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ceilidho · 4 months

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take me home, country road

prompt: 1800s price/reader…. reader flees to his town where Price is the sheriff after a murder in her previous town only to be mistaken for the mail order bride that Price just sent for ….and he’s not interested in hearing any of her excuses when she tells him that he’s got the wrong girl (part 2) part 1

The solid hand at your back guides you through the dusty streets towards the courthouse in the middle of town. It’s not an easy walk. Your shoes catch on the skirt of your dress a handful of times in Price’s haste, each time almost causing you to tumble forward before you manage to catch yourself.

It’s patently unfair. The strides of his long legs would easily have you losing him in a crowd were it not for the way he refuses to leave you behind; every time you so much as slow down a tad to catch your breath, the firm hand on your low back presses you forward again. You’d be snippier if you weren’t still addled from the events of just five minutes previous.

“I beg you, please—” you plead, heart skittering in your chest when you chance a glance up to find Price’s face set. Everything about him feels purposeful now, driven. “If you just—if you would just let me explain!”

“Nothing more to know, darling,” he says, not bothering to meet your desperate eyes. Clearly not in any mood to continue arguing with you on the status of your identity.

He tugs you along when he takes a right turn down a road leading into the center of town. The belt of bullets around his waist rattles with every step. It’s a constant reminder of who you’re with and why you should not be with him. Every step feels like a step towards your own sentencing, like accompanying your jailer to your cell. It’s perhaps fool’s luck that the sheriff hasn’t inquired further into your identity or your reason for coming into town. Makes you think that perhaps there isn’t yet a warrant out for your arrest. Maybe that’s only to come.

“Sure there’s more!” you insist. “There’s—there’s—” It’s like the words fly right out of your head, bucked off like a bronc rider. Too much has happened in too short a time. “There’s the matter of—oh, would you quit that, I am walking!” The last bit comes out snappish, peeved as Price pulls you towards the stone steps of a red-bricked building.

The words County Court House are inscribed above the second-story door girdled by a wrought iron balcony. It’s a simple building, far from the colonnaded buildings from back home with their cupolas and hand-carved lintels. Even in size it hardly compares, a meager three stories with perhaps a basement. Still, it catches the eye in a town as small as this, by far the most imposing building for miles around.

It’s also the one he pulls you towards, hand moving from the small of your back to take firm hold of your waist. You flinch at the touch and the way his fingers dig in, almost proprietarily. It’s a physical shock to your system. While you’re not unaccustomed to the rougher ways of men, you’ve also been largely shielded from it yourself. By chance or fortune or luck. Men may take an attitude with you, as they’re wont to do, but none have yet manhandled you the way Price feels free to do.

“Take a big step there now, darling,” he says, lifting the front of your dress for you a tad, to your shock. “No accidents before the wedding.”

“The wedding?” you shriek, face heating at the heads that turn to look over at the two of you.

The courthouse is bustling with townsfolk, still not as busy as in the bigger cities back east, but still clearly at the center of all business activities. The few people that pass you by on the way out of or into the courthouse are bold in their perusal, eyebrows lifting when they take notice of Price at your side—and how could they not, with the size of him and the badge pinned to the lapel of his vest that glimmers when it catches the light.

“If you were expecting something grander, you should’ve turned up last month when I sent for you,” Price says, stern again. In the foyer of the courthouse, you can see the way the long hallway cuts through the building, leading into the adjacent rooms until finally culminating with the courtroom at the very back. You watch as a man slowly closes the door to the last door, shutting the occupants in. “Might’ve been more amenable to it then.”

“I’m not asking for a nicer ceremony—”

“Good, then you won’t be disappointed.”

“—but that’s because I’m not the woman that you intended to marry in the first place,” you finish, quieting to a hissed whisper, conscious of those still lingering close enough to eavesdrop. In all likelihood, the other people milling around probably already know that the sheriff has been waiting for his mail order bride to arrive. They wouldn’t be the first people to mistake you for her.

He pulls you into an alcove off the side of the foyer. When Price turns to face you, no longer just the heavy presence at your side, it takes a moment for you to gather your bearings. He seems larger somehow, with his arms crossed over his chest and feet rooted into the floor, drawn up to his full height. The hair on his forearms draws your eyes momentarily before he steps into your space, forcing you to meet his eyes again.

He stares down at you with an intensity that makes you flinch. “Now, far be it for me to say that I know my wife-to-be by her demeanor alone, given that we’ve hardly corresponded beyond our initial agreement. But I find it mighty strange that a single, unaccompanied woman would show up in town with all of her earthly belongings as I’m expecting my own woman to show up any day. Hardly seems coincidental.”

“Don’t you think I would have sought you out if we were intended to wed?” you ask beseechingly. “Or that I would put up such a fuss now? What sort of bride would do that?”

“You want to know what I think, darling?” The timber of his voice deepens as he lowers his head slightly, wrapping the conversation in a layer of intimacy despite its public nature. There’s a darker note to his voice now, a thinly-veiled anger. “I think you’ve been keeping yourself housed and fed off the back of men like me and the money you’ve been sent to compensate for the rough journey. I think your guilty conscience brought you here because you know that the Lord doesn’t look too kindly on swindlers and thieves.”

“I’m not a thief,” you hiss in protest, affronted. Ironic that you’d be insulted by his words when the truth is far worse.

“I’m sure you had your reasons,” Price permits, a reluctant softness in his voice. “But your conscience did you right. Marriage will suit you far better than a life of crime ever could.”

If only he knew. “You’ve still got it all wrong—I’ve never once even glanced at the matrimonial pages or the personals. And I certainly didn’t come to town expecting to be wed.”

You did, however, arrive in town with a guilty conscience. Even you’re wise enough not to mention that, though.

“Then if you're not her, who are you?” he asks.

It’s clear from his tone that Price doesn’t believe you, but the question itself makes you antsier than even the thought of marrying this man. He still stares down at you in challenge, an eyebrow cocked. If you wanted to, you could easily answer his question and even furnish proof—a letter from an aunt or uncle or a telegram from a previous employer.

That last thought makes your throat squeeze tight. You could furnish proof, but at what cost? You’re still unclear on how much information has been disseminated or whether you're a wanted woman. Though only weeks have passed since the event that caused you to flee in a haste, there’s no telling whether a warrant has been put out for your arrest, no telling whether word has reached a town this far west.

“Not that it matters, but I’m from New York,” you say, scrunching up your nose.

The look he gives you is unimpressed. “I’m sure you lost the accent on the train ride.”

Embarrassment makes you dig your heels in deeper. “I didn’t grow up there, it’s just where I’ve lived for the past few years.”

“And what’s your name?”

“…Elizabeth Smith.”

It’s the first name that occurs to you, but the moment the words come out of your mouth, you can’t help feeling like you’ve made a huge mistake. Price must sense it too because he draws back up to his full height, lips twitching into a small smirk.

“You have family or a post back in New York, Miss Smith?” he asks in a patronizing tone.

“Family.”

“Alright, then it shouldn’t be too hard to get confirmation and settle this whole issue.” He points behind you to one of the unoccupied rooms. “Telegraph’s office just behind you. We’ll get in touch with the Census Bureau and ask them to confirm your identity. And, if you are who you say you are, Miss Smith, then we can put this issue to rights.”

Your blood goes cold. “That’ll—that’ll take time though. I can’t marry you today if they only get back to you in a week’s time.”

Price nods, his expression dissatisfied but resolved. “Wouldn’t be proper for you to stay at the house either, but I’ll make sure the inn lets you stay free of charge until this is settled. You’ll be in good hands under the Pattersons’ watch.”

He doesn’t say it outright, but you hear the implication in his words. You’d be essentially under house arrest, perhaps free to move about town, but certainly not free to take the next train out.

Your pulse thumps nervously at the base of your throat. Even swallowing takes effort now. The weight of his stare takes root in you, a living coil in your belly. No getting out of it. There’s no getting out of this. You don’t know why you thought you could, how you tricked yourself into thinking for even a moment that a man as formidable as the one set in front of you would simply give in. Let you go. You’ve hardly even moved the needle.

It’s there still in his eyes. Not even doubt—something quite far past that. Certainty.

“‘Elizabeth Smith of New York’, was it? Come, we’ll have them start the message and you can give me your birthday as well so it’ll be an easy find—” Price says, attempting to slip around you to head to the telegraph’s office.

“No.”

It slips out of you inadvertently, high and panicked. He pauses at the word. More than just your words. When you look down, you notice your fingers clenched in the fabric of his sleeve, bringing him to a halt. It pulls taut against the muscle of his forearm.

Softness bleeds back into him at your touch. You can see it smooth out the lines of his forehead and the jut of his brow. He ignores the onlookers still hovering by the double doors to twist back to you, now obscuring their view of you. The breadth of his shoulders nearly blocks the rest of the foyer from sight when he looms over you like this. Down the hall, you can hear a gavel pound down on wood and a litany of raised voices in unison from behind a shut door.

“You don’t have to make up stories,” Price murmurs, drawing a hand up to cup your cheek, holding it like a precious thing. “I told you before—all’s forgiven.”

His words remind you of being trapped in his office, drawers stripped down your ankles and skirt pulled up to your waist. Your bottom still smarts from the palm of his hand, still hot and sore to the touch. It’s hardly been long since then and yet it feels like an age ago, like trying to find your way in a dust storm.

You open and shut your mouth, lost for a way out. Caught between a rock and a hard place. Marriage or a jail cell. You swallow. Both sound like a sentencing.

But there are the cold, metal bars of a cell, and then there’s John Price. The first man in an age to elicit more than a passing glance from you. Deep blue eyes crinkled with the folds of old laughter, wide shoulders, and barrel chest. In another time, you think you would’ve jumped at the chance to be courted by a man like him. Keeled over at the very thought of being chased the way he hunts you down now.

“Alright,” you say instead, giving in. The hand fisting his sleeve shakes. “Alright.”

It’s not a pleasant giving in. Your permission is handed over with shot nerves. The coil bunched up in your core burns white hot, hissing and spitting like a rattlesnake.

Still, when he drags a thumb over the slope of your cheek, you fight not to let your eyelids flutter shut. “Good girl. We’ll make it work, love. Won’t be easy, but it never is.”

You don’t anticipate that it will be, but your mouth stays shut. Price must think you mollified, soothed rather than resigned to your fate, because he passes his thumb once more over your cheekbone, this time so tenderly that you wait for his lips to descend upon yours again, sure from the heat in his eyes that he won’t be able to keep from stealing another kiss. You lick your lips out of habit—not just to see the way his eyes follow the motion.

Then the door at the back of the building bursts open to a cacophony of shouts and hollering voices. The moment broken, Price drops his hand away from your cheek, only to take your hand in his this time, pulling you down the hall towards the register’s to await the circuit preacher. He makes you walk on the side closest to the wall, shielding you from the men that burst out of the courtroom, surging towards the doors. You think that someone must have been found guilty because the lot of them look joyous, clamoring over each other for attention.

You think that you might be spared another minute or two, enough time for them to clean up and reset the courtroom, but you’re shocked to find the circuit preacher ready to conduct the ceremony in the cramped register’s office. He and Price shake hands enthusiastically, the preacher turning to you to grasp your hands in welcome before turning back to the sheriff. They have a camaraderie that speaks of old friendship.

The cramped room where you’re married smells of patchouli and moth wings, like holes burrowed into sweaters at the back of a closet. The bookshelves along the walls are stacked with books old enough that you know they’d crinkle deliciously if opened. You try to listen as the preacher begins the introductory prayer. Behind you, another man slips into the room, a witness. He hardly bothers to introduce himself for such a brief affair.

You haven’t been to many weddings, but you always imagined that yours—if you were privileged enough to have one—might have more fanfare. The wedding you actually get is a brusque affair, a brief recital of vows that ends only when the preacher enjoins Price to kiss his wife.

His wife.

Your eyes go wide when a hand flattens along your spine and pulls you into a hard chest, John dipping his head down to kiss your mouth again. His kiss is less chaste this time, not restricted by convention as earlier. This time, his tongue licks hot into your mouth, like no kiss you’ve ever had before, beard scratching your face. His mouth tastes like something you’ve never had before, like heatburst. Hot and wet. Soft and suckling. Any kiss you’ve had before pales in comparison—juvenile fumbling, all dry and half-humiliated, unsure of yourself. Nothing like being kissed by your husband.

Your husband.

He only pulls away when the preacher finally clears his throat, a tad embarrassed. You’re too dazed to feel the same, fingers still sunk into the lapels of Price’s vest, clutched there. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up and your hands to unclench. You feel Price tug your hands away and slip something onto your finger.

The few documents needing to be signed hardly takes any longer. You finally notice the man that had slipped in behind the two of you, a masked man even larger than Price, who nods at him before glancing at you only long enough for you to notice that his eyes seem curiously blank.

“Thanks, Simon,” Price says as the man—Simon—signs under your names, but he only grunts. The ink is still wet when he leaves.

“How was it so fast?” you ask absently, staring at the papers as the ink sits drying and the preacher takes his own copy before handing John his.

“Everything’s practical out here, darling.” His hand holds you by the waist again, relaxed this time. Not worried about whether you might run. “Even the weddings.”

“You don’t…you don’t even serve dinner? Invite guests over? No gifts?” The questions are irrelevant, but you ask them anyway because it’s a way to focus on anything other than the preacher handing you the final copy of the papers and Price leading you back down the hall and out the doors.

There’s a ring on my finger, you think, looking down. It sparkles when you twist your hand from side to side. Topaz, instead of diamond.

“Maybe if you’d showed up on time,” Price reminds you. He no longer sounds upset about it, but it still seems to come out as an admonishment.

You don’t respond to that. Perhaps you’re still shell-shocked, looking at the world through new eyes. It feels unreal that in the span of less than a day, you’ve been plucked up and married off, to the sheriff no less. The one man you would’ve tried your hardest to avoid crossing paths with.

No chance of that now.

“Where are we going?” you ask, still in a daze. The sun makes you squint when you leave the courthouse, making you miss the hat back in your room at the inn. Maybe you can convince Price to let you go back to collect your things.

“I think we’re due for a honeymoon, don’t you, darling?”

You go doe-eyed at that. When you look up, your husband is already smiling down at you, crow’s feet wrinkling at the sides of his eyes.

“Let’s go home.”

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #john price #captain john price #price x reader #john price x reader #captain price #cod price #price/reader #price x you

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blessedarethebinarybreakers · 5 months

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This post used to hold a poem inspired by the Rev. Munther Isaac's declaration that "God is under the rubble in Gaza."

After a few anons and a conversation with a Jewish friend, I've decided to take the poem down because, regardless of my own intentions with it, it risks feeding the long and extremely harmful history of blood libel, because I included imagery of the infant Jesus and his parents being killed by an Israeli soldier, as many Palestinians are being killed now.

Before talking with that friend, I wrote in this response to an anon about my intentions with the poem — but while I do believe that intentions do matter, they don't matter nearly as much as impact does.

My friend helped me come to the conclusion that while the poem I wrote could be interpreted as I intended by people who already have all the context I wrote it in (see below), it could also all too easily be interpreted much more harmfully by those who lack that context — or worse, who are looking for more fuel for their antisemitism. The poem is not worth that risk, not at all.

___

Ultimately, I hold two things I believe to be true in tension:

that Christians throughout the ages have found deep comfort and encouragement in understanding Jesus as suffering in and with them. I support all Christian Palestinians who, like Rev. Isaac, experience God-with-them in this way — in this horrific time, they deserve any ounce of comfort they can derive. And them personally seeking and finding the Divine presence with them is not antisemitic.

that for Christians like myself in the USA, who live in the beating heart of Empire and Christian Supremacy, it is vital to take care in how we talk about this theology in this current situation, where the oppressors are Jewish. Providing more fuel for Christian antisemitism is inexcusable, and I deeply apologize for writing and sharing a piece that can be used in that way.

Because modern-day Israel is a Jewish state, exploring that Divine solidarity in this context comes with a great risk of perpetuating the long, harmful history of antisemitic blood libel and accusations of deicide. How do we affirm God’s presence with those suffering in Palestine without (implicitly or explicitly) adding to the poisonous lie that “the Jews killed Jesus”?

In wrestling with this complexity, I tried to write this poem to uplift both Jesus’s Jewishness and his solidarity with Palestinians. Jesus was born into a Jewish family, his entire worldview was shaped by his Jewishness, and he shared in his people’s suffering under the Roman Empire. His solidarity with Palestinians of various faiths suffering today does not erase that Jewishness. Nor does it mean that Jewish persons don’t “belong” in the region — only that modern Israel’s occupation of Palestine is in no way necessary for Jews to live and thrive there, or anywhere else in the world.

I also aimed to point out that Israel is by no means acting alone in this attack on Gaza or their decades-long occupation of Palestine. There is a much larger Empire at work, with my own country, the United States, at the helm. Israel is entangled in that imperial mess, and directly backed and funded by those forces — not because of what politicians claim, that we have to back Israel or else we’re antisemitic, but because Israel is our strategic foothold in the so-called Middle East. How do we name our complicity as our tax dollars are funneled into violence across the world, and act to end that violence?

___

I'm sorry this post isn't as articulate as I want it to be. All of this to say: I deeply apologize for any hurt my poem caused. I understand how horrific Christianity's history of — and ongoing present — antisemitism is, and how it poisons and warps so much that could have been beautiful. I'll keep educating myself; I'll keep having hard conversations; I'll keep working to uproot antisemitism in myself and my communities.

___

I'll close with a list of resources for learning about Palestine's history and getting involved.

#deeply grateful E that you were willing to have that conversation with me!#you didn't have to and i appreciate the time and energy you spent doing so. solidarity forever <3

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almalvo · 9 months

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About An Official Spiderverse Artist...

Please do not just scroll past this post; read it.

If you guys follow me on twitter, you probably already know.

But if you dont or still want to read this anyway - here you go:

I aint big, but I got a growing platform that I see as important for me to use as a force for things that matter.

So here I am.

And I got something to say about a certain "artist".

There are so many fucked up people who call themselves artists who are so heavily worshipped by us who both get and or dont get outed in the world for things they do and for their general piss-poor behaviours and persons.

Im here to talk about one in particular (and certainly wont be the last).

There is an artist that basically EVERYONE here has seen art from before, printed in the official Sony artbooks too.

If you have seen this:

Then you have seen this artist before.

His name is Alberto Mielgo. He goes by @/pinkman_himself on twitter.

He is a HUGE part of the art direction and stylisation of the spiderverse movies, if that isnt already obvious. Because he was the former original art director of Into The Spiderverse.

Yes. Former.

Cuz he got "mYsTeRiOuSlY fiReD" from Sony 2 years into pre-production and completely removed from the project.

You may have also seen this character before:

Yes. THAT asian character from Netflix's Love Death + Robots, from the episode "The Witness".

Familiar? Yeah. Because this episode was also made by the same guy, Mielgo.

I aint going to talk about what happens in that episode and hesitate to encourage anyone to watch it - cuz all it basically is is a megalo-misogynistic, assault "glorified for the sake of aRtT", racially fetishised showcase of this crazy makeup/haired bdsm stereotyped asian girl sex worker who essentially gets murdered over and over and over after running for her life completely naked through the city for all of us to see for some fucking reason.

BUt yeah anyways, you can see it in the first pic, but Ill put it here to show more clearly - this here is NOT the character from LDR. But I can understand why you might think so:

Yeah. You read that name in the bottom right corner correctly. This is Peni Parker. His concept art of Peni Parker. A 13 YEAR OLD CHILD. Lookin suspiciously like and dressed as the adult person from LDR with ALSO the crazy hair, make up - WITH AN O-RING CHOKER AND BALL-GAG LIPSTICK (BDSM).

13. year. old. child.

This man only sees east asian women this way.

He likes them crazy, sexy, broken--

and young.

Cuz this man also wrote this on a now-deleted post on his website:

Yeah. He, this whole ass middle-aged white cishet male spaniard thirstin for kids since he was 18 for 12 year old girls.

Cuz 12 year old girls are a fuckin "KNOCK OUT" when they grow up, when they ripen up into adulthood, to this man Alberto Mielgo, aka @/pinkman_himself, this creature.

And if auctioning NFTs isnt bad enough (cuz yes, ofc he does that too - its literally the first option on his website) -

His entire fucking portfolio is of drawing women he had sex with.

His fucking PROFESSIONAL PORTFOLIO is all of painting and drawing women in very compromising, questionable ways of the VERY SAME WOMEN HE HAD SLEPT WITH THROUGH HIS LIFE.

They look as creepy as they are.

But the scariest part?

While I myself had only just found out about this some days ago as of writing this, some of us have known about this man and his antics for years.

And he keeps getting greenlit by the industry, over and over and over; winning awards, getting respected, praised, admired, even by fellow at-home artists like many of you out there if you dont already do so.

And nothing will happen to him cuz he is a white cishet male artist who has money and a following and connections and influence and power.

So yeah.

I just wanted to talk about a certain official Spiderverse artist to just let yall know there are freaks everywhere, and that no matter how small it is, it's people like me and you who need to do what we can to keep up awareness and warn our communities and protect our most vulnerable.

My suggestion is to take heed of what I said, ask questions about everything you will ever see again from anyone around you, no less the industry, THINK for once, and actually give a fuck.

Keep away.

Do not support this man.

But the decision is ultimately yours.

Stay awake, yall.

-------

(His face, publicly available as his imdb profile):

scary.

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jewelleria · 1 month

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I don’t usually talk about politics on here, if ever. But it’s been almost six months since the conflict in the Middle East flared up again, and I’m finally ready to start. Here are some of my thoughts.

I say ‘flared up’ because this has happened before and it’ll happen again. Because, even though what's currently going on is absolutely unprecedented, those of us who live in this part of the world are used to it. Let that sink in: we are used to this. And we shouldn’t have to be.

But I use that term for another reason: I don't want to accidentally call it the wrong thing lest I come under fire for being a genocidal maniac or a terrorist or a propaganda machine, etc., etc.—so let’s just call it ‘the war’ or ‘the conflict.’ Because that’s what it is. Doesn’t matter which side you’re on, who you love, or who you hate.

This post will, in all likelihood, sit in my drafts forever. If it does get posted, it certainly won’t be on my main, because I'm scared of being harassed (spoiler: she posted it on her main). I hate admitting that, but honestly? I’m fucking terrified.

I also feel like in order for anything I say on here (i.e. the hellscape of the internet) to be taken seriously, I have to somehow prove that a) I’m “educated” enough to talk about the conflict, and b) that my opinion lines up with what has been deemed the correct one. So, tedious and unnecessary though it is, I will tell you about my experience, because I have a feeling most of the people reading this post are not nearly as close to what’s happening as I am.

How do I explain where I live without actually explaining where I live? How do I say “I live in the Red Zone of international conflicts” without saying what I actually think? How do I convey the fear that grips me when I try to decide between saying “I live in Palestine” and “I live in Israel”? I don't really know. But I do know that names are important. I also know that, due to the various clickbaity monikers ascribed to the conflict, it would probably just be easier to point to a map.

I haven't always lived in the Middle East. I've lived in various places along America’s east coast, and traveled all over the world. But in short, I now live somewhere inside the crudely-drawn purple circle.

If you know anything about these borders you probably blanched a bit in sympathy, or maybe condolence. But in truth, it’s a shockingly normal existence. I don't feel like I've lived through the shifting of international relations or a war or anything. I just kind of feel like I did when COVID hit, that dull sameness as I wondered if this would be the only world-altering event to shape my life, or if there would be more.

I've been told that, in order for my brain to process all the horrific details of the past six months, there needs to be some element of cognitive dissonance—that falling into a sort of dissociative mindset is the only way to not go insane under the weight of it all. I think in some ways that’s true. I have been terrifyingly close to bus stop shootings when my commute wasn’t over; I have felt my apartment building shake with the reverberations of a missile strike; I have spent hours in underground shelters waiting for air raid sirens to stop.

But. I have also gone grocery shopping, and skipped class, and stayed up too late watching TV, and fed the cats on the street corner, and cried over a boy, and got myself AirPods just because, and taken out the trash, and done laundry on a delicate cycle, and bought overpriced lattes one too many days a week. I have looked at pretty things and taken out my phone because, despite it all, I still think that life is too short not to freeze the small moments.

So I'd say, all things considered, I live an incredibly privileged life—compared, of course, to those suffering in Gaza—one filled with sunsets and over-sweetened knafeh and every different color of sand. One that allows me to throw myself into a fandom-induced hyperfixation (or, alternatively, escape method) as I sit on the couch and crack open my laptop to write the next chapter of the fic I'm working on.

But there are bits of not-normalness that wheedle their way through the cracks. I pretend these moments are avoidable, even if they’re not.

They look like this: reading the news and seeing another idiotic, careless choice on Netanyahu’s part and groaning into my morning coffee. Watching Palestinian and Jewish children’s needless suffering posted on Instagram reels and feeling helpless. Opening my Tumblr DMs to find a message telling me to exterminate myself for reblogging a post that only seems like it’s about the war if you squint and tilt your head sideways.

These moments look like all the tiny ways I am reminded that I'm living in a post-October seventh world, where hearing a car backfire makes me jump out of my skin and the sound of a suitcase on pavement makes me look up at the sky and search for the war planes. They look like the heavy grief that is, and also isn’t, mine.

Here's the thing, though. I know you’re wondering when the ball will drop and my true opinion will be revealed. I know you’re waiting for me to reveal what demographic I'm a part of so that you, dear reader, can neatly slap a label on my head and sort me into some oversimplified category that lets you continue to think you understand this war.

No one wants to sit and ruminate on the difficult questions, the ones that make you wonder if maybe you’ve been tinkered with by the propaganda machine, if you might need to go back on what you’ve said or change your mind. We all strive for our perception of complicated issues to be a comfortable one.

But I know that no matter what I do, there will always be assumptions. So, while I shudder to reveal this information online, I think that maybe my most significant contribution to this meta-discussion spanning every facet of the internet is this:

I am a Jew.

Or, alternatively, I am: Jewish, יהודית, يَهُودِيٌّ, etc. Point is, I come from Jews. And, like any given person, I am a product of generation after generation of love.

I'm not going to take time to explain my heritage to you, or to prove that before all the expulsions and pogroms, there was an origin point. If you don’t believe that, perhaps it’s less of a factual problem and more of an ‘I don’t give weight to the beliefs of indigenous people’ problem. But, in case you want to spend time uselessly refuting this tiny point in a larger argument, you can inspect the photos below (it’s just a small chunk of my DNA test results). Alternatively, you can remember that interrogating someone in an attempt to make their indigeneity match your arbitrary criteria is generally not seen as good manners.

Now, let’s go back to thathateful message (read: poorly disguised death threat) I received in my Tumblr DMs. I think it was like two or three weeks ago. I had recently gained a new follower whose blog’s primary focus was the fandom I contribute to, so I followed them back. I saw in my notes that they were going through my posts and liking them—as one does when gaining a new mutual. Yippee!

Then they sent me this:

I tried to explain that hate speech is not a way to go about participating in political discourse, but the person had already blocked me immediately after sending that message. Then, assured by the fact that I surely would never see them complaining about me on their blog (because, as I said, they blocked me), they posted a shouting rant accusing me of sympathizing with colonizing settlers and declaring me a “racist Zionist fuck.” Oh, the wonders of incognito tabs.

Where this person drew these conclusions after reading my (reblogged) post about antisemitism…. I'm not actually sure. But I greatly sympathize with them, and hope that they weren’t too personally offended by my desire to not die.

For a while I contemplated this experience in my righteous anger, and tried to figure out a way to message this person. I wanted to explain that a) seeing a post about being Jewish and choosing to harass the creator about Israel is literally the definition of antisemitism and b) that sending a hateful DM and refusing to be held accountable is just childish and immature. But I gave up soon after—because, honestly, I knew it wasn’t worth my effort or energy. And I knew that I wouldn't be able to change their mind.

But I still remember staring at that rather unfortunate meme, accompanied by an all-caps message demanding for me to Free Palestine, and thinking: the post didn’t even have any buzzwords. I remember the swoop of dread and guilt and fear. I remember wondering why this kind of antisemitism felt worse, in that moment, than the kind that leaves bodies in its wake.

I remember thinking, I don’t have the power to free anyone.

I remember thinking, I’m so fucking tired.

And before you tell me that this conflict isn’t about religion—let me ask you some questions. Why is it that Israel is even called Israel? (Here’s why.) Why do Jews even want it? (Here’s why.) But also, if you actually read the charters of Islamist terrorist organizations like ISIS, Hamas, and Hezbollah (among others), they equate the modern state of Israel with the Jewish people, and they use the two entities interchangeably. So of course this conflict is religious. It’s never been anything but that.

But I do wonder, when faced with those who deny this fact: how do I prove, through an endless slew of what-about-isms and victim blaming, that I too am hurting? How do I show that empathy is dialectical, that I can care deeply for Palestinians and Gazans while also grieving my own people?

There's this thing that humans do, when we’re frustrated about politics and need to howl our opinions about it into the void until we feel better. We find like-minded souls, usually our friends and neighbors, and fret about the state of the world to each other until we’ve gone around in a satisfactory amount of circles. But these conversations never truly accomplish anything. They’re just a substitute, a stand-in catharsis, for what we really wish we could do: find someone who embodies the spirit of every Jew-hating internet troll, every ignorant justifier of terrorism, and scream ourselves hoarse at them until we change their mind.

But, of course, minds cannot be changed when they are determined to live in a state of irrational dislike. In Judaism, this way of thinking has a name: שנאת חינם (sinat hinam), or baseless hatred. It's a parasite with no definite cure, and it makes people bend over backwards to justify things like the massacre on October seventh, simply because the blame always needs to be placed on the Jews.

So when a Jew is faced with this unsolvable problem, there is only one response to be had, only one feeling to be felt: anger. And we are angry. Carrying around rage with nowhere to put it is exhausting. It's like a weight at the base of our neck that pushes down on our spine, bending it until we will inevitably snap under the pressure. I’m still waiting to break, even now.

I wish I could explain to someone who needs to hear it that terrorism against Israelis happens every single day here, and that we are never more than one degree of separation away from the brutal slaughter of a friend, lover, parent, sibling. I wish it would be enough to say that the majority of Israelis (which includes Arab-Israeli citizens who have the exact same rights as Jewish-Israelis) wish for peace every day without ever having seen what it looks like.

I wish I could show the world that Israel was founded as a socialist state, that it was built on communal values and born from a cluster of kibbutzim (small farming communities based on collective responsibility), and that what it is now isn’t what its people stand for.

I wish the world could open their eyes to what we Israelis have seen since the beginning: that Hamas is the enemy, Hamas is the one starving Palestinians and denying them aid, Hamas is the one who keeps rejecting ceasefire terms and denying their citizens basic human rights. Hamas is the governing body of Gaza, not Israel. Hamas is responsible for the wellbeing of the Palestinian people. And Hamas are the ones who are more determined to murder Jews—over and over and over again, in the most animalistic ways possible—than to look inwards and see the suffering they’ve inflicted on their own people. I wish it was easier to see that.

But the wishing, the asking how can people be so blind, is never enough. I can never just say, I promise I don't want war.

When I bear witness to this baseless hatred, I think of the victims of October seventh. I think of the women and girls who were raped and then murdered, forever unable to tell their stories. I think of the hostages, trapped underneath Gaza in dark tunnels, wondering if anyone will come for them. I think of Ori Ansbacher, of Ezra Schwartz, of Eyal, Gilad, and Naftali, of Lucy, Rina, and Maia Dee, of the Paley boys, of Ari Fuld and of Nachshon Wachsman. I think of all the innocent blood spilled because of terror-fueled hatred and the virus of antisemitism. I think of all the thousands of people who were brutally murdered in Israel, Jews and Muslims and Christians and humans, who will never see peace.

My ties to this land are knotted a thousand times over. Even when I leave, a part of me is left behind, waiting for me to claim it when I return. But when I see the grit it takes to live through this pain, when I see the suffering that paints the world the color of blood, I look to the heavens and I wonder why.

I ask God: is it worth all this? He doesn't answer. So I am the one, in the end, to answer my own question. I say, it has to be.

Feel free to send any genuine, respectful, and clarifying questions you may have to my inbox!

EDIT: just coming on here to say that I'm really touched & grateful for the love on this post. When I wrote it, I felt hopeless; I logged off of Tumblr for Shabbat, dreading the moment I would turn off my phone to find more hate in my inbox. Granted, I did find some, and responding to it was exhausting, but it wasn’t all hate. I read every kind reblog and comment, and the love was so much louder. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 🤍

Source Reading

The Whispered in Gaza Project by The Center for Peace Communications

Why Jews Cannot Stop Shaking Right Now by Dara Horn

Hamas Kidnapped My Father for Refusing to Be Their Puppet by Ala Mohammed Mushtaha

I Hope Someone Somewhere Is Being Kind to My Boy by Rachel Goldberg

The Struggle for Black Freedom Has Nothing to Do with Israel by Coleman Hughes

Israel Can Defend Itself and Uphold Its Values by The New York Times Editorial Board

There Is a Jewish Hope for Palestinian Liberation. It Must Survive by Peter Beinart

The Long Wait of the Hostages’ Families by Ruth Margalit

“By Any Means Necessary”: Hamas, Iran, and the Left by Armin Navabi

When People Tell You Who They Are, Believe Them by Bari Weiss

Hunger in Gaza: Blame Hamas, Not Israel by Yvette Miller

Benjamin Netanyahu Is Israel’s Worst Prime Minister Ever by Anshel Pfeffer

What Palestinians Really Think of Hamas by Amaney A. Jamal and Michael Robbins

The Decolonization Narrative Is Dangerous and False by Simon Sebag Montefiore

Understanding Hamas’s Genocidal Ideology by Bruce Hoffman

The Wisdom of Hamas by Matti Friedman

How the UN Discriminates Against Israel by Dina Rovner

This Muslim Israeli Woman Is the Future of the Middle East by The Free Press

Why Are Feminists Silent on Rape and Murder? by Bari Weiss

507 notes · View notes

radioactiveparker · 1 year

Text

Ride It Hard - Mechanic!Eddie Munson X Fem!Reader (Smut)

Summary - Your car breaks down and an old friend helps you out

Warnings - Strong language / Use of Y/N / Unprotected sex (PiV) / Fingering / Pain kink

Word Count - 6.1K

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"Piece of shit!"

Your car sputtered to a stop, smoke starting to plume from the hood. You had ran out of gas about 8 miles back, having made the decision to skip the last gas station just to get home a bit quicker. A decision you now regretted. You had gone to visit your parents in Georgia for a few days and was now making your way back home to Hawkins, Indiana. But alas, here you were, on a long winding road somewhere near Weathertop Hill with no phone to call for help. Truthfully, you weren't too far from home, much too far to walk of course, but if you were lucky, you could wait for someone to drive by and drop you off. Someone nice, you hoped.

With a huff, you shut off your engine and stepped out of the car, trying your best to ignore the chill. It wasn't an ideal time for your car to break down. It was the transition period from summer to autumn. The leaves were falling, the days were starting to get shorter and the air was getting colder. Clouds hung low in the sky, threatening a heavy downpour, and distant thunder rolled nearer. You prayed that someone would drive by before nightfall, or at least before it rained. You slammed the door shut, but not before grabbing your cardigan from the passenger seat. You opened the hood, coughing as you wafted the smoke away with your hands so you could see what you were dealing with. The smoke finally cleared, but it had made no difference. Your knowledge of cars, or rather lack there of, kept your brain fogged as you stared blankly at the car's engine.

With a sigh of discouragement, you slammed the hood shut and tried your best to remember how far of a walk it was to Hess Farm. If you remembered correctly, it was about three and a half miles East. You could walk it, it would only take about an hour, maybe 45 minutes at a push. You could get there quickly, have Farmer Hess call for a tow-truck, and get a ride back home with enough time to have a shower before The Golden Girls started. Yeah, that sounded like a better idea. Who knows how long it would take for another car to drive by.

Clunk.

A single droplet of rain landed right on the hood of your car. You looked to the sky and another landed on your chin. It was cold, you would describe it a refreshing after almost being suffocated by hot car fumes, only it looked like you weren't walking anywhere anytime soon, not unless you wanted to be sick in bed for a week.

All at once, the clouds spat out their droplets, soaking you to the skin almost instantaneously. With a gasp, you quickly rushed to get back into your car and out of the rain. You pulled on the handle, then pulled again, and once more. But it was no use. The door was firmly shut.

With your car keys inside.

"You fucking idiot." You grumbled at yourself, crossing your arms and letting the rain pour over you in defeat.

You guessed you had no choice now but to walk to Hess Farm. You shivered when a strong gust blew over you, washing you in more rain and practically blinding you. Pulling your cardigan closer, although it didn't help much, you started to make your way to the farm. The rain beat down on you in cartoonishly large drops, so strongly it felt more like the flow of a river than a rain shower. It hissed along the road and filled pot holes into miniature rockpools. You took no less than ten paces from your car when you heard it, even over the rain.

Drumming - loud drumming, and then a guitar. It was muffled, barely distinguishable, but you could hear it coming closer and closer. You turned to where it was coming from, just in time to see a van swerve around the corner, much to wild for the weather conditions. But that didn't matter to you right now, there was someone who could help you. You stepped into the middle of the road, waving your arms above your head to get the drivers attention. You breathed a sigh of relief when the van slowed down and pulled up beside you.

The window rolled down and the music lowered. "Long time, no see Stranger."

"Eddie?!"

You knew Eddie from high school. You were friendly to each other and you had even joined his Hellfire Club whenever they needed a sub. But you wouldn't consider yourselves friends, in fact, you didn't know what you were. Or rather, had been. There had been times where you were more than friendly with each other; making out in the back of his van as a thank you when he dropped you off home after Hellfire, or running a hand up your thigh in the school library instead of studying like he had asked in the first place. But that was it, no matter how much you wanted him, it never went further than that. You wished he would've made a move, but maybe he just wasn't interested in you the way you were in him. It felt like it was a whole lot of erotic build up for nothing. You hadn't even exchanged numbers, which is probably why you hadn't seen or spoken to him in the year since leaving school. In all truthfulness you hadn't thought of Eddie much since leaving school, despite the minor crush that you had had on him.

Eddie leaned over to open the passenger door, "Hop in."

"But, my car..."

"I've gotta tow in the back, don't worry. Just get in, I'll sort it."

You gratefully jumped in, cringing when your soaked clothes started seeping into the material of his car seat. You looked at him apologetically, but he just smirked at you before opening his door and jumping out.

"Eddie!"

You could hear him laughing as he moved to open the back of the van. You looked behind you to see him foraging through the jumble to find his tow, positively drenched. There was a quiet "Got'cha" and he pulled out the rope. He made quick work tying it to the towing hitch on his van and then jogging to attach it to your car. He ran back quickly, jumping back into the drivers seat. He made an uncomfortable squish sound as he plopped into his seat, rain dripping from his tight-ringed curls, and running down his leather jacket. You stared at him speechlessly.

"What?" Eddie breathed as he started his van.

"You're crazy." You laughed, shaking your head to yourself and putting your seat belt on, remembering how crazy he could drive.

You thought for sure he would have waited for the rain to die down a bit before going out there. If you remembered what he was like in high school correctly, there was no way he would have ruined his hair like that. Perhaps he had gotten his priorities straight after school? If you were being completely honest, his hair didn't look that bad. Sure, it was lacking in volume and lay flat on his head, but his chocolate coils hung so delicately and product free thanks to the rain - they were naturally beautiful. You watched a drip fall from his fringe. It landed softly on the tip of his nose, steadily running down to his philtrum and pooling on his cupids bow. You watched as he licked it from his lips.

Eddie had felt you staring, but kept his eyes on the road. "So what happened to your car?"

"Ran out of gas." You groaned, sitting back and diverting your eyes to the road too. "I think I might have broken something. My car started smoking when it stopped."

"You drive on an empty tank?"

"Yeah, is that bad?"

"Yeah, you probably damaged your fuel tank."

You turned to him, impressed. Although he could be talking out of his ass and you wouldn't know the difference. "You know about cars?"

"You know the Motorbay Auto Repair shop by Motel 6?"

"Yeah, you work there?"

"Ever since I graduated." He smiled at you, but it was more like a smile of pride for himself.

The majority of Eddie's life he had been told he wasn't going to make it. He would never graduate and he'd be stuck in a dead-end job, and that was if he didn't end up becoming a drifter. You could remember graduation like it was yesterday, maybe because Eddie had made it more memorable for you. You remember how he had almost stumbled up the steps to receive his diploma, the way he had snatched it from Principle Higgins' hands while giving him the middle finger, and how he grabbed your hand after you had both gotten your diplomas and had a celebratory make out in the empty school hallway. You wondered where those days had gone. You hadn't realised how much you had actually missed Eddie until now. It was like how the desert gets used to a rainless sky, but then when it showers over the sand, it craves to thwart the draught.

"I could take a look at it for you, if you'd like?" Eddie continued. "My Uncle Wayne might have some spare parts lying around."

"I don't have any money with me."

"Y/N, do you seriously think I would charge you? Besides, who would I be to take money from a damsel in distress?"

You smiled at him and thanked him for the offer, which you had appreciatively took. Eddie took a left, going the opposite direction to your house and made his way to his. Without thinking, Eddie placed a hand on your thigh, stroking his thumb gently along the fabric of your jeans. You tried not to clench them together, you didn't think he realised how high he had placed his hand. But at the same time, you didn't object. The heat of his palm was nice on your cold and wet thigh in a way that felt familiar. All of those times Eddie had picked you up, or took you back home, he always drove with a hand on your thigh. You used to call him out for it, telling him he had to keep both hands on the wheel, but you didn't this time. The two of you sat in a comfortable silence the rest of the way, with you looking behind every now and then to make sure your car was still attached. The rain had started to soften, not hanging around for long - just enough for the duration of your drive. You could feel the mud mush under the vans wheels as Eddie parked in front of his trailer. He was still living with his uncle, but assessing the missing car out front, he wasn't home. In all fairness, you couldn't judge. If your parents hadn't decided to move out of Hawkins, you would probably still be living with them to. After all, you were still living in your childhood home to this day.

The clouds were spitting out pathetic drops every now and then, but nothing for you to worry about. Not that it mattered, you and Eddie were still soaked. The two of you jumped out of his van, Eddie jogging around to your side to open the door for you like the gentleman he was. You followed him into his trailer, trying not to wince at the feeling of wet clothes stuck to your skin. Eddie quickly ran off, cleaning up bits of clutter along the way, and you took the time to look around. Despite your history, this was the first time you had stepped foot in his trailer. You took your shoes off by the front door, noticing that you were standing on carpet. The trailer was a mess, to put it nicely. You could tell his Uncle had been away for the day; clothes randomly strewn about the place, couch cushions had fallen onto the floor, ripped envelopes and pieces of mail thrown onto the coffee and dining table. But that didn't take away from the cosiness of it all. There was nothing worse to you than going to someone's house and it looking completely lifeless - like no one even lived there. Where you're too scared to touch anything in case it might break, or when everything is perfectly polished and it made you feel grubby. Besides, it felt very ... Eddie. You didn't have much more time to look around when Eddie came back from (what you assumed was) the bathroom with a towel bunched in his hands. He handed it to you and you immediately got to drying the hair that was uncomfortably sticking to your forehead and the nape of your neck. Your eyes followed him as he walked to the washing machine by the hallway. You ignored the water stain on the carpet and watched him reach into the laundry basket and pull out another towel, giving a sniff to make sure it was clean before drying his own hair.

"I'm gonna get changed and then I'll take a look at your car." Eddie said, walking backwards into the hallway.

"Do you maybe have something I can change into?"

He stopped in his tracks, staring at you like he was thinking hard. His eyes lit up, "I'll be right back."

He didn't take long. He came back wearing an oversized tank top that was cut low under the armpits, showing off the delicious shape of his ribcage. He had paired it with an old pair of ripped, oil stained jeans , of which the front of his tank top had been tucked into. These were obviously clothes he didn't mind getting dirty, but you worried that they would be much too cold. Although, you wouldn't object if kept them on. This was the most of Eddie you had ever seen. You guessed working at an Auto Repair shop was a work out, because his arm muscles looked much more defined than you remembered them being, and the shape of his pecks peeked out from the neck of his tank.

"Here." He smirked at you.

You hadn't even noticed that he had been holding out a bundle of clothes for you. Heat rose to your cheeks as you took the clothes from him. Yeah, he had definitely seen you checking him out.

"Give me your car keys, and I'll make a start." He kept his hand held out.

"Umm, that might be a problem."

"What do you mean?"

"The keys are in the car."

"You mean you locked your keys in your car!?" He rubbed his forehead in disbelief.

"Maybe..." You dragged out, rocking from side to side innocently.

He sighed. "Alright, I'll sort it, you get changed. Bathroom's the first door on the right."

He made his way outside, leaving his trailer door open, causing a chill to run along your body. You quickly moved to the bathroom, peeling your clothes from your skin and drying your body off with the towel. Reaching for the shirt, you unfolded it and held it in front of you. It was a 3/4 length black sleeve on a white tee, with the large head of a horned devil dead centre. Above it in thick letters read the iconic: Hellfire Club. You laughed to yourself as you put it on - of all the shirts he had, he had to give you this one. You had secretly wanted one, but you had never played frequent enough to be considered part of the club, despite how much Dustin, Lucas and Mike would say you were. It fell just below your backside, definitely too short not to wear something underneath. You picked up the bottoms he gave you and rolled your eyes. Of course he had given you a pair of his boxers to wear. You put them on anyways and walked back out into the kitchen area. You stopped to watch Eddie from the window as he bent over the engine of your car. Those jeans may be old, but they did wonders for his ass.

A cold breeze whipped around your bare legs and snapped you out of it. You remembered Eddie had left the door open. There was no way he wasn't freezing out there. You hoped he wouldn't mind when you started to search through his cupboards for some mugs, deciding it was probably best not to use the ones hanging on display in the living room. You picked two random ones you could find; one in the shape of He-man, and another with Big Bird on the front. You started boiling some water on the stove to make some coffee for you and Eddie, getting distracted every now and then when you watched him from the kitchen window. You filled the mugs, poured a little milk in each, and then tidied and washed your mess. Finding an old pair of sandals by the door, you slipped them on and carried the two cups of coffee outside. You were careful not to trip over the oversized footwear as you walked down the steps. Eddie stuck his head out from under the hood and straightened himself as you approached.

"Hey, how did you get the hood up?" You questioned, handing him the He-man shaped cup. He pulled your car keys from his back pocket and dangled them in front of you. "How did you get in?"

"My dad may have taught me a few tricks." He picked up a duct tape covered sick off the ground. "You see, you tape it to the window and then use it as a lever to pull the window down. It's pretty neat, but I wouldn't recommend leaving your keys in the car again. I could damage the door mechanism if I had to do it again."

"Noted." You took a sip of your coffee and then placed it down, balancing it on the side of your car.

"Hey, be careful with that."

"Calm down, it's just a car."

"Just a car?" He looked at you like you were a mad woman. "This is a mechanical work of art, not a cup holder."

He plucked up your mug and moved it, as well as his after taking a sip, to the floor of his van. He had left the door open from when he was scrounging around for duct tape.

You bit your lip to stop yourself from giggling, but it didn't stop the smile stretching on your face. You saw him looking at your lips when he approached you again. "I didn't realise you felt so strongly about cars."

"I just think you gotta treat them right, you know." He leaned against your car, crossing his arms over his chest. You didn't miss the way his eyes travelled up the length of your legs before they met yours. He licked his lips. "Cars are like people; you look after them and they'll look after you. But you can't just treat a car like it's anybody, you gotta treat it like it's the most beautiful woman that you wanna keep around forever."

"Oh really?" You moved to stand next to him, also leaning against the car. The denim of his jeans scratched against your thigh. You hadn't realised you stood that close, but neither of you moved. "Please explain."

"Well, you gotta look after it, treat it well and it'll satisfy you." Your eyes widened slightly and you gulped when he stepped closer to you, your breath mingling. "You gotta be gentle with it," he stroked a finger down your cheek to the softness of your bottom lip, "and then when you ride it, you ride it hard."

Those cliché sparks had ignited a blazing passion deep inside of you. You cleared your throat to snuff it out. "Not all women like it hard."

"Oh yeah? What about you, Princess? How do you like it?" He placed a finger under your chin and forced your eyes to his. "You like it soft and slow?"

Your desire was concealed behind a see through disguise. He could see the fire burning in your irises. He dipped his head to the junction of your neck, stopping before he could press his lips there. The soft fan of his breath gave you chills. "Is this okay?"

"Yes." You breathed. It had been so long since you had felt like this.

He replaced his finger with his lips, placing a tender kiss to the underside of your chin. He continued to trail them down your neck, so light and feather-soft that your eyes fluttered shut. "You like it when I touch you like this?"

You nodded wordlessly, whining that he had stopped. His hands moved to your hips, pulling you closer so your bodies pressed together. "I love how desperate you always are for me." And he continued to kiss your neck. He went straight to your sweet spot, clearly he had remembered, and pressed a silky kiss there.

But you wanted more.

And he could tell.

"Is this pace good enough for you?"

"More." It was a breathless whisper. "Please." You added.

He began suckling and licking at your flesh, eating you alive like a god damn vampire. You moaned aloud at the feeling and threaded your fingers through his hair. His fingers wiggled their way under your shirt, surprisingly warm despite working in the colder weather. His hands rested there, thumbs stroking your ribs just under your boobs. You wanted nothing more than for him to grab them and play with them, but maybe not so out in the open.

He seemed to have read your mind when he pulled away and opened the back door of your car.

"Get inside." He ordered.

You complied immediately, your sandals falling off as you clambered in and laid down across the back seats. He followed you in, climbing on top of you and shutting the door behind him. Desperate to feel his lips on you again, you pulled him in, only this time you smashed your lips together. His lips were just as soft as you had remembered them, sliding over your own effortlessly. His tongue prodded at your lips as an indication for you to invite him in. And you did so welcomingly, the pair of you enjoying the coffee taste of saliva. His hands went back under your shirt, trailing higher and higher before stopping where the band of your bra should be. Only, you hadn't put it on after getting changed.

He groaned against your lips, "You're such a tease, you know that?"

"Am not" You pouted.

He kissed the pout right off your lips and moved his hands higher. His rough hands grasped your tits, kneading them deliciously and making you gasp into his mouth. The texture of his palms rubbed against your nipples and you arched your back into him, moaning.

"You make such pretty sounds, Sweetheart."

Taking full advantage of your arched back, he made quick work of taking his your shirt off. Goose bumps broke out across your skin and your nipples pebbled at the cold. He stared at you in awe, asking himself why he had never gone this far before.

He noticed your goose bumps. "Don't worry, Princess, I'll get you warmed up real soon." His voice was deep and gravely, and it went straight to your core.

You moaned again when his lips attached themselves to your chest, suckling love bites all over and using his tongue to flick around your nipples. Your hands combed through his hair again, pulling slightly at the damp tangles, but he didn't seem to mind. His mess of curls tickled against your skin and you collected it in your hands. Using the hair tie around your wrist, you pulled his hair back into a low bun. He allowed you to play with his hair, actually preferring it out of his way as he continued to kiss at your chest. Your hips impulsively thrusted upwards, trying to feel him against you, but you were met with nothing as he pulled away from you. You had no complaints though when he pulled his shirt over his head, exposing the pale expanse of his torso. He didn't give you enough time to admire it when he brought his lips to yours again, forcing his tongue between them to play with your own. He shivered when your blunt nails raked down his chest. You could feel his stomach tense when they trailed below his belly button and through his happy trail. You carried on down to his jeans and fiddled with his buttons before pulling down his zipper. He pulled away from you again, clumsily pulling his jeans off and sticking his tongue out in concentration, being careful not to squish you.

After successfully removing them, he pulled your bodies together, flesh to flesh and hips to hips. He grinded himself against you, the bulge of his erection gently prodding at your clit causing you to moan. You could feel your slick dampening your panties, allowing them to glide over your clit as he moved his hips against yours. You moulded your lips back with his, whining against them as your way of telling him you were getting impatient.

"What's the matter, Sweetheart?" He teased, stopping his hips altogether.

"Please Eddie, I need more."

"But you sound so pretty when you beg." He rasped in your ear before nibbling on the lobe.

"Please don't tease me Eddie. I've been waiting for you to do this since high school."

"Oh yeah?" He pulled back, looking into your eyes with a smirk on his lips. "Then it wont hurt to wait a little longer."

"Eddie!"

"I'm joking, I'm joking, Baby." He laughed. "Now, tell me what you want."

"Touch me, please."

"And where would you like me to touch you m'lady?"

"You know where, Eddie."

He laughed at your bluntness, smiling against your lips when he kissed you again. He placed his palm flat on your stomach before going down slowly. Finally his finger tips slipped under the band of his boxers and into your panties. The two of you groaned at the feeling, your hole dripping wet and begging to be filled. He started at your clit, spreading your slick by rubbing soft circles. You sighed with relief that he was finally touching you. Using his middle and ring finger, he started gliding downward to play with your hole before sinking inside. You moaned at the feeling of him stuffing your emptiness. His fingers were sweet torture as they moved inside of you ever so slowly.

"One more Eddie, please." You begged for him to stretch you open with a third finger.

"You think you can handle that?"

You nodded frantically, your noses bumping together. He obliged without more torment and opened you wide with a third finger. Tears sprung to your eyes. In the beginning you thought that maybe he was right, you couldn't handle it like you thought. But when he curled his fingers enticingly inside of you and collected more of your wetness, the line between pleasure and pain became blurred. The heel of his calloused palm stroked against your clit with every thrust, making your insides burn. You moaned openly into his mouth, mutterings of "just like that" and "right there" breathed onto his lips. You could feel him grinding on your leg like a dog - he was getting off on your pleasure. Your moans of his name went straight to his cock and he just couldn't help himself. He was starting to get desperate. He wanted nothing more than to find out how you would moan with his cock inside of you.

The deliberate actions of his fingers paused and he removed them from you. You gasped at the sudden emptiness, giving Eddie a frown - you were getting so close. He released a breathy laugh at your expression, placing a kiss to your lips.

"Open wide, princess."

You did so willingly, opening wide and sticking out your tongue ever to slightly to welcome his fingers. He groaned when the warmth of your tongue slid along his fingers and your cheeks hollowed to take their full length. He could just imagine how beautiful you would look with your lips wrapped around his cock.

But that would just have to wait for another time.

He pulled his fingers away from your greedy mouth, replacing them with his tongue so he could taste your sweetness. He wanted nothing more than to eat you out, to taste your sweetness from the source, but with his cock painfully straining against his boxers, he knew he had to hurry things along. He made quick work at pulling down your bottoms, and then echoing his actions with his boxers. He tried his best to withstand the hiss that was on the tip of his tongue as his cock met with the cold air.

"Ah shit, I don't have any condoms on me."

"It's fine Eddie, just pull out. I need you."

He didn't need much more convincing. "As you wish."

He rubbed the head of his cock along your slit, teasingly bumping into your clit every now and them as he lubed himself up with your juices. Your eyes rolled back when he gently pushed himself inside of you. You secretly thanked him for stretching you with his fingers before, otherwise this would be 10 times worse. But still, you moaned at the pain, a sadistic part of you enjoying it more than you probably should have. You gasped and whimpered when the head of his cock finally sank in.

"What's the matter sweetheart? Too much?"

"Not enough." You teased.

He was more than enough, there was no denying it, and Eddie knew that. There was nothing you could say that would bruise that ego of his, especially when it came to the size of his cock. You could feel him laugh against your shoulder, muttering a quiet "Alright then" before his hips snapped flush to yours.

You cried out, digging your nails into his back as he sheathed himself completely inside of you. He gave you time to adjust, trying his best not to laugh at the expression on your face. He could tell you were enjoying it, but your face was contorted into a mixture of pleasure and pain - eyes rolling back before squeezing shut and your bottom lip caged between your teeth. You were certainly a sight to behold.

"Let me see those eyes, beautiful."

You pried them open, trying your hardest not to squeeze them closed again at the slow drag of his hips. He filled you up so good it was like you could feel him everywhere. Not one part of you was left untouched and you were practically sobbing. His mouth was on yours again when he rolled his hips, causing you both to gasp against each other. He was so deep inside of you, you thought for sure that he was in your stomach. His dick barely moved from inside of you as he grinded against you, the soft hair on his pubic bone tickling at your clit. You wanted more, Eddie knew this, but he was too much of a tease to let you get your own way.

"Please" You begged.

"Please what sweetheart? Go on, don't be shy. Tell me."

"Harder, please."

"But baby, I thought you liked it soft and slow?"

"C'mon Eddie, please."

"Alright, since you asked so nicely."

He pulled out, almost completely, before pounding into you. The two of you moaned at the feeling. He continued to ram into you relentlessly, finally giving you what you wanted. He tongued and kissed at your clavicle, becoming hooked on the taste of your sweat. Your heavy breaths mingled and the windows began to fog. He was becoming harder to see as the night time drew in, but the yellow glow of the street light rolled along his structures. He glowed like a radiant god, hearing your prayers and relishing in your faith to him. You gave yourself to him completely, allowing him to create an entirely new universe of pleasure for you to get lost in. You clenched around his length, sucking him in deeper and causing his breath to stutter. You did it again, loving the effect it had on him when he pulled his lip between his teeth. You tucked the loose strands that had fallen out of his bun behind his ears to see his face a bit more clearly. The soft glaze of sweat across his forehead had matted his fringe, sticking it above his eyebrows. The sweet dews trickled down his face, much like the rain had earlier, although now it was from his unabating exertion.

"Fuck, I'm so close Sweetheart." He shamelessly moaned.

You nodded in agreement, your climax was fomenting deep within you. You were constantly being pulled closer to the edge, just waiting for Eddie to make one final push to take you over. His ceaseless thrusts kept his cock shoved gloriously against all of the right places, not once did he hold back. His eyes squeezed shut and his breathing became laboured.

"Let me see those eyes, beautiful."

His eyes snapped open at your words - the exact words he had spoken to you just moments earlier. He almost stopped his movements entirely in surprise, but he was so busy trying to chase his high, that instead he wiped the smirk off of your lips by bringing a hand to your clit.

"Be careful Princess, or I might just change my mind about letting you cum." He warned, slowing his hips, but still pressing his thumb harder to your clit, just to prove how hard he would make it for you to hold off your orgasm.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, trapping him inside of you just in case he decided to stop completely. "No! Please Eddie, I'm sorry. I'll be a good girl, I promise." You sobbed, not even caring how pathetic you sounded.

"I know you will, Baby." He cooed softly against your lips. While the offer to torment you was appetising, he was so close to exploding that he had no patience left in him.

His hips started up again, ploughing into you, your walls constricting around him as you drew closer and closer. Your body became tingly and your toes curled. It was like all of your nerve endings had been set alight and were now firing a sudden release of energy, sending you into euphoria. Wave after wave crashing into you and drowning you in pleasure as you finally came.

"I can't pull out when you wrap your legs around me like that, baby."

You had hardly heard what he had said, your heartbeat thumping loudly in your ears. It was only when he started pulling away, did you catch on and release him from your hold. He felt his balls tighten and pleasure steadily increasing until it was unbearable, almost painful, but he never wanted it to stop. It was a close call, but he finally pulled out of you, rubbing his length along your folds as hot cum spurted from his cock, landing on your stomach and pooling in your belly button. The moans he released had made you want him all over again, but you were far too sensitive for that. Even as he stroked the side of his length up and down your slit, he prolonged your orgasm until it was almost agonising.

He eventually collapsed on top of you, chests pushing together with each desperate lungful of air. And in this fulfilled silence, your breathing blended with the gentle pattering of rain that rattled against the metallic body of your car. You hadn't even realised it had started raining again. It wasn't as heavy as before, but was still enough to get you wet if you tried to run back to the trailer.

Eddie had noticed it to. "Looks like were gonna be here for a while."

You nodded in agreement, fidgeting to unlodge the belt buckle that was digging into your back. Eddie's breath was cool on your skin as the two of you calmed down, shivering as the adrenaline dwindled away from you. It was truly dark now, and you had most certainly missed the episode of The Golden Girls.

You felt the cold even more when Eddie propped himself up on his elbows, the loss of contact with your bare skin brought you a chill. Your arms wrapped around his neck, wanting to pull him back into you, but you halted at the look on his face. His dreamy eyes conveyed a message of appreciation and sparkled with unmistakable desire.

"So," Eddie broke the silence, "you up for round two?"

A part of you for sure thought that he was going to tell you those three little words. It was naïve of you to think that he would after such a short amount of time together, but you could feel the electricity between you. Not unless a brewing lightning storm had disorientated your feelings.

"Only on one condition." You prompted, feeling ballsy.

"And what's that?"

"You take me on a date."

"Sweetheart, you read my mind."

#eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson imagine #eddie stranger things #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #stranger things #eddie x reader #joseph quinn

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luminalunii97 · 1 year

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Just so you know, the revolution here has changed from civil disobedience to actual war. Our regime is using all their military power to suppress the protesters.

I've drafted a series of posts about all the beauty iranians have been making these last two months. I don't know when I'll post them but I will.

To follow the updated news on Iran revolution follow 1500tasvir or iranwire on Twitter or Instagram. I'll be busy enough to not be able to share all the news. The best I can do is to complete and post my drafts.

In case you want to help the revolution:

Ask your representatives in government to close Islamic Republic embassy in your country and fire their diplomats. This regime doesn't have legitimacy therefore they don't need ambassadors anywhere.

Email and message UNICEF and UN and demand Justice. UNICEF social media is filled with sunshine and rainbows when iranian children are being murdered by our blood thirsty regime. I know it's not something new and it's been the case with many other nations like Palestinians. Today is the day you can practice demanding justice for everyone. It doesn't need to be limited to Iranians.

Email and message Meta co. to stop deleting Iranians posts about their revolution. It's getting ridiculous. Social media is the only thing Iranians have to communicate with each other, that's why Islamic Republic wants to take that away from us so desperately. Meta is doing them favors here. The number of Instagram stories calling for protests in different cities being deleted because "it's against our community guidelines" is high. I didn't know "call for sit down strike" could be against anyone's guidelines except the islamic republic.

Come to iranian demonstrations in your country if you can. That'll be very appreciated. But it's not a necessity. Sending those emails I mentioned above is a lot more important.

Thank you in advance and wish us luck.

#iran #mahsa amini #iran protests #iran news #iran revolution #iranian #free iran #human rights #politics #children #middle east #middle east politics #middle east matters too #muslim #feminism #democracy #equality #islamic republic of iran #islamic republic vs iran

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spacelazarwolf · 4 months

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Jews are not from the Middle East, no matter how many of us wish we were. It doesn’t matter how desperately you cling to a 2000 year old fairy tale that mentions the Middle East, it doesn’t change the fact that my great grandparents are from Germany and yours probably were too. Yiddish culture is beautiful and it breaks my heart to see other Jews shrug it off in favor of claiming cultures they have no connection to

regardless of whether or not you think ashkenazim have middle eastern roots, the jews in that video are from syria, and my great grandparents were from sicily and north africa. we have no connection to yiddish culture and most of us have never set foot in germany. we’re not “shrugging it off” it just literally has no relevance to us bc it’s not our culture.

there’s just. so much to unpack here.

#ask avishai

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yellosnacc · 3 months

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New year, new creature reveal!

This animal is an Iťalaq, a large creature adapted for the hot and dry environment of the east. Just like some earth desert animals, it has energy storage in the form of its watery bloodstream and of a large fat pocket under its 'pelvis'.

They feed primarily on plant matter. Bushes and grasses are easy targets, while hard or spiky materials will get stomped on with their middle limbs to then scoop up the insides. For food high up, they pick on it using their front limbs and throw it to the ground or insert it directly into their mouth. They do not mind a meaty snack.

As a bonus unpleasant fact, Iťalaq have the contents of their 'ends' ready to protect them from predators (both liquid and bullets), and it gets very stinky if they eat meat before the processing.

You are unlikely to ever see one in nature - at least not the domesticated species that are used all over the eastern sloman cultures (those are better reported to the nearest settlement).

Their history with slomen is not as long as it is with pamuli that evolved side by side with slomen. However, they are considered the first domesticated "arm-jaw" animals and have served people for thousands of years as their main "vehicle". Where they are used, wheels and carts are uncommon, finding most use in cities.

One iťalaq can often carry over 200kg (330 pounds), but it's better to keep the weight lower and let a pamuli take the rest of the cargo.

In this illustration, the rider is a sloman matriarch, likely stopping to stare at a strange phenomenon.

It is often that a northeastern family has at least one iťalaq, and the oldest members are the primary riders (both because of the member's importance and less energy from old age). The matriarch is the oldest and most respected, so it's only expected she's most familiar with the animal.

the picture with no text

hope the text wall doesn't have too many mistakes man

#art #speculative biology #artists on tumblr #digital art #artwork #worldbuilding #speculative evolution #spec bio #fantasy #original species #speculative zoology #speculative fiction #xenobiology #slomen #sloman culture #domesticated animals #spec evo #alien animal #elve

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soon-palestine · 12 days

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Israel, the world’s most innocent country, fell victim to a horrific attack from Iran with zero reported casualties on the same day Israel killed dozens of civilians in Gaza.

Israel had been minding its own business, quietly bombing hospitals, schools, universities, mosques, and an embassy, when the Iranian regime launched their outrageous attack for no apparent reason. Thankfully, the US and UK scrambled jets to defend Israeli airspace because it’s wrong to bomb countries in the Middle East, unless your name is Israel, in which case you can do all the bombing you want.

Every British and American ship in the region is now in grave danger and the risk of terror attacks on our soil has surely increased, but you will be relieved to know our countries have not benefitted in any way from our intervention. Personally, I can’t think of a better way for Israel to spend our tax money.

Our leaders have condemned Iran in the strongest possible terms, which is confusing because I thought we were supposed to remain ambiguous and say we’re investigating the matter when such an attack occurs. Perhaps this is one of those rules that only applies to Israel though.

When informed of the attack, a calm and rational Suella Braverman screamed: “WAR! I WANT WAR!” and when she’d stopped hyperventilating, she added: “This must be the end of western backsliding on Israel,” because she thinks we have not been sufficiently supportive of their genocide. Anyone who is not on the same side of the argument as Suella Braverman must ask serious questions about themselves.

Iran’s unprovoked attack involved giving Israel adequate warning and launching 30-year-old missiles, 99% of which were intercepted, and then saying the matter is closed unless Israel escalates further. The fact Iran would consider retaliating to further escalation from Israel shows just extreme these lunatics are.

Among Iran’s targets was the Israeli air base from which the missiles that struck its embassy were launched, killing 13 on April 1. As of yet, we have no indication as to why Iran carried out the attack, but we’re going to tell you it’s because they want to start World War III. Psychos.

Conspiracy theorists have suggested it’s actually Benjamin Netanyahu who wants escalation, but it’s unclear why the man who faces political oblivion, and possibly jail, would be incentivised to draw his allies into the fight and cause everyone to forget his many war crimes.

Israel, the country that definitely does not want war, has vowed an “unprecedented” response against Iran which will probably kill many more than zero people. If Iran expresses disapproval at Israel’s next mass murder, it’s because they’re trying to destabilise the region. At this point, we’ll have no choice but to help Israel do to Iran what we’ve spent six months helping them do to Gaza - launch precision strikes that destroy 70% of the buildings in the country and leave survivors living in tents.

Worryingly, we’ve just discovered at the most convenient moment that Iran has enough uranium to build 12 nuclear bombs. If it were true that Iran had so much weapon-grade uranium, it would be incredibly stupid to attack them, but we’re going to insist we must attack them because we’re weapon-grade idiots - and we think you are too.

Please just switch your brain off and accept what you’re being told, you simpletons! What matters is rich people can afford nuclear bunkers if this all goes horribly wrong. In the meantime, you can look forward to lots of exciting stories in the media about bringing back conscription and describing how you are likely to die in humanity's final war. Are you looking forward to radiation sickness and nuclear winter? Because they sound like brilliant fun! x

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this outstanding piece of journalism as much as I did, you can support my work here:

#palestine #gaza #free palestine #journalism

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elder-millennial-of-zion · 5 months

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Old Enough to Remember 9/11 Part II:

I definitely did not have “TikTok stans Osama Bin Laden” on my bingo card, but here we are.

I was in leftist circles during 9/11 too, and there are quite a few key differences between the leftist stance then, vs the leftist stance now. I’m sure more extremist views existed, but they weren’t mainstream enough to be common talking points.

Reading comprehension check: I’m talking about the positions of ANTI-WAR LEFTISTS. NOT the right, the government, or the US establishment.

What I heard: “Al Qaeda is an extremist terrorist group that does not represent Islam or the Muslim people.”

What I didn’t hear: “Al Qaeda are the good guys. They’re freedom fighters.”

What I heard: “people like Bin Laden are products of western imperialism.”

What I didn’t hear: “Bin Laden was right.”

What I heard: “of course 9/11 was a tragedy, but the innocent people in the Middle East and the global south who get killed as a result of US imperialism are no less important, and they deserve just as much attention.”

What I didn’t hear: “the people in the twin towers deserved to die because they’re all complicit in US imperialism by virtue of living here.”

What I heard: “Muslims are not responsible for Al Qaeda and they shouldn’t be subject to Islamophobia.”

What I didn’t hear: “being anti-terror isn’t Islamophobia! I get to decide what Islamophobia is, no matter what actual Muslim people say.”

What I heard: “we shouldn’t invade Iraq because it has nothing to do with 9/11.”

What I didn’t hear: “we should let Al Qaeda carry out as many 9/11 as they want until the US is abolished, because that’s the only thing that will liberate the Middle East. American civilian death is a necessary cost to achieve this goal, and besides, they’re all guilty by association anyway.”

What I heard: “it’s actually all Israel’s fault.”

Ok, that part hasn’t changed.

#antisemitism #jumblr #israel #9/11 #leftist antisemitism

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tacticaldiary · 9 days

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Roses and Purple Scarves

PAIRING: Spencer Reid x Reader

SYNOPSIS: He catches her eyes in the window's reflection, and there's a small part of him that's waiting to catch the frown on her face, or see her nodding along while looking down at her phone pretending to listen.

His heart skips a beat when he finds her looking directly at him with a smile, eyes so soft and interested it makes something warm settle in the pit of his stomach.

NOTE: I am NOT taking requests at the moment.

"Spencer I don't need more flowers," She laughs, trying to yank at his arm to get him moving. It's to no avail by the way he stays rooted to the spot in front of the display window. "I still have the last bouquet in a vase at home."

"I know." He says it so matter of factly, it makes her raise her brows and stop tugging.

"What do you mean 'you know?'" She relents, joining him to look into the store's window.

"I keep a flower from all your bouquets for myself. That way I know when they wilt so I can get you new ones." She's stunned at the answer, the gesture is so thoughtful and...and nice. It's so Spencer, and by the half smile on his face he's trying to hide, he knows it too.

"You're too good to me." She says after a beat, meeting his eyes in the window's reflection, "I don't need a dozen roses to know you love me, for the record...but they are appreciated."

"Flower language." Spencer hums, peering through the glass at the colorful array of petals. "It's fascinating actually, people tend to associate the origin of floriography to be from the old victorian era, but traces of meaning can be tracked all the way back to Persia and the Middle East much before that." He catches her eyes in the window's reflection, and there's a small part of him that's waiting to catch the frown on her face, or see her nodding along while looking down at her phone pretending to listen.

His heart skips a beat when he finds her looking directly at him with a smile, eyes so soft and interested it makes something warm settle in the pit of his stomach. Spencer blinks, turns to face her for real. "I read a book about it a while ago," He shrugs, offering her a smile.

"I'd love to borrow it sometime." She responds, looping their arms together. It's a chilly day, snowflakes peppering down casing the cobblestone street below in specks of icy white.

"Really?" Spencer raises an eyebrow.

"You know I love flowers." She confirms as they continue down the little street. "I've always wanted to have a garden of my own, but the balcony of my apartment isn't big enough."

Spencer listens attentively, keeping her close to his side. It's instinct, the way his gloved hand rests against her waist as they walk, the gentle push and pull of weaving through among other people going this way and that. The contact makes her feel warm and wanted, a small gesture that encompasses all of what Spencer is.

Meaningful. If she could describe Dr Spencer Reid with one word, it would be meaningful. Everything he does is purposeful and attentive.

Remembering how she takes her coffee in the mornings without her ever mentioning it. Watching her frown at the days crossword because he knows that if she wants his help she'll ask for it (even if Spencer can't help but cringe at her sighing dramatically loud at a puzzle he'd solved in his head 25 minutes ago). It was the little things, woven with meaning that made her feel seen.

Made her feel understood.

Reaching down between them, she grabs his hand, intertwining their fingers, squeezing gently.

"You could always look into aeroponics." Spencer smiles as they come to a stop in front of a crosswalk. He pushes the button with his elbow and the both of them are left to wait for the indication to cross.

"The exposed roots freak me out." Remembering the pictures she's seen sends a shudder down her spine. "I mean, it doesn't look natural does it? Plants were meant to come from the earth, watching them dangling in the air just feels wrong," When she glances up to gauge his agreement, the rest of the words die on her tongue.

Spencer stares at her with a soft smile and enamoured eyes. If you asked him, he wouldn't be able to repeat half of what she'd just said despite his impressive memory.

It's frightening, how often he gets lost in her. In the way she furrows her brow, the manner in which she moves and the cadence of her voice that make him lean in closer to hang on to every small inflection like a siren's melody.

"What?" She asks, brow furrowed. "Have I got something-" He leans down and steals the words from her before she can finish, kissing her soft but firm, hands tangling in the hair at the back of her head. He can't help it, especially when he sees the little parts of himself that she's adopted, mirrored from how much time they spend together. Time and time again she's assured him that she thinks his monologues and rambling are endearing, pulled him out of his head with sweet words and lips when he gets too wrapped up in himself.

He's starting to understand. Watching her talk about roots and plants...God, she could talk about paint drying and he'd listen and commit each word to memory.

Kissing Spencer isn't fireworks.

It's a symphony.

From start to finish, he puts his heart into every movement, feeling bleeding into every quirk of his hands, every tilt of his head.

She mumbles his name against his lips and he barely stops himself from chasing her when she pulls back with a hand on his chest. Taking a minute to catch her breath, she graces him with a radiant smile that knocks his away. "I didn't know you loved plants that much."

"I love you." He knocks their foreheads together.

The indicator flashes green across the street, prompting them to cross, but the two stay where they are letting the atmosphere sink in. Spencer smiles softly, moving to brush off the snowflakes on the shoulders of her coat.

"You're cold." He observes when his hand brush against her neck.

"It is snowing." She smiles. Spencer huffs, unwinding his scarf from around himself. Ignoring her protests, he wraps it around her snugly.

The purple is a horrific clash to her outfit, but it's warm, and it smells like him, the calming scent washing over her as she sinks into it and takes a deep breath. "Won't you be cold?"

"I've survived worse." He chuckles when she smacks his shoulder.

"That's not funny!"

"It's a little funny." He argues, smiling against her lips.

The crosswalk flashes red, cars start moving but the world stays still around them.

Reblog, Like and Comment!

(19/04/2024)

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