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floraltypes · 3 years

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Distraction

leroy jethro gibbs x reader

fluff, drinking, mentions of sex, death,

based on earlier seasons

AN: ahh my first NCIS little drabble! requests are open so request something!

The moon was shining into the windows of the dimly lit bar. It defiantly wasn’t the nicest one you’d ever been in, but when a old friend insisted on bringing you, you gave in.

She had been babbling to you, for days, about the man who owns it and how they are sleeping around with each other. She continued to then beg for you to come and check it out, then maybe bring some of your coworkers so the guy she liked so much could have more customers.

“Come on Y/n!” Your friend, Elise, whined. She sat up from her position on the couch in your apartment, and locked her fingers around your wrist to get you to stand. “Let’s go! It’s a good place! Popular! Fun! Drinks are cheap,” She was very cheery and trying her hardest to convince you as well.

“Not now,” You groaned, trying to use your weight to stay on the couch. “Brandon is coming over and I had plans to have a nice dinner with him,” You told her, the girl giving up.

Brandon was your current boyfriend, for about two months. Both of you were always incredibly busy with your jobs, him a FBI agent, you a NCIS special agent. So, it made it very difficult to truly see each other and have fun.

✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧

He was helping with the investigation due to the victim of the crime (at the time) being a old navy friend of his. They were going to meet up and try to regain a old friendship before the man was murdered. But Brandon decided to stay a bit and try to help with the case, to find his friends murderer, and to talk to you a bit more.

“A shame to see him go. Wish I’d have see him sooner,” Brandon admitted, rubbing his eyes a little while staring at the body bag.

“I’m sorry for your loss Agent Jordon,” You put a arm on his shoulder and he looked down at you with a small smile. “Trust us, we’ll find him,” You tried to reassure him.

“Thank you Agent L/n,” He nodded, turning fully around to face you now, while they lifted up the body bag to carry it into the van. “I would hope it will be okay if I join you with finding him,” He looked towards you for a answer.

“Oh! Well, uh, I-”

“Talk to your supervisor,” Gibbs interrupted, throwing a camera into your hand. “We still need to hear about your alibi. L/n, get to work on those photos. Todd!” He called out to the other female agent who was walking over with DiNozzo.

“Yeah, Gibbs,” She walked over, fixing the hat that was covering a bit too much of her face than she wanted.

The park was empty, they had found the body slumped up next to a tree with a cup of coffee in hand, which was going to be tested by the lovely Abby, along with everything else he had on him.

“You and DiNozzo go ahead and check out the areas around here, take another camera,” He commanded Todd and DiNozzo, who soon left. “L/n, pictures,” He snapped, now standing right next to you. You quickly nodded and left to go do the job by taking some more pictures of where the body formally was.

“Sir, I hope you’ll let me join you on this investigation. I was at my office, up until I got news of his murder, you can check with coworkers of mine and even my boss,” Brandon told Gibbs, hands now in his pockets and pulling out the FBI badge.

“I know what you are,” Gibbs sneered, motioning for him to put it away. “We don’t need FBI for this, it’s our job,”

“Just for a extra eye, nothing more, I just want to know I did all I could do to get justice for my friend,”

“Come on Gibbs,” You piped up, walking over with the camera in hand and zippering up your jacket with the other. “A extra hand, another person to boss around, and that person being a FBI agent. It kinda sounds like something you might want,” You joked, slowly lowering your voice as his intimidating gaze was put on you. “Or not?”

“I obviously don’t boss you around enough that you feel the need to bother me instead of doing your job,”

“I took the photos!” You lifted up the camera and pulled up a photo of something you found near the body. “Looks like boot marks on the grass, they were bigger and I measured, bigger than our victim. That can help narrow down the search, they were also heavier boots, something someone who’s in the navy might wear,” You handed him the camera and walked to stand across from him, next to Brandon.

“You’re good,” Brandon complimented, smiling down at you.

“Than-”

“It’s the bare minimum, let’s go,” Gibbs, once again, interrupted, and the three of you started walking to his car. “Y/n, up front with me,” He commanded and you quickly jumped in the seat.

“So, can I help?” Brandon asked after there were a few minutes of silence.

“As long as you don’t get in our way,”

Once you made it back to the iconic building, you were excited to show Brandon around a bit, DiNozzo and Todd already doing some research based on some things they found.

“Oh! The autopsy is where Ducky is working at the moment. You have to go and see down there, but Ducky is a talker, so be warned. Sometimes I go down there, on paperwork days, to learn more about anatomy,” You informed the Agent who was happily listening besides you.

“L/n, you are at work, during your work hours, where you get payed to do work. Also known as working on the case, not giving tours, he can figure it out himself,” Gibbs commented, dropping off a couple of files at your desk. You let out a little groan, and apologetic smile to Brandon and walked back to your desk. “Figure out his closest friends, got it, people he was closely working next to,”

“Yes sir,” You plopped yourself down and started to open a file when another chair was soon pulled up.

“Boss is in a extra bad mood today, huh?” DiNozzo laughed, grabbing one of the files near you.

“Big surprise,” You rolled your eyes, flipping to the next page.

“I’ve got a feeling he doesn’t like little FBI agent,”

“Well of course not, he is a FBI agent after all,”

“I’m thinking for another reason,” DiNozzo sent you one last smirk before rolling his chair back to the desk next to you.

“What’s tha-”

“Need help?” Brandon wondered, pulling up a extra chair and grabbing a file. The two of you chatted while going through it. Gibbs down checking in with Abby and then Ducky to see what more they could find out.

Soon, you were all able to find out who exactly killed the victim, leaving to go to the home the man was with another navy agent. You and Brandon took the front of the house, Gibbs and Dinozzo taking the back entrance of the farm house and land, going to check where some animals were located. Todd and Mcgee then headed to a shed that was also present on the land.

You looked back at Brandon, who nodded at you, signaling it was okay to open the door, and you turned the knob. Walking into the entrance and started to sweep the area with your gun in front of you. Brandon motioned you over to a door where he was hearing noises and soon swung it open.

“Liam Han! Put the gun down!” You yelled at him, then pressing your ear piece and letting the rest of the team know you had found the man. You watched the life drain out of the mans face, the first beam of sweat truly drip down, the way his eyes widened every so slightly, and his gun quickly moving to be aimed at Brandon.

You soon shot the mans arm while he shot Brandons leg, other agents soon rushing in and putting Liam into handcuffs and helping the petty officer, who was kidnapped, out of his seat.

“Agent Jordon,” You got on your knees besides him, looking at the wound which seemed to hit a bit below his knee. “Don’t worry medics are on their way, um, are you okay?”

“I might be FBI, but I tend to due more paperwork than field work,” He laughed a little, clutching the wounded leg.

“Why wouldn’t you inform us of that?” Gibbs asked him, same tone in his voice like always.

“It’s not like I’m never on the field, I know what to do,” He didn’t look at Gibbs at all just looking at you. “But hey, maybe this little wound will make it more convincing for you to let me take you out on a date,” He smiled widely, despite his bloody leg.

“Uh.” You looked at him in disbelief and Gibbs rolled his eyes.

“Might as well call of the medics,” Gibbs commented, moving towards the door.

“Wait! No! I still need them!” Brandon called out after.

“That’s something I’m gonna have to try,” DiNozzo mentioned.

“Yeah, ‘cause it would be real charming if you did it,” Todd added.

“Sure,” You told him, laughing a bit while the medics came in to truly address his leg.

✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧ ✶ ✧

Two more dates, after the first one, he soon asked you to be his girlfriend and the two of you have been going strong for two months!

“I’m in town, please, do this one thing for me!” Elise continued to beg.

“And I never see Brandon,” You fired back. “I’ll think about it, but your flight is tomorrow, so you better go spend the last of that time with your boy toy and I’ll email you,” She quickly nodded and grabbed her stuff, saying a quick goodbye.

A few hours later Brandon arrived to your apartment, yet, not so thrilled to see you. He had a stressed look on his features and no bags in his hand, just a frown and a envelope.

“Brandon?” You got up from the couch you’d been waiting on for the past two hours and slowly walked over to him. “What’s wrong?”

“I think we should break up,” His eyes connected with yours, tears littering the edge of his eyes.

“Wha-why?”

“I need to focus on my work, I’ve always wanted to be a unit chief and in order to gain that goal, I need to do better at my job, and that means cutting off any distractions,” He explained, placing the envelope on your kitchen counter.

“Distractions?”

“I don’t mean for it to come off in a rude way, but this is just the best for me, and now you can even focus on your work more and how to deal with a insane boss,” He lightly laughed, slowly walking to you a patting your shoulder. “I hope to see you soon,” He turned back to the door and left like he was never there.

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That’s how you found yourself in the crappy bar. Elise sure talked it up enough to make it sound decent, but in all reality is was one of the worse you’ve ever been too. But the drinks were kind of good and cheap, so staying a little longer didn’t seem so bad.

Later, when you indulged in a few more weeks, you realized it would be best to head back, yet Elise was off having fun with her boy and you came here with her, in her car.

“DiNozzo,” You spoke into the phone, coughing a bit afterwards. “Pick me up,”

“You’re drunk?” He asked into the phone. “Weird, I’ve only seen that a few times. Not pretty,” He laughed. “Would love to, we’ll not really, but I’m with this smoking hot blonde and she wants to do it in the shower, later,” He hung up, leaving you to dial another friend.

“Y/n?” Caitlins voiced echoed through the phone. “What’s up?”

“I’m drunk, and want to sleep, pick me up Cait, please?”

“I’m out with my family, maybe ask Abby?”

“At some weird rock concert,” You groaned. “I’m not even a crazy drunk, or that drunk, but I don’t feel comfortable driving and I just want to sleep,” You complained.

“I’ve got to go, good luck,” Caitlin then hung up, leaving you to let your forehead fall onto the bar counter.

“Ugh, I guess I have no choice,” You groaned, again, and dialed a number you were dreading to call.

“L/n? It’s late, what is it?”

“Gibbs, I need to call in a favor,” You quietly voiced into the phone.

“What’s this, favor?”

“Can you pick me up,”

“You sound twelve,”

“I can’t drive and everyone’s busy, come on, for me?”

“Tch, I was finally making some real progress on my boat, but now I have to go and save a dumb drunk coworker of mine,” He grumbled underneath his breath, which was still able to be heard through the phone. “Tell me the address,”

You soon told him and hung up. Paying the money you owed the bartender and getting your purse all ready for when the grey-haired man would show up.

“This place is a dump,” A familiar voice muttered, stepping through the door. “What the hell?”

“Gibbs!” You shot up and tumbled your way towards him. “I absolutely hate this place, and fuck-”

“Woah,” He caught your body which just about fell onto him. “You sure can talk normally but not walk normally,” He noted, swinging one of your arms to fall onto his shoulders and his to snake around your waist.

Since the place was about deserted it was easy to get a parking spot in the front and guide you to the car. Once Gibbs opened the passenger door you flopped down, and Gibbs leaned over to buckle your seatbelt, your eyes closed.

“Fell asleep, already, damn, I don’t know where you live,” He mumbled, getting into the drivers seat and pulling out of the nasty bar.

“Gibbs,” You whispered, stirring around in the chair and moving one of your hands to reach for his thigh, though his full attention was already on you, the red beaming onto your features.

“Y/n,” He spoke again, ignoring the hand that was rested on his more lower thigh. “I’m taking you to my place, I have a extra bedroom so it shouldn’t be a problem. And if it is, I don’t care because you’re the one who decided to get drunk,”

“Mmk,” You hummed. “Gibbs,”

“Yes?” He moved his attention back to the road, the color changing.

“You’re my favorite agent,” You laughed a little after, now the true side affects of when you were sleepy and drank too much, kicking in.

“Thanks, I guess,”

“Am I yours?”

“Sure,”

“Good,” You closed your eyes again, letting a grin take over your features. “Gibbs,”

“Yes,” He said with a bit more irritation this time.

“I miss Brandon,”

“Weren’t you supposed to see him tonight?”

“He broke up with me, said I was a distraction. So he needs to cut me off and focus now. Am I a distraction to you?”

“Yeah,” He chuckled a little at the droppy tone of your words and the funny memories of you flashing through his mind at the question. “But sometimes distractions are a good thing. Like distracting you from the troubles that just can’t be fixed at the moment, that’s what you do for me, so it isn’t a horrible thing,”

“Ah,”

“Brandon was a idiot anyway,”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause he was FBI,”

“Yeah, that’s true, but,” Gibbs stopped for a moment, thinking about the words he was about to mutter, contemplating if he was willing to take the risk or not. “He’s also a idiot for getting rid of a distraction like you,”

“You mean that? Gibbs I-” You stopped your sentence after feeling a pair of lips being pushed up against your own. You opened you eyes wide to look at the man who had connected his with yours. “Gibbs what about rule-”

“Who cares, I made the rules, therefore I can break them,” He smirked, grabbing the hand in his lap. “Let’s head to my house and get you to bed and some medicine in your stomach for the hangover you’re going to have tomorrow,”

“Oh, okay,”

“After I finish up on my boat,”

#gibbs x reader #ncis fandom #ncis fanfiction #ncis fic #ncis x reader #leroy jethro gibbs #tony dinozzo #abby sciuto #ducky #timothy mcgee #donald mallard #jimmy palmer #caitlin todd #caitlin mcgee

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ms-demeanor · 4 years

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Hi, can I get some clarification? At one point does lusting for a person/feeling lust for someone become objectification?

Objectification is treating a person like an object, like a *thing* instead of a person.

(for the purposes of this post I am primarily going to be talking about sexual objectification though parents treating their children like objects is DEFINITELY a thing)

I would argue that objectification happens when you disregard a person’s autonomy (not that you overrule or deny he fact that they HAVE autonomy, but like it doesn’t even occur to you that your choices should be considered because they’re not real enough to you in that moment for it to matter).

Having a crush on your friend or thinking that the cashier at a store is sexy isn’t objectifying them. Resenting your friend for not returning your crush or taking a photo of a sexy cashier to share on social media is objectifying them. Arguably just thinking about someone while masturbating is, to an extent, objectifying them. But imagining the sexy cashier taking you out on a nice picnic date and showering you with presents and buying you a pony is objectifying them too.

I’ve got a hot take here: Objectification isn’t inherently bad.

There’s a person at my gym who has some fucking THIGHS. Every time they’re at the gym they’re on the stair machine for a minimum of thirty minutes. I’m pretty sure they can’t wear jeans because I can’t *imagine* the kinds of jeans that would fit over this person’s quads. Every time I’m at my gym and this person is working out their thighs it’s a little bonus perk for my gym visit. In fact it’s kind of an incentive: if I go to the gym maybe I’m gonna get to see THIGHS and that’ll be cool.

This person is an object to me. At a conscious level I know that they are a real person with their own thoughts and desires and agenda and whatever but that’s not what they are to me. What they are to me is Damn! Thighs!

And that’s not a problem.

However if I *follow* them around the gym to look at their thighs, or if I stare obviously and move so that I’m working out behind them, or if I follow them out so I know what their car looks like so I can make sure to go into the gym if I see them in the lot THAT is a problem. And if they introduce themselves to me and I don’t remember their name or their interests and all I ever want to talk about is how hot their thighs are then THAT is a BIG problem. And if they were my coworker and I ignored their achievements and didn’t listen to their requests because their needs were less important to me than hot thighs and anyway if you spend so much time looking good you’re probably an idiot who doesn’t really work but just gets a paycheck because the boss likes looking at you and your work doesn’t matter THEN that is a VERY VERY BIG problem.

You are allowed to lust after and objectify people so long as it doesn’t impact the actual real world and that actual real person.

Chris Evans is an object to me. He’s pretty. I like looking at him. He doesn’t have any idea that I exist so me seeing him as just a pretty dude and ignoring everything else about him doesn’t matter. And I cannot tell you how much I DO NOT want to personally humanize Chris Evans as a celebrity and form a parasocial relationship with him where I know about his dog and his siblings and look at pictures of his family at the holidays. I’m much more comfortable experiencing Chris Evans as an object than as a person, thanks, and I’m pretty sure that for most celebrities that’s how they want most of the world to interact with them. But if I were to meet him and objectify him by presenting him with sexual fanart of him or if I were to have an interview with him about his political website and only asked him questions about his workout routine THEN it would be a problem for me to objectify him and I would be doing so in a way that was directly harmful to him.

Also. In terms of nonsexual objectification:

I keep hearing random liberals say that Biden needs to nominate a woman of color as his running mate.

I hear it over and over but I’m not hearing names, just “Joe Biden needs to nominate a Latina” “Joe Biden won’t win if he doesn’t run with a Woman of Color on the ticket.”

Over and over. But no names. No policy. Almost as if people are seeing this possible running mate like some kind of talisman or token or object or fetish (in the original “magical object’ sense, not the sexual sense) instead of a theoretical politician with experience and ideas of her own.

Hm. Gross.

And yes it is COMPLETELY possible to objectify men and we as a society do it A LOT and I kind of have the objectification of men as commodities in the popular music industry as a special interest that I’ve done a lot of reading and research and writing about.

Objectification is a thing that people do. It is arguably a *necessary* thing that we do in our society, where we’re aware of so many hundreds or thousands of people that we can’t actually individually treat them like humans (and we can’t even meaningfully conceive of MILLIONS or BILLIONS of people).

So let’s look at George of the Jungle (because that’s what we’ve been talking about today)

The ladies looking wistfully at George as he plays with the horses: these characters are objectifying the character of George but it is likely harmless because he doesn’t even seem to notice that they’re ogling him.

Ursula’s roommate/friend staring at George naked: this character is objectifying George and it *could* be harmful to his character because it will change their interactions and the way she views him and the dynamic between him.

The advertising for the film focusing on a shirtless character slammed into a tree: Not objectifying George.

Tumblr focusing on gifs of George/Brendan Fraser without his shirt: Objectifying the character/actor, harmless (though if you approached the actor on the street and said “Oh my god, I am so hot for your ass in that one scene where you’re wearing the bowl” that would be harmful)

People focusing on Brendan Fraser’s weight gain and lamenting that he’s no longer sexy: Objectifying the actor, potentially harmful to the actor (because people frequently tag the actors in criticism like this) and definitely bodyshaming in a way that can be harmful to the people who encounter the criticisms.

Fans expecting actors to maintain a particular level of fitness outside of a film: objectifying the actor, harmful.

Studios expecting actors to perform complicated stunts without adequate preparation or safety precautions: Objectifying the actor, harmful.

Studios and audiences expecting actors to be dangerously dehydrated so that they appear extremely muscular or extremely fit when filming; Objectifying the actor, harmful.

A film executive expecting an actor to perform sexual acts for them or to tolerate sexual touching because they’ve cast the actor for a part: Objectifying the actor, harmful.

So it’s interesting that while the actor Brendan Fraser was likely objectified in the process of making this film (especially considering that, yeah, there was probably some unhealthy dieting and some dehydration to look as lean and muscular as he did in some scenes) the film as a whole does not objectify the character of George.

Anyway.

Shit’s complicated and there’s not a clear dividing line but it’s okay to think of people as objects sometimes because that’s honestly a thing that we have to do to get through the day without keeling over from overextended empathy but it’s not cool to *treat* people like objects and media that treats people like objects frequently models behavior that people normalize even if they don’t intentionally emulate it so it’s worthwhile to have discussions about the objectification of characters in media.

There we go.

Easy, right?

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nocturnalazura · 4 years

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Picture Perfect- Bakugou Katsuki

A/N: This is my first piece of work on tumblr! I don’t usually do self insert so please forgive any akwardness!

Summary: Bakugou drops a box of memories and you can’t help but go through some of them while wondering about the future.

Warnings: Cursing. (It’s Bakugou what do you expect.) Pregnancy.

A loud thud and curse draws attention away from the pile of laundry you’re currently buried in, pausing the soft music playing from your phone anticipation loud yelling and explosions only to be met with silence. Reaching to turn the music back on you finally hear soft cursing from the hallway, giggling softly you push the laundry to the side and clamber out of bed. Sliding your slippers on you quietly pad over towards the bedroom door and peek out in the hallway, only to find a flurry of papers and photos scattered around. Opening the door fully you finally catch sight of the culprit, crouching down muttering constant curses and attempting to gather everything back into the once neatly organized box.

“‘Suki? Babe, what happened?” You giggle, covering your mouth with your hands as he glares up at you. Bright crimson eyes narrow at your giggling figure letting out a soft growl at you.

“The fuck does it look like happened. I knocked this stupid box that you packed off the top shelf and all this shit was crammed into it.” Bakugou growls out gesturing to the mess around him.

Shaking your head you pad off towards the edge of the mess and slowly lower yourself down, instantly his hand is grabbing yours helping to help support you.

“Careful dumbass, don’t fall you’ll hurt yourself.” Bakugou grumbles once you’re settled on the floor.

“I’m pregnant Suki, not made of glass. If I can manage to be a hero and not get killed I can sit on the floor just fine.”

He softly glares at you before shoving some of the pictures over to place the box between you too. Quietly you begin gathering and flipping through all of the different pictures, smiling at the memories and happy faces throughout the mess. Not long after you and Bakugou had gotten married and purchased your perfect little house Mitsuki had appeared at your doorstep dropping a box of pictures and other various items into her son's arms, wrapped you in a quick hug and disappeared. That box of course contained pictures of Katsuki, almost every picture she had taken of the two of you over the years, and any picture Bakugou had in his childhood room.

You can’t help but smile at the picture of you two and the rest of class 1-A back in your first year at UA. You were sandwiched between Kaminari and Kirishima while Bakugou scowled on the other side of Kirishima. Flipping to the next photo it’s another class photo of you guys in your second year, this one was taken not long after you two had started dating. Of course in true Bakugou fashion he had his ever present scowl while you were pressed against him with Sero on your other side. Kaminari’s kneeling form covers the fact that Bakugou’s arm is wrapped around your waist.

“Aww Katsuki look! I found our class photo from third year!” You squeal happily, waving the photo around. Quirking an eyebrow at you he reaches over and snatches the photo from you. Snorting at the picture he can’t help but allow the smallest hint of a smile cross his face.

“Shit, twelve years. Hate to say it Y/N but you should work out a little, looks like you’ve gained a little weight right here.” He teases lightly tapping your pregnant belly.

“Hahaha you’re so funny. Carrying around another human isn’t exactly easy.” You joke sticking you tongue out.

“Mmhmm, you make it look good though. Love watching your cute little ass waddle around.”

Shaking your head at him you grab the picture and place it in the box neatly with some of the others. Half an hour later and the two of you have the majority of pictures once again neatly packed away in the box. Only left with a small pile composed of your combined collection of childhood photos. Thumbing through them you one of your own baby pictures and one of Katsuki’s. Holding them up together you try to imagine what they would look like combined.

“Suki?”

“Hmm?” he hums not glancing up at you.

“What do you think he’ll look like?”

“Who? The baby?” He questions looking up at you.

“Yeah. I mean do you think he’ll look more like one of us? Or maybe bits and pieces of each of us?” You ask holding the two baby pictures out towards him.

“Honestly, I think he’ll look more like you. But either way the brat will have good genes so he’ll be fine.” He says setting the final two photos back into the. “Thank fuck those are all back in there now.”

“What were you doing to knock this down?”

“I was clearing out the closet in the nursery since you were folding all of the clothes. Figured you’d want to actually put them away right?” He says while helping you off the floor. Once you're settled on your feet he closes the box and puts it back into its spot in the closet.

“You know if in our first year at UA someone told me I’d be pregnant and married at 30 I’d say that sounds ok. But then, then if they told me, I’d be married to hot headed, loud Bakugou Katsuki I’d say they were fucking insane.” You say wrapping your arms around his neck. “ And all these years later here we are and I can’t imagine being anywhere else. You’ve grown up a lot over these past 13 years.”

“Yeah, well you gotta grow up eventually. I’ve gotten better at controlling the hot headedness.”

“You could still work on the loud thing. I’m glad I gave you a chance in second year. You were still loud, proud and a little crude but you’ve always had a soft spot for me huh Suki?”

“You’re pretty hot, so you know.” He shrugs. “Thought I’d give it a shot.”

Rolling your eyes at him you lean up to kiss him. Smiling into the kiss you feel the soft kicks of your baby. Pulling away you pull his hands towards your belly so he can feel the baby as well. With a slight smile he kisses your forehead and rests his head against yours.

Two months later you’re laying in a hospital bed with Katsuki leaning over you. You both stare down at the perfect little bundle wrapped in blue. Pushing his little blue hat back you’re met with small tufts of ash blond hair that almost perfectly matches your husband’s. Bakugou can’t help but gently run a finger along his son's soft newborn little cheek, stopping immediately when he starts to squirm and let out a quiet whine. Cooing down at him you immediately pause when you’re met with eyes that perfectly match your own.

“The perfect combination of us.” Whispers Bakugou. “Perfect y/e/c eyes just like his mom.”

“Grab the camera, we need a picture of our perfect little boy.”

Nodding he walks to the bags set in the corner searching through them to grab the small camera you had packed away. Once he’s hovering over you two again he quickly snaps a picture of just your baby before backing up to take a picture of the two of you.

“Perfect, the brat is perfect.”

“I love you Katsuki.”

“I love you too Y/N” He whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

#bakugou x you #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki #mha bakugou #bakugou fluff #bakugo x reader

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writefasttalkevenfaster · 4 years

Text

Aaron Hotchner / Reminders and Reunions

Request: You and Hotch attend his high military school reunion together

Warnings: fluff, some angst, mentions of hotch’s dad, brief mention of what happens in “100,” some harassment by a dude, hotch saving the day, a little possessiveness from reader,

Word Count: 3.155

“Are you ready yet?” You called from the bedroom, slinging your laptop bag over your shoulder, as you glanced back at the closed bathroom door, "Aaron, just because you stop replying doesn't mean you can trick me into forgetting about the reunion."

"Are you sure?" You chuckle, turning as the door opened. You raised your eyebrows, watching him adjust his black suit coat, a crisp white button down underneath with a red tie — and you didn't miss the engraved silver tie clip you had bought him on your first anniversary, "because I have other ways of making you forget." He adds, raising an eyebrow at your gaping mouth and lingering stare.

And yet he can still make your cheeks burn, rolling your eyes, as he faces the mirror giving you a very nice view of his ass, “Nothing could make me forget this — not even your cute ass.”

He came close enough though.

He sighs, adjusting his tie in the mirror before you rise, walking around him and taking the tie from his fingers. You make quick work of fixing the knot yourself, a tired habit at this point because even though he was fully capable of doing it himself, he loved to have you do it. His eyes softened as he watched you, his fingers brushing down the length of your sides, pausing at your hips, “Do we have to go? More importantly, do I have to go without you? Can’t I just wait for you?”

“When you’re being honored at your high school for your service in the FBI? I don’t think so,” you smile up at him, your fingers finding his cheek. He leaned into your touch, despite his growing frown.

“It’s military school,” he corrected you, lips a thin line now.

“Yes, because you were a troublemaker — how could I forget?” He covers your hand with his own with a sigh, the corners of his mouths twitching, but still very much in a frown, “come on, I’ll be there soon enough. I just to—”

“Drop something off to the office, I know,” he finished. You hum, as your arms wrap around his neck, his large palms grasping at your waist, slipping to your lower back. His lips are only a breath away, his lips nearly ghosting your own, your fingers toying with the hair that rested on his neck.

“Tell me again how you know me so well,” he leans down, pressing a kiss to your now thrumming pulsepoint and he chuckles, the vibration sending a shiver down your neck. Another kiss pressed now to your collarbone, his fingers tug the collar of your shirt back, and he smiles against your skin.

“Might be the profiling,” he hums, as you tilt his head back up to look at you again, “might be the holy matrimony.” and you don’t miss the way the metal band of his ring grazes your cheek as he cups it.

“I knew I married you for a reason,” you smile against his lips as he kisses you, lips sliding together, parting as you giggled, “profiling makes being passive-aggressive so much easier.”

He scoffs, slowly walking you backwards towards the bed, the bag slipping from your shoulder, “And here I thought you married me for my good looks,”

“That too,” you murmur, as he presses you against the foot of the bed, “you’re doing a good job at that distracting thing,” and his lips find yours again, noses bumping, and your hands find his shoulders, finding it hard to say the next words that reluctantly leave your lips, “but you still have to go.”

“But we could have our own fun here,” his voice is husky, and you know he’s right — you can think of several examples from this morning alone of ways you two could have fun, several of which involve the very tie around his neck, but—

“Is there a reason you are so insistent on not going?” you tilt your head, as his gaze drops, “because we really don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just thought it would be a nice way to reflect on how far you’ve come.”

“I’ve come far?” and you roll your eyes, before pulling him onto the bed, your leg over his. You only wished you could really articulate how far he’s really come, how far you’ve seen him grow, how far you know he will grow in the future — but you can’t. Not really. You could list the things he’s done, the things he’s accomplished, the things he’s gained, the things he’s lived through — but nothing would do it service, nothing at all. Because words were incomparable to Aaron Hotchner, and you supposed, your fingers tracing his jaw, that’s why you married him.

“I know you have — I’ve seen it,” your thumb brushes his chin, brushing his bottom lip and he kisses the pad, “and I can’t wait to see where else you go. But the reunion doesn’t have to be one of them, if you don’t want to. I just thought it might be a good reminder.”

He sighs, “I haven’t been there since my graduation — did you know that was one of the last time I ever spoke to him?”

And you purse your lips, watching the muscle in his jaw clenching, his fingers digging into his knee, “I didn’t know that — I knew you hadn’t spoken to him since military school but—”

He gives a bitter chuckle, “I didn’t even invite him — the school did,” he leans over, elbow propped against his knee, “It was the first time in my life I felt like I didn’t have to answer to him. It was the first time I was able to walk away from him and choose something for myself. And I chose to cut him out,” he rubbed at his chin, as your arms winded around his, one arm around his back and the other around his arm, “It wasn’t until he was sick, dying in the hospital that I ever saw him again, and by then...it was too late for words.” The weight of the words pressed against his chest still, a weight that would never ease from him, but your fingers intertwined with his, but one you hoped you could help bear.

“Aaron—”

“I don’t regret what I did, to him, at least,” he shook his head, eyes glassy, “do I regret leaving Sean there? Yes. Do I wish I could have seen my mom more? Of course. But,” his eyes flicker to the dresser, lined with photos of your family — of him, Jack, Haley, you, and the team, and then back to you, “it’s what got me here,” he presses his forehead to yours, “it's what got me to you.”

“If I have to thank that man for anything, and it’s very, very little,” he chuckles, as your fingers find his cheek again, “I would thank him for you existing, and for whatever he did or didn’t do, because you’re Aaron Hotchner because of it,” and then you shrug before adding, “and then I’d punch him in the face, but that’s besides the point.”

He laughs, leaning forward to kiss you, pressing both of you into the soft mattress, his lips tasting of the bitter dark roast he preferred dancing in contrast to the sweet taste of something unmistakably him, “I love you,”

“Right back at you,” you murmur, pulling him to you again.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you curse under your breath, a colorful string of expletives that you hope no one caught wind of as you bustled down the street, only two minutes away from the venue, according to your phone. You promised to be there half an hour ago, but of course, someone had to screw up your paperwork, and it took five times longer to fix then it did to actually submit it.

Lovely.

And now you were late to the event that you had convinced Aaron to attend. His short, terse text message didn’t bode well of his time there without you, but you would be sure to make it up to him tonight. Trying to even your breath, you found the building, adjusting your hair and your clothes — you barely had enough time to change at the office. You were sure you terrified half the people in that office tonight, but you would apologize tomorrow — it was the only way you could get here on time tonight.

And you did, pushing the front door open.

Barely.

You found your way to the room where the alumni were dining. No signs present — didn’t think that would be helpful would they?

“Are you looking for the reunion?” a voice asked. You snapped your head to find a man standing beside you, a little too close for comfort. His snarmy voice matched his blonde slicked back hairdo, and his sleazy smile had you w “I couldn’t help but notice you looking utterly lost.”

“I am,” you take a step back, shoving your disgust away, “can you point me in the right direction?”

“I can, but I don’t believe I recognize you,” the man’s hands slips into his pockets, tongue darting out to lick his lips. You barely can hide your disgust, “You’re not crashing the party are you? It would very bad of you,” his teeth graze his bottom lip, his fingers running through his slicked back hair, “But I would be willing to teach you a lesson.”

“I’ll pass on the lesson,” you keep your voice tight, knowing you would catch more flies with sugar then you would with vinegar and right now, you needed this fucking fly to tell you where the reunion was, “I’m not crashing, I just need to know where—” he tilts his head, jerking it towards two double doors down the hall.

“It’s right through there,” and you head towards the doors, “I’ll see you in there.” he calls after you, and you shudder, right before you push through the double doors. A few eyes flicker to you as the door shuts softly behind you, but none of them Aaron’s.

You bit your lip, scanning the crowd for him. You hoped you didn’t miss it — not after you had persuaded him to come, not after how hard it was for him to be here. But you didn’t, you know you didn’t when you find him on the stairs to the stage, his presence and posture undeniably too Aaron to miss.

There’s a tapping on the microphone as the feedback reverberates through the room, “We wanted to honor a certain alumnus tonight,” a man’s voice booms over the microphone, “From here, he went onto George Washington University and then graduated law school summa cum laude. He eventually became one of the finest prosecutors in D.C. before joining the F.B.I.’s behavioral analysis unit, where he catches serial killers for a living. He is upstanding, true to his convictions, and represents the morals we wish our alumni to embody — Aaron Hotchner.”

He steps onto stage, and you catch his eye despite the flashing cameras and roar of the crowd — he had plenty of practice after all. His lips curl into a small smile when he sees you, a nod, as he steps beside the announcer.

“We would like to present to you with our distinguished alumni award,” he places the glass award in Aaron’s hand, shaking his hand with the other, as the room erupts into applause, “please, say a few words.”

He blinks, stepping in front of the podium, clearing his throat before he speaks, “The last time I was here was our graduation. Like many of you, I had been sent here — for one reason or another we all ended up here. And I have a lot of bad memories associated with this place, as do we all. But it was a jumping off point — it took us places, it helped us find the right people,” his eyes find yours again, “and it helped us become the people we are today. It’s a good reminder, a needed one,” he holds the award up again, “Thank you.”

The applause explodes around you, seats scraping against the floor as several rose to their feet, as he left the stage, walking over to shake his hand. You hang back, smiling as you watched him greet familiar faces. And you knew it was good for him to come here.

“Still here, huh?” an unwelcome presence finds you again, slicked back hair and all — he did promise that he would see you again. Persistent, like a rash. But now this rash has turned into a full blown infection, with drink in hand, the aroma of beer wafting with every word he spoke at you, “I still can’t place you.”

“That’s because you don’t,” you cross your arms, “I didn’t go here.”

“Oh I can place you,” you could hear the smirk in his voice, “how about in my bed tonight?”

You laugh, “I think you’re hallucinating,” still craning your neck to only find Aaron had disappeared into the throng of people by the stage.

Irritation begins to creep into his voice, “I think you’d ought to have a little more respect for the alumni here, if there’s one thing they teach you here is to have respect for everyone.”

“Well I didn’t go here, and the one thing I’ve learned is that people like you don’t deserve an ounce of respect,” you cross your arms, not bothering to look at him, “or acknowledgement. So why don’t you fuck off and leave me alone?”

A tension began to ebb at your nerves. Logically, you knew you were okay — a crowded room, full of other people, your husband included who was a federal agent and had his gun on him — but still. Still — he was still physically larger than you, and possibly stronger. And if you weren’t in this room full of people, it could be a much different story.

But I am in this room, you reminded yourself. You are.

“Come on, who could you have more fun going home with tonight?

“I have a few ideas,” Aaron slides beside you, his arm curling around your waist, FBI agent voice fully in action, his head ducking to press a kiss to your shoulder, “myself namely, but also every other person on the planet.

“Hotchner,” the man scoffs, “Hotchner, congrats on the award,” his lips are a thin line, “you gonna put that up on your mantle with all your report cards? I thought you were much too busy to grace me with your presence.”

“Never too busy for my spouse,” and you lean into Aaron’s touch, “something you should know well, Mason. Aren’t you still married?” as he tilts his head at the now dubbed Mason, who gapes at the two of you, as you grin brightly at him.

“Nice to meet you, Mason,” you hold out your hand, savoring the slack jawed expression on his face, “You’re married that’s nice. I see it isn’t going too well, and I wonder why that could be.”

“I didn’t know you got married again, Hotchner,” he crosses his arms, “try not to get this one killed—”

You surge forward, but Aaron holds you back, as you glare daggers at the fucking prick. You clench your jaw, your fingers fisting in the sleeves of his jacket. You needed to let him fight his own battles, and you knew he could — didn’t mean you wanted to punch him any less.

“You know I’ve dealt with worse bullies than you, Mason, before and after you started shoving my head in a locker, and I’m not scared of you anymore,” you squeezed his hand, and he intertwined his fingers with yours, as he slid beside you, Actually, it’s nice to see some things haven’t changed around here.”

The man surges forward, red in the face, but Aaron stops him with a firm hand on his shoulder. The room grows silent, and you feel the eyes of at least fifty alums dig into your sides, “Stop clinging to the past, and grow up,” Mason jerks his hand away, heading towards the exit, “I suggest you leave now. Unless you want to leave here in—”

“Fuck you, Hotchner,” he says as the door slams behind him, and the chatter creeps back into the room.

You scoff, swallowing the anger sitting on your throat, “Couldn’t even say it to your face,” you face him, his expression inscrutable as ever. Your fingers find his cheek, and he basks in your touch, a sigh on his lips, “you know you need a horse and a cape when you do that.”

He chuckles, and relief floods you at the small smile on his lips, “I’ll come more prepared next time,” he glances at the door that Mason had just left through, and your fingers find his, squeezing his hand.

“Are you okay?”

His eyes flicker back to you, “I should be asking you that.”

“He didn’t do anything besides make my ears bleed,” you huff, pulling him closer, his face in your hands, his eyes nearly glassy, “Now you didn’t answer my question — are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he shakes his head, rubbing his thumb across your cheek, “I finally have some good memories here, and I feel like I actually shut this chapter of my life closed after all this time. And this place doesn’t seem so scary now — it’s smaller than I remember. And so are the people.”

“Should we find Mason and see if we can prove that theory?” he snorts, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, lips lingering for a moment, before he presses his forehead to yours.

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” you smile, leaning up to press a kiss to his lips, “do you want to stay a little longer or go? If we’re staying, I’m going to need you to say I love you a little louder in front of the group of women currently ogling you.”

“Jealous?” he laughs, kissing your forehead, tilting your chin up, as your hands slide around his neck.

“Possessive,” you kiss him, his lips smiling against yours, his fingers twisted in your hair to pull you closer, and your hand drifted to his chest, feeling his heartbeat thud under your touch, “Mine.”

“I think we’ve made that clear enough now,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your pulse, “Now, I think we should leave because I believe I was promised some fun after this.”

“Really?” you scrunch your nose, “I don’t recall.”

And he pulls you through the double doors and out towards the deserted parking lot, pressing you against the car with a kiss, towering over you, as you tugged him closer by his lapels, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, “Let me remind you.”

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner imagines #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds imagines #criminal minds fanfiction #hotch imagines

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kaimelia · 3 years

Note

Hi, I love your work. I hope you doing well. I was wondering if you have time and feel inspired would you be able to write an Amlink fanfic where Amelia and Link go away for the weekend or for work and they meet Amelia sisters.

Thanks,❤️😊😊

new beginnings

a/n: hi! thank you for the prompt and I hope you enjoy it!

--------------------------------

"You wanna find someplace to sit?" Link laughed slightly, placing his hand on the small of Amelia's back as she gained her footing. She glanced back at him and narrowed her gaze. "What? You did last time, and you're looking a little out of it right now."

"Maybe just head back to the room," she muttered, rubbing her forehead. "In conclusion, sound baths mess me up." He grinned and guided her down the hallways of the hotel containing the different conference rooms. "When's your thing again?"

"Tomorrow. You've got time to recover." Amelia sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder, Link's arm wrapping around her waist and supporting the weight of her body. "You look like you're gonna pass out." He watched as she shook her head.

"I'm fine-"Amelia's eyes widened dramatically as she stopped talking, and Link followed her gaze.

"Amelia?" Her body tensed as Nancy approached them, her arms outstretched to hug her sister. Link stepped away as she wrapped her arms around Amelia. "What are you doing here?"

"I-uh-Link's giving a presentation, what-uh-what are you doing here?" Nancy turned and eyed Link before holding out her hand. He shook it.

"Nice to see you," he muttered, pursing his lips in a tight smile.

"Likewise," she smiled, retracting her hand. "Liz and I needed an excuse to get out of town, and this counts as a work trip. You're giving a presentation?" She directed her question towards Link, nodding her head.

"Yeah, tomorrow. On the dangers of dependency and how physicians can take better steps to prevent it with their patients," he smiled politely.

"Where's Liz? You're sure Kathleen isn't with her, too?"

"We invited her, but she couldn't come. We should get dinner tonight."

"Yeah, so it can go like last time," Amelia shook her head. "I think we're good." Nancy reached out a hand to Amelia's shoulder.

"It won't, as long as you're not lying about who he is, but we already went through that." Amelia grimaced slightly, some of the tension in her face relaxing as Link placed his hand on her back.

"We're supposed to meet a friend of mine for dinner," Link said, shrugging his shoulders. "And, we're leaving tomorrow afternoon, right after my presentation."

"Oh," Nancy sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well, we'll come to find you tomorrow? We haven't seen you in years, Amelia."

"Sure," Amelia muttered, forcing a smile on her face. "Yeah, you can come to Link's presentation."

"I think Liz got lost, I have to find her, but I'll see you tomorrow!" They waved goodbye as Nancy walked away, and once she was out of sight, Amelia turned to Link.

"If I had a nickel for every time we ran into Nancy somewhere we completely didn't expect," she ran a hand through her hair. "Thank you for covering."

"Of course," he smiled, "although I was looking forward to meeting your other sister."

"And you will, tomorrow," Amelia groaned, leaning her head back against Link's shoulder. "Do I have to?"

"I mean, I have to give the presentation, so I'll see them, but if you want, I can tell them you died after we went back to the hotel room."

"You'd be over my death in less than 24 hours?" He nodded firmly, the smirk on his face growing.

"Oh, yeah, you think you're special?"

--------------------------------

"What're you thinking about?" Link asked, taking off his watch and setting it on top of the dresser. Amelia was collapsed on the bed behind him, staring up at the ceiling.

"My sisters."

"What about them?" He swapped his day clothes with pajamas and then sat on the bed beside her.

"They don't know about Scout. And, I didn't have a problem with that; we never saw them, they never made an attempt at reaching out, but seeing them today?" She rolled to the side, placing a hand on Link's chest and resting her head beside it. "I don't know, I know they're not going to be as close as Meredith and Maggie are, but I love the family we have for Scout, and to think that there may be more people to love him that I'm holding him back from?" Link glanced down at her and tangled his fingers in her hair.

"If you tell them, you're opening yourself up to criticism of every parenting decision you've made. This means staying in contact with them, Kathleen, and your Mom finding out. I mean, are you ready for that?" She sighed.

"No. But I don't want to keep them from Scout if they're willing to be family to him. He deserves to have as much love and annoying family around him as possible." She moved her head so that her chin was on his chest, and she was looking at him. "Your parents are the best grandparents there are. And, what if my Mom wants to take him for ice cream on the weekends and send him postcards from every place she visits?"

"When was the last time your Mom was in contact with Mer's kids? They're her grandkids, and I don't think I've ever heard them mention her before." Amelia looked away and sighed again. "If you want to make an effort with them, I will be by your side the whole time. But, just think about everything that's happened between all of you, and think about if you want that around Scout." He reached down to pull the comforter over them, and Amelia grabbed her phone from the bedside table. "What're you doing?"

"Facetiming Maggie. I miss Scout." He smiled and kissed the top of her head, grins covering both of their faces as the call opened to see Scout asleep on top of his Aunt.

--------------------------------

"It'll be fine," Link muttered against her hair, pressing a quick kiss to the side of her head. "They're walking over here." Amelia smiled as her sisters approached them.

"Hey," she greeted, raising her eyebrows as Liz pulled her into a hug.

"It's been forever, Amelia; I'm so glad to see you!" She pulled back and stuck her hand out to Link. "Liz. And, I'm the last one to meet you." He shook her hand and introduced himself.

"And, the only one to meet him as himself," Nancy muttered snarkily, crossing her arms over her chest. Amelia refrained from rolling her eyes.

"We can't stay for long; our flight leaves in a few hours, and we still have to pack," Link smiled pleasantly, "but we figured we would stay to see you." They all sat down at the table in the cafe.

"So, what's going on with you two?" Amelia looked at Link, who placed his hand on her leg and squeezed gently.

"We just bought a house, one close to the hospital and to Meredith so we can be near her," Link spoke. "Other than that, working all the time. This conference is our first time away since the pandemic."

"A house?" Nancy raised her eyebrows. "Are you two getting married?"

"No," Amelia shook her head, breathing slowly to calm herself. "Just finding our own space. We were stuck watching Mer's kids for most of the pandemic, and we needed to get out of there."

"Mm, I would love to come and visit," Liz muttered, sipping her coffee, "I haven't been to Seattle since Derek needed a nerve transplant."

"Maybe we can all make a trip out of it?" Nancy added, leaning back in her chair. "We never see Derek's kids."

"Link and I have a son," Amelia blurted out, her eyes widening as soon as she said it. "Uh, sorry, I thought I should say that so you don't come to Seattle and surprise! There's a toddler running around our house." Link squeezed her leg again.

"A toddler? He's a toddler, and you didn't tell us?"

"Yeah, we don't exactly talk very often, and we were a little stressed with a newborn and Mer's kids during quarantine," Amelia paused. "His name is Scout, and he just turned two a few months ago."

"Can I see pictures?" Liz asked, leaning forward and clasping her hands together. Link smiled and pulled out his phone, opening the album with thousands of photos of Scout. He turned the phone to her. "He looks just like you, Link." Liz turned the phone towards Nancy.

"I'm sorry, how did you have a baby and not tell your family?" Nancy scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Family means being there for each other, and I didn't want to say anything after you and Kathleen spent a dinner throwing things in my face."

"After you lied to us." Amelia breathed out slowly and bit the inside of her cheek. "We're your family."

"I'm trying to move forward, and if you want to be part of the life that we have now," she motioned between her and Link, "you can. And if you don't, I have plenty of family in Seattle who will be there for us and our son. Family isn't just blood." Nancy held her hands up in defense.

"So, you don't want us in your life?"

"No," Link spoke beside her, squeezing Amelia's leg again as he sensed her upset. "We're saying that if you want to be involved, and you're willing to do that without constantly bringing up the past, we'd love to have you in our lives."

"I know my kids would love to come and visit," Liz smiled and handed the phone back. "They'll be so excited about their baby cousin, can I get your address to send things? A late birthday gift, so my kids have an excuse to buy too many baby toys." The neurosurgeon smiled and took her phone out.

"I'll text it to you," she whispered, trying to hide her joy. "We'd love to have you visit; he loves meeting new people ever since the pandemic ended."

"Does Mom know?"

"Not yet," Amelia clasped her hands together under the table. "We're figuring things out. And, I can't control whether you tell her and Kathleen, so I'll probably tell them soon."

"This is insane," Nancy shook her head, "this is insane."

"Nance, give her a chance," Liz looked over, watching as their eldest sister stood up and grabbed her jacket. "She's trying here; can't you give her some credit for that?"

"No, she doesn't get to join the family when it's convenient for her." She took her phone from the table and dropped it into her pocket. "I'll see you later, Liz, and Amelia?" Amelia raised her eyebrows. "I hope you understand, and I hope that one day, you'll make an effort to be part of the family." She walked away, leaving the three of them alone at the table. Amelia sighed and leaned back in her chair, rubbing her forehead with her hand.

"I'm sorry about her," Liz whispered, glancing towards where she had left. "But, I'd love to hear more about your son, if that's okay." Amelia grinned and pulled out her phone, showing a picture of Scout with his birthday cake in front of him.

--------------------------------

"Nancy hates me," she muttered, tightening her grip on the armrests of her seat, glancing as people hurried past the waiting area they had occupied in the busy airport.

"And, Liz doesn't." Link placed his hand over hers and squeezed lightly. "You found someone who wants to be involved, who wants to be family, and maybe the others will come around. And if they don't, we don't need them. We have a perfect family back in Seattle." Amelia looked into his eyes and sighed.

"How do you always know what to say?"

"Because I know you, and I can see the wheels turning in your brain, and I'm telling you to slow them down. Take a deep breath." She did and laid her head on his shoulder. "Whatever happens, you're always going to have everyone back home. Like you said, Scout deserves to have as much love around him as possible, and some people in your family might not be willing to give that, and we don't need that." He kissed her head and wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

"I'm glad I told them, though."

"You've still got a phone call to make," Link muttered. "Unless you want your mother to find out through Nancy."

"I know, I know. And, I'll do it." She closed her eyes and let out a shaky breath.

"I'm proud of you, you know that?" Amelia looked up at him and smiled.

"Thank you."

#amelink #amelia shepherd #atticus lincoln #amelia x link #amelink fanfiction #grey's anatomy #amelink fanfic #greys abc #greys fanfic #scout lincoln #scout shepherd lincoln #nancy shepherd #liz shepherd

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jtrbluv · 4 years

Text

shutterbug | jjk

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: fluff, angst

word count: 4.1k

warnings: swearing, unbearable but relatable tiger parents

request: Jungkook,, one shot,, 38 + 40 please 😊😊 @asiivnc

“you leave whenever you feel like it.” & “don’t apologize if you don’t mean it.”

A/N: sheesh, i have not posted in a hot minute! i’ve been trying to work on this single request throughout quarantine and it really only came down to these last few days where i literally had a spike of inspo and drive and well,, ideas LOL. i considered an alternate angstier ending but i am a self-indulgent mofo who doesn’t like to make myself cry even though i’m sure i cried while writing this at least once (maybe twice). there is so much jk content on my blog i wanna set aside more time to write for other members from now on until i’m satisfied! regardless, thank you @asiivnc for requesting this and sorry for the wait luv, hopefully this can make up for it !!

Jungkook was known to be heavily passionate and fully invested in whatever his life had revolved around at that moment. As a film/photography major, as well as a man that just had a strange knack for being naturally adept at whatever was thrown at him, he incessantly poured his utmost efforts into his works. You weren’t any different, as you held just as much significance in his life as the way his serotonin levels would skyrocket as soon as his fingertips touched his precious camera.

Not to be self-absorbed, but you always thought of yourself as his muse. Or befittingly for his sake, the subject of the photo that you would give the title ‘his lover’.

You were so indisputably sure that you loved the boy and even moreso that he felt the same. While being so accustomed to his own nurturing ways and devotion to you and the reciprocated energy on your part, the bone-crushing weight of college hindered all and didn’t give a single fuck about anyone or anything.

Carrying the begrudging burden of having to succeed because he didn’t take the traditional lawyer/doctor career route, was always at the forefront of his mind. Likewise, for fuck’s sake, he nearly got disowned by his own parents and it took him what seemed to be a lifetime’s worth of energy to convince him to just give him a chance. Jungkook was not planning on taking that chance for granted.

Jungkook, being the person he is, was excelling, and his name was beginning to become known in the community of photographers and videographers, and he was finally starting to feel at ease. His parents were even acknowledging his successes to the extent that they were helping him financially with school, which was a huge burden off of his shoulders. And then you suddenly crash-landed into his life and just made his life even more fulfilling and by all means, worth living in.

He knew it was a bad idea. Distancing himself from you was the last thing he wanted to do. All his parents were concerned about was the fact that you were the only thing hindering him from making it “big”, when turns out, you became the sole inspiration and muse for most of his recent works. So they gave him an ultimatum to either be cut off financially or break up with you. He didn’t understand, because his parents liked you so much and they loved the influence you had on his work. He didn’t understand. He hated it—the fact that he was basically hanging by puppet strings and didn’t have a say in what he did considering the age he was in now.

He also hated the fact that he knew they had good intentions, and were only doing this because they wanted him to be successful. Their idea of true success for his career could only be seen as the financial benefits of being a director or producer rather than being able to just pursue and learn more about the art form that he loves. There was no use of trying to persuade them, so likewise, he did not. But why get her involved into this mess too?

Jungkook tended to stray away from confrontation and hated immediate and unexpected change as much as he acted like it didn’t phase him. He figured the sooner he can gain benefit from his passion, the less dreadful this dilemma would be. Less mess. Less stress. More time to be with you. That was the intended plan.

His next course of action was to score a film internship and potential job at the rather famous, Fox Studios. By doing so, would have to win the statewide film contest— a much larger scale than he had ever involved himself in. The mere thought of him having to showcase his own self-produced work to critically acclaimed film critics made the bile in his system threaten to upchuck onto the lemon-pledge scented floors of his dorm room. Then he remembered and was reminded— by the help of you of course, that he was Jeon Jungkook, and everyone knows that Jeon Jungkook does not like to lose.

He presumed that keeping up his grades would give him more credibility to getting the internship as well, so he put more focus onto his schoolwork. The remainder of his time was dedicated to exploring his potential ideas and storyboarding out his options and what would be most effective and most consequently— worthy of winning first place.

During this very strenuous time for the poor man, you would most likely see him trudging down the halls, hair in a complete disarray or simply hidden by the fabric of his hood, his eyelids threatening to close shut almost as if it’s taking all his willpower to keep them open, chugging down another red bull with one hand while he grips the strap of his backpack with practically no energy.

I mean you thought it was kinda cute at first, but his apparent deteriorating state mostly caused you to be more concerned than anything else.

In hopes to not hinder his creative flow but still keep his health at par, you would stop by every so often to give him food and give him reassurance—he never needed it so much until now.

Jungkook never told you about the irrational ultimatum his parents had given him. He came to the conclusion that it’d be unnecessary as long as he was able to carry out his plans. Nonetheless, the pressure of the whole situation was getting to him. The love of his life, passion for working with a camera, his parents’ disapproval, and just the own personal dream to be able to tell everyone that “Fuck you, I told you I could do it, and I did,” enveloped his whole mind these days.

Time had proved to not work in Jungkook’s favor. Two weeks passed in a mere blink of an eye leaving him with only two more weeks to finish his film in time for the film contest. This time around, he decided to choose a topic that resonated more with his own personal life. The film revolves around the struggle to be able to conform to the standards and expectations that society implements onto young people, whether it’d be from mainstream media or direct connections, like family. Typically, he stuck a title onto his projects after fully completing it, but for some reason, this time, it had worked in reverse. The title itself suddenly popped into his mind one day and from there he was able to garner ideas from it. And so the title was ‘Moulded’.

A very risky step on Jungkook’s part was what you initially thought when he first told you the idea. He knew that too, which is why he did it. You knew him long enough to be aware of the influence his parents had on his life and their outdated beliefs. You also knew the potential the boy’s zeal could take him, and because of that, all traces of worry left you shortly afterward.

Two days. The film contest was in two days. Jungkook was just about finished at this point, constantly playing back frames and adding final touches, rewatching the same parts over and over again until he became satisfied. He leaned back in his chair and let out a heavy sigh, eyes finally averting from the screen of his desktop to the clock on his bedside table.

“Only 9:15?” he muses, realizing these past four weeks had completely fucked over his sense of time, “At least I’m down, color correcting can be such a bit—”

A small jolt reverberates through his desk, interrupting his verbally spoken train of thought. His eyes beeline back to his phone, the contact picture of his mom flashing on his screen. Why would she be calling me at this time?

His brows knit together as he picks up his phone and swipes his thumb across the screen in uncertainty.

“Um, hi mom?” he greets, with the obvious tone of confusion in his voice.

He can practically hear her scoff over the line, “Jungkook-ah, how’s the film coming along?”

“It’s almost done-”

“Are you still with that girl?” she forcibly asks out of nowhere, leaving him dumbfounded to the point his mouth was hanging open in return.

A few seconds pass by as he processes what’s going on. He tightens his grip on the phone at the mention of you as he confesses through gritted teeth, “Yes mom.”

“We had a deal didn’t we?”

He retorted without waver in his voice, “Mom, I’m not a kid anymore.”

“Then give it back. The tuition money,” she affirms without hesitation, “Jungkook, me and your father have done our part. It’s about time you do yours.”

“I’ve done practically everything you’ve asked. I’m doing just fine,” he monotonously states, trying so hard not to implode on his own mother at this point, “Y/N has nothing to do with this.”

There was a short pause, leaving Jungkook in the same state of dejection per usual when he had to talk to his parents, “We just want you to be successful,” her voice softens, using the same line that somehow magically guilt-trips Jungkook every time the words travel to his ears.

He shakes his head in disbelief over hearing the stupid line that seemed to control every aspect of his life, “You say that every time.”

“And we mean it every time,” she interjects, a sigh audibly present over the line, “this discussion is over.”

She ends the call as Jungkook lets out a raspy and guttural groan, slamming his phone onto his desk in frustration with such strength it’d be surprising if the cheap glass screen protector he’s had on it didn’t suffer any damage.

“Kook,” a voice utters softly from the other side of his door, “is everything okay?”

He flinches at the sound of your voice, considering you were just the subject of the conversation he just had with his mom that left him fuming with rage more than anything.

“Can you please leave Y/N, this isn’t a good time,” he objected, adjusting himself in his seat so he’d face away from the door. Even though you couldn’t see him you could still hear the small indication of irritation in his response.

It was more than apparent something was wrong with him, with only two days left until the film contest, you knew he couldn’t manage to keep his guard down, regardless of the stress and turmoil he’d been putting himself through for the past 4 weeks, “Just because you leave whenever you feel like it…” you enunciate, raising your voice loud enough for him to hear your intentions, “doesn’t mean I will.” Both of you knew the last 4 weeks had taken a toll on the relationship, it was only then that he realized how much he’d been putting it off.

The door began to emit tiny clicking noises as he slowly turned the doorknob. He slowly widens the area as he meekly steps to the side, letting you come in as you make your way toward his bed and plop down onto his sheets.

The tension had never been this thick between the two of you, to the extent where it felt absolutely suffocating and unbearable. You had never seen him in such a state of dejection as he simply sat there, hands fiddling with the hem of his shirt as he nibbled on his lower lip, eyes diverting away from yours at all costs. The knit between his brows that would usually derive from confusion or frustration, seemed entirely different this time around. It was as if his mind was full of nothing but everything all at the same time.

You heave out a deep sigh as you finally break the ice, “Jungkook,” you begin, looking up to see him looking back at you to your surprise, “you know I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry for making it seem that way.”

“Don’t apologize if you don’t mean it,” he mutters only to see the flash of hurt in your eyes that makes him divert his gaze back to the floor, “I know I’ve been acting so selfish lately. I’d understand if you felt that way.”

“I hate seeing you like this you know,” you confess quietly, “I know there’s something up.”

His eyes meet yours once again, mouth slightly parted as if he was about to say something, but the silences ensues and he closes the gap once again, resorting back to nibbling the skin off of his bottom lip until it starts to bleed. Your eyes soften as you observe the boy once more. The span of your relationship had naturally led to the two of you being able to open up to one another so easily. You were both able to tell when the other was feeling a certain way and why. It just came with time and getting to know the other person more throughout the relationship. And alongside that was the ability to know when the other was purposely keeping something under wraps—this was one of those times.

“Jungkook”, you whisper just loud enough to catch his attention, which works as he gazes back up at you with all doe-eyed glory, the knit between his brows gone surprisingly out of sight for the first time since you came over. You glance at his bed—emphasizing the void of space next to you on his bed by patting the fabric and peering at the cryptic man, hoping he would get the sign to sit next to you.

Fortunately, he does. He places his hands on the armrests as he timidly pushes himself up from his chair. The chair produces an obnoxiously loud squeaking noise almost emulating the sound of your dog’s dog shaped squeaky toy (counterintuitive I know, but it was a gift from Jungkook himself, the prick). The sound causes you to involuntarily snort as you look away in hopes to hide the smile creeping onto your lips. Too bad you missed the smug grin on his face at your lackluster attempt.

He carefully approaches you as he warily lowers himself onto his bed, making sure he doesn’t make the same mistake twice. He shifts his body to turn towards you, propping his hands at his side. His eyes avoid yours once more, sparing glances at every inch of his own room as if he wasn’t already familiar with the enclosed space.

You pause and calculate your next move, eyes studying the boy’s body language. You outstretch your arm, gently grasping his wrist as you slide your fingers through his calloused palms and twine your fingers with his own, allowing your hands to rest on your knee. His eyes glaze over your connected hands, trailing back to finally meeting your own once again—they had this all too unfamiliar gloss to them, not the usual star-like specks you had been accustomed to looking at. As a few seconds had passed, you spotted the pool of tears starting to brim in the corner of his eyes. Taken aback, you retract your focus to his whole face and how his bottom lip started to tremble, hopeless. Hopelessness was what he was denoting, an emotion you had rarely if never seen coming from the man sitting in front of you.

Before you could formulate any words of comfort, he speaks up, voice brittle and wobbly, “Am I just a failure Y/N?”

“Wha— what? No, how could you ask that? Of course I don’t think you are,” you assert, unknowingly tightening the grip on his hand.

“It’s just,” he drawls out, pausing to think of a coherent way to voice his concerns, “maybe it just would’ve been easier if I complied with my parents in the first place y’know. I’ve been spending all my time and energy fighting it, maybe I’ve just been putting my energy into the wrong-”

“I don’t believe that,” you calmly interject, “I believe that whenever you put your energy into something, you have a reason behind it. You thought about it for a while, it obviously wasn’t something that just sprouted overnight,” you countered, staring off as your eyes land on his workspace, the flashing screen of his computer that reveal his last minute editing as well as the camera you seldom see the man without, “Working with a camera, creating art,” you say while clasping your free hand over the one that you were already holding, rubbing miscellaneous shapes into the back of his hand, “that is what you love to do.”

“I love a lot of things Y/N,” he simply states.

“Hm?” you let out under your breath as you notice the single tear that falls onto his cheek, contradictory to the straightforward tone of his voice you had just heard seconds before. Your body stiffened at the sight of the fallen drop.

“Did you hear me on the phone before you came?” he questions, swiping away the tears that threatened to fall with his free hand.

You take a moment to recollect the moments that preceded until knocking on his door, “No, I just heard a loud bang. It sounded like you broke something.”

“Oh, that was my phone,” he shyly admits while scratching the back of his ear, “there is something I need to tell you.”

You perk up at his sudden willingness to tell you what was wrong. Your body language conveys the signal for him to continue, and he does.

“I got a call from my mom before you came,” he starts, “she was checking up on me, knowing the deadline is coming soon and what not.”

You nod slowly in understanding, “I see, what did she say?”

“You have the right to know,” he mutters under his breath while diverting his gaze back to your interlocked hands. He intentionally grazes your other hand before taking it into his own before flashing you a small grin of reassurance, “The farther I’m advancing, my parents just constantly feel the need to strip me of everything else. You probably knew that already. You also know that I tend to just rebel and find a loophole out of things most of the time. I don’t know, lately, it just seems like they solely care about success and money these days more than my own happiness and wellbeing, and it’s been like that for so long. Anyways, I’ve been prolonging and putting it aside for awhile now, but they threatened to cut me off financially if I didn’t break up with you Y/N.”

A single tear slides down your cheek. You’re at a loss for words and coherent thought. The only thing you muster to say is whatever decidedly popped up into your head first, “W-why haven’t you then?”

The brimming tears began to fall more frequently for you as well as from the eyes of the man in front of you. He releases both of his hands and slides his calloused palms up to your forearms pulling you closer in proximity, “I said it before, I love a lot of things Y/N,” he gingerly reiterates as he swipes away the tears from your eyes with the pad of his thumb before trailing his fingers to your fallen strands of hair, tucking them behind your ear.

“I love my parents, I love working with a camera, but I undoubtedly also am in love with you,” he tenderly professes while sliding down his hand to the crook of your neck, “I know my parents never meant harm, but they have to realize I don’t either. I owe it to myself and I realize that I am capable of obtaining and having everything I want in life,” he wholeheartedly declares despite the tears that continue to run down his face, “ And it wouldn’t be everything I want if you weren’t here with me.”

He renders you speechless, tears streaming freely as he continues to wipe them away. He was much more composed now, wiping away his own remaining tears with the back of his wrist. You, on the other hand, were practically sobbing into his palm, tears spilling all over his forearm.

“There’s a reason why I chose that particular subject for the film, “ he describes, hands sliding down to intertwine with yours once again, “It serves as a testament to my parents, to my peers, to you, but also to myself,” he beams, releasing the hold on your hands as he stands up from his bed, extending a hand out to you.

You unhurriedly grab his hand, as he tugs you to stand up from his bed, leading you to sit in his own seat. He swivels the chair for it to face his computer, stepping aside so you could sit down.

“I wasn’t planning on giving any sneak peeks, but it just seems right to show you this now,” he explains, clicking through the frames until he arrives at his destination and clicks play.

It starts off with the emulation of a glitching tv screen, the audio sounds as if someone was inserting a tape into a DVR. The ‘no signal’ screen fades into the familiar setting of the beach in his hometown. Hues of blue fading into muted shades of oranges and yellows flash across the screen, accompanied by the soft crashing of the waves washing ashore on the fine sand. The camera quickly shifts his focus to what seems to appear as Jungkook being fully enveloped and underneath the sand, his head being the only thing that isn’t submerged. Flashing his signature grin, his arm emerges from the sand as he gives a thumbs-up to the camera, making the person behind it erupt into a fit of giggles. That person was you.

The scene transitions into the city streets of the suburb that was close to the college. You were walking down the sidewalk, enamored by the bustle of the people who lived there as well as the twinkling lights that were draped from building to building. Clips ranging from his family, his friends, him working, and more are compiled and presented as he talks over it. His voice begins to say, “As individuals living in a society where opportunities seem to just be knocking left and right, we all have dreams and desires. Whether they are attainable or not, that’s what makes them all the more worthwhile and exhilarating to find out for ourselves. Society, whether we like it or not, is filled with certain conjectures that they believe can assure us of these dreams and desires, what they’ve made us believe as the path to success. They mould us from the beginning. As kids, we are told to behave well, listen to our elders, go to school, get good grades, and get into a good college. As adults, we deem success as having a stable job that pays the bills, buying a house and settling down, finding the love of your life, having kids, and working tirelessly until we become worn out and old. We have these presumptions about what’s better and what’s not, what is easier and what isn’t. Regardless of how much we get told that we can achieve anything we want to in life, we grow older and life unexpectedly throws more curveballs at you to make you think that it’s not actually the case. Well, as cliche as it may sound, I’m here to tell you that it’s just not true. Do what you want. Do what you love. Be with the ones you love. Cherish these moments. Film them as keepsakes to look back on. So… what’s your story? What are your dreams and desires? What sparks pure joy within you and keeps you on your feet? Break those moulds that have been holding you down. Reach for the moon and the stars. And maybe someday with the right amount of determination, and a little bit of luck, you can get there.”

The video ends right then and there, and you had no doubt in your mind that this was his best work to date albeit only seeing a snippet of it. A smile graces your lips as you turn your head to look at the creator of it all. He looks back at you with the familiar star-like specks in his eyes, making you feel rest assured that within all the chaos, you would both get through it all.

MASTERLIST

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justzawe · 3 years

Note

"Okay Z indulge me because I am about to go off. Anon, you are right, that blog is just speculating, but please tell me in what world is it ever okay to speculate about if a woman is pregnant or not? It's not. Also, the pregnancy speculation came about because they decided she has gained a substantial amount of weight and are trying to figure out the cause. I present you with actual quotes from Chili's, since you're super into accurate information

1.)"That would be her bulking up, not just gaining weight" (in response to an anon saying her weight gain may have been from her working out for CM2)

2.) "She could be on a medication that has weight gain as a side effect"

3.)"In the dance rehearsal video, you can see she is thicker all over"

4.)As the previous anon said, literally comparing photos of her from Dec to Now (which btw I don't actually think she's gained weight or at least not much? Idk, she's in Victorian clothing in her recent photos which always makes people look pregnant tbh)

5.)captioning a photo of Tom as "Zawes baby daddy"

Anon, please explain to me why the fuck you think any of this is okay? Cause I can tell ya, as someone with a history with eating disorder, its not. But yeah, feminism.

Thanks for letting me rant Z."

That's the entire ask about the Eatinf Disorder anon is referring to I think.

The reaching lmao

Sorry, but I have eyes, and so do the rest of you. It’s not anti-feminist to notice that a woman who is naturally slim, has gained some weight. And it’s certainly not promoting eating disorders. I’m not complaining about her weight or saying I prefer her slim. Zawe’s weight isn’t the only reason why people think she’s pregnant, it’s just one of them. She literally said in 2019 that while she didn’t have anything planned at the moment, that she wanted to have a baby in the near future. So it’s not out of the realm of possibility that she could be pregnant 2 years later. And for the record, I’ve been giving other possible reasons for this change, so people see that weight gain doesn’t always mean pregnancy.

Let’s get to the real issue though, because it’s very obvious to me that this anon doesn’t care about me ~breaking the rules of feminism~ at all. Their last point clearly shows that this rant is about them being mad that some people think Zawe is pregnant with Tom’s child. Bringing up my JOKE tag was a dead giveaway, because that has nothing to do with their main point.

Grannies are pressed, water is wet

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realmadridfamily · 4 years

Photo

“The four boys are so different that I don't miss the girl”

EIGHT weeks after the birth of little Máximo Adriano, the youngest of her four children with footballer Sergio Ramos, Pilar Rubio is more radiant than ever in a spectacular photo shoot in Portugal for ¡HOLA! "I wanted to get back to activity" - says the presenter. Despite the energy and professionalism, which she always shows, Pilar quickly recognizes the lack of sleep in the last few weeks, in which she combines childcare with the attention she gives to the rest of the family - which she doesn't neglect even from a distance. There is no doubt that Pilar is a supermom, which he confirms when he tells us about his physical recovery and motherhood in the midst of a pandemic. Pilar, how are you feeling? Very good, really. I can't ask for more, although I don't sleep much and I'm more tired than usual. There are nights when I think: <Mother of God, four children! Why hadn't I thought about it before?> (laugh). There are days when things get a little overwhelming for me because lack of sleep makes you see things differently. But I'm so happy that it fills me up and gives me energy. It's the first time that you separate from Máximo Adriano? A day and a half passed. It's difficult for me to separate myself from my children, but I have constant contact with them thanks to video calls. How is the little one? He's super good, he never cries. The only thing is that, like his brothers, he eats regularly. It takes a long time. Now he asks for a couple of takes at night, but the first weeks he slept an hour or nothing. It sounds harsh, really. I learned to be more patient and accepting situation. No need to complain. It was a natural childbirth? Yes, all four childbirths were natural. Whose idea was it to call the little boy Máximo Adriano? Sergio liked the name Adriano more and I liked the name Máximo more. Since both names are cute, we decided to put them together. This is a deep story (laughs). How did the older brothers accept Maximo Adriano? Alejandro, who was the youngest until Máximo Adriano's birth, has become a little more rebellious. Try to get attention. But this is normal. Sergio Junior and Marco don't feel the competition because they are older. They all love him very much, they kiss him, but then all three play with each other. Is there an intention to baptize him? This is not in our plans for now. We also didn't baptize others. It will turn out later. With this fourth child, will you and Sergio Ramos close the limit? No more children! We've definitely closed the limit (laughs). I think we did our best for the birth rate (laughs). You wanted a girl? The four boys are so different that I don't miss the girl. I have a great time with my sons. Do you have nannies? My mother is now at home with children. After four pregnancies, you look spectacular. It's a matter of good habits and keeping them, whether you are pregnant or not. Actually, there aren't many secrets. You need to be aware of your body and listen to it. Discipline is also important, but I don't want it to sound negative. You have to enjoy the routine. When you see the effects, it's worth taking care of yourself. How much weight did you gain with pregnancy? Only ten kilos. In the remaining three, fourteen. During my last pregnancy, I gained less weight because I used more energy with three kids. Apart the baby (Maximo Adriano weighed three hundred and seventy kilos at birth) the placenta and the amniotic fluid … That's four or five kilos. Then the body evolves rapidly. Now, I’m at my usual weight, even if it's distributed in a different way (laughs). Therefore, you have to train and tone. Which part costs you more to return to its original state? I have breastfed my four children and haven't had breast surgery. The breast suffers a lot with each pregnancy and, above all, with breastfeeding. I've noticed that this has changed and no matter how much I train, I can't fix it. If you ever think about it, you can always resort to aesthetic medicine ... Not yet ... I want to wait a moment. At least see how my body is evolving. If I had to make up my mind tomorrow, I wouldn't change it, but I would go back to what it was like before I became a mom. There are "celebrities" who recover almost by magic right after giving birth, and some who talk about surgeons. Have you heard that about yourself? It makes me laugh! Whoever says this is completely ignorant and should ask the doctor if it's possible to operate the bowel after giving birth. It's contraindicated. If you've had a bad diet, a sedentary lifestyle, and gained twenty-five kilos, recovery costs you more. But if you stick to your routine, it doesn't have to cost that much. Do you see the pressure some women feel to regain their body? Whose pressure? No way! At work, they always told me to come back whenever I wanted. I set pressure or goals for myself. Moreover, if someone pressured me, I didn't care. First, I would be worried if everything is alright. When do you train sports? You get up early? At seven or eight in the morning. Is it possible with four children? Yes, if I don't train, I don't have enough energy to get through the day. Seriously. It seems the opposite, but it keeps me active for the day. Besides, exercises in the afternoon make me lazy. Taking care of myself, being aware of my body and what it needs helps me be more determined and have more energy. When I start training, everything is beneficial and I enjoy. I also tell you that we all have our days (laughs). But even on days when I don't rest well and sleep for two or three hours, I get up to train. Even if I'm a little lazy, I feel much better. How much time do you dedicate to sport? One hour a day, four or five days a week. Sixty percent is food and forty percent is exercise and rest. What exercises do you practice? I recently gave birth and I can't do anything that is very aggressive or hitting the ground, so I do pelvic floor and hypopressive exercises. Also breathing exercises and stretching. I go step by step. With who do you train? Usually with Noe Todea, my personal trainer. Now, that I'm recovering from the birth, also with Caroline Correia, the physical therapist with whom I wrote the book "Pregnancy, and now what?". When I recover, I want to take off my orange kickboxing belt. I've been doing this for fourteen years, though occasionally because of pregnancy. I also want to come back to "country" dance classes. When I was little I lived with my parents in Torrejón and there was a lot of "country" culture because of the American base. Your husband also works his body hard. Don't you train together? Each of us has our own specific training, tailored to our own needs. We can be in the gym at the same time, but not training together. Do you follow any diet? I try to eat balanced. Maybe I avoid foods that aren't good, like wheat. You shouldn't spend every day on industrial baking. But there are times to enjoy everything without feeling guilty. We train and work all day to pay ourselves these little tributes later. You are radiant in photos, but when it comes to showing off your body, you feel modest. Not at all. I never thought about it (laughs). This is something I have always done and it's part of my profession. Why should I be ashamed? Which part of your body do you like to emphasize during photo sessions? The shoulders and clavicles, which seem like a very feminine part to me and I like to mark them. Also the look, although it depends on the context and style. Do you have complexes? A lot! Like everyone else. My feet are very long. Also hands. I look at my feet and think, "How long!". But, what foot size do you wear? Thirty nine. It's a normal. But I look at them and see long feet. I try to work on the rest of my body to avoid complexes. How did you spend the summer? We spent a week in Mallorca. We spent the rest of the time, from March, at home. When I came to Mallorca it was like a trip to another world! So it was a gift and we liked it very much. Were you afraid to travel during the pandemic? No way. I have respect, but when you are responsible then no problem. I'm not afraid or panicking before going out on the street. Not at all. During lockdown, you and Sergio could enjoy children much more. It was very nice to be together for twenty-four hours all the time. Moreover, during those weeks in lockdown, we all slept together in the same room. How is Sergio as a father? He is very affectionate and loving. He has always loved children and plays a lot with them. Do you share responsibilities? We don't strictly separate responsibilities. Depends on the day. Have the children already gone back to school? Yes, but I was afraid they might wear the mask wrong. The only one who should wear it's my eldest son, six years old, but the others see and imitate their brother. Do any of your sons have football player skills? You have to ask their father because I have no idea about football. My children play with everything: ride motorbikes, play football, jump, ride on wheels, karate, judo, tennis ... They practice everything. They still research everything and see where their limitations are. In addition to Máximo Adriano, another new member has appeared in the Ramos family: the son of your brother-in-law René Ramos with singer Lorena Gómez. Is she asking for your advice? Lorena is a very prepared and super determined woman. Cares very well for the baby. She is delighted and super happy. Why are people surprised by your friendship with Vania Millán? Vania is a very special person and one of my close friends. Lorena is René's girlfriend. They have nothing to do with each other. People try to find controversy where there is none. Lorena is charming and has already made it clear that there is no confrontation. On the contrary, we get along very well. When they tell me or read something about it, I laugh. We know what our life is and luckily we are three super happy women. Vania and I get along very well and we love each other very much. Of course Lorena too. Are you planning any new projects? I continue working on "El Hormiguero" and designing. There were also several advertising proposals.

#Maximo Adriano Ramos #Alejandro Ramos #Marco Ramos #Sergio Ramos Rubio #Pilar Rubio #Sergio Ramos #Real Madrid #Interview

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babbushka · 4 years

Note

I love your writing so much, I want to start there. The way you write Pale and Flip especially, but Clyde and Charlie as well.

I've been feeling very down on myself lately, self conscious of what someone would think of me. I was just wondering if you have any thoughts. You're always so uplifting.

I haven't had a partner in three years so no one has ever seen me the way I am now. Mainly, I've gained a little weight and I've stopped waxing myself, going au naturale. I kind of like it, but I'm always so worried about a future partner seeing and feeling me.

The rational brain says, if an adult can't handle body hair, you don't want them anyway. But the anxious brain doesn't feel so confident.

Im sorry if this is way too much, I just always love your advice. Im so glad you're back sharing with us❤

Hello my dear anon! Thank you very much for the kind words about the writing! First may I just say you are not alone in having these thoughts or these feelings. Especially lately, with how the shift in all our lives have gone with the pandemic, many people’s bodies have undergone changes in the last 7 months alone that make them anxious.

Bodies are going to change. That’s what they do! They adapt to the circumstances around them, we do not exist inside vacuums, and we shouldn’t be expected to. It’s a vicious cycle of systemic misogyny, how we suddenly feel as though we’re “letting ourselves go” when in reality, our bodies are simply changing. There’s nothing wrong with that, there’s nothing at all to be ashamed of for that.

Still, it’s hard to look away from that mentality when it’s something that’s been so heavily pushed on us our entire lives. I know it is, believe me, I’ve struggled with it my entire life lol. The thing that has dramatically helped me, and this is just my own personal experience, is to be wholly and completely unapologetic about the way I look.

I used to wear clothes that were two sizes too big, I used to only wear black, I used to never look in the mirror or be in photos, because it made me too anxious to see just how far outside the ‘ideal body type’ I was. And it wrecked my brain because all it did was reinforce that negative mindset that I was something that needed to be hidden away, minimized.

And after a while, I realized that not only is that just so damaging for my mental health, but it only perpetuates that misogynistic belief that we are only worthy of love, attention and care when we fit the very narrow ideal. And really, what good was that doing? I was doing more harm to myself than good, and reinforcing that negativity in a way that was bigger than just me. Seeing children learn those behaviors from the adults around them, young girls wanting to hide themselves away because they watched their mothers and grandmothers do it, really snapped me out of that. I didn’t want to be a person that, through my actions, passed down that negativity to the next generation.

So, I started wearing clothing that actually fit me and felt comfortable in a way that I hadn’t before, that showed off my body in all her glory. I wore colors and patterns that made me happy, I allowed myself to take up the space in the world that I was already taking up! I began paying attention to the most neglected parts of my body, my stomach and my thighs and my arms, I began to show them love by touching them, looking at them, recognizing that they are me and that is good.

I started taking selfies and sending them to my friends, posting them to my social media, for the sole purpose of reinforcing that I am here, and I have a presence, and my presence is not and should not be an unwelcome one. It took time, a lot of time, but eventually you get to a point where you have to come to terms with your body. This is the only one that we get, and it works so hard to keep us going, it deserves to be shown love no matter what it looks like.

As for the whole thing about worrying what a partner might think, I’m of the same opinion that you are -- if my future partner has an issue with women living and existing however they please, then they’re out of the running altogether. But you’re right, the anxious side of the brain will always worry because we have been so trained to fear the judgement of others for falling outside the socially acceptable “standard” for how women should look.

The best piece of advice that I have in that regard, is that to be honest, if you’re presenting yourself authentically to the world, then the people who love you know what you look like, and love you anyway. And if you haven’t had a partner in a couple years, and your body has changed over the course of those years, that’s okay! What matters isn’t how you looked then, but how you look now. Bodies are always going to change, and who knows, in another three years you may look completely different. But if someone is interested in being with you, they are going to be interested in the current you, the present you. Not how you may have looked years ago, and not what you might hypothetically look like years down the road.

You’re beautiful, my dear anon. You know how I know? Because you’re here. That’s an incredible feat, being here. Your body has changed and grown and moved so much to make you into the you that you are. That’s a beautiful thing. How boring would it be if we all looked the same? How dull would life be, if we all were the same size and shape, had the same features, walked talked laughed cried the same? Our beauty comes from the fact that there is no one else on the planet like us, like you.

Please don’t apologize, I’m always happy to share my thoughts with anyone who may want to hear them. We are so conditioned to feel shame and embarrassment for the simple human act of being vulnerable, and I want everyone to know that if nowhere else, you do not have to feel as if your feelings are a burden here. I’m sending you all my love and I hope that this weekend treats you kindly!

#<333 #Anonymous #cowboy answers

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pengychan · 5 years

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[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 16

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[All chapters up are tagged as ‘fake priest au’ on my blog.]

A/N: I mean if Ernesto doesn’t get stuck under a bell what’s the point. Art by @swanpit and @senoraluna (plus art by @appatary8523 in the end notes!)

***

For the days that followed, Héctor felt like he was walking on clouds. And he smiled, a lot. To everyone. And to anything.

“All right, is there something especially amazing about your egg this morning? Because you’ve been smiling at it for five solid minutes and it’s starting to concern me.”

Héctor looked up from the dish, still smiling widely. Ernesto shifted a little on the seat.

“... On second thought, you can keep smiling at your egg.”

His smile only widened. “She told me to ask her again once the war is over.”

“Yes, you told me. Let us hope it will be over soon, then.”

“And she’s going to say yes.”

“Well, would make her kind of a sadist if she made you wait just to say no. You, uh… might want to do something for that missing tooth, though.” Ah. The remark caused Héctor’s smile to fade, and his tongue instinctively went to feel the empty space where one of his front teeth had been. “I like to think it gives me a roguish charm,” he said. Ernesto didn’t seem to agree.

“No, not really,” he said, causing Héctor to shrink a little. He’d gotten used to it being missing by now, and had never really minded - a small loss to get to punch the daylights out of a wife beater - but the remarks just now were making him feel suddenly self-conscious.

“Is it that bad?”

“No, no. I’ve seen worse,” Ernesto reassured him. “And I’m sure we can get you a brand new tooth to replace it. Silver or gold, even. Maybe Chicharrón has some to spare.”

“Why would Cheech have teeth to spare?”

“He’s the gravedigger and the dead have no use for gold teeth.”

“Ernesto!”

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me he wouldn’t.”

Truth be told, he… wouldn’t put it past Cheech to do that: he was a hoarder, and a pragmatic one at that. But admitting as much would have felt a bit too much like snitching on him, so he didn’t. “He’s a gravedigger, not a graverobber.”

“No need to rob a grave, you just take them before they go in it.” “Ugh--” Héctor rubbed his forehead, unable to hold back a laugh. “You make the worst priest.”

“You still fell for the act,” Ernesto muttered, gaining himself a swift kick to the shin, and laughed. “Hah! Come on, I only have your best interest in mind. You’ll look and feel better without that empty spot in your mouth.”

That was… not a bad point. “I guess I could try asking Cheech if he’s got anything, er, just lying around,” he muttered, and stood. “Imelda doesn’t… need to know where they came from, right?”

Ernesto shrugged, leaning back on his seat and folding his hands behind his head. “Your call. But I know I wouldn’t look forward to kissing someone with teeth taken out of a corpse’s mouth.”

“Eugh,” Héctor muttered, suddenly a lot less keen on the idea. Still, maybe he would pay Cheech a visit. Just in case. “I am supposed to pay him a visit soon, though, so I suppose--”

The door opened suddenly, and Miguel was in the doorway, grinning widely. “Héctor! Padre Ernesto! Come, we just got something! A cart from Oaxaca full of food! Lots of food!”

Oh, Héctor thought. Oh thank God, Father John’s letters and photos had been for something, after all. He ran after Miguel with a sigh of relief, the last bit of weight finally off his shoulders.

They had food, and they would be all right. It would be all right.

***

“Look at that, the gringo is actually smiling…”

“Well, this is new…”

There was some laughter, likely directed at him, but for once John couldn’t even begin to care. As he watched crates of food - canned food, salt beef, sacks of rice and dry beans, made to last - being unloaded, along with some medical supplies, he felt… better than he had in months, perhaps in years. He had accomplished something, something good, truly helped the town.

He had feared that the sudden hostilities between the United States and Mexico would make it impossible for them to receive help, but a way around it had been found. His letter and photos had reached his Archdiocese in the States - paying extra for fast delivery had been worth it - and in turn they had sent a telegram to Archbishop Eulogio Gillow y Zavalza, who had taken refuge in the States. He had sent a telegram as well, to the Archdiocese of Antequera, requiring that they sent Santa Cecilia the supplies needed.

It had been quite convoluted, but it got things done. The Archdiocese of Antequera may have been deaf to their calls, but they couldn’t possibly ignore a direct order from their Archbishop. And now no one would go hungry for a good while. It was good. He’d done good.

“You sure you don’t need help with that, Padre?”

“No, no, I’m good. What else are these muscles for? Come on, unload the other crates!”

Against his better judgment, John - who had spent the past few days avoiding Father Ernest as much as he could, as though it could possibly help him ignore the fact that oh God he still wanted him, he wanted to sin again - turned to glance over. He was unloading the crates, talking and laughing, clearly relieved to see there would be more than enough to keep people fed until the next harvest. His smile seemed brighter than the sun.

Ah, God, what have I done? “You’re welcome, you’re welcome. I helped but, you have to thank- ah, there he is. Padre Juan!”

John recoiled when Father Ernest called out for him - not using his proper name, but he had long since given up trying to make that stop. “Ah-- yes?”

The crate in Father Ernest’s hands looked heavy, but he grinned and lifted it up above his head like it was nothing. There was probably an element of showing off in that, and John made an effort not to think of the broad chest beneath the cassock.

“Thanks for the help,” he exclaimed. “Those photos really did the trick!”

With plenty of eyes suddenly on him, John instinctively reached up to grasp the crucifix at his neck and glanced around. He’d grown accustomed to mistrust, mockery and occasionally open hostility - someone had muttered once that being a priest was all that saved him from a good beating - but now there was no hostility, no mockery, and the mistrust was… toned down. Some were even smiling at him.

I did good.

“Ah, er… you’re quite welcome, I… I did my duty,” he murmured, looking down, something warm and pleasant settling in his ribcage. A few people passing by even patted him his shoulder or back - the wounds healed, there was no pain - and even if a few pats were perhaps slightly harder than strictly necessary, he found he didn’t mind.

He watched them go pick up the crates to take them to the parish for a few moments, then recoiled when it suddenly hit him that he was probably supposed, and expected, to help. He let go of the crucifix he’d been holding onto, and took a step forward.

Except that something - someone - tugged at his sleeve. “Father John?”

His name sounded funny out of Miguel’s mouth, but John didn’t mind that either: he appreciated well enough that the boy tried in the first place. He smiled, looking down.

“Hola, Miguel. Is something the matter?”

The boy smiled back at him. “No, I just wanted to thank you. This is amazing. The sister will be relieved that there’s enough food for all of us now,” he said. “Full stomach, happy heart, no?”

Unaware of the fact that Miguel had seen him while unconscious - had seen his back, guessed he was struggling with something dark and dangerous he knew nothing of and really wanted to make him feel better - John found himself moved by the open admiration in his gaze.

He’d seen that gaze before, in the little brother who clung to him and followed him everywhere he went. Michael had been younger than Miguel was, fair-skinned and blond-haired and blue-eyed, but that look was the same and ah, it hurt.

I want to be able to go home. That’s why came here. To teach these people, make a name for myself, perhaps become a Bishop. A holy man. Then even Father would see that I deserve a chance, that I-- I’m--

A sodomite, a cold voice whispered from a dark, cold corner of his mind.

“... Father John? Is everything all right?”

Miguel’s gaze had turned attentive, concerned, and John was snapped out of his thoughts, brought back to the present - in a plaza warmed by the sun, among smiling, laughing people unloading crates and sacks of food he had helped provide.

I just wanted to thank you.

The stab of pain dulled, John smiled at the boy and rested his hand on top of his head in a silent blessing. “All is well. I believe we should help carry the supplies. Think you can help me lift a sack?” he asked, and, while he was mindful not to be too close to Father Ernest, by the time they were done he was both tired and satisfied, his lips curled in a faint smile as he observed the stacked supplies.

He may be a sinner, lust towards a fellow man still in him, but he had done something good and, at least for now, maybe it was enough.

***

“That was a lot of supplies to send out to one parish. If we sent so much to every village in need, what would even be left here for the people in Oaxaca?”

“Not every village gets the personal interest of our Archbishop, thankfully. I wonder what strings that gringo even pulled. Ay, I knew he would turn out to be a headache.”

“Tell me about it. Some time back he sent a nonsensical letter - he’d clearly mistaken a novice for the parish priest. I had to write a response to it without being insult-- ah, the letter!” A groan. “I forgot to post the letter. I was going to give it to the driver of the cart we sent, and then--”

“Hah! You entirely forgot to do it as well, huh? You’ll forget your head sooner or later.”

A sigh. “My memory worsens each day, I swear. Well, I suppose I’ll post it at the next chance.”

“Why don’t you hand it to Brother Raul? He’s got some mail to send out soon, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Besides, while I agree we should do him the courtesy to answer, I doubt it’s urgent. He’s been there for a while now, hasn’t he? If the issue is that he took a novice for the parish priest, by now he must have realized his mistake and felt quite foolish about it.”

“Yes. Yes, he must have.” A chuckle. “I wish I’d been there to see his face when he did.”

***

“Look at her, Ernesto.”

“Yes, yes, I am.”

“No you’re not!”

Halfway beneath the church bell, old pliers in his hand and sweat trickling into his eyes, Ernesto scoffed. “I’m a little busy at the moment.”

Héctor - who had been staring all the way down in the courtyard with heart-shaped eyes - didn’t seem to hear him. “Isn’t she the most beautiful woman you have ever seen?”

“Honestly, no.”

“You must be blind, mi amigo.”

“Or I’ve just known more women than you have. Biblically and not. But if we get more specific, I can concede that she’s the prettiest nun I have ever seen,” he said, causing Héctor to stammer.

“Hey, er, Sofía is standing right he-”

“No, no, that’s fair,” Sofía cut him off, waving a hand. She glanced under the bell. “How’s it going?”

“Almost done,” Ernesto grunted, trying once again to loosen the rusted iron link that held the clapper in place. Well, half the clapper: the other half had fallen off while Gustavo rang the bell and landed in the courtyard, narrowly missing a group of old widows who, in Ernesto’s opinion, had vastly overstayed their welcome in the world of the living.

But, as that was apparently not a priestly line of thought, he was now up in the bell tower to survey the damage and possibly make sure no such accident happened again. Which involved trying to pry off the remains of the old clapper in near total darkness, because taking a torch with him under the bell would fill his eyes with smoke, make him cough, and accomplish little else. He’d considered taking down the bell, but he would need the help of more people to do that and honestly, by the looks of it, the old wooden beam the bell hung from was best left alone.

“Try not to make that land on your foot,” Sofía was saying. “I suspect it would hurt.”

“Noted, thanks. Ugh-- shouldn’t this be Gustavo’s job?”

“He went off somewhere muttering about getting a blacksmith from the next village over to make a new clapper.”

“What, don’t we have one of our own?”

“He had that terrible bout of bad luck where you beat him to a pulp, kicked him out of town and then came telling us he had a bout of bad luck, remember?”

“Ah. Right.”

“Regrets?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Then put those muscles to work, come on. Or are they just for show?”

“I can do this, thank you so much. I’m just saying we we really could use a--”

“Father Ernest! What in God’s name are you doing in there?”

Ah, there he is.

“Hola, Padre Juan,” Ernesto called out, as cheerfully as he could manage through gritted teeth and perched on a stool on top of a stool on top of a belltower. He closed the pliers tighter around the ring, and pulled. Slowly, it began to give in. About time, he was sweating like an animal. It was hot as hell in there, the sun beating down on the bell. “What brings you here?”

“You being beneath a clearly unstable bell does!”

“Just getting rid of the clapper. Well, what’s left of it.”

“You should have something propping up the bell, in case the support gives in - those beams look like they’re rotten through!”

They did, but now that he’d pointed it out Ernesto was ready to claim those were the newest, most solid beams he’d ever seen, just out of spite. “What, are you a carpenter now?”

“I am simply someone with the barest amount of common sense!”

Ernesto wasn’t precisely convinced the gringo had any common sense to speak of, but then again he was a Federal army deserter who had decided to try passing off as a parish priest without knowing the first thing on how to be one, so perhaps he should keep his mouth shut. In the end, he shrugged and tugged harder on the link, which finally snapped.

Clang.

What was left of the clapper fell on the floor, and Ernesto grinned as it rolled across the boards.

“There,” he said, and climbed down the stools. He took a moment to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “That wasn’t too hard, was i--”

CRACK.

Oh, for fuck’s--

CLANG.

The noise was deafening, the floor shook, and Ernesto very nearly had a heart attack. He found himself on the floor - had it been higher up, maybe the bell would have smashed the boards and wouldn’t that have been fun - in total darkness, mind reeling. Still, two thoughts in his mind were clear as day: first of all, had the clapper been in, he would have been turned into a wet spot on the boards. The second was that Padre Juan was going to be insufferable.

“Ern-- Padre!”

“Father Ernest!”

The voices outside sounded muffled, and more than slightly panicked. There was a banging sound - several, really - as they knocked on the bell. Ernesto sat up, tried to brush some dust off himself, and called out. “I… I’m fine!” he exclaimed, trying to sound like he hadn’t just nearly pissed himself. Outside, there were sounds that might have been heavy sighs of relief.

“I told him this was dangerous,” Padre Juan muttered, because of course he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “We… we have to get him out.”

“Do we?” Sofía asked.

“It’s almost lunch time,” Héctor echoed. “Maybe, after a siesta...”

Ernesto rolled his eyes and knocked on the bell. “Oye, cabrón! I can hear you!”

“Father Ernest! Language!”

Chingate.

“Just get me out of here!”

“All right, all right,” Héctor called out. “We’re getting help, all right? You stay where you are!”

“Hilarious,” Ernesto said dryly, listening to their hurried steps. He sighed and sat, back to the bell, and resigned himself to wait in darkness, heat, and silen--

“Is there anything I can do?”

Ah, no silence, then: it looked like Padre Juan had stayed behind. He… didn’t mind that, really. Better than being alone. “Water would be nice, but I doubt you can manage to lift this thing.”

“I’m certain Brother Hector and Sister Sophie will be back with enough help - perhaps with the right tools. We’ll take the bell apart if need be, but we’ll get you out.”

Well, that was… nice to hear. “I’m sure it won’t be needed. We still need this bell.”

“We’ll need to have it fixed.”

“We don’t have that kind of money. We’ll just send Gustavo up here to hit it with a hammer.”

“We have received the supplies I requested, so we can spare something, and… certainly, a God-fearing man would be willing to fix it free of charge. It is for the parish, after all.”

“God-fearing men still need to eat.”

“I’m certain something can be arranged.”

There was a brief silence, and ah, it occurred to Ernesto that was… the longest conversation they had had since the night they’d spent in Juan’s room. The gringo had been avoiding him for the past couple of weeks - he’d avoided confrontation, too, surprising everyone in the parish by being… oddly agreeable. Héctor had made no comment on that, while Sofía may or may not have muttered something about the wonders getting an itch scratched can do for one’s attitude.

That was the closest they’d been since, despite the several inches of solid bronze between them. Ernesto couldn’t say he minded the lack of constant arguing, but it was odd, to no longer have the gringo around. Plus, a part of him had been half-expecting to find him at his door one night or the other, red-faced and asking for more. The fact he hadn’t was… just a little disappointing. A little insulting.

Not that it really mattered. Having someone in his bed helped him sleep, but he could do without, or… or he could find someone else. There would be no lack of volunteers. He might just have a look around to find some, one of those days.

“... Father Ernest?” Pade Juan called out, a little hesitantly. “Would you keep talking to me? To make sure all is well and you’re not injured.”

“Yes, yes, I’m still here. No injuries, just getting this thing off me.”

“This thing?”

“The cassock.”

Juan sputtered. “What-- you-- you can’t!”

“Watch me,” Ernesto muttered. I seemed to be getting warmer by the second in there; it was almost midday, and the sun was beating down mercilessly. If they took too long to pull him out of there, chances were they wouldn’t find him there at all anymore: just a puddle on the floor boards. What an inglorious way to go.

“I can’t! I mean, first of all you are hidden from sight, and-- and thank God you are! You are not supposed to disrobe like this!”

“Look, it’s hot as hell in here. I’m sweating like a sinner in chur-- er, like an animal, I’m already thirsty, and I might be stuck here for another while.”

“You’re exaggerating, surely.”

“Want to come in and try?” Ernesto asked, and this time he didn’t bother to even try sounding innocent. He was rewarded with more sputtering noises.

“You-- you shouldn't be suggesting a such thing!”

“Right, right. You’re cured now, aren’t you?”

“O-of course. Just as expected.”

God, you’re the worst liar I have ever met.

“Ah, well. I’m glad.”

Silence. There was a shuffling noise on the other side of the bell, and Ernesto could guess the gringo was sitting with his back against it, too; when he spoke again, he sounded closer. “I am… very grateful for the help you gave me,” he muttered.

“As you should.”

“Sorry?”

“Ah, nothing. It was my pleas-- duty. Yes. Let’s go with that. It was my duty to help.”

“Still… thank you.”

“No problem,” Ernesto said. He reached up to wipe some sweat off his forehead - ay, his hair would be a mess by the time they got him out - and waited. And waited. And waited, for a grand total of… well, he didn’t have a watch in there and he wouldn’t have been able to see the time even if he did, but he was sure it didn’t take more than a minute for Padre Juan to speak again.

“If… for argument’s sake, it… did not work… and if those urges return…”

“You think they will?”

“No, no!” Padre Juan exclaimed, far too hurriedly to be believable. “I just… hypothetically speaking, if they do, it means... they’re… never going away, are they?”

Ernesto’s eyebrows went up almost to his hairline. Well, that was not precisely what he had expected the gringo to say. Truth be told, he’d half-expected him to ask for his whip back to try beating it out of himself again, which of course Ernesto would have refused. That stupid priest had done enough damage, the full extent of which had become clear to Ernesto that night, when even to the touch he could feel the scars on his back, raised and rough where the rest of his skin was soft and--

“Father Ernest?” Juan called nervously, snapping him from his thoughts. He cleared his throat.

“Well, then I suppose they might be here to stay,” he said. “... Do you want to confess yourself?”

“No, I-- I have not sinned-- yet.” He choked out the words, shame obvious in his voice. “But if… if my willpower fails, will you--”

“I’ll help you take care of it, sure. But let’s use my room. Your bed is the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been onto and believe me, I have slept on uncomfortable places--”

“What-- no, no!” Padre Juan sputtered again. Ernesto sort of wished he’d been keeping count, because he was doing that a lot. “I would never ask that of you again!”

Oh come on, we both know it wasn’t bad at all.

Ignoring the sting - a very slight sting, he told himself - Ernesto shrugged, knowing full well he couldn’t actually see him shrug. “Your loss,” he muttered, voice too low for Juan to hear.

“What I meant to ask is… if, hypothetically, you would absolve me again.”

“Afterwards?”

“I…” a pause, because of course he may be dense but he had to know what Ernesto suggested may happen before that ‘afterwards’. “... Yes,” he murmured. “Afterwards. I… I would absolve you as well of course, if… if you...”

All right, he’d let him squirm enough. Grinning a little in the dark, Ernesto nodded. “Of course. We absolve each other,” he said.

He could hear the gringo’s sigh of relief as though he was beneath the bell with him. Which, really, Ernesto wouldn’t have minded too much. Or at all.

It definitely would have made the wait for rescue a lot more fun.

***

“Well, that was fun.”

Sofía’s comment was met with a mumbled suggestion to do something rather unbecoming with a cactus, which she entirely ignored as she did with about half the words that left Ernesto’s mouth.

“I think you failed to fully appreciate Padre Juan’s face when you crawled out from under the bell with your torso bare. Before he blabbed something about getting you some water and ran down the belltower, I mean.”

“I was too busy trying to breathe. Thanks for taking so long to come back and pull me out, by the way. I was only melting in there, no big deal,” Ernesto grumbled. Sofía rolled her eyes.

“Oh, stop whining. We had to get men and tools up in the belltower. I think we were pretty fast.”

“Mph.” Ernesto drank another mouthful of water, leaning back against his seat, then glanced over. “... What kind of face did he make?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you love to know,” she said, and stood. “Unfortunately, I can’t stay to talk. I need to go outside, find a cactus, and follow your instructions to stick it up my--”

“I’m not saying I’d love to know,” he grumbled. “I’m curious, is all.”

“How curious?”

“Mildly curious.”

“Then it can wait until after I perform impure acts with a cactus, no?”

Ernesto glared, and she grinned before holding up her hands. “All right, fine. He looked like he’d just seen Jesus Christ strolling out of his grave.”

“Oh?” The annoyed expression on Ernesto’s face faded into a pleased grin. Ay, that man’s ego; sometimes Sofía was amazed he could get off the bed in the morning, full of himself as he was.

“Yes. I’d say he was decidedly impressed.” He hadn’t been especially subtle, either, eyes wide and skin flushed, but with everyone’s attention on Ernesto and the bell, only Sofía had noticed.

“As he should be,” Ernest muttered, clearly pleased.

“Yes, not a bad sight. It does make up for your shortcomings in bed.”

The grin turned into a scowl again in less than a second. It was so easy, it was hardly even fun. “Well, he was plenty satisfied.”

“He has literally no other experience to compare it to. It’s an easy win there.”

“I don’t know exactly how funny you think you are, but I assure you, that’s not it,” he grumbled.

“Ay, such fragile ego. Don’t take it personally,” she grinned, poking his shoulder. “So, did he come back for more?”

“... Not yet. But soon.”

“Oh?”

“Clearly,” he almost snapped, even more defensive. She raised an eyebrow, and pressed on.

“He went on two weeks without. Not that utterly irresistible, are you?”

“He’s still in denial, that’s all. He already made clear he wants more. He’s not stupid not to know a blessing when it bites him in the ass, unlike someone I could name.”

Sofía - who was perfectly fine with Antonia now that she was done avoiding carnal relations for Lent, thank you very much - ignored the jab. “So, you want more of him?”

A scoff. “I’m not one to turn down some fun,” he replied. It didn’t escape her how he’d avoided really answering the question.

It didn’t escape her at all.

***

“Is everything all right, Padre Juan? Was the dinner too spicy?”

“Wha-- no, no. It was… it was all right.”

“Oh. I figured that was why you’re turning red.”

Oh. Oh God.

“Ah, maybe… maybe it was just a little spicy,” he stammered, feeling as though his face was about to burst in flames. He’d wondered many times how hot the fires of Hell would burn on his skin should he ever fall into sin, but he’d never for a moment considered embarrassment could burn hotter than anything he could imagine.

“Ah, I see. I’ll be more careful next time.”

Had he looked up at Sister Sophie, John may have noticed the sly smile that had curled the corners of her lips, but he did not. He glanced over at Father Ernest instead, who was laughing with Brother Hector over something some children had done in the plaza that seemed to involve a chicken, a fruit stand, and a bucket.

It was probably something John wouldn’t have approved of, and he might have objected to making light of bad behaviour in children rather than striving to correct it, but at the moment he couldn’t focus enough on their words to even begin to understand what precisely transpired, let alone care. He was focusing on Father Ernest, and on what he’d told him the previous day.

“If my willpower fails, will you--”

“I’ll help you take care of it, sure.”

God, was he really thinking of it - entertaining the thought of committing the sin again? The mere thought made his face burn even more… and before he could turn away, or leave with an excuse, Father Ernest glanced over at him. He stared a moment, pausing mid-sentence, then blinked… and smiled, a quirk of his lips before he turned back to Brother Hector and gave a rather spectacular yawn.

“You know what, I’m tired. Sorry to cut off the conversation, but I really need to lie down. I’ll be in my room,” he added, and John knew - he just knew - that the last sentence was meant for him. That it was an invitation.

“Let’s use my room. Your bed is the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been onto.”

Busy as he was wondering if it was possible to simply die of shame, he didn’t notice how Sister Sophie rolled her eyes behind him. Brother Hector seemed to notice nothing, thank God; he just seemed a bit surprised at the abrupt end of the conversation, since Father Ernest had showed no sign of tiredness up to that moment. “Ah, sure. Good night, then.”

A smile. “Good night,” Father Ernest said, standing up, and glanced over at him.

John somehow found his voice to respond, so that he wouldn’t come across as rude in front of the other two. “Night,” he croaked, Father Ernest’s voice echoing in his mind.

“We absolve each other.”

He entirely missed the look Sister Sophie and Brother Hector exchanged when, a few minutes later, he excused himself with a murmur and left the kitchen to retire in the sleeping quarters. He went towards his room, reached the door… and walked past it, mind in turmoil, all thoughts muddled and distant except for one thing, the desire that made his skin burn. He reached Father Ernest’s room with unsteady steps and knocked with a shaky hand, blood rushing in his ears and heart beating in his throat.

“Come in,” his voice called out, and he did.

***

“Teeth.”

“Er, yes.”

“You came here to ask if I have teeth, really? Can’t you see for yourself that I have four teeth and a half left?”

“Not-- I don’t mean the teeth in your mouth!”

“... Where else am I supposed to have teeth, muchacho? Because I can only think of one other option and honestly--”

“I mean, maybe in a drawer or something?” Héctor blurted out, resigning himself to the fact that there was simply no polite way to ask someone if, by any chance, he happened to have taken some golden teeth from corpses he was given to bury.

Chicharrón looked at him like he’d gone loco. “You think I put every tooth I lost in a drawer?”

“Not your teeth!” Héctor groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Agh, just-- forget about it. I’ll see if maybe doctor Sanchéz can spare--”

“Oh. Oooh, you mean, not real teeth!” Chicharrón threw back his head with a raucous laugh, slapping a hand on his thigh and causing Juanita - who was snoozing on his lap - to lift his head with a noise of protest. “Right, right - to fix that gap in your mouth. Why didn’t you say so?”

Héctor cleared his throat. “Well, it didn’t seem polite to come in and ask you if you just so happen to be robbing graves.”

“Nonsense, of course I’m not. It’s not grave robbing if they’re not in the grave yet.”

“... You and Padre Ernesto have more in common than I thought.”

Cheech made a face. “Ah, don’t say that. I don’t much like him, I really don’t.”

“Why? He’s helped the town a lot,” Héctor argued. Cheech had no idea that Ernesto was not a real priest, nor he’d be terribly shaken if he did, so Héctor was a little confused over the hostility.

“I don’t like him because Juanita doesn’t, of course. He’s never wrong on people.”

“Juanita hardly likes anyone.”

“And rightly so. Now, do you want those teeth or not?” Cheech grabbed the cane he’d left against the wall and pointed towards a corner of the room, in a heap of things he’d hoarded over the years. “There’s a box over there, red wood…”

It took some digging to get the box out, and when he did - and blew off some dust from the top - Héctor could tell it was full some many small, hard things that rattled when he shook the box. His eyebrows going up to almost his hairline, he turned to Cheech. “How many--”

“I’ve been the gravedigger for some forty years. You do the math. Give it here.”

“But why? You’re not even using them yourself, and as you said you only have four teeth--”

“Four and a half. Use your brain, people would question how I got a full mouth of gold teeth,” Cheech scoffed, taking the box. “Best to keep the gold for retirement. Teeth are overrated, anyway. Juanita gets on just fine without a single one.”

“... Juanita is a rooster.”

“Your point? Come on, pick one. I suggest you wash it well before you get someone to put it in.”

Well, that went without saying. “Not afraid stealing from the dead will get you... cursed?”

“Not in May, it won't. It already happened, and I came back. Now shut up and pick a tooth.”

Old Chicharrón, getting cursed? Now that was a tale he’d never shared, decidedly more unbelievable than his usual ones. Héctor chuckled at the notion and turned his attention back to the box, silencing his conscience to pick out a good one.

***

There was something deeply soothing about awakening - or rather, slowly drifting into a state closer to awareness without quite getting there yet - with the warmth of skin on skin, the weight of a body against his own.

In that state between sleep and awareness, John’s mind was wonderfully empty of anything but sensation; the dozens of reasons why he ought not to be there - why he ought to be ashamed and penitent - were entirely beyond his reach. And it was fine, it really was, until reality settled in.

That particular morning, reality came as a knock on the door.

“Padre Ernesto?” Sister Sophie called out through the wooden door, causing John to bolt upright, elbowing Father Ernest in the ribs as he scrambled to get off the bed and entirely ignoring the mumbled curse that got out of him. A decidedly unpriestly curse at that, which John would have been extremely cross about if he weren’t a little busy feeling surprise, confusion, terror and a huge relief for having locked the door the previous evening, in quick succession.

At least it spared him the indignity of having to hide under the bed.

Father Ernest sat up on the bed and stretched, naked as the day he’d been born and apparently unbothered by the fact he had a fellow priest in his room and a nun at the door. “Sister,” he muttered, yawning. “What is it?”

“I am so very sorry to bother you, Padre,” Sister Sophie was saying, sounding incredibly contrite. “I was sent to let you know that Gustavo has found someone to fix the bell.”

“Has he? Ah, great. But I don’t know if we can spare the expense--”

“They said they would do it for free, in exchange for a blessing. God-fearing men.”

“... Oh?”

So he’d been right, John thought, there were still God-fearing men around who put God and His Church before material gain. He turned to Father Ernest with no small amount of triumph, still tangled in the sheet. “I told you so!” he exclaimed.

“What was that?” Sister Sophie asked through the door, and John slapped a hand on his mouth, realizing moments too late what he’d just done. Father Ernest, from his part, turned his laugh into the least convincing fit of coughing John had ever heard.

If they made it through that morning without being found out, then John would light a candle to Virgin Mary, because it would be nothing short of a miracle. He would find out only much, much later that the nun outside had been perfectly aware of his presence in the room.

“Nothing, nothing,” Father Ernest called out, and cleared his throat. “That’s… really good. I’ll go thank them personally.”

“Of course.”

Sister Sophie left, thank God, and John let out a long sigh of relief while Father Ernesto dropped back on the mattress, laughing. And laughing. And laughing.

“Will-- will you keep it down!” John protested, face flushed crimson. “Someone might hear!”

“Hahahahah! Look who’s talking,” he retorted, the laugh dying down to a snicker. “You just couldn’t resist announcing you were right, huh?”

“Well, I was!” John protested, his face hot. “We ought to dress and… and absolve each other.”

“Right, right. Ego te absolvo…”

John bowed his head and gratefully received the absolution, choosing not to comment on the fact the man giving it was still naked as the day he was born.

***

“What’s that?”

“Some men, they’re fixing the bell. Said they’re blacksmiths and carpenters.”

“Well, that was quick. We have carpenters too, though? Only missing the blacksmith.”

“Gustavo says he found them in San Luz, and that they’re willing to do it for free...”

There was some talk as bystanders gathered to look up towards the belltower, if from a safe distance, muttering amongst themselves. Shielding her eyes from the sun with a hand, Imelda squinted to look better. Beside her, Héctor - who seemed to have just awakened, hair ruffled - frowned. “How good a job can they do for free?” he muttered.

Imelda shrugged. “Can’t really go checking the teeth of a gifted horse, can we?”

“Right, right. Oh, er, speaking of teeth, I don’t know if you noticed--” he began, but someone talked over him, causing him to trail off.

“Well, we can if the clapper breaks again and turns someone into a tortilla,” doctor Sanchéz muttered. A woman guwaffed.

“With some luck, it will be the gringo.”

There was laughter, and a few disapproving glances. Very few.

“Show some respect,” another woman protested. “He’s a priest.”

“He’s a gringo,” the seamstress, Ceci, muttered back.

“... Eh, fair.”

“Get off his back, why don’t you?” Héctor muttered, his tone defensive. “He’s been… not as bad lately. And he means well - he got us food.”

A couple of people had the good grace to look ashamed, a few others rolled their eyes - Ceci especially, no wonder considering she was still bitter over how he’d handled things with Fernanda when she sought help to escape her husband’s beatings - but Imelda was no longer paying attention to them: all she could stare at was one of the men Gustavo had returned with standing on the church’s steps, talking with Ernesto, who was probably thanking them for their help and whatnot.

Everything normal, except for one thing: Imelda was almost certain she knew that man. Or at the very least she had seen him before but when… where…

“The next one who even thinks of laying a hand on a nun will lose it.”

Wait. Wait just a moment.

“José,” Imelda murmured. Beside her, Héctor - the only one close enough to her to hear - turned to glance at her.

“What?”

“That man. We met him in the basement of the orphanage,” she whispered. He followed her gaze, stared a few moments, squinted… and then he blinked, clearly taken aback.

“It’s him! What… what is he doing here?”

“Apparently, fixing our bell.”

“I mean, what is he really doing here?”

Ah well, Imelda thought, one way to find out. As soon as Ernesto stepped away to go back inside the church, Imelda went up the steps as quickly as she could manage without running. The man noticed her coming and paused at the church door, smiling faintly.

“Sister,” he said politely, tilting his head. Imelda smiled, so that anyone watching would think she was thanking him for the help, maybe offering him and his men water, and spoke in a low voice.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, and his smile widened.

“Fixing your bell, Sister.”

“No, what are you really doing--”

“Fixing your bell. Really. Ah, Brother Héctor, buenas días.”

“Buenas días! How are you-- wait, I mean-- are we really supposed to believe you and your men really came over to fix the bell?”

“Of course. It is quite important that it remains in working order.”

Héctor and Imelda exchanged a perplexed glance before looking back at José, if that was truly his name at all. “I don’t understand,” Imelda said, and her words were met with a small smile.

“I pray to God you never do,” José said, and with that he turned and walked into the church, up the belltower, leaving them to stand on the stone steps, even more confused than before.

***

“Are you telling me he refused a discharge?”

“I know, right? He could be home right now, and instead he requested to join our battalion.”

“This one specifically? He can’t be right in the head.”

“Or maybe he’s really passionate about the cause.”

“Not right in the head, then. No one is passionate about any cause anymore. We fight. It’s what we do. Fight and drink and get some fun when we can.”

There was laughter, some coughing, the sound of clinking bottles. Santiago faintly wondered whether they were too drunk to realize he was well within earshot, but either way it made no matter. He was exactly where he was meant to be: part of a battalion heading south towards Oaxaca and Chiapas, and then east towards Yucatán.

Unless Ernesto de la Cruz had crossed the southern border - and he refused to think of that possibility, refused to entertain the thought that murderer may be beyond his reach - chances were he would be hiding somewhere around there, as the coward he was. And with some luck, he might just cross paths with him.

If there was any justice to be had in that wretched world he would, and then God help him and whoever stood between them.

***

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In case you missed it, here’s some art based on this fic by @appatary8523!

#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #imelda rivera #hector rivera #miguel rivera #coco #fake priest au

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theydontknowaboutusimagines · 5 years

Text

Behind The Marriage - Harry Styles Series (Part 30)

Part 29

On the days agenda, you were meeting up with Gemma to start planning your baby shower and going shopping for decorations. You were both excited and nervous. Excited because you were looking forward to having a baby shower, but nervous because you’ve not really spent anytime with just you and Gemma without Harry or anyone else.

“You’re going to be fine,” Harry whispered wrapping his arms around your waist.

“Of course, I’m going to be fine,” you said. ‘Why would you think I think otherwise?”

“Because you’ve got that worried look in your eye, your shoulders are tense and you’re about to poke your eye out with your mascara because your hands are shaking,” he said taking your hand in his. “Babe, she’s just my sister. I’m not sending you to the lion’s den.”

“I know, I know,” you sighed. “But your sister hasn’t always been my biggest fan, so there’s that.”

“Hey, look at me,” he said.

You sighed turning around and looking up at him.

“I know there’s been some not good moments between you and my sister, but if we want things to get better, we have to take small baby steps. Especially with the babies coming,” he said. “This is her olive branch to admit she didn’t make the best first impression. so she should be on her best behavior. Please, just give her a chance?”

“You know I will,” you said. “But it doesn’t mean I’m not still nervous.”

He kissed your forehead, “Do you want me to go?”

You shook your head, “Honestly, I think it would make things worse. It would make it seem like I need you for everything and I don’t trust being around her.”

“That’s my girl,” he smiled. “Now, I’ll let you finish up so you’re late.”

“What are your plans for the day?” You asked.

He shrugged, “Haven’t really thought about it,” he said. “Might just... hang out here. Make some tea, read a book?”

“Why don’t you ever do that while I’m here? You know those are like my favorite things,” you laughed.

“Because I get too distracted when you’re here,” he smirked.

“Oh, so it’s my fault.” You laughed. “Fuck you!”

“Hey! I’m just joking,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah,” you laughed. “Now, get out of here so I get ready.”

He laughed kissing your cheek before going back into the bedroom.

About a half hour later, you arrived for lunch to meet Gemma. She wasn’t there yet, so you sat down at the table waiting for her. You looked over the menu to get an idea of what you wanted to eat. You had two food moods during this pregnancy. One you wanted to eat everything in sight because everything sounded delicious, while the other you barely wanted anything because everything sounded gross. There was never an in-between.

That day you didn’t really want to eat much, so you decided you would go for soup and bread. By the time the waitress brought you your water, Gemma walked into the shop. You waved her over and she made her way towards the table.

“What can I get you to drink?” The waitress asked.

“Oh, water will be fine,” she said sitting down, brushing hair from her face.

You took a sip of your water trying to ease your nerves a bit. Neither one of you really spoke until after you ordered your food and the waitress took the menus.

“Um, thank you,” you started. “For uh, wanting to do this.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “It’s the least I could do, I mean you are the mother of my soon to be nieces or nephews.”

You put on a smile, but you felt hurt at her response. Was she only trying to be nice to you because she felt like she had to based on her connections with you and not just because she wanted to really get to know you?

“So, I’m thinking we could have the shower at my Mum’s house,” she said. “I think it would be perfect, plus a lot of our family live nearby or at least in closer distances.”

“That’s true,” you said. “How many people are you thinking about inviting? I was thinking we could just have like a smaller get together.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, I mean I’m talking hundreds of people, but I’m not talking under fifty either.”

“I just thought since you and Harry were going to have everyone bring presents for donations, you’d want to have more people there,” she added.

“Right,” you said pointing to her, “That makes more sense.”

“Would you be inviting anyone from the states?” She asked.

“Well, yeah,” you nodded. “I’d like for my family and some friends to be invited, if they can come.”

She nodded writing it down. “Have you given a thought to a theme?”

“Um, not... not really,” you said. “I was just thinking something simple, maybe some flowers and simple decorations. Like I said, I’d rather it just be a small and sweet celebration with family and friends.”

“Okay,” she said.

You sighed, “Look, I’m not... I’m not someone who is all about showing off or having big fancy parties just because I have the means to do so,” you said. “So, honestly, I’m not the best person had coming up with ideas or themes or whatever. I just want to have someone where everyone gets along and is celebrating me and Harry becoming parents and for the babies that will soon be in our lives.”

Gemma sighed looking down, “I understand,” she said. “I’m sorry.. I’m sorry for everything and how I’ve acted towards you in the past. I really am. I know we’ve sort of squashed this before, but this is the first time we’ve spent anytime together just the two of us. I feel like I should clear the air some more.”

You looked up at her.

“I want you to know that my actions towards you were never because of who you are,” she said. “You as a person. It was more of your actions, for lack of a better word. It was just so weird and scary for me for my baby brother to go off to another country and come back with a girl and claim he was in love. I’ve seen people use him for their own gains in the past and some of those people were relationships. So, I was a little weary of that and then a year later and you two run off an get married? Like it just seemed very sketchy, but I do know that you love him and he loves you... that’s why I’m trying. I hope that one day we can put everything behind us and be okay.”

“I know everything happened fast,” you said. “And believe me when I said I was shocked myself on how fast it happened, but I was happy and I’m still happy. Thank you for sharing this with me and I’m ready to move past everything, if you are.”

“I am,” she said. “And this will be our first thing to help us move on.”

“To moving on and the baby shower,” you smiled holding out your glass.

She laughed, “To moving on and the baby shower,” she smiled clinking her glass with yours.

The rest of the day, you and Gemma spent going to different shops, finding decorations, flowers, cake and food ideas. You actually were having a great time and wish it had been like this between the two of you from the beginning. You even stopped into some baby shops and picked up a few things.

By the time, you pulled into the driveway of your and Harry’s home, your feet were swollen and you were exhausted and ready for dinner. When you opened the door to your home, you were met with the smell of your favorite dinner. Music played softly in the background and candles lit up the entire downstairs.

“Harry?” You asked placing your things down.

“Hold on! I’ll be right there,” he said. “Don’t move.”

“Okay,” you laughed.

A few minutes later, Harry walked in with a single rose. “Welcome home, baby,” he smiled.

“What’s all this?” You asked. “I was only gone for a few hours.”

“Your point?” He smiled. “I wanted to do something nice and romantic for my wife.”

“Well, thank you,” you smiled. “Now, is that food I smell because I’m starving.”

He laughed, “Yep, I made your favorite.”

You smiled following him into the dining room, where you rushed to sit down.

“I hope this is okay,” he said. “I know how your appetite can be sometimes.”

“This is perfect,” you smiled. “Although I’m probably going to get my weight in it tonight,” you joked.

“Good thing I made plenty,” he smiled.

You put a serving or two on your plate and took the first bite. “Fucking delicious,” you groaned. “I knew there was a good reason why I married you.”

He scoffed, “I’m glad my cooking was good enough for you.”

You giggled taking another bite.

“So, how did today go?” He asked. “By the amount of bags you had with you, I’d say it went great, but not for our credit card statement,” he joked.

You rolled your eyes, “It went really well,” you smiled. “We talked and hashed out things during lunch and it set up the rest of the afternoon for success.”

“That makes me really happy, baby,” he smiled taking your hand in his. “So, does this mean the baby shower is good to go?”

“It is,” you nodded. “We’re having it at your Mum’s place.”

“Really?” He smiled. “That’s perfect. Is there a theme?”

“Sort of,” you smiled. “But that’s going to be a surprise.”

“From who? You?” He asked shoving another bite of food into his mouth.

“From you,” you smirked.

“What?” He laughed. “Why me?”

“Because I wanted it to be,” you smirked.

“Well, okay, then,” he laughed.

Once you two were finished with dinner, Harry brought out the dessert.

“Before we have this,” he said. “I think we need a change of scenery.”

You looked at him confused, but followed him upstairs.

“Okay, now, close your eyes,” he said.

“Excuse me?” you asked.

“Just do it please,” he groaned.

“Fine, fine,” you laughed covering your eyes.

Harry made a weird face to make sure you weren’t cheating. When you didn’t laugh or make a comment, he took that as you couldn’t see anything. He moved the dessert to one hand and opened to the door of the extra room in the house.

He placed the dessert on a nearby table before coming back and helping you walk inside the room.

“Okay, you can open them,” he said.

You removed your hands, opening your eyes to see a finished nursery. There were two matching cribs with two gliding chairs. There were pictures of you and Harry in Jamaica as well as some other photos. Stuffed animals and toys were in the corner and the walls had been painted a gorgeous color. There was even a starlight nightlight that lit the entire ceiling and the made the room a purplish color.

“Um, so, uh, what do you think?” Harry asked nervously.

He had spent the day setting everything up while you were gone. He wanted to make this a surprise for you, but he also hoped you weren’t upset because you hadn’t been apart of it. Everything he set up or placed had been things you two bought together or had discussed about getting.

“This... this is amazing,” you sniffled. “I can’t believe you did this.”

“So you like it?” He asked.

“I love it,” you smiled. “It’s perfect.. it’s everything I wanted.”

Harry sighed with a relief, “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Were you afraid I wasn’t going to like it?” You asked.

“That and you might be upset I did this without you,” he said.

“No, not at all,” you said. “I love that you did this. Thank you. I... I couldn’t have asked for anything better.”

He smiled, “You’re welcome, baby.”

You kissed him before walking over to one of the chairs. “This is going to be my new favorite place in the house,” you giggled.

“Mine, too,” he smiled sitting down in the other.

“Just think in a few short months, we’ll be sharing this room with our babies,” you smiled.

“Yeah, we’ll be holding them instead of this ice cream,” he joked.

You giggled, “I love you,” you whispered holding your hand out.

“I love you, too, baby,” he smiled taking your hand in his.

Everything hasn’t gone perfectly in you relationship with Harry, but moments like this made everything worth it and you couldn’t wait until you got to share it with your two babies.

#One Direction Imagines #Harry Styles Imagines #Behind The Marriage

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bearsfakedthemoonlanding · 4 years

Text

dating boys while (pre)Trans

[[ a definition: by “pretrans” i don’t mean pre-T or pre-transitioning, I mean pre-revelation. just a handful of experiences from trying to date as a trans masculine kid who had no idea he was trans masculine, who just thought he was some fucked up version of a girl ]]

[CONTENT WARNING: mentions of sexual activity, of the BDSM community, of physical abuse. vague mentions of sexual abuse. a lot of self-doubt and internalized transphobia (or at least, non-accepting ideology.

DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18]

the boy I dated in eighth (and then, tenth) grade deserved better. we’re still friends. it wasn’t his fault that I didn’t want his tongue in my mouth, that the feeling of his hands down the front of my pants made me feel about as stimulated as a rarely used emergency radio clinging to its last bit of battery.

he wrote me love poems, bought me flowers, called me beautiful, and wondered why i wasn’t as into it as he was. i don’t know if i would have liked him better had i realized back then that i was a boy. all i know is that dating him made me feel a hell of a lot like a girl, and i couldn’t figure out why that felt so wrong. ah, boyhood...

---

i was nineteen and he was something like thirty-five. we met in the BDSM scene, and he was the first person i let talk me into anything*. i didn’t know the true vastness of my options back then, so i figured i ought to take what i could get. for the most part, it was good. being controlled was good. being hurt was good. being called “sexy”? “good girl”? and “petite”? not as much of a turn on. he spun lectures about embracing my femininity and the power of my sexuality. he grabbed at my breasts. once, pre-scene, he didn’t let me take off my own binder. tried to do it for me by pulling it over my head (it was one of those cheap, terrible amazon binders with a dozen little clasps up the ribs, ergo-- it didn’t work very well).

he asked for photos, asked me to be prettier, sexier, gentler. i couldn’t figure out why i felt so disappointed while getting everything that i wanted.

---

a year later, and a new partner. i said “don’t call me that” and he paused.

“okay, no problem.”

“you can... um, if.. you can say ‘good boy’ instead, if you want. or. just not girl, okay?”

“you like being called boy?”

“i’d like to try.”

“okay, no problem. thanks for telling me. good boy.”

it was friends with benefits, except that the benefits were getting the shit kicked out of me whenever i asked. he called me a boy, let me have that fantasy, and i was comfortable enough in the way he perceived me that i behaved in ways i wouldn’t otherwise. dug out my old catholic school skirt for a scene. he was the first person to ever see me topless.

and he still saw me as a boy, because i asked him to. it was like a lightbulb flashing on. i didn’t know who i was yet, but i knew that in this strange little corner of my life, being a boy was awful damn comfortable.

---

i lost my virginity to a different one.

also lost five months of my life, a lot of confidence, a good amount of tears, and a bit of blood. i can’t explain to you how he did it, or how i fell for the tricks, but somehow he broke me down until i was doubting just about everything.

i had four sprained wrists, a dozen limps, twice bruised ribs, and more impressive bruises than i’ve ever worn before, all with the same man.

he hit me-- sometimes in a game, whether i wanted to be playing it or not, but sometimes for real. he laughed either way. he resented everything about how i presented myself, thought i was too masculine, too low-maintenance, too much of a “tomboy.” he asked me to change things, and i did. he was always trying to teach me things. he didn’t respect my opinions. didn’t think my knowledge was genuine. he wanted me to be “sweet” and liked that i was “submissive.” said i needed to be punished, said it would teach me to act like a girl.

i didn’t know i was a boy back then, and any trust i’d gained with my previous play partner was shattered. he touched me when he wanted and where he wanted, sulked when i tried to deny him, persisted until i stopped saying no.

called me his girlfriend.

and while i’d had discomfort with my gender before, felt an inherent “wrongness” with the identities “girl” and “woman,” he put tangible doubts into my mind. flawed thinking. toxic ideas. i felt weak, said it was because i was smaller, because i was a girl. i felt powerless, said it was because i was weaker, because i was a girl. abuse will turn you into a dangerous person.

the boy that dated him was petrified, confused, ashamed, and very unhappy. in the rebound following i threw myself into the lesbian identity, felt safer there being butch, being “a fighter.” i started lifting weights, started picking fights, went to bars and asserted my masculinity to anyone who made eyes at me. i felt powerful, and fake, and still so fucking scared.

---

my first date back home in the midwest-- we met at work and he smiled at me the way boys smile at girls they think are pretty. i never understood how that happened to me, with my choppy hair, splotchy face, baggy clothes. i worked so hard at being undesirable that i couldn’t understand where i was failing at it. i never saw the appeal.

eighteen months after leaving the devil, i was still startled enough to overcompensate. for our date i wore thick jeans and a sturdy belt and heavy leather boots, put on my binder and a nice black t-shirt, got to the bowling alley early and paid, got us both beers. you cannot imagine the confusing energy the entire date radiated with.

he was bisexual, in the end, and more feminine than i was even without all of my pretending. said he’d never dated a butch woman before. i didn’t know why i still felt so fucking uncomfortable. he was terribly sweet, and respectful, and he didn’t treat me especially like a girl

he waited for me to make the first move, and i didn’t. i put my arm around his shoulders during the movie. walked back to my truck without so much as hugging him goodnight.

---

when i look back on those boys i have to wonder how it would have been different, dating them with security in my own identity. to have boyfriends while being seen as a boy. how those experiences would feel. who i would have grown into now. would things have been better? harder? would devastating things be even more devastating?

i’ll never know for sure, but we can’t waste time mourning what could have happened. who i was as a kid is still who i am now, just without the right words, without the comfort. it’s all a part of growing. if i’d known i was trans at an earlier age, there would have been different problems. probably more difficult problems.

i’ll save the rest for daydreams. at least, now, i get to be a young man.

#trans guy #ftm #trans boy #gender confusion #self exploration #lgbt #tw: sex mention

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fly-underground · 5 years

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six hundred and seventy five: 2019

The annual year in review entry. I’ve written this post nine times, one for every year of this decade. I reread the very first one, from 2010, aloud to my mother the other night. My writer’s voice is so chipper in it, so young. I had just started college. In so many ways, I had barely lived. I was about to list off all the things I hadn’t yet done, as an explanation. But the truth is, even now, having done at least a few of those things, I still have barely lived. I want to remember that, to bottle up that feeling of wistfulness for a younger self, that protective inclination to wait for things to get better and worse, because I know I still need it. There is still so much I haven’t done, so much I want to do. Ways to spend the next few decades, if I’m lucky enough to have them.

Last year at this time, I think I was home alone with Cory. I can’t remember it perfectly. The past few years have blurred together in that regard. Was this the year that Mariah Carey sang badly during Dick Clark’s Rockin’ Eve? I’ll look it up after I write this. The point is, I welcomed in the new year alone, but not really, and then received a flurry of text messages from my mother and brother and so many friends. January passed in New York for the most part. I went to my favorite bar every week, first with Liz and then with Vivian. I got bad news one night about a fellowship and the next night, I found out that my fellowship paper was selected for an academic conference. I felt like Even Steven, losing one thing, gaining another. By the time I made it back to Boston, for the spring semester, it was the end of the month. That last week became so important, especially in retrospect. I met a man from the past in one of my classes, someone I knew vaguely from my time at Swarthmore. February was about him. And so was March and April and May.

I used to keep details off my blog, because I was afraid of people reading and piecing together the truth. I wanted to be polite and coy. Now, I guess I don’t really know who is still reading this. And maybe I also don’t care. If you know me, really know me, you know what happened. If you don’t, well: in February, this blast from the past man sent me an email about coffee. I said yes and we spent hours together, walking around Cambridge, the pink sky of the new moon above our heads. Then he asked me to go to the Arnold Arboretum. We never went. Instead, we talked for hours in another coffee shop. Uncharacteristically, I asked to see his place and after I met his roommates, in-between bites of fig newtons, he leaned over and whispered: Can I kiss you? His tongue slipped into my mouth in the darkness of his living room. He kissed me again on his doorstep and my head spun on the lyft ride home. I threw up hours two hours later, from the hunger induced migraine. I didn’t eat at all that day, except for the cookies in his house and the lettuce wrapped in turkey at midnight in my bed. Of course I threw up. The next week, we went out again. Later, in my bed, wrapped up in his wiry, tattooed arms, I was just happy. That was when he told me, that he’s an alcoholic and an addict. It should have changed something for me, it should have set off an alarm. It didn’t.

Four days later, he relapsed. He had cancelled and then un-cancelled our date. I met him at a Starbucks and on the T back to his place, our legs touched. I felt bad, terrible in a way that I couldn’t name. We watched some Netflix original reality show and then, in his bed, we had sex. We kissed. He told me about his history of self harm and severe mental illness. I talked about my own trauma. It was not a good date. I couldn’t sleep after. In the morning, after he made me eggs and I realized he would not be going to his next AA meeting, I asked, trying not to cry, Will I see you again? He said of course, and then he backed me into a wall and kissed me with a boyish glee. I felt relieved and stupid. Three days later, he told me he couldn’t make it to my place for dinner. He said that he felt like he had encountered me in the wrong moment of his life, that he couldn’t stop drinking, that he was checking himself into a facility, that I meant something to him. I cried that whole weekend. I barely ate. No one could help me.

It was like this for months. Every interaction between us charmed and hurt me. When he was doing well, I was joyous. Otherwise, I was miserable. I skipped meals. I had nightmares. I cried alone in my room, on walks around campus. I lost weight and inches. I felt like I was dying. Somehow, in that strange internal darkness, I realized I was not okay. I wanted to be okay, more than anything. I felt bad all the time and I was tired of feeling bad. In April, I started seeing a therapist. In May, I started seeing a nutritionist. I went to a support group meeting and read literature about codependency. I felt like it was my fault, my emotions, my own shit. I called my mother and Vivian and Michael. I was defensive about this guy. Addiction is a disease, an addict is not a Bad Person, but he can be a deeply troubled person.

And then, after all of that, one day in May, he told me that he had gotten involved with someone. It was the way he said it. Two weeks before, in his bed, he had asked if he could undress me. I told him then, sitting outside the Harvard Square T stop, that he was a coward. He flinched, like I hit him. I said, I thought I loved you, but you aren’t who I thought you were. I guess, I didn’t really love you then. I also said, I’m sorry if that hurt you, I don’t mean to hurt you. And he told me, his eyes glassy, that I meant something to him. Of course, I knew that. Of course, it didn’t matter.

I skipped some stuff, or I made it seem small. In May, when I went to that support group meeting, I actually spoke in the group. I said, Every day I feel this intense pressure to try my best. I want to be kind and generous and patient and brave and good. But it’s so much work, being that way. Sometimes, I can’t do it. Sometimes, I just don’t have it in me. On those days, I want to give myself permission, to simply try. On those days, “best” is not the goal. The goal is to keep at it, whatever it is. So, I went to classes and socialized and asked for help. I told my therapist in April, that coming to therapy meant that I wasn’t hopeless, that I hadn’t given up on myself. In March, I presented my paper at an academic conference, as a single author. I was also on a poetry panel with Trista, Amanda, Cyrus, and Iain. How insane to be there with them, to be included in a family of poets.

In June, the man disappeared, moved away without a real goodbye. At the time, I was devastated. I can’t describe the feeling of abandonment, but I thought: love is not for me. I thought it through June and July. I went out with a series of inconsequential men. There’s a photo I saved on my phone, after one of those dates. He wasn’t a bad guy, just boring, just rude. I came home and cried until my mascara had spread across my face. I went back to New York in July, and in between visiting with friends and volunteering at camp, I had a hilarious summer fling, not a story just something for friends to gossip about. Even then, I was lonely. I didn’t run away from it, though. I recognized it. I thought, I should keep trying. Maybe I would find a good thing.

August had me dog-sitting and transliterating Sanskrit books and gearing up for the final year of my master’s degree and looking into various doctoral programs. It was also when I went on a first date with this handsome, funny, smart, and unbelievably kind man, who would eventually become my boyfriend— how weird that word looks here, how funny that it means something to me after all these years. It has felt like emotional whiplash, this year, loving two men. Looking back, it should be easy to say oh that wasn’t really love. But that’s not true. I loved two people this year, just so differently. If the first love made me nervous, the second makes me calm. I was on a bus back to Boston after Thanksgiving and the traffic was terrible and I felt an ugly irritation bubble inside me because of my seat neighbor. I thought about my boyfriend then, his easy smile, how he rubs my back when I cough. What a small thing, but I felt lighter just thinking about it. It sounds silly and cheesy, I know. But I don’t want to belittle it, not here. I don’t think I have ever really felt so good to be with someone before. It is so new to me, this joy, this stability. I don’t want to take it for granted.

I wrote in my journal a few days ago, that I’m not sure if this relationship is good because he is so good, or because I have done the work of trying to lead a healthier life. Is this just a byproduct of one or the other? Or, as Liz says, is this what happens when two Virgos come together? I don’t know, I loved a Virgo once before, and I don’t remember ever feeling this light. This is different. He is different.

In September, I went to Denmark for my ten year reunion camp reunion. I started this blog right after that iconic summer, 16 and strangely tan from all that northern sun. From October through December, I applied to doctoral programs. Yes, again. We’ll see what happens. For the first time, I don’t really know what I want in my future, but I’m trying to trust in the universe to guide me there. I know I want love. It’s hard for me to admit that. I used to scorn women who named that in their list of goals, but it’s important, as important as everything else. I want to feel close to someone. I want a life of meaning, even if it just means something to me. I want to write. I hate that I ever stopped doing that. I feel sometimes like I have wasted my potential there, in writing professionally. I hope that’s not true. I am not ready to give this up, this dream that could still turn into something.

Something that I said a lot this year: whatever happens, I’ll be okay. During a depressive episode a few weeks ago, I thought I was losing everyone in my life, that everyone secretly hated me. What I told myself then, was not that I was crazy or wrong, but that I could deal with it. It’s true. If that happened, I could deal with it. But I hate that response. I wish I fought more. I wish I didn’t turn over so easily. Not that I think I could change someone’s mind. But I wish I didn’t just accept the worst case scenario. Anyway, maybe it’s strange even to debate this. The truth is so far from the worst case scenario. In fact, right now the truth is I am so fucking lucky. Ten years ago, I was just a high school student whining on the internet. Today, I am a Harvard graduate student; I am an author; I have a publication list that makes professors raise their eyebrows; people care about what I write and think; there are people who love me, really love me; I am healthier and happier than I ever thought I deserved to be. I worked for this. I earned it. I didn’t give up on me.

I can’t predict anything about the future. I’m always so hilariously wrong. Mostly I hope I never stop trying. 2020 still sounds like a fiction, but it’s real, it’s happening, it’s here. It’s funny, I only ever feel that surprised by joy. I hope that never changes.

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