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kneelingshadowsalome · 11 months

Note

Hi !!!! I’m sorry if this is bothering you and if so you can totally ignore this but…

I’ve been thinking about how Ghost would react to reader gradually pulling away from him because she gained some weight and is self conscious and ashamed and doesn’t want to be seen by him, so sculpted and beautiful… but of course he’s feeling low because he wants to be close to reader and so he asks and she finally explains it to him (ready to be broken up with…)…. And I’d love to read your take on it !

You can make it female or gender neauteal I don’t really care !!!! Thank you anyway ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Wildflowers Grow in Ruins

(Ghost x F!Reader, word count: 5 k)

Summary: Reader tries to break up with Ghost because she thinks she's not good enough for him.

Tags/warnings: FLUFF, soft sensual smut 🔞, hurt/comfort, light angst, Jealous!Ghost, Soft!Ghost, self-loathing & self-body shaming. Good girl talk/praise kink. Reader is female and wears a skirt for smut plot purposes.

A/N: I hope you like this take & I hope you don't mind that I tweaked this request just a little bit!) Also: JFC I'm wordy. The "I need to explain why they're fucking!" meme comes to mind every time I write anything.

Wars are exhausting.

You know fighting for something can empower people. Fighting against something usually just depletes your strength.

But waging a war against yourself…

Now that is pure hell.

It started somewhere in your youth. You thought adulthood would take it away; that reason and tolerance would take it away. You were supposed to feel more confident in yourself, more positive about life. And for a moment, you thought you might just succeed.

But standing beside a god of war is no easy feat.

He came into your life like a walking myth, swept you away, and you only laughed as you went. It was fun at first. He was supposed to be your savior, the solution to all your problems. If a man like him found you attractive, perhaps it was the world that was crooked and not you.

But then you got soft: you started to gain pounds. Meanwhile, he became even more magnificent. It reminded you that it had all been just a dream.

Perhaps it was his eyes that seemed to worship you, that seemed to look past your every flaw. Perhaps it was the hands which never seemed to get enough of your skin. Whatever it was, it was too much. And at the same time, never enough.

The day has finally come to let him go.

You think yourself heroic. It's like it should be: it's only right that you finally release him to someone better than you.

But inside, the noble feelings twist and turn and curl around your throat and stuff your stomach full of ice - the kind they fill glasses of mojito with. The drink you'll always remember him by because he teased you about it: that you wanted an ice-cold summer drink even in the middle of winter.

Now you feel cold all over, and wish he could warm you like he used to.

You would forsake all the mojitos of the world to keep him. You would renounce the whole drink if it came to that; if you could make him yours.

But he's not yours. He never was: he was just on loan to give you a taste of what it would be like to have a man like him. That taste should be more than enough for a lifetime. You should feel grateful.

So why is it so hard to let go?

The key on the front door turns, and your heart shoots up your throat: you're supposed to settle this thing once and for all. You're supposed to let go of him today.

And still, when he arrives, you can't find the courage to say what you need to say. The words are stuck in your throat, but tears are not. He should already be a memory, but you find yourself suffocating on memories as you cry. You've learned to do even that in silence, like the rest of your suffering.

You take a few deep breaths, wipe the tears away, shove the rest of them down your throat – you save them for later, later, when he's far away and you can finally curl up and cry your heart out without no one there to look. Fucking later.

Good.

Great.

You put your heaviest armor on. It protects weak and soft flesh because you can't meet him all bare. Then you step forward with the knowledge that you’re a thoroughly wounded guerrilla while he is a seasoned, well-rested veteran. The fight is nowhere near even, but it's ok. You are not meant to be in the presence of immortals anyway.

The man looks at you warily as you finally enter the room. That haunted look has followed you for some time now as the distance between you has grown.

It should be easy, what is about to come, because he hasn't touched you in weeks. You haven't wanted him to.

Or you have… But it's not easy to have his hands on you when your body is only a vessel you hate. How can you even think about pleasure when all you think about is how it must feel for him to caress something as awful as this?

The man is a vision, and he settles for a peasant. It should be against the law, but it's not… so you figured a some time ago that you should simply find the strength and grace to do ii: do what's right.

"I need to talk to you."

Your voice comes out neutral, and it makes you more confident, if only for a second or two.

He lifts his chin: already knows what's coming, because he's not stupid. You've been shutting down for weeks, and he hasn't done much about it. But when the thunder rolls in, he doesn't flee. Probably because he fears nothing.

"Go ahead then," he says, equally as neutral, equally as icy. Got his armor on, too.

This should be easy…

It's really not, so you decide to rip the band-aid off in one yank.

"I think we should go separate ways."

The following inhale from across the room pierces the air like a bullet. You can hear his breaths gain depth and speed all the way to where you're standing.

"Ok."

It doesn't look or sound like he's ok. If anything, he looks like he's trying to process the sudden storm.

"Ok…" His eyes are on the floor as he rubs the back of his neck. Then he starts to pace around the little kitchenette you've shared for almost six months, just before you started gaining weight.

He stops to look out the window, then turns to you, and the hurt in his stare comes through like a thousand needles pushing through skin.

"Is it because of my work?"

"No."

"What is it then?"

Your breaths are getting out of hand, too. He looks like a lost, tired creature in an abandoned animal shelter for a moment, and it breaks your heart. It squeezes the organ inside a flaming fist until it shatters like it has never been nothing more than ice.

Your lip starts to tremble, and he notices, as per usual. Nothing escapes this man, except perhaps the true reason for your anguish.

"Hey. Hey."

He comes to you and hugs you like it's the only thing that matters: to comfort you when he sees you're about to cry, no matter how crushed he's feeling himself. The sudden warmth, the intimacy after weeks and weeks of pain is knee-buckling.

"Is there anything I can do to change your mind?"

His voice is soft, so soft… The tears rush forth now; there's no way of stopping them. What the hell can you even say to a question like that? That you wish he could grab a magic wand and turn you into someone gorgeous, the woman he deserves?

His embrace feels good, kind of. It also feels smothering because your self-hate makes you want to disappear from existence entirely. His eyes are equal to physical touch, a probing scan that sees every little flaw, not to talk about massive faults, the ones which make you feel like you're simply disgusting. His touch only reminds you how you must feel like to him: soft, too soft, weak.

And he must hate weakness.

"What do you need me to do? I'll do anything," he tries with a parched throat, then swallows.

It's fucking horrible. This isn't going at all like you had imagined.

"It's not about you," you struggle out of his hold, and he lets you go with reluctance. You have to basically fight your way out of a bone and steel prison. Why would he even want to hold a pathetic woman who's on the brink of ugly crying on top of everything?

"What do you mean?"

He's slightly breathless – and restless as fuck. He's usually so calm; nothing can get to him, nothing can rattle the tower of raw strength. Now you've not only pierced some invisible armor; you can hear pieces of it falling on the floor.

"Have you found someone else?"

What the…

"No." You put as much weight on that word as you possibly can. To imagine that he thinks you are cheating… Fucking cheating on someone like him. "Jesus Christ…"

He takes a deep breath and sighs deeply, sighs out relief, perhaps. Then his razor-sharp stare fixes on you again, and you can see the fear turning into something akin to concern. You suspect you have to tell him the truth, otherwise he will dig it out of you.

"I'm just…"

Jesus, this is just humiliating.

"I'm just not your type."

"What the hell are you talking about," he mutters, the impending fury giving way to momentary surprise.

He gets intense sometimes. This time, the ferocity is born of barely concealed distress. He's broad and magnificent, even in despair. He’s just so fucking fine… The perfect man, someone you had never even imagined yourself with. Pulled down to the world of puny mortals, evidently stressing about losing one.

Losing you.

"If you have someone new, you can just bloody well tell me."

"It's not that. You don't understand–"

"Try me."

"I just…" A tear escapes down your face as you finally break for him. "I'm fat. Okay? And ugly. And–"

"Stop right there."

The look on his face is just… It's priceless, you suppose.

"Bloody fucking hell…"

He looks at the floor, then runs his fingers through the short cut hair on top of his head. You've yanked those blonde strands more times than you can count, nearly every time he's been between your legs, and you miss it – you long for it, like fallen angels long for heaven.

And if there was a time this man was rendered speechless, you would say you were witnessing that moment right now. His brows knit together, then he looks up at you again with blaring disbelief.

"You're serious?"

"Yes."

"This is the reason you wanna break up?"

Ugh.

"Yes?"

His voice grows rougher with every question until it resembles thunder, and you suspect this is the commanding tone his soldiers are used to hearing.

But you're not: it's gravelly, harsh, and betrays the feeling of having been insulted. You feel even more devastated with yourself – it appears you can do nothing right.

"Where has this… idea even come to your head?"

"I don't know."

"And you never thought to ask my opinion?"

"Would you please stop yelling," you whisper and blink back some putrid tears. His mouth is snapped shut, his head pulls back just a little as he realizes what he's done.

"Sorry," he says with a half-whisper, and you catch the strain in his throat. You've never seen him cry, but now his voice is suddenly thin and frail. "I'm sorry."

He takes a step, then another, places fingertips on the counter as if to take the faintest support.

"Can I touch you?"

You don't really want him to do that, but you feel pity for the man. He's trying to find a way through this mess, and you want to help him.

"Yes," you whisper, and he immediately comes and takes you in his arms again. Hot tears disappear into his shirt, and you sniff a few times. He feels so good, so safe, even when you're about to lose him. His hold tightens around you, and the kitchen is silent; the whole world is silent. You don't know if you're being put to a grave or if you're in a deaf womb, waiting to be reborn.

"Now I don't know who's said this shite to you but ugly is the last fucking thing I'd call you," he declares above you. As if it was some bully whose fault it is that you were this way, a bully he could deal with with his fists or a gun. If only things were that easy…

"Have I said or done something? To make you feel this way?"

Then the blade is turned against himself. The man desperately searches for a culprit so he can deal with them.

"No," is the only thing you can say because it's true: he has never done a thing to make you feel like you weren't good enough; quite the contrary. But then again, he doesn't have to. It's enough that he exists and resembles a god.

"Then why do you think you're not my type?"

"Because you're so perfect," you hear yourself wail, no, cry into that shirt that smells of sweet safety and familiar musk – his scent, another thing you have missed like it's the only way to heaven.

"That for sure ain't true."

"But it is."

He seems to have the utmost difficulty in grasping what the issue here is. You can almost hear the wheels turning in his head with a rusty, laborious creak.

"Can't believe you wanna break up because of this," he finally says. You've chipped his pride, the ego that lives off of pleasing the ones he loves: the few chosen ones who he wants to give his whole life to.

"To me, you're perfect," he then says, and you simply… You stop breathing. "You're like… my dream woman. Ever thought about that?"

It can't be true, even if you vehemently, desperately want it to be. You reach out to his words like they're precious food after years of famine. Like they're sun and spring rain after being buried in the cold, dark soil whole winter.

"No…?"

"Never occurred to you that I might find you fucking beautiful?"

"Stop," you whisper, because it's too much to take in. He sounds so serious, so sincere.

"No, I don't think I will."

He pulls back a little and cups your face. Brushes away a tear, looks at you with so much love that it physically hurts; you feel like it's a lance that slowly drives through your heart.

"How about I kiss every part I love about you?"

You let out a soft little whimper. Fuck, that you want him to…

It would also be uncomfortable as hell. To try and let him love you and your body, which you have grown to loathe.

"It's gonna take all night, though. Wanna be as thorough as possible."

"Simon–"

"Love. I want you. Thought I'd made it pretty clear, but apparently I haven't. If you only knew how much–"

He sighs deeply. The man is frustrated with his shortcomings, thinks that this is all his fault. You cry a tear or two just for the sake of how absurd it all is.

"I don't want you to go. I fucking love you. Everything about you."

For the second time this afternoon, your lower lip starts to tremble as if this was some stupid, romantic movie. He can be so soft when he wants to, more romantic than the soft-spoken gentlemen in Jane Austen's novels. It doesn't even require any effort: underneath the cynical surface, there's fiery emotion, so powerful and raw that it almost bleeds out of him. Fuck… Does he even know what he's doing to you?

"I love you too," you whisper back, and the warmth that starts to bloom in his eyes is an entire sun on its own. It's hope, and you believe him, almost believe him.

"Then I'd say it's a bloody bad idea to break up."

You chuckle while few more tears push through to the surface.

"Simon…" You sigh and look back up at him, your armor falling to the floor too. "I feel like a wreck."

You allow him to see the pain, all of it. His breath is sharp as it hits him, but he still doesn't waver.

"Then let me help you."

The arms around you gain more strength, and you're crushed against a chest made of power. He tries to turn shit to gold, and threatens to succeed. You allow yourself to soften in his hold. How good it feels to be supported – no, loved.

"You don't even let me touch you anymore."

It's a filed complaint, but also heart-rending, soul-wrenching longing. You have evaded him for weeks now – hell, this shit began months ago and has escalated gradually, stealthily, until the moments together were a rarity, the space between you was full of frost; and not the crispy, happy summer drink kind.

"I thought you'd found someone else. Could've found out if that was the case in minutes, but honestly, I didn't wanna know."

Oh my God…

Has he lived with a growing suspicion and dread all these months?

That would explain why he has avoided you too…

He has allowed you to go to your supposed lover, has given you space to be alone and without too much attention. The man has shielded himself from pain.

Jesus fucking Christ.

"I'm so sorry," you say with a strained little breath. "I swear it's nothing like that. I just… I feel like a mess."

"Never seen such a gorgeous mess."

He speaks on your skin, the kiss on your forehead feels like an absolution.

Then you notice it's not only his words which try to assure you. He's growing harder by the minute against your stomach, just from a simple hug. Just from being pressed against you like this, after weeks of dry, bitter longing.

"Miss your taste," he murmurs to your skin, his voice like sand wrapped in burning velvet. "The sounds you make when you want it hard."

Oh God–

"Miss your smile when we go to shower after."

"Hmh…"

"Don't wanna live without that smile."

You don't have to.

God, you don't have to…

"How about we make a deal," he draws fingers down your chin, coaxing you to look up at him. His eyes are stripped from the cold distance that greeted you just moments ago: now they are filled with warmth that spreads to your chest and belly and bones. You drink him in like summertide.

"You come to me every time you feel bad and I'll make you feel good. Alright?"

"...Ok."

He tilts his head a little to the side, not entirely satisfied with your shy little answer.

"Come on. Make me believe it."

"It's a deal," you say with more grit to it, even if you're nearly crying again, this time from relief.

"That's my girl."

Oh fuck…

He knows exactly what strings to pull, the good girl talk being one of the things that instantly makes your legs feel like jelly.

And why does he always have to use that voice when he calls you a good girl or his girl, that sultry smoke that makes you want to swoon until he catches you and carries you to bed?

The man seems to be a mind reader as well, because he sweeps you off your feet and does exactly that: carries you to your bed which has mainly seen silent tears and painful sleep last months.

"Poor thing doesn't even know how lovely she is."

He sounds amused in the face of your darkness: sees it in full and still doesn't fear at all. He's ready to battle your demons for you, and you feel like shaking: from his touch and that voice, from the stress and loneliness that starts to release as he lays you down on the bed.

He looks so different from the man that has haunted this place for the past months, the complete opposite of the reserved soldier retreating into the shadows.

He moves to kiss you, and it's been – what? Weeks since your last kiss? And even that was only a quick peck, nothing like this… Wet, and desperate; a devouring. It makes you clench around nothingness, and you finally surrender.

No one can fake such fervor.

You try to accept it: accept the fact that even if you hate yourself, he does not. For some reason, he adores you. His breaths hit your face hot and urgent, and he can't keep his hands to himself anymore. They wander over your waist and hips, they even risk to steal a feel of your breasts, and then he groans in your mouth.

"I've missed you. Fuck, I've missed you..."

You taste notes of burning leaves; tobacco, his only weakness. You fantasize on the thought that you might be another weakness, too.

"Remember when I fucked you in my office?"

"I've missed you too," you utter softly in between the kisses that threaten to turn into a sloppy mess. "So much..."

He smiles at that, and it makes you weak, even when lying down like this.

"Yeah…?"

"You were so loud I had to put a hand over your mouth."

His voice is thick as he laughs a short chuckle. Your inner walls clench again at the sound, you throb among the warm syrup surrounding you.

"Never seen you so wet. Almost dripped all over my gear."

"It's that stupid mask you wear," you hear yourself breathe like you've just been underwater. Feel yourself throb some more, feel a burning sensation in the nether areas from the scorched desert turning wet again. You want him so much that it actually hurts down there.

"Knew you'd like it. That's why I kept it on."

If this man keeps talking, your underwear is going to be utterly ruined. And of course he does; of course he continues to pour more love in your ear.

"Everyone looked at you like you were a queen," he grunts in your ear, sounding almost… pissed.

"Don't be ridiculous," you try to form sensible words. It's only a faint breath, really, but he huffs at your modesty.

"You don't have eyes in the back of your head, love."

Wow… He is a bit pissed.

Had they checked your ass out when you visited him?

It was the first and, what you thought, the last time you got to visit him at his workplace… but you never would have guessed the reason for him not asking you to visit again would be jealousy.

"Don't worry. I put those fuckers in their place after you left."

Whoa.

Ok…

First, he had fucked you senseless in his office – a highly inappropriate move for a man in his position – then got jealous because some soldiers had checked you out as you left with his cum practically dripping from your cunt.

You put yourself in his shoes for a moment: he's had to live with thoughts of you running to some other man's arms when he's not home, and then watch you waltz around his workplace after making what was supposed to be the last effort to make him love you… When he has loved and adored you this whole time, has watched the sway of your ass with the rest of those home-deprived, horny soldiers, thinking you had fallen out of love and were on your way to go see some other guy.

Had he invited you there to try and win you back, too? By showing himself to you in all his puffed up, masculine glory? A desperate man in a skull mask, hoping to get love from you…

There's so many misunderstandings; they rip your throat. A sob escapes, and he stops his caress.

"Love… Tell me to stop if you–"

"No. No, I don't want you to stop."

Your request comes out with such demand that he hesitates only a second or two. Then he moves on top of you and tugs your skirt up. You don't even have time to realize what is happening before he has worked himself out of his pants.

He's hard and heavy between your legs, and your eyes go wide as you realize he's not going to bother to take your briefs off. He just slides a hand under the skirt and draws the fabric aside, and the fat tip of him is pushed in the middle almost clumsily. It's hot, and slips down to your opening with ease.

Oh f–

"Been jerking off to you nearly every night at the base," he says just before he pushes himself in.

"Uh–...."

Your thighs spread wide as he fills you slowly, inch after inch. The sound that leaves him is starved: a dry, painful sigh. He's been waiting for this for god knows how long, and you're just as hungry to take him in. He seems endless, the way he finally works himself fully inside, spreading you even wider as the thickening base of his cock reaches its end.

"Thought you were getting railed by someone else while I only get to fuck my hand."

"Oh god…"

There's really nothing else to say as his balls press against you, heavy and taut. He's not going to last long.

"Yeah. Imagine that," he admits, breathless like you.

You look at him with what must be the most helpless stare of longing in your eyes. Then he moves, and you want to grip him to keep him inside. The first thrusts are divine, they're pure heaven, and your head sinks deep into the pillow as you try to get enough air, try to not scream from pleasure already. Somehow, all you are able to utter is a desperate little whisper.

"Simon–"

His cock is good enough to bring tears to your eyes. You're starving too, you're pulling him in with fierce hunger, and he groans, then nearly falls forward, his weight pressing against you, swallowing you, until you feel like you're an idiot for thinking that you're too big. The thickness of his chest rubs against you as he makes love to you with passion that echoes the first times you did this.

"Just wanna adore you, love." He's panting desperate somewhere above you. A god and a man, both furious and gentle. "I wanna adore you. Just like this."

You answer him with what must be those sounds he told you about, the sounds you make when you want it hard.

You want him to fuck you, to wreck you after weeks of loneliness and hate. To love you until you break into a million pieces.

"Simon," you whisper. "...Love me."

He halts, huffs in your neck. It's almost a sob. There's so much emotion and desperation in the air that it could be scooped up and sold in the streets.

"Always," he rasps in your ear, then moves to kiss you again. "Always."

The promise echoes around you, it coats your lips as he loves you with all he has. It's been so long, and he feels so good that you nails dig into his shirt, his shoulder, you try to hold onto him even though he's the wave that rocks you.

"You feel that?" He goes deep; he's out of breath and desperate, even more desperate than you. "That's love. You feel it, yeah?"

"Yes," you sob in his shoulder, tears trying to escape your waterline as you're going dumb from the pure sensation, the sensuality of it all.

"That's it, love. That's a good girl," he turns to your neck and gruffs in your ear as you whimper and moan. "Always such a good girl."

Shit…

"I, I'm gonna…"

Your legs wrap around his middle, your muscles twitch and your hands reach and grab – they claw and yank and tug everything they can: his back, shoulders, shirt, something sturdy to keep you from drowning in a glorious orgasm.

He laughs in your neck and continues to grind you through your climax even when you're shattering, sighing, moaning, writhing under him. He just laughs, the man who never laughs: from witnessing you respond to him calling you a good girl.

Fucking bastard…

Lovable, infuriating bastard who knows you to your core.

You're an overstimulated heap by the time he comes as well, not long after you, but long enough to make you feel like you're only a tender bunch of nerves. Your legs have fallen to the side, he has open access to take what he needs: you, your love, all of it.

His whole middle goes tense as he cums, he groans and swears somewhere deep into your neck, rolls his hips over and over again like it's a must that his balls press against you with every thrust that shoot his load.

Then he falls slack, nearly collapses on top of you, reminding you of what it feels like to be small under a giant like him. You're throbbing together, you're full and fulfilled, and he is still lodged deep inside you, panting and broken in a sweat.

"Jesus Christ…"

He sounds dazed.

Relieved.

"Should've done this weeks ago."

You laugh at seeing him so done – a man in love, torn by jealous yearning, finally taking what's his. You stroke his neck, his back – it's so good to have him finally there… So close, with no barriers in between.

"I should've talked to you weeks ago..."

"Yeah. You should have."

"Are you going to punish me?" You giggle a little – the flirt is light and frees your heart further from its recent jail. He moves to look at you with all the tenderness there is. It's too much... His love is too much. But you won't run from it anymore.

"Nah. Think I'm gonna spoil you some more."

He spoils you right away with a kiss. You surrender to his treatment with happiness: happy tears, even.

The medicine to your anguish has been the exact opposite to what you had first tried, what you had originally thought. The true remedy for your sickness is mercy. Perhaps some spoiling…

And love.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley smut #simon riley fluff #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost fluff #soft simon riley #simon riley imagine #ghost x you #simon riley x you #fluff and smut #call of duty

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mashkaroom · 1 year

Text

Translation thoughts on the greatest poem of our time, “His wife has filled his house with chintz. To keep it real I fuck him on the floor”

It’s actually quite tricky to translate. Because it’s so short, each word and grammatical construction is carrying a lot of weight. It also, as people have noted, plays with registers. “Chintz” is a word with its own set of associations. Chintz is a type of fabric with its origins in India. The disparaging connotation is from chintz’s eventual commonality. Chintz was actually banned from England and France because the local textile mills couldn’t compete.

Keep it real” is tremendously difficult to translate -- it’s a bit difficult to even define. It means to be authentic and genuine, but it also has connotations of staying true to one’s roots. Like many English slang words, it comes first from AAVE. From this article on the phrase:

“[K]eeping it real meant performing an individual’s experience of being Black in the United States. As such, it became a form of resistance. Insisting on a different reality, one that wasn’t recognized by the dominant culture, empowered Black people to ‘forge a parallel system of meaning,’ according to cultural critic Mich Nyawalo...The phrase’s roots in racialized resistance, however, were erased when it was adopted by the mostly-White film world of the 1970s and ’80s....Keeping it real in this context indicated a performance done so well that audiences could forget it was a performance.This version of keeping it real wasn’t about testifying to personal experience; it was about inventing it.”

One has to imagine that jjbang8 did not have the origins of these phrases in mind when composing the poem, but even if by coincidence, the etymological and cultural journeys of these two central lexemes perfectly reflect the themes of the poem. The two words have themselves traveled away from the authenticity they once represented, and, in a new context, have taken on new meanings -- the hero of our poem, the unnamed “him”, is, presumably, in quite a similar situation.

Setting aside the question of register, of the phonology, prosody, and meter of the original, of the information that is transmitted through bits of grammar that don’t necessarily exist in other languages -- a gifted translator might be able to account for all of these -- how do you translate the journey of the words themselves?

In my translations, I decided to go for the most evocative words, even if they don’t evoke the exact same things as in the original. The strength of these two lines is that they imply that there’s more than just what you see, whether that’s the details of the story -- what’s happening in the marriage? how do the narrator and the husband know each other? -- or the cultural background of the very words themselves. I wanted to try and replicate this effect.

Yiddish first:

זייַן ווייַב האָט אָנגעפֿילט זייַן הויז מיט הבלים

צו בלייַבן וויטיש, איך שטוף אים אופֿן דיל. zayn vayb hot ongefilt zayn hoyz mit havolim.

tsu blaybn vitish, ikh shtup im afn dil

This translation is pretty direct. There is a word for chintz in Yiddish -- tsits -- but, as far as I can tell, it refers only to the fabric; it doesn’t have the same derogatory connotation as in English. I chose, instead, havolim, a loshn-koydesh word that means “vanity, nothingness, nonsense, trifles”. In Hebrew, it can also mean breath or vapor. I chose this over the other competitors because it, too, is a word with a journey and with a secondary meaning. Rather than imagining the bright prints of chintz, we might imagine a more olfactory implication -- his wife has filled his house with perfumes or cleaning fluids. It can carry the implication that something is being masked as well as the associations with vanity and gaudiness.

Vitish -- Okay, this is a good one. Keep in mind, of course, that I’ve never heard or seen it used before today, so my understanding of its nuances is very limited, but I’ll explain to you exactly how I am sourcing its meaning. The Comprehensive Yiddish-English Dictionary (CYED) gives this as “gone astray (esp. woman); slang correct, honest”. I used the Yiddish Book Center’s optical character recognition software, which allows you to search for strings in their corpus, to confirm that both usages are, in fact, attested. It’s a pretty rare word in text, though, as the CYED implies, it might have been more common in spoken speech. It appears in a glossary in “Bay unds yuden” (Among Us Jews) as a thieves cant word, where it’s definted as נאַריש, שרעקעוודיק, אונבעהאלפ. אויך נישט גנביש. אין דער דייַטשער גאַונער-שפראַך -- witsch -- נאַריש, or “foolish, terrible, clumsy/pathetic. not of the thieves world. in the German thieves cant witsch means foolish”. A vitishe nekeyve (vitishe woman) is either a slacker or a prostitute. I can’t prove this for sure, but my sense is that it might come from the same root as vitz, joke (it’s used a couple of times in the corpus to mention laughing at a vitish remark -- which makes it seem kind of similar to witty). I assume the German thieve’s cant that’s being referred to is Rotwelsch, which has its own fascinating history and, in fact, incorporates a lot of Yiddish. In fact, for this reason, some of the first Yiddish linguists were actually criminologists! What an excellent set of associations, no? It has the slangy sense of straightforward of honest; it has a sense of sexual non-normativity (we might use it to read into the relationship between the narrator and the husband) -- and a feminized one at that; it was used by an underground subculture, and, again, the meaning there was quite different -- like the “real” in “keeping it real” it was used to indicate whether or not someone was “in” on the life (tho “real” is used to mean that the person is in, while “vitish” is used to mean they’re not). It’s variety of meanings are more ambiguous than “keep it real”, which can pretty much only be read positively, and it also brings in a tinge of criminality. Though it doesn’t have the same exact connotations as “keep it real”, I think it’s about as ideal of a fit as we’ll get because it’s equally evocative of more below the surface. I also chose “tsu blaybn vitish”, which is “to stay vitish”, as opposed to something like “to make it vitish” to keep the slight ambiguity of time that “keep it real” has -- keeping it real does< I think, imply that there is a pre-existing “real” to which one can adhere, so I wanted to imply the same.

The rest is straight-forward. “Shtup” is one of a few words the Comprehensive English-Yiddish Dictionary (CEYD) gives for “fuck”, and I think it has a nice sound.

Ok, now Russian

женой твой дом наполнен финтифлюшками

чтоб не блудить с пути, ебемся на полу

zhenoy tvoy dom napolnin fintiflyushkami.

shtob ne bludit’ s puti’, yebyomsya na polu

In order to preserve, more or less, the iambic meter, I made a few more changes here -- since Russian, unlike Yiddish, is not a Germanic language, it’s harder to keep the same structure + word order while also maintaining the rhythm. I would translate this back to English as:

“Your house is filled with trifles by your wife. To not stray off the path, we’re fucking on the floor”

So a few notes before we get into the choice of words for “chintz” and “keep it real”. To preserve the iamb, I changed “his” to “your”. This changes the lines from a narration of events to some outside party to a conversation between the two men at the center. Russian also has both formal and informal you (formal you is also the plural form, as is the case in a number of other languages). I went with informal you because I wanted to preserve the fact that his wife has filled his house not their house, as someone pointed out in the original chain (though I don’t think that differentiation is nearly as striking in the 2nd person) and because it’s unlikely you’d be on formal you with someone you’re fucking (unless it’s, like, a kink thing). I honestly didn’t even consider making it formal, but that would actually raise a lot of interesting implications about the relationship between the speaker and the husband, as well as with what that means about the “realness” of the situation. Is, in fact, the narrator only creating a mirage of a more real, more meaningful encounter, while the actual truth -- that there is a woman the husband has made promises to that he’s betraying -- is obscured? that this intimacy is just a facade? Is there perhaps some sort of power differential that the narrator wishes to point out? Or perhaps is the way that the narrator is keeping it real by pointing out the distance between the two of them? there is no pretense of intimacy, the narrator is calling this what it is -- an encounter without deeper significance?

Much to think about, but I actually think the two men do have history -- i think the narrator remembers the house back when it was actually only “his house” and was as yet unfilled with chintz. We also don’t know what they were calling each other prior to this moment. This could be the first time they switched to the informal you.

Ok moving on, I originally translated it as “твой дом наполнен финтифлюшками жены”. Honestly, this sounds more elegant than what I have now, but I ultimately though removing the wife from either a subject or agent position (grammatically, I mean) was too big a betrayal of the original. The original judges the wife. She took an active role in filling the house. If she were made passive, that read is certainly a possible one -- perhaps even the dominant one -- but it could also read more like “we are doing this in a space filled with reminders of his wife and the life they share” -- the action of filling is no longer what’s being focused on. Why do I say the current translation is inelegant? I feel you stumble over it a little, because it’s almost a garden path sentence. This is also an assset though. “Zhenoy tvoy dom napolnen” is a fully grammatical sentence on its own, and it means “Your house is filled by your wife” -- as in English, the primary read is that the wife is what the house is full of. If the sentence makes you stumble, perhaps that’s even good -- we focus, for good reason, on the relationship between the two men, but in a translation, the wife is able to draw more attention to herself.

Ok, chintz: I chose the word “финтифлюшки” (fintiflyushki), meaning trifle/bobble/tchotchke, because it, allegedly, comes from the german phrase finten und flausen, meaning illusions and vanity/nonsense. Once again, I like that the word has a journey, specifically a cross-linguistic one.

Keep it real: this one, frankly, fails to capture the impact of the original, in my opinion, but allow me to explain the reasoning. “Stray off the path” implies, again, that there is some sort of path that both the narrator and the husband were on before the wife and the chintz -- and one they intend to continue taking, one that this act is a maintenance of. It brings in a little irony, since the husband very much is straying from the path of his marriage. “Bludit’“ can also mean to be unfaithful in a marriage (as, in fact, can “stray”). The proto-slavic word it comes from can mean to delude or debauch -- they want to do the latter but not the former.

As for register -- “shtob” is a bit informal. I would write the full version (shto by) in an email, for example. The word for fuck, yebyomsa, is from one of the “mat” words, the extra special top tier of russian swears, definitely not to be said in polite company (and, if you are a man of a certain generation or background, not in front of women; it’s not that the use of mat automatically invokes a male-only environment, but if we’re already thinking that deeply about it. But while we’re on the topic, i will say that in my circles in the US, women use mat much more actively than men (at least in front of me, who was, up until recently, a woman and also a child).)

Ok i think that’s all the comments i have!

#can you imagine if someone called you вы during sex unironically #i'd be like 'ты че? лучше меня тыкай' haha do you guys get it #also if you have not checked out the YBC's OCR software DO IT

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upat4amwiththemoon · 2 months

Note

Okay AN IDEA !

If you like it you can use it, if it's not something you wanna write that's perfectly fine too !!

So the request is for wandanat x daughter reader

R is secretly spider girl, only Tony stark knows because he's the one who got her the spider suit. R knows her moms would absolutely be against it, always telling her to stay away from that "spider girl" (not knowing it's actually their daughter. Yes like aunt May does in Spiderman : home coming :3)

So let's say R gets into trouble after trying to fight a villain way too strong compared to her and ends up being saved by wanda herself. Wanda finds out at this moment that the spider girl is her daughter and you can choose how the story goes from there

💕

(your favorite mf who sent 8678 request)

Spider-Girl

Summary: Is it a plane? Is it the Friendly neighborhood Spider-Girl? Sort of, it’s a girl who doesn’t listen to her moms!

Pairing: WandaNat x daughter!reader

Warnings: violence

Word count: 2111

a/n: there surely are words written down here

Tags: @thought-of-you-and-me @rafecameronswhore @emsmultiverse @natashamaximoff69

masterlists | guidelines

A video of the Spider-Girl stopping bank robbers is shown on the evening news. Y/N stares at the television screen as she eats with her moms, at times glancing at them to see if they’re paying attention to the news.

Natasha shuts off the television with a sigh, throwing the remote to the couch afterwards. Y/N turns to look at her scrunched brows and pursed lips. “If you ever see that Spider-Girl, stay away from her, okay? We don’t want you getting dragged into anything she does.” Her mother mumbles while eating.

Y/N rolls her eyes, though she hides it from her mom. “Mhm.”

“We’re serious about this, Y/N.” Wanda sets her cutlery down, looking at her daughter. “It’s dangerous and we don’t want you getting hurt.”

“I know,” she pushes her plate away, still half full, “you think I can’t handle myself.” Her voice is full of defiance as she mumbles.

The two women sigh as they glance at each other and their daughter, who is keeping her eyes away from them. This isn’t the first time conversations like this have come up.

“It’s not that we think you’re incapable,” Natasha raises her brows as Wanda starts speaking, which makes her wife give her a subtle slap to the arm, “we’re afraid that the bad guys will hit you twice as hard when they realize whose daughter you are.”

“Mhm.” Is all the answer her mothers get before she excuses herself from the dining table and makes her way to her bedroom.

As Y/N slams the door shut, she locks it and moves the curtains in front of her single window. Sitting down to her bed, she closes her eyes and takes some deep breath, calming down her mind. She is aware her mother would never read her mine without permission, unless absolutely necessary, but Y/N likes to make sure there are no loose ends.

Her mind clears from any unwanted thoughts—thanks to Natasha making her meditate with her since she was a kid—and a smile appears on her face. Y/N walks over to her wardrobe, her steps light as she opens it and starts digging through the mess of things inside. She finds the back wall of the wardrobe and moves it out of her way, taking her suit out of its hiding place.

She slips on her Spider-Girl suit, grinning from ear to ear at the empowering feeling the suit gives her. This is what she wants to do. This is her life.

Pressing her ear against the chilly wooden door, listening to the quiet sound of a laugh track coming from the television. Her mom won’t come bother her when they think she is upset. She has plenty of time to fight crime.

Y/N opens her window and climbs out of it, the palms of her suit sticking to the walls of her home as she makes her way to the roof. She shivers as the wind picks up, but she doesn’t let it bother her.

The homemade web shoots out of the web shooter and she flies towards the city centre, where the evening bustle is starting to wake up. She props herself on top of a building, it’s high enough to be hidden from the people, but still low enough to keep an eye on the streets.

After a few minutes of surveilling the area, a bright light flashes just outside the city, leaving a trail of smoke behind. Y/N grins and makes her way to the smoke, practically flying over the buildings as she glides in the air with the web wings of her suit.

It only takes her around 15 minutes to get near the site. She lands on top of an industrial building, staying low as her eyes adjust to the lack of bright city lights.

Y/N can quickly figure out where the light came from. There is a machine on an otherwise unoccupied patch of land between all the abandoned looking buildings. The machine is big, but it looks crude, handmade. She frowns, not feeling good about any of this. It’s still slightly smoking when two men wearing safety gear finally step onto her line of sight.

She tries to hear what they’re talking about, but they’re too quiet even with her heightened sense of hearing. Her eyes scan over the near area, trying to calculate how safe she’d be if she made herself known to them. Not seeing anything on top of the two men and the machine, she starts quietly crawling closer, keeping a close eye to the men’s hands.

Suddenly, a buzzing sensation fills her mind. She snaps her head to the direction her spidey senses guide her, and even though she is fast, it’s not enough. A third man has climbed onto the roof. He is holding a weapon Y/N doesn’t recognize and shoots it before she is able to react.

A bolt of electricity flies out of the gun-like weapon. It hits Y/N right on her side, making her lose her grip and fall down from the building, all the way to the ground. A small cloud of dust puffs out from the impact.

With a groan, Y/N opens her eyes, seeing the two men standing over her with grins on their faces. “Well, well, well,” one of them chuckles, “what do we have here?” His voice is low and raspy, the smoked a pack a day for years kind of voice.

She lets out a quiet growl-like noise, which clearly doesn’t intimidate the men. “What’s she supposed to be?” The other man mumbles, his head tilting from side to side as he studies Y/N’s suit. “Some kind of bug, eh?”

Using the moment to her advantage, she pushes herself on her feet with a move Natasha taught her, webbing one of the men to the face and kicking the other’s knee. The men let out surprised noises, stumbling away from Y/N, which gives her a slight advantage as she starts fighting them.

She does well for a while, at least when there’s only two of them fighting her, but slowly she starts hearing noises growing louder, like running.

Just as she knocks one of the men unconscious and stick the other to a wall with her web, a group of people with the man who shot her in front arrive. “Shit.” Y/N pants, already having used a lot of energy. The man raises his weapon, shooting an electric bolt again.

Y/N lets out a shout as the bolt of energy hits her square in the chest. She flies a few meters back, landing on her back with a grunt. Her hand flies up to her mask, quickly whispering, “SOS,” before she stands back up.

“The Avengers have been notified.” A robotic female voice speaks up.

Mumbling out a quiet thanks to her artificial intelligence helper, Y/N lunges towards the men again. She feels as if part of her strength is back, now that she knows Tony is coming, but reality hits her like a brick wall once an electric beam hits her.

“I’m getting tired of this.” Y/N grumbles, shooting webs to one of the weapons hitting her.

She webs herself into the air, using the altitude as an advantage against the men. While one of the men is still busy with getting the web out of his gun, Y/N swings down, feet first, on one man’s head.

The impact makes a nasty cracking sound, one that makes Y/N cringe. “Sorry!” She lands on the ground, on her feet, while the man falls on his back, unconscious, hopefully. Her spider senses active, and this time she has enough time to web away another weapon pointed at her. What she doesn’t notice is a new group of men on top of a building pushing down a cell tower.

“Take that!” Y/N mumbles to herself, making up sound effects as she shoots her webs, trapping a man to the ground.

A crashing sound gets her attention. She looks up into the sky, where the cell tower is falling down right towards her. She goes to shoot out a web, but nothing comes out of her suit. She lets out an ear shattering scream when the metallic tower drops right on top of her.

Tears are brimming her eyes as she heaves, trapped under the structure. Her vision is blurred and she can taste blood. The men around her look pleased, ready to end it, until one of them flies away.

The others start looking around, shooting at the smallest movements and noises, but one by one they get either flown away or shocked unconscious.

Y/N recognizes the familiar red wisps of magic in the air, and the small widow bites flying. She lets out quiet curses as she starts pushing herself up, using all of her strength to push the structure off of her.

“Let me help you with that.” Wanda lands in front of her, easily lifting the cell tower with her magic while Natasha punches the last man standing unconscious. “Are you alright?” She helps Y/N up, letting her lean on her for support.

Y/N nods, not daring to speak. She knows her mother would recognize her voice. “You got hurt pretty bad. We could help patch you up.” Natasha states as she walks over to them after letting Tony know someone could come collect the men now.

Y/N shakes her head, her eyes wide, though the two women can’t see it. She steps away from Wanda’s hold, giving them finger guns before going to web herself away from the situation. “Shit!” She grumbles as nothing happens.

Wanda frowns. She flicks her wrist, causing the mask on Y/N’s face to fly away. “Y/N!”

Gasping, Y/N looks at her moms with wide eyes. “I can explain! It’s not what it looks like.” She holds out her hands.

“It looks like you sneaked out to fight bad guys on your own,” Natasha’s hands are crossed over her chest, “and you didn’t tell us you’re Spider-Girl.”

“Well-“ Y/N opens and closes her mouth a couple of times, “that’s.. that’s it.” She mumbles, avoiding looking at her moms. They’re angry, so very angry.

“What in the world were you thinking?” Wanda scolds, though concern clearly slips through her angry tone. She walks over to Y/N and starts looking at the wounds she has. “This could’ve ended up so much worse. Do you understand that?”

“Yes..”

“How long have you been doing this?” Natasha walks over as well, wrapping her arm around Y/N’s waist so she could lean on her.

Y/N has a sheepish smile on her face, “as long as you’ve seen Spider-Girl on the television.” They start walking towards Natasha’s car.

Letting out a quiet huff, Wanda shakes her head. “You’re so lucky I’m more worried about your health right now.” She gives Y/N a pointed look, a look that says you’re in so much trouble. “But you better believe we are going to take that suit away and ground you until you’re 30, do you hear me? You will never leave the house again.”

Natasha opens the back door for Y/N, helping her in before getting in herself, while Wanda gets into the driver’s seat. “Who gave you the suit?”

“Tony.” Y/N says quickly. She’ll happily put some of the blame on someone else than herself.

“Oh, I’m going to kill him.” Wanda states from the front of the car.

“I’ll help you.” Natasha mumbles, pulling Y/N closer as she starts to look over her wounds. “You know Wanda is right, yeah? Once you’ve healed up properly we will talk about consequences. And you can never do this again, never ever.” Her hands are on her daughter’s cheeks to hold eye contact, she wants to make sure Y/N is really hearing her.

She nods. She understands this was a close call, she has never gotten this hurt before, but Y/N doesn’t see it as a reason to completely stop. She can get better.

Natasha pulls her close, kissing the side of her head gently. “At least not before you train with us.” She whispers, giving her a small wink before going back to acting as if she never said anything.

Y/N can’t help but let a grin grow on her face. She looks down at her lap to hide it from Wanda, who keeps glancing at her from the rear view mirror.

She’ll never stop being Spider-Girl.

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queenimmadolla · 3 months

Text

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥

Summary: Tired of seeing Eddie with other women, you reflect on how much longer you can take it.

Warnings: no mentions of y/n, fem!reader, heavy on the angst, hurt with attempts to comfort, both reader and Eddie are bad at feelings, self-deprecation, Eddie is toxic and doesn’t know why, infidelity (but not technically), no happy ending.

The house is quiet as the front door creaks open, you’re quick to slip inside—chill of the October air nipping at your back. The lights are all off and your arms curl around your exposed midsection. It was colder outside but still chilly in your home, your parents out of town on a romantic anniversary road trip.

You sigh, tossing your keys on the table to run around searching for in the morning, and make your way to your room with a quick detour at the thermostat to turn on the heat. It’s a blind fumble to reach the antique lamp, once you enter your bedroom, but you refuse to use the overhead light. It would cast your room in non-aesthetic lighting, and you’re already annoyed, pissed off and depressed enough.

An irritated breath is huffed from your lips, top lip curling as you recall the very reason for your negative attitude, hands yanking your top right over your head. It’s only when you’re in your pajamas, faced with your own reflection as you prepare to remove the makeup that had been so empowering to put on but you can now feel on your face like an unpleasant mask, that you allow the hot tears of anger and hurt to fall. You almost want to laugh at yourself, mouth curling into a bitter smile as you swipe the ponds cream all over your face. As you massage it in, making sure to focus on your eyes, the smile wavers, corners tugging down as moisture still leaks from your clenched eyelids.

You don’t have to be mean to yourself, you shouldn't. Not when the guy you’re in love with already does such a good job of it.

You purse your lips, trying to hold back sobs as you recall the images of him all over a girl you didn’t know at a party he’d convinced you to go to. You couldn’t even describe her, couldn’t remember what she looked like—all you saw was your Eddie, the guy who drove you to and picked you up from work, took you on cute dates involving picnic baskets, fields, lakes, empty lots to stargaze in, nearly empty movie auditoriums so the two of you could canoodle, your tongues tasting each other as the two lovers on screen professed their undying love.

He even bought you stuffed animals, would pretend to give them life and personalities to go with it, all to amuse you. Did arts and fucking crafts with you.

But anytime you so much as brought up the status of your relationship, he’d wave it off, claiming labels were for Petri dishes, not people.

You were his girl and that’s all that mattered.

It’s what you’d repeated in your head the first time you’d seen him playing with Bianca Anderson’s fingers while the two of them were tucked away in the corner of the hideout, after one of Corroded Coffin’s sets. And again when you’d stumbled out of Rick’s house party to see him laid out on the grass, his head in the lap of a former cheerleader from high school he used to admire, her head bowed to connect their lips and his hands in her hair.

By the time he was tugging at Tina’s hair, playfully shouldering her while they stood in front of the bonfire at another gathering, you’d stopped repeating it in your head. Not even when you watched her lead him to her car.

You lost count of how many times Eddie had made other girls his, too.

And like some pathetic worm with no backbone, you let him. Okay—it’s not like you could physically stop them, though tonight your drink had ended up all over him, maybe that put a little stutter in his plans. But there wouldn’t be a too if you just fucking stopped.

Just . . .stopped.

Stopped taking his calls, stopped answering your door for him, your window, let your co-worker take over the counter the moment he stepped in, stopped looking for his car, stopped thinking about him and that stupid fucking dimple, stopped thinking about how special you felt when he had your naked body pressed against his under the warmth of blankets, his rough fingertips tracing over your sweaty shoulder. How he’d always get so tender, pull you even closer and whisper how much you meant to him while pressing slow kisses to your face. How he never wanted to lose you, wouldn’t know what to do, couldn’t live. It was the sweetest agony.

Most of all, you wish he would stop being there in the morning, all soft breaths and fluttering lashes as he tried to be as close to you as he could, even in a deep slumber. It’s how you know he means it. He means everything he tells you. There is truth to those sweet nothings, declarations, proclamations. You know it.

And that’s why it all hurt so bad, because you know he cares about you as much as he says he does and he still always fucking hurts you, always breaks your heart, but because you know he cares, you’d just let him back in like some fucking clown.

He gets to break you over and over again and you let him because he always puts the pieces back together.

You know what people say about you—everyone knows the two of you are involved and they’d see him out and about with others. Your fumbling answers about what the two of you aren’t just make it clear to them that you’re a doormat and you can’t even deny it. Just avoid their pitiful looks thrown your way.

After washing your face, you take a long hard look at yourself in the mirror; eyes rimmed red, lashes clustering together, face etched in misery. When you can’t stand the person on the other side of the mirror any longer, you flip the light switch and leave the bathroom, pick your favorite tape to listen to, set the volume low and slip into bed.

You’d teetered with the idea of smoking a little, but that would just stave off the heartbreak. Might as well feel it in the moment while you still have the sense of mind before—

Knock, knock, knock.

A humorless chuckle escapes you, muffled into your pillow as your eyes slip shut. Sometimes by the front door, just about always by the window. You think it’s another one of his little relationship doorstops; can’t be serious with you if he uses your window to sneak into your house, it’s much too intimate to walk through your front door.

Of course, he can’t let you have a moment of peace, not even when you’re down. No, he has to fix you now. That’s how the toxic cycle goes. So, dutifully, you play your part, though this time, things have changed.

You toss the blankets off and pad over to your window but you don’t open it right away. Instead, you stare at him. Take him in.

Eddie is in different attire, shirt and jeans swapped out for one of his old club shirts and some sweats. His hair isn’t as voluminous, it’s wet. He’d had to shower to rid himself of your wine cooler. There’s no trace of the Eddie you saw at the party, this one has eyes filled with sorrow and depth, almost like he’s known nothing else. You know better.

Please, he mouths through the glass. You stare a beat longer before the latch is unlocked and he’s hastily pulling it open, clambering in ungracefully.

As you watch him gain his footing, part of you wants to taunt yourself about how you’ve let this man, so below your league and wonderful, ruin your life. He’s hot, sure, but you're hotter. That’s just the truth. You denied it a lot at the beginning of your shitty cherished relationship, felt so insecure to have a man like him paying you attention when he can have everyone. But he was no man. And he still had everyone along with you. Those pitting glances weren’t just because of what you let him put you through, it was because they knew you could do better.

For some reason, the idiot who got his shoe caught on the window sill is the one your heart wants.

God, you hate him.

Rolling your eyes, you go back to your bed, climbing back into your warm blankets. Your back is to him, yet you can still feel his hesitance, see the look on his face, how his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. His stare is intense but it doesn’t unnerve you. Not this time. You feel the bed dip as he climbs in behind you.

There’s still some distance between the two of you, you can tell he’s uncertain. Then, he scuttles forward until he’s pressed to your back, arm slipping around your middle to drag you impossibly closer.

He’s surrounding you, the scent of Eddie’s all-in-one shampoo and body wash filling your nostrils, underlying smell of the joint he’d smoked to calm his nerves before coming over, and the cheap body spray he’d soaked himself in to try and hide it.

“I didn’t fuck her,” he whispers, lips at your ear. “Swear I didn’t. Couldn’t.”

You don’t say anything, just stare at the poster of Roxette pinned to your wall. His arm tightens around you and you can feel his heart hammering against your back.

“I-I couldn’t do that to you,” he continues and you huff, that bitter smile from earlier returning. Eddie goes stiff behind you, but he has nothing to worry about. You won’t kick him out, won't toss him to the curb like you should. You both know you won’t. He knows you should, knows he hurts you and he honest to god doesn’t know why. Couldn’t tell anyone to save his own life.

He just—he just fucks shit up. It’s not self-sabotage because Eddie knows he risks losing you and he doesn’t want to, doesn’t ever want to exist in a world where you don’t want him, don’t want to be with him.

But he still does it anyway. Still goes and kisses girls knowing you’re watching, does worse when you’re not.

The worst part—other than hurting you—is that he doesn’t even want them. Not really. Other than in that moment, Eddie couldn’t give a single shit about them beyond being a Good Samaritan. It’s you he wants all the time.

You’re the only constant thing he needs in his life, wants around him all the time, craves, lusts after, loves, cherishes. For the rest of his life. But Eddie hurts you, and he doesn’t know why.

That’s why he can’t be your boyfriend. Evidently, he’d be a shit one. Not that he’s doing a spectacular job being your…whatever it is he was, whatever the two of you were.

Yes, he always fucks up, but he keeps part of you safe from him by not being your boyfriend. One day, you’ll leave him.

He knows it. It scares the shit out of him and he prays to deities he doesn’t really believe in that it won’t happen, that he’ll get this shit together and make right by you, but he knows you’ll leave him. You genuinely deserve better.

“I wish I didn’t know you,” Eddie tenses once more at your voice, at your statement. It’s said with nonchalance, like you were commenting on the weather. He relaxes, heart clenching in pain as he somehow holds you even tighter.

“I know.”

“I hate that I love you. Wish I would just stop.” You shimmy around until you’re facing him, Eddie’s hold on you loosens to allow it, and when you’re settled, he pulls you close again, your nose nudging along the neckline of his shirt.

“I know.” He whispers out again, vision blurring with unshed tears. He loves you, too. Neither of you ever say it directly, just make references to it.

“I will, though. Maybe not tonight, but I won’t always love you.” It’s said with certainty. You’ll take this treatment for now, but you know you won’t forever. Despite the pathetic place you’d found yourself in tonight, again, you’re making strides. Gone was the loser who would just watch him betray you after spending the entire day making you feel like the two of you were the only ones on earth who mattered. Tonight, you’d stepped in. You were growing more self aware. Soon, you would stop answering the door. Stop answering his calls. Stop loving him.

And you’d look back and cringe, maybe laugh with your friends about how stupid and naive you’d been. You’d move on, too. Meet someone who treats you as good as Eddie does when he isn’t sucking another girl’s face. They won’t kiss or fuck anyone else, they’ll only ever know you from the moment that spark ignites. You might worry from time to time, effects from Eddie, but they’ll gently coax it out of you, build your trust up and one day you won’t worry. All you’ll know is their love.

Yeah, you’d stop loving him.

Eddie makes an indistinguishable sound, you know he’s fighting sniffles. Can hear the emotion in his voice, “I know.”

You nuzzle your face into his chest before your cheek settles there, listening to the fast paced beating coming from within it and you wonder if it’ll happen tomorrow. If you’ll wake up, see Eddie sleeping in your bed, and have your first thought be how much you want him out of it and away from you without a trace of fondness for him. You’ll just wake up and not love him anymore.

You slip a leg between his to tangle your limbs, breathing in his scent as deeply as you can when your eyelids flutter shut.

And while you spend your last moments of consciousness hoping tonight’s the last night you’ll let him hold you, Eddie spends the rest of it wide awake, and hoping. Hoping if he doesn’t fall asleep, he won’t wake up to you telling him you don’t love him. Hoping he’ll miraculously become a better person for you overnight. Hoping he won’t lose you.

Hoping you’ll always be his girl.

divider ℗ cafekitsune ♡

#Eddie munson #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic #Eddie munson x black!reader #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson x you #Eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfiction

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lolaandthens0me · 4 months

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What does it mean to be a diaper slut?

Hello there Anon and thank you for this question. Reclaiming the word and label of slut is a passion of mine, so I’m excited to talk more about this!

For me, the term slut means an empowered person who uses their sexuality and eagerness to play in promiscuity with ethical boundaries and impassioned joy to share love and create more joy around them. I choose to share my body with those who care for it and who view it with respect and lust for exactly who I am…a slut. I ask you to look at my body, to see my diaper, and invite you to get aroused. I think sharing my body in this way helps others to find joy and self love within, which in turn does the same for me.

I believe that my vocation on this Earth is to share my love and to share my body. In doing so I help others to heal, I help others to feel loved, I help others to accept themselves and their kinks, I help others to cum and feel good in their bodies, I help others to love themselves. This is a beautiful gift. When I say that I am a slut, this is the term I use and identify with in order to live and share myself in this way.

I freely give people permission to call me a slut. That does not mean I give permission to disrespect me or otherwise interact with me in a manner beyond our current relationship. And this also does not give people permission to call anyone else a slut, unless they communicate that desire and give permission to do so.

I prefer the term diaper slut when talking within an abdl context. I don’t really identify as adult baby nor as a diaper lover. Rather, I’m a diaper slut. I like to wear and use my diapers as an act of submission and for the enjoyment of peeing myself and feeling wet. I feel sexy and turned on in diapers, and so they mostly hold a sexual space for me. Although I wear 24/7, that doesn’t mean I’m aroused all of the time, but there is a low-level current of sexual energy underlying my days. Because I’m 24/7 as part of my 24/7 submission, I have a button to press which excites me and may arouse me at anytime. I’m always reminded of my place while wearing diapers, which allows me to connect to my body and to my Daddy/Dom all day long.

I am a slut. I am a diaper slut. And I am proud and happy to be so. Slut: this empowering term has helped to guide my path to living a most authentic life.✨

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nayatarot777 · 5 months

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how does your family view you? • pick-a-card

*please remember that this is your family’s perception of you. it might not be how you perceive yourself.

• pile one •

overall, i see a very positive and empowering perception that your family has of you.

first of all, they know that you’re intuitive af. clairvoyant specifically. you can see through situations and people clearly. aspects of things that they themselves perhaps miss. they feel like you can’t be lied to or tricked, so for a lot of you, your family doesn’t worry about you being naive within your friendships, relationships, and life in general. you’re not easily fooled.

there’s something about your anger too. they might see you rebuild yourself after experiencing destruction in your life - especially if someone has betrayed you or fucked you over. it seems as though you use that anger to rebirth yourself into a more “upgraded” version of yourself. you learn lessons quickly and seem to not make the same mistakes again. and thanks to your increase in awareness after these tower moments, these newfound experiences are added to your internal library of knowledge for your intuition to pick up on if similar people or situations are presented to you yet again.

you know your own power, so your family sees you as the person who dares to possess dreams and aspirations for yourself that not many others in your family would have the courage to put trust into achieving. and they know that your rebirths are motivated by what you see for yourself and your life in the future. they feel like you have a very good self esteem - or at least a high level of trust in yourself and your abilities. they feel as though you have a figurative crown on your head. if your parents are very successful people (whether that’s due to their career, building their lives from little to nothing - especially if they’re immigrants and worked hard to build the life that they have) then they believe that you’re someone who will continue on their legacy of success in your own way. i’m hearing that they don’t worry about where you’re gonna end up in life because the trust in yourself puts trust in them that you’ll build a legacy of your own.

they also see you as very head-strong. someone who controls and leads your life in whatever way you want to. you don’t seem to take no for an answer, nor pause your journey in the face of obstacles. there’s a lot of drive that you have when it comes to determining what your world looks like according to your vision. there’s something untameable about you. almost like you don’t listen to anyone. you trust that you know what’s best for you so you’re the ruler of your own kingdom with your clear vision.

despite all of your seemingly extravagant or unconventional dreams, your family believes that you’re extremely grounded in reality. you have a great balance of living within your internal world as well as the physical world. in stressful moments of life, you can balance out your emotions and view things practically. you have a good head on your shoulders and you listen to what comes from your heart space. what you actually feel in all of its authenticity and honesty.

your family also believes that you’re extremely body confident. whether this is because you take care of your body through exercise and eating well, or because you dress however the fuck you want to. the way that you dress could be a style that shows off your body for a lot of you. your family sees your self love and your self worth through this.

significant numbers: 12, 13, 28, 24, 15, 21

astrological placements/aspects: pisces/neptune, scorpio/pluto, aries/mars, taurus/venus

for more readings, check out my patreon!

• pile two •

your family views you as someone who has already undergone or who is undergoing some type of powerful personal growth within yourself. this could be related to listening to yourself and your own intuition. your family may feel like you feel as though you can’t trust them, despite trying to for so long. but for some of you, they can tell that you’ve finally decided to listen to yourself and see them for who they truly are. they can see sadness in your eyes or in your face whenever they look at you. there’s a feeling of betrayal here - from them towards you - that they recognise.

they view you as someone who feels detached from them. they could try to show you love but they can tell that you feel uncomfortable whenever they do. they’d describe the familial “love” between you and them as strange or unfamiliar to you. this “love” could’ve come after they realised that you were growing more distant from them as a last attempt at keeping you close to them. but again, they know that you know the truth about them and so the feeling of awkwardness during these attempts at trying to show affection towards you is mutually felt. they feel like you don’t want their love. like you’d rather just be left alone by them. these family members may be very energetically draining and this is how you protect your energy from them. and there’s also a feeling of this love being forced. not genuine. it’s fake or forced out of them for a lot of you and you can see that.

they might also be aware of some body image issues that you have. or this might just be their perception of you - especially if you have any body modifications like tattoos and piercings that they don’t approve of. they view this as “mutilation” of your body. i’m also seeing them view you as someone who’s very protective over your body with the clothing that you wear. based on the way that you completely cover up or your oversized clothing. so if you do have any body image issues, they might’ve picked up on them based on that observation. at least you dress like this around them. you might be uncomfortable wearing certain things around your family because they always have some comments to make about your body. but i am sensing some shame about your body for some of you. i’m seeing that for a lot of you, your family feels like you don’t treat your body like a temple. if these are the same people who’d make negative, nitpicking comments about your body then idk wtf they expect. that might’ve been their goal tbh (for those of you with malignant ass, jealous ass family members who want you to feel like shit about the way that you look).

for others of you, it’s the opposite and your family feels like you dress “too revealingly” in public or maybe online in your social media posts. for a minority of you, your family knows about your online sex work (or this is an assumption that they’ve made about you). but for some of you, there’s something about your family feeling like you’re too naked in the public eye. this could also be metaphorical, meaning that your family may feel like you’re well-known by people but i don’t get a good energy from this (from their perspective anyway). they may feel like you’re known for something that’s not a positive thing to be known for. or like you’re just vulnerable in the public eye.

they view you as someone who takes the time to take steps forward in your life. and they may feel like you’re waiting on divine timing to make moves in your life. but some of your family members view this as you just being lost and “behind” in life in some way. like your head is just up in the clouds and like you don’t really know where you’re headed in life. they don’t understand moving forward when you feel like you should be moving.

they know that you have a lot of childhood trauma to unpack. and they feel like your heart is blocked or locked because of it. for some of you, your family would like to figure out how to unlock it but i feel like they feel as though there’s not much that they can do. you may have been a very angry child, and i feel like you’re not necessarily an angry person now but your family can tell that you’re suppressing a lot. and that in order to unlock your heart (your feelings), you’re going to have to let out a lot of anger and resentment first.

significant numbers: 41, 27, 2, 18, 24, 35

astrological placements/aspects: chiron, venus in scorpio/8th house, venus conjunct chiron (particularly in the 4th house/conjunct the ic), taurus, lilith in taurus/2nd house, aquarius/uranus, lilith in 11th house/aquarius, pisces/neptune, mercury in pisces, chiron in 4th house, chiron in 5th house, aries/mars in 5th house, sun in aries, pluto in 1st house, scorpio rising, chiron in aries, chiron aspect mars (mainly conjunct)

for more readings, check out my patreon!

• pile three •

your family view you as someone who prefers to be alone. even if you know that there are people around you who love and care for you, you still prefer to be by yourself. and some of them can tell that it’s because you only feel comfortable enough to be vulnerable with yourself.

they also might view you as quite messy too, whether this is your bedroom or your home in general. but there’s a lack of energy that they witness you having that’s the root cause of this.

despite all of this, they view you as someone who’s very accepting of your solitude that you use for the sake of finding peace. you could be very meditative or very peaceful by yourself within your own energy. and they feel as though, whenever they bother you in your alone time, you become very defensive and repel them. some of you may struggle with depression, but it’s not depression that you want help with. not from them at least.

this energy is vastly different to how they viewed you before. maybe compared to when you were a child. because there was some type of sudden shift in your energy towards them that resulted in you being very isolated and repellent towards them.

they either feel like they don’t know you after this shift or they feel like you don’t really know yourself. someone in your family in particular feels like you’re forgetting who you are who where you came from. maybe even who you came from. they feel like you wear a mask around them. as if there’s always a detachment between you and them. kind of similar to pile two.

i’m getting a lot of “black sheep” energy from you guys. like your family just doesn’t understand you but they know that you’re not really interested in being involved with family gatherings or interactions. if you believe that they do know that you know who you are very well, they view you as someone who hides who you truly are from them. and if you’ve always been singled out or you’ve just always felt different to everyone around you then it makes sense.

they view you as someone who’s at peace with yourself though. just not at peace when being around them. this could make them deeply sad and upset as there’s an energy of them not being able to quite pinpoint why this is the way it is. unlike in pile two. pile two’s family we’re outwardly toxic. but for you guys, i feel like your family just don’t understand you. maybe they never really tried to make an effort to. but whatever the culprit of the reasons behind your familial connections, there are a lot of unknown things that your family feels like they don’t know or understand about you.

significant numbers: 17, 9, 17, 6, 22, 10 - look up the angel number 1717 for an extra message

astrological placements/aspects: pisces, leo, pluto in 5th house, (heavy) scorpio, lilith in 4th house, pluto in 4th house, strong sun-pluto aspects, connection between cancer + scorpio/pluto placements

for more readings, check out my patreon!

#pick a card #psychic readings #pac #tarot reading #pick a photo #tarot #pac reading #pick a picture

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nikibogwater · 2 years

Text

I cannot stress enough how much I love love love the way Loid and Yor’s relationship is written. By removing actual romantic attraction from the equation, the story ironically gives one of the most accurate and honest depictions of what it takes to be a married couple. Way too many people assume romantic relationships are primarily centered around...well, romance. So they commit to a long-term relationship on the basis of emotions--fleeting things that you can’t control. And then one day, the honeymoon phase high wears off and maybe you don’t feel like making out today, maybe the other is in a bad mood and not fun to talk to right now. Maybe things just aren’t as sexy as they used to be and you’re starting to get bored.

That’s where the importance of an actual foundation comes in. From what I’ve observed of my own parents and grandparents, love is maybe 10% emotion and 90% willpower. Love is working as a team, embracing each other’s strengths and weaknesses, always seeking the other’s happiness and wellbeing. It’s acknowledging your faults and working to be better for them. Linking arms and digging in your heels whenever times get tough because you two are in this together to the very end, and it doesn’t matter if things are less sexy or exciting than they were at the start, because you’re bound by something deeper and far more mysterious than that.

SPY x FAMILY starts building Loid and Yor’s relationship not from a place of romance, but from a place of mutual teamwork. The most compelling developments in their relationship are things like Loid taking Yor’s advice on raising Anya, Yor wanting to contribute to the family in practical ways, the two of them valuing and being genuinely grateful for the other’s strengths. They work as a couple long before they’re actually....y’know, a couple because they are building a strong and stable foundation for a real relationship. Romance will be the reward, but it’s not the end goal. Their real goal is to support and empower each other and their daughter. And that more than anything is what’s going to make their romance feel so good to watch.

#niki rambles #spy x family #loid forger #yor forger

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comradekatara · 2 months

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Started watching lok and they spent so much time making mako fumble beautiful women they forgot to make non-benders oppressed

LMFAO yeah book 1 is such a mess. I think they were trying to illustrate that amon is a charlatan who used the plight of the people to disguise his rise to power through framing it as a genuine social movement for equality, but it doesn’t actually make any sense because “non-benders” and “benders” broadly speaking do not constitute coherent classes. the class dynamics in republic city operate along axes of neocolonialism and neoliberalism, so it’s not a matter of non-benders or benders having more power, it’s a matter of 1) who stands to benefit from living in a fire nation neocolony on earth kingdom land (descendants of original fire nation settlers) 2) who controls the means of production (hiroshi ford, primarily!). the sato family are not benders, but they are shown to be far more powerful than mako and bolin, who are literally professional benders, because they are industrialists who control most of the technology in/of the city. in fact, we constantly see mako and bolin’s bending-labor being exploited, whether in dangerous athletic arenas, doing dangerous work for gangs, dangerous factory work, etc. just due to the concrete examples we are shown, if anything, non-benders largely live in wealth, while benders largely live in poverty.

but this evidence, too, is anecdotal, and i don’t believe it, because again, “non-bender” is not a coherent class marker/identity. king kuei is the monarch of the world’s largest nation who has spent his entire life so sheltered that he wasn’t even aware that the world had been devastated by a century of fire nation imperialism. sokka is a colonized subject who spent his entire childhood internalizing the notion that it was his duty to die as a martyr to save his sister who has been valorized due to her unique position as the last waterbender of the southern tribe (which, if you couldn’t tell, is the result of a targeted genocide, not some inherently distinguished qualia that designates benders as ontologically superior). the fact that neither of these characters are benders does not align them socially or politically.

moreover, the reason that katara’s waterbending was valorized within her tribe was due to the scarcity of waterbenders as a result of their systemic elimination. waterbending represents a unique cultural artform to their people (it’s actually one of the first things the show establishes) and only katara possesses the unique capability to continue that legacy. due to the fire nation imperialist project, katara being a waterbender puts a target on her back; yes, it empowers her personally and culturally, but materially it constitutes another facet of her oppression — much like haru as an earthbender in occupied territory, and much like aang as the last airbender. meanwhile, firebenders are materially empowered due to their imperialist dogma that establishes firepower as the inherently superior form of bending / technology of conquest. as atla establishes, bending is political due to its spiritual and cultural value, but is politicized primarily with regards to colonial power dynamics, and thus not all benders constitute a coherent class, certainly not as they would either function to oppress or be oppressed by non-benders.

i’ve seen a lot of people claim that amon represents communism, or more specifically, maoism, which is bogus for many reasons, but most principally is the fact that he quite literally never addresses the issues that are actually oppressing certain people of republic city: namely, capitalism. “oh but he knows he’s bullshitting, he’s just telling people what they want to hear because he’s a populist dictator who just wants to seize power over republic city!” okay, so in the most generous reading of amon, he’s trump (I know lok is an obama era text, but just go with me here): he’s a member of an “oppressive” class disguising himself as a man of the people to appeal to a broad demographic by scapegoating an arbitrary group of people through tactics of fearmongering (“benders will kill you and your family…for reasons”) because he’s simply a power-hungry conman. he knows that neither non-benders nor benders are materially oppressed, and is simply exploiting the intuitive logic that it must suck to be a non-bender in a world full of people with literal superpowers for his own benefit.

and he’s doing all this …. because he had an abusive father??? or something???? nothing about his motivations or ideology is coherent. when jet manipulates katara and aang into helping them fill the reservoir, it’s with the explicit intention to flood an occupied village as a mode of anticolonial resistance. when long feng manipulates kuei into being his malleable puppet, it’s with the express purpose of controlling the entire earth kingdom from the shadows. amon wants power…because? maybe i’m just remembering key details from his tragic backstory (granted, it’s been a while since i’ve rewatched lok), but i can’t remember amon ever expressing a coherent ideology or motivation besides maybe spite? and either way, his role as a populist dictator villain who employs the signifiers of the chinese cultural revolution is pretty obviously in poor taste when the blatantly pressing issues of capitalist and neocolonial exploitation are never actually addressed and critiqued beyond the bogeyman anarchist terrorists and the fascist ethnonationalist pointing out that the status quo is bad, maybe? to which they must all ultimately be made to surrender to the effusive, all-powerful glory of impotent liberalism. whatever. at least we have korrasami.

#bakedbeanchan #asks #lok crit #amon #analysis #but at least……. we have korrasami……. and korra alone……… and uhh…..ming hua’s wet ass pussy

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blindmagdalena · 11 months

Text

Complete Me

Summary: 18+ 2.5k homelander x reader, sub homelander, bottom homelander, mommy kink, pegging, large toy, lite belly bulge, restraints, praise kink, comeplay, schmoopy aftercare.

It's not always easy keeping the most powerful man in the world satisfied, but as far as he's concerned, you were made for the job. art by @krazyyy & used with permission!

There is a void in Homelander that he is unsure he will ever be able to fill.

But fuck if you don’t try your damnedest.

If he’s being honest, he never thought that sex with a human could compare to sex with another supe, but you’ve found tricks that curl his toes better than the clench of any Compound V charged hole could. You put his wrists in cuffs that he could snap with a thought, and whisper Don’t break those, baby. Or mommy won’t fuck you tonight.

He huffs and twists against them, but never breaks them. He listens to you. He’s obedient. He’s your good, good boy, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. The electric thrill of being bound by nothing but your will empowering these flimsy cuffs has him panting. He wants more from you, as he always does, and like the wicked, wonderful enabler you are, you give it to him.

When he first sees the toy you intend to use tonight, long, thick and barely contained by the harness you wear, he thinks you’re joking. “Christ, are you going to fuck me, or bludgeon me to death?” He asks, adjusting against his headboard. It doesn’t stop his cock from throbbing, steadily drooling precome onto his belly while his stomach churns in anticipation. “Don’t be a brat,” you reply, eyes glinting. He watches you spread a generous amount of lube along the girthy chunk of phallus-shaped silicone, his own neglected cock aching at the sight of it. “You said you wanted something big.” “Didn’t expect you to take it so literally,” he says wryly, mouth feeling dry as the bed dips with your weight. “Expected something, y’know, grand. Impressive. Bombastic.”

“My, my. Look at you and all your synonyms,” you purr, smiling. He jerks slightly when you put your hands on his ankles, drawing them slowly up his legs, spreading them out. He’s malleable under your hands, always is, legs falling open in a wanton splay.

“I’m a walking thesaurus,” he gives back sardonically, but his breath hitches with the way you squeeze his inner thighs before adjusting his legs on either side of you.

“I don’t think you’ll be walking anywhere after this,” you say, voice and expression both downright devilish.

He laughs breathlessly. He knows you won’t be able to hurt him, but the notion still sends a thrill trilling up and down his spine like a xylophone. He sucks a breath in through his teeth at the first warm, wet press of your fingers to his rim, circling it in slow, firm glides. Homelander nods. “Yeah, yeah, yes. M’ready.”

“Yes, what?” You push. He smiles. He loves that you push him like this, push him to say the things he wants to, but holds back from out of shame or embarrassment or both. He loves that you don’t let him hide from or deny himself the things that he wants. He loves you.

“Yes, mommy,” he exhales, despite his tongue feeling leaden in his mouth.

The smile you return is worth it. “Good. Take a deep breath, and lie down.”

He complies, sliding down the headboard until his arms are stretched above his head. You adjust yourself between his legs, gripping his ass in your palms to spread it wide, and as he breathes out, the obscenely large head of the toy presses against his slick rim.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he grouses, eyes widening.

“Breathe,” you encourage him, patiently massaging his rump. “Humans can stretch seven inches before anything tears. You’ll be fine. Trust me.” He scoffs, but he does trust you. He knows you won’t break him, wouldn’t if you could. He relaxes his head against the headboard and closes his eyes. It’s not that it hurts, but the pressure that builds as you spread his rim open around the fat head of the toy is intense and alien, more so than anything he’s used to. He twists the chains of the handcuffs, which groan precariously. You reach out to touch his wrist, hushing him. “Breathe, darling,” you remind him again, gentle and soothing. He screws his eyes shut, focusing on the feel of your fingers on his wrist, your other hand under his thigh, and breathes in deeply. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he keens, endlessly shifting and adjusting himself, though never pulling away from the girth of the toy slowly splitting him open.He shakes his head, faith wavering. “What the fuck, that’s not–it’s not going to fit,” he pants, trying to spread his legs further, but no matter how he angles himself, there’s no escaping the slow, aching pressure of the oversized silicone cock sliding into him.

“Shhhh,” you hush, holding the base of the cock in one hand while you use the other to stroke his thigh. “It’ll fit. You’re just poorly prepared,” you say. He can hear the smile in your voice. His cock gives a dripping throb at the pleasure in your voice, knowing that he’s impressing you, even as he complains.

“And whose fault is that?” He asks breathlessly, arching his back.

“Yours,” you answer, giving his ass a sharp little smack. He had asked for this, after all. He didn’t want you to wet or stretch him out too thoroughly. He wanted to feel it.

And feel it he does.

“Halfway there,” you murmur, close enough to kiss him now. He leans into it eagerly, savoring the gentle, plush press of your lips, gripping the chains of his cuffs, wishing he could touch you, even as he relishes this hold you have over him. He keens against your lips, opens up easily for the wet slide of your tongue only to suck at it, greedy for more, more, more. Your hips are almost flush with his. You’re so close, and he’s so full. The sheer size of it inside him doesn’t leave space for anything else, no thoughts or feelings about anything other than what’s happening, other than your touch and your warmth. He’s panting now, giving sharp little bucks of his hips, though you remain stubbornly still. “It’s too big,” he moans, overwhelmed by this inescapable, full feeling. You soothe him with gentle sweeps of your hands up his thighs, his hips, his sides.

“You’re doing perfectly,” you tell him. He can hear your excitement, smell it in the air. He cracks his eyes open to gaze up at you, and flourishes under the open adoration he finds in your stare. The praise warms him. He adjusts himself again, but there’s no way to make this feel anything less than. He cannot minimize it, cannot escape it. His cock throbs, the leaking head bouncing against his stomach of its own accord. You give one last push, and he moans with your body finally slotting snugly against his, buried as deep as you’ll go. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Homelander nods fervently, swallowing back the lump in his throat. “Good, good, s’good, mmm…”

He leans into it when you touch his cheek, nuzzles your palm before pressing a wet kiss into it. You have a way of touching him that renders him senseless, used, but treasured. He knows that even when you’re done with him, when you have finished playing and this intensity is gone, he will not be left empty or alone.

You’ll be there. “I’m going to fuck you now, baby,” you whisper. His breath hitches with excitement, the chains above his head clanking lightly against one another. He nods, bites down slowly on his tongue to hold back the little noise that threatens to slip from him when you pull almost halfway out, only to drive firmly back in. You don’t have to move very fast, the sheer size of the toy does most of the work for you, unraveling him with every movement. “Oh f-fuck, ffffuck, nnngh,” he groans, pulling on his bindings. The steel loop they’re hooked to groans precariously. His eyes snap open when you wrap your hands around his throat, slowly leaning your weight down on him. “Look at me,” you tell him, your own eyes clouded with arousal, pupils blown wide. His eyes flicker constantly to the wet part of your lips, aching to kiss them. You squeeze. You may not be strong enough to crush his windpipe, but it’s more than enough to restrict his airflow, to make him keenly aware of every breath he takes. You brace yourself that way, make him feel it as you settle into a steady rhythm, rocking in and out of him, the size of the toy making every push and pull twice as intense.

“There, that’s it. You’re taking me so well. Knew you would, baby. Always so good for me. You’re gonna make a mess for me, aren’t you? Come so hard, I bet you’ll mess up that pretty face,” you coo, the words going straight to his cock. The toy is too big, too unwieldy for you to fuck him fast, but the intensity of being carved in and out of by something so large is just as good.

“Y-yes,” he chokes out. “Yeah, yes, fuck, I’m fffucking–” He can’t think long enough to string a coherent sentence together. He chokes on his own breath when you move a hand from his throat to his belly, pushing down on it as you slide all the way back into him. “Look,” you tell him. He obeys, tipping his head down to see where your hand is, bleary-eyed and feeling as though he’s slipping outside of his own body. Where your hand is, he can see his own skin slightly distended around the sheer girth of the toy. Seeing this extension of you inside him, is dizzying, but the way you press your hand down on it nearly makes him come right then and there, a shiver running through his whole body.

He almost throws his head back, but you stop him, catching him by his hair. “No, no. Keep watching. Keep watching,” you tell him, your own voice thin, growing desperate. Your grip in his hair tightens and he moans for you. “Just like that. Good boy. Good boy.”

Keeping one hand in his hair, you move the other from his belly to his cock, taking it in a firm hold that sets his teeth on edge, biting back a high keening noise. His eyes snap wide open when you start to mercilessly pump it, no preamble or extra lube, just sudden and intense friction and pressure. He chokes on his own fumbling words, no longer holding himself back, openly gasping and making startled, desperate little noises. You look fucking thrilled. You give his hair another sharp tug, keeping it down, keeping his gaze on your hand stripping over his dick, and the barely visible swell of your cock grinding back and forth deep, deep inside him. “That’s it, baby,” you say breathlessly, sweat prickling on your skin, voice thin with exertion. “Show me how you come. Show me how you come on mommy’s cock.” Beyond the capacity for words, all he can do is let go a ragged sound halfway between a sob and a moan, screwing his eyes shut tight as the catastrophic crash of his orgasm overtakes him, his body locking up tight while his cock unloads a ribboning torrent of come so intense, it paints across his whole face, wetting his lips, his cheek, hanging heavily on his eyelashes, spraying all the way up to his hair. You thoroughly milk him of the experience, squeezing out every last drop with gradually slowing strokes, emptying him of the very last drop that spills out onto his stomach. Homelander feels fully outside of himself, transcendent from his physical form, free floating on an upward current of pure sensation. Not even the weight of the toy inside him can keep him tethered to reality, his eyes rolling back into his skull as he sinks down onto the bed, his arms dangling loosely from his bindings. Gradually, however, reality does slip back in. It’s a slow trickle of grounded touches: your fingers tapping on his thighs, his sides, his chest. You drag your nails carefully along his skin, eliciting goosebumps. You lure him back to his body not with demands, but with soothing, purposeful touches. With love.

The toy slides out slowly, and he lets go a tired breath with it. The warmth of you is gone, but only briefly. You’re quick to slide right back between his legs, minus the toy. One at a time, you free his hands, holding each one and lowering it to the bed. Every single moment of putting him back together is full of the same practice and care that you took him apart with.

You trail kisses up his body, the occasional hot slip of your tongue like a static shock. You lap at every drop of the mess he’s made of himself. Your lips feel like worship, your hands like reverence. He doesn’t feel used like something dirty or disposable, he feels like something that has been used and cherished.

His eyes flutter open as you cup his face. His lips spread in a lazy smile while you kiss him, cleaning away the salty mess of his come from his lips, his cheek. He rumbles contentedly when you bring your lips back to his and he can taste himself on them, his own movements languid and weak. He doesn’t bother trying to lift his hands. He’s too busy enjoying the way you tend to him, taking it upon yourself to set his limbs into comfortable positions before you lay down atop him, fingers in his hair, lips on his throat where you had previously been squeezing.

“How do you feel?” You ask eventually. “I’m fucking great,” is what he thinks he says, but to you, it comes out more like, “M’f’k’n’gr’t…”

You laugh softly, your love and affection so palpable in the sound, he wants to bury himself in it. “You were wonderful,” you say, your words settling over him more warmly than any blanket, warmer than the sun itself. He could bask beneath them forever. “So, so very good for me. You always are,” you say, punctuating your words with delicate butterfly kisses. “I love making you feel good. I love you.”

The first time you cared for him this way, he had fallen to pieces in your hands. Even now, there is the threat of it in how his eyes burn, prickling with tears, but he does not fall apart this time. Instead, he relaxes into your every touch, and lets himself feel freedom in this sense of deconstruction, knowing without a doubt that you will not leave him to pick up the shards alone.

“Love y’too,” he gives back slightly more coherently. “Why’d’ey m’ke ‘em th’big?”

“They make them bigger,” you answer, effortlessly understanding his slurred question.

The look he gives you makes you laugh again, a sharper bark of amusement. “Relax,” you tell him, stroking his hair. “I think we’re good. For now.”

“Fiend,” he accuses you affectionately, putting in the herculean effort to lift a hand to your cheek, stroking it with his thumb before he kisses you, melting into the warm, sweet aftermath of the session. He likes that you always tease him with more. It’s a clever way of assuring him that there will always be more to look forward to.

#homelander x reader #homelander x you #my writing #sublander #smut #homelander fanfiction #I DID IT the pegging fic has arrived #i have been struggling to write lately so it feels VERY good to finish something lol #enjoy!!!!

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hiding-in-my-blanket-fort · 7 months

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A few headcanons for Captain John Price x anxious Reader (gender neutral) for self-indulgent reasons (sfw):

You tried so hard for so long to keep your anxiety hidden from John but he’s a smart man, he figured out something was wrong well before you ever let on.

If he sees your hands getting shaky, he’ll curve his warm, strong palm over the back of your neck to ground you.

“Just breathe, love. Take a deep breath for me, yeah? That’s it.”

In crowded places, he’ll hold your hand, or keep his hand anchored at the small of your back as reassurance that he’s there for you.

Will take your hand and tuck it into the crook of his elbow, too.

When you try to sneak away to ward off an impending panic attack that you can feel barreling down on you at 100mph, John had already clocked that something was off. You were fidgety, wide-eyed, and short of breath, so he kept an eye on you, even if he’d been distracted and his attention pulled elsewhere.

So when you disappeared, he goes looking for you.

Finds you huddled in the bathroom or a closet, hugging your knees to your chest, wheezing and hiccuping.

“Hey, hey, sweetheart, what’s all this? No, don’t hide your face from me.”

He takes your hand as he sits beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, tucking you into the solid warmth of his side.

“Squeeze my hand. Good girl/boy. Breathe with me. You’re all right. Everything is going to be fine, love. It’s okay.”

When you won’t stop apologizing, he doesn’t snap at you to stop it. He doesn’t lose his patience for repeatedly reminding you that it’s not your fault and you have nothing to apologize for.

At first, he’ll brush a kiss to your temple, his breath warm, his beard scratchy.

“We’ll work through it together, yeah?”

And if you continue to babble apologies, he’ll grasp your chin with a firm but gentle hand and he’ll tilt your head to look him in the eye.

“Enough of that now, love,” he says, his voice soft but his tone indicating it wasn’t up for debate. “You’re not a burden. You’re not broken. And this doesn’t change a damn thing about the way I feel toward you.”

When you start spiraling down a what if rabbit hole, catastrophizing, John will use that same soft, commanding tone to bring you back to the present. He won’t coddle you but he won’t berate you either. He knows the best way for you to manage your anxiety is confronting and changing your thought patterns on your own so you feel empowered to do it again the next time it happens.

But he will ALWAYS make sure that you don’t feel abandoned, that you know you have his support.

When he physically can’t be there, especially when he’s wrapped up in a mission, he leaves you a letter or a notebook “for emergencies” so that you still have his words with you even if he can’t be present with you right now.

When your thoughts are keeping you awake and your brain won’t calm down, John will roll over, drape the weight of his arm around your middle, and mumble tired words into your neck with a voice rough from sleep.

“Don’t think about that, love. Think about the first time I kissed you. Do you remember how tongue-tied you were? You were so bloody shy, it was adorable.”

When you tell him about something you were struggling with - like fighting off anxiety at work, or going into a new place by yourself even though you were scared to death - this man’s face gets SO SOFT FOR YOU. A warm smile spreads across his face and he envelopes you in a hug, kissing the top of your head as he whispers that he’s so fucking proud of you, love.

If you take medication for your anxiety, he’ll make sure you have a little dish for your pills at every meal so you don’t take them on an empty stomach and you start your day off right.

If you don’t take medication but you use other methods to cope, i.e. yoga, meditation, etc., he’ll make sure your space is comfortable, safe, and clean. Asks if you have yoga/meditation on your schedule today.

If you have a particularly bad day and all your progress feels like you’ve taken ten giant steps back, John won’t bat an eye. And he won’t pressure you to “get over it”.

He’ll order your food for you as soon as you give the signal.

He’ll cover for you seamlessly at parties when you need to excuse yourself early.

He’ll make that call you’ve been dreading for ages.

But John also recognizes when you need to face those things on your own, too. He can tell when you’re just not up for it because you’re exhausted and your headspace is Not Great.

He also knows you well enough to recognize when you could tackle the issue but you’re simply trying to avoid it. That’s when he’ll push you, because he fully believes in you, even if you don’t believe in yourself.

If you’re the type to get anxious about the news, or triggering topics in movies/tv shows/etc, he’ll gladly shift the conversation away from the news and onto more pleasant topics. And he’ll vet movies and tv shows beforehand, warning you exactly where triggers might be and offering alternatives if you’d prefer something else instead.

Sometimes, you get into a really bad headspace. You question why John tolerates all the work you put him through in this relationship. You question why a man like him in a high stress, violent, dangerous job would ever want to be around someone like you who struggles to make a phone call without freaking out.

John will turn his FULL attention on you in moments like that. Everything comes to a stop.

He takes your arms and loops them around his waist so you hold onto him like an anchor.

Then he cups your face in his hands as he looks at you.

And he reminds you that you are not your anxiety. It’s a symptom, a physical response, like a hiccup. He loves the person that you are, your kind heart and your laugh and your sense of humor.

He will gladly do the work required to keep you in his life because he thinks you’re worth it. It’s not your fault that you feel this way, and he sees how hard you try to manage it.

He doesn’t regret a moment of your relationship, even when your anxiety wakes him up, or when he has to repeat himself a dozen times because no, honey, I swear, I’m not mad at you.

John sees glimpses of confidence in you when you feel empowered and supported. He sees you grow stronger through his patience with you. That’s why he believes you’re worth the “hassle” as you call it. You’re not a hassle to him.

He compares it to managing his team - when any of them doubt themselves, it’s because they don’t feel supported, it’s because they feel like their team members don’t believe in them. His team thrives on hard won trust, mutual respect, and the psychological safety that comes with knowing someone has their back when things get ugly.

That’s what he wants to be for you.

“What if you get tired of me?” you whisper.

He shakes his head. “You know I’m too stubborn for that, love. I don’t give up easy.”

No matter what private war zone you have going on in your head, John is a fighter and he’ll always forge through the chaos to fight alongside you.

Masterlist

#cod #captain john price x reader #captain john price imagines #cod imagines #fics #recs #writing tag #john price x reader #john price #captain john price #john price imagines

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where-dreams-dwell · 3 months

Text

*One Day Netflix Spoilers*

You can interpret it however works for you, and I don’t know how it played out in the book, but I loved the scene where Em and Dex got together.

Because Emma *chose* Dexter. When she didn’t have to, when she had other options, knowing all of his baggage, and knowing that they would probably be able to stay friends if she didn’t. And she still chose to start something romantic with him.

Emma was at the highest point of her success: a published author, signed for a second book, sent to live abroad in an exciting new city. And she’d started seeing someone who (from the little we see) is kind, charming, and cares for her. Emma is winning in every sense!

And she initially rejects Dexter. Her reasons make sense; she doesn’t feel he truly *wants* to be with her, just that she’s there and he’s lonely. She is sure of herself and her place in the world, and turns down the man she used to crush on because she wants it to be real. When given this opportunity were not shown a knee jerk, desperate, ‘oh my god, finally, yes!’ moment when he says he wants to be with her. She was NOT waiting on this, and she’s not PINING for him. It actually shows huge strength that when the man she used to like finally wants to be with her, she has the inner strength to say no and stick to what she deserves; a proper relationship with someone who truly wants her, not a placeholder.

Dexter lays his heart on the line, leaves himself competent venerable, and Em says no.

You could interpret Em coming back as unsatisfactory: a woman in her prime, going back to the man she’s been pining over most of her adult life. But it can also be seen as an empowering moment.

Emma knows all of Dexters issues and chooses him anyway. Dexter has literally just laid out his current headspace and issues, and it’s clear she was supporting him as the divorce was announced and agreed upon. And previous episodes show they’ve been close throughout Dexters marriage and fatherhood, with Em stopping in at his job and answering his late night calls. She’s been his best friend again for several years and knows his struggles, so she is going in to any romantic relationship with her eyes open.

Reducing Emma’s choice to being a silly or naive one I think misses huge parts of who she is, things which are key to her characterisation. Throughout the series she’s shown as intelligent, savvy, switched on and determined. Even when she’s unhappy or trying different things, she is sure in her conviction to do *something*. When she’s unhappy at the restaurant and Dex suggests teaching she makes a career change and trains. When she’s at her lowest (post headteacher affair and loosing Dex) she turns rock bottom into a spring board and tries once again to write her novel.

Emma is the embodiment of conviction. Whether it’s knowing what she wants or just knowing what she doesn’t, she is decisive and commits to her path. She’s the perfect foil for Dex who’s lesson across the series is to stop running from difficult feelings, and learn to process unpleasant emotions.

So she didn’t choose Dexter on a whim, and I love that they showed that. Em leaves Dex, turns him down, and goes to dinner with her lover in the city she’s loving living in, while doing the job she always wanted.

And she could have left it like that and they would have likely remaking friends. They did after that kiss at Tilly’s wedding, and after they slept together. So she has nothing to loose by rejecting him.

But Emma *chooses* Dex. She knows herself and what she wants, she knows who she is and what she is now capable of. What she wants, if it’s on the table, is to be with Dexter. So she commits to it.

They could have made her jump at the option to be with Dex. The writer could have had them get together when Dex was at the height of his fame or Em at the lowest point of her life. And either of those could have easily had a sense of fear on Em’s part: to be equal to Dex, to be good enough for him (in her head), to finally make it. But doing it this way gives her all the power, all the agency. And I *love* that.

From comments later it’s clear their relationship was good, they do work well together and they make one another happy. We’ll never know how Emma’s life could have gone if she stayed with Jean-Pierre. But the life she chose with Dex *was* happy. As Ian said ‘[Dex] made her so so happy’: wether you think she could have done better or deserved more, a life with someone who makes you happy… isn’t an insignificant thing.

We’ll never know if it was *the right* choice to be with Dex. But seeing how happy she was it’s clear it was a *good* choice. And that’s all we can ever hope for.

#spoilers #one day #one day netflix #emma morley #dexter mayhew #the power of choosing #female characters

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voxisdaddy · 30 days

Text

Old Fashioned

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Pairing: Vox x Reader

Type: Headcanons

Featuring: Alastor, Rosie

C/TW: Stalking, Swearing, mentions of porn, use of (y/n)

In which Vox could go full stalker mode on his crush, Reader, but reader doesn’t use much technology and avoids VoxTek appliances.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ I personally headcanon that Vox, while yes can use any technology to his advantage, only VoxTek products can give him full advantage of his powers.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ Which is infuriating when on his cameras, he spotted you using your phone and was confused on why he couldn’t easily hack into it. He couldn’t get into it. What the fuck?

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ It wasn’t until he spotted you again some time later in some tech store looking at some phone cases. He watched as you pealed your old phone case off, revealing a phone that was not a VoxTek phone.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ No; it was a rival companies. Not quite as rich and empowering as VoxTek, but still a rival company nonetheless.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ He hates that company.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ They even started out doing some of his own sales just days after release.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ Well that’s just great. But not a total loss. Perhaps he could get his advertisement team to push for more advertisements on well, anything and everything.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ Over the next several days he tried that before realizing he has no way to check if it’s you know, reaching you

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ Why? Because you don’t even have a TV in your place! Which he found through following you on his cameras around Pride

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ “What person in todays world doesn’t have a television?” He grits through his teeth, starring at your door through a security camera

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ Well you apparently and he found out through an online web forum or comment section, whatever suits your fancy, you used one night

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ “I don’t really have a use for a tv” something along those lines

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ Through some more stalking and hacking he was finally able to get somewhere. Not through any appliance unfortunately, but you had fortunately downloaded a thing which had a VoxTek bug attached to it. Success!!

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ He was able to hack the phone, not to its fullest potential but still enough for now, and would have it on one of his monitors constantly. It’s here where he learned through your screen time in your phone settings that you hardly use the thing

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ Occasionally he sees you’re active using it however, to which he’s quick to drop whatever it is he’s doing to you know, watch you do whatever it is you’re doing on your phone. It’s mildly annoying to those around him

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ But he can’t help it! Who do you text? Do you have a partner? Are you on dating apps? Do you watch porn and if so, which kind do you like?

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ He doesn’t really learn much, or as much and the specifics he’d like, but it’s something. Ah so this is the music you like to listen to whenever the radio isn’t playing it, huh? You have a few pictures… several notes in your notes app… some app to text only a small handful of people on occasion. He wonders if suddenly following you on the app would be too much.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ I mean, your account isn’t exactly anything special to the public eye per say. And even if it was, you certainly weren’t on it or gave much of a crap on it. So Vox’s suddenly millions and millions of followers on his account would probably raise some questions from you. But that would be good right? Maybe you’d shoot him a message asking why he followed you, and your relationship starts there! You can officially meet for the first time! Okay it would be through text but it still counts!

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ For this headcanons post, I’m keeping in mind that the reader is before the 2000’s time. So anywhere between the near start of hell to the 90’s lol

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ Which if Vox found this out, he’d be a little confused. He died or relatively came around the 1950’s, he knew people from the 1930’/, who still use todays technology. Are you this much of an old soul to really not use anything like todays tech to your daily entertainment? And no—using the alarm doesn’t count!! He can’t even see you so…

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ You know how I said you avoid VoxTek appliances? Wanna know why?

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ “FUCKING ALASTOR!”

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ Vox glitches out in a rage when on his cameras, he saw you sitting around a table with Rosie and Alastor.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ “Oh and I guess—FUCKING ROSIE—!” Hey he’s an inclusive guy.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ Oh ho! So you’re acquainted with those two? The old fucks that even Zestial seems more youthful compared to at times. Vox curses out the two overlords further. Your acquaintances now making sense why you don’t use technology and specifically avoid Vox’s. Yeah. They’re definitely intentionally leading you away from anything VoxTek. And you seemed to have no issue with that? Wtf!?

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ “(Y/n) dear, I heard rumours that you were seeking a new place to call home. Might I ask how that’s going?” Alastor glitches out his cameras but it was doing for now, Vox grumbled.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ So you’re moving huh? Oh well. Vox isn’t particularly worried. He’s got cameras all over Pride. He’d be able to find your new home quickly and who knows, maybe it’ll be more convenient to stalk you then!

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ “Oh yes, Alastor! Rosie has been such a peach in helping me find a suitable place for me to move into. Why I’m quite proud to announce that I am now a home owner! No more little apartments for me.” You’d share a little snack with Rosie. That snack catering to your taste or hers is up to you.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ Ah… a house. Okay apartment builders are required to have security cameras in their general areas and hallways so a house and if you’d even put up security cameras might cause some issue but still. Their would be cameras around your neighborhood or whatever, right? And you’d still have your phone on you so at least theirs still that for Vox to keep an eye on you—

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ “Darling, I’m so glad you finally decided to move into Cannibal Town!” Vox froze at Rosie’s words.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ Cannibal Town? Fucking Cannibal Town?? Old 1920’s town with carcasses to feed off of at nearly every corner? Really?

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ Vox barley has cameras in Cannibal Town! He has a few, hence why he can stalk your lunch session right now with Rosie and Alastor, but it’s one of the very few cameras he has up here. What was wrong with your old place?! Vox screams and you just so happen to conveniently answer—ah how nice.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ “My current apartment is less than desirable for my tastes. Too much loud obnoxious music, distasteful lyrics, horrendous billboards, flashing lights and way too much modern technology. Call me old but that Vee stuff really gives me a headache.”

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ Vox swears that shit eating grin Alastor threw at seemingly nothing was thrown specifically at Vox in that moment.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ Vox needs to meet you soon. Surely you’d fall in love with him. He was waiting for the perfect opportunity but you seem to just be getting further away the more he waits.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ Just please don’t toss out your phone. That’s like the one modern thing you have. It’s all he has.

Guess who’s sleep schedule is (kind of) fixed and can actually start posting requests and general reader stuff on a moderately decent schedule?? Meeee

I got so much requests to work on (I encourage more to be sent though please I like having these things to work on) and I’m very excited to post more lol

#hazbin hotel #x reader #vox #hazbin hotel vox x reader #vox x reader #hazbin hotel vox #hazbin hotel x reader #vox x reader hazbin hotel #vox hazbin hotel #vox hh

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