She said she dated me because I had words when other men didn't. She said she fell for me because I had words that teased and taunted and tickled her. Words she had to think about for more than two seconds. Words she had to turn over and check for references and entendre and insight.
She liked the ones I wrote and the ones I spoke aloud.
She said I made her feel things she didn't think she was capable of. Like lust for a human in real life, or the desire for a man to rub her butt.
It took two whole years before she admitted that she thought was asexual, rather than demisexual, and for her to admit that her brain liked my words first.
And then her body followed.
I utterly love her.
I love her like I love my life
But that insufferable cliche is insufficient for the sentiment.
I've loved her even, and especially, when I didn't love my own life.
Writing is a skill. A muscle to be clenched and relaxed. Trained and built.
She likes a lot of my muscles. I love her.
When I sat down, I thought of this like a stretch for that muscle. Like touching my toes or wrapping my arm in front of my chest.
Like normal though, my clearest thoughts are my second and third.
The following is an excerpt from a larger story I'm working on; it's seen only rough edits for readability and represents an acceptable 1st draft. I already know which wide swaths of this chapter need to change. But in the meantime, enjoy magic, powers, teamwork, witty dialogue, and a tense battle.
Staff Sergeant Tiffany Couch had never been so happy to watch a man plummet from the sky. It was a curious thing to even consider. But as the wiry man fell towards the earth, his dirty blonde hair tousled by the wind, she couldn't shake the unmistakable feeling that their situation would improve dramatically once he hit the ground. The Army veteran hunkered down behind an uprooted tree and watched.
The man turned over in midair, righting himself right before he hit the tree line. A translucent purple haze covered his body, slowing his descent until his feet grazed the mossy carpet of the frosty Colorado forest. Sergeant Couch sprinted at him, trusting her squad to keep the attention of the monster they'd attracted.
“Glad to have you, Major,” she said, her voice low and tense. “Did Joint Command fill you in on the situa-”
“Jeez, you look like shit.” The new arrival interrupted her, looking past her and into the dense woodland behind her. “MC2 mentioned an 'unidentified hostile mage.' Something about 'hard light.' I'll figure it out as I go.” He shrugged.
“That's not just 'some mage.' That's Verdict, the religious terrorist.” She explained. “He's one of those Manifestations,”
The following is an excerpt from a larger story I'm working on; it's seen only rough edits for readability and represents a good 1st draft. I wanted a romance between a superhero and a supervillain, though those exact terms don't appear in the story due to murky legal rights to those words. Instead, enjoy magic, powers, teamwork, witty dialogue, and flirting._
“Pulse, Riot, Moon. Go get these folks to safety.” The tall broad man in the white and red outfit explained. Fire ensconced his head. It and his short fade haircut gave him the distinct look of a very brawny matchstick. Tension colored his voice, and he bounced in a boxer's stance: knees bent and fists ready. “I'll deal with her.”
10 feet behind him, the athletic woman working as the hero Pulsar felt her jaw tighten immediately. Heatstroke was treating them like kids again, like sidekicks instead of apprentices. The Korean American college student felt the cold air around her hands and felt, rather than saw, the swirling orbs of blue-white plasma growing in either palm. She fired a ray at the nearest shadow monster, obliterating it and leaving an ugly burn mark on the wall behind it. Pulsar saw it and gasped, then shook her wrists to dissipate her powers. Her aunt preached nothing so much as she preached perfect and unwavering control of the powers she and her niece shared, and Pulsar had let hers get away from her if only for a moment. She wiped her half-gloved hands on her sporty white and blue outfit as if she could literally wipe away her guilt.
“Heatstroke, we can help.” We can take her down together and...”
“Yeah, you can.” He interrupted her, punching clean through a shadow beast as it leapt at a terrified businessman. The summoned shade disappeared in a flash of light and heat and Heatstroke didn't turn around when he addressed the teen trio behind him. “But right now you three are gonna turn around and make sure those innocent bystanders live to see another day. You're gonna do a damn good job keeping them safe. Understand? “