cassie-reader

[cassie-reader]

Biggest, Acceptable, Size (inspired by Sergio Cedeno)

You say my insecurities are not real, Just figments of an overactive imagination. No big deal. But you change in the gym locker room. You are seen as feminine. How could you possibly understand: When I am told to kill myself for the size of my pants; When I am told the weight chained around my stomach and thighs makes me masculine; When I am the biggest acceptable size.

“Ew, is that a double chin I see?” “Does fatty want something to eat?” Constantly pestered and asked: “Are you hungry?” Never allowed to eat more than two hundred calories, for a pig is all they’ll see. Taught to go days on water and mint gum, all while still saying: “I’m not hungry.” Two days gone and hunger is nowhere in sight. Eight days gone and I am ashamed of the pain keeping me awake at night. I grow dizzy as my brain grows foggy. I can’t think properly as I teach myself that “I don’t like food.” How could I, when I am the biggest, acceptable size.

Worried about these loaded guns that surround me. And by guns, I mean eyes. But they feel the same when directed at my size. As opinions form, judgement clouds their minds, And they look down on me in a way that isn’t very kind. Their bullets of assumptions rip deep, unaware of how hard I try to lose the unloosable. How many hours I spend exercising myself to exhaustion, How many meals I skip, and that a meal has become a few slices of an apple a day Or even nothing at all for a week, How many nights the pain and lack of food won’t let me sleep even in sheer exhaustion. How hard I try to be thin, to be better, Because I am the biggest acceptable size.

How could you make someone so big, Feel so small? Like I want to sit in a corner and disappear. Shrink myself until I forgot who I am; Shrink until I am more acceptable than I am. Shrink my voice, my presence, my handwriting as compensation for my size. Because, somehow, being nobody is better than being that fat girl. When I am the biggest acceptable size.

I stick out like a sore thumb, everywhere I go. Unfortunately I wasn’t born with an incognito mode. So, don’t tell me my insecurities aren’t real, When I can’t breath when I look in the mirror Or when someone passes by and I fear I may breathe too loudly. We are two completely different people. In each others lives, We have no clue. When you are lovely and I am the biggest acceptable size.

But who am I to complain, When there are others larger. If I am the biggest acceptable size, where does that leave them? Am I being selfish? Thinking of how out of place I am? But even if they are beautiful, those larger than I? I think them darlings and worth the world, Even when the rest of the world says they are too big to exist or be loved. So why do I hate myself at the biggest acceptable size?

[cassie-reader]

Proposal Gone Awry

Song Prompt: Take My Name: Song by Parmalee

His warm smile twitched with nerves as he grabbed my left hand, briefly fidgeting with my fingers as he watched me. Something so painfully rare in my life twisted its glittery heat in the kaleidoscope of hues that were his eyes. The left side of his mouth curved upward in an awkward half smile that shone across the entirety of his face.

His eyes flickered to my hand as he turned it over. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured softly. “Do you know that?” Finally, his eyes fluttered back to mine, wide with that pesky little emotion.

I explored the depth of his quite expressive eyes as he brought my palm to his lips. His eyes closed momentary as he planted the kiss.

Watching him now, I remembered why I loved the colour brown. The first time I finally managed to look him directly in the eye --after our fifth date, if I am recalling correctly--, his warm eyes seemed to be the colour of earth kissed by spring showers; a hue promising to stir life from the dormant seed that many would call my heart. We had known each other for three years before he found the courage to ask me out.

For the first year of our relationship, his eyes seemed to be the shade of acorns, just bright enough to shine in the shadows. I was forced, by no fault of his rather my own childhood struggles, to keep my gaze to the ground or else tilted upwards to the blue-grey of the sky, but, on those rare occasions, when I was brave enough to meet them, it was that shiver of golden light racing up my spine that told me what he was to become.

“You have a habit of telling me that, yes,” I responded, causing his eyes to flutter open, greeting mine again. That golden light racing up my spine still has yet to fade and, as it cloaks me in its warm safety, I doubt it ever will.

“That is because there is only one thing I am more sure of than that.” The chilly autumn wind mussed his hair, twirling it around his face.

“And what would that be?” I inquired as I ran my free hand through his hair, moving it out of his lovely face, mesmerised by the depths of the hues as though they were the finest cathedral choir, perfect pitch coming together in a soul-warming symphony.

His left hand took something from his pocket as he knelt, resting his right elbow on his knee, my hand still in his. A silver ring glittered from between the fingers he held up to me in his left hand. “I love you.” Those three words fell from his lips as though they were nothing more than a simple truth: something he could just tell me. He acted as if, despite how true I could sense those words from his lips were, that was something I knew how to hear, how to respond to, how to accept.

“I have loved you for five years, Carissa Noriega,” he admits, eyes warm and soft as he searches mine. “First as that awkward college student who split her tea on me, now as my best friend and soulmate.” His half smile, the one letting me know how nervous he was, shone in not only his eyes but also his words. He truly did believe that he loved me. For now at least. Until he inevitably leaves as everyone else has. “I have never felt like this before, Car. Never has a person felt like home before and if you’ll let me, I would like to be your home. Would you do the honour of taking my name and making it yours?”

My brain paused and my heart smiled, fluttering at what I finally figured out what he wanted. “That is identity fraud,” I found myself saying as my heart responded with a grinning ‘yes’. “And, unfortunately, that is quite illegal.” What am I saying? Why am I avoiding his question? “So,” the words seem to be falling without consulting my brain --and most certainly without consulting my eager heart--, “I am afraid I am not allowed to take your name from you. For legal reasons, that is.” His head tilted, brown eyes suddenly fearful as I continued. “However--” I added quickly, desperate to replace that pained expression with my confusing attempt at humour. My defence when I was caught off-guard. “I suppose, if I draft a contract and you sign it, allowing me to borrow your name every so often, I suppose that would be legally binding. I could commit crimes in your name!”

Finally, he laughed, eyes lit with understanding. Understanding of what? That I could not even answer a simple question I wanted too desperately to say ‘yes’ to?

“Darling,” he murmured, dragging his thumb across my knuckles --a nervous habit of his. “I’m not asking you to commit a felony,” he assured me. “I am asking you to marry me. To allow me the privilege of being your husband. I am trying to trick you into being stuck with me for eternity,” he added with a brief, unsure laugh. His eyes searched mine once more, hoping to find something that meant I was not rejecting him.

I hesitated, my eyes falling from his to watch his hand caress mine, occasionally changing its pattern to fidget with my fingers. I wasn’t sure why I wasn’t answering; why I was avoiding his gaze. I loved him and that I was sure of.

The panic started out as thin cellophane, something my fingers can pierce breathing holes in, muting my senses just enough to force me into hyper-focusing on his thumb moving against my hand, needing to see something real. I was vaguely aware when he put the ring in his pocket and brought himself back to his feet. “Hey.” His voice was low and gentle as he cradled my face in his left hand. “Car, you don’t have to answer now or this year or this decade even.” I turned my face towards his palm, trying to concentrate on his touch rather than the ever-expanding ball in my chest.

“Car, darling,” he murmured as he nudged my chin upward, trying to get me to look at him. I refused to see that look in his eye. The pain I knew I caused. I love him, I do. I want nothing more than to say ‘yes’, not to get rid of that look in his eye but because he was my home. He had been home for years now.

“I love you,” I finally whispered, my voice barely audible as I watched my hand in his, aware of my right hand hanging limp and useless next to my side. As useless as I found my vocal cords at the moment. I still couldn’t meet his eyes, but I could force those words out again: “I love you.” They were louder now and I prayed he could hear the truth of them.

I dug my thumbnail into the flesh of the side of my index, picking at it as I hoped the pain would clear my head. Why can’t I answer him? What is wrong with me? I can feel the weight of anxiety in my chest, waiting to take over. Perhaps it only wants to defend me, but there is no danger I need protection from. It is the most patient yet most demanding feeling I have ever known. It sits there like an angry ball of violent needles, propelling me towards panic I just really do not need.

I dragged my hand over down my hair to pull my hair from where it stuck to my jacket. I tucked my right hand around myself, trying to ignore how stupid the lock of hair now on the opposite side of my middle part made me look. “I--” I sighed as the heavy pressure of the angry ball began to expand. I was well aware I had only moments before it burst, sending needles of panic throughout my body, making me into nothing but a lump of flesh housing hell. “Mat--”

He brought his thumb across my cheek, the usually calming gesture made me pull away. Everything suddenly felt like too much. The heat of his skin against mine felt scalding; the mild breeze felt like an icy whip; the rustle of leaves in the breeze sounded as if it were the pounding of drums; the playful shouts of children playing with their barking dog far in the background sounded as though they were screaming in my skull; everything was too damn much and I need everything to fucking stop.

I wrapped my arms around myself as I pulled away from him, needing to breathe yet unable to do so as panic wrapped its cruel, barbed hands around my lungs and fear filled my throat as if they were pebbles in a jar. I need to fucking breath.

“Mateo,” I force out, desperate to stay aware; desperate not to fall back into the protective prison of my mind. “I love you, I do. b--” I paused. ‘I love you but-’ That is what I was about to say. ‘I love you but-’ “I love being with you. I-- Mateo, when you leave-- and you will! I know you will leave somehow or another,” I started, forcing myself to voice the thoughts as they came with the panic. Needing an outlet for this. Refusing to crumble after so long of being able to function like a normal human being. “It will be so much harder as your fiancée or hell wife. I love you, fuck, do I love you, but what am I supposed to do when you leave? How am I supposed to survive losing you as your fiancée? As your girlfriend, sure, I’ve been through that one before, but as your fiancée? Your wife?”

A painful heat curled in my stomach, reaching its violating flames through my body, twisting itself around the panic like poison ivy. It didn’t wish to burn away the panic, but rather become its protective coating, hiding it from the softness of his eyes and he watched me, hands stretched partially towards me as if he needed to hold me yet knowing I needed space.

Damn him and damn his heart.

He recognized the panic clawing its way through my thoughts moments before I even registered what was happening. He knew what I needed in those moments of uncertainty. He never made me feel insane or broken when I broke down in the kitchen or the grocery store or the park over something so minuscule. He helped me through hell without a complaint. He would stand there and let me scream at him if I thought that would help this anger-coated panic. I knew he would bear the brunt of my rage and wrap his arms around me when it faded. Rarely did I allow myself to fall into anger, but on those off occasions, he would be there to help me. And after, when the hole the panic and anger had burned through me was filled up with self-loathing, he would do all he could to make sure I knew I wasn’t ‘just being a bitch’. He would remind me that this was normal especially for someone who tried to --quite literally-- cut out any emotional reaction I had in order to avoid letting my parents feed off of it. To stay safe from my family.

“Car,” he murmured, stopping himself from taking a step towards me. “Carissa,” he repeated, bringing my attention back to him, even if I couldn’t look any closer than the tree behind him. “Darling, I am not going to leave you.”

“Don’t say that,” I ordered, the anger now trying to see if it could escape through my eyes. A ridiculously humiliating reaction my body always had to anger, frustration, or any hot emotion. Oddly enough, sorrow and pain were not included there. I don’t cry when I’m grieving, but I do when I am angry. What is wrong with me? “You are going to leave one day. It is inevitable. Maybe not today or tomorrow. Maybe not this year, or even this decade, but you will leave. You’ll get sick of me and you will leave and I am going to be left behind, stuck with all these feelings.”

“Car, darling,” he whispered, soft and firm at the same time. “I love you, Carissa. I am not going to leave you, darling.”

“You say that right now,” I respond, a traitorous tear leaking down my face, staining my cheek with its salty string. “Everyone says that at first, but they all leave eventually. You may think you love me right now, but what about in five years? Ten? When you finally get sick of this,” I motion wildly to myself, at my reaction, at the fact I even act like a normal fucking human being. “When you tire of these outbursts. When you realise you don’t want to be caged to such a fucked up piece of shit! What happens then, Mateo?” The tears felt no shame as they stained my face, physical proof of how fucked up I was. “You made me love you, you selfish ass! You made me love you and now I have no fucking clue what to do when you leave.” My anger never lasted long, it fizzled out quickly into tears and desperation. “I don’t know if I can survive losing you. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Car,” his hands caught me as I crumpled, trying to make myself small again, to escape the tightness in my chest, the burning hole in my stomach. “Car, baby,” he muttered into my hair as he pulled me into his lap, his arms tight as they held me in one piece against his chest.

“I can’t lose you, Mat,” I choke out, a sob caught in my throat. “I don’t know if I could survive that if I marry you.” I curl further into him, hating myself for yelling at him, hating myself for hurting him. “I don’t know if I could survive as only your girlfriend,” I added, almost as a ghostly afterthought, so quiet I wasn’t sure if I said it out loud.

“Car.” He pressed his lips against my forehead, holding me in his steel embrace. “Carissa,” he nudged my chin to force me to look at him. I watched his mussed brown hair twirl around his ear in the breeze. “I know you don’t believe me right now, my darling, but I swear to you, I am not going to leave you. Not today, not tomorrow, not in five or ten years, not in twenty billion. Never. You are sorta stuck with me, sorry for that, by the way.” The knuckle of his index finger trailed from my shoulder to below my ear and back again. “I fell in love with you and I don’t plan on ever changing that, I am rather comfortable here.” He kissed my jaw, a ghost of a touch, “I will spend forever proving to you that I am never going to leave. I suppose that is what the ring means, hmm? That you are sorta stuck with me.”

“It’s more of the government sticking their noises in everyone's ass and deciding who can and can’t live together,” I responded. “And who gets to take all your stuff when they kill you and get away with it.”

“Already plotting my murder, hmm?” His laugh vibrated through my chest, reminding me vaguely of the calming effect of a cat’s purr. “That’s my girl.”

At those words, I finally met his eyes the hue of every tree in the forest from first filtering light after night finally relinquishes her lovely hold to when the sun finally takes her rest of watching this disaster of a country and decides to visit Australia made all the richer the cool autumn light, giving the gold in his eyes the stage.

“And, by the way, love,” he added, pleased that he finally got my full attention. “Don’t call yourself a fucked up piece of shit, okay?” His thumb brushed my cheekbone as he planted a kiss on my forehead. “That’s the love of my life you’re insulting, I would rather you not speak of her so. She’s been through a lot.”

Instead of answering, I brought my hand up to tuck his hair behind his ear, despite the fact the breeze’s grasp brought it right back out again.

“You are the strongest person I know, Carissa.” He kisses below my ear. “You are my moon, my stars, my whole damn night sky.”

“Yes,” I breathed the words my heart purred before I broke down. “Mateo, I will marry you.” I run my fingers down his jaw. “As long as you sign that contract allowing me to borrow your name to commit crimes under.”

His laugh twirled through the air, the loveliest melody I’ve ever heard. “Of course, my dove,” he agreed before pressing his lips to mine.

[cassie-reader]

Yoga

“It isn’t that hard, Can.” With my hand lightly on his metal arm, I looked up into his steel blue eyes. When I had first met him, they were dark and haunted, now they were soft and gentle as he dipped his chin, head tilted slightly. Though his face was stern, I relished the softness in his gaze. “You can lift as much as you want, but it won’t do much. Besides,” I tilted my head as I looked at him through my eye lashes, “It helps to prevent injuries.”

“Darlin’.” He shook his head as his sonorous laugh engulfed the empty, isolating room. “I’m not flexible. I can’t even close my arms fully to my sides.” Demonstrating, he falled to fully close the gap between his arm and his side, the muscle refusing.

“We all have that natural ability, Can-Can. You just have to do a little practice after so long being a brick of muscle.” Placing my hands on my hips, I removed my contact from him, his eyes following my hand as it moved from him.

His touch darted out to wet his lips as he apprised me, seeming to take in every aspect of my expression as though he was hoping to read my mind. “You just want to prove you’re better than me in an area of physical activity.”

“Maybe,” I grinned, my tongue wetting my lips as I unwillingly copied his movements. “Or perhaps, I just don’t want to see you get hurt, Buchanan. I kind of like having you around.” My gaze flickered to his lips as a lopsided grin spread across his face. “Who else is supposed to scare assholes over the phone for me?”

“Well, now, I can’t deprive you of hearing about the steps to bake a cake in Russian, now can I?” He stretched his flesh hand as the knuckle of his finger brushed against my forearm for a split second. “That would be very cruel and unusual punishment of me.”

His tongue wet his lips as I gasped. “That’s what you were saying?” Laughter bubbled up my throat, dancing on my tongue as I copied him, face feeling unusually warm. “Does this mean you know how to bake? I should make you do all of the cooking from here on out.”

When his gaze moved over my head, focusing on a point behind me, my eyes fell to his lips again. Curiosity curling around my thoughts like an incessant cat, demanding my attention and willing to trip me if I ignored it. What would his lips feel like against mine? As his tongue followed the lines of his lips, all I could think about was how soft they look; how warm they would be as they moved against my skin. Would his lips move softly, or would they demand my attention? Would it feel as good as it did in my dream to brush my fingers across the curve of his jaw, over the stubble darkening his chin? Would he push me away or would his goofy, lopsided grin make me forget where we were, what circumstances we were in? If I kissed him in my apartment, would he pull me onto his lap and wrap his arms around me listening with the same intensity to my problems as he always had? Would he replace his advice with gentle kisses along my jaw, my neck, my face until I couldn’t think about what every irrational thing bothered me before telling me what he knew would calm my fears as he covered my face, arms, hands, shoulders in kisses?

Or would he pull away from my skin, too overwhelmed as memories of the nightmares that plague him?

Would I pull away from his hands on my hips, only able to feel the bruises my ex imprinted into my skin the night I met Can?

“What is it?” Moving my gaze from his lips, I followed his eyes to the stained window behind me.

“A bird.” When he turned his attention back to me, his steel blue eyes felt too intense as they held my dark ones prisoner, searching for something. His lips were slightly parted with the grin of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted as his eye flickered between mine, seeming to have read my thoughts. I waited for him to smile, a warm and brilliant one, breaking the tension that had grown in the moments I suggested teaching him yoga. I was unsure why my lips had parted, as though in response to his.

“What kind of bird?” I inquired, uncertain in the atmosphere that had been slowly building.

“A hummingbird.” His voice had deepened and his body seemed to be leaning towards mine.

I may be naive, but I have spent enough years analysing body language to know what was happening. It may seem entirely ridiculous and unlikely to me, but if we stayed on the trajectory we were on, this conversation would end with a kiss. The question wasn’t if he was willing to kiss me. The question was if I was willing to risk destroying our friendship over something so silly. Had my dreams of late been filled with images of him, of pulling me closer to kiss my forehead with a soft yet cocky murmur before pulling away, his eyes alive and dancing; and I would laugh, pushing him just hard enough to move him before pulling him in for a kiss; our lips meeting with a laugh as I entwined our fingers? Were my thoughts begging me to feel how soft his lips were? To press my hand against his toned chest, allowing his arms to wrap around me? Did everything in me desire to feel his kiss?

Yes.

But was I willing to lose him?

No.

“Can?” My voice sounded breathless as I blinked up at him.

“Hmm?” His hum rolled through my chest, low and as soothing as a cats purr. Though, it was having the opposite effect at the moment.

“Yoga?” Was all that could escape as my gaze fell to his lips, before I dragged them back up to his eyes. I could feel the heat radiating from his body. “Should we-- um--” I rubbed my neck, my face flushing as he wetted his parted lips. “Yoga?”

[cassie-reader]

An Angel In A Dark Memory

Warning: Mentioning of SA

I thought that would be a night I would regret forever.

The night his nails dug into my sides. If I looked in the mirror now, I wouldn’t be able to see the bruises, but I can feel them. His skin stained mine with invisible scars.

I thought I would never be able to get rid of the feeling of his skin. Forever to relive that moment, unable to breath as my skin became a canvas of maggots. Throat raw with unheard pleas.

I thought I would forever be defined by that single moment.

When I chose to walk home from my office instead of calling for an uber. Everything after was a mere domino reaction. My ex just happened to be leaving the bar that night, choosing to be responsible and not drive. If I hadn’t waited for that car before crossing the street, I wouldn’t have bumped into a girl I went to highschool with. If I hadn’t stopped to have a three minute and twenty-three second conversation with her, I wouldn’t have had to walk in the back alley to avoid the large group of inebriated football players. If I didn’t have to avoid them, my ex wouldn’t have seen me walking alone. If he hadn’t seen me, he wouldn’t have offered to walk me home and I would have never accepted his offer, because even after our break up, I still felt safer with him than I did alone.

His only problem was that he was a jealous man and had a fear of being cheated on. If I hadn’t accepted his offer, he wouldn’t have asked for a second chance.

Another issue of his was that he was an angry drunk. He didn’t drink often when we dated, too afraid of becoming like his mother. He started drinking after the break up. It turned out that his fears were found, he was like his mother when drunk. If I hadn’t rejected him, he never would have touched me.

I shouldn’t have responded that night. I knew he was drunk. I knew I should ask for time to think about it. I knew I shouldn’t have said ‘no’ until he was sober and himself again.

But I didn’t.

In some ways, I led to that night.

I never intended for it to happen, but you can never foresee the consequences of your actions.

I thought that night would be the end of me.

It wasn’t.

Instead, I met him. To many, he may be a murderer, an assassin, but to me, he was my saviour. He saved me that night. Even when he was still a monster. Even when he was still the Winter Soldier, he saved me. Before he was Bucky again, before he was free from the hell he had endured, he saved me.

The most vivid thing about that night was him, the neon green peace sign spray painted on the wall of the apartment we were behind, and that damned paper I had to finish before we got out for the semester. Everything else-- my ex, his hand tight against my throat, my nail breaking as I clawed his skin in an attempt to escape, the tearing of my clothes, the pain… it was all a blur. I couldn’t focus on what was happening. I couldn’t focus on the pain, the thrusting pain, the violation.

The guilt.

It was easier to think about the neon spray paint on the wall. As his teeth broke skin and left bruises down my skin, I wondered why the artist made a wave in the middle of the line. When his lips left saliva on my body, I pondered why the artist did not take more care in keeping the lines straight. His fingers running up and down my bare side left me curious about what made the artist choose neon green for the symbol. It became apparent as he pressed his hot lips to mine in the middle of a plea, choking me with both his hand and tongue that it was not vandalism, rather an unfinished mural. I haven’t gone back there.

I wonder what it looks like now.

I can remember his burning skin on mine, his cruel hands as they explored the skin he never got to touch like this, his teeth carving bruises on my body and soul. When I heard his zipper as he worked to get his pants off, the thesis of my paper finally came to me. I had written the draft of the paper, yet couldn’t figure out how to phrase the thesis. It was ingenious, the very thing I need to prove that I was worthy of the degree I was about to earn. The human mind is an incredible thing and as a psychology major, I loved to analyse it. As he tore my world apart, as the pleas that left my throat raw for days encouraging him, as he used my body like it was his for the taking, all I could do was formulate more points I could add to prove my thesis and hit the word count. I did end up getting a 97.5 on the paper. I lost points for using “peaked” instead of “piqued” and using ‘an’ where I should have used “a”.

A stupid mistake really.

As I tried to figure out which synonym of ‘peculiar’ to use, the cool air replaced his hot, vicious touch. His screams replaced mine as a large man in dark clothing bashed his skull against the wall. I will never forget the way the blood dripped down, more like little streams.

It looks nothing like the movies.

There was nothing in my head except the scene unfolding before me as the man wrapped a hand around his throat. The metal whirling as he used his left arm to leave a dent in the face I once loved still plays in my dreams.

When the man turned to me, my ex dead at his feet, I felt no fear. A part of me, the part of me that I thought I had quieted once and for all, was hopeful that I would be his victim. I would rather be dead than live with what had just happened. With what the first man I thought I would marry did to me.

I had never seen such expressive eyes as he crouched in front of me, head tilted as he examined me. I couldn't look him in the eyes for long. He had saved me and instead of thank you, all I could think to say was, “My book.”

I wrapped my arms around my Psychology book that I hadn’t actually needed for class. Without a word, he lifted me into his arms and wrapped his jacket around my body.

I had just watched him beat my ex-boyfriend to death with his bare hands. Seeing him make a dent in his face, yet I couldn’t bring myself to fear him.

I knew I should. Everything about his outfit told me that he was a wild animal that needed to be restrained. His leather jacket reminded me of the straight jackets during World War II that my high school best friend and I learned about. His dark hair was like a mask, covering the face not hidden by the muzzle. Even his gun holster went right across his chest as if it too was trying to restrain him.

That was the day I knew I would never fear him.

His outfit seemed created as a reminder that he was controlled, owned. Even alone, he belongs to someone like a wolf in the zoo. I think some part of me knew, that night, that he was just as much of a victim as I just was. Maybe more of a victim.

I thought I would remember that night as the one where my weakness allowed my body to be violated.

I remember that as the night I met my soldier.

The night I met Bucky.