play wrestling — blade.
Embarrassment doesn’t find you easily.
To experience embarrassment implies a degree of self-awareness. While you possess some, it’s decreased significantly compared to your earlier years. Such is the natural progression of life. This is why you felt free to act on a little impulse, initially uncaring of how it’d reflect on you.
However, faced with two eyes as crimson as freshly spilled blood, you can’t help but do some reassessing.
“… What are you doing?” Blade asks, dryly. You feel the low rumble of his baritone voice against your palms, which you’ve splayed against his chest. His neutral countenance doesn’t give much away. According to your peer-reviewed scientific analysis, he alternates between three expressions — apathy, irritation, and wrath. There is an additional secret one for when it’s just the two of you and he doesn’t think you’re looking.
From what you can tell, you’ve landed yourself on the apathetic side of the spectrum. You can work with that. You’ll commit to the bit.
“Besting an intergalactic criminal in combat, obviously,” you scoff, faking a bravado you don’t have.
“Hm.”
“…”
“…”
Is he not going to do anything to free himself from this position?!
Blade had silently slid himself next to where you sat on the floor, playing with your phone. This unique opportunity activated a primal part of your brain that probably should’ve stayed in the vault. You wrangled him down. Now, he’s lying flat on his back, with you sitting victorious atop his lower abdomen. Long strands of his black hair fall along his side, painting a pretty picture. You suppress the urge to run your hands through his silky locks. That can come later, you have an objective to achieve.
“Are you finished?”
“Wh— well, no,” you frown. And here you thought he might indulge you. “You have to, y’know, fight back…?”
He raises an eyebrow and you want to groan.
“But I’d win.”
The declaration is made like it’s a foregone conclusion. Which, if you’re being honest, isn’t wrong. Still, he should give you some credit. You can hold your own in a fight! Maybe you’re not waving-around-a-three-thousand-pound-ancient-sword good, but you’re decent enough. He’s no fun. Kafka would’ve played around with you.
“How can you be so sure— eek!”
He grabs you by the shoulders and flips you around, reversing your position. Despite the immense speed he used, your head doesn’t hit the ground hard like it should’ve. He cushioned the impact by essentially cradling the back of your head with his hand. This is why you never believe him when he denies being a ‘secret softie.’ You know the truth.
“This is how,” he says.
You pout. “Did I at least put up a good fight?”
His silence speaks volumes.
After getting his fill of how nice you look beneath him, he climbs off you. The second you’re no longer restrained, you begin your counterattack. You lunge at him, intending to pin him down, only to feel the cool leather of his gloves against your wrists. You struggle valiantly to regain your freedom. All this does is amuse him further.
“We’re pretty evenly matched, right?” You ask, beginning to grow breathless from the energy you’re exerting.
The corners of his lips twitch upward.
“Mhm. Right.”
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Something about Good Omens from a Jewish perspective, something about Crowley, about questions, something about how we are not in heaven, about how we get to decide the rules here on Earth, something about discussion, about wrestling with G-d, and something about how G-d is outnumbered and doesn't get a say, something about how "heaven" and "hell" don't really matter, about trying to make things better from the context of our lives, something about leaving the world a better place than you found it, something about drinking and enjoying life right here and now, something about "they tried to kill us and failed, let's eat".
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