Listen, nobody who's ever opened a history book says we didn't do that shit first. Pick an atrocity and chances are there was a time europeans did it on mass to someone for the sake of profit. The difference, is that we have for the most part put that behind us, while the US is just sinking deeper and deeper into it. We're not perfect, and we were a lot worse in the past. But it has been a while since we were the problem
neighbor!simon riley and the mundane tasks he does to make things easier for you
when you first moved in, you were wary of the big, brute of a man that lived next door. you'd seen him, for the first time, taking his trash to the end of his driveway for the garbage truck to pick up while movers lugged boxes and furniture inside your house. he spared a single glance, offering a nod at your small wave before retreating into his house.
you thought that was that.
for weeks, you lived without any interaction. settling into your new home, coming back and forth between the hardware store and your house for new projects. taking out your trash before you go to work. you'd seen him take out his own trash once, but you watched from your window, so he never noticed.
you felt weird doing it. watching the thick muscles of his biceps flex against his filled out sleeve, dusting his veiny hands on his jeans before adjusting his balaclava. you wondered why he wore it, but you moved on. you'd likely never interact.
until a couple weeks later, you had arrived home with new groceries. a lot of them. it would take multiple trips that would make your arms ache.
you barely opened your trunk when a dark mass appaeared at your side. you gasp in surprise, head craning. damn, he was taller than you thought.
without a word, he reached in and grabbed at least ten grocery bags with ease. it didn't even seen to bother him as he carried it into your garage and to the door. he didn't struggle to open the door, inviting himself in and leaving you dumbfounded.
what the hell?
the next time his weird behavior manifested was when you were at work. you got a notification from your doorbell camera about some movement, expecting a salesperson or jehovah's witness. instead it was your neighbor—the one who's name you still don't have.
he carried a tackle box, and you were about to speak to ask what he was doing when something compelled you to just watch. he seemed to take apart something on your porch, taking and replacing a piece of the light before screwing it back. he left without a word.
when you got home, your porch lights shined brighter than before—they were dim and on the verge of burning out. why would he do that?
you wanted to confront him, but you appreciated these small things. he still appeared out of thing air to take your groceries in, leaving before you could thank him.
he even started pulling out your bin for you, sitting it at the end of the driveway and dragging it back to the garage when the truck came by.
it perplexed you. why was he doing this for you? did he do it for his other neighbors? he had to, you couldn't be that special.
so you continued living life, welcoming the small actions as they made everything easier. besides, you enjoyed the company, even if he never said a word to you or looked in your direction.
the first time you approached him was on the drive home when a light appeared on your car's dashboard. you had no clue what it meant, though you probably should've. when you arrived home, you debated taking it straight to the autoshop, but instead you tried your luck with your neighbor. he likes to help, so you're guessing he wouldn't mind.
with a soft knock to his front door, you stood waiting patiently, and wait you did. a few minutes later, you contemplated turning back because he wasn't answering the door despite being home (his car was in the driveway).
just as you turned, the front door creaked open, revealing your neighbor clad in nothing but a white towel around his waist, balaclava shoved on haphazardly. his chest glistened with water as it glifed down his skin. oh fuck.
you could barely keep your eyes off his toned chest, abs flexing under your gaze before they snapped back to meet his dark ones. he lifted his brow in question.
"uh, hi." you said awkwardly, rocking on your feet. you hadn't even properly introduced yourself to the man, mostly because he disappeared so quick that you didn't have the chance. "a light came on in my car, and I was wondering—"
the door shut mid-sentence. it left you dumbfounded, mouth hanging open in shock as you stare at the door like it may open again. maybe his generous actions ended at bringing the groceries in. maybe he didn't want to get dirty after just showering. you couldn't expect the man to be ready to help any time you needed it.
after a minute of contemplation, you turned to walk back down the path. you'd have to get it to the mechanics and figured out how much it'd cost you.
when you reached the last step, the door opened again. still shirtless but now looping a belt around his jeans, he walked out, bare feet padding on the concrete. he nodded to your house, signaling you to lead.
you lead him back, hand him your keys and let him do his thing because now you get a free show. his muscles flex as he works under the hood, dirtying himself in a way that's sinful. after a while working in the hot sun, you go inside and bring back a drink, which he gratefully accepts—still without saying anything.
he's a bit weird, refusing to talk to you, but he's fixing your car so you can't complain.
"is this your official uniform to fix all your single neighbor's cars?" the words slip out before you can stop them. mortification warms your face, but it forces a deep chuckle from your neighbor, whose eyes crinkle under his mask.
he glances up at you, dirt smearing his skin. "only the pret'y ones."
your heart flutters. his voice was deep, gruff, like he smoked cigarettes, but it was satisfying to hear.
"so you do talk." you tease whilst biting back a smile. you'd finally gotten words out of him. a small victory. "what's your name?"
"simon."
"really? you look like a greg."
he shakes his head with a smile and continues working, leaving the two of you in silence. what you don't know is that simon's heart is nearly pounding out of his chest. it's beating so hard, he's worried he'll break a rib.
simon has been working up the courage to say anything to you every time he helps you, nervous as hell to talk to his pretty neighbor who he likes to help. hell go home and think about that interaction for days—or until you ask for his help again.
#‘I HAVE BIG FEELINGS’ is only allowed for toddlers#you are an adult. use your words. stop making excuses.#bet these men dont do that around their bosses or anywhere there could be consequences they care about either 💅
lol “have you considered your abusive boyfriend might have ADHD? Try having some empathy once in a while”. Great. Love it.
Seriously, ‘the angry man being aggressive and physically threatening is doing so to express that he is mad’. WOW ya don’t say. ‘But this common abusive behavior is different because he’s special’. Bro they all think the reason they’re abusive is special and not actually abuse or not actually about hurting you or not actually about intimidating you!
When the health food store unionized, something wild happened that I thought was just a goofy one-off, but makes more sense now.
There was a big push to eliminate "degrading jobs" but the strategy was to eliminate the position, then create a new position outside of the bargaining unit to do the work. So like, we wouldn't have dishwashers, but we'd have people who washed dishes that weren't eligible to be in the union.
I was like A) what the actual fuck? Dish washing isn't "degrading", it's fucking vital. B) What the actual fuck? You want to create a union just to exploit different people?
There were enough of us to be like "Absolutely the fuck not," and put a stop to it, but I was absolutely flummoxed that people involved in a union would say that out loud. Working with more leftists now, it makes sense.
I think it was coming from a background that viewed labor as necessary to accomplish anything, but advocated for the equitable distribution of the gains made by labor... and then being thrown in with people who just thought labor was icky.
The first time someone told me that busing tables was "degrading", I was like "Oh, uhh, yeah, like it's very necessary work but under compensated for how vital it is?" and they responded "No, touching plates that other people have eaten off of is disgusting."
But I want to eat off of clean plates. So somebody is going to have to touch/clean those plates. And I respect that person and want them to be able to afford to live.
In bargaining, someone on the Union side suggested that we eliminate all the cashiers and exclusively use self-checkouts (they were a cashier and didn't like it). The organizer told them that the union wasn't in the habit of eliminating bargaining unit positions. (This is the same person I've talked about how said that "as a prison abolitionist" we just needed to execute most criminals.)
When I explained holiday scheduling (time off requests granted in order of seniority, shifts assigned in reverse order of seniority). Someone was angry and said that time off requests potentially being denied "wasn't in the spirit of the union". When I pointed out that our departments made like 30% of our annual revenue between Thanksgiving and New Years and that required production staff to be working, they said that we just needed to create a class of positions ineligible for the bargaining unit that wouldn't be able to request time off. (Which again, most of us figured we'd just rotate holidays or something, but assumed that some holiday production was mandatory.)
I was on leftie tiktok (as a creator) for a bit and I saw this attitude there as well. I specifically remember one argument around cleaners where someone said that employing a cleaner was, like, ethically bad, and that "after the revolution" we wouldn't have cleaners.
It got me thinking, along with Ann Russell talking about how to treat cleaners (being a cleaner herself), about how we conceptualise domestic service as particularly degrading in all its forms, when, really, why is that? Why is paying someone to do something intrinsically bad?
Like, even in a moneyless, gift economy society, there would still be people whose primary contribution to their communities would be cleaning. Some people like to clean, and are really rather good at it.
I've talked ad nauseam in the past about how British attitudes towards cleaners and other service based positions today are the descendants of Victorian attitudes. That is, both the attitudes of conservatives and many progressives of that time. The trade union movement was particularly exclusionary towards service workers.
I think people on the left thinking about forms of labour can sometimes be worse than people on the right. People who have taken these positions generally just conceptualise them as something you need to do to get by, and there are particular employers where these positions are degrading but in general the jobs themselves aren't.
Yeah, that really sums it up. There's stuff that needs to get done, so I'll never be of the opinion that it's degrading work. I worked in kitchens for a long time, and every other position is reliant on having clean dishes, so nobody can really be "above" washing dishes. The shitty thing about washing dishes or busing tables is how people treat the people doing it. The work itself is vital.
And some of those jobs are like, sure, you can throw almost any warm body at it and get it done adequately, but you still run into people where you're like "Holy shit, you're good at this."
People doing a job most people don't want to do should be paid MORE in order to get people to do it. That's how it would work if we weren't mired in a schema assuming that less-frequently-desired jobs are the province of people who "can't do better" and "deserve" poverty because they have less value as people.
Peer reviewing the tags: #these attitudes are also why ppl are weird about sex work#and weirdly enough visibly disabled people working - like esp thinking of like#places that employ ppl w LDs as workers and volunteers#what they FEEL is 'these people make me uncomfortable'#and they say 'they shouldn't have to do that'#so the solution is. no visibly disabled people getting to work#the fact that. they want to work. and want jobs#is irrelevant#too many people base their politics off their like. gut feelings of discomfort and unease#which are completely disconnected from both practicality and actual morality
Summary: Meeting your true mate for the first time is supposed to be one of the happiest moments in your life. But what if your true mate turns out to be an asshole and not into you at all?
Pairing: Ice Hockey Player!Alpha!Paz Vizsla x fem!Omega!Reader
Wordcount: 5.1k | Rating: E (18+ only!)
Warnings: unrequited love (or is it?), a little angst, concept of true mates, asshole!Paz vibes, alcohol consumption
I cannot believe that I finally get to share this story with you! Heated Rivarly had (and still has, tbh) me by the throat this past winter and I spent weeks writing this fic and the matching Boba one as well, convinced that you would get to read it by February at the latest. And then life and all its little hurdles came in between. Anyway, I hope you are all doing well and are in the mood for some alpha!Paz! As always, I would love to hear your thoughts on this - what do you think happens next?
masterlist | crossposted on AO3
“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” you muttered to your dark-haired friend next to you.
Chants was wearing a white and dark blue Mandalorian Minotaur jersey, the name Djarin emblazed on the back. “I think it is very sweet,” he assured you with a wide grin, “Din loved that chain I have and it’s even sweeter you got it for his friend, too. It’s like a good luck charm. You wouldn’t believe how superstitious these athletes are.”
Oh, you had no trouble believing that. What you still couldn’t believe was that your friend was dating one of them but you bit your tongue. The day Chants had come home, grinning from ear to ear and waving a scrap of paper with a scrawled number on it, you had not expected it to lead you here, five months later. Right into an empty hallway of the ice hockey rink.
It was time to officially meet Din Djarin, the man your friend called his boyfriend. Secretly, you had questioned whether immediately after a home game was the right moment to be introduced to a strange alpha. Then again, you were pretty sure there was never a “right” moment to meet a strange alpha, especially not one who regularly got into brawls on the ice. But Chants was so happy and despite your TK, you wanted to support your friend.
Besides, you had never been to an ice hockey game before and it was a very fun experience. You had to google most of the rules of the game while it was happening and you had lost sight of the puck more than a few times but the crowd around you was full of energy and you loved to see Chants’ proud smile whenever his boyfriend held the goal.
It had almost let you forget your anxiety about meeting some new people.
“You know when we get married, we are going to many more games,” Chants commented just as you were fiddling with the tiny jewellery bags in your hands.
Oh my stars what?
“I found a ring in his pocket,” he laughed at the shock on your face, “And I think he is getting ready to pop the question.”
Before you could say anything else (such as “Are you sure it’s the right decision to get engaged after five months of dating?”) the door to the locker rooms opened and you were hit with a wave of alpha scents so strong, your eyes started to water. It was not like you had never met an alpha before but you had curated your life to include many good and wonderful friends and sometimes a boyfriend. And none of them happened to an arrogant prick of an alpha who disturbed your peaceful bubble with hope of finding your true mate.
One after another, different hockey players filtered out of the room, freshly showered and wearing some very comfortable looking sweats. They acknowledged you and your friend with a nod but none of them stopped to chat with you and none of them seemed to be the ones you were waiting for. You knew what Din looked like from Chants’ many Instagram posts and you had seen the headshot of player #87 (Vizsla) on the ice today. Yet, as time passed, you grew more and more nervous.
This was important to your friend and if things were progressing as Chants expected, you soon would spend much more time with Din and his friends. So you needed to get off to a good start with both these men and make a good first impression. It did not help that you were a nervous wreck and that you were sure your anxiety was already colouring your scent but you were sure you could put on a nice smile and keep your hands from shaking. That had to be enough-
The door opened again and Din Djarin stepped out. The man was just as handsome as Chants had described him, his dark hair wet from a fresh shower and a serene smile on his face as he spotted his boyfriend.
“Hi, babe.”
Chants practically melted next to you and you could not blame him.
A kiss later, Din’s attention shifted to you and you introduced yourself with a steady voice and a strong smile (you would count this was one of your greater achievements this week). “I, uh, Chants mentioned you liked the chain I gifted him for his birthday so I got a similar one for you.”
You handed him the pouch. “That is very kind, thank you,” he said, the gold jewellery falling into his wide palm. The lady from the small jewellery store around the corner had been overjoyed when you had returned to re-buy the gift you had gotten Chants and you could not wait to tell her that the other two recipients had liked her work as well.
“I got one for your friend, too,” you tacked on, “Chants mentioned that it is some kind of good luck thing for you two?”
“Really? That is awesome. Vizsla, you hear that?”
A tall man – taller than anyone you had ever seen – turned around from where he was talking to another group of players and your breath caught in your throat. This man was nothing compared to the little picture they had shown on the video cube.
Player #87, Paz Vizsla, approached you and it was like your body experienced a glitch. Not only was he incredibly tall. He was broad, too. Would he even fit through a normal doorway? How did he hold his entire body on just some thin skates? That should not be possible.
Words got stuck in your throat as your eyes roamed over his frame. He was wearing grey sweatpants that made your cheeks heat and his black t-shirt was not loose enough to hide how it was straining over his shoulders and there was a shadow of stubble on his jaw and his hair was curling at the ends, still wet from his shower and –
The scent of pinewood slammed into you suddenly, your heart stopped for a second. And then another. And another. In fact, your heart stood still for so long, panic began to creep in that you were having a heart attack. Was that what it felt like? Weren’t you too young to experience a cardiac event like this? It would be so embarrassing to die the moment you were introduced to the new people in Chants’ life.
And then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, your heart started beating again and everything had realigned to be focussed on just him.
Your fingers felt numb. Could it be … was this what your parents had always talked about when they told you about their first meeting? True mates were rarer these days but not unheard of and maybe he had felt it, too, this shift and fuck, was this your alpha?
It certainly felt like it.
Paz Vizsla came to stand in front of you, his face betraying nothing while you could not hide your excitement and nervousness. You wondered whether he had felt it, too, this shifting of the universe and whether your scent was just as tantalizing to him as his was to you. This time, there was no stopping the tremor in your hand as you waved at him.
“Hi,” you smiled shyly, “I am, um, I’m Chant’s friend.”
“You’re my,” he frowned, the slight shake of his head brought drops of water to the strands of his hair, one of them landing on his cheek, “You’re an omega.”
You had never heard someone sound so hostile and your smile froze on your face. “Uh, yeah?” you held oud the little pouch, “I got you the same chain as Din. Chants mentioned it is a superstitious thing?”
The chain tumbled into his large and you caught a glimpse of his tattooed hands. Of course, he had tattooed hands. Of course. His frown deepened as he eyed the simple gold chain. “I only wear silver.”
You hated that your heart cracked a bit at his obvious rejection. “Oh, um, okay. It’s just a gift, you don’t have to wear it, of course. It’s just –“
You were very much aware that you were rambling. But you weren’t prepared for the fact that he would simply turn around mid-sentence and leave you without another word. Shame burned through you and you did not know how to deal with someone so … insultingly hot and rude at the same time.
At this point, the best thing would probably have been to turn around as well and join Din and Chants even though they looked like they were in their own little bubble. But apparently you were a glutton for punishment because you watched Paz Vizsla re-join the group of players.
“Who was that?” another player eyed you, obviously interested, “Your stress relief for the night?”
“Nah,” Vizsla growled, “Just another desperate omega trying to get a sniff. Mind your business, Berenson.”
Your fists clenched and you tried to ignore the burning in your eyes and chest. Never before had you felt this humiliated and it had taken Paz Vizsla just three sentences to make you feel like the stupidest person in the whole wide world.
Shifting your focus to your friend, who seemed ready to leave, you walked away from the alpha and spared him no glance and no more thoughts.
Paz Vizsla was a jackass and you would happily live your life without ever having to talk to him again.
*
Alcohol made you do stupid things.
Like that time you had almost booked one-way tickets to the other end of the world because you and Chants thought you could totally make a life for yourself there.
Or like agreeing to a juvenile game of seven minutes in heaven at a house party of some of Chants’ hockey friends and landing in a small, enclosed space with none other than Paz fucking Vizsla.
The latter being slightly more recent than the former. Like currently happening recent.
You had done a good job avoiding the tall alpha until now and you were pretty sure it was because he put just as much effort in it as you did. But the empty bottle Din had spun to the cheers of what felt like everyone in the house had picked the two of you because, clearly, the universe wanted to test you.
Which was how you found yourself pinned to the wall of the empty closet by none other than Paz Vizsla. His hand was at the base of your throat and there was tension thrumming between the two of you that you really could not explain. The loud bass from outside made your ears hurt and the short hem of your dress itched against your thighs.
“Aw, little omega,” the alpha rumbled and you hated how it made your stomach flutter. How had a simple heated exchange led to this already? “Did you miss me?”
“Never,” you bit out through gritted teeth. Your palms were flat against the wall behind you. Because you liked the cold of the wall, not because you wanted to keep yourself from touching him (or ripping the shirt off his body so you could finally find out whether the tattoos on his knuckles had any companions).
“Tell that to your pussy,” he teased you, the tip of his nose running over your cheek “She’s wet as a fountain. I can smell her from here, omega.”
Other, more mature people, might admit that the grin on his face made him look softer, more handsome, than before. You could only think that he looked evil. Positively menacing.
Which didn’t explain why your pussy clenched at his proximity.
“I despised you the moment I saw you,” you hissed up at him, “And I will never ever grow to like you, Paz Vizsla. Of that you can be sure.”
His eyes blazed and you swallowed heavily. If you did not know any better, you would have said there was reluctance in his movements away from you. That his forehead gently touched yours for a moment before he pulled away. That his fingers brushed over your scent gland and down your chest briefly before his touch left you. That his eyes softened when he took in your heaving chest.
It was all just alcohol-induced imagination, though.
“Good,” he rumbled, “Because if you know what’s best for you, omega, you better stay far away from me.”
*
You told yourself that you didn’t listen to him out of spite and not because some pathetic needy part in you craved his proximity like you weren’t the first omega in history to be rejected by their true mate.
It was like you could neither live with or without him. With wasn’t an option, clearly, with how he glared at you every time he spotted you in the ranks. Without wasn’t an option either because if you went a few days without seeing him, something ached in your chest so strong, you went to the doctors the first few times it had happened.
When the realization sunk in that it was heartache, the humiliation had followed soon after and now you were like an addict, getting your fill of Paz Vizsla every few days even though you knew it was wrong and would only make his rejection hurt more in the long run.
Chants had made it his personal mission to merge his and Din’s social circles and that meant that Paz Vizsla saw you way more often than he wanted to. And he let you know that every time (until Din pulled him away at one dinner and had some very strict words with him from the looks of it) until your heartache was accompanied by a pit of anxiety each game you attended. Your best friend had even started carrying your go-to headache medication "just in case”.
You wanted to say you hated Paz. You wanted to hate him for the glares he sent your way or how he teased you about your “boringly safe” desk job more than once. But the truth was you hated how you could not bring yourself to hate him.
You hated how he never made any attempts to talk to you or how he blocked yours but then grumbled at the waiters when they got your order wrong and you were too shy to say anything. You hated how he mocked you when Chants mentioned you hadn’t expected the ice rink to actually be cold but then a dark blue and white scarf was delivered to the seat you usually occupied.
You hated how when Chants walked into the café you met at for brunch with a raised left hand, showing off his engagement ring, your first thought was that you would get to see more the infuriatingly hot alpha. The other women around you (WAGS, you had learned, wives and (girl)friends) started to squeal excitedly and the other guests looked at the giant group hug that refused to let go off each other.
“Congratulations!” you laughed, sitting back down, everyone’s eyes on him.
“It was the most romantic proposal,” Chants gushed, taking a sip from his mimosa, “He took me out to the restaurant we went to for our first date and I thought for sure that would be the spot.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No! He took me to a museum and I thought at this hour? But turns out he booked the whole thing just for us!”
“Paz told me all about it,” Katrina, a beautiful redheaded figure skater, nodded, “Din kept brainstorming the perfect place for a proposal and Paz suggested the museum, it makes for the best pictures, doesn’t it?”
Do not focus on the pretty woman who is dating your alpha. Do not focus on –
“Hey,” a hand on yours snapped you out of your thoughts and blinked at Chants, “You with me?”
“Uh sorry, what was that?”
“He asked you if you want to be his maid of honour, silly,” Katrina laughed.
Forgotten was the heartbreak and the jealousy and the anxiety. It was all replaced by pure joy at the hopeful look on your best friend’s face and the knowledge that you could help him make the most important day in his life a reality.
“Of course,” you said, feeling tears stinging the back of your eyes, swallowing back the lump in your throat, “Of course I want to, Chants. Thank you for asking me.”
Your friend squeezed your hand, his eyes filled with the love that you felt for him. Everyone around you aww’ed and you could hear Katrina order another round of mimosas. “Here’s to our newest member!”
“Thank you, everyone,” Chants looked around, “Din and I are so happy to share this moment with you. We booked the ice rink for our unofficial engagement party next weekend and I hope you can all make it. We got a few food and drink stands, too, so even you can’t skate, there’s something to do.”
“Can you imagine living in Mandalore and not knowing how to skate?” Katrina threw her head back and laughed, “That would be so embarrassing.”
“Yeah,” you cringed, “So embarrassing.”
*
If there was one thing Chants knew how to do, it was how to throw a party. Your friend worked in event planning, after all, so there was no way that is own wedding festivities would be anything short of amazing. Starting with the engagement party.
Titled as a “lowkey get-together”, your friend and his fiancé had rented out the ice rink of the Mandalorian Minotaurs because of course they had. And to top it all off, it had been transformed into a cosy winter wonderland with lights strung across the ceilings and a little stand that offered hot beverages while music played from the speakers.
It was undoubtedly the most romantic event you had ever been to.
When Joe Berenson, one of Din’s teammates, had asked you out on a date for this exact event, you really could not believe your luck. Sure, he was not really your type and you were pretty sure that you were not his. But he was kind and funny and kept you from having to show up alone when a certain player brought a famous figure skater as his date.
Really, at this point, you were just fighting to not humiliate yourself.
Which might also be the reason why you were not on the ice, but instead on the bench, watching all the couples skate round after round, holding hands and laughing at some of the silly music choices. You could see Din twirling Chants and you smiled. Your friend deserved nothing but happiness and you were so happy to finally see him get it.
Ice flew in front of your face and you flinched as the unmistakable figure of Paz Vizsla came to a stop in front of you. He was wearing dark jeans and a green hoodie that complimented his dark hair. It should be illegal, the way his hair was a bit tousled from how fast he was skating. You wanted to do nothing more than to run your fingers through it.
“What’re you doing here?” he grinned, “Sulking cause I didn’t ask you to be my date?”
This question deserved nothing but an eyeroll. “I don’t care about your pretty ice-skating friend,” you denied, “Not everything in life is about you. Why are you even here anyway?”
“Oh, c’mon now. You can’t blame me for wanting to check on the lonely omega sitting all by herself. My date might think me an unempathetic piece of shit otherwise.”
“You are an unempathetic piece of shit.”
His eyes twinkled and you turned your head away. You didn’t want to see him in a good mood, it made your insides feel all funny despite knowing he hated you.
Praying that he might leave you in peace if you told him the truth, you took a deep breath. “I can’t skate.”
“What?”
You swallowed back the shame and focussed your eyes on his skates. You could not look up and face the obvious judgement that awaited you. Paz Vizsla was not a forgiving man and you had just given him another thing to tease you about. And yet, you repeated your confession. “I can’t skate.”
“Does Berenson know?”
“Course he knows,” you huffed, “That’s why he let me sit here in peace.”
Paz just grunted and when you chanced a glance up at him, his face was unreadable. You tried your hardest not to pay too much attention, to read too much into it, to try to decipher what he was thinking now. Because chances were high that he was thinking something unfavourable and you really were not in the mood to face your own failure.
But all he said was, “Okay then.”
And then he skated off.
You did not know why that left a worse feeling in your stomach than before. Clearly, Paz Vizsla had something that made you dizzy and flustered and warm and shiver-y and –
Shaking your head, you took a sip of your hot chocolate and did your best to forget that whole interaction. Din and Chants skated past you, hand in hand, and you smiled at the happy couple.
For a quick moment, you wondered if maybe you should try to make your way onto the ice but the thought disappeared as soon as it had occurred to you. Everyone was having so much fun and you didn’t want to bother them to get you to teach you how to skate.
Besides, so many people were constantly taking breaks and if they did, they came to join you on the bench for a quick chat. So, it wasn’t as if you were really lonely.
A pair of skates landed in front of your feet and you frowned, looking up at the alpha who had clearly thrown them for you. “What are you doing?”
“Teaching you how to skate, what’s it look like?”
“I don’t need to know how to skate.”
“Maybe you don’t need to but you should know. Part of an ice hockey friend group and not knowing how to skate?” Paz shook his head solemnly, “It’s embarrassing.”
Heat filled your cheeks. It was almost exactly what Katrina had said a few days ago but there was no way he could know that. “Okay,” you muttered, “but don’t laugh at me.”
“Never, sweetheart.”
You did not believe him.
Putting the skates on was embarrassing enough, it felt foreign and the strings were worn with use. It got even worse when Paz fucking Vizsla knelt down on one knee, his hands shooing away yours. “Let me,” he asked, his voice way too gentle for how rough he usually was. You watched silently as he tied the knots for you, checking that they would hold up, before tucking them inside the skate. “Gotta have them out of the way,” he explained, “I don’t want you to fall.”
Oddly enough, there was pure honesty in his voice and when you stood up on shaky legs, he did not shy away when you gripped his forearm. No, his hand even cupped your elbow, supporting your journey to the ice. You took a few steps towards the edge but just as you were about to step on it, Paz stopped you.
“Right foot first.”
You tilted your head. Was this really the right technique to get on the ice? Was there a right technique? Your brows furrowed and you pressed your lips together. You knew you were about to embarrass yourself but you didn’t know you could already do things wrong.
Sensing your confusion, Paz’s hand rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s, uh, it’s for good luck.”
The knowledge that Paz Vizsla had superstitions made your heart flutter. How could a grown alpha like him become cute, all of a sudden?
Before you could ponder whether your face betrayed the affection you felt for him despite knowing better, you were on the ice. Immediately, your legs wobbled and you gripped the edge of the rink tightly. Some might say you were refusing to move. You would like to think you were refusing to fall. Not falling would be the baseline of success today.
But apparently not in Paz’s book.
“One foot after another. C’mon, omega,” he ran his hand through his dark curls, “What are you so terrified off, hm?”
“I am afraid of falling,” you hissed, “I – I don’t want to hit my head. I have seen enough clips of blood all over the ice, I don’t need that to happen to me today of all days, thank you very much.”
That had him silent again. Maybe this was your ticket to finally getting where you could bear his presence without the rejection burning deep in your belly – disarming honesty. If you were already aware of your flaws, it would be harder for him to make fun of you.
Clearly, that was what he was pondering at the moment. The frown on his face could not mean anything other than annoyance at your sudden ability to deal with him. He had not shaved this morning because his stubble was a bit thicker and you wondered if he ever grew it out long enough for it to be soft.
(For it to leave burns on the inside of your thighs.)
Done with whatever he was thinking about, he stretched his arm out. With his palm facing up, you could see that there was a small scar on the side and you bit back the question where he had gotten it from. You could wait out his stretch routine without trying to find out more about this stoic man.
When he did not move, not even to switch arms, you grew restless. People skated past you and he just kept looking at you. Almost as if he wasn’t stretching at all but holding out his hand. To you.
Before you could question your sanity, you reached out and grabbed it. His fingers entwined with yours instantly and you took a deep breath. You could feel the rough callouses on his palm, how his skin was dry and warm and he held on to you so securely, you almost trusted him not to let you fall.
Almost only because as soon as he started to move (and pull you with him) you gripped his hand with both of yours like your life depended on it.
“I got you, ‘mega,” he murmured, his voice warm “Slow and steady, okay?”
That was easier said than done.
But Paz Vizsla was surprisingly patient as he placed himself in front of you, holding both of your hands as he carefully skated backwards. People eyed you in passing but he did not pay them any mind and so you found yourself doing the same.
If Paz Vizsla acted like nothing out of the ordinary was happening, it probably was because nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
Even when he smiled at you encouragingly as you started to mimic the movements the others made around you. Even as his thumb brushed over your scent gland, sending shivers down your spine. Even as you passed Katrina, who looked more offended than anyone, and he did not spare her a single glance.
“I won’t let you fall,” he assured you as you rounded the first corner, his eyes never leaving yours, “Trust me. I will keep you safe.”
I will keep you safe.
Why did that sound like much more than a promise?
“Chants told me you helped with the engagement,” you decided to change the topic and navigate the conversation back to neutral territory, “He was very happy. Thank you.”
“Thanking me for something? Today must be my lucky day.”
You rolled your eyes, an easy smile playing on your lips. By now, you had picked up in speed, though you were still no match to the other guests gliding across the ice with ease. But your amusement at his joke had pulled your focus away from what your feet were doing and before you knew it, you were struggling to keep yourself upright. Your skates were slipping beneath you and your arms flailed in an attempt to catch yourself on the ice.
Strong arms wrapped around your waist like a vice and you came to a standstill right against his chest. Paz Vizsla had pulled you to him, his chest pressed against yours and you could feel the heat of him even through the layers of clothes.
Stars, you hoped he couldn’t feel how fast your heart was beating from shock and from him.
“I got you,” dark eyes jumped all over your face, as if to check you for injuries, “I got you, omega. You’re okay. Breathe for me.”
It was only his instruction that alerted you to the fact that your breath had, in fact, caught in your throat. Your chest expanded as you filled your lungs with air, pressing closer to him, and your nose twitched at his familiar scent.
Being so close to him was dangerous for your heart even if your head knew he couldn’t stand you one bit.
“Good girl,” he rumbled, his hands on your waist tight, “Breathe. You’re okay. You did it, a full lap around the rink and you didn’t fall once.”
His words sunk in with a bit of a delay but when you spotted your abandoned mug of hot chocolate on the bench, you knew he was right. You had done a full round around the rink.
“I did it,” you smiled to yourself and wrapped your arms around him in a hug. Just to thank him, of course, and not because it brought your nose closer to his scent gland. And certainly not because it felt nice to have his arms wrap around you tighter, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
“Hey, alpha,” a smooth voice had you flinch away from him and your cheeks blazed in embarrassment as you spotted his beautiful date for the day, “Can you show me that slapshot thing you did the other game? You promised you’d teach me.”
There was a sexy pout on her face and your embarrassment morphed into something uglier at the pit of your stomach.
“Uh, yeah,” Paz’s voice sounded hoarse and his eyes were still on you, slightly hooded, “Of course.”
She took his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world and your heart cracked a bit again.
“Bye, ‘mega,” he waved at you, looking back even as he was skating away from you.
The alpha at the counter doesn’t really speak to you.
It’s not abnormal. You get plenty of folks, all ranges of them in here. It’s a pass through town. People pulling off the interstate to get gas and a bite to eat, a revolving door of stranger’s faces.
So, he doesn’t really say much, but it doesn’t really bother you. He orders coffee with milk and a standard breakfast, eggs scrambled, toast, sausage, the usual. And then after that, he’s quiet. Either lost in his thoughts or he doesn’t care to share them, and you don’t care either way.
You’re here regardless. In this diner, waiting tables, gritting your teeth, faking smiles, just like you have been for the last six months.
Since them.
They haunt you like a phantom. A cold you can’t shake. Their proximity triggered your basal instincts, your buried need, and put you into heat. A miserable, painful one that you spent alone. One you almost died from, and once the smoke cleared, you were left with the sickness, the very kind you didn’t even believe existed.
Bond corrosion.
Poisoned.
Since then, it’s been non stop suppressants, scent blockers and whatever you can get your hands on for pain relief. Every day, for six months. Cleaning out your checking account, your savings account, everything just to buy medication.
The over load of pills can’t be good for your health, but neither is the alternative.
But does it matter?
You’re nothing, after all.
The man clears his throat. You realize you’ve zoned out and he’s watching you, waiting.
“Can I get a refill?” He motions to his empty mug. There’s something wrong with his face, something off. A serrated blade of foreboding, something sinister in his eyes.
A shiver runs down your spine.
“Of course, sorry.” You lean over with the pot, careful to pour slowly, and at the same time, he drifts forward, close enough you register his breathing.
His sniff.
He’s smelling you.
You pull back, startled. Alphas don’t smell you, not anymore. Not with the blockers.
“Thought you’d smell different.” He drawls, eyes sweeping your body, hips to face. “Sweet, or somethin’.”
“I’m sorry?” What the fuck? He just shakes his head.
“Never mind,” he lifts his mug in a salute. “Thanks for the top off.”
“Uh, sure.” You try to calm the uneasy feeling that’s now swirling in the pit of your stomach, the off kilter axis you’ve been thrown into. You chance another look at him, but he’s gone back to ignoring you, reading something on his phone, and you take the opportunity to slip away, mentioning to your coworker that you’re going on break, before stepping out into the back parking lot and cool crisp air.
Gravel crunches under your feet.
Don’t think about it.
Your mates’ rejection has become a living, breathing thing inside of you. A tumor taken up residence in your brain, something that white and grey matter grows around, accommodates, changes shape for like it’s a part of you now. Permanently altered down to your DNA. Every morning feels like it only happened the day before, even though it’s been almost seven months, but your designation, your biology, the crux of who you are, makes it impossible to move on. Time ticks forward, but you stay stuck, frozen in place with empty bonds that grow heavier and sicker inside your soul, poisoning you from the inside out. Trapped in a moment where your scent matches throw battered bills at your feet and turn their backs on you. Leave you.
Pathetic.
Desperate.
You didn’t think it was possible, biologically, for mates to leave one another, to want to be separated. Rejections are so rare, they’re like ghost stories told in the night to scare little children.
But here you are, alone with rot in your soul where two bonds should be.
Dogs bark in the distance. Somewhere past the parking lot, the trees, a trio of howls start up, loud enough that it startles you. They don’t stop, not after a few seconds, or a minute. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, that unsettling feeling turning to wariness, discomfort.
It’s enough to force you back inside, locking door and double checking it.
When you make back into the dining room, intending to check on your sole customer, you discover he’s gone. Mug emptied, cash left next to the napkin, empty sugar packets wedged under the saucer.
His absence lightens a load, loosens your shoulders, and you breathe a sigh of relief.
He’s gone, and that’s one good thing at least.
You keep checking your rear view mirror on your drive home. The sky is starting to purple, bloom like a bruise, and while there are no other calls on the road, you can’t shake your discomfort, the unease that’s crawling up your spine. Something was off with that alpha. Something was wrong. You can’t shake it.
And why does it feel like he was there for you?
The light in the hallway is out, naturally.
It never gets changed. Just another shitty part of this shithole building that houses your even shittier apartment. The one with uneven floors and drafty windows and water stains all over the ceiling, ones that gradually grow larger and larger, leaving you to wonder when it’s all going to come crashing down on your head.
Some place to call home, even though that’s what it is. Your home, the only place you have, in this backwoods town that caught you in its snare.
You rub your chest with your knuckles as you fiddle with the lock, jimmying the key just right, getting it to the point where it finally pops and lets you turn the handle.
The door swings open, to a dark apartment.
You frown.
You always keep the hallway light on. Always. You hate coming home to pitch black apartment, hate the way it makes you feel, like nothing is waiting for you, no one. You’ve thought about getting a dog or a cat, more than once. Just so there’s someone to welcome you home, snuggle with you at night.
For a brief second, a split moment in time, your brain breaks. It goes blank.
And then-
You smell it.
Cardamom.
Tobacco.
Sea salted leather.
Honey black tea.
It’s muffled. Covered by what you suspect is blockers, but for you, for their mate, it’s clear as day.
Your hand flies to the wall, slapping against plaster, looking for the light switch in a panic as your heart pounds in your ears, but as your fingers graze it, something moves in the dark. A mountain cuts through shadow, faster than you can even blink, and then your mouth is covered.
“Don’t scream.” The rough voice says in your ear. A voice you recognize. A voice who called you desperate and pathetic, a voice belonging to the man, the alpha, that left you behind in a gravel parking lot.
Your body knows him immediately. Instinctively. You hate yourself for it. Your omega hindbrain lights up like a jackpot has been won, trying to drag you under, soften you, turn you into some starved, pathetic thing, reduce you to nothing but everything they think you are.
Alpha.
Mate.
Safe.
No.
You bite. Hard. Jerk back and then unhinge your jaw, bringing your top teeth down onto what you’re assuming is his gloved palm, as hard as you can.
He doesn’t even flinch.
So then you scream. You let your lungs loose behind his hand, thrashing in his hold at the same time, causing enough of a disturbance that he loses his grip for a nanosecond, enough time for you to pull far enough away, far enough to reach the light switch and flick it on.
He lets you go.
The living room light floods your surroundings, illuminating him in all his cruel glory.
Dressed in black from head to toe. Combat boots. Black hoodie pulled up over his head.
Skull mask covering his face. Skeleton gloves on his hands.
It’s terrifying. He’s terrifying. He looks like the grim reaper.
He’s larger than life in your apartment, towering inside it like a monster in a doll house, dark eyes focused on you with such brutal intensity you have to look away.
“What… what are you doing in my apartment?” The words are rusted metal scraping up your throat and out of your mouth. Metal and bitter and painful. His jaw flexes under the mask.
“You need to come with us.” Us?
Johnny appears over his shoulder in the hallway at the exact right time, a zipped up black duffel in his hands.
He looks the same. Brilliant blue eyes, impossibly handsome face. Only the mohawk is different, longer.
He offers you a small smile. It shocks you. Getting hit by a truck would be less surprising.
“You can’t… You can’t be here. What are you doing here?”
“We’re here to take ye.” Johnny says, taking a slow, careful step towards you, palms flat and non threatening at his side, duffel still slung over his shoulder.
“Take me?”
“Aye. Take ye somewhere safe.” It’s at that moment you realize there’s something strapped to Johnny’s thigh.
“Is that a gun?” You squeak, the already loud pounding of your heart now vibrating in your ears, your blood turning to ice as fear churns in your belly. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen a gun in your life. At least, not up close. “Wh-why do you have a gun?” Johnny’s smile disappears, his face turning severe. Serious. His eyes flick to the window, then to Simon with a nod, a silent conversation unfolding in the room, one you’re not a part of.
You should run. Flee. Try to make it around the blockade that is Simon’s body and make a break for the door. But you can’t, you’re stranded, a ship run aground, lost in the fog. Your body is already shutting down, at war with your instincts and your brain, an impossible fight unfolding inside your tissues, a battle all the way down to the molecular level.
“Get yer shoes.” Johnny motions to the pair of sneakers next to the door, the best pair of shoes you have, better than your worn out work non-slips. You shake your head.
“No, what? My shoes? I don’t… I don’t know what you’re d-doing here, or what’s going on, but-”
“What’s going on is you’re comin’ with us.” Simon nods to the duffel Johnny is still holding. “Got everything?” It’s yourduffel, you realize with dawning horror, the one that lives in the back of your closet, unused and mostly forgotten.
Now, it’s stuffed full.
“Why do you have that?” Why, why, why. All these questions in a room full of deaf ears.
“We had to pack your stuff. Now get your shoes.”
“Pack my stuff?” You ask weakly, because it’s all you can do. You’re a parrot, repeating everything, trying to make sense of it.
“I got everything I think ye’ll need.” Johnny says gently, face soft. “Some clothes an’ yer toothbrush. Yer meds.” Your face heats with shame. Your meds. The suppressants, the blockers, the pain killers, all on display on your nightstand. You imagine them, in your room, in your space, going through your things, cataloging them, studying them. Seeing them. Seeing your pain, your destroyed nest, the one you built meticulously and then tore apart after they came and went. “Anythin’ else ye need we’ll-” he stops dead, face turning towards the living room window.
Simon kills the lights. You open your mouth to ask, again, what is going on, but words die on your lips when a small red dot appears in the room, it’s trajectory lined up right next to your head.
The rest of it happens very fast. Too fast.
There’s a crack, like a whip, and then the window explodes, spraying glass everywhere. You’re suddenly in someone’s arms, Simon’s, his body curved over yours, a shield that takes you down to the floor and keeps you there with an impossible weight.
There’s more cracking, popping, Johnny and that gun, firing into the shattered glass, your frightened screams covered by the gloved hand on your mouth, and then you’re being pulled onto your feet.
“Move.” Simon barks in your ear, and your body automatically responds, a puppet played by a master. He’s half dragging, half pushing you through your apartment’s front door and then down the hall, thundering towards the emergency exit. Everything is happening so fast, too fast, and you can’t process it, can’t even begin to put the pieces all together as the door opens and the three of you spill out into the night.
What is happening?
The alley behind your building is pitch black, and you stumble, tripping as Simon pulls you in tighter to his side, an impenetrable force, pinning your body against his.
Another crack splinters the air and you scream as Johnny swears, his gun coming up from his side.
“Keep your head down.” Simon orders, and you close your eyes, following along numbly as he leads you past your building and around the corner.
This can’t be happening.
Whatever this is, it can’t be real.
Johnny appears on your left. You get a whiff of him, honey black tea steeped in raw fury, the violent edge of it tainting that honey sweetness you smelled before, and he’s so close, close enough you can feel his heat through your shirt.
“Almost there,” he murmurs low, and you hate, loathe, how it sinks into your bones. How it tries to warm you.
There’s a black SUV parked at the end of the alley, engine running, lights off, waiting. Waiting for them, you realize numbly as you’re propelled forward, waiting for you.
You try to dig your heels in.
“I’m not going-” Simon yanks open the back passenger door, grabs you by your arm.
“You are.” There’s no room for an argument, no room for even a single word. Before you know it, you’re being tossed into the back seat, door slammed at your back before Johnny is climbing in up front and Simon is sliding behind the wheel.
The engine turns over.
The locks click.
And then you watch as your apartment building fades into the distance, your life and everything you ever knew slowly disappearing from view.
#stop creating hot people out of pixels#go to your local shitty theme park and develop lustful feelings for the guy who yanks your seatbelt to make sure you’re not yeeted sldkfjlsjf why is that so real??? ?is that a universal experience or something bc the TENSION is REAL and delicious and ive never thought about it before
Listen not to be crude but that seatbelt yank is tied directly to the clit I don’t know how or why but it is and it feels like falling in love
Other examples of your local hot people you can lust after in your head no harm no foul without causing the heat death of the universe to arrive early:
- nursing home attendant with eyebrow piercing
- guy who comes over halfway through the cashier scanning your groceries to finish bagging them and then hefts them into your cart and leaves before you are done cashing out without a backwards glance
- hyper-capable women running counter food service establishments that serve soft serve ice cream
For consideration, the receptionist who runs the building like the marines and is just a little mean to you. Then gives you a genuine compliment before disappearing?
Extremelyyyyy valid. They are impatient with you about how you keep incorrectly filling out the Very Important Form. Then they look at you and say “you have the most beautiful skin” and then just return to work.
The cops very clearly planted evidence on him because they had to make an arrest because all eyes were on them and whoever actually did the deed was making them look stupid.
Why would the real killer hero have kept the weapon on his person and traveled two states over while carrying it and a manifesto in his bag, conveniently turning the crime into a federal matter? The same guy whose bag they found in a park, filled with monopoly money? Why did the police turn off their bodycams, take Luigi's stuff, drive a block away, turn their bodycams back on, go back into the restaurant, and then arrest him?
From the moment of his arrest, even left-of-center media has been presuming his guilt without examining anything (e.g. calling him "the killer" instead of "alleged" or "accused") and then when I say he didn't do it, the nearest person chimes in with some quip that tells me they think he did do it but should go free anyway. Don't get me wrong, I would have the same attitude if he had done it. But he didn't. It makes me feel like the only sane person in the world, even among my staunchly leftist friends.
YELLING AND CRYING He's off his horse and at your side like you've been WOUNDED and says "wife you should be resting" as if he cannot even imagine you straining yourself any further than you did for him the night before. Glaring at your handmaids as if coming down at the crack of dawn would sap you of the rest of your strength and have you wither away
And you've come to tell him it would be a shame to not see off your new husband, and that you look forward to welcoming him home to celebrate his victory
"As are your wife's desired duties," you whisper while cradling his hand in both of yours, his rough scarred hand that had been so gentle and had trembled against you but hours ago, pressing a soft kiss to his scarred knuckles and the large signet ring of his house. Of which a new, polished twin sits upon your own finger
The way his eyes watch you, and you recognize now the look that he has laid upon you many times even before you were wed; a deep desire to kiss you as he did at the altar, and as he did in your marital bed, and as he did when he thought you were still asleep before the sun had risen
"I-I am glad to hear it," he whispers back, and his hand trembles in yours again. You smile, lips pressed pretty against his ring
sometimes I have to stop myself from posting shit like "who made replacing a bike chain so erotic" because I remember the number of people who see my posts and I have to take a step back and reconsider my choices. sometimes I have to hide my true and sincere thoughts in a post about how I'm not posting them because it is funnier this way
whatever. it's just reaching between all its delicate parts to wrench out its guts with lots of sweating and straining. while it's upside down and immobilised. and then it's just taking the slick and shiny new chain and feeding it gently through gears and between metal before pulling it taut until the derailleur is extended and the chain clicks into place and can no longer be removed. I; think I'm bicycle. I mean bisexual
carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die carter hart die
depressed n shit @tinyyeetgang - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
