darkest night. A free hand runs her slender fingers through the long, vantablack hair of the Emperor, hair so black that it devours everything, light unable to escape it. Nyx holds the pipe up to the Emperor’s mouth. “Again, my beautiful Emperor.” The Emperor obeys, she always obey Nyx. She takes another deep draught of spice, holding it in her lungs again as she gently takes the pipe from her wife and sets it on a silver tray next to the single, small container, a cylinder of spice. The motifs of the Old Worm decorate everything. One of her tentacles pushes the tray away.

Nyx runs her hand down the Emperor’s torso until she reaches a section that only she knows has access to, fingers that know what grooves to fit into, what lines to draw, a sensual ritual to get the Emperor to open up for her. A low sound leaves the great entity as Nyx dips her fingers into her. “You are warm,” she says, her voice tinged with slight surprise at first, wonder the second, lust the third. 

There is a sound of affirmation that leaves the Emperor, the vibrations of the sound coming from deep in her chest, a sound accompanied by a long exhale of blue smoke. The spice has made her pliant and malleable in the Night Incarnate’s hands. Another abyssal sound leaves her as Nyx dips her fingers deeper into her, black tar tinted with the deep blue of spice begins to well her mouth. “Nyx….” Her voice draws out the last syllable as it becomes tangled with another moan. 

“I’ve always enjoyed doing this to you, O Extinction.” The Night Incarnate’s voice is so beautiful, low and ancient and otherworldly, the sound of dark space; it is steady, it demands worship, he commands the Emperor, fills her with awe and desire. “I will not pass up the chance while you are warm.” She sinks her fingers in deeper and the Emperor lets out a slightly louder moan from the shock of pleasure that surges through her system. Her arousal throbs within herself, desperately wanting to emerge, but Nyx continues her ritual, slowly moving her fingers in and out. The Night takes her time, she draws out the Emperor’s ache, her darkness seeps into the great entity. A heavy breath leaves the Emperor, the blue that leaves her mouth an intense color, the mass of warmth inside her now a furnace, like the perpetual burning one inside the Old Worm. 

Hips involuntarily jerk upwards, causing Nyx’s fingers to go deeper, and another shocked moan is punched out of the Emperor. The goddess places a cool hand against the entity’s chest, which she instantly takes, holds onto tightly as her arousal mounts, the ache inside her almost unbearable. Tentacles twist amongst themselves, coiling and gripping anything they can hold. Speech is next to impossible, whatever the Emperor wants to say becomes stuck in her throat, blue-tinged black tar leaking from her mouth, coating her already blackened teeth.

Ah-haha. Nyx’s ethereal laugh cuts through the headiness of the Emperor’s hot arousal and spice. Strands of vantablack hair press against the entity’s scarred, hollow cheek as she turns her head to get a better look at the Night, attracted to the sound, the cushions adjusting to the change in weight. “Patience, my love.” Nyx leans down to place a sweet kiss upon her wife’s black lips. A kiss that lingers, it tempts the great entity, it always leaves her wanting more. Nyx begins to move her fingers again. “The night is young.”

The Emperor’s lets out a deep exhale, blue leaving through her mouth and nose. Nyx’s hand smooths over the biomechanical architecture of her chest, slender fingers dipping into strange textures and touching the darkness in her chest cavity to feel the low vibrations from the sounds she makes; the goddess enjoys it, her serene face bearing a smile, her starlight eyes captivated by the impact her touch and her words have. Extinction is made open and available for the Night Incarnate, her long vantablack hair spilling over cushions and black tentacles, the blue haze making the red of her scars and the violet of her earrings intense. The goddess is playful, she dips her fingers in deeper just to hear the Emperor moan her name loudly; her name is the only thing on Extinction’s lips and the only thought swarming in her mind.

Hips buck sharply and the Emperor groans, a deep sound of pure lust, she feels her ache throb all the way in her gut, her chest, her throat. She desperately wants release, but the goddess instead changes the way she touches her, finally coaxing out her arousal. “Nyx…!” Her wife’s touch makes her melt, her arousal eagerly filling the goddess’s hand; the way slender fingers feel wrapped around her ache nearly undoes her.

“Not yet,” Nyx commands in her ancient voice. The Emperor breathes heavily and makes a low, desperate sound as her wife’s hands leave her. Through the haze in the room and in her eyes, the entity watches as the goddess slips off her peplos, undoing claps and ties and sliding the layers of fabric off her body effortlessly, revealing her perfect form, her body beautiful, immaculate, soft. Red and black eyes watch the way the spice reacts to touching her, blue smoke gliding over her skin, the haze draping over her like gossamer; spice condenses new stars around her head. Nyx moves closer to her and as she gets closer, her hand rests on one of the Emperor’s large tentacles, sliding upward as she positions herself, straddling the great entity between her legs. “I have yet to have you, O Extinction.”

Nyx lowers herself onto the Emperor, taking in all of the entity’s arousal, every inch of her ache and need to the hilt. A drawn-out moan escapes the Emperor, a sound that mixes with the spice as she arches her back, as blue-tinged black begins to leak from her mouth. Her hand rested on the entity’s middle, signaling for her to only move slowly; fingers slipped into oil black grooves and textures, Extinction’s biomechanical body eagerly accepting her, eagerly listening to her. The Emperor’s hands immediately touch her, filling themselves with her softness, needing more contact with her; long and spidery fingers, long black talons, eagerly find the goddess’s thighs, her hips, her waist, her breasts. Nyx leans down, a hand resting on one of the Emperor’s hands that touch her, and claims the entity’s black lips in a hungry, spice-laced kiss.

“Savor me, my love,” the Night says when she pulls away, her body straightens upright, resuming her control over the entity as she begins to ride her. The Emperor obeys, her hips moving slowly, lazily, the heaviness of her body made heavier by the spice; she focuses on the warmth engulfing warmth, intoxicating warmth, her hands filling themselves with her wife’s flesh, the curves of her body. She lets out a deep moan, something from the core of her gut and chest as she controls herself, as the hot and all consuming desire from since her wife first touched her continues to build up. The Night devours her with pleasure and lovemaking, those starlight eyes bright and hungry, spice-blue light, the color of the hottest stars, burning at the edges.

A couple of the Emperor’s tentacles rise to wrap around her wife’s waist. Tendrils of blue smoke twist themselves amongst the wet and writhing black tentacles in her mouth. Her sensory field narrows, there is only warmth and softness. The warmth around her, the heat within her, the softness of Nyx’s body. A moan leaves her as her hips find a slow rhythm, pace and movement that lets her feel all of her wife, that sustains her ache for as long as Nyx wants, that elicits such songs of pleasure from the dark lips of the Night Herself.

“You’ve been so good for me,” Nyx rewards her with praise, leaning forward to touch the Emperor’s face, her hand snaking downwards to rest over her heart, the black hole pulsating in her chest. “Beautiful and all for me.” Through her haze of arousal and lust and spice, the Emperor observes her wife’s state: she sees the blue tinge that lines her golden eyes vibrate, feels the black ichor in her new blue-black veins pulse underneath her fingertips, the softness of her flesh that craves stimulation, the bruising flush of her cheeks. Her hair is so beautiful, a curtain of night, full of stars.

The Emperor falls in love with Nyx again and again and again. Every time she looks at her, every time she hears her speak, every time she looks at her. She loves relinquishing control over to the Night Incarnate, her beautiful Eternal Night, her Empress. Nyx begins to ride her harder, both of her hands now on the Emperor’s chest, pressing down. The Emperor is ready to give her what she wants, ready to finally be allowed to climax, to pour herself into her wife. A deep breath causes blue to expel from her mouth the same time she let out another moan, words mangled and incoherent, rendered only as a deep sound; the blue smoke of burning spice slips over the Night’s body, caresses her, sinks into her, the whisper of a touch along the curves of her shape.

Nyx’s hair spills over her shoulders. Her perfect, beautiful face shows all the signs of pleasure: brows knitting together and upwards, the light of her eyes intensifying, the dark flush of her cheeks becoming deeper, her mouth slightly open. Smoke crawls into her body with every inhale. Her earrings jingle softly, movement making the gems of darkness clink against one another. As her wife’s hips move faster, harder, the Emperor reaches upwards to touch the Night’s face and bring her down for kisses, sweet and hungry kisses on her lips, her cheeks, her neck.

Violet lips kiss her back, desperate and greedy kisses that claimed the Emperor. Captivating, deep violet lips, now tinged with spice-indigo, parting to allow speech, her sensual, celestial voice finally saying the words the Emperor longed to hear since she first felt her wife’s touch. “Give me everything. Worship me.”

Hands and tentacles hold onto the goddess tightly as the Emperor fully indulges in bringing her wife to orgasm in tandem with her own. Even through the haze, she works towards that zenith of pure, raw, ultimate pleasure. She wants to reach that point with her wife, who guided her here, joined together by the same spice-imbued air, now soon to be joined again by the same spice-infused black tar. When the great entity exhales, when she lets out a moan, blue curls around the goddess.

There is only the name of the Night Incarnate in her mouth, her name caressed by black tentacles and blue spice, as she sinks as deep as she could into the goddess and fills her core. Her own orgasm was intense, she arches her back, pressing herself deeper into her wife as she gave her everything inside her: every atom of love, every future kiss, every night and hour joined together in absolute desire. The spice joins them in visions of every possible way the universe will end, of every child they will have in every eternity. The Emperor feels Nyx’s hips stutter to an end, the goddess pressing her weight down onto her to ensure she was as deep within her, tightening around her; she repeats Extinction’s true name over and over again, bursting from her celestial voice like a song.

Spice blessed by the names of Night and Extinction.

They lay in each other’s arms, exhausted, completely spent. Nyx presses her ear to the Emperor’s chest, listening to the hard pulsating sound of the black hole deep within, like a heartbeat thumping in the darkness. (Inside the Emperor are the songs of the end, the hum of Reapers communicating with each other, the sound of the Ziggurat and the Black Palace merging into one, coalescing noise. Inside the Emperor is the sound of a primordial supermassive black hole.) Her eyes glow with she incandescence of stars fated to die as supernovas, their glow intensified by the haze and by her afterglow. The Emperor runs a hand through her wife’s hair, long and spidery fingers slowly passing through stars and darkness. Such a motion is difficult to maintain, the spice makes the Emperor’s body heavy and their lovemaking has drained her of energy.

When Nyx separates from her, she pulls her wife into an embrace, holding her head to her chest, letting the great entity be lulled by her own heartbeat, the dark of her heart a magnificent and eternal machine. The Emperor hears interstellar space, the dark space between the stars and separates galaxies. She hears dark matter and dark energy whispering her name, an echo of Nyx’s voice. She hears nebulae churning, interstellar medium fermenting and growing new stars, ready for the Night to place in their fated quadrants. “My beautiful Emperor.” The Emperor looks up at her and accepts her slow kisses and the blessings she places on her face, her cheeks, her forehead. “Perfect for me,” the Night says in between kisses. “My beautiful, perfect wife.”

The Emperor adjusts her position as Nyx’s embrace loosens. She lays on her side, her head fully enjoying the plush softness of the pillows, and holds out her arm for Nyx to join her. The goddess joins her, also laying on her side as the Emperor lets her arm drape over her curves, her tentacles wrapping around her in loving embrace. Is does not take long for the two of them to fall asleep, happy and content, warm and loved.

The spice in the pipe continues to burn, thickening the haze that envelops the two entities.

[veryintricaterituals]

What if I stabbed you and you poisoned me and I torched all of our possessions and burned down our house (and we were both girls 👉👈)

[theeyeofthetigger]

Catching up on the demon slayer anime while there’s also new RWBY was very inspiring

[eddis-not-eeddis]

1 Peter 3: 1-4 

Likewise, ye wives, be in subjection to your own husbands; that, if any obey not the word, they also may without the word be won by the conversation of the wives;

2 While they behold your chaste conversation coupled with fear.

3 Whose adorning let it not be that outward adorning of plaiting the hair, and of wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel;

4 But let it be the hidden man of the heart, in that which is not corruptible, even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price.

I'm just saying. If verse three prohibits me from braiding my hair or wearing jewelry, it also prohibits me from wearing clothing.

[fairandfatalasfair]

Saw Dune part 2

It is... really obvious that this is a story that is suffering from having not bothered to set up the essential pieces of its worldbuilding, and also not having thought very much about how the pieces it did use are supposed to fit together...and as a result they made a story that never quite makes complete sense, and doesn't really engage that effectively with its themes, and the relationship dynamics fall flat.

And like... I get that the worldbuilding of Dune is very complicated and it's hard to fit all of those details in. But the result is a narrative that's not really grounded in cause and effect and instead is just grabbing for cool visuals and playing up the religious fanatic imagery, and I found it fell flat.

Like it's fine. And Chalamet continues to do a better job with the character than I was expecting. But the writing is just all over the place.

[baldurianbookhoarder]

In the end game credits, there is a "Thank You from the team" section where everyone who worked on the game got to shout out whoever they wanted. These were my personal favourites.

[protonpowered]

Look me in the eyes and tell me Emperor Nefarious doesn't have commitment issues

[starkwlkr]

happy life, happy wife | hugh jackman

an: “you attract what you fear” GUYS IM SO SCARED OF A 55 YEAR OLD AUSTRALIAN 😭 definitely thinking about making marvel actress!reader x hugh an actual series… i have ideas

marvel actress!reader

Deadpool & Wolverine Press tour - Hot Ones

Hugh felt like he was going to die. Each wing was getting hotter and hotter, but immediately when he heard his wife’s name he forgot all about the spice.

“Hugh, your wife is part of the Avengers, how does it feel having your wife be part of such a huge franchise? Have you two talked about a potential team up with the X-men and the Avengers?” Sean asked.

“My wife . . . Oh god, I think I’m crying-”

“I can’t tell if you’re legitimately dying or completely in love with your wife.” Ryan told Hugh.

“Wait . . I am completely in love with my wife and I would legitimately die for her.” Hugh gasped as he rearranged Ryan’s words.

“Is that in the contract she made you sign when you married her? ‘I vow to die for you’. My contract said I had to give all my money to my kids and wife.” Ryan said.

“No, she’s amazing, um, if I start talking about her I think I might go on for hours,” he laughed. “Our kids do want to see their parents fighting the bad guys together. We would love to team up, maybe it could happen.” Hugh smiled.

“The entire movie would be them making out and her beating the shit out of you. I’d pay to see that.” Ryan added.

•••

Comic Con 2024

Like RDJ, your last Marvel movie had been Avengers: Endgame. After being in ten mcu films, it was time to say goodbye to your character.

But that was in 2019.

At this years comic con, you were back. The cast of Deadpool & Wolverine had taken the stage and showed their appreciation for the fans. After their panel, it was time to announce Marvel’s upcoming projects. Kevin Feige announced the Fantastic Four, Thunderbolts, Captain America 4, and finally the new Avengers movies, which everyone was extremely excited about.

After showing the title card for the upcoming Avengers film, Kevin turned to the audience.

“Something people have been asking, as of late, is who the heck is going to direct these two movies?” The audience clapped.

From the side of the stage, you were nervous. What if the fans didn’t like the idea of you directing the next two Avengers films? Your worrying caused Hugh to come to your rescue.

“Hey, they loved you as an Avenger, they will love you even more.” Hugh kissed your forehead. “If anyone says anything about this decision, they have me to deal with.”

You laughed at his words. “I really love you so much.”

“Love you too, bub.” Hugh was about to kiss you when Ryan cut in.

“I really love us too. I convinced half of the people here that we’re a throuple.” He said in the most serious tone ever.

Kevin announced you as the director. Your doubt of the fans not liking the announcement was proven wrong when you walked the stairs to the stage and stood next to Kevin. They cheered when they saw you were back.

As you said a few words, thanking Marvel, Kevin and the fans, you were being recorded by Hugh, who was being recorded by Ryan.

“That’s my wife!” Hugh cheered from backstage, holding his phone in his hand.

“She’s Marvel Jesus now, holy shit!”

•••

WIRED autocomplete interview

“Is Hugh Jackman married?”

“Yes, to me, Y/n, probably to half the population,” Ryan answered. “He’s Australia’s biggest slut.”

“All the times, I proposed.” Hugh laughed. “But yes, I am married and I love my wife very much. She’s stuck with me forever.” He lifted his hand to show off the wedding band.

“Funny, because she texted me right now. Her and Blake are in the courthouse getting married. So Deadpool three was actually made so our wives could divorce us and marry each other.”

[evilminji]

I woke up to this thought? And it made me smile~

Wrong way Au?

It's EASY to fly from point A to point B. Linear. Just on long, no traffic, straight line. And if you get lost? Go higher! There you are! But "normal" reporter families with Totally Human genetics can't exactly DO that.

Plus? It's part of the whole Americana thing!

Childhood.

Gotta do a road trip, see weird road side attractions, camp and hike a bit. Go somewhere other then the farm for once. Soooo~ everyone into the car! Yes, you too, Kon.

And don't look at Lois, kids. She hates this idea as much as you do. But it's for Dad. So we're doing it. Get in the car. Some times loving people means "suuuure, honey! I TOTALLY want to sit in an uncomfortable car for hours for your nostalgic dream trip!", so get comfy.

Problem is? He either can't navigate for SHIT (unlikely) or this patch of nowhere? Possibly haunted? Cursed? Fuckey. Very, very Reality Fuckey. Far more likely, honestly. They THINK that was the a same barn the passed four times now... but it looks... wrong? Off. Worse each time, in ways that are hard to place.

Where the FUCK are they Clark?

According to the GPS?

Here.

(You are Here. You are Here. You are He-)

Oh, THAT'S not cursed! She fucking KNEW they shouldn't have left the city. FUCK the countryside. She likes ONE(1) small town and it's where her in-laws live, THANK YOU VERY MUCH! If they die, she swear to GOD-!!!

Then Jon points to colorful tents up the road. A mix of the kind you buy at big box stores and Ren fairs. Balloons. What the fuuuuuck? "Fenton Family Reunion"?

Was... was that THERE a second ago?

Clark's very deliberate Not Too Tight Grip Of Panic ™ on the steering wheel? Confirms that No Honey, it was not. Kon points out? That eventually they ARE going to run out of gas. They should stop.

Words can not express how little the Kents want to do that. They have KIDS to protect. This feels "magical fuckery" to them. AKA? One of the few things Kryptonians very much CAN NOT handle.

And luck getting ahold of anybody back there kids? No? Emergency lines too?

Fuck ™.

Okay! Guess we're stopping! Stay behind us.

They park.

There are campers and trucks, modified tanks and trackers. A few horses grazing side by side with an honest to God moose and two mules. A Llama. Someone's anchored a dirigible. A boat with spindly chicken footed legs, like it's the house of baba yaga's sea faring love child. The name Fenton is slapped on everything. Peoples faces.

Grinning.

Everything grinning.

As they get closer, the racket gets louder. Crashes and smashes. Roaring laughter. Explosions. The screech of metal failing and the whine of energy overclocked. Fatty meats cooking. Spices from around the globe. Radios and instruments, at least one of which violently cuts off in a smash.

They pass an almost violently balloon choked arch, into chaos.

Grinning giants, everywhere. Every color, every shade, every race imaginable. The spectrum of humanity laid bare. Made large. Grinning, Grinning, Grinning. Crashing into each other, against, through. Smashing and laughing, as everything breaks around them. Titans.

Darting underfoot, children. Fast with wild eyes. Mad grins and fae laughs. Wives and husband's, partners and friends, dancing in and out of the chaos. Just as destructive. Perhaps MORE so. Grabbing meals from grills, laughing and joking, tossing children into the fray, all as they effortless hold conversations of their own.

Like a Dionysian revelry, all madness and joy.

Then they are noticed.

"Cousin!"

One of them booms. Locking eyes on Clark. He doesn't even have time to move, doesn't realize until too late, in all the chaos, that the man meant HIM. A running start is followed by a brutal, full body, flying tackle. Clark is taken skidding to the ground and into a headlock.

"LETS WRASTLE~!!"

He watches in helpless confusion as, with high-pitched war cries, a pair of twins jump Jon. They are wearing war paint. Krypto already taken out by a glowing green dog, now confused and wrestling off to the side. Lois has whipped out her tazer. Kon between her and who ever comes next.

By the time he wrestle his "cousin" off of him, he's lost sight of them both.

Dives into the fray.

Magic be damned, that's his FAMILY!

It... It's the most fun he's had in years. That any of them have. He finds Lois in a breathless, screaming, debate/fistfight with her new best friend. Samantha "call me Sam Or ELSE" Manson-Fouley-Fenton. Kon is in the mud pit, wrestling other teenagers in some sort of battle Royale. Jon? Has become king of the ferals. The other parents are impressed.

His years of Damian wrangling finally paying dividends, apparently.

By the time Clark FINALLY tracks down Krypto, there is already crowd and it apparently six heel turns deep into the WWE Grand Saga of the Fenton Pet's League. Krypto, what the hell. No. No you may NOT "form one last alliance against my sworn wrestling enemy, to prove the true meaning of Christmas!" It's the middle of SUMMER!

Clark... Clark is so tired.

He's also a Fenton now. Yes, he KNOWS that's not how anything works. YOU try explaining that! He's on the call list and card list. It's like the Addams family out here! They just... just DECIDED him and his family were related! They've apparently DONE THAT BEFORE!

They leave with directions, fudge, more leftovers then anyone could possibly eat, and a massive new extended family. One that honestly? The Justice League SHOULD have known about. The sheer destructive chaos they get up too? EVERYONE should be aware of them. It seems impossible NOT to be! But? According to THEM, it's a "family thing". Reality tries to ignore them for "it's own sanity"? What???

So yeah.... no more road trips.

How was YOUR weekend?

@hdgnj @legitimatesatanspawn @nerdpoe @the-witchhunter @lolottes @babbling-babull @dcxdpdabbles @hypewinter @mutable-manifestation

[redskull199987]

Concubine

Paul Atreides x fem!reader Part II

Word Count:1.6k

Warnings:!SPOILERS! for Dune II, canon typical violence

Summary:"This princess will carry his name and yet, she will be less than a Concubine. She will never spend a moment of tenderness with the man she is tied to. But we who are called concubines - in the eyes of history we will be wives…"

Part I / Masterlist

She was pretty. You had to give her that. Your gaze closely followed each and every move that the Princess made. You knew that her head must have been chaotic at the moment, going through every possible scenario, how this situation could end. And you also knew that her first and last goal of this day would be to save her father’s life and secure the continuous reign of her bloodline.

But from the way she looked at you, you knew that Princess Irulan was aware of the fact that if she did marry Paul, she’d never get to share a bed with him. Would never bear his heirs or even receive an ounce of warmth from him.

She knew that even though you'd officially be Paul’s concubine, his loyalty would lie with you. And only you.

Chani’s hand on your shoulder pulled you out of your thoughts. It reminded you that before it ever came to that, Paul would have to beat the Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha.

You took a deep breath in, as you glanced over to the Harkonnen. You had heard stories of him back on Caladan. Stories of his thirst for blood and his enjoyment of Pain. His reputation preceded him, but his appearance clearly matched it. He looked almost eerily as he stepped forward, proposing to fight for the Emperor and defined his honor.

A small frown appeared on your face, when Paul accepted the proposal. Too fast for your liking. You heard Chani sigh next to you. You looked over to the Fremen. The Woman who had become like a sister to you, who had taught you the ways of her people. You remembered it as clear as day, when she had first told you, that you’d earned her trust.

It was the day you had joined the Fedaykin among their ranks, The day you became one of them.

You were high on adrenaline. You didn’t know how else you could’ve explained it. You didn’t know how else you would’ve pulled it off. Your eyes wandered over the many Corpses of the Harkonnen Warriors, that were supposed to protect their Harvester. Almost like in slow motion, you raised your hand, your fingertips wandering over the specks of blood that littered your face. You knew it wasn’t your own blood, but the thrill that the situation itself brought you, was indescribable. 

You needed a few moments to fully return to the present. The Spice in the Air was clouding your senses, making it feel like you witnessed everything merely from the eyes of a spectator and not as one of the Fremen who ever so fiercely attacked a Spice Harvester of the Harkonnen.

The Explosion pulled you out of your Trance.

You spun around, spotting Chani and Paul. They were fighting off a few Harkonnen warriors. But you quickly realized that Paul wouldn’t be able to defeat them all alone. You’ve never felt slower than in this moment, when you started running towards him. It felt like the Sand was pulling you down, seeking to swallow you whole.

But you didn’t let it. A scream left your lips, as you dashed forward, deeply burying your Crysknife in the back of a Harkonnen Warrior that was about to attack Chani from behind. You sank to the ground together with his Corpse, as Chani spun around, her eyes widening as she realized what had happened.

Only seconds passed, as you looked up to her, Anger and Determination all, that was on your mind. Chani gave you a small nod before Paul finally reached the two of you again.

“Re-load!”, Chani yelled at him and he quickly did as told, pulling out another round of Ammo, reloading Chanis Missile Launcher. 

You glanced past the Mainstay that the three of you were hiding behind. When you spotted the Ornithopter in the air, you gulped harshly.

“The shields only lower when he’s shooting!”, You shouted towards your companions. When you locked eyes with Paul, you immediately realized that the two of you had the same Plan.“We’ll distract him!”, Paul explained to Chani who gave him a court nod as she understood.

“Wait for our sign!”, You yelled, as you got ready to sprint over to the next Mainstay to distract the Sniper.

“Ready?”, Paul asked as he got into position next to you.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”, You grinned, despite the Seriousness of the Situation.

You took in one last deep breath, knowing very well that it could be your last one, before you felt Paul tap your shoulder, signaling you to start running.

Almost immediately, your instincts kicked in and it felt like you were a spectator again, watching how your feet carried you through the hot sand. You saw and heard the shots that rang in the Air as you sprinted through the Desert.

“Shit!”, You heard Paul yell next to you and you quickly realized what he meant, when you saw the Mainstay in front of you start to move further away from you.

“Run!!”, You shouted, as if it wasn’t obvious. 

You knew that from that moment and the point where you reached your destination, only seconds passed but it felt like hours as you ran through the sand. Mere moments before you reached the safety of the Mainstay, you heard Paul yell at Chani to launch the Missile.

 You were knocked over by the Force of the Explosion as the Ornithopter burst apart into the air, signaling to the Fremen that were hidden on the cliffs nearby that they could launch their attack on the Harvester, destroying it entirely. 

“Hurry!”, Paul yelled, as he pulled you to your feet and back over to Chani who was already making her way towards the nearby Dune. You had to disappear in the Desert again, before more Harkonnen would come and attack you.

That night you sat with the other Fedaykin, drank and laughed with them as Paul and you joined their ranks as respectable Warriors of the Desert. You received your Fremen name and you realized that your Heart, your soul and your entire being was with them now. You would fight for them as long as you breathed, would even go to death for them.

And Chani seemed to realize it too.

The young woman had always acted cold towards you, but when you saved her life on that day, risking your own for hers, she realized just how much of a loyal friend and fighter lay in you. From that day on, You knew that you could always count on each other.

“He will survive…He will win.”, Chani whispered into your ear and squeezed your shoulder as you watched how Paul and Feyd-Rautha got ready for their Fight. As the Gaze of the Na-Baron crossed yours, you sucked in a deep breath. What you saw in those eyes scared you.

It was a thirst for Blood and Power that you had only seen in Paul as he drank the Water of life.

You quickly looked over to Paul, giving him a firm nod, signaling him that you were on his side. His eyes told you more than words ever could. It was a silent promise. A promise to come back to you, to survive this battle and to put his plan into action.

It was a Promise that he would become the Emperor.

“I must not fear”, You mumbled to yourself, as the fight began,”Fear is the Mindkiller.” 

Your eyes followed every little move of Paul as well as Feyd-Rautha. The two men were equal fighters, both born to be the One. But only one of them would win, only one of them would come out alive.

“Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration.”, You whispered, as you watched Paul get knocked over the head, Blood trickling down his temple,”I will face my fear.”

“Is she your pet?”, Feyd-Rautha mocked as he gave Paul a moment to collect himself. The Na-Baron grinned wickedly and pointed his knife at you. You paid him no mind, as your eyes only rested on Paul, silently telling him not to let himself be provoked.

“I will permit it to pass over me and through me”, you mouthed as Paul got up and the Fight commenced anew. 

Your breath hitched as Feyd-Rautha swiftly disarmed Paul, ramming the Crsyknife into his ribs. A guttural groan left Paul's lips as the two fighters stood close to each other. Wheezing breaths were the only noise to be heard in the room.

“And when it has gone past I will turn to the inner eye and see it’s Path”, You whispered desperately, the Mantra being the only thing that kept you from panicking.

All your senses were focused on the two men in front of you as you witnessed how Paul silently pulled the Crysknife out of his Body, getting ready to attack. Feyd-Rautha barely had time to react as the holy knife of Shai-Hulud pierced his armor and therefore ended his life by the hand of the new Emperor. 

“Where the Fear has gone there will be nothing”, You mouthed as Paul got to his feet again. His steps seemed to carry the weight of the Universe as he walked over to the old Emperor, demanding him to kneel in front of his new Master.

Reluctantly the old man did as told, as he accepted his defeat. Princess Irulans gaze slowly wandered to you, as her father fell to his knees.

“Only I will remain.”

[tojisun]

sugar, spice, everything on ice (hockey au)

pining for someone in an established relationship sucks, or: hockey player kyle garrick x f!reader, kyle x f!OC (one-sided)

context here and here! major cw that this is me being delusional [thumbs up emote] other cw: fast-burn, time jumps, outside pov // 3.5k words

current timeline: kyle garrick’s second season (pre-injury)

she has always liked garrick—it’s hard not to like him, after all.

he is electric. beautiful, especially on ice. he skates like it comes to him as easy as breathing; like he’s been born with no other purpose but to take to the ice. she doesn’t understand why people called him overhyped when garrick is a beast in his own right—tearing through the space with ease and confidence, overpowering even the ones with legacies longer than his own.

as if there was any doubt that he wasn’t destined for the big leagues.

she’s not really privy to the nuances of ice hockey, oftentimes content with only watching. it was garrick who made her want to learn more about it; who had her scouring through the net about anything and everything because this way, it felt like she could know more about him.

it was pathetic, really, if not a little funny, but she felt vindicated by it. she felt as though she…deserved this much; this sliver of kyle garrick that she can have. this version of him that she can get to know because the real garrick is closed-off to the rest of the world. because the real garrick has a whole other life before him and it didn’t include her.

then, somehow, someway, she finds her way to him.

it starts off with a question—do you want to come?

there is not much to be said about having a cousin in the league—she’s family, yes, but sasha’s so much older than her now. he’s even moved across the country to join his current team, the specgru, where he found his now-wife. so really, she falls under sasha’s radar quite often, which she was fine to begin with.

but things kept lining up, and one thing led to another, and then sasha’s wife, mila, was inviting her over to a party. a specgru party.

it felt like, well, it felt surreal.

one moment she was watching them on ice, from those special boxes for the wives and girlfriends, then the next they’re in front of her.

garrick is in front of her.

he looks beautiful, catastrophically so. there are not enough words that exist that can describe him but if she were to try, she would tell the world how garrick was like the sun—warm and tender, his gravitational pull so strong it has her trembling. aching.

he lagged behind the older members, shy and quiet most of the time, but she couldn’t stop looking at him, her throat constricting as the bubble of her desires razed her.

she needs—

he turns, his eyes meeting hers.

ah, she thinks to herself as the air in her lungs leave her in one swoop. his eyes are a startling hazel.

.

kyle.

garrick told her to call him kyle. he murmured it to her with a shy smile, and she couldn’t look away from his crinkled eyes, creased in a way that made him look younger. in a way that made him look more familiar and less untouchable.

kyle.

just thinking about his name filled her up with immense giddiness, the butterflies rising from the pit of her stomach to tickle the back of her throat. she repeated his name as much as she was allowed to, murmuring it to herself or calling it out loud because when she did, kyle was always there to look at her with his kind eyes.

he was so patient with her. so understanding of her awe.

he kept her company even when he didn't need to, and a part of her felt bad for monopolizing his time, of course, but kyle had talked to her in stilted murmurs and filled up their bubble with anything and everything, until the awkwardness drained and they were left with aching stomachs as laughter continued to peel from their lips.

she couldn't find it in herself to be guilty; she couldn't find it in herself to wish that kyle should have just left her.

she is, after all, still so very selfish.

and now that she's gotten a piece of what being with kyle was like, she doesn't know if she could ever stop the feelings settling in the pit of her stomach anymore. she doesn’t know if she could ever rationalize herself anymore because this thing she feels for kyle, it seemed to be heading toward a storm.

.

somehow an easy friendship between the two of them developed. a sort of companionship that had her up late at night, tumbling every message she’s received from him, no matter how sparse and little.

it’s not his fault, after all. the season already started, and she knew that the specgru are out for blood this season—they want to advance to the playoffs, and then win the cup that was snagged from their chest by the lightnings last season.

so she savours everything she receives, from the replies to her morning greetings to the memes he sends her sporadically during the day. she tucks everything into the pockets of her chest, knowing full well that this isn’t ideal. that this is destructive. desperate.

but no man has ever made her feel the way she does for kyle—that sort of feeling that makes someone want to sleep earlier so that tomorrow comes a lot faster, or that feeling that zaps out one’s appetite for no apparent reason, or that feeling that cages one’s mind until all one can think of is them.

until all she can think of is him.

kyle is—

kyle is a wonder. a riot.

he is all that is good in the world. all that gives her joy. she understands that the weight of her feelings must be a burden to kyle if he were to ever find out, but it’s just that, kyle is...

he is amazing. his hockey is amazing. his skills and abilities are amazing. his attitude and fortitude and his perseverance are all amazing.

she understands now why hockey players are called stars. their blaze runs hot and bright, a supernova, something that is almost so religious, and it is all so enchanting that one cannot help but store their dreams—a sort of patriotic need for the cup to come back home—into their cluster.

.

but stars, they crash. they burn. they sputter, snuffed out of their light, of their wonder.

she wonders why she has forgotten such fate.

.

she finds out about it through a news article; in a way that hammered into her their circumstances. their differences.

she was unable to watch the game, too caught up in the swirling miasma of her life. everything felt too shaky, like things got ahead of her, and she so desperately tried to catch up. to stabilize herself.

kyle had told her good luck.

she had forgotten to return it.

and now—

specgru defenceman, kyle garrick, out ‘long term’ with reported broken clavicle.

all of a sudden, it is like the ground was ripped from under her and she is left falling, dread and surprise and hurt swirling in her gut.

it felt surreal, like it wasjust a bad dream that she couldn’t wake up from. like the words are a jumbled mess and her mind is just so desperately slotting the pieces together to make sense of it all.

what does this mean for kyle?

she swipes out of the hockey central news and rings sasha, but he would not pick up her calls and mila was only able to recount whatever was broadcasted, but she took it with shaking palms, her worry bloating because kyle has never been so unreachable before. so worryingly absent in her life.

she needed to hear about what happened from someone she trusts. not from the news media, nor the threads of posts made online, but from someone who knew kyle too. not garrick the player, but kyle for the man who he is.

mila said it happened so fast that no one could even fathom the gravity of the situation. she said she saw kyle skating for the puck, another opposing player hot on his heels, almost uncomfortably so, before the two of them just toppled into the boards.

“it took a while for him to stand up,” mila murmured, her voice faint on the other line. “but we knew it was bad when we saw him holding his shoulder. and then they pulled him from the game and we knew then that it couldn’t have been something small.”

“is he—” she paused, not knowing where to even begin. “do you know if he’s—”

“…i don’t know.”

the call ended there. she doesn’t even remember if she replied to mila, too caught up in the worry churning in the pit of her stomach. too caught up with the weight of her doubts crushing her.

what does this mean for kyle, if not some sense of retirement?

.

she does not get to meet kyle until after the surgery.

(everyday, she finds herself drafting a message to him.

i’m sorry, it begins.

i heard what happened. she deletes this.

i heard you’ll miss the rest of the regular seas—

i heard they’re saying you might have to r—

you’ve had a good career—

i’m sorry, it reads, so soulless and inadequate for the storm in her heart. she scraps it out and throws her phone to her bed.)

sasha had been the one to tell her that he was scheduled for one, his nose wrinkled in confusion at her insistence in being updated.

“i knew y’were close but…” he told her then, almost accusingly like there’s something she’s got to admit.

and she knows she has to tell someone about what she feels for kyle, or even stop dancing around it every time mila asks, but it was too intimate. it was too fragile.

so she shrugged and ignored his narrowed eyes, hoping that he’d drop it. and sasha may be a hulking mass of muscles with only hockey and mila in his mind, but he heeled and told her when kyle was available for guests.

she bought him flowers and it feels so silly because she knows they are only placations. she knows that kyle wants nothing more than the ice—not their ‘i’m sorry’s nor their ‘next time’s nor their ‘get well soon’s. but what else can she do for him besides this?

they’re friends. they’re just friends.

this is the extent of what she’s allowed to do.

these are the things she tells herself as she makes his way to his room, greeting the players loitering outside—they're kyle’s closest friends since he got drafted.

“oh, y’might have to wait for a wee bit, lass,” mactavish says before she could peer into the small window of the private room to check on kyle.

she turns to johnny, frowning. “oh? is something wrong?”

mactavish huffs a soft laugh, and seeing the faint humour in his face eases her worries up a bit.

“he’s alright now,” he replies, then giggles again. “we just can’t intrude, yeah? not when his girl’s in there with him.”

he turns to riley, blind to the way her breath got stuck in her lungs. “how long did he say that they didn’t see each other? three years?”

riley’s watching her, his face pinched in discomfort. mactavish pokes him again when he doesn’t reply.

“almost four,” is what riley finally manages to reply, his voice rasping out like a grunt, the words slithering from the cracks of his teeth like he could see her.

like he knows what kyle means to her and what this news, this shocking revelation, is doing to her.

mactavish looks back at her again, smiling, still so unknowing. still so innocently honest.

“i have to—” she fumbles, her fist tightening around the stem of the bouquet she’s carrying. “i’m going to—”

she bolts, her feet thudding against the sterile floors.

pinpricks fill the back of her eyes, raging as they push against her restraint, stinging, until the tears bead, pooling, her eyesight blurring, and then they fall. she gasps out a sob, the cry lurching from the depths of her lungs and tearing through her trachea.

it hurts.

she bites down the sobs that threaten to come out, fighting against the agony until she’s finally back in the comfort of her car.

she breathes, dragging in a wet inhale, then she breaks.

.

her first feeling was heartbreak. the second was betrayal—how could he not have told her? did he trust her so little?

but just as fast as the feeling of betrayal came, so too did the rationalization. the spark of clarity burning through the anger and the hurt to tug her out of its depths, straining to bring her out of the vitriolic spiral.

mactavish and riley’s words descend to her, heavy but enlightening.

almost four years. kyle has not seen his girlfriend for almost four years.

he was someone else’s person before she and kyle even met.

she finds his socials and digs around, skirting past the guilt of worrying about this more than his recovery.

she scrolls past his recent pictures, past the ones taken with the team or the ones in his juniors, past the brand deals and the ads he’s featured in, until she finds herself deep in his past. she pauses, taking in the pictures of kyle in some north american university, playing for their varsity team.

he is younger here but just as passionate. just as in love with hockey. only—

there, she finds you.

you were startlingly the focus of his page before he moved across the continent for the league. you were there, always by his side or featured on your own, his love overpowering in the way he shares to the world how he sees you.

framed in the sun, melting into the sea, giggling as you lay in the grass where he took you for a picnic date—kyle shared it all.

he shared his life with you to the world—his life with you in your dorms as you two studied for exams, or in a corner store while you two munched on food at three in the morning, or you cheering for him in the stands, slapping at the glass protector in your excitement while you stood beside a man who looks so much like you.

few scrolls in and she learns that that’s your brother, kyle’s lifelong friend.

she realized then, how you and kyle are interwoven together—two beating hearts, twined into one.

how could she have missed this all?

how could she have thought that she knew kyle at all? that the pieces he’s shared with her defined all that he is?

then, she finds one picture that truly captivated her. one that made her sit upright because this showed how you were, are, his cornerstone—you took to the ice, standing beside him in your own gear, the two of you infinitely intimidating as the two of you stared into the camera, hungry for something.

hungry for a win.

you know ice hockey.

(in a way, that single fact explains so much.

kyle needed someone who knew him beyond his story, beyond his fame. someone who knew his hockey before it was muddled by the bets. before the politics of it all.

kyle needed someone who—)

oh, she thought.

oh.

.

she returns back in the hospital despite the curl of shame and sadness that settled in the pit of her stomach. she returns because kyle is still her friend.

the boys are gone by the time she reaches his private room, but she falters in her steps anyway because there, she sees you.

you are sat by the visitor’s seats, bent over in your exhaustion. it is staggering to truly see the woman whom kyle cares about the most—the very same one she just learned about an hour ago.

you are older now, of course, different from the pictures taken years ago, but you continue to be shrouded in that aching familiarity of being kyle’s person. like it just makes sense that you and kyle are together.

something churns in her heart, but she bulldozes through the weight of it all and ambles towards you.

you look up at the sound of her feet, blinking weary eyes up at her.

“hi,” she greets shyly, cheeks warming up in embarrassment.

“hey,” you reply just as softly, confused, until your eyes fall to the flowers she’s carrying and then you’re smiling, patting the seat beside your own.

“he’s asleep right now,” you say as she sits. “i heard you were here earlier but you had to go because something urgent came up. hope things are alright?”

“yeah,” she croaks out, reeling from the familiarity in your tone, like you know of her, somehow. “had to, uh, take a call. how’s he?”

you hum, rubbing your forearm softly—a nervous habit, she notes. kyle does it too, sometimes.

“stable,” you begin. “it was a quick surgery so there’s that. they said he’ll be fine.”

she bites her lips, hesitant. then, “and, uhm, what will happen to him now?”

it is here that you smile, wide and excitable, and she blinks in her surprise, unable to see where you’re coming from. unable to understand where you find the fortitude to do so. and then, you laughed, the sound of it almost barked out like it came from the cages of your ribs, rattling against your bones to shake you awake. it was raw, booming. it was sunny and bright.

“he will be back,” you finally reply, voice so airy like you are floating on air. “his career’s not over.”

there is a sense of finality in your words. a sense of belief so strong, it sounds reverent.

(later, alone with her thoughts, she will remember the words she almost left with kyle—you’ve had a good career—and she will realize why you continue to be the one he chooses.)

“i’m glad,” she murmurs, huffing out in her relief because she had been so afraid. so muddled with worry.

you giggle, the sound twinkling like chimes, before telling her your name.

i know, she almost slipped out only to bite it at the last minute.

she gives you hers in return.

“i know,” you say, gentle and kind. she jolts in her surprise. “kyle talks about you a lot.”

what could she even say to that? before, she’s sure that her heart would’ve caved in, and she would be filled with butterflies so strong, she’d get dizzy; that she’d feel a flicker of hope burn bright, and it would warm her up and sustain her until she meets kyle again. but not now. not anymore.

so she settles with, “yeah?” in hopes that such a short answer will hide the way she trembles.

“yeah,” you tell her, so genuine it makes her hands clammy. “i’m glad that he’s found his people here, you know? people who see him for himself, more than anything else.”

you sound so grounded—kyle’s cornerstone.

you look at her with nothing but kindness. happiness.

(a part of her knows that you know what she feels for kyle.)

“he’s…wonderful. well, he’s more than that but i think,” she pauses to chuckle. “you know that better than anyone else.”

.

when kyle wakes up, you tell her you need to grab something for him to eat. the two of you pretend it’s not your way of giving the two of them privacy.

she walks in, her nose scrunched at how wrinkled her flowers are now, but kyle beams at her in gratitude altogether, weak hands curling around the flowers with such tender.

he looks exhausted, pained, still, and she doesn’t even have to ask if it’s less about his injury and more about the fact that he’s made to miss the rest of the season.

“i’m sorry,” she finally gets to say. “i wish you didn’t have to miss anything.”

“i know,” he replies, his smile pinched. then, she watches as he shuts his eyes, breathing in deeply, before his body uncoils, now more relaxed.

“i know,” he repeats, blinking up at her. “but i’ll get it all back next year.”

“yeah?” she asks, not out of doubt but to bring the fire back in his eyes. she wants to see them hardened, resolute.

kyle grins, manically almost. “hell yeah.”

she laughs, feeling something in her unfurl, like a taut string cutting loose.

they talk with the same familiarity, with the same cadence, and she sees how your presence has not changed anything between the two of them. it is all so refreshing. merciful, almost.

and she now knows that it is because kyle has never thought of her in any other way that isn’t just friendly or platonic, but it means a lot to her that she can continue to have even this with kyle.

.

“oh, lapochka,” mila murmurs, her face crumpling in her worry. mila opens her arms and she dives in them, her choked sobs muffled on mila’s shoulders.

mila holds her for a long while.

notes: i daydreamed this so hard i had to write it LMAO ik it feels so juvenile but pls let me have it. i had to see it come to fruition and i enjoyed writing a fic structured this way!! especially since the OC is just as nameless as the reader so yk one can insert themselves into her too :’3 BUT YEA! thank u for bearing w me and i hope u guys liked it <33

[f0point5]

Dutch Translation

V: I tried to call you, where are you?

M: I’m in the car. I’m in the UK doing sim work. On my way to the factory. All ok?

V: Yeah. I was just wondering if you had an idea what Y/N would like for Christmas? I’m doing everyone’s list now

M: I don’t know. Perfume maybe? In the winter she likes the Killian one called Gone Girl or Bad Girl. Something like that. Or the British one that’s purple and smells like spice and smoke. I’ll ask her

V: How often are you smelling this girl Max?

M: Shut up Vic you asked me for help

V: I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you know more about her than most men know about their wives.

M: Vic not this again. I don’t have time

V: You always say that but when are you going to have time? You take it for granted that you’re going to have forever to just ignore this

M: For God’s sake

V: Max how long are you going to wait? She’s an amazing girl, she’s not just going to stay single forever waiting for you

M: Y/N isn’t waiting for anything from me

V: You’re so blind Max

M: What can she be waiting for? I don’t have anything to offer her. I’m going to give her money? She has that. Fame? So she can keep getting ripped apart on the internet and abused by thousands of people just because of me? She’s waiting to date a driver? Well all of them want her. Everybody fucking wants her. They always have. But thank you for reminding me as if I didn’t know since we were 13

V: Max, you know you don’t have to give people things for them to love you. Being you is enough

M: But it’s not, is it? It never was

V: So

V: All those years you liked her? Daddy was right?

M: You don’t have to like someone to know you don’t have a chance with them

M: Whether I liked her never mattered

V: But you like her now

V: Are you ever going to tell her?

M: She knows Vic

M: I’m at the factory, I have to go. I love you

V: I love you too, Max. And I just want what’s best for you

M: I know. But you’re like Dad. You’re always so sure you know better than me what that is.

[old-lorarri]

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