#and they listed the accomplishments of this girl who was a lot like me

[shalotttower]

Fractalize (part 1)

Title: Fractalize

Fandom: Hunter x Hunter

Summary: Lack of hope creates a strange kind of numbness.

Word count: 3700+

Characters: Chrollo x Reader (female)

Notes: yandere Chrollo, kidnapped, depressed and miserable Reader, Reader is dissociating a lot, morbid pondering, suicidal thoughts, explicit/triggering language/words, Reader's thoughts on possible sexual assault in future. Part 2

Fractalize - making things into smaller copies of themselves over and over again.

Sometimes you stand in front of a mirror and try to picture yourself in another timeline. One where your life didn’t take this specific turn. You try to imagine a different setting, a different apartment - perhaps the one you had before Chrollo started moving you around like a luggage bag. Maybe living in a cottage by the sea or an old farmhouse. Someplace rural, peaceful. With a garden and fresh air, far away from the city noises.

It's difficult at first, your reflection keeps slipping through your mental fingers every time you think the image is set in place. But with practice it becomes easier, sort of, so you can now see yourself clearly as you brush your hair - not here.

A blue dress on, made for nights at parties with friends. Laughing until your stomach hurts and eyes become sore. Making silly faces over alcoholic beverages. Or you can wear your favourite jeans with a high waist and head out to the pub, the same one with crooked stools and a broken sign. Drink cheep bear, eat greasy peanuts from a little bowl, listen to some small band play unknown and unheard songs.

Leave intoxicated, and everything is too fast and vibrant and wonderful until you're back home.

It's your favourite pastime now: imagine, remake and slip.

Imagine. Remake. Slip.

You don't quite remember the last time you laughed, a month ago maybe. Maybe more. Lack of hope creates a strange kind of numbness, dull, cold, you would compare it to a winter plastered all over your insides, but it's almost colder than that. It freezes everything and turns it into icicles hanging off the roof.

Remake, slip.

You have new vocabulary now.

"Mm" - is for when he asks you if you like a dress or a top and it doesn't matter how you actually feel about it, because it's going to end up being worn anyway.

"Okay" - is for when Chrollo sets another fancy meal for you on a dinner table and "Eat, don't be shy".

"I'm not hungry" - doesn't work with him, even if it's the truth. You always eat what's put in front of you, that's the rule, because he's not above shoving the spoon into your mouth, so you spare yourself the tears and sobs that will probably come with that. It's so bizarre: how much effort he puts into keeping you alive when you're anything but.

"Whatever you want" - is for when he asks you something that requires a choice, between two or three options usually. He's not one for an extensive list.

"If you say so" - for everything else.

You used to delude yourself with the idea that if you managed to appear pleasant enough, pleasant-talking, pleasant-listening, smiling a bit here and there, it would gain you some privileges and perhaps a bit more freedom. It did. But never where it really mattered. Those little things were absolutely inconsequential in the grand scheme. Yes, you can have that sweater, dear. No, you can't have your own bed. Yes, you can come shopping with me, if you give me a kiss. No, you can't take walks without me holding your hand.

Yes this and no that.

Those moments were fragile and so very takeable that they didn't give you any sense of accomplishment, just a short respite and bitter aftertaste that made you feel pathetic.

Wasn't worth it.

***

"Do you like animals, dear?" Chrollo asks out of the blue one day. He's reading something on his tablet while you're curled up on the couch, watching TV.

It's a new series that's been on the major channels for a few weeks, a mystery drama about a girl who moves into a house she inherited from her grandfather. The picture provides a distraction enough to have you forgetting where you are for a brief period three times a week.

You pull the blanket higher. "I do."

He knows it.

The girl on the screen finds a mysterious box hidden in the attic. Perhaps there's something valuable inside. Or information about her grandpa; your fingers tug on a loose blanket thread without much thought.

"What kind?"

Or maybe it's just a time capsule with photos and postcards and random objects collected over the years.

Or-

You had a cat before he took you. A foster grey ragdoll with blue eyes who liked to rest on your belly and bump her head against your chin. You called her Miss Whiskerton and kissed her little nose, because she did act like a proper lady - poised, dignified and entirely too proud to eat food mixed with medicine. The worst enemy Miss Whiskerton has ever had in her cat life was the corner of your couch. When you weren't paying attention, she would dig her claws into the fabric and leave thin lines. You hope that someone took her in.

She probably thought you abandoned her.

"Cats."

Chrollo hums in acknowledgment and continues scrolling through whatever he's looking at - maybe news or auction listings, you don't know nor do you really care. You shift under the blanket, pulling your legs closer to your body.

"We can get one, if you'd like."

"No."

Your answer is immediate and short, without thinking. You know it, you know him by now - there's nothing Chrollo does out of spontaneous generosity, it always benefits him in some way. And you've studied him enough to figure that any pet would only be a tool to keep you tamed and compliant. Puppies make life better. Happier, lighter, with goofy smiling faces and wiggling tails. Cats make life better with soft purrs and paws stomping on your chest. They're too easy to love.

"Why not?" There's a sound of tablet set on a wooden surface.

The girl on the screen is trying to solve a combination lock on the box when the TV switches off and your little world of carefully shot scenes and scripted lines vanishes. You don't need to turn around to guess where's the remote.

She almost had it, but now you won't know what's inside until Thursday evening.

Your reflection stares back from the dead screen, blank-faced and with a blanket pulled up your nose. It tickles a bit. "Because I don't want one."

A chair creaks. "Why?"

You close your eyes shut for a moment before opening them again. This is tiring. Always probing, digging, pushing. Trying to find chinks in your armor, but all you're wearing is just a flimsy dress with thin straps and a blanket you wish could swallow you whole.

"Don't need it."

"You said you like animals," Chrollo sits next to you and places a hand on top of your covered legs. He squeezes your thigh and you stare ahead, wishing he would just leave you alone tonight.

"I do." Your fingers twitch under the blanket, nails scratching at the fabric.

Strange. Sometimes it feels like he understands perfectly that you want to be alone, have time for yourself and don't want his constant physical presence. At the same time Chrollo brushes this all aside like old tin foil wrappers - insignificant. He pulls the blanket down and you cling on it stubbornly for a few seconds before letting go. His thumb and index finger grasp your chin and turn your face towards him so you have no choice but to meet his eyes.

There's such still intensity within him that made your skin crawl whenever he looked at you with this much focus and attention. You don't know what he saw there most times, it used to be fear or anger or sadness - right now it's none of these things. Everything inside you feels jammed and stiff.

"We should get a fish then," he continues, brushing hair out of your forehead. "You can watch it swim around, wouldn't that be nice?"

Chrollo talks to you like this sometimes, as if you're a child who needs to be convinced to eat veggies or take medicine. Like you're simple-minded and he's reasoning with you out of good will. It's sickening. You hate it.

"I don't want a pet," you repeat the words slowly. "If you're going to give me something only to take it away, then I don't want it."

His finger leisurely stroking your chin pauses at the edge of your bottom lip. Something flickers behind his eyes, it's barely noticeable but you've become good at catching those minuscule shifts. He smiles, yet there's nothing joyful about it. "Take it away? Why would I do that, dear?"

"Because that's what you do. Because that's how you are." You don't try to pull free from his hold, he'll only tighten it; not enough to hurt, no, he is too suave and polished for that - or wants to appear so - but enough for you to feel trapped under his palm.

There's something off about you, you can tell, but are not quite able to discern what or where. It sits in the very structure of your bones and eats away with ravenous appetite. An imbalance in the gut. Fever-warm body, cold fingers. Thoughts like potholes.

"And how am I exactly, according to you?" His voice is light, playful, a stark contrast to his eyes that study you with unnerving precision. Chrollo rarely loses his temper and never gets violent with you (yet, you correct yourself), but he has other ways of expressing displeasure, and they're petty, ugly and cold.

"Cruel," the word rolls off your tongue so effortlessly that almost frightens you; it's easy to tell the truth when you're this numb.

He looks taken aback for a split second, and the smile freezes. His hand stops midway to your hair. Then everything's gone.

Chrollo releases you and leans back into the cushions, almost thoughtful, like your observation is something that requires careful consideration.

"I suppose, it depends," he says finally.

"On what?"

"On how you choose to see things. Your perspective is bound to be biased, dear."

You don't respond.

To continue this conversation would be pointless and circular, like running on a treadmill, like everything else between you and Chrollo, really. He simply has too many answers to any possible argument, and no matter how convincing you manage to make them sound, he'll poke holes into each one. You don't want a fish. Or a cat. Or a dog, a bird, anything that moves and breathes and looks at you with big, trusting eyes.

Chrollo is cruel. Not in a way that's straightforward and brutal. Not in a way of someone who'd tear your limbs apart or rip off a fly's wing to see it wiggle. You have no doubt that he is capable of such a thing, but that would be uncouth. Cruelty in his case is a quieter, more delicate affair - in a way of a sculptor who'd chisel off everything unnecessary and unneeded, no matter the size or significance, to produce something entirely his.

His hands are soft, his voice is always composed, and he wears well tailored clothes. But the rest is sharp, clean and merciless.

"I think I'll go to bed," you say and push away the blanket.

"It's early."

"Mm."

He takes your hand just as you're about to slide off the sofa. Chrollo's always faster than you, always ahead and always observing, and that little realization while bitter is not so shocking anymore, more like another fact that you file away from your interactions.

You watch him. Wait.

"You're distraught," he says. "But you should know by now that there's no need for that."

Your hand remains in his grasp, limp and heavy.

"I don't enjoy seeing you upset, dear. Even more if you make false conclusions."

You turn to see the expression on his face - and there isn't one, at least not the type that most people would make. There are no frowning eyebrows, no clenched jaw that would indicate irritation, nothing like that.

"You're giving me too little credit," his tone is quiet as he runs his fingers up and down your wrist. "My intentions are not to hurt you. They are much, much sweeter than that."

"But you would," you say quietly and lean closer, ignoring the obvious implication behind his words. There is a hollow sensation inside of your head that prompts you to speak, everything is hollow - body and mind, heart, the space in your guts, your throat. "You would hurt me, if that's what you thought was necessary. Rip me apart and leave me deformed beyond repair, to fit into whatever framework you've laid, you would do that."

You're not being deliberately cryptic or fatalistic. These are your observations, based on a period of months spent together. They take root in no one being there for you anymore, in your phone which is long gone, in your closed accounts, your missing laptop and old clothes, the entire previous life in the city that has been discarded for something new. Chrollo was very methodical, you can give him that.

He doesn't listen, he studies your responses. Every single word. He has a talent for that, for absorbing everything about you while hardly ever letting you glimpse his interior - all that you know about him are tiny slivers which you picked up through living together, observation, accidental bits.

You expect him to contradict your statement, to offer a logical explanation why you're wrong, but instead Chrollo brings your hand to his lips and presses a kiss against your knuckles. The touch is light and dry.

"You're not entirely wrong, dear," he says and moves closer until you can smell his aftershave, something fresh.

His proximity is uncomfortable, it always is and probably always will be.

"I'm right then," you say.

"No," he keeps your hand in his grasp. "But you're not entirely wrong either. That's what makes you interesting."

There's a strange kind of fondness in his voice, it's subtle, yet undeniably present. You've never felt less interesting in your life, in a dress with thin straps that's too fancy for a lazy day at home and your bare feet and tangled hair.

"If you say so," you respond and slowly tug your hand free. "I really want to sleep now."

You get up, and he lets you go without another proposition. The blanket falls off onto the sofa, and before you slip into the semi-darkness of the bedroom, he says,

"Not beyond repair. But I like to believe we can both agree it doesn't have to come to that."

***

The drive feels endless. Houses and streets blur in a mix of colors, shapes and people, which soon change to an empty highway with greenery on both sides. Trees and fields, tall grass swaying gently in the wind and rare cars passing you by. Chrollo's hand is resting on your leg; he hasn't moved it since the car started, but you choose to ignore it in favor of your regular pastime, the one that's made of imaginary worlds and places where the timeline stretches differently.

Mostly it's just you and the layout of your fake apartment.

Imagine, remake, slip. Repeat the steps until it becomes muscle memory.

You have this daydream on loop now. Wooden floor and wide windows, lots of sunlight. Books everywhere, comfy clothes and not a single skirt in your closet. A cup of tea with honey in the morning, and Miss Whiskerton curled into a soft grey ball on your lap. You feed her salmon in a shiny bowl, occasionally she catches a lizard outside and drops the tail on your doorstep as an offering, looking immensely proud of herself.

A smile slips on your face without meaning to, a wobbly thing; you promptly wipe it off.

It would be a crime to show such blatant joy. This fantasy has become so sweetly personal that every fiber of your being resists even acknowledging it in front of Chrollo. He can sense a stray happy thought from miles away, like a hound, and will never stop prodding until everything is raw and tender. You've learned to say less in his presence, especially if it's something that has you invested. Chrollo knows how to pick things apart.

You lean your cheek against the glass. This world would never happen, never in a million years, but dreaming doesn't hurt anyone, does it?

Your grandma, wearing an apron, sets a tray filled with fresh pastries on a table, because she's amazing like that. She fusses and worries and pretends to scold you. For not calling enough, for not coming sooner, for not eating well. For leaving.

"Dear."

You almost jump.

Chrollo's voice brings you back where his hand is heavy on your leg, you're wearing a dress above the knee and aren't allowed to use scissors or knives.

"Mm?"

"That frown of yours," he says, turning into a small road. The surroundings change again, it's quiet here, not a soul in sight. "It's been there for fifteen minutes now."

You sit up straight and move your hair out of your eyes. Chrollo's a perceptive one, so this is a reminder not to sink too deep around him, unless you absolutely need it.

"Was just thinking."

"You do it a lot lately," he states and looks at you from the corner of his eye.

True, but you have no intention to confirm it. First, he won't like the reason behind these thoughts. Second, he will dig and try to worm his way in. No. Most of what you've been fixating on, staring out of the window like a mindless drone, or reading and rereading pages that you barely grasped, would fail to create anything more complex in his heart than desire to pull it out.

For whatever twisted reason, Chrollo cares for your well-being, or, more precisely, your acceptance of his advances. Yet his way of caring isn't nurturing in any sense.

Chrollo's interest (you don't dare call it love) is crushing, too heavy to carry - he'll find what troubles you and "fix it" in way that will twist it into something pathetic. Something that shows how you have nothing else to cling on but him. You're not stupid enough to keep falling into this trap. Being a slow learner doesn't mean you don't learn at all.

He's done it before. He'll do it again. So you reply, "I haven't noticed."

His thumb rubs circles on your thigh; you press your shoulder against the car door as if hoping it might open. It doesn't, much to your disappointment.

"What was on your mind then?"

Something you shouldn't tell him, that's for sure. Chrollo's watching you, even if his eyes are trained on the road.

"Random stuff," you say. Half-truths, half-truths are safe. "A weird dream I had this morning."

If you bothered to look, you'd see a raised eyebrow and the faintest hint of amusement at the corners of his mouth. You don't.

"Tell me."

You hate when he does that.

"It was boring."

"I'm interested in anything that made you so pensive."

Chrollo likes conversations with you, even if they're short. You can tell that he does, or he wouldn't be trying to make you talk and getting subtly frustrated when you choose not to. It never shows outright, Chrollo is very gifted at keeping his calm exterior, but there are certain giveaways like the slight tightening of his hand, an emphasized "dear", a pause here, or a quiet exhale through the nose. You could make a list out of these.

If you ignore him, he gets quiet and handsy or petty enough to throw away the only dress you feel comfortable in. Stop bringing you new books. Take you to places you hate.

It's always the small things that kill you, not the big, dramatic ones. The devils in the details.

"There was a lizard," you begin, and he hums in response, prompting you to continue. "It was cute with brown spots and a tiny tail."

Lies weave themselves easily, intertwine with truths and turn it into something that resembles a story.

"It was sitting on my windowsill and I wanted to pet it. A cat came out of nowhere and almost ate it, then I woke up. It's a silly dream."

There. Nothing to dissect here, not that you can see. Just a nonsensical dream, filled with random happenings and strange emotions.

"And that's why you frowned for fifteen minutes?"

"Yes, I got sad."

Yes, you think. Yes, Chrollo. I frowned, because I care for the damn lizard that doesn't exist, an animal from a dream. A stupid musing, nothing special, a very mundane and simple thing, because people do have silly dreams sometimes, and it's not a crime. It's not a crime and has nothing to do with that fact that I have a whole dream world where I'm not with you in my head.

"How peculiar. You never struck me as the type to get upset over something like this."

"You never asked," you respond flatly and Chrollo's hand on your thigh moves an inch.

It brushes up, closer to where you really, really don't want it to be, so you squeeze his fingers hard and redirect them to the curve of your knee.

"True," he says after a pause, not sounding too bothered. A month ago you would've brushed his hand off completely, probably that's why. Chrollo is convinced that with enough patience and effort he'll be able to close that final barrier between you both. Time, coaxing, a dose or two of endearment, some carefully calculated touch - but you'd rather stick a knife through your ribs than have sex with him. Or his patience will simply run out and he'll rape you. You're not delusional. Not a fool. "Well, that can be fixed. I'll make sure to ask about your dreams more often, dear."

You lean back into the seat and stare ahead, this time without anything pleasant on your mind. Of course he will. Of course he'll take this as a sign to dig deeper and invade that small bit of solace, Chrollo can't simply co-exist. He wants it all.

"Mm," you say.

Your new vocabulary is such a handy thing.

#hunter x hunter #chrollo lucilfer #yandere chrollo #yandere chrollo lucilfer #yandere #hunter x hunter fanfic #chrollo lucifer x reader #shalott fanfiction

[tip-top-cloud-surfer]

The Danger Zone (Part 18) - Hangman

Pairing: Hangman / Fem!Bradshaw!Reader | OC

Word Count: 3.9k

This work, all my works, and my entire blog are 18+ ONLY.

Warnings: Unplanned Pregnancy; Military Inaccuracies; Medical Inaccuracies; Crying; Angst; Family Drama; Deployments; Use of "You," No Use of Y/N, No Set Physical Description

Summary: You try to adapt to life without Jake beside you anymore.

Series Master List

Master List

Dear Jake,

You probably haven’t even reached the aircraft carrier yet. You might even still be on the ground in Miramar. But I couldn’t wait. I miss you. You’ve been gone for less than five hours, and I already miss you so much. I'm not saying that to try and make you feel bad, but because it's the only thing on my mind now.

Everyone offered to take me out today to try and distract me, but I declined. I think that I just want some time to myself. I honestly don't even want to get out of bed. Maybe I’ll do some cleaning. Or who knows? Maybe I’m an accomplished knitter who hasn’t discovered her talent yet. Or maybe I’ll bake again. I don’t know. 

Also, all of the tee shirts you left behind are now mine. Sorry, it’s just wife rules. You shouldn’t have married me and knocked me up if you didn’t want me to steal your stuff. 

I miss you. I love you. And so does our little girl. Come home safe, Lieutenant Commander. That’s an order. 

Love,

Your Wife

~~~~~

Dear Jake,

I went back to work today. Everyone tried to talk to me about you and the wedding and everything, but I just wanted to be left alone. Also, my cravings are all over the place now. And half of the stuff seems to make me throw up these days. Luckily, I still have the gum and toothbrush in my desk. 

How’s everything? I assumed that you made it to the carrier by now. Or maybe you’re somewhere else entirely.

You know all of those spy movies over romanticize how sexy it is to be waiting at home for your husband to return home from some top secret mission.

It’s not sexy. It’s just annoying. 

Here’s a photo of me and my bump. Don’t mind the mess in the background, I’m rearranging the whole apartment. Call it nervous organizing. It'll be cleaned up. Eventually.

She’s been a shy ever since you left. I can still feel her moving around, but even she seems to have realized that you're gone. I think that she just misses you. And I can’t blame her because I miss you too. 

I love you, Jake. Come home safely.

Love,

Your Wife

~~~~~

Dear Jake, 

I got the package that you bought for me. I hope that you know that if you were here, I would have given you a rerun of that time that we went to that desert concert. The one where you wouldn't remove your hands from my waist for a second. I hope that your big promotion doesn’t change how much you enjoyed it when I tied your hands up back in your truck. 

Our daughter’s been moving around like crazy today ever since I played your voice for her. She doesn’t seem to be willing to kick yet, but we’ll get there in time. 

I let Emma take me out today. We just took a walk around her neighborhood. Baby girl finally went to bed after that. But knowing her, she’ll wake up just in time for me to go to bed. 

Here’s our photo from today. Emma took it. I can’t believe I’m going to get even bigger. You owe me a deep tissue massage on my back when you get home. And I’ll hold you to it. 

We love you and miss you, Jake. 

Love,

Your Wife

~~~~~

Dear Jake,

I couldn’t take it anymore. I moved in with Mav today. I thought I wanted to be alone, but I was wrong. Being alone with my thoughts just makes me sad and lonely and I don’t want our daughter to bake in that. She needs to inherit your smile and dimples, so I’m making a bigger effort to be happy. 

Penny took me to get my nails done today. I got a light pink for our daughter, but now everyone’s assuming that we’re having a girl. I haven’t confirmed it because we didn’t discuss it before you left but don’t be shocked when you come home to a lot of pink. 

I also started seriously researching some girl names. I never realized how many people I don’t like until I started trying to name our daughter. And you better speak up if any of the ones that I suggest are ones that have bad meanings to you.

I’m still digging through a whole bunch of lists but there’s such weird ones out there, Jake. And we cannot name our child something that would get us a look from her teachers. Or a stripper name.

I love you. Baby girl is behaving herself, but she misses you.

Love,

Your Wife

~~~~~

To My Beautiful Wife,

I finally got a chance to check my email. We’re settled on the carrier now, but we’ve been doing a lot of drills and long briefings. I'm sorry that I haven't written earlier. Know that the two of you are always on my mind.

I’m glad you got your gift. I tried to record what I could think of for our baby girl. I don’t want her to miss anything. And I don’t want her keeping you up at night. Has she kicked yet? By my count, you’re hitting seven months in a day or two.

Thanks for sending me those photos. I put up one of the two of you from that photo shoot in my plane. Really brightens up the place. But it also reminds me of what I’m missing. Sometimes I have to take it down so I can focus.

I miss you. I miss our little girl. Every day, every hour, every second. 

Try to relax. I know that everyone’s probably told you that a thousand times by now, but I don’t want you feeling stressed about me. I’m fine and I'll be home as soon as I can. Please tell me that you didn’t lift anything heavy while you were moving into Mav’s house. Or maybe it's better if you don't tell me.

And you can tell everyone about her. I don’t mind. It’s not like we could keep it a secret for much longer anyways. But make sure to mention that I was right. 

And you have to tell me the worst names that you've seen on these lists. I left a list of baby names I liked in my nightstand. I'd research them when I couldn't sleep at night.

I love you and I love our daughter. I’ll try to be home soon.

Your Husband,

Jake

~~~~~

Dear Jake,

I had my seven month appointment today. Baby girl is healthy and still measuring a little small. But her heartbeat is strong and I can tell that she’s going to be stubborn coming out. The doctor says that it’s only a matter of time before she starts kicking. 

I hope that the ocean isn’t too rough and you can see the stars. I remember when Mav and I spent a month in Hawaii when I was a teenager. We saw the most beautiful stars there. What if we picked a star name for our daughter? Not Stella, though. That was our dog's name growing up and I can't name my daughter after a dog.

I didn’t lift anything. Mav wouldn’t let me. And neither would Bradley. They’re watching me like hawks these days. And no, I didn’t mean that as a bird joke. Also, I can’t name our daughter after a bird. I’m trying to end the family streak of joke names. 

Mckeighleigh was the most ridiculous looking name I’ve seen so far. And we’re not naming our daughter Precious either. Or worse, Chastity. I don’t know how those nurses keep a straight face when they hear those names. 

And your recording telling her to go to bed has come in handy lately. Though I did warn her that we’ll be discussing the fact that she only seems to listen to you about that when she comes out. 

I love you so much Jake. You’ll be home soon, I know it. And we’ll be waiting for you when you do. 

Love,

Your Wife

~~~~~

Dear Jake,

I can't fall asleep, so I’m writing to you instead. And no, it wasn’t our baby girl who kept me up. I’ve had the worst heartburn these days. And Tums don’t do shit. They say that means that our daughter will come out with a full head of hair. I say that I'd take a bald baby in exchange for better sleep.

My baby shower is in a few days. Next weekend. Emma and Phoenix said that it was going to be relatively small, and I hope that they stick to it. I’m not really in the mood to see a lot of people anymore.

I yelled at Bradley the other day for making an omelet with three eggs because he left an egg in the carton without a 'friend' because he left an egg alone in its row since there was an odd number of eggs. Apparently, I kept crying about it for a while, but in all honesty, I don’t really remember much of that conversation. I’m pretty sure that Bradley’s keeping his distance now. You probably would have enjoyed seeing his face. 

I asked for a little box at my baby shower to put name suggestions in. I’m running out of ideas. I keep worrying that we’re going to name her something stupid. 

Baby girl is growing bigger, and I can’t believe that I’m still going to get fatter. I’m struggling to grab things off of the floor now. Maverick got me one of those grabby things that old people use. You would probably find it hilarious.

I love you. I miss you. I’ll write to you tomorrow. 

Love,

Your Wife

~~~~~

“Thank you,” you told Emma as she handed you a lemonade. 

Emma and Penny took you out for the day to spend some time out of Mav’s house. You were growing increasingly less interested in leaving your 'nest,' as Bradley nicknamed it, and they were trying their best to get you motivated to go out and continue to live your life.

You had done some shopping for a dress to wear to your baby shower and now the three of you were getting a snack before you’d head over to the Hard Deck for the rest of the afternoon. You chatted for a moment before you sighed, slowly got to your feet, and grabbed your purse from your chair. 

“Bathroom?” Emma asked you.

“Where else?” you joked, walking off. 

A few minutes later, as you were washing your hands at the sink, you looked up when another woman stepped inside the bathroom. You offered her a friendly smile before her familiarity suddenly struck you. Quickly drying your hands, you reached for your bag and turned to leave. But the woman stood directly in your path.

She had stripes of gray cutting through what appeared to be deep auburn hair. She carried herself with a sense of purpose. And an expensive handbag. She reminded you of some of the women you used to see at the country club that you worked at in college. The type who turned a blind eye when their pig husbands made some demeaning comment to the women on staff and were never seen without some kind of drink in their perfectly manicured hands.  

“You know who I am?” Georgia Seresin asked softly.

You stared her down, gripping the strap of you bag tightly. Your heart was beating hard in your chest, and you could practically feel the rhythm in your ears. Taking a breath and releasing it, you tilted your chin up and narrowed your eyes at her.

“What are you doing here?” you demanded quietly, looking around the small public bathroom. No one else was in there except for the two of you. “Are you stalking me?”

“I came to California when my son didn’t respond to my letter.”

“I wonder why?” you wondered sarcastically.

“What did he tell you?”  

“Everything,” you stated firmly. “Which is why I would appreciate it if you stopped acting like it was just a coincidence that you ran into me here, hundreds of miles from your home, when Jake is conveniently deployed.” You paused for a moment before repeating through gritted teeth, “Why are you here?”

“To talk to you. About my son.”

“What about your son?”

“I know that your child isn’t here yet, but when they’re born, perhaps you can understand how much pain it could cause a mother to miss out on their child’s wedding or the process of them expecting their first child. From a mother to a mother—”

“—I’m going to stop you right there.”

You tried to keep your tears of anger in as you thought about Jake’s expression when he told you about his childhood. When you thought about the pain that you could hear in his tone, that you could feel radiating off of him.

“Because a woman who calls herself a mother would never do the things that you did. You stole him from a poor girl who loved him. You lied to her, promising that you would take care of him and love him. And then you turned around and fed him to the wolves." Nostrils flaring and angry tears threatening to fall, you added, "Did you ever even tell him that you loved him?"

“Of course, we did,” she admonished.

“Did you? Did you tell him that you were proud of him? That you loved him no matter what happened?” you snapped, trying to keep your voice even. “Every night my mom told me that she loved me and that she was proud of me. How many times did you tell Jake that, Georgia? How is a child supposed to just know that if you don’t tell them?” Shaking your head as you let out a shaky breath, you turned back to her. “And just so you know, there won’t be a day where Jake doesn’t tell our child that he loves them. Not one.”

Georgia adjusted her handbag on her shoulder and pursed her lips together. Clearly, she wasn’t used to being spoken to in this manner, but you didn’t give a shit about her feelings. 

“Did you come here to convince me to talk Jake into speaking to you again? To buy my baby from me? A combination of the two? Does your husband know that you’re here? Is he waiting outside?”

Georgia took another moment to compose herself from your questions. She glanced down at the rings on your finger before meeting your gaze again.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that Jake selected a woman as . . . outspoken as you,” Georgia stated, adjusting her handbag again. “No, my husband does not know that I’m here. And I’m not here to buy my grandchild. I’m here to try and get through to my son and I’ve realized that the best way to do that would be through you. The woman he married and is having a child of his own with.”

Your eyes flashed with annoyance at Georgia's words.

“I have no interest in having a relationship with you because Jake doesn’t have an interest in it.”

“There’s nothing I can do to persuade you to speak with him about me?” Georgia pressed, an edge of desperation in her tone. 

“No, there’s not.”

“You would deny your child a set of grandparents?”

“I will protect my child from people who hurt their father.”

Forcing yourself to take a breath, you stared down Georgia for a moment. She looked far more pathetic than you knew she was comfortable with. Apparently, she thought that she would just waltz in, and you would agree with her without any pushback.

But she couldn't have been more wrong.

“You know, when Jake told me about his upbringing, I honestly felt a bit of sympathy for you, Georgia. Maybe you were convinced that being a rich housewife to a pathetic little man was a better life than being loved by a poor man. And I’m sure that your husband hasn’t been kind to you over the years.” 

The rage flashed to the surface again as she turned away from you for a moment. 

“But how could you look another woman in the eye and convince her to hand over an innocent baby to a man that you knew would be a horrible father? That you knew would hurt that baby?”

After a moment, you walked past Georgia, who did not move to block your path this time. You opened the door and strode out of there and you didn't dare look back. Trying to gather yourself, you looked up to see Emma and Penny a few steps away from you. 

“Are you okay? We were getting worried," Emma questioned with clear concern.

“Fine. Let’s get going to the Hard Deck,” you stated, already turning towards the parking lot. 

“What happened?” Penny asked, studying your expression. You didn’t reply and just kept marching towards the parking lot until Penny rested a hand on your shoulder, forcing you to slow down. “You’re shaking. What’s wrong?”

“Jake’s mom walked into the bathroom,” you explained quietly, looking over your shoulder. 

“What?"

“She knew where you were?” Penny asked urgently, looking around with a protective stare. Wrapping her arm around your shoulders, she encouraged you forward again. “Come on, let’s get going.”

~~~~~

Maverick’s face darkened after you finished with your explanation about what happened at the mall. Grabbing his phone, he got up from the table with a serious expression.

“I’m going to make a call,” he stated firmly. “They can’t stalk you and your child. I don’t care who the hell that they think they are in Texas. That’s not going to fly out here. That’s not going to continue.”

“Who are you calling?” you asked as Maverick walked off. 

“An old contact. I’ll be right back.”

Penny told you to just let Mav make the call as the remaining four of you remained seated at the table. You twisted your engagement ring around your finger nervously, sharing a look with Emma and Bradley, who sat across from you. 

“She didn’t try to hurt me—”

“—Doesn’t matter,” Bradley interjected quickly. “It’s creepy and it’s over the line and it’s going to stop. Now. Just let Mav make his call. He'll handle it.”

“I know,” you sighed, holding your head in your hands. “Jake is going to freak out when I tell him.”

“You’re going to tell him right away?”

“I can’t hide it from him. It might take me some time to find the words, but I have to tell him.”

Penny hugged you to her side and rubbed your back with her hand, giving you the maternal support that you really needed in that moment. You sighed and leaned against her, desperately wishing that Jake would be home soon.

“Everything will be alright. We’re going to figure this out.”

~~~~~

Dear Jake,

I hope that everything is running smoothly where you are. And that you read this email sooner rather than later. 

Penny and Emma took me to the shops yesterday and when I was trying to leave the bathroom, I ran into your mother. She came up from Texas and she told me that she wanted to talk to me about you. Said something about using me to convince you to talk to her again. I told her that I wasn’t interested in that because you weren’t interested in that. She let me leave after that. 

I don’t want to stress you out or make you feel like you have to do anything when you’re so far away, but I wanted to be honest with you. Mav’s made a few calls and he seems to think that he has a solution. Don’t stress about us, just focus on your mission and coming home safely in one piece. 

We love you, Jake. And we’re safe, we’re fine. And we miss you. 

Love,

Your Wife

~~~~~ 

Folding some fresh laundry in Maverick's house a few days later, you looked up when you heard your phone buzz. An unknown number was calling you and despite your hesitation, you answered it. 

“Hello?”

“Hi, Honey.”

“Jake?” you whispered out shakily, holding a hand to your mouth. Moving to sit, you tried to calm yourself down and not just simply sob. “How are you calling me?”

“I have my ways,” Jake replied teasingly. Growing more serious, he asked, “Are you alright?”

“We’re fine, Jake.” 

“I’m so sorry, Honey. She never should have been anywhere near the two of you.”

“We’re fine,” you repeated softly. “She didn’t threaten us. If anyone was threatening anyone, it was me.”

“That’s my wife,” Jake praised, causing you to smile bashfully. “But my father wasn’t there, right? It was just my mother?”

“Yeah. She said that he didn’t know that she was there, and I didn’t see him around.”

“Good. I’ll deal with them when I get home.”

“Okay.” After a moment you asked, “How much longer do you have?”

“Less than a minute. I’m sorry, Honey, I just needed to know that the two of you were okay. They thought that I was having some kind of stroke when I read your email and I managed to convince them to let me call you.”

“At least one good thing came out of the whole shitshow,” you sighed, resting a hand on your bump. “I love—”

You froze when you felt your daughter press her foot against your hand. Jake felt his heart leap into his throat when you cut yourself off and stop talking without a clear reason.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“She’s kicking,” you whispered softly.

“What?”

“Jake, she’s kicking. Our daughter is kicking!”

“She’s kicking?”

“Yes, she’s kicking,” you laughed, before your joy dimmed and tears pooled in your eyelids. Sniffling, you croaked out, “I love you so much, Jake. We love you so much.”

“I love you too. And I miss you so fucking much, Honey. And I’m so sorry that I’m not there.”

“Hangman, time’s up,” Jake heard from behind him, causing him to look over his shoulder. 

“I’ve got to go, Honey,” he replied, grinding his jaw to try and stave off the tears. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too. Bye, Jake.”

The line went dead, and you slowly placed your phone down. Holding your hand to your mouth, you finally let out your sobs. And about a thousand emotions that you'd tried keeping in ever since Jake was forced to leave you. 

Your daughter was finally kicking, but her father wasn’t here to feel her. And the thought only made you sob harder. 

Back on the carrier, Jake rubbed the tears that leaked from his eyes. 

He missed it. He fucking missed it. He missed his daughter kicking for the first time. He wasn’t there when his mother showed up out of nowhere and accosted you in a public bathroom. He wasn’t going to be there for your baby shower.

Jake had anticipated that deploying while you were heavily pregnant was going to be difficult. But he didn’t realize that it was going to be impossible, killing him slowly from the inside out. 

“Hangman?”

“I’m coming,” Jake called back, clearing his throat. “I’m coming.”

Tags (PRETTY PLEASE have your AGE on your blog or message me about it to be tagged--thank you!):

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@mrsjobarnes @wishiwasacasualfan @bethabear12 @everythingmarveltopgun @hardballoonlove @mavrellover91 @senjoritanana @sophiaslastbraincell @xoxabs88xox @emma8895eb @dempy @harperdoodle @itsmytimetoodream @sarahjoestewy-blog @the-annoying-fan @athenabarnes @midnightmagpiemama @praline357 @sucker4seresin @sunsetsimpsblog @sgt-barnesveins @abaker74 @shanimallina87 @kellyls04 @trickphotography2 @kmc1989 @boiolay @offical-potato @topgun-imagines @caitsymichelle13 @daddymack01 @hangmandruigandmav @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @lilylilyyyyyy @lillunna @bcon24 @ashcosmo @blackwidownat2814 @specialagentjackbauer @percysaidnever @silenthappyplace @buckysteveloki-me @havlindzk @hookslove1592 @mamachasesmayhem @aviatorobsessed @marvelogic @ems-alexandra @harrysgothicbitch @shawnsblue @shiara04 @erindiggory @eloquentdreamer @tomanyfandomstrash @grxcisxhy-wp

#top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick #top gun: maverick #top gun #tgm fanfiction #tgm #jake hangman seresin #the danger zone #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin x you #jake seresin #jake seresin x you #jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #hangman x you #hangman series #jake seresin fic #hangman x wife!reader #hangman fic #jake seresin fanfiction

[bettsfic]

Betts. how do I stop feeling jealous of everyone and everything and just focus on myself? I'm tired of being comprised of nothing but envy.

story time:

so i was recently at Millay, which is one of the top artist residencies in the country. they have an acceptance rate of something like 3%. when i was shown my room, there was a packet of all the residents' artist bios. i sat down and read through all of them. most of them were like half a page in length, single-spaced, listing out accomplishments i could never dream of. one artist had won a guggenheim. one author had published 12 books. another author published her first book at 19 years old. these were people who were extremely well accomplished and respected in their fields.

and we all became very good friends!

and then there was me. my bio was 3 sentences listing out a couple short publications and awards and other residencies i'd done. and my honest to god first thought was, "wow, the jurors must have really liked my writing to have accepted me among all these great artists."

and my second thought was, "that's the healthiest thing i have ever thought."

i had no jealousy of their accomplishments. even though my career hadn't even begun compared to theirs, i didn't attend dinner that night with any impostor syndrome. and that confirmed for me that i had grown out of whatever place i used to be in as a person, where i was basically a raw wound wrapped in barbed wire. everything hurt me and i hurt everything in return.

jealous feelings come from an intense need of external approval, but as i've mentioned in other asks, approval and validation is a well that gets filled over time. at our introductory dinner that night, i didn't talk about my work in the hope of convincing everyone i deserved to be there, which was what i would've done a few years before. instead we all ended up talking about a TV show. the most highbrow place i've ever been in my life, and we're getting wine drunk and discussing at length a cheesy discovery channel reality series. the guggenheim winner: loves box turtles. the guy who's published 12 books: his favorite movie is Spirited Away. the girl who published a book at 19: reads One Direction fanfic. the well-lauded poet: old school tumblrina.

actually, 4 out of 7 of us read fanfic and we had some great conversations about it. sometime i'll tell you about introducing the co-director of the residency to AO3.

when you think of the most accomplished and successful writer you've ever read, remember that they are, at the very core of their being, a nerd. and if you were to eat dinner with them, you would, with enough polite inquisitiveness, be able to unlock the goofy side of them that binges Property Brothers.

so that was the big change for me, i think. i started asking a lot of questions. i stopped talking and i started listening. it seems counterintuitive that admitting to not knowing stuff shows confidence, but it does. pretending you know stuff is what looks insecure. i think for me, i put so much of myself in my work, i wanted my work to be lauded so i could feel accomplished, and feeling accomplishment would let me believe i deserved to exist. but over time, i've reframed that mentality. my work is a thing that exists beyond me and is private to those who read it. it comes from me, but it is not me. what i am is just the person i am, and my life is a series of moments i choose for myself, and i am allowed to exist.

even sending this ask shows that you've begun filling your well. it takes someone who's already come a long way to realize jealousy isn't the status quo and is a feeling to be overcome. and you can overcome it. you can reach a place where you have enough success that other people's success has nothing to do with you, and you're free to just be happy for them. and when you read work that's better than yours you feel joy at learning something new.

so put your work into the world and let it be rejected. you'll rack up a couple wins or close calls, and those will give you energy to be rejected some more. and eventually you'll be rejected so much that rejection doesn't feel like anything, and you will have won enough to realize your work has a place in the world, and that place is no bigger or smaller than anyone else's. your work is allowed to exist simply as it is, and you are allowed to exist simply as you are.

#writing advice #feelings #jealousy

[writers-potion]

Do you have any nicknames? Not stereotypical ones like “honey, sweetie”, but ones that maybe a character won’t like at first but grows to love??

Charcter Nickname Ideas

Hmmm this is actually a tricky one to answer.

Each character will have their own set of cultural backgrounds, quirks, strengths, weaknesses and relationship dynamics, which can all contribute to a nickname.

Here are some common things writers do for nicknames:

Shorten their given name. Mireya becomes Rey. Christopher becomes Chris.

Alter their given name. If you add a “y” sound, it implies the person using the nickname thinks of the character as young or childlike. So Alexa becomes Lexie. William becomes Billy.

Base their nickname on a physical trait. This can be straightforward or ironic. The large man is Tiny. The pretty girl named Honor is Bell/Beauty.

Pick a personality trait. School kids might call your main character Sassy Cassy. The con man might be called Prince Charming because of his smooth-talking skills.

Base their nickname on their profession or an accomplishment. So many characters are called Doc, Prof, or Chairman.

Base it on Monsters: ie. Balrog, Loch, Golen, Orthros, Baal, etc.

Base it on Mythology. Lots of authors have used names from Greek/Roman mythology, and readers have loved it!

Here are two personal examples:

Use initials. My name is Junhui Lee, and those who aren't familar with Asian names struggle to pronoun it correctly. So I just go by "JH"

In Korean culture, (1) people's names are usually three chracters: ie. Jun+hui+Lee and (2) We put surnames in front, not at the back of our names: ie. Lee Junhui, not Junhui Lee. Close friends would address each other as "surname + first character of the given name". So my friends would call me Lee Jun.

A character not liking their nickname

Doesn't necessary mean it has to be a funny nickname. They can dislike it because they somehow feel like only their parents/siblings call them that, or they feel childish, or the tone in which the other person says it is too teasing.

Depends on the origin and meaning behind the nickname. Was it made up by bullies in primary school and its just happened to stick? Was it given to them by their late grandparents? The anme

That said, here are some examples!

Vivienne: Vivvy, Vienne, Viv, Vee

Niamh: Nia, Neeve, Iya

Athena: Ath, Thea

Hazel: Haze, Zelly, Elle

Bloom: Bee, Bloomy, Blommer, Bloo

Coral: Cora, Coralie, Cori, Coral-B

Alaric: Larry, Lars

Ulysses: Ollie, Ulie

Adin: Ade, Ad, Bin, Dinny

Nicolas: Nick, Nico, Nicky

Daniel: Dan, Danny, Dannyboy, Niel

Adreil: Ad, Adri, Riel, El

Louisa: Lulu

+ this list because I've been trying to come up with nicknames for my bloothirsty character...

Steelshot

Crank

Rigs

Skinner

Skull Crusher

Wardon

Zero

Ironclad

Iron Heart

Billy the Butcher

Mr. Blonde

K-6

Hell-Raiser

Harbinger

Finisher

I hope this helps :)

#writing #writers and poets #creative writing #writers on tumblr #helping writers #let's write #writeblr #creative writers #poets and writers #resources for writers #writing process #writing community #writing inspiration #writing tips #writing advice #writer #on writing #writing prompt #writerscommunity #writers of tumblr #writers life #writers community #writers block #writer things #writer on tumblr #writer stuff #writer problems #writer community #writblr

[togrowoldinv]

Heartbeat

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

When Yelena gets in a car accident, you reunite with her and her sister after years of not seeing each other

Note: I love Natasha and I love Yelena so here’s this. Enjoy!

Natasha Romanoff Masterlist 1, Natasha Romanoff Masterlist 2, Main Masterlist

When you got a call in the middle of the night, you knew it was nothing good. You listened carefully as the doctor told you that your best friend had been in a car accident.

Your brain racked as you tried to think of who that might be. Then she told you her name. Yelena. You haven’t seen her in years, but you are still her emergency contact in her phone. Nothing truly went wrong in your friendship. Just childhood friends who grew apart.

No matter the distance between you, you got in your car and drove to the hospital. Three hours later you pulled into the parking lot. They told you Yelena was still in surgery, so you settled in the waiting room.

That was almost five hours ago now. The doctor enters the room finally. You stand to greet her.

“Yelena is in recovery now,” the woman says. “It’ll be a long road, but she is expected to make a full recovery.”

“Oh, thank god,” you breathe out. “Can I see her?”

The doctor nods and leads you to her room. You take a few deep breaths before you enter. You haven’t seen her in three years, but she still looks like the same girl that you once knew.

Her green eyes open a few moments later. She groans in pain slightly before her attention falls on you. You walk closer to her.

“Y/n?” She asks. You nod. “What happened?”

“You were in an accident,” you explain. “I don’t know many details, but the doctors say you’ll make a full recovery.”

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, and you’re here because?”

“You must have had me listed in your phone as an emergency contact,” you say, shrugging. You really don’t know why.

“Did you call Natasha?” Yelena asks.

Natasha. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about her in years. You always admired her so much and felt so safe in her presence. But she and Yelena didn’t have the easiest relationship. It’s been so long since you last saw the redhead. Close to eight years. You miss her.

“Oh, um, no,” you say. “You two are talking again?”

Yelena nods. That’s good, you think. They need each other to really be happy. That was always the truth.

“I can call her,” you tell Yelena. You make a move to step out of the room, but Yelena reaches out for you.

“Y/n,” Yelena says. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too, Yel,” you say, tears fill your eyes.

You pull her into a soft hug. You didn’t realize how much you missed her until you held her in your arms. Every memory of your life together passes through your mind as you squeeze her.

“I’m hungry,” Yelena mumbles into your shoulder. You can’t help but laugh. Still the very same Yelena.

“I’ll get you food and call Nat, okay? Be right back.”

You step into the hallway and feel your pulse quicken as you click on Natasha’s name in your contacts. Truthfully, you always hoped Nat would confess her love for you, and you’d live happily ever after. But you never so much have kissed the girl.

The phone rings for a few moments and you begin to wonder if she’ll pick up. Maybe she sees your name and decides not to answer. But your what-iffing stops when Nat answers the phone.

“Hello,” Nat answers. The sound of her voice threatens to make your heart stop.

“Hi- um- hi Natasha,” you say. “I don’t know how to say it so I will just go for it. Yelena was in an accident, but she’s okay. She asked for you, so I called.”

“Where is she?” Natasha asks. You hear some bustling on her end of the line.

“We’re at the hospital.”

“I’m on my way,” Natasha replies. And that’s the end of the call.

You get Yelena some food before you go back to her room. Inside, you catch up with her. Things have been good for both of you. She is an accomplished veterinarian. You knew she would be successful.

You’re laughing about some old joke when Natasha arrives. She walks to Yelena quickly and hugs her sister. You stand back, letting them have a moment. They speak for a moment in Russian before Natasha looks to you.

To your surprise, she rounds the beds and pulls you into a hug. You bury your face in her neck and soak up her touch. She is warm and smells like the fruity hair products she must use. She pulls away but moves her hands to your face.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Natasha says. She always used to call you that. Her thumbs brush over your cheeks. “I’ve missed you.”  

“I missed you too, Natasha,” you say. You get lost looking into her green eyes. She looks older but in the perfect way.

Yelena coughs to break the moment up between you and Natasha. The older sister drops her hands from your face and turns her attention back to Yelena.

“You should get some sleep, Yelena. That surgery was intense,” Natasha says.

“Such a mom,” Yelena grumbles.

“And a doctor,” Natasha adds. She pulls the covers up Yelena’s body. “We’ll go get some lunch. See you in a bit.”

You follow Natasha out of the room. She knows where to go to the cafeteria, and you put two and two together.

“You work here?” You ask Nat.

“I do,” she replies. “Well, from time to time. I travel for work, but this is technically my home hospital.”

“I didn’t even know you were a doctor,” you say.

“Heart surgeon,” Natasha says. She doesn’t seem phased by how your mouth opens in shock. “What do you do for work?”

You tell Nat about your career and what you’ve been up to. For some reason, it doesn’t feel difficult to talk to her. It’s like no time has gone by. You eat lunch together and continue to catch up.

“I’m glad to see you and Yelena are close again,” you say.

“Yeah,” Natasha says. “I guess last time you saw me Yelena and I were on some rocky ground.”

“You had a big fight. Five years at least of no talking,” you remind her.

“It was six years and four months,” Natasha recounts.

“What happened?”

“The same thing as always, you know. Melina and Alexei. Yelena always keeps things lighter with them, and I was pissed. Until I wasn’t,” Natasha says. “My girlfriend at the time, Wanda, helped me realize how important it was to be talking to my sister.”

“That’s good, Nat. Yel has always needed you to be at her happiest.”

Nat nods. “And she needs you too, y/n. She cried about missing you,” Nat explains.

“I didn’t know that,” you say quietly. Nat scoots her chair closer to yours.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I know you held her when she cried about me too.”

You did that. Many many times. Nat reaches and takes your hand. She helps you stand up. You follow her down the hallway and into what appears to be a breakroom.

“Did you ever find that person you dreamed about?” Natasha asks.

Her words seem random until you remember the nights you spent with her on the roof of your parents' house. You told her that you dreamed of loving someone and having someone love you back purposefully. She agreed that it was what she wanted too.

“No,” you answer. “Did you?”

“Maybe,” Natasha answers. “But I’m still waiting to see if she loves me back.”

“Oh, well, I hope that she does,” you answer. Nat steps closer to you, and she takes your face in her hands again.

“I hope she does, too,” Natasha says. She leans in, and her lips are inches from touching yours. “Do you love me, y/n?”

“I love you, Natasha,” you whisper.

Natasha’s lips brush against yours softly. You really start to kiss her back when her phone goes off. You wish she would ignore it, but she pulls away.

“Shit,” Natasha says. “It’s Yelena.”

“Does that mean-”

“I’m the cardio surgeon on call,” Natasha says. “Let’s go.”

She leads you out of the breakroom and to the operating room waiting area. Natasha leaves you there as she disappears behind the doors.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #soft natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff comfort #yelena belova #yelena belova x reader #sorry for the ending #or am I?

[dreambunnynotes]

my current glow up goals!

in order to grow and improve it is essential to have clear and easy-to-maintain goals! after a lot of procrastinating thinking i have finally narrowed down my main glow up goals so that i have something tangible to work towards. i have also written down the necessary tasks to accomplish these goals so that i can return to them whenever i feel stuck or demotivated.

1.) appearance and confidence:

one of my biggest glow up goals is to become confident in my appearance! i have never consistently felt good about the way that i look and i know that there are many lovely steps i can take to change this. i want to learn how to love myself and put in the work to show my body and face that i love them! ♥︎

shower + wash hair every morning to start the day off confidently

maintain a skincare routine that works for my skin

save up money to build a wardrobe that i love and feel confident in

learn pilates to improve my core strength and fix my posture

work out 3x a week and get to my preferred weight

put on makeup every day and learn what looks best on me

stretch every morning and night so that my body feels healthy

2.) studying and career:

having a career in something that i adore is absolute essential to me. i would ideally like to manifest financial freedom so that i can spend my days helping people through lifestyle blogging, coaching, and art creation under a trauma-informed/LOA/nondualist lens. i would also love to be a renowned musician who works with my absolute favourite artists in their projects, and be beloved in my music community. my main tasks in this category are studying guitar and piano to become the musician i know that i can be (which will be the "studyblr" part of my blog, and i'm so excited to figure out how i will track my progress with this)! i will also be focusing on manifesting financial abundance so that i can go to school for art therapy, which involves developing proper saving / spending habits until that sweet, sweet windfall of money comes in hehe ♥︎

practice guitar for at least an hour a day to start, and build this up to at least 4 hours a day once my guitar goals are more refined

practice piano for at least an hour a day, working on the same songs i am learning on guitar and working on technique

develop healthy spending habits until i have an abundance of money; focus on repaying my debts and saving for school

find a way to make more money in a way that is super enjoyable for me until i am able to manifest financial freedom

maintain a consistent manifesting routine and self-concept so that i can truly live my dream life and have my dream career!

3.) mental health and wellness:

it is sooo important to me to use my time in ways that are actually fulfilling and enriching. to become my dream girl, i must get rid of mindless activities and replace them with joyful and expansive hobbies and projects. i also must fix my sleep schedule to make sure i am getting enough rest, and learn how to overcome isolation through making new friends and nurturing the ones that i have! ♥︎

replace mindless scrolling with enriching activities and hobbies that i actually enjoy; create a meaningful + exciting list of projects

maintain a consistent sleep schedule and make sure i am getting at least 8 hours of sleep each night until my body adjusts

create a friend group that makes me feel loved and supported; nurture my relationships and nurture myself with socializing

get my drivers license so that i don't have to waste time on public transit anymore!

4.) self concept and self love:

deep down i know that i am worthy of good love, good friends, and an abundance of success and praise. however, it's time that i really internalize those feelings and learn to love myself the way that i deserve by changing my feelings of shame into feelings of love and compassion! ♥︎

journal about my feelings more consistently so that i can work through the shame and guilt spirals that come from RSD

learn more about "parts work" and "internal family systems" so that i can create a lovely library of all my beautiful parts, building them a home that they all feel safe in and where i have easy access to resources when i need them

learn how to be my vibrant and beautiful self around everyone without fear and without compromising my needs, so that i can figure out who i actually enjoy spending time with

continue practicing listening to my body, heart, and mind when something or someone doesn't feel right or safe for me

follow through on my goals and routines and adjust them when necessary so that i can build trust in myself that i can accomplish anything that i put my mind to!

thank you for reading lovely friends, i am so grateful for your encouragement and support and i can't wait to make you proud! hehe. if you have similar goals and want an accountability buddy, please feel free to dm me and we can encourage each other to do our best! love you lots and believe in you so, so much ♥︎

#becoming that girl #dream girl #dream life #girlblogging #glow up #it girl #productivity #that girl #clean girl #pink pilates girl #wonyoungism #self improvement #self concept #self care #bunny's current goals ✨💕🌷

[thelastofhyde]

you cut your hair, and take some space.

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

synopsis. an anthology of events that precede and procede the termination of you and your father's best friend's sexual relationship. this is part 1 of 2 !

warnings. no use of y/n, age gap , student!reader, dbf!javi, post-s3!javi, officer!javi bc i said so, break up au, mutual pining, forbidden lovers kind of vibes, reader has a healthy relationship with her parents, so much crying ( reader spends half her time crying over javi p which is honestly a mood ), violence, undetailed depictions of sa ( not javi ), smut ( creampie, breeding kink through the roof, domesticity kink?? javi just wants to love and be loved and start a family, dacryphilia, indecent use of a credit card, spanking, dirty talk, prostitution kink?? i feel like i'm making these up at this point, + a hell of a lot more ) this fic is based on bsc by maisie peters except this has a happy ending bc im a sucker for mr. peña :( not all warnings listed here appear in this part, these are warnings for the fic as a whole !

word count. 15k

hyde’s input. this was written over the course of four months and could easily be used in court to prove i am, in fact, unequivocally in love with one mr. javier peña. if you take the time to read it, just know i appreciate it so much. i really poured my heart and soul into this and, as someone who's been writing for years, it's been so long since i've written something so self-indulgent that's brought me nothing but joy to write. as the fic has surpassed 30k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it, i've decided to post it in two parts. part two will be posted within the following weeks.

(it'a nearly 4 am as i post this, please look the other way at any typos or editing errors.)

“i told you, corazón mia (my heart),” he can't meet your eyes. “made it clear from the start i wasn't looking for anything serious.” “i know,” you heave in a breath, hold back a sob. “but if it wasn't serious, why'd you treat me like it was?”

I cut my nose to save some face You cut your hair and take some space.

The mirror is not clean enough to see yourself.

Where there are usually your eyes, there’s a discoloured splotch of brown. A crack runs down the left of what should be your face. Someone’s taken it upon themselves to draw a cartoon penis just where your mouth is. But in your drunken haze and laser focus, you don’t care enough to notice. All you see is the spot where your nose is, a tiny ball of silver nestled just above your right nostril.

It’s something new to fidget with.

On the flip side, it stings like a bitch. Or, more appropriately, like the tequila shots that led you to this run-down tattoo parlour.

You wonder if, come the morning and mental clarity, you’ll regret it.

If you do, you’ll blame him.

Your night was going fine. Good, even. And, with a lack of good nights in the recent week, that was an accomplishment.

You’d dressed up, let loose, had fun. A friend on either arm and a drink close at hand, you’d giggled and gossiped your way through this impromptu girls’ night.

They’d ambushed you, in a way, forced their way through the barricade of tissues and take-out boxes into your apartment. A skimpy dress tossed at your head and four hands dragging you, limb by limb, into the shower.

Get some dinner, hit the town, get fucked up. That was the plan they set out for you.

You skipped dinner, dove head-first into the town.

You were careful all night to never speak of him.

One part fearful it would summon him, another part embarrassed to admit just who you’d gotten tangled up in. A third part, tucked away in a locked closet, ready to do it all over again.

And then it happened.

You didn’t say his name, no.

Not aloud.

You thought it, for just a second, hearing the person beside you at the bar order the same drink you’d watched him nurse time after time. It wasn’t him but, instead, a man far too short and a clean-cut kind of handsome to even begin to compare to the ex-agent.

But it was enough to make you want to leave.

Giving up your space, you’d made your way back to your girls and made up some little white lie, surprised neither of them called you out on it- what kind of bar doesn’t have white wine?

They left to find someplace with wine, you left to find some peace of mind.

The bar they dragged you into was familiar, the setting of many of your father’s stories. It only took you walking through the door, tugging down the dress-too-short, to hear your name called across the floor.

“Hey kiddo!” Your dad’s a tell-tale kind of drunk, his eyes giving away even the smallest sip of alcohol he has. He was just tipsy, scooting his way out of a tattered booth to wrap you up in his arms. It felt as nice as it did guilt-inducing, knowing you’d been avoiding his calls all week since The Incident. A punishment to yourself more than one aimed at him. “You here yourself? Could join us for the night, if you like. Ain’t that right, boys?”

It was only then that you’d realised two men were sat within the booth, collars undone and ties loosened after a week’s work.

There were usually three of them.

"We’re just waiting on Peña." Oh god, it makes you feel sick. Heart in your throat, stomach at your feet. His name no longer feels real, not when spoken by anyone but you.

“And raising bets on his tardiness,” one of your father’s friends said. You recognised him from a few of the barbecues and Christmas parties your dad's thrown. He's nice, responsible. Married, to a woman his own age. “I’m saying he’s chasing some tail. God knows he could use some stress relief. Boy’s been wound up all week, nearly bit my head off for asking him about some files."

It’s a wonder none of the three men- one a retired lawyer, the other two members of the force- noticed the blood drain from your face.

“My guess is he’s pulled some muscle in his back and can’t get himself out of bed,” a nudge from your father’s elbow, delivered straight to your ribs. “Whatcha think, kiddo?”

You didn’t have an answer.

You didn’t get to give an answer.

“You need to quit speaking ‘bout me like you’re not a whole decade my senior, viejo (old man),” it came from behind you and threatened you to look. Like the foolish final-girl in a slasher, you ignored your basic instincts and glanced over your shoulder.

You’re not sure what you were expecting, but you know what you were hoping for.

Tired eyes, chewed lips, unkempt facial hair. A twitch of sadness drawn between his brows and the stains of cigarette ash on a worn-out suit.

Javier Peña was none of that.

The suit, grey. One that fit him all too well and had you wishing you could stain it with your drink.

The signature moustache, perfectly groomed, sitting perched above the bow of his pouty lips, rosy-red and fresh for picking.

His eyes have always given him away but, staring down at you in that moment, they read only as passive, unaffected.

It was like, nothing.

And, yes, that’s what you’d asked for- from now on, whenever you see me, can you at least pretend that none of this happened?

But he's smart enough to know you didn't mean it, right?

“Hey officers, sorry to interrupt but,” a hand curled around your arm. It tugged and you let yourself be inched away from heavy brown eyes and your father’s smile. “She’s ours for the night. We’re going clubbing!”

That was never part of the plan.

Neither was skipping dinner, though.

You caught the back of him as you were dragged away, some pleading from your father to take it easy and call me in the morning, and noticed it only then.

His hair, freshly cut.

“‘S getting too long,” a mumbled sort of thing, hidden in your neck, spoken against your pulse. A kiss placed upon it, and then another for extra measure. Fingers dragging through his hair, ridding him of the knots your very same hands had worked into them an hour of passionate touching ago. “Lo sé (I know).”

A pause of silence. The blissful moan birthed from nails on his scalp. And, then, “no. It’s nice, I like it.”

That puppy-dog stare, so particular to the cool-down moments between you, meets your own, chin propped up on your sternum. He’s sweet like this, honeyed skin and pleasant smiles.

“Yeah?” He asks, like he even needs to. “You like it, corazón (sweetheart)?” You opt for a hummed confirmation, finger tracing over the arch of his nose. “Guess I better keep it this way, then.”

Now he’s gone and chopped the overgrown curls off.

In a way, it feels like he’s cut you off with them.

We don’t speak cause it’s too tricky But if I’m tricky, why’d you kiss me?

The next time you see him, a wedding is taking place.

He sits on the groom’s side, you sit on the bride’s.

It feels unreasonable to be surprised by his presence. Why wouldn’t he be here, sitting four rows from the back, at his cousin’s brother-in-law’s wedding?

The bride is gorgeous, the groom is in tears. The priest drones on a little too long.

Somewhere between the exchanging of vows, and the ceremonial kissing, and the cheering of guests, your instincts get the better of you and you glance back at him.

He’s already staring right back, eyes ignited with something that weakens your knees and shakes your confidence. The newlyweds walk down the aisle, cut through your line of sight. He’s still staring at you when they’ve passed.

The reception takes place in the events room of some glammed-up hotel, the kind you can barely afford the one night you’re booked in for.

An open bar, a local band. The catering is tasteful, handpicked by the couple, and the table you feast at is so far away from his that you don’t get that chance to see if he chose the chicken or the beef.

You find a friend behind the bar, in the shape of a bottle and toothpick-impaled olives.

You dance till your feet hurt, slip away to your table, take off your heels. You’re back on the dance floor in time to catch the bouquet, too busy basking in the envy of the other women to notice his eyes burning a hole in the back of your head.

If it weren’t for the dent in your bank account made by the room you booked, you’d gladly dance away the whole night. But if a bed with a view costs double your rent, you’ll be damned if you don’t get to sleep in it.

So you stumble to the elevator.

Clutch your heels and flowers to your chest, struggle to remember your floor number. The fifth floor seems to ring a bell, but it might’ve been the eighth floor. Your room key! Maybe, you hope, that’ll have your floor number on it. You struggle with your purse’s zipper, trying your best to pry it open.

You succeed, but at what cost? Heels and bouquet tumble to the floor, thumping and clunking as they knock against it, flower petals falling loose.

You try to bend down, stretch your fingers out to grasp the clasps, seize the stems. A wave of exhaustion mixed with too much alcohol washes over you and you stand up straight again. Take a calming breath, do a little song and dance before reaching down again.

“Déjame. (Let me.)”

Scuffed shoes come into view as you’re halfway down, bent at the waist and holding your balance with one arm against a wall. You stand up straight, too fast, lose your balance and stumble forward.

He catches you.

For a moment, it feels like you’ve never left his arms.

“C’mon, let’s get you to your room.” You hate the way he ends his sentence, no term of endearment and no impure intentions.

He asks for your floor, you give him your key. He punches the number into the elevator and it shakes to life.

Neither one of you makes an attempt to part. There’s a chance he pulls you closer to him. You let yourself melt, regardless, muscles relaxing and sinking into his arms.

He’s still warm. He’s still steady. but his cologne’s different and it makes your eyes sting.

You’d warned him he was about to run out of his signature bottle, made a note to buy him another one for his birthday or Christmas, whichever came first.

“You look like you had fun,” he rasps out, eventually, as the elevator slips past the fifth floor.

“I did,” you tell a partial truth. You would have had more fun, if he’d stood at your side, ate at your table, danced in your arms. But you can’t say that, because he doesn’t want that.

“I’m glad.”

It turns out your floor is the ninth. He’s careful to guide you out the mobile-box, hand on your hip, pressing you to his side. Your heels dangling from one of his fingers and the bouquet gripped in his palm, smacking against his thigh every other step. A little down the hall and there you find it, your precious and expensive home for the night.

It’s easier to let him open the door, he tells you.

It’s easier to let him guide you to bed, you tell yourself.

Dropping the heels on the floor, he disappears out of your line of sight and you stare motionless at the ceiling above, buzzing in your brain and pain in your heart.

You’ve never shared a space like this with him, one that’s hollow and decayed. The shell of a creature that’s long abandoned it, grown too big for its home.

Your eyes sting all over again, this time enough to brim with unfallen tears.

A thud against the nightstand.

You roll onto your side and find he’s still here, a glass of water and some painkillers lay to rest at your bedside. The first tear gives way, running down your cheek and dropping to the crisp white sheets below. Even more fall as he raises a damp cloth to your face, wiping away smudged mascara and bringing your lips back to their natural colour.

The undressing is gentle and so unlike his usual impatience.

Fingertips drag down each inch of skin released as he unzips the back of your dress, tugging it down and folding it by your heels. The weight off your chest helps you breathe as he unhooks your bra. Left only in your underwear, the sheets ruffle as he drags them up your tired limbs and tucks them under your chin.

“Get in bed, please,” you plead like you have any right to ask that of him. “Javi.”

It’s the first time you’ve said his name since that night in May. His shoulders tense and release, his fingers smooth down his moustache. He looks like he’s going to fulfil your request, slip in behind you and wrap you up in his soft but steady embrace.

He looks like he wants to.

His back cracks as he bends down and presses a kiss.

Against your forehead, lips that linger.

Then, he stands up straight and walks out the door.

On the forehead, way up north Pressed the scar and found the source

Vermont, ‘98.

That’s where it all began.

Your dad, turning fifty.

Javi just hit forty.

It was someone in the station who had the wild idea they celebrate it together. The sheriff and the station’s rookie- really, a hardened, inching-out-of-a-fresh-retirement former DEA agent your father manipulated back into the force, some promise of a light workload and a hefty pension. With no need for money, you wonder why he ever accepted the offer.

Plans were set, money was put in a pot, and a wheel of fortune was spun. It landed on the northern state, a downpayment to rent a ski lodge placed within a matter of twenty-four hours.

Somewhere along the way, you’d been roped into joining this boys-only trip. Your dad argued you needed a break from studying. Your mother argued there needed to be a responsible adult to supervise your dad. and, well, a free holiday never hurt nobody, right?

Wrong.

The final evening, with a constant pounding of a hangover never-quite-nursed, a litter of bruises down your back from falling and a firmly closed chapter on any possible career as a ski prodigy you may have had, you trailed your way down to the only bar in the tiny ski town.

Textbooks on the table, glasses on your face.

A half-drank glass of cabernet, an empty plate.

Peaceful and quaint, until it wasn’t.

The cheer of a frat-boy out in the wild warrants the same response as hearing a lion’s roar in the dark of the Saharan night.

The kind you hear them before you see them, spilling through the door in their obnoxious jerseys and their face-painted cheeks. one wore the badge of honour, a giant Soon To Be shackled Married printed poorly onto the back of his jersey.

You put your head down, breathed more subtly.

The pride stormed their way over to the bar, pounding their fists onto the surface and gnashing their teeth, spit spilling down their mouth as they brutally tore into the bartender, demanding pints of beer and rounds of shots.

The key was to avoid eye contact, keep low and out of sight.

They dispersed through the area, sniffing out free booths and the occasional local to irritate out of their seats.

One of them found the jukebox and wasted his coin on blasting Pour Some Sugar On Me. The group of older women playing bingo scowled and made their way out of the joint, calling it for the night.

You got up to follow suit, hands slowly packing up your belongings and slinging your bag over your back.

Inching towards the exit, footsteps light as a feather.

“Woo! Look at you,” just as you were close to slipping out the door, a single member of the pack spotted you, prowling his way over. He already had his chest puffed out by the time you turned around. “Ain’t seen an ass like that since we left the city!”

Hardly charming. Tame, compared to other things frat boys have said to you.

“Why don���cha come join me and my buddies over there?” He nodded back at them, like they weren’t the obnoxious centres of everyone’s attention.

You were not scared of him, exactly. But you’ve seen where things can go. Heard about it, countless times, from your own father.

So you spoke with caution, gripping your bag a little tighter, “thanks, but I’ve got an early flight. Have a nice night-” He told you his name, like you cared. “Yeah, thanks, bye.”

And then you were stepping out into the quiet of the night.

Fresh air, cold enough to sting your lungs. You breathed it in like it was going out of fashion.

You barely got a moment to compose yourself before that grating voice was back in your ears.

“Oh don’t be a buzzkill!” He whined, you cringed. Took a step back, watched him move an inch. “It’s early, stay. Have a drink.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“To have fun?! C’mon, it’s too cold to be out here by yourself.”

“I have an early flight.”

“It’s just one drink, sweetheart. I ain’t asking you to sign your life away.”

A couple bumped past you both, weaved their way between you. His eyes trailed after them, your feet twisted around, carrying you away from him slowly, carefully. Best not to make yourself look like prey, not to this predator.

“Hey!” He called after you. Your steps sped up. “Where you going, sweetheart?”

It didn’t even matter that you were walking in the opposite direction of the ski lodge. You told yourself you would find your way back, once this lion was off your back.

“I ain’t done talkin’ to you!”

The lion pounced, sank his claws into your back and ripped through you.

Your hand flew out to break your fall, the contents of your bag spilling out onto the sidewalk.

Pain, the kind that stings. It nipped at your knees, and your hands, and your eyes. Pushed it down, pulled yourself up.

He froze, maybe surprised at his own actions, maybe waiting on the chance to pounce once more, this time with his fangs instead of his claws.

You wouldn’t give him the chance. Filled your bag, collected your senses and ran.

It was tricky on frozen ground, trying so hard to not look back.

He followed and you knew it, heard it. Roaring and growling, chasing you down streets you’d never walked.

You slipped, momentarily, slammed into a wall. A crossroads, go right or go left.

You don’t remember which direction you turned.

“Quit running, you bitch!”

He was still following, how was he still following?

Caving in, you glanced over your shoulder and saw the blurry figure of him running after you.

He was getting faster. Maybe you were getting slower.

You came to a screeching halt, body smacking into something solid. Eyes shut, mind alive. You feared the worst, hoped for the best, expected to open your eyes and find yourself trapped in a dead-end, nowhere to run from this predator.

Instead, you heard your name. Called softly, at first. Gentle, coaxing you to pay attention. The second time it was more urgent, worried and aggressive. You sank deeper into the wall, felt your feet shuffle on the gravel below.

“...Gotta let me know, nena,” the wall pulled you back from it, a firm grasp on your forearms. Your eyes opened and met his. “Fucking Christ, look at the state of you.”

You’d not known much about Javier Peña at the start of the trip.

Your dad had mentioned something about a family ranch. Your mom let it slip that he’d enjoyed the pumpkin pie she’d brought to the station’s Thanksgiving feast.

There’d been one time you’d caught the end of a conversation between him and your dad. Nothing concrete, just some shameful mutterings about Colombia and Los Pepes. You’d left once you heard your dad start to comfort the man, deciding your intruding on the moment had already gone too far.

You now knew he liked his whiskey, no ice. His coffee, no milk. His bread, no butter.

He didn’t like the mess of mixing things, and you had to wonder if it had always been this way. Or had he learned his lesson, the hard way? Mixed the wrong things, burnt his own blessings?

“You’re bleeding,” he announced it, fresh news for you.

A pleasant warmth thrummed through your veins as he took hold of your hand, inspecting it under his scrutiny.

His thumb swiped over your palm.

Your mouth winced, your arm pulled back.

He held you in place.

Something visceral shifted in him, enough to coax you to glance at him.

He was looking past you, eyes a deadly killer stalking their prey. You followed their line of sight and found the lion at the end of the street. Standing still, arms at his side, eyes a little wider than you remembered them. You’d not really been looking, in the first place.

The former agent twisted you behind him, an effortless shield. Took an urgent step toward the frat boy, and then another three.

You grasped at his sleeve and tugged him back, didn’t let him stray too far.

“I’m fine,” you lied. He didn’t believe you, furrowing his brow. “I’m just cold.”

He seemed to hesitate, softened by a tremble in your voice.

He glanced back to see the lion was retreating, staggering his way back to the pride of frat boys. A perfect opportunity for him to attack, from behind and unexpectedly.

“Leave it, he’s not-” The sting in your eye got the best of you and a tear tracked itself down your cheek. You wiped it away with your scraped hand, leaving behind a smear of gravel and blood. “It’s not worth it.”

You said it not for the agent’s sake, but the boy’s.

The agent puffed out a breath of frustration, then followed your plea. Turned back to you, licked his thumb and swiped off the dirt on your cheek. Pulled you in, against him once more, and pressed a deliberate kiss against your forehead.

It was instinctual, no thought placed behind his action.

He did it because that seemed to be in his nature: to nurture.

“C’mon, the lodge is this way,” he pointed in some direction.

You didn’t bother paying attention, more than willing to follow wherever he led.

“Put this on.” It was not posed as an option, not when the agent tugged off his coat and draped it over your shoulders.

Somewhere along the path, you realised you’d lost your key to your cabin. Your dad carried the other.

Officer Peña offered to take you to him, drinking down in the ski lodge’s bar with the rest of the men.

You shook your head, told him your dad couldn’t see you in that state.

He took you back to his own cabin instead.

Cleaned up your hands, put on the fire, poured you a drink.

Then fucked you into his bed, till you clawed and sobbed around him.

If you don’t love me, Why’d you act it?

Late june brings nothing but gloom.

You get bored quick, no college to fill your days. Pick up extra shifts, hope to combat the empty feeling in your chest with the rush hour traffic that torpedoes it’s way through the cafe.

Friends invite you out, you rarely go. They tease you’re becoming a recluse, and that just makes you want to shut yourself in even more.

Tonight, you’re appeasing them.

Some line dance event, downtown in a bar that’s only gimmick seems to be a worn-down mechanical bull. It’s missing a horn and no one seems to know why.

Truth be told, you don’t want to go.

You want to stuff your face with take-out while you melt into your couch, watching reruns of the first season of Friends and drooling over Joey till you forget about another smooth-talking, raven haired man.

Here you are instead, fighting against the cheesy cowgirl hat till it sits on your head correctly.

In the mirror, it’s still lopsided.

The clock sits at eight forty-seven.

They’re 2 minutes late.

You give up, decide to pretend you want the hat this way. Slip on your jacket, do a sweep around your apartment: windows locked, flat iron off, fridge closed. Grabbing your purse, you unzip it and wrestle around in it’s contents, searching for your keys.

You pull on something and- it’s a pack a gum.

Dive back in, search again.

An empty tube of lipbalm.

Third time’s a charm, you think, and try once more. Something scratches your fingers, coaxes you to tug it out and inspect it.

A broken earring.

A familiar car honk’s outside, you stay frozen in place, staring at the broken hoop and counting one, two, three.

Bile burns the back of your throat.

He opens on the fifth knock.

Any other night, he practically rips the door off it’s hinges and tugs you in, before you can so much as raise your fist for a second knock.

Maybe he was busy, on the toilet or on the phone. You don’t think too much into it.

He steps aside, lets you in. Stands so far away, it’s hard to read his eyes.

The air’s uncomfortably quiet.

You think’s it’s all in your head, self-doubt at an all time high after a bad day.

“My earring snapped today,” there’s a growing pit in your stomach, just from staring at him. He looks so distant, not present. Mind a galaxy away. "Your favourite ones, too. You know, the little hoops with-”

“The hearts dangling from them.” He finishes, on your behalf, and it’s the first green flag you see. Green enough to lull yourself into a faux calm.

The silence returns.

You rock backwards on your heels, glance around the apartment. Try to find what has changed, because this no longer feels like the place you’ve grown so familiar with. And neither does the man observing you from a distance, hands glued to his sides.

He should be touching you by now, in any way he could: his foot bumping against yours under his dining table, his hand trailing patterns over your shoulders as you settle into his side on the couch, his tongue delving between your folds as you lay splayed out on his sheets.

You notice his bedroom door is shut.

It’s never been shut before.

“Is- Am I-” You don’t have to find the words, but the courage to speak them. “Do you have someone over?”

He blinks, slowly.

It’s hard to tell if it’s from guilt.

“Because if you do, that’s fine!” It’s not. “I understand,” You don’t.

He doesn’t answer.

You keep talking.

“Totally chill, I’ll comeback some other night. Or, you can just come by mine! Yeah, actually, that sounds better. Won’t risk interrupting again-”

“This needs to stop.”

You don’t have to question it.

You do, anyway.

“What?”

“Us. This-” He’s pointing between you both, a little haphazardly. It’s like he’s rushing to get the words out, get it over with. Get you out his apartment. “Thing we’re doing. It’s done.”

“I don’t underst-”

He cuts you off with your name. “Why’d you come here tonight?”

He’s stern.

Not in the way that makes you want to bend to his will and indulge in all his sins. But in a way that makes you feel dirty, wrong. A child scorned for touching fire and getting themselves burnt.

“I,” you’re beginning to wish there was someone else in his bed, so she could stroll out of his room in one of his stupidly soft shirts and interrupt this conversation. “Uh, I had a bad day.”

“Okay,” he nods. Smooths a hands over his chin, pops out his hip. “What’s that got anything to do with me?”

Everything, you want to tell him.

For every single thing that went wrong throughout your day, seeing Javi gave you something to look forward to.

“I just thought-”

“You thought, what?” His face twists up, just like your insides. He’s angry and you’re the one to blame. “This isn’t a- I’m not your boyfriend.”

I know, you mouth.

Because you do know. Repeat it to yourself all the time.

When he calls to make sure you got home safe.

When you sneak off to pee in the middle of the night and are welcomed back to bed with a forceful tug into his chest, a sleepy, gruffed out ‘where’d you go?’ whispered into your neck.

When he picks up on the things you say, remembers silly things like your favourite toilet paper brand and the exact milk to cereal ratio you enjoy.

Javier Peña is not your boyfriend.

So why does he act like it?

“Look, kid, you’re young, and I know-”

Kid.

That makes you angry.

He wasn’t calling you kid when he bent you over your parents’ bathroom counter.

“Don’t call me kid.”

“And I know,” he pushes through your protest, keeps up the distance. “This can be a lot at your age. Don’t blame you for getting caught up. But whatever you think you’re feeling for me, it’s not-”

“Is this about the p-” The word won’t come out of you, so your change the verbiage. “The hospital? Because I told you, Javi. We’ve been safe. Safer than a pair of purity-ring wearing teenagers-”

“No, this is about me needing to do the right-”

At this point, you’re just interrupting one another.

Fighting to get in the next word, frowning at what you do hear.

He tilts his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose, a groan leaving his cracked lips. You’d imagined him doing that tonight, but not like this.

Eventually, the back-and-forth stops.

Silence.

You take the lead.

“So, what? That’s it just... over?”

“I told you, corazón mía (my heart),” he can’t meet your eyes. “Made it clear from the start I wasn’t looking for anything serious.”

“I know,” you heave in a breath, hold back a sob. “But if it wasn’t serious, why’d you treat me like it was?”

It takes him a few minutes to answer. There’s a twitch, in his hand, reaching up only to drop back down at his side.

Usually, he wipes your tears before they get chance to fall.

The rug at your feet turns darker with each wet spot that drops.

“I got caught up,” his eyes seem so sad, so lost. Staring across the ocean of his living room, searching for a lighthouse to pull him safe to shore. But he won’t let you be that. “In the way you deserve to be treated, instead of some sleazy secret.”

He breathes out your name, the most painful melody you’ve ever heard.

“This has to end,” you’re unsure if it’s only you he’s attempting to convince. “Before someone gets hurt.”

Too late, you want to say.

You’re already being torn apart by his hands, and he’s standing ten feet away.

“Corazón, I’m so sor-”

The car honks, again.

You breathe in, and find it’s hard, snot piling up in your nose and tears splashing down your cheers.

Another honk.

You never make it to the line dance.

You curl in on yourself, instead, and fall asleep to the sound of Joey and Chandler’s bickering.

Love’s a verb And not a bandage

In retrospect, it’s hard to tell where the lines begin to blur.

A promise of casual, turned into something fragile.

Whenever you think about it, for too long, your mind carries you back to the same night. A few months after Vermont, you don’t recall the exact date.

All you remember is a pounding at your front door.

1 am. Too late to be causing ruckus.

You nearly trip over discarded shoes, curse earlier-you for assuming you would remember their existence. Undo the bolt, grab the key and then-

Pause.

This could be anyone, anything.

You check the peephole, find exactly who you were hoping for.

He’s on you like a moth to a flame, pressing you flush against him the instant he can fit through the crack in your doorway. Mouth on mouth, hands on waist. The door thuds as he closes it behind you both, you’re too distracted to notice.

You let him invade your senses.

Smell his aged leather and nicotine thrill. Feel his strong arms and bulging crotch. Hear his laboured breaths and muttered pleasantries. Taste his whiskey tongue and metallic lips-

You pull back. He follows.

It’s flattering, his inability to get enough of you, but you halt him nonetheless.

Cup his cheeks, pull down his face, and stare.

“My dad finally figure out who those panties in your glove-box belong to, Peña?” It’s meant to be a joke.

There’s nothing funny about his bleeding lip and split eyebrow.

He graces no response, dives back into you and submerses himself in your touch. Kisses you slow, with deliverance, his final mission to arrest all your sense of self till you turn yourself in to his embrace.

Only as you pass by those discarded shoes do you realise he’s inching you both deeper into the dark of your apartment.

This time, you do trip over them.

It’s okay though, Javi’s there to catch you.

He finds refuge in your neck, burrowing in deep, mouthing at the skin like a dog does a wound. Your arm shoots out to find a light-switch. A warm glow fills the apartment, bathing you both in an orange hue.

The gold of his skin shines brighter.

The red on his skin appears darker.

“What happened to you?” You don’t need to worry about him. And, yet, doing so comes naturally.

“S’not important,” it’s spoken against your skin, as if he intends to seep his gravelled tone into your pores and have it grow a new life for itself within you. A gentle scraping of his teeth sends a shiver down your spine. “I’ll tell you later.”

Later with Javi never seems to come.

‘If you’re not busy, I’ll make you dinner later.’

‘Keep it up and I’ll be fucking that attitude out of you later.’

‘I’ll get these back to you later.’

He’d never made you that dinner.

He’d dragged you into the station’s bathrooms and fucked the attitude out of you only seconds after.

You’d never gotten those panties back.

You decide to grant him no time for later. Shove him down into a seat at your dining table-for-two. Roll your eyes as he asks if you’re “gonna put on a show for me, corazón?”

The makeshift first-aid kit put together by your mother resides at the back of a cupboard, hidden by mugs and cups. It takes several minutes and a smashed glass to manoeuvre it out. You step over the pieces of glass and head straight back to the table, dumping out the contents.

You click your tongue, point your finger. He scoots the chair back from the table and you slip between the space. Press back against the surface, stand between his parted knees and do your best to not look down at the jeans that grant him no modesty.

Distractions are not welcomed, your patient needs tending to.

He’s insisting he’s okay, yet he’s hissing when you dab at the tears in his flesh with betadine. His hands find a place upon your hips and give a tight squeeze as you press butterfly stitches to his no-longer bleeding brow.

“I,” he starts up, an indefinite time of silence passing between you both. He shakes his head.“It’s stupid.”

“Javi,” you stroke your finger over his jaw, tilt his head back to meet your eyes. “The less you tell me, the more I’ll worry.”

It does the trick, unlocks his tongue.

“I was just wanting one drink, was gonna head home... Or to you, after. I had a shitty day at work and... You probably don’t care about that,” he has no idea you’ll hang onto those words for the weeks to come, wondering how to lighten his workload, ease his tension. “Heard some loud-mouth kid beside me at the bar, he was talking to this girl. She gets up to leave, he follows. I was just gonna go back to nursing my drink but-”

He hisses.

You’re pressing too hard on his fragile lip.

There’s no malice in his eyes as you pull your hand back, only soft and tender. He must sense your remorse for hurting him, chasing after your fingers and grazing a gentle kiss upon them.

A splotch of red stains your skin.

“Corazón,” he croons, shifts himself closer to you. His hands grip the backs of your exposed thighs, his chin presses into your lower stomach. A few movie-strand hairs cover the molten brown eyes that stare up at you. “You’re exhausted. Vamos, basta de preocuparte (C'mon, stop worrying), I’m fine. I just wanna crawl into your tiny bed so I can wake up to your bedhead and more back pains.”

It’s a tempting offer, and one you’ve given into far too many times acceptable for the casual agreement you both share.

A deep breath. Your hand lands on his cheek, his eyes flutter shut.

There’s bags under them. Heavy, dark. Bearing the exhaustion he hides behind charming winks and dashing smiles. Your thumb grazes over one and you ache to give him the rest he deserves, the rest his body craves.

“But, what?” You persist, pleading for him to continue his story.

Javi sighs, gives in.

He always gives in, to you, eventually.

“I just- I don’t know, it’s crazy, but I kept thinking of you,” his eyes reopen, sorrow buried deep in his soul and a worry-line etched into his brow. “In that bar. Alone, in Vermont, when you...”

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

He doesn’t need to.

“So what did you do?” It’s best to keep him talking, drag his mind away from whatever dark thoughts those memories bring up.

“I followed them outside,” he admits with a tinge of shame. “Tried to be subtle about it. Lit a cigarette, took a few drags, scoped out the street. Neither of them were around,” you’ve long abandoned the first aid kit, transfixed by the tight grip he holds you in, his hands smoothing up and down the backs of your thighs in an attempt to soothe himself. “I thought I’d maybe read into it wrong. Maybe she was into him, and they’d got a cab back to her place. Or his.”

He’s rambling.

Stumbling through words he deems unimportant, rushing to push out the thoughts that clog up his brain pipes.

You listen closely, swallow up every morsel he offers.

“It was just as I turned to go back inside that I heard something,” his hands no longer dance over your skin. They sit stagnant, halfway up your thigh, fingers flexed and nails digging into flesh. He’s burying himself into any part of you he can, rooting himself in your solid figure. “Rustling, or something. Coming from the alley. And I just... I felt my stomach drop. Followed after it. Found them, him-”

He chokes.

On his words, on his breath, on his failure.

You run a hand through his curls, soothe the lines off his face.

Bend down, drag him up, press your lips to the arc of his nose.

“Didn’t think, I just dragged him off. Punched him, a few times. Felt his nose crack under my fist.” He’s still pushing through, his earlier unwillingness to talk now a streaming fountain you can’t switch off. “I must’ve tripped on some glass, lost my balance. Gave him the space to get a few hits in, and-”

“Did you arrest him?” You cut him off.

He nods.

“Did you help her?”

Another nod.

“Did you get her someplace safe?”

This time, a reply.

“An officer checked her in at the hospital, stayed till her friend arrived.”

“Then Javi,” you make a point of saying his name, remind him of who he is when he’s not on duty. Not parading around with a badge and a gun, and answering to Officer Peña. The shift in his stare tells you it helps. “You did enough.”

A weight slips off his shoulders and he slumps further into you, eyes squeezing shut.

“I didn’t,” frustration steals the show, coursing through his voice.

“What more could you have done?”

“I don’t know... I could’ve-” He groans, like something pains him, and purses his lips. “I should’ve helped her sooner. Followed them, the minute they left. Shouldn’t have let...” A whiff of whiskey reaches your nostrils. Javi pulls you in tighter, breathes in the mixture of sleep-sweat and lingering cologne on the shirt you wear- Pink, the top buttons undone, left behind by him. “Shouldn’t have let you go out alone.”

You whine out his name.

The air is miserable, dragging through your lungs and staining them.

The chair creeks at the loss of his weight, knees straightening him up to his full height. Instinctually, you lean back into the table, head tilting to meet his broken eyes.

He’s searching for comfort, in the only way he knows how.

Slap a bandage over a bullet-hole, place a kiss upon his gaping-heart.

“Not everything about that night was so bad,” you play into his game, splay a hand upon his shirt. Trace a finger over a stained blood spot. “If I hadn’t gone out, then maybe we wouldn’t be...”

The words catch in your throat.

Partially because you don’t know what you are anymore. Boundaries crossed, lines blurring. Hands that hold and eyes that linger. Too close to be nothing, too reckless to be something.

But mostly because he kisses you.

Desperate, hungry. Groaning into your willing mouth.

He’s a man on a mission, to consume your soul right out your willing body. Unravelling you where you stand, he takes pleasure in peeling his shirt off you.

Hot mouth to hot skin, the tip of his tongue meeting the peak of your breasts. Your hands pull at his hair and he grips at your waist.

The descent into madness is quick, bodies melting together in a dance that’s unique, improvised, and yet always in sync.

He tugs at your panties and you undo his belt. He hooks your thigh over his hip and you anchor yourself to his chest. He teases you with a pinch to your clit and you torture him as you cup his heavy balls.

When Javi fucks you, he fucks with purpose.

The table thuds and scrapes along the floor with each punctuated thrust he gives, driving his cock deeper and deeper into your welcoming cunt, the coarse hairs at its base gifting you the occasional thrill of friction on your aching clit.

He’s slurring out curses and pet-names, lavishing you with delightful proclaims of what a pretty girl you are when you 'shut up and take my cock'.

When he does manage a full sentence of logical wording, his forehead’s pressed to your shoulder, his cum coats your thighs and the sweat between your frantic bodies holds you both together.

“There’s not a universe where this doesn’t happen, corazón,” you feel him softening against your thigh, yet you still delight as he drags a finger coated in his own spend up your folds. “Want you too damn much to miss out on you.”

Curling up into your bed that feels too big these days, you grip at the pink shirt and wonder when that changed.

When did Javier Peña stop wanting you?

And I’m spiritual cleansing (but the truth) Is I’m good at pretending (oh and you)

By July, things change.

The stud in your nose is traded out for a silver ring.

The lonely nights in your apartment turn into stumbling back home from some nameless club in the early hours.

Boredom leads to hobbies.

At first, you try pottery.

Four plates broken and a crumbled mug later, you put on your dance shoes.

Slip. Almost break your arm. Wrestle with the doom placed on your budding dance career. Throw out the dancing shoes, bring home running shoes.

You hate it, running.

You sweat, you ache, you exhaust.

But when you’re gasping for a breath and your feet pound into concrete ground, you don’t think about it.

The heartache.

The headache.

The agent.

You drop a few pounds, tone up your muscles. Watch your body’s shape outgrow your wardrobe, investing in a new one while clinging onto the items you love too much to lose.

Like the dress that now rests just below your ass, instead of it’s usual place mid-thigh. Or the sweater that once hung loose, that now hugs new curves and creases. The jeans that were tight now sliding off your hips.

The pink shirt still lives on one of your hangers.

But you’re not thinking about it, or it’s previous owner.

Not right now.

Now, you’re balling your fists and counting your breaths. Music blasting through your headphones, sweat dancing on your forehead.

The sun is warm on your back, even as it makes way for night to begin. This is the best time to run, dusk, you’ve discovered.

No kids loitering on park grounds, no threat brought on by the dark, no slow-walking pedestrians crossing your path.

You run your self-made circuit with freedom, switching off all your senses and emptying your mind.

Today, however, it’s more challenging.

The thought of him creeps through, no matter the effort you put in to fight it. Your father’s the one to blame.

You have to come, kiddo.

The phone-call still echos through your thoughts.

Because it wouldn’t be the same without you there.

You’d wanted a better explanation than that.

Then, you tried some lame excuse of already having plans.

You had no plans.

Bring your friends then! The more the merrier!

You nearly groaned out loud at his enthusiasm, but held back. Your father’s light didn’t deserve to be dampened by your shadow.

C’mon, kiddo! I’ve not hosted the annual barbecue since you were still wearing your braces!

You bit your tongue. Fought against telling him that, back then, there were no pretty-eyed, heart-breaking agents for you to worry about.

The whole station’s gonna be there, you have to come!

He said it, like that would persuade you.

Keep asking about ya, the whole lot of them.

The more he spoke, the less you wanted to go.

Just last night Javi was asking how you’re doing!

You’d hung up.

Immediately.

Called back, 3 minutes later. Mumbled an apology and an excuse- I lost signal!- and ultimately agreed to going to the damn barbecue.

Now, you run from the phone call, from the impending doom it brings.

All this heartache and pain, it’s not good for the soul.

Of course, being dumped is a lot easier when the person isn’t your dad’s closest confidant.

It gets hard to breath. Each pound against concrete shakes the cassette player glued to your hip. There’s a sting of tears in your eyes.

Until you come to a screeching halt.

Double over.

Place your hands on your knees.

Dry heave.

You pay no mind to the figure sitting a few feet away on a bench.

Nor to the dog that’s chasing it’s ball back forth between it’s owner’s throws.

You let the sadness flood your soul, deflate you like some discarded party-balloon.

You’ll have to see him.

Spend time near him.

Watch him laugh, and smile, and share beers with your father.

It’s unfair, and you hate him for putting you through this.

For not quitting the force.

For being your dad’s friend.

For not wanting you the same you wanted him.

Want him.

You wipe your face with the back of your hand. Try to stand up straight, get lost in the knots you’d tied into your laces. Sloppy and uneven.

You’re usually more careful.

You catch, in your peripheral, the figure on the bench move. Take it as your sign to compose yourself, get over yourself.

You pick your pace back up.

Manage only a handful-or-two steps.

Your feet fly out in front of you.

Land ass-first on the gravel below.

Beneath the sounds of Olivia Newton-John demanding you get physical, you hear a muffled sorry! yelled out. Spot as the dog rushes to grab it’s ball, halfway down the path thanks to your kick.

You groan and prepare to get back on your feet.

You’re met with a hand in your face, palm open and waiting for you to accept the open offer. You take it, no hesitation.

Big mistake.

The hand tugs you.

You glance up.

And meet the eyes of Javier Peña.

“Easy, tiger,” he coughs up a laugh, like you don’t wind him as you slam into him, full-body force, nerves on fire and all systems shutting down. “You trying to break my ribs?”

It’s no less than you deserves, you think.

And instantly regret it, heart turning blue at the thought of him hurt at your hand.

You take a few steps back, create a safe distance where you can’t smell the remnants of his last cigarette or count the eyelashes that line his eyes.

He asks you how you’ve been, and tries his best to smile.

It comes off as awkward. A crooked line across his lips.

You try to remember the last time he smiled at you and meant it.

You come up empty handed.

Maybe it was back in April. A hospital hallway, one hand clasping yours, the other peeling through the leafs of some medical pamphlet.

Or, was it after, on the drive home, back to his apartment, hand still holding yours while the other spun the wheel?

There’s a vague memory that toils in the depth of your mind.

Sharing an elevator, your heels in his hand, his lips on your forehead.

Wedding attire, a post-party glow.

It’s toyed with you since you woke up in that hotel room, driven half-mad by an image you can’t quite form of him tucking you into bed.

Had he smiled, then?

Had he even been there?

Or was he merely a product of martinis and negronnis-

His fingers grasp your chin, no warning, and tilt your face.

His eyes don’t greet your own. Instead, they’re focused on the centre of your face, inspecting you like a piece of evidence.

“Hmm,” he’s so close, you smell the mint of freshly bitten gum on his breath. Dart your eyes down, catch the glint of his badge poking out his pocket.

He’s still on duty, a tailored uniform contrasting the hair roused by stress. Maybe at his desk, in the office next to your father’s, hands running through his tresses to express frustrations, tensions.

Were they his own hands, or someone with longer, brightly painted nails? Your stomach turns at the thought, your loins warm at the memory of writhing in his desk chair, legs thrown over his shoulders whilst his own dug into the ground below, eager to please mouth and a happy to taste tongue working you to a orgasm muffled by your own hand.

He’d slapped your ass, kissed your cheek and sent you out his office door, wiping your own wetness off your cheek just in time to greet your father.

“You suit the ring,” his voice and a gentle breeze bring you back to the present. To the park. To the heavy feeling that hangs between you both. “I prefer it to that stud.”

“I- What?” Confussion.

You furrow your brow, wipe your sweaty palms over your thighs.

He just smiles, still crookedly, and brings his hand up to your nose.

Adjusts your piercing, swipes his thumb over your cheek.

It’s hard to breath, but you do it anyway.

Thank him, in a struggle to find your voice, with a whisper.

His eyes bore into your own, chase them as you look off to the side, watch the dog still chasing it’s ball and failing to catch it.

You wonder if it’s a cruel metaphor sent by the universe, a symbol of you and Javi.

And then you wonder if you’re the dog or the ball.

Or both.

“You never answered me,” his voice, honey, sweet on your ears. It melts away your other senses, turns you blind to anything other than him. “I want to hear how you’ve be-”

“Peña, if you don’t report your skinny ass to my office in 5 minutes and share a celebratory drink with me, I’m putting you on cleaning duties at our next poker night.”

A static-filled voice blares out his walkie-talkie.

Your father’s voice.

It’s enough to set things right, force your body to retreat from his.

He’s not your Javi anymore, desperate to hear about your day and kiss any aches away.

He’s Peña, your dad’s best friend, meant for nothing more than to be a passing figure in your life.

His eyes are heavy with emotion as he fishes out the device.

Maybe it’s sadness you see.

There’s definitely remorse.

Guilt, too.

“We... Your dad caught the guy that’s been breaking into college girls’ apartments.” He tells you, shares information that should help you sleep better at night. You’ve not done that since the last time he lay next to you. You watch him press down on the call button, hold the speaker up to his mouth. “Do that and I’ll shit in your shower, pendejo (asshole).”

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d commit an indecency within your parent’s bathroom.

But none of that matter, anymore.

You’re already walking away.

Wringing your hands and hoping the tension in your limbs falls out.

He calls out your name, loudly.

Attracts the nosy eyes of people around.

People who know fine well who your father is, who Javier is.

You turn in time to see him half-jog, half-pace his way over to you.

He reaches out for your hand.

And quickly gives up on the thought of holding it.

“I’ll, um,” his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, grinds his teeth in an attempt to say something. “I’ll see you at the barbecue, right?”

He knows the answer.

You still give him it, “yes.”

Smile, uncomfortably brightly, before you turn and walk away once more.

You feel his eyes on you.

And pray he takes no notice of the sob that shakes your shoulders.

Broke me big time It’s funny and I’m laughing baby You think I’m alright

You’re laughing but it’s mostly fake.

A courtesy, a polite gesture. A signal that you’re still listening, despite tuning out her voice five minutes ago.

She’s a nice lady, someone who works alongside your father. Specialised in forensics, she balances the darkness of her job with the brightness of her wardrobe.

Today, she’s paired a lemon-yellow skirt with a vibrantly orange camisole. She looks like a walking cheese cube.

You’ve known her since you were a kid, even if you can’t remember. She claims you used to stand on her desk, make a big spectacle out of nearly matching your dad’s height.

You’d got to talking to her after she helped you wipe ketchup off your chin.

That was half an hour ago, and the discomfort of wanting to be anywhere but here is finally settling in.

It’s not her fault. You know.

She’s not the one who roped you into going to this barbecue.

Your dad is.

And right now he’s stood on the other side of his backyard, half-drunken beer bottle in one hand and Javier Peña’s shoulder clapped under the other.

Even from here, you can hear him bragging.

So then Peña’s on his ass.

Chases this guy, whilst he’s driving down the street!

Catches him at an intersection, physically rips him out the car.

All while the man in question shrugs, sheepish. Dismisses your father’s praising.

He’s exaggerating.

The guy was barely going 5 miles an hour!

He stepped out the vehicle at his own will.

Sweat lines his forehead, shirt-sleeves hug his biceps, joy wrinkles his eyes.

He’s happy, at ease. Enjoying himself, in a way he was always meant to.

Something about him fits so perfectly in this picture: laughing with your father, complimenting your mother, playing fetch with your dog.

If you step inside the frame, it cracks.

Shatters.

And maybe he knows that.

Knew it all along.

Broke things off before you could try find a frame large enough to fit you all in.

And, though it hurts, you see why things had to end between you and feel relieved it happened before it was too late.

The feeling lasts all but four seconds.

“Kiddo!”

Your father’s voice is obnoxiously loud. Several of the party-goers turn their heads, follow his line of sight. Spot you, frozen in place, glass full of watered down lemonade and a belly full of dread.

It takes a moment, but you wave.

“Come over ‘ere!”

Not the response you were hoping for.

Still, you do as he asks. Smile at your mother, shuffle your feet, make your way across the yard. Do everything in your power to not look at Javi.

Even if the weight of his stare threatens to crumble you.

“You having a good time?” Your dad’s got this smile, big and dopy and oh so caring, that you can’t bring yourself to ruin with the truth.

“I’m having a great time,” you barely manage out before he’s squeezing you into his side.

The condensation on his bottle of beer seeps through the shoulder of your top, his arm secured safely around you.

He must be tipsy already, a buzz in his veins making him more affectionate than normal.

“I can’t believe it,” he laments, speaking to no one in particular.

In your peripheral, you fail to ignore tight jeans and a loose-fitting shirt.

It’s hardly buttoned, the top three undone and leaving a golden plain on display.

Perhaps you’re going crazy but he seems thinner, skin drawn a little tighter against his ribcage.

It’s not a sight you want to see.

It fills you with dread.

Pulling you out of your own head, you father continues to drone on.

“My little girl’s spreading her wings soon, going on her first adult holiday to-”

“London.”

Javi’s voice, interrupting your father, finishing his sentence.

All eyes snap to him.

Your own, wide and panicked. Scared. Trying so hard to dismiss how intensely he’s staring back you.

Your mother’s, amused and curious. Flicking back and forth between his face and her husband’s.

Your father, confused and perplexed, “I- Yeah...” He speaks slow and the arm on your shoulder slips down. “How’d you know?”

“I’ve been, you know?” Two hands dance in front of you, somewhere in the dark, intwining and unwinding. It’s a nervous habit, of Javi’s. You welcome the contact of soothing touches. “To London.”

That peaks your interest.

Enough to shift positions. Rip your hand out his own, roll onto your side and rest a hand under your propped up head. Your other, inevitably, finds its way upon his warm chest, rests over his no-longer-racing heartbeat.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ve been a few times, actually. I’ve got some friends out there.”

With Javi, friends could mean anything.

A fellow agent, a government official, a moonlight lover.

For all you know, this friend could be the Queen of England.

So it’s best you don’t inquire on it.

“Where do you recommend I visit then, Mr. Bond?”

“Mr... Bond?”

The room is dark, but you still notice the furrow in his brow.

You can practically hear it, in his voice.

“You know, like James Bond.” That’s the thing about jokes, explaining them makes you realise how dumb they are. “‘Cause you were an agent and you like London, and he’s an agent in Lon-”

He cuts you off in the way you like best: his mouth against yours.

The kiss is brief, and leads no place further than the simple act of wanting to silence you.

And, though it goes unaddressed, because it’s been too long since he’d last done it.

Even if he’d done so less than an hour ago, naked bodies intertwined on ruffled bedsheets.

“That was the worst pun I’ve ever heard, corazón,” somehow, the words don’t bruise your ego.

Instead, they make you giggle and burrow your heated face into the crook of his neck.

His lips press against your hairline before speaking again.

“I’d need to write you a list of places to go, too many for me to pick one.”

“Maybe I need a tour guide,” a hand of his greets your back, strokes soothing motions back and forth. It’s lulling you to sleep, at last. “Y’know, show me all the places a real Londoner goes.”

“I could,” he pauses. Clears his throat. Pulls you a little tighter against him, till your limbs are tangled and it’s hard to tell where he stops and you start. “I could check my calendar. See how many holiday days I’ve got left. Could come with you, to London, if you want me there.”

It’s too late though.

You’re already snoring against his skin.

“How does he know?” Your mother shatters the silence, tone incredulous. “I mean, seriously, are you blind!?”

For a minute, it feels like she knows.

She knows why Javi knows.

You should be panicking.

Both of you should.

Should look away from one another, should wipe the guilt off your faces, should already be working on some excuse for when your mother exposes what once was between you.

But you aren’t. Neither of you are.

You’re just staring at each other, as if you’re working to commit each other’s face to memory.

“He knows because you won’t shut up about it!”

Your dad gives an unceremonious oh.

Your mom rolls her eyes.

Javi takes a sip of beer and looks off to the side, eyes breaking contact from your own at last.

“Ok but,” your father’s back to talking before you can fully work up the courage to leave. At least that’s the excuse you try give yourself, anything to distract from Javi. “I bet I’ve not told you what she’s decided to do on her travels!”

“You have,” your mother’s tone is pointed.

Javi laughs, sputters up a little beer back into the bottle. Tilts his head back, accepts his own backwash.

There’s a worn-out cigarette box squeezed tight inside the front pocket of his jeans.

You try ignore the fact he’d promised you he was working on quitting.

“Shh,” your father waves a hand in your mother’s face, dismisses her teasing with a playful wink.

Pulls her close, kisses her shoulder.

Gives both you and Javi a display of what a relationship is.

Open, celebrated, acknowledged.

Not secretive, dirty, scandalous.

Javi cuts the tension with a chuckle and a gentle shove to your father’s arm.

As his hand retreats back to his side, his knuckles brush your skin.

“She’s gonna get herself a christmas-tree decoration every holiday,” your father reveals. You’re frozen at the fact he even remembers you mentioning it. “What was it you said again, kiddo? So in the future, when you’re decorating the tree with your kids, you’ll think of the places you’ve been and tell them all about it?”

Your heart drops.

Javi’s seems to do the same.

For a moment, you worry he’s stopped breathing.

Till his chest rises and falls, no thanks to your father’s stupid rambling about you, and the future, and kids.

“Uh, yeah,” the ground can’t swallow you sooner. You’re already planning your exit, from this conversation and, hopefully, this party as a whole. Your dad’ll understand. You just need to tell him something came up. Or came out. Tell him you’ve got food poison. Blame it on some dodgy take-out the night before. “Something like that.”

But I’m actually bloody Motherfucking batshit crazy

There are moments in one’s life where they must question their own sanity.

You’ve lived plenty of such moments.

But none quite like right now, half-crouched in the middle of a grocery store aisle, peeping into the next one through a gap between two cereal boxes on the shelf.

And all because you heard his voice.

“This is what you’re craving?” Through the crack, you see him wave about something in his hand. It’s hard to see what exactly he’s holding, though.

He’s facing a woman.

She’s pretty.

With dirty blonde hair, piercing blue eyes that not even the shelves and produce between you both can block the shine of.

And a well-rounded belly.

“No, Javi, this,” she doesn’t say his name the same way you do- did. There’s a jovial tone, but there’s no awe, no seduction. Maybe that’s just what your bias hears. “Is what the baby is craving.”

You’ve never seen her before.

Not on the mantel of photos that line Javier’s television. Not at any of the station thrown parties. Not in his wallet, tucked behind the picture of his mom.

She’s a total stranger, to you.

But that doesn’t mean she’s a stranger to him.

A very pregnant, non-stranger.

“We gotta get this kid some better taste.”

His hand rests on her bump.

She welcomes it, placing her own against it to hold him in place.

The image of the American dream, a beautiful woman and a handsome man. The promise of a child, soon, half her and half him.

The blood drains from your face. There’s a lump in your throat and a sting in your eyes.

You won’t let it fester.

Take deep breaths, pretend there’s no shake in your exhales.

It’s not enough to stop the vicious thoughts that sink their jagged ends into the soft tissues of your brain.

Was she the reason things between you and him ended?

Had he got her pregnant, decided to stand by her, and found love along the way?

Was he with her, all along, while he was with...

Surely, he couldn’t have.

But, then, why couldn’t he have?

You were never exclusive.

You were never anything.

“Did-” Somewhere, between the aisles, Javi speaks in amazement. The smile is practically dripping off his words. “Did it just kick?”

Your heart’s palpitating.

Your hands are sweating so badly, they threaten to drop the box of Cap'n Crunch in their grasp.

Jealousy turns to misplaced anger, irrational in every form but impossible to conform.

Because, how could he do this to you?

Make a mockery of you, turn you into the other woman?

Love you so deeply and leave you so easily?

Settle down with this woman and her baby, yet run from you at the first scare of a-

“He’s a real kicker, ain’t he?”

At first, you think it’s spoken to you.

But, no, it’s too distant. Too far.

A third person enters your view through the window in the shelf.

He’s handsome, in the typical sense.

Blonde haired, a nice smile.

There’s a little girl in his arms, resting on his hip, half asleep and clinging to a worn-out giraffe doll.

“He?” It’s Javi who echoes.

“Don’t get him started,” the woman seems to beg, rolling her eyes.

The man nods, pride on his face, “I’m telling ya, Peña, it’s gonna be a boy. It needs to be a boy, ‘else I’m gonna be overrun by little girls.”

The woman must give him a pointed look, or a gentle nudge, for not two seconds later he’s following his words up with a tickle to the sleepy girl’s side and “little girls who I love very much.” Pause. He leans closer to Javier, hand covering one side of his mouth as if to block the woman and the child from hearing him. “I still want a son, though.”

“Olivia,” the pregnant woman strokes a hand over the little girl's head, coxing her to keep her eyes open. It’s hard to tell if there’s a drool mark on the man’s shoulder. “Why don’t you show uncle Javi your favourite toy?”

The bile in your throat burns more than ever before.

The misplaced anger bleeds into sadness, shame, embarrassment.

Here you are, going stir-crazy over a man who never wanted much of you in the first place, raising your heart-rate at the thought of him moving on from something that never even existed.

And there he is, fine as can be- in every sense of the word-, sharing laughs and exchanging smiles with old friends in the grocery store.

Friends his own age.

Worlds apart, yet nothing but a shelf between you.

Through the gap, you watch him lean down to the little girl’s eye-level. A twinkle in his eye, he happily tugs at the stuffed giraffe’s tail.

“Glad you liked it, Olive,” curse him, and his soft voice, and his gentle touch and his everything, for still forcing you to swoon over him, knees weak and ovaries treacherously screaming. “I had to go all the way to Africa to find him.”

The little girl perks right up at that.

Eyes widened, head off her father’s shoulder.

“Really?!” She’s amazed, and how could she not be? Javier Peña is beaming at her, ear to ear.

“Mhmm,” he nods, feeds into his own lie, ignoring the disapproving looks from the other man. “If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll go back next year and get you a zebra.”

“Quit lying to my kid, Peña.”

Javi, undeterred from keeping the little girl’s smile, rolls his eyes and pokes his tongue out at her father, huffing under his breath “Your dad’s a right grump, Olive.”

You begin to wonder how long Javi’s known this couple, how he knows this couple.

“Just wait till you’ve got your own kid and I’m feeding it lies.” The man punctuates his empty threat with a dull punch to Javi’s forearm. Javi barely flinches, unfazed. “Speaking of, when are you making me uncle Steve?”

In sync and apart, you and him both physically freeze.

Your breathing stops.

Javier stands up straight. Rolls his shoulders, scratches at the back of his neck, clears his throat and, “not any time soon.”

“Really? What about that girl you’ve been seeing, the-”

“That- We- It didn’t work out, we wanted,” you begin to see cracks in his facade. Fake laugh, solemn eyes. “Different things... I want, wanted to settle down but, yeah, no it was for her best that we-”

“Sorry, can I just,” your heart jumps in your chest, flying back so quickly from your peep-hole that you nearly knock over the person behind you. “Grab one of those?”

You nod, gain composure, watch the stranger pick up a box of cereal off the shelf.

They walk away and you’re left alone, again.

Your eyes flicker up to the shelf and-

He’s no longer standing on the other side.

You turn on your heel, ignoring your half-filled cart and book it out of the store before you fall apart.

Try as you might, you can’t shake off the weight of his stare as you pass by the check-out.

I kept it in, but it wrecked my organs So pour the gin and call Graham Norton

You wake up early.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re seizing the day.

Making the most out of your time upon foreign land.

The early bird gets the worm, and all that proverbial bullshit.

The truth lies in that you can not sleep.

Jetlag. Your body clock is at odds with the timezone.

Which lands you here: strolling upon the cobbled streets of Notting Hill.

A quarter past six.

Its barely light out, the sun still fighting to rise over the horizon and the streetlights still shadow your every step.

Colourful houses, cosy shops, a melodic thud each time your feet meet the ground.

It’s picturesque, straight out of a romantic comedy.

Yet, somehow, you’ve never felt more gloom.

In the silent bustle of a city awakening to a new day, you’re startled.

Trip over a cobble, nearly meet the floor, and just about save yourself from rolling your ankle.

Your ringtone is the culprit.

Loud, imposing. It scares a flock of birds off a wire and gains you a stare from a man stepping out his home.

Scrambling to get the clunky cellphone out your bag, you spare the screen a fleeting glance.

You question if it’s one of your friends, awakened back in your shared hotel room to find you’re not there, and press the green button.

“Corazón.”

It’s funny how one word can drain the blood from your face.

You swallow the lump in your throat, made of equal parts anger and sadness.

Anger that this is the first time you’ve heard Javier Peña’s voice in nearly two months.

Sadness that it sounds so broken down the line.

“I- Shit, I can’t tell if I’ve even dialled the right number...” He’s muttering in your ear, confused and at odds with himself, mouth a fountain his thoughts pour out of. “... Probably changed it or- Can she even receive calls all the way in-”

“I’m here,” it’s only a whisper.

It’s enough to shut him up.

Silence rings down the line, a static buzz that reminds you of the distance between you.

“You’re in London,” he states.

“I am,” you affirm.

He hums, sips something.

Ice clinks against glass, and you feel a little sick.

“How have-” His voice sounds strange. Muffled. Different. Maybe it’s the poor connection. “Was your flight okay?”

“Yeah,” you spare him the details.

The truth.

The boredom, the turbulence. The fact you’re dreading the flight home.

“I’m glad,” he sighs the words out, worry going with them. “Know you’re not the biggest fan of planes, kept thinking of you alone and afraid on it.”

“I wasn’t alone,” it’s defensive, and ironic.

You sure felt alone.

“That’s right, corazón, you weren’t,” something slips, rolls, smashes. Glass shatters and is met with cursing anger, an oh, shit! followed up by hollow laughter. “You’re never alone.”

“Are you...” The street’s a little brighter, a few cars have begun to back out of driveways and you’re still there, frozen in the middle of the street, phone pressed to your ear. “Drunk?”

“No, I’m javi.” If his laughter is anything to go by, he thinks himself the comic of the century. “Had a few drinks with your dad, sweetheart, that’s all.”

For a moment, it feels like you shouldn’t be here, in London.

You should be home, in Laredo, dragging a drunken Javi to bed.

Stripping him of his clothes, kissing his rosied cheeks, urging him to go to sleep. Leaving him a pair of painkillers and a glass of water for his breakfast before curling yourself into his soft arms.

You blink, and feel the familiar weight of a tear on your lashes.

“Why’d you call me, Javi?” It’s a desperate plea.

For answers, for clarity, for closure

“I wanted to hear your voice,” that’s too vague of an answer, too unfair of an answer. Your heart swells nonetheless. “Wanted to go to London, with you. I should be there.”

“It’s your fault,” that’s as cruel as you can bring yourself to be towards him.

Even then, it kills you to do so.

“’S half my fault. Joder (fuck),” you can picture him, leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. You wonder how much he’s drank, and if he spoke to any women. Maybe he took one home, fucked her nice and good before dialling your number. “Wanted to give you my answer, too.”

Someone bumps your shoulder on the street, walking past you.

You pay them no mind, vision blurred to the world around you.

“What answer?”

“Where you should visit, Mrs. Bond,” he says it, like it doesn’t send you into cardiac arrest.

You miss the nights like that one, tangled in your bed, smelling him on your sheets and feeling him against your skin.

He’d woken up first the next day, coaxed you out of bed with the promise of homemade pancakes and his head between your legs.

“There’s this little bar in Inslington, called the Distillery Club. The owner, he makes his own gin. You like gin, don’t you, corazón?” You nod, and it’s almost like he feels it. “It doesn’t look like much from the outside. Or the inside, either. But it’s some of the best gin I’ve ever had, in the greatest company.”

You try to picture him, sat amongst friends you’ve never met. Friends who don’t know your dad.

You try to picture yourself, next to him, scooting your bar stool closer to his.

The image doesn’t quite form.

“Want you to go there, get yourself a drink. Tell him Javier Peña sent you, and that you’ve not to pay.”

It’s like he’s given you a piece of his soul. A piece of his history, someplace he’s sought out refuge in his lowest moments.

Refuge he’s willing to share with you.

That tear finally gives way, dropping off your lash and rolling down your cheek.

You wipe it off with the sleeve of your sweater, before anyone can see.

“Promise me you’ll go, corazón.”

Your reply is instant, “I promise.”

“Ok, I’ll let you go,” it’s solemn, regretful, devoid of truth. You almost beg him not to, but that didn’t work last time. “Enjoy yourself, okay? Come home, safe.”

“Javi, I-” the line cuts off, disconnecting before you even finish. “Miss you.”

I’m gonna throw you down the river Your mum can watch it over dinner

“How you feeling, kiddo?”

You startle awake at your father’s voice, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

Before you can give him an answer, you erupt into a fit of coughs.

“Not good,” he grimaces and slowly steps into your room. “Got it.”

Stepping off the plane, you’d managed only one night back in your own bed before the fever had taken over.

All it took was hearing your nasally voice over the phone for your mother to demand you come stay with them.

Just till you’re back on your feet, she’d said, like she ever needed an excuse to have you over.

She’s not quite adjusted to being an empty-nester.

Neither of them have, really.

“Actually,” your tone is matter-of-factly. “I almost smelt something earlier.”

“That’s great, kid!” And he means it, you know he does. Even if his shoulders slump at any sign of you feeling better and returning to your apartment. “Now we just gotta figure out if it’s your sinuses unclogging or your stench just growing more rancid.”

Try as you might to aim the pillow right at his head, he still manages to catch it inches from his face.

“Hey, I’m just saying! You’ve got the flu, you ain’t dying! Could be a little courteous to those who’ve gotta be around you and take a shower.”

“You’re literally in my room!”

“Which is literally in my house!”

Downstairs, your mother yells something unintelligible.

Likely, she’s telling you both to shut up and to quit behaving like children.

Making eye contact, you both can’t help the roll of laughter that comes out.

He steps a little closer, and that’s when you spot it.

Tupperware, clasped in his hand.

The contents are hard to decipher.

Luckily, your father spots you eyeing it.

“Your mom said ya wouldn’t be up for eating much but, if you’re hungry,” he pauses, at the foot of your bed. Tugs a little on the homemade-blanket you’ve had since you were in grade school. You wonder if he remembers making it with you. “One of the guys down at the station made you some stew.”

Your stomach growls, hungry and unfed.

The prospect of a hot, boiling bowl of brothy stew suddenly peaks your interest.

In fact, you can’t think of anything better.

“It’s a family recipe, he said it would cure ya right up.”

He’s popping the lid open, presenting the delicacy before your eyes. 

Immediately, you spot chicken.

Some corn cob, a couple lumps of potato, flakes of chilli.

You wish you could smell it, ingest it through your nasal canal and get a taste of it before you even put it in your mouth.

Your father continues, practically talking to himself.

“What’d he say it was called again, ga-sue-lay day ah-vay?”

“Cazuela de ave.”

A change into warmer, drier clothes.

Your hair still sits wet upon your head, but it no longer drips puddles onto his floor.

Thirty minutes it took him to drive from where he’d spotted you, walking soaked upon the sidewalk.

It would’ve only taken him seventeen minutes if he’d dropped you at your apartment.

And that fact is partly what warms your insides.

You watch him, tie discarded and the top buttons of his shirt undone, strutting around his kitchen.

Objectively, you think, he’s gorgeous.

Yet the word somehow doesn’t seem like it’s enough to summarise him, when he’s making his way round to you, two ceramic bowls in his hands and a look of pride in his eyes.

He put his own bowl down first. Sloppy, uncaring, spilling a little of it’s contents over it’s edge.

And then yours. More careful, slowly, both hands guiding it down.

The scent alone is enough to have you salivating. 

Warmth and care, all encased in a bowl of brothy goodness.

“It smells delicious,” you inhale deeply, for dramatic effect.

And to get more of that meaty, comfort-food goodness.

Javi sits on the opposite side of the dining table, and you try hard to stop your mind from wandering off to visions of you both sat like this, out in public, in a restaurant.

A real date.

Only, this isn’t even a fake date.

You guys don’t do that.

“It’s- It was my mom’s recipe.”

Frozen in place, you wonder if the shock spills over your face.

He’s never mentioned his mother.

Or much about his family, really.

There’s the occasional comment about projects he takes on at his dad’s ranch, and tid-bits of information you hear across a dinner table that's set by your mother and seated by your father.

But you’re no fool blind enough to not realise the obvious.

A worn-out polaroid in his wallet, his mother smiles brightly in permanent ink each time he opens it. It contrasts her impermanence in the real world, dead and gone long before you became so much as a ripple in the lake of Javier’s existence.

Across the table, he’s relaxed. At ease.

Open.

His eyes, his mind, his heart.

And so you try venturing inwards, test his waters with a dip of your toe.

“Was she a good cook?”

Lukewarm, they appear, when he favours you with a tiny smile, his eyes staring somewhere off in the distance.

“No,” and he laughs at his own admission.

Not just a scoffed out chuckle, or a gesture meant to feign joy.

A full, hearty laugh, that shakes his shoulders and splits his cheeks.

It’s disturbingly beautiful.

You wonder if there’s a life where it could be like this, always.

Javier laughing at his own jokes, you smiling at his visceral joy, plates of homemade food filling the space between you.

“No, she, uh,” he restarts, relaxing a little bit. He wipes under one of his eyes with the back of his palm, a rogue tear breaching his waterline. “She was awful. She burnt every slice of toast she made, and even served an unbaked cake at one of my birthday parties. This dish is actually one of the few she knew how to nail.”

You can picture it, a young Javi, party hat on his head and a cheesy grin topped by rosy cheeks, eating away at gooey batter mix sprinkled in icing. 

It’s hard to imagine him complaining, or getting angry at her.

In spite of his reputation, and the career he’s undertaken, Javier Peña is a gentle soul, who nurtures and protects anyone he can.

A modern-day hero, a knight who’s exchanged his shinny armour for form fitting jeans and unbuttened shirts.

“Tell me more about her,” the words are out before you can reel them back in.

Because you like this feeling, and you like this Javi, reminiscing on his late-mother.

“She not only was awful at cooking, but she had the worst coordination too.” It’s like he’s been waiting to tell you this, with how easy he slips into doing so. “She was forever falling and tripping over herself. And her driving, god! Pops used to dig out his rosary each time she’d be out on the field, driving the tractor.”

There’s something intimate about him recalling details so many would see as flaws, whilst he sports the most earnest, heart-wrenching smile.

Like nothing about her was wrong, all of her perfect and angelic.

“She was brave, too. I’d like to think I’m just like her in that respect. She didn’t let anything stop her from doing things she set her heart on, and she never let her inabilities hinder her,” he’s getting a little emotional now, you can hear it in his voice, see it in the lump he swallows back. You stretch a hand across the table and watch as he leans on you for support, fingers interlocking with your own. “There was this one time when I was a kid, I was swimming in a river and got stuck in a current. She dived right in to save me... She didn’t even know how to swim!”

You don’t know what to say.

You opt for saying nothing, silence speaking more than a thousand words.

Give his hand a reassuring squeeze, feel him squeeze back harder.

Your stomach rumbles, but it doesn’t ruin the moment in the way you feared it would.

“Listen to me being a sap and starving my poor lady to death,” still, he tugs your hand closer and plants a kiss on your knuckles. You’re still trying to process the possessive adjective he’d used to address you. My. His. “Eat up.”

Both of you settle back in your seats.

You pick up your spoon, scoop up a piece of chicken out the steaming bowl and-

“Asi no, corazón (not like that, sweetheart),” he spews out, panicking to pry the cutlery out your hand. He ignores the questioning looks you give him. “You drink the soup first, eat the filling after. Like this.”

Leaning over the table, he scoops your bowl up in his careful hands and guides it up to your lips.

When your lips part and rest against the bowl’s edge, he tilts it and you feel it’s warmth invade your mouth.

And then your chest, branching out over your heart, your lungs, your stomach.

Horned-up bias you so often show towards Javier aside, it’s one of the best things you’ve ever tasted.

Like a hug on a gloomy, wet day, all wrapped up inside a ceramic bowl.

You hum, hands taking over his own to allow him back into his own seat, focusing his attention on drinking his own soup.

“Javi, this is...” You trail off, eyeing the small ring of liquid pooling at the bottom of the bowl. One more mouthful and you’ll get your taste of the stew’s fillings. “Amazing. Your mum would be proud.”

Instead of modesty, instead of 'thank yous', instead of bashfulness, Javier smiles, takes another sip from his bowl.

“She would have liked you.”

You stare across at him and find no jest in his eyes.

They’re as open as before.

“Really?”

“Mhmm. She always liked pretty girls smart enough to put me in my place.”

“Kiddo?”

You’re ripped out your own head by your father’s voice and his hand, waved repeatedly in front of your face.

“Hmm?” 

“You okay there? I was talkin’ to you but you seemed lost in thought.” There’s a little excitement in you father’s voice as he presses his cold hand to your sweated forehead, the prospect of you still being ill, still needing taking care of, filling him with the relief of keeping you in your parents' home a little longer.

“I’m- Yeah, just tired, s’all.”

“Ok, let me know when you’ve finished your food,” he presses a kiss atop the crown of your head, and you hold back the pointless comment of not risking getting himself or your mother sick. “Need to get the tupperware clean ‘fore I give it back to Javi.”

Your stomach twists and longs for the meal before you, while your heart shatters into pieces you doubt will ever be repaired.

#javier peña smut #pedro pascal smut #javier peña x reader #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña oneshot

[oonajaeadira]

Detected

Fandom: Merge Mansion / Tim Rockford

Pairing: Tim Rockford x f!reader

Reader: Adult female. No other physical descriptors; no use of y/n.

Rating: T. Fluff.

Warnings: Mention of serial killer that targets women.

Summary: Nobody sees you the way Tim does.

A/N: I dunno, I just had a hankering to write for Tim and looked down my list of tropes thinking I might be able to scratch the itch and accomplish a fic for my Year of Tropes at the same time. Something hit me in the right places for a little piece of sweetness, so here we go, with SECRET IDENTITY.

This is really fluffy. Like stupid fluffy. Moreso than my regular stuff. Just let me have my little trope. This one didn't go through a lot of draft revisions, it was just a fun little thot that needed out.

“Why don’t you take the afternoon off, Sunshine? Get some rest. You’ve been here ten days straight.”

Tim’s the only detective in the unit who talks to you directly, certainly the only one that doesn’t just call you ‘hon’ or ‘sweetheart’ or ‘girl.’ You’re pretty sure he’s probably the only one in the department that knows your name, but he rarely uses it. 

That isn’t unusual. You’ve always been the quiet one, the mouse, the wallflower. It’s your superpower, being able to go unnoticed. You’ve never been reprimanded, never bad-talked, never held up as a bad example.

But then, neither do you often find yourself praised or called in for opinion. Never once have you been asked to join anyone for happy hour or coffee.

So many times you’ve been standing in a meeting room and not once been addressed. So many times you’ve overheard something that perhaps you shouldn’t have just because you were below anyone’s notice.

It bothered you so much more when you were younger. Not the case anymore.

You’ve learned to love your quiet life, shuffling around the records room, carefully tagging and bagging, filling out the document cards, compiling files, taking meticulous photos of items for court cases and detective scrutiny. Nobody comes looking for you, so you get to take your time, a kind of professional meditation. At least once a week you notice a detail on a piece of evidence that you might make known to one of the team. Usually this gets you a thanks, but more often times a brush off that ends in the detective later gaining the credit for the discovery.

Tim is different. Observant. He actually listens when you bring him something of interest and asks for your opinion or your second eye. He still does that thing where he puts the pictures of people and evidence you provide up on the wall and connects it with string. He will stare at that board for hours, getting up every now and then to pace, then turning the chair around to straddle it backwards so he can lean over the back and look again, hoping to find the one connection that the string can’t touch.

And yet, even when he’s concentrating this hard, he’s fully aware of his surroundings.

So much so that he even notices you’ve slipped into the room to stand behind him--you, who goes mostly unnoticed when standing in full view of most people.

When you don’t answer him, he turns his chin back over his shoulder, his sharp profile coming into relief against the organized mess of the illuminated case wall. 

He’s so very handsome. And it’s a shame he doesn’t seem to know. Or care.

Snapping free of your musings, you finally answer. “Yeah, it’s been a busy week. I’ve still got the Murray case to document. There’s a lot of entries.”

Turning fully to look at you now, he takes his time formulating a new response. “That case is closed. There’s no hurry. You work too hard. It’s Saturday.”

You shrug and smile. “I like my job. And you're one to talk.” Nodding to the evidence wall, you step more fully into the room. “Any movement on this? Sure I can’t help you? Anything I can pull from archives?”

This is a tough one. There’s a lot of speculation as to the mangled bodies in the pictures. A new one found last night, a week old. The probability is high that there’s one club downtown that’s producing them all and a definite suspect, but the record’s clean. There’s no grounds for warrants.

He gives you one more thoughtful glance before turning back to his work. “Not unless you have anything that correlates this last one to Club 88 or to Mike Cross. But no. Thanks. Get out of here, live your life, be free. I’m gonna go grab an interview out at the pier but then I’ll be here all night.”

He’s hungry. You can see that look in his eyes, he’s close, he just needs that one connecting piece of evidence and he’ll empty the coffee pots in the breakroom tonight looking for one.

“You’re hungry, Detective Rockford. At least let me call in some takeout for you before I go? Lau’s number 22 with chicken, right?”

He simply nods. “Thanks, Sunshine.”

“You got it, Detective.”

—-

Your pager goes off two hours later.

Special case. Could use your help. Pier 13.

You’ve been waiting for the call.

Upon arriving home from the department, you’d closed your blinds and turned off the lights, pulled on the dark pants and long fitted coat, tucked your hair up under the black hood and pulled it low. Gloves. Boots. Plain and unassuming in this fall weather.

You’re able to walk out the back door of your apartment building and take a path through the alley as the sun is setting without anyone giving you a second glance.

The only piece of your disguise you truly need is the vocal changer mask, but that stays tucked in your coat pocket until you arrive at the pier.

Once you can smell the water, you take a moment to hide your face, your voice, and your identity under the dark, nondescript mask–a blank slate of void where a face should be–before stepping out of the alleys and making your way to pier 13 where Tim Rockford stands looking out over the harbor at the lights starting to come on over the bridge.

“What can I do for you, Detective?” The voice that grates out of your mask is low, warped, almost sultry.

Tim, for all his awareness, misses your entrance. This is the strength of your powers. Snapping out of his reverie, he spins to find you only feet away, your long coat fluttering in the breeze.

And an awed smile spreads across his face.

Tim is the only one on the force that smiles when you show up as the Shadow. The rest of the cops tend to startle, recoil, not understanding how you simply seem to appear out of the air, unfold from the shadows, melt into the darkness itself.

“Thanks for coming, Shadow,” he says, his trenchcoat joining in the fluttering conversation of overwear. Pulling a few pictures out of his pocket, he holds them out and you take them.

A new mangled body. A hurried photo of a man with light skin and dark hair and blue eyes. A blown-up scan of license plate. You recognize them from his evidence board but say nothing, letting him make the request.

He explains the supposed serial killings, the patterns, the suspect, the license plate that isn’t his but was caught on surveillance near a couple of the dumping grounds.

“I’m pretty sure it’s him,” he concludes, poking at the photo of Mike Cross, “but I’m lacking something damming.”

“You mean you're 100% sure it's him. You're a thorough man; wouldn't just jump to conclusions. And you want me to go hunting.”

“I’d rather you just go take a listen. I don’t really want you to put yourself in danger.”

It’s a good thing he can’t see you smile. Trust Tim Rockford to be the one detective that worries about the safety of the city’s resident secret, pacifist vigilante. 

“I’m touched by your concern, Detective. But I haven’t been caught yet. Even if danger catches a glimpse of me, I’m very good at hiding.”

“I know. But it’s only a matter of time before somebody really sees you.” He smiles a little sadly. “I wish you wouldn’t hide from me. But I know why you do.”

It should be surprising–it’s not like him to cross this line–but instead, his statement warms you. Tim has always been grateful for the Shadow’s help, respectful, believed in your ability. But he’s also come to treat the Shadow as a friend. There’s something that tugs at your heart, knowing this dedicated, handsome, intelligent man truly trusts you but also respects and admires your limitations.

If only he knew how much you wish you could tell him, show him, let him know how much you admire him too.

He only blinks when you seem to melt into thin air, becoming one with the lengthening shadows.

_____

Club 88. The back alley. A black car belonging to Mike Cross. Nobody here to notice you but the rats as you duck around the back and inspect the bumper, find a magnetized plate cover hidden underneath that matches the photo in your pocket.

There’s the connection. Now for something that threads the needle.

_____

Maskless and hatless, you simply take up a serving tray and follow Mike Cross and a young pretty thing through the swinging “employees only” door and down a back corridor of the dark, thumping night club. Making yourself busy with empty bottles on the tray, you watch him pay a man and step into a private room with the girl. The man goes to find something else to do, nearly knocking your shoulder as he passes, as if you’re simply a tower of inventory boxes or a rogue tray of dirty dishes…or just some random hostess he doesn’t have time for.

Easy.

You’re able to enter the dimmed room under the guise of bringing in bottle service. The couple doesn’t even notice you while they make out on the couch in the VIP lounge. You simply dip your hand into the pocket of the jacket he’s left on a chair and lift his wallet. 

Might as well take the gun that’s there too. Just in case.

Time to get moving while he’s distracted.

_____

Using the address on the ID in his wallet, you make your way across town.

It’s easy enough to slip past the doorman. Unfortunately though, Mike’s apartment building has security cameras on every floor. This calls for a little distraction. Easy enough. All you need is the pad of paper and pen you carry in your pocket.

Knock on door 312. Explain you’re responding to a noise complaint in apartment 313. There is no apartment 313? That’s odd. Maybe it was apartment 311? 

When the occupants of 311 and 312 speculate over the possibilities–which apartment was the loud one? Who called in the complaint? They bet it was 211 down there, what a bitch….

It’s just enough time for you to use your jiggler key to work open the lock for Mike’s apartment and slip inside. Not only have they seemed to forgotten about you, but if anyone ever plays back the security tapes, their eyes will just slide right over you and concentrate on the gossiping neighbors in the hall.

Mike’s apartment is clean and sparse. By the looks of the set up of the living room, he likes to sit in the center of the couch, put his feet up on the coffee table while he drinks his beer (water ring stains on the veneer top) and watches tv. Not much on the walls. Books on the bookshelf, but no knicknacks.

You don’t know what you’re looking for yet, but you’ll know it when you find it.

There are a few places you start. The drawers in the kitchen. The freezer. The bedside table. Shelves in the closet. Medicine cabinet. Somewhere you'd stash something unassuming but precious but that you don't want anyone else to come across and ask questions.

But it’s as you pass back out through the bedroom, and lightly push the door open a bit wider that you hear a clinking and tapping on the other side.

There, hanging off a hook on the back of the bedroom door, is a silver chain.

With five women’s rings on it.

Yahtzee.

You snap a few photos with your phone before moving through the apartment again, looking for anything else, just in case your first instincts were wrong.

But your instincts are very rarely wrong.

Criminals love trophies. Little keepsakes of their thrills. Look for a collection of something that seems out of place and you’ve probably found your clue.

You’re just about to call it good and head out when you hear a key turning in the lock.

No need to panic, you’ve got this.

As Mike enters and kicks off his shoes before making his way to the bathroom, all you have to do is stand silently beside the far side of the bookshelf.

He doesn’t even turn on the light. Even easier.

Once the bathroom door closes, you’re able to silently slip out.

“It’s only a matter of time before somebody really sees you.”

Doubtful, Tim. But I wish I could tell you how sweet your concern is.

____

True to form, Tim’s is one of the only lights burning at the office when you slide through the department well after midnight.

It’s not often that you show up here as the Shadow, but you make sure it’s only at night when most of the lights are out. Even if you’re seen engaging with one of them, the detectives all know to look the other way and not to ask questions when someone on the force has requested your services. 

They see nothing, and say less.

When you get to the back offices, you have to stop for a moment in the shadows and take in the scene.

Tim’s here in the dim room, standing at a desk full of evidence bags. The one with the knife in it lays on a lightbox, the glow of which reaches up to caress his face, dragging at his cheeks and the bags under his eyes, his brow and bottom lip succumbing to the pull of contemplation.

You have to wonder if the detective has any joys outside of his work, if he reads or paints, if he’s into woodworking or collecting memorabilia. You often find yourself wishing you had the means to learn more about him and find yourself watching him from across the office as if you could read it in the stretch of his aching neck, in the hunch of his gun-holstered shoulders. 

But you’ve grown used to your quiet life. You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if someone else actually paid you enough attention to let you into their life–

“What have you got for me?” he asks, and you flinch. He hadn’t even turned around.

“Plenty," you rasp through the voice modulator. "How did you know I was here?”

“I always notice you,” he says. “And I could ask you the same thing.”

“Where else would you be?”

“I have a home.”

“Do you ever go there?”

He laughs and finally turns. “Yeah, not lately.”

Emerging from the darkness, you hand him a few photos you ran off from your phone at home, knowing he'd appreciate the analog. There's the plate cover. The ID. The chain of rings. You also hand over the gun you pinched. “Just in case you need to run a match on any casings.”

It’s here that Tim’s look grows sour. “You took this off him?” Then he tilts his head, scanning the photos. “This one…taken inside his house?”

“Yes. Most likely a collection of his trophies–”

“You went into his house??”

His intensity stops you. Something’s….wrong. “It was necessary. I wasn’t seen.”

“I told you, nothing dangerous. What if he’d come home?”

“He did.” This gains an unprecedented look of alarm from the otherwise calm and calculated man. “I told you, Detective, I wasn’t seen. I never am. That’s what I do.”

“That’s not the point, Sunshine. He murders women and dumps their bodies. This is different from the drug smugglers and counterfeit runners you usually surveil…”

He stops, registering what he just said only a couple of seconds after you do, a calm sigh of regret washing over him before being replaced by the bloom of concern.

You could choose to ignore it.

But it's useless. Tim would never let an assumption take hold as truth unless he had absolute proof. He’s the best. The best of the best and doesn’t even know it. So long you’ve wished to tell him, to make him see what you see in him, but it would mean opening yourself, becoming visible, being seen.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This is your superpower, this anonymity, this blurring at the edges, this void of connection…

And you should back away when he approaches.

But you don't want to. 

Nor do you dodge as he slowly reaches up to remove your mask. Your hood. Fits his palm to your jaw and runs the length of a cheekbone with his thumb. “It doesn’t work on everyone, Sunshine. Not if they really want to see you.”

As his warm, weary brown eyes find yours, two thick, generous tears spill down your cheeks, two surprising hot spikes of your heart right there on your face. It’s like being thrust underwater without the chance to take a breath, the panic of suddenly being the center of someone’s attention, and you gasp for air only to release a sob, slapping both hands to your face in embarrassment.

Tim doesn’t pry your hands away, he merely runs a knuckle over one as if to say, hey, you’re still hiding.

And you realize that you are.

When you finally don’t have to be.

When you lower your guard, he’s waiting there patiently to welcome you back.

“You okay?” he asks, handing you a napkin for your tears.

Nodding, you take it and use it quietly before swallowing, trying to steady a voice out in the open. “What now?”

He looks pointedly over at his desk and gestures for you to head over there. “I thought maybe we’d start with dinner. I figured you'd come by.”

There are two Chinese takeout boxes on the blotter, both bearing a code in black ink. 

22C. His standard.

Lucky13. Your favorite. With the sauces on the side, just like you like it.

Speechless, you look at him in awe. You do see me.

And he tucks his hands in his pockets, softening back at you with a look that can only be described as Yeah.

_____

In the following days you’re able to hunt down photos of the killer’s victims that clearly display their hands and the rings that you found in his apartment.

Undercover targets are planted in the club to entice Mike Cross, and sure enough, he takes one to the back room, pays for privacy, extra for a later cleanup, but gets caught with his fingers around her throat as a whole squad breaks down the door to take him into custody.

There’s no doubt he will never see the outside of a prison again.

Club 88 is shut down and a long investigation into its ownership and practices begin. The Shadow is called in by the investigating team for your fly-on-the-wall services and at first you’re afraid that perhaps, now that you’ve been seen, that the shine of your powers has dimmed or–to be more precise–a newfound confidence makes you even brighter than before.

On the contrary, you’ve never felt more powerful or more in control of your abilities. 

Perhaps because the one person who can detect your sunshine also pours pride into your shadow.

Or maybe it’s the regular diet of Lucky Number 13 and a new morning view these days. Who’s to say?

____

MASTERLIST

CHARACTER MASTERLIST

#merge mansion fanfiction #tim rockford #tim rockford x reader #tim rockford x f!reader #year of tropes

[steddieas-shegoes]

“We should probably just do vanilla cake, right?”

“Our daughter is not boring. She should have confetti cake.”

“Vanilla isn’t boring!”

“It’s literally called being vanilla when someone doesn’t like a little fun in the bedroom, Steve.”

“First of all, don’t call me that. Second of all, she’s turning one. She’s not gonna care. She’s never had most of this stuff.”

“So her first adventure with it should be fun!”

Steve and Eddie had been arguing about Ella’s first birthday for a month now. It was starting to become an issue as it was two weeks away and they’d planned nothing except for the guest list.

Even Robin was starting to get worried they wouldn’t be able to pull it off.

“What if we let her pick?”

“She’s one.”

“Yeah, and? We give her two options on pieces of paper and she picks one.”

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“Why?”

“Because what if she picks princess plates but dinosaur decorations?”

“Why can’t she have both?”

Steve glared at him.

“I’m just saying, she’s one. This party is more for us than her, and she won’t remember it.”

“But there’ll be pictures.”

“And when we all look back at them, she’ll be happy that we let her have whatever made her little one year old brain happy.”

Steve sighed, which meant Eddie was winning. This was the first time he’d had the upper hand the whole time.

“Where can we get a confetti cake?”

“You know Lena? Owns the bakery by the tattoo place?”

“The one who gave you the notebook of all the queer friendly spots in town?”

Eddie snaps his fingers and points at Steve.

“That’s her! She already offered to make one.”

“And you told her yes already, didn’t you?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny such allegations.”

Steve rolled his eyes and turned to continue writing things on his checklist that had nothing checked off.

“We also should check with Joyce about using the cabin. I know we said renting the bar out in the morning would be good, but imagine a first birthday in a bar.”

“It’s metal as hell, Stevie.”

“It’s questionable parenting, Eds.”

And here they were at another problem.

————————————

“So you’ve accomplished nothing?”

“We got a cake!”

Eddie was sitting on the couch supervising Ella’s play time while Steve and Robin were “planning” her party in the kitchen.

Eddie had been banished from all party endeavors after he brought home a baby-sized electric guitar and drum set and said it was for her to play at the party.

Robin took over and, admittedly, they’d accomplished a lot more already.

But this was their first official meeting and Robin was shocked to find out that they had next to nothing with only one week until the party.

“You stop talking!” Robin yelled back at him.

So he focused on entertaining Ella.

“Baby girl, I don’t know about you, but this party planning business is not what it’s cracked up to be. Maybe we should just give you your presents here and call it a day, hm?”

“Dada! Pay!”

“Yes, baby, I’m playin’.”

He helped her build a castle with her alphabet blocks, smiling when she pointed to the D and said “D. Dada!”

She was so fucking smart, it was scary.

When she got bored with the blocks, she started tapping on her plastic keyboard, hitting the same two notes again and again.

Eddie showed her the D key.

“This is D, Ella. See this one? You push this and it makes a D note. D like Dada!”

Ella pushed the key and then clapped.

“D! D!”

“Yeah, D!”

She kept smacking the D key, and Eddie kept smiling at her.

Someone cleared their throat behind him and he turned to see Steve smiling down at them, hands on his hips.

“Oh. Ella, show Daddy what you learned.”

“D! Dada! Daddy!” She said as she banged the D key.

Steve sat down next to Eddie and put his hand on his knee, squeezing it once before running his thumb back and forth over the hole in his jeans.

“You showed her that?”

“I’m gonna make her into a baby Mozart,” he said as he nodded. “She’s a natural.”

“Okay, love.”

“How’d the planning go?”

“Robin’s handling it.”

“All of it?”

Steve sighed.

“She said I’m being unreasonable.”

“But when I say it, I’m being rude and not giving you a chance.”

“When she says it, I know it’s true. When you say it, I know it’s because you’re not getting your way.”

“Do you hear this Ella? Slander from your father. I remember when it was just you and me, playing some tunes…”

“Oh my god,” Steve said around a laugh.

“Sometimes three’s a crowd, huh Ella?”

“Dada song!”

“Here, I play, you help.”

Eddie sat Ella in his lap and moved the keyboard in front of them, holding her tiny hands in his to guide them through Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

Steve clapped at the end of it, beaming at them both as if they’d just performed at Madison Square Garden.

“Incredible. I’d offer you a record deal on the spot.”

“Already had that, I’m retired. Thank you, though.”

Eddie kissed the top of Ella’s head as she kept banging on the keys, then leaned over to kiss Steve’s forehead.

————————————

Robin pulled off a hell of a party.

Not only did she manage to find princess rock star decorations, but she managed to find a live band that was willing to play kids songs, and a caterer who was willing to serve an entirely new menu so last minute.

There was even an open bar for the adults.

Eddie’s entire band and their families were there, the Hawkins crew and their families, Steve’s coworkers and their families, and most surprising of all, Steve’s mom.

He’d gone back and forth on whether to even invite her, but since she’d left his dad, she’d been trying to reconcile and get to know him again.

She brought a Barbie dream house because she didn’t seem to understand that one year olds weren’t quite at Barbie level, but it was the thought that counted or so Eddie kept reminding Steve when he got mad about “thoughtless gifts that just take up space.”

Ella loved playing with all the kids and sharing her new toys. Eddie and Steve had built her a play set at home that she didn’t even see yet.

She was spoiled, but it was the best kind.

Not the kind that Steve had growing up; useless and thoughtless gifts that were flashy and expensive because that’s what helped his parents feel better about leaving him with nannies or alone.

The kind where love was in abundance, where everyone wanted her to have the best because they loved her, where the best was sometimes the dollar store magic wand and tiara set so she could play princess and sometimes was a toddler sized drum set. Everyone came to her party because they were excited she was part of the family, not because they expected a big blowout with the finest food and drinks money can buy.

Eddie took a moment to look around at everyone. He never knew he’d end up here, he couldn’t have even dreamed it in his wildest ones that came from being cross faded in high school.

Steve wrapped his arms around him from behind, kissing his shoulder when he started to lean back.

“Turned out great, right?”

“It did, sweetheart. Always does with you.”

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #tumblr drabbles #steddie dads #domestic fluff #they’re great dads your honor

[blissfullyecho]

how to *actually* be more confident

one of the thousands of things i cannot stand in the personal development community is when someone’s advice is to “be confident”. like ok girl.. it’s not like i can instantly become more confident lol. let’s first debunk some myths straight away.

1) you having better posture makes you LOOK confident, but it doesn’t actually HELP you feeling confident. it’s uncomfortable and annoying.

2) you looking up instead of down again makes you LOOK confident, but it doesn’t make you FEEL confident. it makes you feel awkward because you don’t know what to look at.

3) making a list of the things you like about yourself is cutesy and all, but it doesn’t do anything for you to gain happiness. if anything, it’s temporary. and if there’s nothing you like about yourself, then this piece of advice does more harm than good. now look at you— even more sad

4) i read online when i googled “how to be more confident” and a common tip was “realize you’re not alone”. what the actual fuck does that have to do with gaining confidence? girl bye

5) recite affirmations. this one is so annoying. if you hate something about yourself and you’re saying “i am/love/have” affirmations about something you don’t believe is true, it’s a waste of time and makes you look crazy.

————————————————————————————

if you actually want to gain confidence, you need to do exactly these things because it’s what worked for me:

1) you need to set goals, duh— but set goals like daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly. when you cross your goals for the day/week/month/year, you begin to see yourself as someone who is hardworking and someone who knows how to get what they want. then guess what? your confidence increases. it’s impossible to accomplish the things you want to accomplish and feel insecure.

2) build trust with yourself. if you say you’re gonna do something, do it. that’s the most attractive thing anyone could do. if you’re used to telling yourself you’re going to workout 4 days a week but you keep only getting to 2 days, you’re going to have a hard time counting on yourself. if you can’t count on yourself to get the job done, you’ll never be confident.

3) you have to be attractive. sorry. anyone can be attractive though so you’ll be fine as long as you actually work on getting your look together.

4) amplify your current strengths. if you’re good at something, aim to get better at it. honestly, with everything in your life, you should always aim to be better than yesterday, last month, last year, etc.

5) do things that make you uncomfortable. if you don’t like going to the gym because you feel like everyone is looking at you and making fun of you, go anyway. when you get used to the feeling of being uncomfortable because you fear for how you come across to others, that’s the best opportunity to increase your confidence because more times than not, you were overthinking the things that once made you uncomfortable

6) be in shape. it’s attractive and you feel a lot better. no one better come for me on this tip. it’s not horrible to be healthy lol. relax.

#leveling up #that girl #level up #q/a #self care #femininity #level up journey #self love #hypergamy #personal development #self growth #self care aesthetic #self improvement #self worth #self help #self development #confidence #that girl aesthetic #clean girl #clean girl aesthetic #green juice girl #wellness girl #wellness #vanilla girl #coquette girl #coquette aesthetic #coquette #feminine journey #dark feminine energy #divine feminine

[chichiscloset]

STOP DOING THESE 6 THINGS ON YOUR LEVEL-UP JOURNEY

Many things can hinder your level-up and femininity journey. If you are serious about levelling up, here are 6 things you need to stop doing on your journey.

Focusing So Much On Your Outward Appearance And Forgetting To Work On The Inside: Most of the time, we focus on our outward appearance without considering our internal well-being. It's fun to spend money buying new clothes, trying new hairstyles, getting our nails down and playing around with makeup, and it is important to spend time levelling up our outward appearance, but it can't be the only thing you work on if you truly want to level up. You need to spend time working on things like building your self-esteem, learning to communicate better with others, learning how to handle your emotions in healthy ways, working on your manners and building healthy relationships with friends, family and your significant other.

Needing External Validation: As you go along on your level-up journey you must let go of your need for external validation. External validation is when your feelings of self-worth are dependent on the approval of others. If you are looking for others' likes and comments on your Instagram posts to make you feel good about your outfit, hair or makeup, approval from your parents towards your life choices, or attention from men before you can feel like you are attractive and worthy of love, you need to learn how to self-validate. Get to know yourself. Learn what your values and goals are, and most importantly learn why these are your values and goals. On this level-up and femininity journey, you are going to meet a lot of people who don't understand or argue with you, so take the time to analyze why you seek validation and how you can let go of it.

Comparing Your Life And Journey To Others:  Stop comparing your life and level-up journey to others. We all move through life at different paces. It can be hard to see others accomplish the things you also want, especially when it seems like it came so easy for them when you try so hard. With social media, it's especially easy to fall into the trap of comparison. If you find yourself in this trap, take a step back from social media and focus on yourself. Spend time in gratitude and look back at what you have been able to accomplish and how far you have come.

Chasing Perfection:  Stop trying to be as perfect as possible. If you are on your level-up journey you don't have to strive to be the perfect woman. You don't have to always be perfect, have the perfect outfits, hair, makeup, and attitude. It's ok to be human and make mistakes sometimes.

Self-Doubt:  Stop doubting yourself and your abilities. If you want to level up you need to believe that you can do so. Self-doubt leads to insecurity and will keep you stuck in the same place you are trying to get out of. You need to let go of your past mistakes, your fear of failure and comparison if you want to be able to really let go of your self-doubt.

Feeling Guilty For Working On Yourself:   Stop feeling bad for working on yourself. You may need to turn people down, step back from relationships with certain friends or family members or even spend more time for yourself well on this journey. You must know that it is ok and important for you to take time for yourself and set any boundaries you need to guard your mind, heart and spirit. So don't feel guilty about that.

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#clean girl #cleancore #green juice girl #that girl #pink pilates princess #dream body #dream girl #dream life #self esteem #self worth #self improvement #self growth #self care #levelup #leveling up #level up journey #high value mindset #high value woman #high maintenance #habits #healthy #healthy living #self healing #healthy lifestyle #self concept #self confidence #self development #self concept affirmations #femme fatale #levelling up

[thedeviltohisangel]

All The Things I Did (8): That Girl Is Going, Going, Gone

a/n: ok a bit of a different chapter! this is more cass than john & cass until we get to the main event. i PROMISE the next chapter will pick up right where this one left off (don't be mad, be excited!). lots of warnings for this chapter and hopefully you guys don't change your love for her after reading about berlin. please let me know your thoughts & send in any interlude (aka novels) requests. always open. love ya xoxo

warnings: murder, blood, death of minor character, smut

Cass looked at Will with horror as he opened a black briefcase and set it on the ground of the alley way. It looked a lot like a gun. 

“Will, no one said anything about an assassination.” She had shot a gun before. Had been shot by a gun before. But she had never pointed one at another human being and pulled the trigger. 

“Cass, you’ve got this. You stay steady and you’ll be fine.” She rolled her eyes. Of course he would think it was so simple. He wasn’t the one expected to pull the trigger. To take a life.

“Walk me through the plan again.” 

“Dressler comes through this main drag on the way to his country estate. We track him to the edge of the woods where your asset has placed an obstacle for the car and when he gets out, you take the shot.” Cass knew it wasn’t going to go according to plan because things like this never did. Because Dressler had been on OSS’ target list for almost a year and they were the third pairing of agents to try and accomplish this task. “You scored better than me on the range. Don’t think for a second you aren’t the right choice for this.”

“And we avoid the fatal flaws from previous iterations. Don’t approach the vehicle. Maintain surveillance detection tradecraft. Make the exfil window.” 

“That’s kind of a big one, isn’t it?” he smiled. She was too busy testing the weight of the weapon in her hand to notice. “I meant it when I said I’d get you back home to him.”

“You got someone to get home to?” Will shrugged. 

“Thought I did. Then I got a letter last week…it’s for the best. Loving someone in this line of work isn’t for everyone.” Cass gently palmed his cheek.

“Then we’ll get you home to find someone who will make it work.” Find someone who would love those doubts right out his head the way John had for her. Find someone who’s passion for their work matched in kind. Find someone who would help him clean the blood off his hands when the war was over. 

----

It was Sunday and the roads were filled with people going to and from church. Cass was in a white dress, Will in a suit, as they each smoked a cigarette while they waited for mass to let out.

“When did you start smoking?” 

“I didn’t. Still don’t really drink either.” She dropped the cigarette onto the sidewalk and pressed it beneath her foot. “They take away your control over yourself. I don’t like the way they make me feel.” But she thinks she was learning to like the smell of smoke on the collar of John’s jacket. The bitter whiskey on his lips when he kissed her. The way his face flushed and his curls pressed to his forehead and his hands wandered after a night of them both. The doors opened and people began to exit the church.

“I’ll go get the car,” Will said, slipping into German with ease. Cass nodded and removed a compact from her purse. She pressed the powder to her nose as she caught sight of Dressler over her right shoulder. She counted two men who looked like SS hovering around him for protection. They escorted him to a waiting Mercedes, Will pulling up to her a few minutes after their departure. “Let’s go kill some Nazis.”

They took the occasional turn to ensure no one was following them, maintaining a safe distance from the target who was following the route from church to his compound outside of Berlin just the way they had mapped it. 

“Final weapons check.” Cass pulled the chamber to ensure a bullet was loaded before releasing it back into place. “Will…if something goes wrong, we abort and get to the airfield. We don’t need to force this.” 

“Copy, Lieutenant,” he smirked. “But it would be nice to be the one to knock Dressler off the list.”

“I agree but-” Her hands flew to brace against the dashboard as he slammed on the brakes. An overturned horse cart was blocking the Mercedes path and the car sat still as the occupants determined what to do.

“Come on,” Cass whispered, “Get out of the goddamn car.” The door opened and one of the SS officers got out and walked towards the cart. 

“Close protection remains,” Will muttered. When the second SS officer exited, Cass began to get nervous. He walked towards her side of the car and she rolled the window down with a smile.

“Good morning, sir. Is there a problem with the road ahead?” The pistol was hidden in the fold of her skirt, her thigh acutely aware of the metal. 

“Yes. We’ll need you to turn around so we can go back the way we came.” She knew there was no other way to get to the compound. Knew they were really just clearing them from the area. She opened her mouth but the words were silenced as Will whistled. The third door was opening. 

Will pushed the car into reverse and rolled over the foot of the man by her door. He dropped quickly with a yell. It took one second for her to lean her body out the window. One second for Dressler to look in her direction. One second for her to shut down her humanity, inhale, exhale and pull. Between his eyes and he was gone. A man who only answered to Himmler. It was automatic for her to move the gun to the man on the ground. He had seen their faces. Looked her in the eyes and stared at her legs. A loose end and he was gone, too. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” she screamed as Will took them backwards down the road as quickly as he could. The second SS officer in the car and chasing after them as quickly as he could. “What did I just do?” 

“What you had to, Cass!” They both ducked as the first bullet hit the front of the car. “Hang on.” The car pulled sharply to the left as they raced through a field, another bullet pinging off the exterior of the car. 

“Two minutes until takeoff.” Her watch seemed to be ticking faster than usual. As if the universe was trying to close the gap between here and home. The Mercedes gained ground and nudged the back of their car, spinning them in a circle Will couldn’t regain control of. 

“Run!” They could see the clearing in the not too far off distance. Her knees hit the ground before she pushed herself up with urgency and took off at a sprint. She heard the consistent popping of a gun behind her but she kept running. 

Cass collapsed on the open hatch of the low profile plane and let herself slide down as it closed, Will stumbling in right behind her. 

“Do you think we did it?” she asked after they had settled for a moment. “Will?” She turned her head and noticed he looked a little pale. His breathing was labored. He turned and looked at her and he was afraid. She repeated his name again before she noticed his hand pressed to his side and the red blooming out from underneath it. 

“You guys good back there? Going to be bumpy if you can hold onto something.”

“Where’s your medical supplies? My partner’s been shot!” Cass pressed her hands with all her strength to the wound. She grunted as they took a tight turn and they slid to the wall of the plane. 

“Orange bag!” She grabbed it, the zipper slipping through her bloody fingers. Cass grabbed as much gauze as she could and the scissors, cutting Will’s shirt to get a better sense of what she was dealing with. 

“I’ve got to look and see if there’s an exit wound.” She rolled him slightly as he yelled in pain. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said but there was a hint of relief to her tone as she found a matching wound in his back. She took a deep breath as she cleared the blood in search of the bullet’s entrance. Once she found it, she held the gauze to it and tried not to wince as his breathing sounded like it was growing ragged.

“Cass…” The gauze in her hands turned red, a pool of blood seeping out from underneath him. The wound wasn’t clotting and the rudimentary kit had no platelets to help. 

“You’ve got to hang on. Save your strength. We’ll be back before you know it.” An hour and she was out of gauze, cutting fabric from her skirt in its place. Wil was sweating. Paler. Taking a long time to inhale after he exhaled. “Do you remember back in school when I almost quit? You stopped me on my way to the Colonel’s office and told me the OSS needed me, that Europe needed a free spirit to bring back their freedom. Now, I need you to do exactly what you told me. Pull up your boot straps, keep your head in the game and fight through it.” His hand weakly rested on top of hers.

“You…did…”

“I’m right here. We can talk about it all when we get back.” A tear rolled down his cheek and a matching one rolled down hers. “Don’t do this, Will. Please.” His hand dropped to his side and there was no longer light behind his eyes. 

“Lieutenant, we’ve got wheels down in 30!” 

“Tell the control tower that Captain Foster is…” Her hands were on his chest as she tried compressions. Her tears were coming quicker now. She watched them drop on his face and he didn’t react. All she could hear was her own heartbeat and the silence of Will’s as she pressed and pressed and pressed and nothing happened. She didn’t notice the plane landing. The pilot calling her name. She kept pressing and pressing and pressing. 

“Cassandra.” Harding’s use of her full name pierced through the fog. It was soft and familiar and safe. “Cassandra, you have to let him go. Let the doctors look at him.” She couldn’t even imagine how she looked. His blood all over her arms and clothes. Her dress ripped from when she was trying to make bandages. Tears dried to her face and snot dripping from her nose.

“Where’s John?” she asked. That was who she wanted to see. The only person who could offer her comfort in this moment.

“He’s probably halfway to Norway by now taking a second strike at those submarine pens for you.” She choked out a laugh. No doubt John would be willing to do an extreme act of commitment such as this. “Come with me to get some water? Maybe some food?” 

“That sounds good.” He offered her his arm and she gripped it like without him she would collapse, letting him escort her out of the plane. There was a group of people waiting and watching. The mechanics to make sure Cass was alive and well. The medical team. Extraneous personal who just wanted a glimpse of the covert American intelligence officers.

Harding led her to the mess hall, the orderlies freezing at the sight of her before scurrying to set the table. He pulled a chair out for her and she sat and avoided his gaze when he took the chair across from her. 

“Were you successful?” 

“Yes, sir,” she croaked out as the food and drink was placed in front of her. Harding waved off the second plate they brought. “I apologize I wasn’t here to give the briefing this morning. I should have been available for their questions.” 

“You can’t be in two places at once, Lieutenant. You were where you were needed most.” She nibbled on a bite of eggs and chased it with a few gulps of water. “They’re going to want you to talk to a shrink.”

“I’ve talked to them before. Know how to play the game.” He reached for her hand across the table and she offered it, wanting the reminder she was here and she was okay. He looked like he was inspecting the blood dried into her knuckles and caked under her nails. “He was a friend. An old friend.” The loss would sting for awhile. 

“The world is a better place for the task you two accomplished.” Cass took a shaky breath and blinked back tears.

“Then why do I feel so awful?” Harding knew the general feeling of taking a life. He had dropped bombs and shot guns and watched the havoc with a smile. But he had never looked another human in the eye and watched the life leave it. “Why do I feel like I did something wrong?”

“War is not natural. The role we play in it won’t be either.” She nodded with understanding. “You feeling up to interrogation?” They would want a look at her before she was able to change and clean the blood from her skin.

“I don’t have a choice.” She hoped it would be the first and the last time she had to relive the traumatic moments this day had brought. “Thank you, Colonel.” He indulged himself for a moment. Held her chin between his thumb and pointer finger. Looked into the eyes that he had found himself learning to love. 

“You should get going,” he whispered. Before I say something I might regret.

----

“How you doing, Bubbles?” The medical wing was the first stop John had made after landing. He hadn’t been able to find Mary to ask for an update on Cass and Colonel Harding had disappeared almost as soon as the last B-17 touched down. 

“Never better, sir.” His eyes were flickering to the door at the end of the wing. A private exam room. Crosby was also oddly quiet. They had seen Lieutenant Cooper be escorted back there almost an hour ago and she hadn’t emerged. They hoped nothing was wrong because they didn’t want to be in the radius of John Egan when he found out.

“That’s good. I was actually looking for you, Crosby.” John paused as both men continued to shift in their seats. “They not keep you comfortable?”

“No, sir, I mean yes, sir, I’m fine it’s just-” Bubbles stopped as the entrance opened and he recognized the secretary from Lieutenant Cooper’s office. She looked vaguely horrified to see John Egan.

“Mary! I stopped by but you weren’t there. Any word from Spook?” Bubbles, Crosby and Mary all looked at each other. “Clearly, I’m on the outside of whatever this is.” John’s finger twitched as his side. He wasn’t liking the feeling in his chest.

“Colonel Harding didn’t talk to you, sir?” He liked that even less.

“No. Mary, whatever is going on, I need to know right now.” Her gaze dropped to her feet.

“I can’t, sir. It’s need to know at this moment in time.” His chest heaved at her words. 

“You can’t?” He spun back towards the airmen. “Then why do you two look like you know something?” Why wasn’t anyone telling him anything? What happened that they were keeping from him. 

“Sir, we don’t really,” Crosby started. 

“Someone just please fucking tell me if I need to start grieving.”

“Can’t get rid of me that easily, Major.” She is trying so hard to smile because John is who she has been wanting all day. But he turns to look at her and he looks so relieved and she hasn’t felt safe enough to show emotion since she left his arms a few days ago. 

“Cass…is that…blood?” He walks towards her slowly. They had let her wash the blood from her arms and face but there was still some dried into her hairline and soaked into her dress. She nods as a sob rips from her throat. “Oh, Cass, baby.” She collapses into his chest as soon as he is near enough. 

“Will’s dead,” she sobs into his neck, “I tried so hard. I wasn’t good enough.” His arms were iron around her, the only thing keeping her standing. 

“I know you did everything you could.” He kissed the side of her head and stroked his hand down her hair. “I’m sorry you lost a friend today, my love.” The word felt like a slap across her face. She was so undeserving of his love after what she had done. She had taken the life of another, twice over. She could scrub at her skin but the blood would never wash away.

“Will you take me back to my room?” He slid an arm under her knees and lifted her so she was in his arms, her arms around his neck and her head resting on his shoulder. “Don’t let them take me away from you. Please.” 

He noticed the stares and whispers that followed as they made their way to her billet. He didn’t put her down until they were safely behind her closed door.

“We should get you cleaned up,” he noted as she sat on her bed and looked through her wardrobe for her shower kit. 

“How was Norway?” she asked quietly. 

“Successful. Had to leave Biddick in Scotland but he’ll be fine.” He found the basket of her toiletries and a towel. 

“Good. I’m glad you guys were able to use the information.” She smiled. “I’m sure Curt will find his way around quite well.”

“I can stand outside the door. Make sure no one bothers you.” John was offering her a few moments to shed her armor and embrace the emotions that were still heavy in her chest. 

“Outside the door will be too far.” Cass stood and pressed her forehead against his lips, asking for the strength of his touch during this weak moment. 

“I don’t want to be intrusive.” 

“I’m asking you to take a shower with me. That’s all.” They had seen each other naked. Shared a bed. Expressed the very real feelings between them. What was one more facet of domesticity gracing their lives? 

Cass undressed and stepped under the water and watched it run red down the drain until John’s chest pressed against her back. He wrapped one arm around the front of her chest and the other around her hips. She rested her own hands on top of his. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Her head turned so she could look at him. 

“They sent me there to kill someone,” she whispered. John stiffens for an instant before he recovers. “I killed him and his bodyguard because he saw my face.” She hates that in the moment she had been thinking about the fact that they would remove her from the field if they thought her identity had been compromised. That she wouldn’t be able to do the job the way it was meant to be done anymore.

“It’s okay you don’t feel good about it.” Cass smiled. He was the only one so far to not try and convince her that she had done the right thing. That she had made the world a better place and shouldn’t let the specifics bother her. This was why she had sought him out in the first place. This was why she loved him.

“They’re grounding me. Desk duty until further notice.” He reached for the shampoo and lathered it between his hands. She titled her head back into his waiting hands and let his fingers work through the roots of her hair, the last of the red going down the drain, her eyes closing as he soothed the ache away. 

“Bet you’re as happy about that as I was being Air Exec.” 

“Touche.” Next was a bar of soap, Cass turning around and John dragging it across her skin and focusing on the few spots of dried blood she hadn’t been able to scrub off in her haste earlier. He seemed to get lost in a trance, circling her breasts a few extra times and moving it slowly down her torso before letting it slip into the wispy curls between her legs. “So much for just a shower,” she whispered as her legs spread a little further. 

“I’ll stop, Cass.” He moved his hand and she grabbed his wrist and moved it right back.

“Make me forget, John.” The soap was discarded out the shower stall, his fingers dipping between her folds and relishing in her warmth. Her forehead dropped to his chest as she shuddered. 

“Remember what you said to me before you left?” His fingertip circled her clit and she nodded. “Said I could show you how much I love you when I get back.”

“I did say that,” she gasped as he slipped a finger into her and the heel of his hand rubbed her bundle of nerves with every thrust. “Oh, I like that a lot.” 

“I want to show you, Cass, show you properly.” She brought him in for a kiss as she felt herself getting closer and closer. “Take my time and love you the way you deserve.” 

“I want that too, John, please.” Her hips rocked at the same gentle rhythm of his hand as she chased the feeling stirring low in her belly. 

“I missed this sight, baby.” He had her like this once before, had only been separated from her a few days, but it had been too long. “Love having you like this.” 

“John, I-” The words caught in her mouth as he hit that sweet spot with a curl of his fingers and stars danced across her vision. He held her as her knees buckled, his fingers not stopping, as she kissed him to try and keep quiet if only slightly. “Take me to bed. Take me to bed and make love to me, John Egan.” 

He would be happy to oblige.

#masters of the air #john egan #callum turner #mota #masters of the air fanfiction #john egan fanfiction #callum turner fanfiction #mota fanfiction #masters of the air fanfic #john egan fanfic #mota fanfic #john egan x oc #john egan x reader #cass and bucky

[herstarburststories]

the top of my list (steve harrington x reader)

Pairing: Steve Harrington x reader

Summary: As senior year comes to an end, Steve Harrington has a list of what he wants to accomplish before graduating. Those things include you.

A/N: This is my first attempt to write a Steve story, so there's a lot of Steve's thoughts. ♡ I used a pick-up line that a boy tried on me last week, I just think it's Steve!!

Disclaimer: PINING!STEVE, angst, fluff, mentions of king Steve, unbeta'd

This is all he ever knew. All these classrooms, the barely eatable food, the gym, mrs Bloom boring classes. Hawkins High School was his tiny world in a small town. The flawless kingdom to king Steve.

Or so it used to be. It's been a little too long since he felt on the top of the world when walking through these crowded halls, and Harrington doesn't quite recall the last time he collected all the eyes on him and his friends at the lunch table — not that he has many of those left. To think that his biggest issue was to pick a part some girls's numbers in the little notes in his pocket. Parties sound like a noise, he talks to kids more than to people his age, and he actually studies now. He tries to. His old self would mock him if he could. Not that he misses who he used to be, just what he used to have.

Somewhat, Steve keeps a grip on a couple of dusted dreams. Part of him remains craving for silly things that he used to gravitate to, even when he believes he probably shouldn't. Stupid teenager things, as he'd put. A piece of paper in his hands with all his desires is anything but a scarlet letter, yet he can't wait to achieve all those items, a fantasy that maybe if he can accomplish those, school would feel good again.

This place used to be his. This used to be his home, or what he thought that a normal home would be like: everyone knew who he was, everyone saw him. Steve was never on his own at school, he never had to beg to be heard as he did at home. He simply showed up and people wanted him around. No "I'm busy, Steve" or "I have a meeting". No excuses, no hustled demonstrations of plastic love through fake niceties that last less than a business call. Everyone liked him at school, even when he messed up— they even applauded him when that happened! Classmates saw him as a king, but the aspect that had a hold on him was that they wanted more. All the school girls wanted a call, and the guys wanted his advice as if he was some sort of role model. Every aspect of his caught interest. Once before.

Nowadays, whispers fill the hallways more than dreamy sighs when he passes by. Rumors about Billy becoming the new king, and how they haven't seen Harrington in a party or with a girl hanging on his arm in months. Someone even called his hair greesy.

When did the world turn so fast and tripped on its route? What did he do wrong this time?

He used to be the king, but their classmates never loved him. It was just adoration laced with idealization, with some quiet envy. Can't blame the poor popular boy for misunderstanding such emotions; he never met love, how is he supposed to know its face?

Steve is so tired of feeling alone, of starring at his walls and pretending to occupy his time when he's just wasting it. Since Nancy left, all his nights overflew sorrow, his body ached with the void inside. His big house with a pool always seemed like a dazzling prison whenever he was alone for too many days. It just adds insult to injury that it's been a while since his parents remembered about him. 15 days since the last call, 2 months since the last check up meeting. Not that he was counting, of course.

There isn't anything but an empty home and a boy just as empty living in it, a boy who is hallow. In the quiet of the night, he waits for a noise. Steve is never scared when he hears one, he's rather hopeful. Although, it is easier to be robbers than his parents, at least robbers want something from you, unlike his parents. He's vacant, he's sad, he's missing without being missed, he has nowhere to run to, and he attempts to find something inside himself, but there's a heart which behaves as vortex: hugry for affection, for care. Because there's no one to be around. He's just a star with no eyes to gaze at him, no person to recognize his shine in the dark. Harrington would call someone to ease his solitude, but there isn't anyone on the phone waiting for him. Dear God, he just wants to be wanted.

Steve just wants to be wanted.

Therefore, he glances at the small list in his hands, dropping his simple desires to his senior year at Hawkins High School with a sharp pen.

Basketball championship!!

College (or tech)

Win a fight (throw it at henderson's dipshit face)

Kiss Y/N, or call her on a date, or talk to her without sounding like an idiot. KISS Y/N.

It's not much yet, but it's enough to bring a smile to his battered face.

It doesn't take too long for his plans to pill up into a disaster. College tosses him away like some clumbled piece of paper, and of course his dad decides to remember that he had a son just in time— which means no more money and a stupid job to 'learn responsibility'. His basketball team conquers just the second place, which isn't bad, but wining that competition could've pushed him into a university with a scholarship. Not to mention his hand-to-hand combat ended up with Billy almost destroying his eye.

Senior year is supposed to be the time of his life, nonetheless, it feels like he's falling from a precipice, like someone pushed him out of his pedestal and he's just a face on the ground now.

Steve rolls his eyes, deciding that his idea was bullshit. Just like everything else about him. Nancy was right, at least she escaped, his mind coaxes the thought into his brain. Because he was an asshole who messed up everything and everyone he cares about. As always.

Inside his car, the overthrown king glares at his wish list through the music noises coming from the house he parked right by. That stupid list got his hopes up, made him believe that maybe he wasn't a fuck-up, maybe he deserved something. Someone.

The brutality of reality is more violent than the apocalypse he had to face. He'd take broken bones over broken spirit everytime.

“College didn't want you, your parents didn't want you, your friends didn't want you, nancy didn't want you,” he murmurs to himself, rotting away his delusion about getting one thing right. You. “she obviously won't want you either.”

His eyes are locked with the paper. every craving crossed out with red paint, every lime seeming to mock him for not being good enough. harrington groans to himself, about to rip it off and leave to his house when he sees you.

Y/N Y/L/N. Walking into the party with a beam and a tight skirt.

Steve observes you like you're in a film reel, mesmerizing every aspect of you rapidly. your beautiful hair looks soft, soaring through your steps as you enter. he could close his eyes and catch a glimpse of you in his eyelids, as detailed as the old posters pinned on his bedroom's wall. He was simply, undeniably marveled by you.

His eyes dart towards the paper again. One ultimate item, one try. There is still one chance to make his last year remarkable in a good mood. Attempt to make it right.

Harrington shoves the note inside his pocket and gets out of the car, walking through the garden gates, the same way you took to arrive the party. He usually isn't nervous to talk to girls, but he can feel his palms sweat when his brown eyes catches you grabbing a drink on the kitchen.

His heart has been collecting dust for so long, as some abandoned ornament that he forgot how to use. After Nancy, love just didn't make sense. Until he saw you, with your smart mouth and pretty smile, dappling his battered moments with a peep of hope, even though you didn't know.

You laugh at some dude tripping on his feet and almost bumping into you, probably a freshman. Steve rolls his eyes at the man blushing whilst he apologizes to you.

What an idiot, he thinks to himself. Still, he wants to be the idiot that almost falls and makes you laugh. Shaking his head, he tries to think of a way to approach you. This used to be so easy, why can't he come up with a pick-up?

“come on, you can do that. hey, you're going to college?” he wonders, mumbling, “don't be an idiot. what are you gonna say next? that you weren't accepted in any college?”

Man, even Henderson was doing better with girls than he was.

Someone taps on his shoulder and he turns around, a student greeting him with and starting a quick conversation. That would be a good way to cool down. The chatter dries after a couple minutes and he's on his way to talk to another classmate.

As Steve seeks around to see you, you are no longer in the kitchen. The brunette sighs, but a on his back requires his attention before he can leave to search for you.

“I'm sorry!” the woman apologies before he can even see where the hit came from, but steve turns to her in a heartbeat. it's you! destiny was on his side. “you okay, Steve?”

He can't help but think that his name sounds good on your tongue. Steve just wants you to keep saying it. He blinks to himself, regained composure before he throws words at you. Suddenly, the wish list on his pocket weights a million pounds, and his tongue is dormant. What is he supposed to say?!

You tilt your head to the side, eyebrows kitted together in an adorable frown. He knows he's taking too long to answer, but this is his last chance before you go to some fancy college and forget anything about the hell hole that's your hometown and about him.

Steve can dress it up, wear a masquerade and shoot his shot with a some pick-up line, which was his first thought. Although, the boy doesn't want to use his charm, he just wants to tell you the truth. He just wants to have a real chat with someone other than Dustin.

Thing is, right now Steve Harrington is glaring at you with stars in his eyes and a dumbfounded grin, there's just one thing he can say: the truth.

“You know, I didn't notice it before you hit me, but you look beautiful.”

It's true, because the sight he presenced from a far can't compare to having you this close. Steve doesn't want to pull away.

You laugh. He's not sure if you're laughing at him or with him, but you're laughing and it's because of him!

Take it, dude who stumbled on the kitchen. A sense of pride overcomes him, the sentiment drawing a smile on his face.

“I know, it's shitty. But it's pretty cute, ain't it?”

You cross your arms, traces of a giggle on the edge of your lips, “Did it ever work on a girl before, Harrington?”

“I don't know, it's the first time I've ever said that.” he shrugs, looking away before his eyes locked with yours, “Not many girls hit me.”

“I'm not sure I trust you on that one, King Steve,” you mock him, despite your fonding voice.

“I can show it to you,” Steve quickly takes the opportunity, leaning in with a lopside grin. At least you couldn't hear his heart beating the shit out of his chest, “You go on a date with me and if you feel like hitting me by the end on it, I'll take you best slap.”

You bite your bottom lip, pretending to consider his offer, and he can't help but stare.

“Make it a punch and we have a deal.”

“Ouch, you really want to hurt me that bad?” Harrington places a hand on his chest, his mouth contorting into a playful grimace.

“No, I won't,” through your joyful words, he trusts it.

You ask him about all the types of things, you touch him softly, you listen, you tease him, and chuckle at his jokes. You act as if he's the only person you wanted to talk to at the party, as if want his company as much as he wants yours. Reciprocity. He had lost the touch with it among the year, it's tender to have it back. And he does the same to you, resting his has on yours and smiling like a fool who found gold in the dirt. It's simple, it's all he craves for: to be wanted and not just needed.

Steve is a brittle soul after so much calamity in the past years, but perhaps his pieces can fall back together. Or so he believes when you touch his arm and nod at pizza on the table.

He knows he went through some bad shit, that he was hunted by monsters and all that freak stuff. But it doesn't seem that bad when your perfume hits him and you look away, presenting a shyness when he cupped your cheek. You don't push him away, you just pull him close. All the black-eyed peaches thrown away in the name of a kiss that's so sweet.

So you put your lips on his, it's the best year he has ever had with all the scars. Steve kisses you back, it's the kind of emotion thrill that will cause you to dance around your room all alone and keep him up at night for all the right reasons.

(steve tries to hide the paper and his blushed face when you slide your hand into his pocket to hide from the cold and accidentally finds his list, but you're quicker. you're beside him when he crosses the wish, and you wonder if he'd make another list for you two as you place a word)

4. Kiss Y/N, or call her on a date, or talk to her without sounding like an idiot. KISS Y/N. I kissed you, dork!

Did you like it? Comment and reblog! It helps me to know you want more content.

STEVE HARRINGTON TAGLIST IS OPEN! Send me an ask or dm to be tagged.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington headcanons #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x you #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington headcanon #steve x you #joe keery #joe keery x you #stranger things x reader #stranger things #steve the king harrington

[jerzwriter]

Thank you for this ask @lilyoffandoms! I've been missing our girls! When I saw the prompt, "You're so excited all the time... it's kind of adorable." I knew exactly where this was going to go! I hope you like it! From this list.

Book: Open Heart Characters: Merida (MC), Casey (F!MC), and Olivia (F!OC) Merida belongs to @lilyoffandoms, Olivia belongs to @storyofmychoices Words: 522 Rating: General Summary: Merida, Casey & Olivia spend the day at an amusement park, and one of them is quite amusing. A/N: Participating in @choicesfebruary2024 - Philia

“Come on!” Olivia pled as she walked... no... skipped several yards in front of her friends. “Come on, guys! We have to go on The Great Chace before we leave!”

Merida and Casey didn’t pick up their pace. Eyeing each other as they sauntered through the amusement park, Casey nibbled on her ice cream cone, Merida a bright pink cotton candy. It’s not that they didn’t want to join Olivia, but they were ride-ed out. Commandeering Ethan’s car for a girl’s day at Six Flags was just what they needed, but two dozen rides later, the only ride Olivia’s friends were looking forward to was the ride home.

Still, they could be persuaded. After all, there was magic in the warm summer air as the dusk began to fall, and their surroundings began to twinkle with bright, colored lights. The only thing that could rival them was their friend’s beaming face, looking much more like a child on Christmas morning than the accomplished doctor she was. Casey popped the last bit of her cone into her mouth and turned to Merida with a shrug.

“What’s one more ride?”

Merida nodded in agreement, and they let Olivia lead the way. But Casey couldn’t contain her laughter when they arrived.

“This... this is The Great Chase?”

“Yes,” Olivia clapped her hands with excitement. “I can’t wait to go on! The line’s short; maybe we can even go on twice! The car only holds two; this way, I can ride once with each of you! What do think, do you think we could....”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Olivia,” Merida said, placing a stabilizing hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Take it easy there, love. I think we let you have too much sugar today.”

“Olivia,” Casey deadpanned. “You know this is a kiddie rollercoaster, right?”

“Well, sure. But adults are still allowed to ride it! You see!” She pointed to the racing coaster as it moved around the track. “Lots of adults are riding!”

“Yeah,” Merida shrugged. “But let’s ignore the glaring fact that they’re all riding with their children...”

“Oh, come on!” Olivia playfully pouted, rocking on the balls of her feet. “Please! Please! Please! Pleeeeeeaaassse!”

Casey smirked at Merida. “You’re right. Definitely too much sugar.”

“You’re probably right,” Olivia agreed. “But I’m just so excited!”

“Of course you are,” Merida chuckled. “You’re excited all the time... it’s kind of adorable.”

“You think I’m adorable?” Olivia blushed.

“Liv,” Casey injected. “The only person who wouldn’t find you adorable would be someone without a pulse. Now, let’s go on this kiddie coaster... you know I can’t say no to you.”

Olivia took off ahead of her friends in the queue, and Casey shook her head. “Could you imagine if they guys were here watching us go on the kiddie coaster? We’d never hear the end of it.”

“Oh, they’d be total jackasses,” Merida laughed. “But, they’re our jackasses.”

But their conversation was cut short.

“GUYS!!!!” Olivia squealed, already sitting in the front car. “Whose going to ride with me first?”

“Merida is!” Casey yelled as her friend shot her a look.

“Just for this, you’re driving home!”

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Tagging others separately.

#choices fanfic #open heart #open heart choices #choices open heart #open heart fanfic #choices stories you play #open heart original characters #open heart main characters #playchoices #playchoices fanfic

[arlana-likes-to-write]

Lighting Bug - Chapter 15

Master list 

Warning: mention of child abuse, mention of past abuse

Word Count: 3.1K

“Thank you,” you looked from your book and saw Steve. He was holding a book of his own - The Hobbit - and a small notebook. 

“I’m sorry?” You questioned, closing your book and setting up. “Why are you thanking me?” He pointed to the chair next to you, a silent question asking if he could join you. You nodded. He sat down, glancing at the book you were reading. 

“I haven’t read that one. Is it good?” It was Natasha Ngan’s second book, Girls of Storm and Shadow. 

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s a typical young adult fantasy novel. This is the second book in a trilogy,” you watched as he opened the notebook and wrote something down. “You still haven’t told me why you are thanking me.” He closed the book. 

“Bucky told me you and he talked,” he opened The Hobbit to where his bookmark was. “So thank you. You didn’t need to apologize but you did.” You watched the super soldier read. He used the bookmark to keep track of what line was one. 

“Do you miss how quiet it was before you went into the ice?” You found yourself asking. He paused the movement of the bookmark as he thought. “I assume it was quieter back then.” You added. 

“It was,” he said. “I miss how simple things were and sometimes the world is loud, especially with the enhanced hearing,” you nodded. “But I’m used to it now. I think it would be weird without it. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” you played with the pages of the book. “It wasn’t fair to Bucky. I was struggling to separate him and someone else.” 

“I understand.” You weren’t sure if he did. 

“What was Bucky like before the war?” You asked him. Steve smiled, a fond look in his eyes. He told you how protective Bucky was of him, especially after his mother died. Steve always found himself in fights with guys twice his size. But Bucky was there. “When did you know that you loved him?” He sighed. 

“It wasn’t until he fell off the train that I thought he was dead,” he said, tapping his fingers against the book. “It made me realize the feelings I had for him weren’t just platonic. One of the better things about living now instead of then,” he went back to reading. “It’s not perfect but it’s getting better.” It helped that he was Captain America. Who was going to tell him who he loved was wrong? Your father didn’t preach against it but you heard them talk about a same-sex couple they saw at the store and they did not say great things about them. 

“That notebook you wrote it in,” you said. “What is it?”

“It’s filled with different historical events, movies, and music,” he said. “I used it a lot to help me figure out the modern world. Now I use it more as a bucket list of sorts,” you nodded. 

“Sorry for the 20 questions,” you blushed. He smiled. “You can ask me something.” He looked at you, head tilted to the side as he thought of his question. 

“Are you happy here?” The question took you by surprise. You weren’t expecting it. 

“Yeah, I am,” you smiled. “I feel safe.”   

*

You sat on the couch with a notebook on your lap and your feet tucked underneath you. The talk with Steve got you thinking of all the things you’ve missed and wanted to accomplish so you decided to make your list. 

Go to the beach 

Go on a rollercoaster 

Watch Star Wars 

Learn how to swim 

Give Natasha, Wanda, America, Yelena, and Kate a hug

Reach out to Caleb?

“Hey,” America flopped down next to you. “Are you busy?” You shut the notebook and gave her your full attention. 

“Nope, what’s going on?” You asked. She smiled. 

“I have some homework from Strange,” she rolled her eyes. It made you smile. “Do you want to hang out with me while I work?” You nodded, a tight feeling forming in your chest. 

“Yeah, sounds like fun,” you followed her to her room. It was a similar layout to yours but the key difference was the decorations. She had posters and artwork on the wall. Stuffed animals on her bed and pictures of the Avengers. 

“Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess,” she picked up a few clothes and threw them in her closet. Her room didn’t look like a mess but lived in it. “Here, join me,” she climbed onto her bed and pulled a book onto her lap. You felt nervous for some reason. It was dumb, this wasn’t the first time you’d laid in bed with her. You shook your head and joined her.

“So,” you said, crossing your legs. “What is Strange having you do?” She opened the book. 

“Read,” she huffed. You couldn’t help but giggle. Her smile grew. “Your laugh is really cute.” You felt your cheeks burn and you busy yourself with playing with the blanket on her bed. “He thinks learning the history of the mystic arts will help me connect with my powers more,” she shrugged. “I just do what I’m told.”

“Explain it to me. I don’t know anything about it.”

“Okay, yeah I can do that,” she opened the book. “So this guy Agamotto found out you could draw power from alternate universes to create magic spells. He established the Masters of the Mystic Arts to protect people from extradimensional evil.”  

“Extradimensional evil?” You questioned. 

“Yeah, the dude was a little dramatic. It means ghosts or demons. Wong says the Avengers protect the world from physical dangers while sorcerers protect the Earth from more mystical threats,” she explained. Oh. That made sense? You weren’t sure. America laughed. “Your confused face is pretty cute too.” Again she made your cheeks burn. 

“Shut up,” you mumbled. She laughed again. She continued to explain that different sanctums were built in Hong Kong, New York, and London. You were listening, you were, but your eyes landed on a framed picture of two women and a younger America. 

“Those are my moms,” you jumped, not expecting her to catch you looking at you. She had a smile on her face but it wasn’t happy, more sad or lost. 

“What happened?” You asked. She sighed, running her hands over her face and down her hair. 

“Are you ever afraid of yourself?” She asked. You chuckled. 

“All the time,” you admitted, looking down at your hands. 

“When I was younger I couldn't control my powers. I can jump through different multiverses,” she added. You weren’t 100% sure what she meant by that but you didn’t want to interpret. “I got scared by a bee. When I screamed, a portal to another universe opened and they went through. I’ve been searching for them ever since but I was alone until the Avengers saved me.” You were surprised at how similar your stories were. 

“I was 4 when I discovered what I could do,” you told her. “I accidentally shocked my brother. My parents were less than thrilled about it.”

“They hurt you, didn’t they?” You weren’t sure why it was so hard to admit it to her. You admitted it to Natasha and Yelena but you didn’t want America to see you differently. But you were silent for too long. You knew it was louder than anything you could say. 

“Yeah,” you whispered. “But this isn’t about me. What happened to your moms wasn’t your fault,” she smiled, it was small. 

“It wasn’t your fault either,” she said, putting her hand on top of your gloves. “What your parents did to you wasn’t your fault. It’s on them.”

“Okay,” you whispered. You weren’t sure if you believed her. You were constantly told it was your fault. Every hand laid on you or every world screamed at you, it was all your fault.

“Knock, knock,” you pulled your hand away from America and looked at Natasha. She had a playful smirk on her face. “Am I interrupting?”

“No,” you said. “Uh, what’s up?” She looked between you and America. Her smile was growing. You saw America’s cheeks blush out of the corner of your eye. 

“I just ran into Tony and he brought up you being homeschooled?” You groaned, rolling. 

“I didn’t give him an answer yet,” Natasha chuckled. 

“Why don’t you and Wanda and I sit down and talk about it?” You nodded, standing up. 

“I’ll see you later,” you said to America. “And thank you.” She smiled. 

“Yeah, of course,” you walked over to Natasha with your heart beating (). 

*

Natasha stepped out of the way so she could walk by. She watched the young girl walk over to the couch then looked back at America, who wouldn’t look at the Black Widow. “So..” America groaned, flopping onto her back. 

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” the young girl glared at her. 

“You didn’t have to say anything but you said enough,” Natasha chuckled. 

“Whatever you say, kid,” she closed the door to join her girlfriend and Y/n. Natasha had to admit they were cute together and she didn’t miss the way America would look at the newest member. She trusted America to be patient and not rush anything but she would have to give them both the shovel talk if things were going to progress. Wanda was sitting next to Y/n. The young girl was smiling at whatever Wanda said. “So,” the Black Widow said, sitting down. “Do you want to be homeschooled?”

“Yeah,” the teen said, biting her lip. “I’m just worried.” 

“What are you worried about?” Wanda asked. She looked down, playing with the bottom of her shirt. 

“I don’t want you guys to think I’m stupid,” she said. Natasha wondered how many times her heart would break as she would open up to them. “I never went to school. My parents didn’t want anyone to know I existed. The only reason I know how to read is that they forced me to read passages from the bible,” she sighed. 

“Dorogoy, you aren’t stupid,” Natasha said. “We would never think you were. I didn’t go to school.”

“The point of the test is to see where you're at,” Wanda said. “So Tony can make a plan to help. The grade doesn’t matter.” The teen didn’t seem conceived. 

“We’ll be proud of you no matter what you get.” Natasha saw the relief on the girl’s face. Was that the first time she’s heard that? She was starting to plot a way to hurt everyone who hurt this girl. 

“Okay,” she smiled. “I’d like to give it a try.” 

“Let’s go talk to Tony.” 

*

You were nervous as you sat between Wanda and Natasha. It felt stupid but you didn’t know why you were feeling this way. Maybe because you didn’t want to fail them. “Well isn’t my favorite family,” Tony said. Natasha rolled her eyes. “What can I do for you?” The couple looked at you. 

“Uh, I’d like to take you up on that offer about homeschooling,” you said. His smile grew. 

“Perfect,” he turned his back to you and opened a drawer. “You are going to need to take a placement test to see what educational level you are at,” he spun back around, holding a folder. “Here is a study guide that goes through the sections of the test.” You took the folder from him, raising an eyebrow. 

“Do you just have this study guide laying around?” You asked. He laughed. 

“I had a feeling you’d say yes,” you shook your head. “No rush when you want to take the test. Just let me know, okay?” 

“Okay,” you hit the folder against your hand. “Thank you for everything. I can’t express how grateful I am.” 

“Don’t mention it, kid,” Tony smiled. 

“You’re family,” Natasha said. Family. You felt your throat burn and your eyes watered with unshed tears. 

“We’ll be upstairs soon,” you nodded and walked out of Tony’s lab. You weren’t watching where you were going, to focus on the papers Tony gave you. It was a habit you never had before living in the tower. You always had to be on alert. You weren’t lying to Steve when you told him you felt safe here. So, when you ran into a body it didn’t phase you. 

“Sorry,” you and Peter said at the same time. You giggled. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He said. He was holding a textbook in his hands. 

“Neither was I apparently,” he laughed along with you. 

“What do you have there?” He asked. 

“Oh Tony suggested I start being homeschooled so he gave me some study material for the placement exam,” you could barely contain your excitement. 

“Can I see what he gave you?” You gave him the folder and watched as he flipped through the papers. “Well,” he handed it back to you. “If you need help with anything let me know. I know MJ and Ned could help as well.” 

“Thank you, Peter. I’ll keep that in mind,” you said your goodbyes and headed back to the floor. It was strange, you thought, how a group of strangers turned your life around.

*

Tony waited until the doors of his lap closed before looking back at the couple. “Have you asked her yet?” Natasha sighed, shaking her head. 

“We haven’t found a good time to,”

“And she’s just getting her footing,” Wanda added. “She hasn’t been here for long.” Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“What happens if someone sees her and the news gets back to her brother and they come to get her?” He asked. “If you get guardianship of her it would be easier to fight.” Natasha’s stomach twisted at the idea of someone taking the young girl away. 

“Have you been keeping tabs on her family in California?” The Russian asked. Tony nodded. 

“Her brother is a senior in high school and on track to go to UCLA,” he leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. “Their aunt, on their mother’s side, is a 1st-grade teacher and their uncle owns a construction business.” He looked directly into Natasha’s eyes. “I know you care about her. This is the best thing for you.” But what if it wasn’t? What if she said no and that caused her to run? 

“We’ll talk to her.” 

*

The floor decided to have a movie night but when Natasha asked FRIDAY where Y/n was, the AI informed her she was in the library. So the Black Widow went to the library and found the teen asleep on the small couch with the study guide Tony gave her on the floor. It brought a smile to her face. But the thing that tipped it over the edge was the crochet blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She made a mental note to have Wanda make her own. She knelt in front of her, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest and the peaceful look on her face. It was so strange, how a stranger entered her life and completely turned it upside down. Soon her eyes fluttered open and Natasha was staring into confused blue eyes. “Nat,” she mumbled, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “What-?”

“We are going to watch a movie, do you want to join us or do you want to go back to sleep?” She blinked a few times, trying to process what Natasha said to her. 

“Sleep,” Natasha smiled, fighting the urge to run her hand through the girl’s hair. 

“Sleep it is. Let’s get you to bed then,” the teen groaned, pulling the blanket over her head. “You are not sleeping here.” 

“Don’t wanna move,” she whined and Natasha had to bite her lip to stop her laugh from spilling out. She was throwing a small tantrum and it made her smile. The Black Widow knew her bed was going to be more comfortable. She thought back to what Kate said to get the teen to move to her bed. But she didn’t want to use cuddling as a bargaining chip. It couldn’t hurt for this one time. 

“How about we move to your bed and we can cuddle?” The Russian asked. She pulled the blanket off her head. 

“Cuddles?” She questioned. Natasha nodded with a smile as the teen’s eyebrows meant in the middle. “But aren’t you going to watch a movie?”

“Yes but between me and you, I would rather cuddle with you and we could watch a movie in your room.” The girl sat up and looked at Natasha, her blue eyes staring into the green. She was trying to find a lie. 

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Alright, let’s clean this up,” she nodded and helped Natasha pick up the papers. Once the library was cleaned, they walked back to their floor. “I’ll be right there,” she said. “Popcorn?”

“Popcorn,” she agreed and walked into her room. 

“Hey, is she joining us?” Wanda asked as Natasha walked into the kitchen. 

“No, and I’m not either,” she grabbed a popcorn bag and put it in the microwave. She leaned against the counter. “We are going to watch a movie in her room.” Wanda smiled, putting her hand on Natasha’s arm. 

“That’s great. Are you going to ask her?” Natasha shrugged as the microwave went off. She opened the bag and poured it into a bowl. 

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t want to ruin anything. She’s happy right now. I don’t want to change that.” Wanda nodded. 

“I understand. I’ll be behind you with whatever choice you make,” Natasha smiled, kissing Wanda softly. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” Natasha grabbed two water bottles and headed to Y/n’s room. The teen was scrolling through the different streaming services. 

“What do you want to watch?” She asked as Natasha closed the door. 

“I’m not picky,” she huffed. Natasha laughed, climbing onto her bed. She placed the bowl between them and put the blanket over her. 

“The Incredibles?” She suggested. “I’ve never seen it.” 

“Perfect,” Before she pressed play, she rested her head on Natasha’s lap and put the metal bowl on her stomach. Natasha looked down at her, who was already looking up at her. She couldn’t figure out the look on the girl’s face. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. It felt different than the other times she’s said it. 

“Your welcome,” Natasha smiled. The girl hit play and turned her head to face the TV. Natasha could sit here and listen to her laugh forever. It was carefree, light, and happy. She was so different from the scared teen she met at Annie’s. She was healing and it was amazing to see.      

_

taglist: @aestruvx @toouncreativeforausername  @modedddd @whitewidowsbite  @julilamoment   @mythixmagic

#lightning bug #wandanat x reader #wandanat x you #wandanat x y/n #wandanat x daughter!reader #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff #wandanat #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x bucky barnes #Steve Rogers #america chavez x reader #america chavez x y/n #america chavez x you #America Chavez #tony stark x reader #tony stark x you #tony stark #Marvel AU #marvel fanfiction #natasha romanoff x wanda maximoff

[togrowoldinv]

Your Song

Rockstars!WandaNat x Female Reader

The best selling duo, The Scarlet Widow, goes on tour. You’re the manager who watches on and cheers for your women

Warnings: Smut! 18+ please! Kissing, cursing, fingering (W and N receiving) oral (W and N receiving), thigh riding, slight mommy and daddy kink, backstage sex

Note: The rockstars are backkk. The Scarlet Widow is another edition of these ladies. Enjoy this one!

WandaNat Masterlist, Main Masterlist

Tonight is opening night. The Scarlet Widow is finally touring again. The two women had taken a few months off to write new music and formulate the perfect set list.

And during that time, the three of you have become quite acquainted with each other. You spend a lot of your evenings with the women.

It’s suffice to say that the three of you are in love. You never imagined it could or would happen this way, but you wouldn’t change it for the world.

Before the show, Wanda and Natasha took some time alone to mentally prepare for their set. They may fight a lot backstage, but they take their show seriously.

And it sells. The arena is sold out tonight.

The two women electrify the stage as you watch them from the side. When it comes time for the acoustic part of the show, you prepare yourself for the inevitable argument of whose song got to be sung tonight.

They still hadn’t decided as of this morning. Together or nothing, they had said, but no conclusion had been made.

Natasha sits on a stool, her guitar in hand, and smiles out at the crowd. Wanda makes her way to the seat next to her.

“So, this is part of the show where we wanted to slow things down a bit,” Natasha begins. The crowd cheers. “We had a really hard time deciding what to sing for you all tonight.”

“Yes,” Wanda agrees. “There were many fights and late nights.”

She throws you a wink from on stage and you feel yourself heat up.

“Exactly, baby. But we did end up making a decision,” Natasha says. “We wrote a new song.”

At her words, the crowd erupts. You knew they had new music written, but it wasn’t in the plan to sing it tonight. Or so you thought.

“This one is dedicated to a very special woman in our lives. Someone who came in and changed everything,” Wanda explains. “This is called Forever Loving You.”

Both women glance over at you as they begin to play the song. They had written it about you. Tears form in your eyes as you listen to the words.

By the end of the song, the crowd loves the new music and it’s trending on Twitter. The women sing their final three songs before saying goodbye to the crowd.

Wanda comes up to you first, smiling so wide.

“What did you think?” She asks. Not giving you time to answer, she pulls you in for a long kiss.

Nat appears when Wanda’s pulled away. She kisses you too.

“That was the sweetest song,” you tell them.

“Well, you are our sweet girl,” Nat says.

You hug them both at once. They grin at your affection as they pull you backstage with them.

Back in their dressing room, Wanda takes off her shirt. Her sweat is glistening over her braless chest.

“How did it feel?” You ask.

“Like we’re back,” Wanda answers. “We’re back, baby!”

“We are indeed back!” Natasha says, scooping her wife up into a hug.

“I missed this energy after a show,” Wanda says.

“Me too,” Nat agrees.

The two women kiss each other deeply. You watch on as they celebrate this accomplishment together.

Nat’s hands wander over Wanda’s body, landing on her exposed breasts. She moves her hands over the breasts as her fingers flick over her nipples.

Wanda gasps into the kiss. She puts one hand in Nat’s waistband and the other beckons you to join them.

“Great idea, Wands. Come here, sweetheart,” Natasha says.

You approach the tangle of limbs. Wanting to see more of her, you slip your hands under Natasha’s shirt and pull it over her head.

Her lacy bra is quick to join the shirt on the ground. Wanda takes one nipple in her mouth as you take the other. Natasha loves when the two of you do this.

“Fuck,” she groans. “My good girls.”

Wanda’s hand in Nat’s pants moves over her folds. You unbutton her pants and pull them down her legs. Already kneeling, you remain there and take off Wanda’s pants as well.

“Oh,” Wanda moans softly as she feels her wetness exposed in the cold air. “Fuck me.”

“You both did so well tonight I think I’ll fuck you both,” you say.

You’ve gotten more confident in taking charge around the women.

“I like that plan,” Natasha says. Wanda’s fingers continue to move over her.

You use your mouth to work in tandem with her. Natasha lets out the most wonderful sounds as you move your tongue over her.

Your hand goes in the opposite direction and rubs over Wanda. You find her already wet and ready for you.

“I can take it,” Wanda mumbles between kisses with Nat. “Natty here stretched me out before the show.”

Her words make your own core ache. Of course that’s their pre show ritual.

“It’s a fact you sing better when you’re relaxed and the best way for you to relax is to take my cock, isn’t it?” Natasha asks her wife. Her tone is a bit condescending, only turning you both on more.

“Yes daddy,” Wanda answers. You slip your fingers inside of her. “Fuck.”

“Good job, baby. You take her so well,” Natasha encourages her.

You pick up your pace of your mouth on Natasha. Wanda does the same with her fingers. Soon, the woman is having to lean against her wife to remain standing.

“Come for us, Nat,” Wanda instructs her.

The woman shakes before her movements halt and pure pleasure takes over. She breathes heavily into Wanda’s neck.

You clean her up and she watches as you go directly from her pussy to Wanda’s. The taste of both women at once drives you crazy.

It drives them both crazy too. Wanda’s knees buckle as she approaches her high. Nat keeps her upright with her hands around her waist.

“Come for her, Wanda. Show me how you can come for her,” Natasha says.

Wanda’s moans become even more breathy as she comes against you. You do your best to clean her up before you stand up.

The two women take turns kissing you until your head is spinning.

“I think we owe our manager a good time too. Don’t you think, Nat? Anything she wants?” Wanda asks.

“I- um,” you stumble.

“Yeah, of course. She’s the reason we got this far after all,” Natasha says. “What would you like, y/n?”

“Oh.” They’ve never asked you before. They always just do something and it feels so good.

“Do you need some options, baby?” Wanda asks. She rubs your cheek with her fingers. The same ones that were inside Natasha just minutes ago.

“No, I- um-”

“Don’t be shy now, pretty girl. Tell us what you want,” Natasha says. She moves a hand over your arm.

“Can I- is it okay if I ride your thigh?” You ask. You’re looking at Natasha, so she correctly assumes you mean her.

“Come here,” she says, a grin on her face. She pulls you by the hand to the couch. Nat sits down all spread out for you, but Wanda keeps you standing up.

“We have to get you out of all these clothes,” Wanda says. You let her undress you while Natasha watches on with wide eyes. She loves to see her wife do this to you.

“Now, come join me,” Natasha says once you’re properly naked. She pulls you by your hips onto her lap. Your wetness is already evident as she slots her thigh between your legs.

“Were you thinking about this during the show?” Wanda asks you. “About riding my wife’s thigh?”

“Yes,” you moan out.

“Yes what?”

“Yes mommy,” you correct yourself.

“Good girl,” Wanda appeases.

Natasha’s hands move your hips against her as your movements slow. She always wants you to come hard against her.

“So good, y/n. Wanda look how she moves against me,” Natasha says.

“I know. Such a perfect girl.”

Wanda grabs Natasha’s face and she kisses her lips fervently. Tongues mingle in front of you and you’re tipping over the edge in no time.

“Fuck Natasha,” you mumble.

“Yeah baby. Ride that high,” she says. Her hands don’t stop their movements, making you feel sensitive against her.

When she relents, you fall against her. The woman kisses your forehead and holds you close.

“What a night,” Wanda remarks, joining your snuggling with Natasha. She leans over and kisses your lips softly.

“We should probably write a song about it,” Natasha says, a smirk on her lips.

“I approve,” you say.

All of you share a smile as Natasha continues to hold you and Wanda close. Tonight was the first of many tour dates.

You can’t wait to see what’s next for The Scarlet Widow.

#wandanat x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff #wandanat smut #wanda maximoff smut #natasha romanoff smut #rockstars!wandanat