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devilmademewriteit · 1 year

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Dark Paradise

part 3 of Salvatore

read part 1, Salvatore, here

read part 2, Playing Dangerous, here

pairing: javier peña x afab!fem!reader

summary: left alone in javi’s bed, you go looking for distractions. finding them only leads you further into his world: a world of danger and violence, where no one can protect anyone.

warnings: rough sex/smut (fingering, fem penetration, super SUPER light choking) so 18+ only content; pet names (cariño, hermosa, querida, sweetheart, baby) afab fem reader; reader is American; mentions of hair pulling; allusions to SA; attempted SA against reader (not by javi); violence against reader (hitting, slapping, manhandling); smoking; dubcon (power imbalance, trauma sex??).

word count: 7k+

no use of y/n in this fic

u guys. it is here. and the most exciting part is I can already promise u a part 4!! pls be mindful that this part is darker than the rest. it has many triggering themes, so many sure u read the warnings & stay on the safe side of things.

as always, love u all so effing much. feedback, reblogs, comments & asks are always appreciated, & don’t forget to join the taglist in my pinned post !

-em<3

—

No one compares to you. I’m scared that you won’t be waiting on the other side.

- Dark Paradise

“Girl, where did you go?”

You’re on the landline with Carrie, one of the few half-friends you'd made living in Medellín, thighs sore and bruised from the backseat-loving you’d received the night before. While Javi’s at work, you’re on (his words) 'house arrest,' and lounging alone in his apartment feels eerily quiet. The occasional car drives by—you try not to listen for the sound of scraping tires.

So, around 9:30, you’d decided to fill the silent space with a bit of vapid conversation, realizing that last night's antics (and your unexplained disappearance) may have caused a bit of confusion.

You start by filling Carrie in on the generalities: the guns, the car, and the rescue, at first planning to leave out the more… personal details.

Like the one you'd filed away under 'Riding a Cop to High Heaven in the Backseat of his Jeep.'

You also leave out the part where, afterwards, you’d kicked off your heels by his front door, let down your hair in a sloppy, half-drunk movement, made a beeline to the familiar crinkles and folds of his unmade bed, and swiftly passed out in his embrace.

Oh, to fall asleep between those arms for the rest of eternity.

Given your more cynical—okay, borderline self-denying—approach to life, you felt downright ashamed of how much you’d enjoyed it. How much you’d enjoyed him and all of his lasting touches.

And in the morning… Javi’s hardness biting into your hip was a more efficient wake-up-call than the trial nuke sirens back home; the soft kisses laid down the length of your neck and the long, lazy fingers creeping down your abdomen had you surging to consciousness with embarrassing speed. You’d shivered into wakefulness, flattened against his chest.

“Good morning, cariño.” His words were molasses, melted caramel, thick and damp with sleep.

“Hmmmh,” was your only reply, sloping into your highest octaves as his hand sank to push aside your already-ruined underwear, dipping lower to toy with the switch only he knew how to turn on best. Arching into his spine, last night’s dress crumpled up above your waist, leaving him to feel more, more, more of you.

“Thought it would take more convincing,” he breathed against your shoulder, a breeze of late august air.

“Wh’time z’it?”

“We have time, cariño, we have time.”

When his digits pulled a moan from your lips, no other answers really mattered. He’d loosed that deep, guttural rumble of approval that made your chest swell with pride, your legs part in service and need.

“Can you hold this leg up for me, baby? S’all you need to do.” He’d helped fold up your knee, and you’d turned to meet him with pleading, drooping eyes, dutifully contorting to mold into the shape of his body. “Perfect, baby, good job,” a rough kiss to your temple, “n’I can do the rest, hermosa—I’ll do the rest.”

He slid in effortlessly, harmonizing to your sigh of relief with a “shit, s’wet,” and sheathing his cock between the folds of your morning slick. Brows furrowing, mouth falling open, you had every detail of your bliss etched on your expression, all for the beautiful man looming over you. “Always fuckin’ askin’ for it, huh, sweetheart?” He'd mused. “Woke me up moanin’ in your sleep, cariño—dreamin’ about last night?”

An “mhmm,” was all you could muster. Javi’s hips rolled against your ass, and the resulting feeling of overwhelming fullness had you swearing you were still in reverie. When he paused, snaked his arms under your neck and around your waist, and pulled you flush against his chest, you remember it feeling like a dirty, desperate hug.

“M’sore, Javi,” you’d whined at the stretch of your opening, the continued drag of Javi’s fingers against your aching, weary clit.

“S’no excuse, baby,” he’d grumbled into the shell of your ear, pressing hard into that tender bundle of nerves. “Gotta get you used to it.”

A harrumph as he’d turned up the intensity, punishing you for your protests. “Y-you’re a mean-mean man, Javier Peña.”

Soft, gravelly laughter danced, twirled, traveled along the dip of your neck. “‘N you’re gonna come so hard for this mean, mean man.”

He was right, bringing you to the brink of orgasm with the thick, rough pads of his fingertips, the tip of his cock sliding up and down, over and over, in and out of your guts.

“Yeah—yes—m’gonna come for you, Javi,” you’d admitted.

But he’d stolen his magical digits away, used them to turn your jaw, to square your face off with his own concentrated, lust-filled expression. “Show me cariño, yes—gonna be picturin’ that pretty lil’ face aaaaall fuckin’ day,” and you’d tumbled over the edge the moment he’d slid back down to the apex of your thighs, drowning in the darkness of his cinnamon-brown irises and the tantalizing circles—drawn from memory—against your clit.

“J-javi—it feels—feels s-so good—”

“I know, hermosa, s’just what you needed, fuck—”

He was already close enough, but your climaxing trembles and your whining, choked gasps had him wrapping his hand around your throat, pushing you further and further down the length of his tensing shaft.

“Shit—you feel like heaven, baby, so good for me—”

His release came fast and hard, leaking his hot spend into you, painting your insides like brushstrokes on canvas with his final thrust.

He seemed to lay there for forever, softening between your walls as sweet slumber carried you off once more. “Go back to sleep, baby,” he’d advised against your shoulder (as if you’d needed any kind of encouragement), “Did such a good job; go back to sleep.”

It was easy to accede to his command.

You’d come to for a half-second as he’d placed, fully dressed, the clink of his belt and the crisp waft of his cologne rousing you to near-consciousness, a deliberate, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Don’t answer the door for anyone else, okay, hermosa?”

“Huh? Oh—mhm.”

And you’d vaguely registered a low laugh. “Good to know you’re so well behaved when you’re half-asleep.” His finger traced your cheekbone, dragged down to pull teasingly at your bottom lip. “Means I’ll have to keep fuckin’ you to the point of exhaustion.”

“Mhm—please." Squished and mumbled, guttural and breathless.

Another soft laugh, and then echoes of receding footsteps.

Waking up a few hours later, you’d peeled your sticky thighs apart, confused at first by the mysterious pool of wetness between your legs.

You didn’t bother cleaning it up, already feeling the loss of your DEA officer. You somehow chose to dial Carrie's number to kill some time on your day off (or else, you feared, you’d have quickly found another use for your bored fingers).

Being alone in his room leaves you feeling very young. Lying in his bed, thinking about the past night’s events… you feel giddy, like a highschool girl after her first time, and anxious, on edge without Javier’s protection.

You just want to gush about it.

“Do you remember that DEA agent? The Texan?”

You barely have time to finish your thought before Carrie’s cutting your question short.

“Sexy Javi?”

She giggles. You snort indelicately into the receiver.

“I never called him that.”

“You didn’t have to,” she returns. “I deduced it from the amount of times you ranted to me about his… callers.”

You fiddle with the telephone chord, smiling artfully to yourself. “I’m in his bed right now.”

There’s a slap. No doubt the sound of a hand clapping over a set of slack lips. And then—

“I thought he lived outside the city?!”

It’s a strange reaction. You’d expected something a bit more on-topic, confused at your friend’s preoccupation with Peña’s living quarters when you’d just divulged such an out-of-character, personal detail.

Well, at least the enthusiasm is there.

“No, he lives right by the embassy.” You respond, rolling lazily onto your side. Opening the top drawer of his bedside table, you grimace to yourself, taking in (on top of the empty bottle of men’s cologne and an old, broken watch) a box of tissue paper, a pair of handcuffs (not regulation), a smatter of sex toys, and a few scattered, unopened condoms. “That new… fancy building on the corner,” you continue, swiping a few tissues between your legs, trying not to giggle at the teasing Javi was in for tonight, “Carrie—are you seriously not gonna ask how it was?”

There’s a pause. You hear a rustle in the background; the sound reminds you of students in class, whipping out pens and notebooks.

Is she taking notes?

“Tell. Me. Everything.”

That reaction felt more appropriate.

It all comes bursting out of you—the night out, Javi’s rescue, your backseat escapade. Carrie’s an ideal audience, gasping and ‘oooh’-ing and ‘girl!’-ing at all the right moments.

When you get to the end of your tale, your cheeks hurt from smiling so much. Carrie pries for more and more specifics, keeping you on the phone for close to an hour. You don't give her everything (did she really need an approximation of his size?) but you do make sure to remind her, often, that Javier Peña was an excellent fuck.

Finally, the conversation dies down. Sitting up, you realize just how desperately you’re in need of a shower. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, the smell of sex, tequila, and Javi’s day-old cologne clinging to your skin, but his place gets hot, and you hadn't anticipated the need to pack deodorant in your purse during last night's going-out prep.

Either way, Carrie's become distracted, the length between your words and her responses growing with every passing minute. You notice a Spanish conversation taking place in the background, no doubt the reason for her decreasing attentiveness.

You’re about to hang up, launching into a polite, “alright girl, I’ll let you go” when she goes back in for more.

“Is he home now?”

She blurts it out, and you're a bit taken aback. Frankly, the urgency of her tone feels a little jarring.

“Um, no,” you answer, uncertain, stretching out your vowels, “I think he went in early today.”

“Good.”

Her clipped tone continues to confuse you. It’s… not playful anymore. It’s administrative.

Commercial.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh,” a flutter of shrill laughter, “Just wanted to make sure he’s not listening in on our—”

There’s a knock at the door before she can finish. You call out just a sec! automatically, pulling on your rumpled clothes from the night before as the receiver tumbles onto the unmade bed.

It’s only once you’ve lumbered over, wiped the grogginess from your eyes, once you’ve unlocked the door and twisted the handle—it’s only once your head is covered with a thick, scratchy fabric, once the world’s gone dark and a cry of surprise is wrenched from your throat—that you recall Javi’s warning:

Don’t open the door for anyone else.

Something else takes over. Something primal. Fight, fight, fight. Find the flesh and punish it, scramble for purchase into any detectable, softer areas. Squirm until your legs give out, 'till your knees hit the floor and the beginnings of bruises scatter across your burning skin in a plethora of vulnerable places.

But when you thrash around like that, make sure your head doesn’t hit the doorframe.

Because then? It’s lights out.

—

The first thing you notice is the smell.

Weed and tobacco. Wet weed and tobacco. It’s not a smell you’re accustomed to (you worked for the DEA, for crying out loud). It makes your already-pounding head spin, so it takes a second before you remember that you’re not safe—you’re not at home, you’re not at Javi’s, and you’re not with Javi.

Instincts kick in. Your stomach aches with fear, lighting you up from the inside, energizing every inch of your body. You wrench, pull, struggle against the restraints suffocating your wrists, binding your hands around the back of a rickety, wooden chair. You can’t kick at anything, either. Your ankles are crossed, squished on top of each other and secured by a firm length of (what you assume to be) rope.

And then the canvas is unceremoniously yanked off of your head, taking a few hairs from your scalp along with it.

You squint, blinking into the dim light, slowly adjusting to your surroundings: some sort of musty basement with concrete walls and floors, decorated by nothing except a couple of small, rectangular windows near the too-high ceilings. It’s completely empty—save for your company.

One, two, three strangers. All men. All Cartel, by the looks of them.

And all positively leering.

The one nearest you, holding the bag in his hands, speaks down to you. It’s quick and harsh, mocking and cruel. Spanish and unintelligible.

Your hatred towards the captor blinds you; it coaxes the animal out of its cage. You spit: “I don’t speak Spanish, motherfucker.”

(Even if you did, the adrenaline coursing through your veins wouldn’t allow you much room for comprehension).

From the shadows, another man appears. He lumbers over to you, and you notice the peculiarity of his European-looking hat as he squats down to level with you.

He clicks his tongue, dousing you with a look of disapproval. “That’s not very nice, hermosa.”

You shiver. Javi had called you that before, many times. And even though it sounded totally different coming from this foul man’s mouth, shrouded under the veil of a thick, Spanish accent, it sticks.

You hold your tongue, biting it to keep from sobbing. The glint in his eye, visible behind his glasses, moves from playfulness to exasperated ire.

He sighs, stands, and grabs your hair, tilting your head back harshly to look down at you. “You’re very hard to catch, you know that?” He muses, darkness trickling across his features. “But you’re alone now, Americana. No DEA—no Javier Peña to protect you.”

He makes a mockery of his name, oozing cockiness as it comes spitting out of his smirk. You glare up at him, simmering anger and bubbling fear claiming you. Would they go after Javi?

No. They wouldn’t dare.

Only an American like yourself—low-value, replaceable, unnoticeable—was expendable.

“What do you want from me?”

He smiles, releasing your head and taking a step back.

“You’re the assistant, aren’t you?” And that deceptively sweet tone is back, frightening you more than his rage. “We need directions, hermosa. You’ve been in all the government buildings—we know, we watched you. Why don’t you give us some assistance,” he pauses, leaning down towards you, “And tell us where your evidence against Pablo Escobar is filed.”

You snort, unimpressed, shocked, and a little humoured by his little monologue. This was what they were after?

This was why you'd been fearing for your life?

A fucking… map?

“Find someone else. I don’t know shit.”

It’s honestly true. The bastards could not be barking up a more wrong tree. For all their criminal genius, they hadn’t managed to catch the fact that you really, truly didn’t give a flying fuck about the particulars of your job.

But if this was about Escobar—the Pablo Escobar—then these were men from the Medellín cartel. The same Medellín cartel that left scores of expendable bodies in its wake, that bombed, assassinated, and tortured government workers like they were no more than rats in a science lab.

You weren’t the end-all, be-all of this operation.

No, you were just another lead.

A lead that (only you knew) led to jack-all. Unless they were scrambling to learn about the best places to go out dancing or the worst brands of moisturizer, you had very little to offer the thugs.

The one with the strange hat—the ringleader, you decide—shares a smile with his co-conspirators, and you begin to regret the arrogance of your statement.

“There are many ways we can do this,” he warns, voice sloping down to a dangerous hum. “It can be easy…” and he lowers a hand to his belt buckle, setting every cell in your body on fire, “Or hard.”

It‘s a plea to God more than a question for your captor, your desperate, self-pitying: “Why me?” It can't be above a whisper, but the asshole responds anyway.

“It’s more enjoyable when we get to work with something pretty.” A dark laugh. “Who’s going to come looking for you, hermosa? Your family? Your friends? Your… government?” He clicks his tongue again, looking down at you in mock concern. “Like I said, we’ve been watching. You have a habit of disappearing. Running away.”

Figures.

Figures that the reason you’d wound up with your life on the line, your body in danger, was because of you. Once again, it boiled down to the lack of attachments you’d curated over the years, passing from one thing to another, quick on your feet the second they hit solid ground. For God’s sake, the only reason you’d made it this long in Medellín was because it hadn’t managed to bore you yet.

Figures that the closest thing to stability you’d been able to find was in the crime capital of the world. It was poetically honest, laughably ironic.

Of course, the American government would assume you’d fucked off—just another ditzy contractor swept up in the thrill of a south-American life.

The other part held water, too—no one would come looking for you. Your boss might huff about ‘these flighty secretaries, can’t hold ‘em down for anything,’ but beyond that, your disappearance would cause less than a stir.

Somehow, that thought comforted you. The lack of collateral, the lack of another’s suffering… very little harm would befall the world in the wake of your absence. Peace was beginning to crest upon your settling soul. And, either way, you’d worked in this line of work for long enough to know that your death warrant had been signed the very second they’d seen you as a target.

You give the bastards what they want? You die.

You hold off? You die.

All things considered, you resign yourself, making up your mind.

Still, your defiant voice quivers as you say it.

“Fuck you.”

The ringleader smiles, like a predator cornering its prey, taking that first bite into hard-earned flesh. Your brain responds, screaming warnings in big letters, in flashing red ink. He barks an order to his underlings in Spanish, and the other two men come forward, roughly undoing the holds along your ankles, your wrists.

“Get the fuck off of me!”

But they don’t listen, yanking you upright and shoving you onto the ground. Your vision becomes hazy. Something takes over, a protective instinct, perhaps, barring you from your own body. Distantly, you observe yourself fighting, but really all you feel is beyond. The words ‘I am not here, this is not happening’ wash over you over and over again, like a cleansing, salt-water wave.

Hands on cement. Clothes torn, destroyed—the cold barrel of a gun to your head, a man barking orders, hitting, slapping—and right as the worst is about to happen, everything just…

Stops.

It’s like they’re spellbound, bugs frozen in amber.

You hear the cause of it well after your torturers do. Footsteps upstairs, and gunshots, screams followed by the definite sounds of a creeping squadron.

The men get messy. Scrambling around, they gather their options. In your dazed periphery, you watch their eyes latch onto one of those open windows, 8 or 9 feet up from the ground.

A hushed conversation ensues. You're familiar enough with the more violent side of the Spanish vocabulary to string together their meaning.

“Shoot her? — no, the noise, they’ll find us faster — kill her? — too long — take her? — too messy — we have to go, we have to go, we have to go.”

Your ruined shirt is shoved down your throat, and then you’re gagging on it, ankles bound once more, shaking and naked on the freezing concrete. The trio uses the little wooden chair to frantically sneak out of the window.

It would be downright comical if you weren’t so terrified.

Soon, you’re alone, choking on cotton and wriggling to flatten your back against the wall. Centuries pass before the movement upstairs graduates to the basement below.

Relief doesn’t grace you. Any man—DEA, cartel, or Colombian police—would likely perform the same violence as your previous captors had planned to. A naked girl, roughed up and completely unprotected, in a dark, hidden basement, totally at their mercy… Shit. You were basically an invitation. A free meal, offered up to a different, hungry crowd.

You just pray that this one might be gentler.

The stairs creak under the certain weight of bodies in motion.

Tears run down the side of your face, dripping down from your temple onto the ground below. You compress into a ball, making yourself as small as possible.

The echoes grow louder, closer and closer. At this point, you just hope they’ll assume you’re an enemy or get trigger-happy and give you a quick taste of lead. Put you out of your misery.

Giving up was well within your comfort zone.

Someone gasps when they see you, and a single name hurtles through the space.

An out-of-commission part of your mind recognizes it—the name—knows it as a comfort. Still, you only tremble, trying to disconnect yourself from what must be a wishful, crafted, deceitful version of reality.

Then someone else comes forward. Your eyes, weary of keeping you in the dark, fling open just in time to watch a tall, dark-haired man push through the crowd of soldiers. You watch his expression—shock to rage, rage to relief, and then rage all over again.

He rushes you, falling to his knees before your wrecked form.

His first move is to wrench the fabric from your mouth. You croak out the most desperate sob of relief, all those stifled, unvoiced expressions of terror tumbling out in great-big-heaves.

“Are you hurt?” He asks.

“No.” You respond.

“Did they…?”

“No.”

Javi tears his big doe-eyes, filled with worry, away from yours, twisting to impatiently address the frozen crowd of four or five behind him. “Can somebody take these fuckin’ ties off?”

Switchblades slice through twine. Someone brings you a blanket, and Javi bundles you up in it, gathering you and lifting you in his arms. You don’t resist, clinging around his neck and hiding in the comfort of his shoulder.

“Hermosa—”

You regret the way you flinch. “Please—please don’t call me that anymore.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t ask questions, sounding a little softer, a little more unsure when he presses on, muffling the desperate edge to his tone. “Did you see where they went?”

“The window. Out the window.”

Most of the rest take to that almost immediately, scattering to start on their chase. Javi delivers a set of orders in his native tongue.

Then, he grows silent, carrying you through the house with two soldiers in the lead. “Close your eyes, okay? You don’t wanna see this.” But now that they’re open, you can’t seem to shut them. You only glimpse flashes of the upstairs area. Tables covered in paper, glass contraptions and coke, so much coke, which is almost more impressive than the quantity of blood splattered against the peeling walls.

And Carrie.

Carrie with half her brains hanging out, long, dark, red-soaked hair fanning around her crown like a rotten halo, lounging on the couch, fingers splayed and palms to the sky as if she were ready to wrap them around a glass of white wine—as if she were ready to catch up on girl-talk.

What’s Carrie doing here?

Should I ask her?

She’s dead.

No, she’s not. She’s right there. She was waiting for me to be done so we could catch up. That’s just how she always sits—it’s just the scoliosis.

That’s why she always showed up so late to the club. She… she couldn’t dance too long because of the scoliosis.

You’re still debating whether or not Carrie would be up for a bit of gossip, another debrief, when big, strong arms lower you into the passenger seat of a Jeep Cherokee.

Javier buckles you in.

“We can’t go to your place—that’s…” and you trail off weakly, throat burning with effort. “That’s where they took me.”

He nods, his face a complete mask of concentration.

But you know him.

He’s holding everything back. You appreciate him for that, never wanting to hear a man shout for the rest of your cursed time on Earth.

“Steve’s, then.”

It’s your turn to nod.

—

Javier drives in complete and total silence, only speaking the occasional clipped sentence into his radio. Despite your vulnerability, despite your overwhelming gratitude, you feel guilty for taking him away from his work, from his team. For forcing him to rescue you once again.

For sure, he’s angry. Would he have to move? Find a new place? Leave all his stuff at the old one? Would a better captive have paid better attention, taken note of the exact direction her kidnappers had taken off in after clearing the window?

Soon, you’re settled against a couch, the light from the opposing window breaking in and dancing across Javi’s face. A blonde woman—fiery, familiar, concerned—hands you a glass of water.

Javi watches you, eyebrows notched together, lips drawn into a thin line as you take a slow sip in silence. The liquid slides down your throat, cooling and soothing the rips and tears there.

And they both won’t stop staring. Truly, their joint study makes you self-conscious, watching on with unapologetic intent as you shiver under the scratchy blanket.

Finally (thankfully), Steve's wife—Connie, you recall—speaks.

“You can go, Javi. I'll take it from here.”

“No.”

She looks borderline offended at his line in the sand.

“I don’t think she’s in any shape to talk, Peña.” It’s authoritative, protective, clearly marked with harboured resentment.

She'd make a good mom.

He scoffs. “I’m not gonna make her talk, Connie. Just don’t wanna leave her like... this.”

Connie looks confused. They share a glance, and an eventual understanding passes over her expression. In fact, even in your distressed state, you’re almost certain you catch a hint of a smile.

“Well if you’re both staying, we’ll need food.”

Javi nods absentmindedly, lighting up a smoke. You look away, still feeling the weight of his eyes boring into your ducked head.

She clears her throat. “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Remember to lock the door, Javi.”

Then, swinging her coat on, she traces an awkward line out of the apartment.

Silence flits across the room. The agent continues to study you from his seat at the counter across the room.

“Are you okay?”

You pick at your nails, internally asking yourself the same question.

“I’m just glad you were there,” you muster up, looking up at his softened, warm gaze. Concern etches a couple of fresh lines on his face.

Javi nods, taking a long drag. “Always, sweetheart. I’m glad I was there, too.”

You shiver at the thought of what could have happened if he and his team had showed up just a few minutes later. What shape he would have found you in, or if you’d ever permit yourself to feel the touch of a man again. Of anyone again.

“Why were you there?”

The question comes out of nowhere, bursting out the moment you realize that you hadn’t yet bothered to ask him how he’d pulled off yet another well-timed rescue.

It couldn’t have been in answer to your prayers—those had never worked for you before.

“Carillo’s been following Escobar’s cousin for a while. Zeroed in on the neighbourhood, but we spent all morning doing searches. Honestly,” he breaks off for a moment, rubbing at his temples, “It was just damn luck that we found you when we did. Wish I could say it wasn't, but it was. We were gettin’ ready to call it off. I had… no idea you weren’t at home.”

He blames himself for it. You can tell. In turn, you blame yourself for that—for his misguided, self-inflicted anger.

There’s more left unsaid.

“My friend—I called her this morning. From your place. She was there. She was… dead. I think.”

Javi doesn’t react, evidence of the years of gore, wreckage, and betrayal he'd witnessed.

You swallow, soldiering on.

“I told her. I told her where I was. Could she… could she have told them?”

Is she the reason this happened to me?

Slowly, lips pressed around his cigarette, Javi nods. “I’m sorry,” he barely mumbles.

Strangely enough, you’re not. That’s what you say: “I’m not.” And it’s true. “She was upstairs when it was all happening. I’m glad she’s dead.”

Now, he looks at you with a consideration that swells into a kind of respect. Not a respect, no not respect. A knowing. A new kind of understanding, of equal footing.

You meet him head-on with it, basking in your retribution, revelling in the immediate justice she'd been served. You’d mourn the person you thought she was when your wounds weren’t so open, so fresh.

"They wanted directions, Javi," you suddenly blurt out, voice hoarse, "Isn't that insane? They were gonna... they were gonna do that for directions. Not even the evidence, just fucking directions-"

Javi lifts his hands in the air, signalling for you to slow down. Normally, it would make you want to tear his arrogant head off. Now, however, you just do, although the silence isn't very comforting. After a moment, you can tell there's something Javi’s been avoiding, something he’s holding in. The agent clears his throat, finally calling it quits on his tiptoe-ing around the subject.

“Cariño," he begins, "I know you told me earlier, but I... I gotta be sure. Did they hurt you in… any way?”

God, he sounds so deeply wary, unable even to speak his fear into existence. You shake your head no, prompting his shoulders to relax.

“Okay. Good,” he breathes, crossing his arms and looking down at the rug. “Don’t think I could…”

Panic ripples through your frame.

'Doesn’t think he could' what? Bear to look at me, knowing the enemy had been where he’d been, done what he’d done? Touch me in the same grooves they'd left on my skin? Javi’s not that kind of man—is he?

“Don’t think I could forgive myself if anything were to happen to you under my watch.”

The rush of anxiety quickly dissipates, replaced by a stifling bloom of admiration and adoration across your chest. Like soft tendrils, warming your shivering body from within.

You smile self-consciously, scoff, and meet his eyes. “I wasn’t ‘under your watch,’ Javi. I opened the door. It was my fault.”

He raises his eyebrows, huffing a breath before ashing his dart, rising, carving a path towards the couch-cushion next to you and taking your glass of water from between your hands. It clinks as he sets it on the table. Taking your unsteady hands between his hardened palms, he coaxes you into meeting his golden eyes.

“It’s not your fault, herm—” a pause as he corrects himself, noticing your flinch, “—cariño. It’s not your fault.”

He waits for your nod of acknowledgement before pulling you into his arms. You let yourself go limp, dragged into the plushness of the couch and the firmness of his chest.

He lays a kiss to your forehead. He fidgets with your hair. He traces long, lazy lines up and down your spine.

How had you gone from that youthful giddiness this morning to this dark, anxious wreck in a matter of hours? It wasn’t even two o’clock yet.

The comfort your agent provides is good—will always be good—but you want more. Every inch of attention he gives you is just another step away from that cold basement, a foot towards freedom.

Time heals all wounds, and you want a distraction while you face those excruciating seconds. Something to move it along. Something to keep you busy, to keep the harrowing images at bay.

So you tilt your head up. Finding his lips, you press into him, shuddering when the rough hairs of his mustache tickle your top lip. When your body asks for more, when your tongue meets his and your hand drops to his thigh, Javi tenses, pulling back and breaking off the kiss.

“Sweetheart—you’re not in a good place,” he whispers, lovingly running his fingers through your hair.

You look up at him with eyes full of need, wordlessly begging him to give in. “I am now,” you assure him, tossing a leg over his hips and straddling his body. His expression darkens as you slowly chip away at his resolve, one touch at a time. “I’m with you.”

He smiles, plucking your hands from his chest. Every kiss he lays to your knuckles sends a ripple of electricity up and down your spine. “That right?” He muses between embraces. “That all you need?”

You nod, the pace of your shallow breaths picking up in anticipation. “When you touch me, Javi, it’s like you’re cleaning them off me,” you croon, leaning forward to brush your lips against his jaw.

“You’re in shock, baby,” but his hands defy his words, slipping down to circle your waist, “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Slowly, deliberately, you lean back to stare directly into his heavy-lidded eyes. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

You feel him tense at that, his body hardening alongside the weight building underneath your thigh. He lets you go on, deft hands pooling onto your hips.

“Get rid of them for me,” you plead, grinding down onto his bulge.

“Make me all yours again.”

That does it.

His hands shoot up to your face, firmly cupping your cheeks between their heat. Then, Javi’s kissing you harder than before, warming your desire up to a feverish level. You moan into him, turning to putty in his grasp.

He peppers kisses down your jaw and up your neck, allowing you to clumsily untuck his shirt and undo his belt. It’s frantic and needy—it’s pure business. You free his length from the confines of his clothes, heavy breaths mingling when you look down in tandem, hungrily watching your small, delicate hand pumping up and down his cock.

“Fuck,” he groans, his dark crown of cropped curls falling back against the couch, “You make it fuckin’ hard to be a good guy.”

You smile, spreading the slick dribbling at his tip around the head of his cock.

God, the sight of him never gets old.

“Good guys listen, Javi,” you tease, managing to pull off an air of sultriness, “Not just to no—also to yes.”

A lazy, roguish grin spreads across his face. “You are feeling better, aren’t you?” and he knocks a squeal out of you when he cages you in his arms, flipping you over ‘till your back’s digging shapes into the worn-in cushions below. “Gettin’ mouthy already.”

You giggle up at him, but all of your noises dwindle when a few rough fingers push your torn, ruined underwear to the side. You grow especially wordless when one separates your folds and makes its way inside you.

Javi gives you his signature look of condescension, of mock pity.

“What happened, sweetheart?” He taunts, thumbing that aching bundle of nerves. “All the ways I’ve had my dick in you, just this—” he makes a point to curl his fingers towards himself, pressing against the most desire-stricken spot, “—‘n you can’t find your words?”

Your throat won’t open, choking around your own pleasure. Instead, you nod with enthusiasm, desperately clinging onto his forearm. “More.”

He quickly accedes, pushing another long and thick finger inside you. You shudder at the perfect sting—the stretch—as your opening hugs his knuckles. Javi mutters curses to himself, angry and lustful, supervising your writhing form.

“No one else gets to see you like this.” He speaks low, sitting up to work you with both hands. Your body responds without your permission; Javi clicks his tongue and shoves you back down when your hips buck up. “Don’t deserve it,” he continues voicing his thought as if no interruption had occurred, “I’d have to track ‘em down and kill ‘em.”

His tone goes beyond protectiveness, easily veering into the realm of the possessive. “I-I wouldn’t be good f-for them, Javi,” you manage, wanting to comfort him, to calm him, “Wouldn’t—wouldn’t listen.”

“Oh,” he smirks down at you, finally pulling his fingers from your soaked, ready cunt. “Like you listen to me?”

You spread your legs for him, shimmying down until he’s hovering right above you. He strokes himself, taking you in with hunger, playfulness and… something else.

Something like devotion.

A smile. You stroke his jaw. “You come harder when I misbehave.”

He shrugs and nods, a silent, ‘you got me there,' before lining himself up at your entrance.

You whimper, a pathetic, pleading sound, when the head of his cock finds your opening. “Then make sure to misbehave.”

He rocks inside you, taking note of the way your jaw goes slack, hanging open, and the way your brow furrows, grateful eyes glazing over, showing high praise for that feeling of fullness.

And he laughs to himself.

“Needy fuckin’ thing,” he coos, settling into a comfortable rhythm. “Beggin’ for cock after bein’ kidnapped. I shouldn’t be feedin' into your crazy, cariño.”

It is crazy. But you don’t care, giggling along to his taunt.

“Just makes me feel so-so good, Javi,” you breathe.

“Yeah?” He coaxes, sitting back to tower over you, pressing your thighs to your calves; the new angle has bliss rippling through your centre, your back arching involuntarily. “What feels good?”

He shoves your hips down, lowering a finger back to your clit.

“Oh—God—y-yourcock—” he nods approvingly at you, beckoning you to go on, “your—your fingers, too.”

He slows his pace, pulling out fully before slamming back inside you.

“Look at it, cariño,” Javi instructs, steadying your hips once more. “Watch me fuck your pretty lil’ pussy.”

You struggle onto your elbows and obey, mouth slack and perpetually open. Pressure builds at your core as you watch every inch of his hard, dark length disappear, over and over, inside the shelter of your body. It’s so dirty, and somehow the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“M-made for you, Javi.”

And he moans, an animalistic sound you’d never heard from him before.

“S’right, baby, made just for me.” He flattens his fingers against your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure. “Can you come for me now?”

You nod, grateful for his permission as soon as you start to feel your thighs shake. The tension snaps within you, and you tumble over the edge of your climax with a high pitched whine.

“Good girl,” he praises, low, deep, and bristling with pleasure, “Good fuckin’ girl.”

You ride it out. Javi shows no mercy, squeezing your waist and bouncing your lower half against him. His biceps and shoulders strain against his shirt, the sight making your eyes roll to the back of your head.

After having him a few times, you were well aware of his impressive stamina—Javi wasn’t going to finish without giving you another one. Nonetheless, the overwhelming pleasure has you squirming away from his unrelenting grasp.

He pulls you back against him, steadying you between two forceful hands.

And he fucks you harder.

“Still remember them, querida? ” He breathes.

You find your voice, using great effort to stammer out a “y-yes."

It's not the correct answer.

Javi growls, “Then I’m not fuckin’ done with you.”

His shirt grazes the insides of your thighs, and you're certain that every part of his form is working to set your skin on fire. A skilled hand wraps around your jaw, and Javi leans over you, lowering his lips to latch around a hard, peaked nipple.

Your whimpers do nothing to stop him. He just keeps rhythmically rocking into you, the head of his cock reaching impossible, beckoning depths.

An almost-sob wracks your lungs. “S’a lot, huh? Takin’ all this cock inside you…” Javi shushes you with feigned sympathy, nipping and suckling at the softest spots at his disposal. “S’okay, baby, s’okay.”

Then he makes his way to your lips, forces you to kiss him—deeply—as your lungs scream for oxygen. He locks your hands above your head in just one of his own, the pressure of his weight the only thing keeping your squirming limbs in place.

And then his mouth is sliding down your jaw, his breaths hot and heavy next to your ear.

“Fuck—can feel you gettin’ close, sweetheart, gonna come again?”

All you can do is nod.

He rolls into you—hard and deep—forcing tears to pull from the outer corners of your eyes.

“S-so good to me,” you manage, seeing pure white as your third orgasm of the day blooms from between your seizing legs.

He groans, freeing your hands (which immediately find stability in the firmness of his shoulders) to clumsily wipe the tears from under one dazed eye. Above you, he resembles a hungry, lustful angel, eyes darkened with unbridled need, affection, approval.

“‘M’good to what’s mine, baby,” he whispers, pulling you into the crook of his neck as he chases both your highs. “Come, cariño—s’right, come for me.”

And you do, aching, ruined cunt squeezing and releasing, fluttering around Javi. He moans a downright sinful ‘fuck’ at the sensation, reaching his own peak almost in tandem with yours.

Only once his every last drop is spent, once his groan and your whines have stopped echoing around the unfamiliar, open space, does he pull back from your neck.

And when he looks at you… God. There’s something you’re both not saying.

“Only wanna see you cry like this, baby,” he tells you, laying a long, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Never gonna let them—let anyone—lay a finger on you again.”

Your breath hitches, the words thick and sticky in your throat. The both of you are dazed, breathless, and completely wrecked. “I’m… I’m glad we met. That you—that we’re doing this.”

He raises his eyebrows, crooning a soft ‘yeah?’ as he pushes your hair from your face.

You nod. “You make all of it worth it.”

He’s appreciative when leaning in for a kiss, slipping out of you and groaning against your lips. You tangle your fingers in his damp hair, leaning up into him with every aching muscle in your body, wanting nothing more than to become a part of his whole. When he pulls away, it's only to tuck his softening length back into his briefs. He focusses on you again, leaning over to affectionately stroke your knee.

“Is it just sex for you?”

His question comes as a bit of a surprise—you’d never heard him speak so openly, so innocent and vulnerable.

You cup his face. Despite the fact that he looks like the men from earlier, carries the same guns and ammo, knows what they know, even speaks their language, he’s never seemed so separate from them, an entirely different species.

“No—at first, maybe, but now… No. Not for me.”

He eases into a soft smile, wrapping you back into your blanket before laying back, manhandling you to rest against his still-unsteady chest.

Those masterful hands comfort you in a million different ways. He plays with your hair and traces the highest points of your cheekbone. He massages your knuckles, pulls you in for little kisses, dips into the curve of your waist.

“How about you?” The question is small, even though you anticipate the answer.

He takes a second before answering. When he does, his voice is low, quiet.

“Not at all, sweetheart.” He tilts your head up, his soft, caring gaze probing into every corner of your own. “Honestly, I think it’s been more than that since the first time you said ‘go fuck yourself, Peña.’” He whistles under his breath, exaggerating his approval. “Shit was hot.”

It makes you laugh, but it's also enough to make your heart soar. Settling in to the nook of his neck, you breathe in his familiar, earthly scent, until the exhaustion of the day eventually weighs on you.

You fall asleep with a smile on your face, entertained by the fact that while you really should be a wreck, you feel perfectly at ease, wrapped in the arms of your favourite DEA agent. In fact, you can hardly remember what your kidnappers looked like—or sounded like, for that matter—succumbing to slumber, you only think of him.

—

Less than three hectic, hazy days later, you’re pulling a suitcase through the Medellín international airport. There was no sense risking it anymore—you'd have to be transferred to the States until the assholes were caught. Ambassador's orders.

Javi flanks your side, eyes peeled for any abnormalities in your surroundings.

Your heart breaks with every step you take. He comes all the way to the gate without saying a word, merely holding onto one of your bags (that he'd insisted he carry) in a white-knuckled fist.

You’re running behind. There’s not much time.

He doesn’t say he’ll call—knows he’s not that kind of man. You don’t say you’ll visit. You don’t say you’ll write.

No, all you do is lean up on your tippy toes to plant a tender, lingering kiss to his cheek. He returns the favour by cupping your face, leaning down and kissing you intently.

Too intently—as if he were memorizing the grooves in your lips.

Well, that’s what you’re doing, anyways.

Over the loudspeaker, your name is called.

“They’re paging you,” Javi translates, his breath hitting your top lip.

You pull away, doing your best not to cry.

“Thank you.”

It’s all you say—it’s all that needs to be said, really.

Thank you for showing me I matter. Thank you for teaching me patience. Thank you for saving my life three times. Thank you for wanting me. Thank you for making me wait for it. Thank you for giving me a reason to miss this place.

Thank you for loving me. I think that's what this is.

He hears it all, stuffed and contained, overflowing from the two uttered words.

Then he smiles, that well-trained, protective cockiness spreading across his face.

“You’re welcome, cariño.”

You scoff a laugh, slowly dropping his hand and turning towards your gate.

“If I ever visit home…” he calls after you.

You pause, smiling down at the glistening floor, shaking your head. “You’ll never catch me in Texas, Peña,” you call across the traffic of rushing families and over-packed suitcases. He smiles knowingly, hands in his pockets, watching you leave. “Just lock the fuckers up so I can visit. The weather sucks back home.”

You slowly walk backwards towards the exit, ignoring a few flight-attendant-glares, not daring to break off the playful eye contact linking you to your agent.

“I’ll do it just for you, baby,” he calls, grinning like a fool.

Strange. You’d never noticed how the teasing, that snarky back and forth you’d developed together seemed to put him at ease—to relax him. All that time he'd spent, driving you to the brink of insanity... it comforted him.

And that realization was enough to make you beam.

You commit that final glimpse to memory. Javi—smiling, calm, alive, yours. It was rare enough that you felt sure it would stick.

When you finally turn to face the gate, to face your future, you don’t feel like crying anymore.

It was enough just to have met him.

Maybe—just maybe—he felt the same.

—

All my friends tell me I should move on

I'm lying in the ocean, singing your song

Ahh

That's how you sang it

Loving you forever can't be wrong

Even though you're not here, won't move on

Ahh

That's how we played it

And there's no remedy for memory, your face is like a melody

It won't leave my head

Your soul is haunting me and telling me that everything is fine

But I wish I was dead (dead, like you)

Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise

No one compares to you

I'm scared that you won't be waiting on the other side

Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise

No one compares to you

I'm scared that you won't be waiting on the other side

All my friends ask me why I stay strong

Tell 'em when you find true love, it lives on

Ahh

That's why I stay here

And there's no remedy for memory, your face is like a melody

It won't leave my head

Your soul is haunting me and telling me that everything is fine

But I wish I was dead (dead, like you)

Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise

No one compares to you

I'm scared that you won't be waiting on the other side

Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise

No one compares to you

But there's no you, except in my dreams tonight

I don't want to wake up from this tonight

There's no relief, I see you in my sleep

And everybody's rushing me, but I can feel you touching me

There's no release, I feel you in my dreams

Telling me I'm fine

Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise

No one compares to you

I'm scared that you won't be waiting on the other side

Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise

No one compares to you

But there's no you, except in my dreams tonight

I don't want to wake up from this tonight

—

TAGLIST WILL BE CONTINUED IN REBLOG.

Strike-through means I cannot tag.

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sunnebeam · 8 months

Text

run away with me?

A 'DARKEST LITTLE PARADISE' DRABBLE.

pairing: min yoongi x reader

warnings: mafia au (but no specific details in this particular drabble), mentions of sex work, making out in the car

masterlist + disclaimers.

note: in case u didn't know, i'm still currently on my aug-oct vacation (see details in pinned post!) and this post was scheduled in advance :> this is shorter than usual but i hope it's still enjoyable. and u know the drill, don't forget to leave feedback & share ur thoughts <3

— prev: everything just stops | next: this is how the world works

Yoongi's lips touch yours and all your inhibitions go away.

You deepen the kiss, having deprived yourself of him for so long so now, you can't seem to get enough. You climb out of your seat to move across the center console and onto his lap.

He plants his hands on your waist, groaning into your mouth with his lips consuming yours.

"Yoongi," you mumble against his soft lips.

"Yeah, princess?" he hums.

You pull away and he almost whines at the loss. But he quickly recovers to hear what you have to say.

"I love you, too."

He freezes.

"I love you," you repeat, smiling as you let your feelings run free. "Maybe not like how the past me loved you. But I guarantee you it's just as much, if not more."

His breath hitches before he shakes his head, chuckling.

"You have no idea how much I needed to hear you say that."

He pulls you back to him, resuming your makeout session but this time with more sentiment.

He kisses you like his life depends on it, and you kiss him back just as passionately. The atmosphere naturally starts to escalate and soon enough, you're rocking your hips against each other, seeking friction.

It's been a while since you last had sex, what with your birthday and the revelations that came with it. Your bodies crave each other desperately, having been deprived for so long.

It would be understandable if you do end up fucking in the car. But unfortunately, there's something holding you back.

A black, shiny, metallic something.

You feel its outline in one of Yoongi's pockets and you know it's a gun. Instantly, your mood plummets when you realize just how extreme his line of work is, how risky and dangerous it is.

You don't think you can handle that lifestyle.

"What's the matter, princess?"

You stare at him, your eyes that were droopy and lust-filled just seconds before are now wide and pleading.

"Yoongi," you whisper, "would you run away with me?"

For the second time that day, Yoongi freezes at your words.

"If I asked you," you continue, still in a whisper, "would you give up everything and come with me?"

"What are you saying?" he finally utters.

"I have some money saved up," you tell him. "I always knew I was gonna quit my job at the brothel eventually and I've been saving up for a while now."

You take his face in your hands, caressing his cheeks, before you ask him again one more time.

"Run away with me, Yoongi."

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woso-fan13 · 6 months

Text

Comfortember 2023: 26 (Barca)

26. Friends

You had been hesitant to accept the dinner invitation that Lucy and Kiera had forced upon you at practice. You knew that they could tell that something was off, but you were fine. You didn’t need your coworkers butting into your personal life.

On the other hand, the invitation promised a warm meal and a comfortable location, so you couldn’t think of a good enough reason not to go. With slight hesitancy, you accept the invitation.

The two older women quickly become excited, insisting that you simply ride home with them. You couldn’t argue with them, they knew you weren’t old enough to drive yourself and this solution made sense. Plus, they promised to drop you off at home after, so you would be spared from the mile and a half walk home from the stadium.

—-

You find both your excitement and dread growing as practice continues, finally finding yourself showered and changed into comfortable clothes. If you had known, you would have put more effort into your outfit.

Once all three of you are ready, the two lead you out to the car. You slot yourself into the backseat easily and light conversation fills the air as you leave.

Lucy pulls the car up in front of a sweet little house, somehow the perfect combination of the two women. It seems like a paradise for the women, and you’re afraid to break the serenity by entering. You don’t have much choice, though, as Lucy eagerly shows you inside.

You pause in the doorway, training bag still in your hand. You feel so out of place in this loving home, you’re not sure what you’re supposed to do. What you want to do is turn around and run out the door, but that probably isn’t the best option. You’ll keep it as a backup plan, though.

“C’mon, kid,” Lucy’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts, “just drop your stuff anywhere, no worries. Kiera’s gonna put the takeaway order in while I give you a tour.”

You nod in response, looking around the entry before settling your bag into the corner. It looked how you felt- grossly out of place. You didn’t have time to ponder this too much, as a firm hand on your shoulder guided you through to the living room

Lucy’s tour was thorough- to say the least. You didn’t see why it was necessary for you to see every room of the house, but Lucy was animated and you were soaking in every small detail of how much this house encapsulated the way Lucy and Kiera melded perfectly.

You ended back in the living room just as Kiera wandered in from the kitchen. She informs the two of you that dinner had been ordered and would be about an hour before suggesting that you watch a football match. You agree, eager to stop the awkward silence that had started creeping in.

Lucy is more hesitant to agree, shifting slightly. You see the two women make eye contact, Kiera aggressively nodding to the tv set before Lucy agrees. The two settle on the sofa while you choose the chair.

You mindlessly watch the match, already knowing the outcome from when you had watched it previously. You can tell the other two aren’t fully paying attention, as they are constantly looking at each other and whispering.

“Oh, look at that,” Lucy grabs your attention, “do you see that sponsor in the background, for the boots? I completely forgot that they sent me a pair, but they don’t fit. Maybe you can try them on.”

Her acting is atrocious, honestly. Still, you’ve heard great things about this brand and you would love to see the boots. You agree to see them, opening the box and gently unfolding the paper. Your fingers run across the laces, moving to feel the logo.

“Try them on,” Kiera encourages you, “they won’t fit either of us. Maybe someone can get some use out of them.”

They fit perfectly. Still, though, you don’t feel that you can take them. Kiera eventually has enough of your protesting, taking the shoes back from you. She exits the room, unzipping your training bag and ungracefully dumping them inside.

“There, that’s settled. Dinner should be here soon, let’s get the table laid.”

Dinner was a relaxed affair, the food warm as it coats your taste buds. Conversation flows smoothly, carried mostly by Lucy and Kiera as you play with the food on your plate. As the meal progresses, you become more comfortable and join in more on the conversation.

You help to clean up the kitchen after, an indication that the night is wrapping up. As much as you had not wanted to come, you find yourself not wanting to leave now.

“It's very dark outside,” Kiera points out, “we can take you home now, but I don’t want to risk anything by driving too late.”

You look outside, where the sun is just barely dipping below the horizon, casting a warm glow. You look back to Kiera.

“It might be safer for you to spend the night here. We’ve got pajamas you can borrow and you already have all of your things for training tomorrow.”

You feel a smile growing on your face, catching on.

“I heard it might storm soon,” Lucy chimes in, “that would probably make travel pretty rough.”

The sky is completely clear.

You nod slowly, “I think that staying over might be a good idea, if it’s not too much trouble. Just to be safe.”

Lucy nods, “just to be safe. I'll make sure the guest bedroom is set for you.”

She exits the room, leaving Kiera alone. She walks to stand beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

“Thanks,” you mumble quietly.

“Of course,” she responds easily, “what are friends for.”

#womens soccer #reader insert #woso x reader #woso imagines #woso imagine #woso #woso fanfics #woso soccer #woso community #barca #barca femeni #barcelona femeni #fc barca #fc barcelona #lucy bronze #kiera walsh

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possibilistfanfiction · 4 months

Note

do you have any funny or cute details about Bea(or avatrice) in your butch Bea universe that you haven't share yet?

(I'm definitely re-reading some of it to fight against this bad day I'm having)

hello i’m sry this is late! work has been busy 😵‍💫 i hope ur day improved or at least there’s been some better days since 🫶

hmm well bea is good at like… every outdoors activity she tries — she’s coordinated & strong & focused, so once she gets the body mechanics down she’s like. above average to Excellent fairly quickly. surfing, trail running, backcountry hiking, bouldering, trad climbing, skiing, etc. i am lazy & put them in socal since i am in socal lmao but for the majority of the year california really is just outdoor enthusiast paradise.

she started trying stuff bc ava was gone & she was so sad & when her cool friends from surfing were planning a trip to climb in joshua tree or some ppl she met on the pct were driving up to mammoth for an end of the season ski, it was all better to be moving outside in grief than it was to sit at home in an empty house.

i think that maybe she worries, when she’s alone surfing or on a long run along the cliffs, even just bouldering at the gym with her airpods in instead of hanging out w friends who are there — maybe she worries that ava would be disappointed in her, that this isn’t what ava meant by ‘live your life’ — quiet streams & long car rides into the piney forest in a practical small suv, listening to a podcast about architecture. it seems small, to be in the wild — the ocean, the woods, the mountains, the desert — & not grand; at least, she feels small. she worries ava wanted her to feel big.

but then ava comes back & bea has been keeping a list of all the places to show ava, all the things to do with her, the movement & the air that kept her just on this edge of sane. & of course ava is delighted by it all — the kid who cried on the beach when she saw stars? absolutely in love with the waves & the wind in the trees & the sunset on a big hammock on a hot night in the desert in the summer. it makes sense to ava & it is what she meant — settling into the texture of a life.

it’s good to feel small sometimes, yknow? she tells bea, when they’re eating sandwiches a few miles into a hike on the lost coast — ava refuses to camp, so they’re meeting friends later on. it’s good to feel small in a world that’s so big.

they make s’mores that night with their friends & it’s dark & beautiful; the sand & the sea & the sky are all wine-dark & quiet-loud; there are so many stars. it’s rainy & cold in the bay the next day & they sleep in & eat ramen & don’t leave their hotel room all day (ava’s request; if he had to hike ten miles he earned it tenfold). bea worried that a slow day might seem small too, but ava sinks into it just like everything else: rest & softness.

eventually bea gets more used to it, & better at letting it happen. in recovery from top surgery, the worst part is not being able to get outside for a while — but ava drives them both to the mountains & they sit on the balcony together while it snows. when ava can’t move as well, they sit in the warm sand by the beach & bea puts her hand on the small of her back when they walk in the cool surf. eventually bea’s shown ava every place she ached & then there’s the rest of the world left to explore.

#butch bea 🥺🫡#if i could abscond to the mountains tomorrow forever i simply would #lol

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atlurbanist · 1 year

Text

The bicycle paradise that Atlanta planned and ignored

A 1973 publication titled "The Bicycle" was commissioned by the Atlanta Regional Commission (ARC), the Georgia Department of Transportation, and MARTA. It was the nation’s first regional bikeway plan. Seriously, it really was. And it would have been right here in Atlanta -- if it had been built.

In 1977, the City of Atlanta produced an actual, detailed plan would’ve produced a biker’s paradise, influenced by that publication (the image above is from that plan).

The city's stated intention was to: “provide bike paths within the rights-of-way of major streets and highways when such streets are improved or newly constructed.”

It also called for the development of “bicycle lanes in coordination with the construction of MARTA line segments.”

If the city had implemented the plan, by 1992 Atlanta would have had a reputation as a cyclist’s paradise.

I don't know the specific reasons why it never happened -- not beyond the basic inertia that seems to chronically vex cities like Atlanta, which suffer from decades of car-centric thinking.

My aim is not to make people sad about what never happened, by the way.

What I want is to send a warning: there is no shortage of great ideas for improving Atlanta's urbanism; what we have is a shortage of boldness within our leadership when it comes to implementation of the plans, and standing up to the resistance from people who fear changes to the status quo.

Watch out for that inertia.

Info source, Joe Hurley's great post here:

https://www.threadatl.org/2018/08/15/atlantas-second-chance-to-build-bikeways-and-complete-streets/

#atlanta #urbanism #transportation #urban planning #bicycle infrastructure #bike lanes

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harrisonarchive · 10 months

Photo

George Harrison and Sir Jackie Stewart at Donington, June 1979; photo 1 by Express/Archive Photos/Getty Images, photo 2 by Maurice Rowe.

First, the backstory to these photos:

"I’ve never raced seriously myself, but I had a go in a Formula One car, with quite an old 3-liter- engine car. I’d drive round Brand’s Hatch in one. And I drove in a charity for Gunnar Nilsson, a Swedish driver who died of cancer, because I gave the money from the ‘Faster’ single off George Harrison to Gunnar’s cancer fund. Anyhow, they had this day for the Gunnar Nilsson campaign at the track in England and they asked me to drive this 1960 Lotus, which had won a race in Monte Carlo when driven by the great English driver Sterling Moss. This car had no seatbelts, and because it had been in a museum for 20 years the tires were hard with no grip on them, yet the car was still pretty quick! But they assured me it was just a demonstration run, going round for five laps in formation and then five laps at your own pace. So I said I’d do it. I got there, and it’s Jackie Stewart in the Tyrrell he won his ‘73 championship in; James Hunt in the McLaren. Phil Hill in his famous Ferrari. I’m walking to my car while chatting with driver John Watson about the pleasure of the run we’re about to take, and he says, ‘You’re joking. There’s no racing driver that goes in formation! As soon as they drop that flag, they’ll all be gone like crazy!’ Sure enough, as soon as the checkered flag fell, the other cars went whoosh as mine puttered along in a haze of smoke! By the time I got to my first lap they were already coming behind me for their second lap, screaming away! Scared me stiff! [wild laugh] But at least I did better than James Hunt, who broke down on the first pass." - George Harrison, Goldmine, November 27, 1992

More on photo 2:

“I have never seen the photograph before as I can recall, so it is a really nice thing for me to have. Thank you so much. Ironically, last Tuesday evening, Livvy [Olivia] Harrison came up to have dinner with me and I would love to have shown her that and I am sure she would have been amused and would have also enjoyed it. Thank you so much for thinking of it.” - From Sir Jackie Stewart’s letter, 22 December 22, 2006, as sourced from an auction listing (x)

“George was an extraordinary musician and the sweetest of men, and, over the years, I grew to adore his gentle nature, his music, his deep spirituality and his friendship. [...] If we had been dropped from the same height, George would have been a feather, drifting this way and that on the breeze, and I would have been a lead weight plunging straight down: the point is we would have both there in the end. There were times when we could have been living on different planets, times when George was procrastinating over what to do and I would be decisive and all action, or waring amazingly casual and way-out clothes when I would be more traditionally dressed. Yet there were many other times when we seemed so similar, paying the same fanatical attention to detail. He could be amazingly fastidious, keeping his cars immaculately clean and taking such care and time over his gardens, both at his home near Henley, England and in his tropical paradise on Maui. This determination to get things exactly right extended to his music. George would work and work until a song was totally as he wanted it to be — not just right, but precisely right, so precisely right that it would almost sound as if it had evolved naturally, out of nothing, dreamily and effortlessly. [...] [Since 2001] we have stayed very close to Livy and Dhani, who has grown up to bear such a striking resemblance to his father, both in his appearance and his mannerisms. For me, George was a true friend who opened my eyes to so much that I would otherwise not have seen, and who in his calm, gentle way gave me a new perspective on living and dying.” - Jackie Stewart, Winning Is Not Enough (2007)

“The story really on that tune [‘Faster’] is since I was kid, like twelve years old, I got into motor racing and motor cycle races — not actually racing myself but as a spectator. And there was a track, racetrack in the place I was born, Liverpool, where they had grand prix races from time to time. So I started out when I was about twelve, just before I got into the guitar. It was always interesting to see in other areas of life who was wearing the long hair. And in motor racing, Jackie Stewart became the world champion in, I think, 1968, and he was the first guy with long hair and who had opinions, and he was a big Beatle fan. I had a book that Jackie Stewart had written which was called Faster. I thought, good, that’s the title. [chuckles] So I lifted the title, and once I got the title I was away… I wanted to write in a way that was like a story and would also relate to people who weren’t into motor racing. The only thing that limits it is the sound effects that I put on later." - George Harrison, KMET, 1979

“[George] was just a good man, a real gentle man. He was a fantastic thinker. He had one of the best minds of anybody I have ever met. He had his own beliefs, but as he got older he wasn’t someone who couldn’t get on with anyone who didn’t share that opinion. That was one of the nice things about George. Here was I living a whole different lifestyle from George, a different pace. As time passed we became close, which seemed to confirm the old saying that opposites attract. While I liked to organize my life with military precision, George took a more laid-back approach. The thing that most impressed me about him was he was very sincere. George told it like it was. He was very straight. He didn’t like people who were fakes. If he said he was going to do something, he would do it.” - Jackie Stewart, The Beatles In Scotland (2008)

“George had a great soul. His instinct was to forgive rather than to condemn and, when people behaved badly, he would make excuses for them. I learnt so much from him. In the late 1990s, when we started to spend more time in England, we saw more of George, his wife Livy and their son Dhani. We always enjoyed our visits to their home at Friar Park which George took great pride in restoring: reviving the underground canals and the 60-foot mountain modeled on the Matterhorn in Switzerland, complete with Alpine flowers and streams. He spent endless hours contentedly tending to the plants. ‘I'm a gardener,’ he would say.” - Jackie Stewart, Winning Is Not Enough (2007) (x)

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the-magicians-blue · 2 years

Note

I’m brainrotting about how Micah would propose to his Angel… would it be an accidental slip up where he spoke without thinking?? Would he meticulously plan every detail of the event?? Would the plan completely blow up in his face and right as he’s giving up ANGEL PROPOSES TO HIM??? The people need to know!!!

5:55pm

Everything was in place. Everything was going just as he wanted. It was the two year anniversary of when you had started dating and he was finally gonna do it. He was gonna propose to you. In reality he had wanted to do this after the first 6 months of dating but he was worried you’d say it’s too soon or get creeped out by him.

He had the perfect plan. He rented out a truck and filled the bed with blankets, pillows and stuffies, a fluffy paradise. He was gonna drive you outside the city and away from the lights to watch a movie under the stars. And when you guys and laying back enjoying the night he’d get up and get one knee and boom! Fiancé status.

For the most part everything was going perfectly. You were so excited when he pulled up in the truck and even more so when he got to the spot he had scouted out days ago. He was so glad he got the truck. The last time he tried to have an outdoor movie night it was hell trying to figure out a power source. With car to house outlet adapter he had all the power he needed. Just like on your first date you watched a couple of cheesy romance movies and ate snacks. It wasn’t until you two were laying down and looking at the stars that he started to get nervous.

“Y-you know angel… I know I say this a lot but, I’m so glad I met you. You are such an amazing person and I think I’m lucky to know you the way I do. This has been the best two years of my entire life, and I’ve got you to thank you for that cutie~” he had a big grin on his face as he spoke. You looked at him and raised an eyebrow at him.

“You’re being extra mushy today… what you about to propose to me or something?” You started to chuckle but Micah looked at you completely flabbergasted.

“…How did you???” You paused for a moment.

“WAIT WERE YOU ACTUALLY ABOUT TO PROPOSE!?”

“WELL NOT ANYMORE THE MOMENT IS GONE!”You started to panic as Micah turned bright red from embarrassment.

“WAIT WAIT NO PRETEND I DIDN’T ASK THAT KEEP GOING.” Micah looked up in surprise as you asked him to continue.

“Wait… you really wanna get married? To me?” He looked at you anxious for your answer.

“Of course I do dumbass, you are the most amazing person I’ve ever met. I’d be an idiot not to say yes to you.” Micah started to tear up but stopped and sniffed as he sat up and got on one knee. He pulled out a small box and opened it, revealing a simplistically beautiful ring. He knew you didn’t like things too showy but he also wanted people to notice that you were taken taken. The ring he chose did just that.

“Then, y/f/n y/l/n, will you allow me the honor of changing your last name to Yujin?” You smiled and cupped his cheeks and kissed him softly.

“I’d love to be the next Mr/Mrs/Mx.Yujin.” You held out your hand as Micah excitedly put the ring on your finger before tackling you back into the pile of pillows and blankets, clinging to you as tight as he can.

“We’re gonna get married~! I’m so happy~!” He started planting kisses all over your face before you both settled down and went back to looking at the stars, but he wasn’t just looking at the stars with his partner anymore. He was looking at the stars with the person he was gonna spend the rest of his life with.

#error143 #micah yujin #please play error143!#micah yujin fluff #micah yujin x reader #micah x reader

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mountrainiernps · 7 months

Text

Are you a national park visit planner? Do you research the park before you visit to find out weather forecast, visitor center hours, and trail conditions?

Or are you a spontaneous national park visitor? Do you figure out that you want to drive out to the national park over breakfast? Maybe pick a trail from the brochure or newspaper you get at the entrance? Perhaps just let the road guide you to a new trailhead and see how it goes?

Whether you plan or follow where the wind takes you, there’s one thing you really should be doing before you leave cell phone range; tell a friend.

Yes, please call, text or email a friend with the details of your trip just in case.

Tell your most trustworthy friend where your car will be parked, which trail you’re planning to head up, and when you expect to be back in cell service.

Once you got this done, have fun. Enjoy the park. And hopefully, everything goes as plan, like it almost always does, and you’ll drive home safe and sound at the end of the day. When you get back in cell service, make sure to call, text or email that friend again so they know you’re safe.

Why do all this? Because once in a while, there’s a very small chance that something happens. From time to time, you get delayed or someone gets hurt. Every now and then, a person who starts a hike might need some help to get back to the trailhead.

When that happens, it would be great if you have a friend watching out for you. Someone who will call the park (or other pertinent authorities) to say that you’re overdue and where you were going to be. Knowing the motor vehicle (make, model, license plate), the trailhead, and the trail can really help park rangers if they need to go look.

It’s a small chance and the five minutes to text, call, or email can help a lot. Some times you call a friend, sometimes you text a co-worker, or maybe even email mom or your second cousin twice removed. Next time and every time, please let someone know. ~ams

For more on hiking safety, please start with this link https://www.nps.gov/mora/planyourvisit/hiking-safety.htm

NPS Photo. Looking up to the sky through the forest on the Trail of Shadows in Longmire. July, 2015. NPS/R. Korf Photo. Mount Rainier with clouds from Silver Forest trail at Sunrise. June, 2019. NPS Photo. Rotary snow plow removing snow at Paradise. Snow banks are as tall as the machine. March, 2009.

#mount rainier national park #mount rainier #hike #trails #national parks

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imnotasuperhero · 1 year

Text

Look into my eyes (search your soul)

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: Your love for Wanda could make you go the distance and more, just to see her happy.

A/N: I honestly don’t know what this is. Just a needed filler chapter for the final coming up? I should admit I’ve hit a wall that if it wasn’t for @wandabear who slapped me with out of the writers block i don’t know if I’d be able to continue this, lol. I just want to say that tooth-rotting fluff is coming. Hope you enjoy this mess (:

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII

Getting out of your car, you couldn’t help the smile growing by the second as your chest inflated with pride.

The house you’ve always wanted was about to be finished. After all the hard work and the re-designs, in just a few more days your forever home would be ready for you to fill with thousands of memories.

“Hi, James!” You greeted your contractor.

“Hi, Miss,” he bowed mockingly.

“Cut the crap, asshole.” You laughed at him.

“What? My salary after this will ricochet. It’s only fair I treat you as royalty.”

“We both know we’ve had bigger projects. Don’t you?” A raised eyebrow accompanied your smirk.

“This was the most challenging, though.” He countered as you both walked through the front door. “Which leads me to-”

“Please, no.” You whined disappointedly, feeling the happiness melting away.

“It’s big,” James informed. “Remember how we were greatly surprised the water pipelines were practically new?”

“I don’t get it. The inspection came out right.” You felt a tug at your heart as you spotted the huge hole in the floor.

“We still have to figure out exactly where the leak is. We’re waiting for the inspectors,”

“How long?” You braced yourself as the anxiety took over.

“To move into the house? Around 7 weeks.”

“The fuck? You know my lease ends in less than 6. Right?” You growled.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. Might as well make sure everything is okay so you don’t have to fix it later on.” James reasoned.

Sighing, you just nodded defeatedly. The news about you being homeless even if for a bunch of days only increased the anxiety absorbing the reduced oxygen your lungs needed to function properly.

“Do you know a trusted storing company, by any chance?” You put your hands in the pockets of your jeans, trying to hide the shaking.

“I’ll send you the contact later, yes?” He looked up at you with a sympathetic smile.

“Thank you,” you smiled sadly before making your exit. You didn’t have it in you to inspect the remodeling anymore. Much less to ask about details.

Closing the car’s door harder than you should’ve, your fists collided against the steering wheel repeatedly. To say you were furious was an understatement. It was in times like these that you questioned how much of an asshole you have been in your past lives to be paying such karma.

You see, having to ask for shelter wasn’t something that worried you because you knew your friends would happily take you in. But what upset you was that it happened right when you had not one but two different clients that had requested a 3D model of their projects. And if the chaos your workplace turned into had you moody, you didn’t want to imagine how it’d affect whoever decided to host you.

But before you could dwell too much into your disgrace, your phone took you out of your reverie.

“Yes?” You tried to steady your voice.

“Uhh, troubles in paradise?” You cursed yourself for failing such easy tasks.

“Don’t remind me,” you grunted. “What’s up, Bucks?”

“Everyone is here already. Don’t tell me you forgot?” You could hear the voices of your friends talking in the background.

“Right. I didn’t forget,” you sighed. “I’m on my way, now.”

The way to Natasha’s was spent trying to calm down your anxiety. Today was a day to just enjoy your friends' company and have some good times. There’d be time to worry about your problems later.

But of course, that was better said than done for as you raised your hand to knock on the redhead’s door, your phone started to ring and the name of your most exigent client flashed on the screen.

Inhaling a long breath, you picked up the call. “Good afternoon, Mr. Coleman,”

“Hello, darling. Is there any chance you could send me the design for the guest house?”

“But there are a few details to finish,” you reasoned with the old man as you smiled exasperated to the redhead at the other side of the door.

“I understand, but I’m here with my son and he wants to check it out before you finish it just to get-” You walked inside the apartment, plopping yourself on the three-body couch in the living room, not interested in the explanation the man provided you.

“Alright, Mr. Coleman. I’ll send you the sketch right now.” You bumped your head against the padded backrest of the couch repeatedly at the lack of room to scream. It wouldn’t be very professional of you, after all.

“Thank you, darling. Have a nice weekend.” The old man greeted and you could only answer in the most cheerful voice you could fake before hanging up and leaving a loud grunt.

“I want a sugar mommy,” you whined, earning the laughs of your friends.

“Didn’t peg you for a sugar baby,” Natasha scrunched her nose at the thought.

“Ehh. If the pay is worth it,” you shrugged looking around. “Where are my babies?” you pouted at Wanda.

“They’re with Vision,” the redhead smiled tenderly and you ignored the trembling of your heart.

“Bummer.” You sighed. “Nat? Can I borrow your laptop?” You then turned to the redhead, who was looking at you with a knowing smirk.

“Sure thing,” she pursed her lips trying to keep whatever she was thinking to herself, making it impossible for you to stay glued to the couch.

“Why you looking at me like that?” You questioned the older woman as you followed her to her study.

“Sugar mommy? Really?” Natasha laughed mockingly.

“You know it was just a joke, right?”

“Does Wanda, thought?”

“What does she has to do with that?” You frowned confused.

“Dude, you can’t say those things in front of her. She has it bad for you,”

“Oh, shut up. She doesn’t.” You shook your head as you pressed the keys to access your email.

“I’m telling you, you’re so smart for a lot of things but so dumb when it comes to her.” Natasha walked away, leaving you dumbfounded with her words replaying in your mind.

But there’ll be time to try and decipher her words later. Now, you have to tend to your irritating client.

After what seemed like a few minutes too long of you fumbling with the touchpad, you clicked on the ‘send’ button and logged out of your account, turning off the laptop in the process.

The way Natasha's eyes were set on you despite having her girlfriend by her side made Wanda's blood boil with jealousy. Even more so at the way you were fidgeting as you kept stealing glances at her. The secrecy of it all had Wanda's fingers itching to pat the redhead’s smirk away.

Truth be told, it's been a few days since Natasha had taken her place in your life. Granted, you still visited each other frequently like you used to. But most times than not, Natasha was present when Wanda visited you. And even though Wanda knew the redhead’s heart belonged to Maria, she couldn’t help the greeny monster taking over her.

"So, how's the house going?" Wanda's attention picked up at those words, turning her gaze to you.

"Painfully slowly going." You whined, chewing the bite you just took.

"I thought it was almost done?" Bucky asked.

Sighing, you positioned yourself with your back against the armrest of the sofa and Wanda couldn’t help the soft caress in her heart at seeing you so relaxed if it wasn't for the frown on your face.

"James found a leak in the water pipeline and it'll take longer for me to move in, so now I'll be homeless when my leash ends next month," you sighed looking down at your hands and Wanda's words stuck in her throat as Natasha beat her to it.

"That sucks. But you know you can stay with me for whatever long it takes. Right?" The redhead offered.

"And have Maria having a meltdown?"

"Hey! I'm not that bad." The brunette complained.

"Who are you kidding? I can tell you the times you scolded me for being so careless when you saw me working," you chuckled heartily and Wanda couldn’t help giggling at the image playing in her mind.

"In my defense, it looks like a tornado passed by after you finish it." She shrugged.

Wanda didn't get to understand your retort as she was taken to the past, when she had stayed -multiple times- with you as you worked through the night building rooms and molding different miniatures of furniture out of cardboard and wood sticks as you created the mock-up of the design you were working on. Feeling the calm taking over her as she got to see you so at ease into your element even though it left you crying sometimes. The way you always patiently instructed her how to cut or glue the small objects had her heart skipping a beat when your hands would brush against each other. The calloused yet soft skin of your fingertips against hers had shivers running down her spine.

The pang against her side had her back to the present as she looked at her brother, frowning when Pietro’s eyes were moving weirdly.

Raising an eyebrow, Wanda silently asked him what his problem was, only for him to signal at you with his blue eyes.

But even though they shared a special bond thanks to being twins, sometimes it took more than a look to communicate.

And Pietro seemed to think the same as he sighed before he spoke. "Why don’t you stay with us?" Wanda's head tilted to the side as if her brother had grown a second head.

"Not sure it'd be ideal, Piet. With the twins and Wanda working from home, I don't want to impose," you nodded in the negative. Wanda's brain was trying to catch up with whatever was happening.

"Pretty sure Wanda wouldn’t mind. Right?" Wanda had to muffle a grunt as yet another finger poked at her side. Looking back at his brother, she saw him gesturing to agree with him.

"Of course not," Wanda tried to give the most convincing smile she could muster. "Lord knows I could have another adult by my side to try to understand the twins' babbling,"

"We'll see. I still have a few weeks to solve it." You shrugged it off, signaling the end of the discussion; leaving Wanda thinking about the prospect of you living in her house even if just for a few days and she’d be lying if the idea didn’t get her heart somersaulting.

The upcoming weeks we spent between you working nonstop trying to finish as much of your projects as you could just so you didn’t turn Wanda’s house into a mess with your supplies and boxing whatever you didn’t need for the time coming as your possessions along with your furniture would be sent to the storage facility James had recommended you.

“I finished with the kitchen,” Natasha spoke, walking into your room.

“Thank you,” you eyed her sitting on your bed, her green eyes looking at you expectantly. “Can I help you?”

“Maybe.” The redhead pursed her lips, obliging you to release a grunt as you busied yourself packing your clothes. “I need you to answer me something.”

You hummed in acknowledgment as you took a ripped jeans from the pile you had decided would go to the storage, folding it neatly before you put it in the box.

“I’ve been thinking,” Natasha paused and it took all the patience you had just to swallow your growl. “What if you and Wanda get together? Where would you live?”

Her words had you turning your head so fast that you felt dizzy for a few seconds. “Where do you get that idea from?” You frowned as the redhead groaned painfully.

“I swear to God, you’re so dense, Y/N!” Natasha rolled her eyes exasperatedly.

“I'm not. It’s just-” You paused trying to organize your thoughts, too afraid to misunderstand the signals both your friends and Wanda constantly gave you.

“I don’t want to hurt,” you sighed defeatedly. “If she really felt something for me, she wouldn’t have rejected me for prom night.”

“We were kids back then,” the redhead took a seat beside you on the floor, taking the crumpled shirt off your hands. “She was afraid,” Natasha took your hands in hers, squeezing them.

“Afraid of what?” You felt your heart cracking at that confession. Why would Wanda ever be scared of you?

“That’s something you have to ask her,” Natasha spoke softly, almost pitifully. “But what I can tell you is that you just have to open your heart in order to see,”

But before you could voice your feelings any further, the ringing of your doorbell had the redhead walking to greet your friends, ready to help you with the moving.

After having loaded all your furniture and boxes into the haul truck Bucky had managed to borrow from a friend, you both drove alongside Steve to the storage place while Natasha and Maria drove to Wanda’s with your baggage.

“I think we deserve a nice dinner as a welcome.” The blonde spoke, gaining your attention.

“It’d need more than a dinner to thank you, guys. You’re literal live savers,” you smiled truthfully.

“Ehh. It’s nothing, dude.” Bucky shrugged you off with his eyes glued to the road. “But you need to keep us updated.”

“With what?” You frowned at his words.

“With Wanda, you dummy,” Steve giggled.

“Not you too,” you whined, throwing your head back.

“What? We deserve the dits as your best men,” Bucky smiled toothily and you didn’t have it in you to break his heart.

“Can we not go there? It’s not like we’re moving in together,” you rolled your eyes.

“Yet. You’re not moving together, yet.” Steve corrected and your hand itched to lovely pat their faces.

To say the rest of the afternoon was full of mockery and laughs was an understatement. You barely had time to spend with the boys as adulthood had you all pretty busy, so you tried to make it the best of the day as all three of you worked together to put your belongings into safety.

Once you reached the house that would shelter you for the next ten days, you couldn’t help the sweat forming in your palms and the feeling of utter uncertainty at the prospect of breathing the same air as Wanda’s twenty-four-seven.

Natasha’s words from earlier did nothing to placate the anxiety tugging at your heart.

“Thanks for having me,” you smiled something crooked at the redhead on the other side of the door.

“It’s nothing,” she smiled toothily and you couldn't help your heart skipping a beat at the shine you saw in those green eyes. “Hope you don’t mind that I cooked pasta?” Wanda scrunched her nose in that way it had you all mushy over the floor.

“As if you didn’t know me,” you rolled your eyes playfully, earning a laugh from your host.

“Where are my sunshines?” You walked further into the house looking for the twins, wanting to escape the uncomfortable silence that had settled between you both just a second ago.

While time ago you’d be more than happy to spend unlimited time with Wanda, now it was only anxiety what you felt as you wandered into the very-well known house as your inner fears slowly manifested themselves, making it hard for you to feel at ease in what you once considered your second home. Too afraid to face the reality you dreaded to recognize laying at the back of your mind.

As always, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated (:

Taglist: @summergeezburr @wandabear @red1culous @inluvwithfictionalwomen @aliherreraaa @kiancorpse @whitewidowsbite @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @daenerys713 @swiftie1-0-1 @godamnityess @marvelwomen-simp @forthelesbians @when-wolves-howl @marvelogic @cowboyboots236 @iliketozoneout @jayceelynnn (If you wanna be added to the taglist, just let me know! :)

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maxinoff #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda fanfiction #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x y/n #my writing #limesys

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sunnebeam · 10 months

Text

and all the pieces fall.

A 'DARKEST LITTLE PARADISE' DRABBLE.

pairing: min yoongi x reader

warnings: fluff (the calm kind, not the tooth-rotting kind sadly), revelations, mentions of past car accident, mafia au (but no specific details in this particular drabble), other warnings withheld due to possible spoilers

masterlist + disclaimers.

note: would u look at that, no smut for once HAH anyways a lot of u guys seemed to like the first drabble (read that first if u haven't yet!) so here's an attempt at a continuation <3 please share your thoughts! feedback and reviews always keep me going ^^

— prev: in the darkest little paradise | next: everything just stops

The harbor at night shows the best view of the city.

It's tragic, really, how little you see of the city you live in. You only ever lingered in places near your apartment or near your work, and you no longer remember the area you grew up in as a child.

This unfamiliar side of the city — the side with skyrise buildings, bustling night life, and uptown streets — is wholly new to you.

"Are you cold?"

And amongst other things that are new...

"I'm fine," you answer as you feel his presence behind you. "Just enjoying the view."

A warm jacket is placed on your shoulders and you smile at the action. This is a side of Yoongi that's kind of new to you. You only ever spent time with each other in the bedroom, and there, he's always so dominating, so intense. It's nice to get to know this softer, caring side of Yoongi outside of sex.

Regardless, you pull the jacket tighter around you. You don't really feel cold but he decides to wrap you in his arms anyway, your back to his chest, as you both look out the harbor.

"Did you enjoy dinner?" he asks, resting his chin on the top of your head.

"I loved it," you affirm, soaking in the intimacy he's offering.

Yoongi's always commanding and rough in bed, but you aren't a stranger to his sweet kisses and affectionate touches during aftercare. Still, you always told yourself to keep your distance, to not get too attached, because at the end of the night, he's still a paying client.

Tonight, though, you allow yourself small luxuries.

"Good," he says, relieved, before whispering in your ear, "happy birthday, princess."

You smile, closing your eyes. This is the best birthday you've had in a while. You take a moment to soak in the feeling, but after about a few minutes, you know you can't avoid it any longer.

You need answers.

"Yoongi?"

"Mm?"

You feel his lips on your neck.

"How did you know my birthday?"

He plants a chaste kiss on your neck.

"Does it matter how I know?" he asks.

"It matters to me."

He pauses and contemplates before his lips reach your ear.

"What would you do if I said it was a lucky guess?"

You shiver at his voice, then you open your eyes.

"I would say you're a liar," you eventually say, "and then I'd ask you how you know about my allergy."

You're referring to the incident earlier when Yoongi ordered a dish that was supposed to have certain ingredients in it that you're allergic to, but he was quick to tell the staff to remove them before you could even say anything.

"Then I would say you're too sharp for your own good," he concludes, sighing.

You blink in confusion, before pulling out of his embrace to turn around and look at him properly. He looks back at you with a forlorn expression.

"You really don't remember, princess?"

"Remember what, Yoongi?"

"Think for a minute. Please." His voice starts to become frantic. "Don't you remember anything at all? Anything?"

"Yoongi, I don't—"

"You have to remember." His voice is getting louder, desperation lacing his features. "Try and think back to eight years ago. Try and think back to before the accident."

Accident? How could he have known about that?

Around eight or so years ago, you got into a pretty bad car accident which led you to lose your memories. The doctors hoped it was just temporary but unfortunately, you current memory only dates back to when you woke up at the hospital to see your mother's distraught face. Anything before the accident was a complete blank.

It's a sensitive topic for you so you never really told anyone. No one else of importance needed to know, anyway. The only one who knew was your mother and she's already passed.

So how the fuck does Yoongi know?

"Yoongi, you're not making any sense," you tell him, tears starting to pool in the corners of your eyes. "You're scaring me."

"No, no, don't be scared." He cups your cheeks and plants a small, reassuring kiss on your lips. "I'm sorry. I just... really want you to remember on your own..."

"Remember what?" you ask him for the second time. "What do I need to remember, Yoongi? And how the fuck do you know about my accident?"

Your voice is getting louder, your tears finally falling. You have half the mind to be more quiet but the way he is talking to you (or not talking to you) is getting on your nerves.

He clearly knows something. And since it very clearly involves you, you deserve to know everything.

Yoongi stares at you for what seems like a long time, debating whether or not to finally give you the answers you're seeking.

In the end, he decides to tell you the truth.

"Princess..." he starts slowly, "your accident..."

And all the pieces fall—

"I know about it because," he continues, "I was the reason behind it."

—right into place.

He then tells you all you deserve to know – that you've been in love since you were teenagers, that some rival gang orchestrated your accident eight years ago in an attempt to spite him, that you lost all your memories because of it, and that your mother convinced him to leave you to keep you safe.

It wasn't easy leaving you, but with you losing your memories and with his risky line of work, he eventually backed off, thinking you were better off with a fresh, blank start.

But when he saw you again at the city's red district about a year ago, he couldn't resist his longing anymore. He had to have you again in any way he could have you. Even if it meant you didn't remember. Even if it meant he was a stranger to you.

And even if it meant you didn't love him anymore.

#bts x reader #min yoongi x reader #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #bts fic #min yoongi fic #yoongi fic #suga fic #bts x you #min yoongi x you #yoongi x you #suga x you #bts x y/n #min yoongi x y/n #yoongi x y/n #suga x y/n #cat.writes

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nicascurls · 2 months

Text

Breaking the Dollhouse - Chapter Four

Word Count: 2.6K

Summary: What would have happened if Junior survived and was taken by Tiffany from the hospital? What would that mean for Junior and Nica over the next year?

Notes: I'm sorry this has taken so long but this is a longer chapter to make up for it. This is an emotional chapter and also has a minor cliffhanger but i'm still writing so I'm gonna aim to get the next chapter out pretty quickly.

Tags: @barclaysangel @fairchilds-glasses @streets-in-paradise

The images were flashing past again, too fast to be able to make any sense of them. Chucky, a window, a woman she believed to be Dr Mixter, what she assumed was her office, a car and finally a quick glimpse of another woman. All of them were playing rapidly as the sound of Chucky’s gleeful cackle consumed everything.

Nica awoke with a gasp and pushed herself up into a sitting position. She ran a hand through her hair as she attempted to measure her breaths. Chucky’s possession may have been keeping her heart at bay for now, but the habit was still there.

That same dream has been haunting Nica’s sleep for the past week or so, she had tried to interrogate Chucky on the memories she had been seeing but was only met with him being joyfully cryptic. It continued to bug her more and more each day. Something felt familiar and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t figure out what. Junior had been able to tell something was wrong almost immediately and Nica shared what she could but there was such a struggle whenever she tried to explain the flashes of memories she was shown. She settled for giving Junior any updates she could on the dream each day, even if it wasn’t anything specific. It certainly didn’t help that Chucky was insistent on being even louder in her head whenever she thought about the dream for what he deemed too long, specifically the woman. Not Dr Mixter, he didn’t seem to care about that, it’s not as if Nica could do anything. Then why was he so secretive about the other one?

She slowly lay back down once her breathing had levelled out and she was certain her heart rate was normal enough. For the most part Junior had been going back to his room after visiting, she was glad that he at least felt safe enough to do that. It meant he got a little more rest and Nica could tell he had been getting tired.

Gods, it was driving her nuts! The scenes from her dream were playing in her head over and over. It seemed so painfully clear until she tried to focus on any details, especially that woman’s face, suddenly it was all a blur. Nica so desperately wanted to be able to focus on details, to see if there was any chance she had seen that woman somewhere before. She had to be important if Chucky was so insistent on keeping quiet, it was a difficult task for that asshole.

The sun was starting to stream through the thin, sickly pink curtains around the room, as Nica tried to close her eyes and drift back to sleep. She figured she didn't have long until Tiffany burst through the door screeching, but she was desperate for the chance of any more information.

That was when she heard the familiar click of the lock and Nica let out a quiet frustrated sigh, keeping her eyes closed in preparation for the inevitable shrieking from her captor.

“Rise and shine, Sweetface!” Tiffany’s voice pierced through Nica’s skull as she walked through the door with her usual cheerfulness.

Tiffany swiftly made her way over to where Nica was lying before pulling back the covers and pulling her up to a sitting position by her shoulders. Nica settled into the act of still believing she had no limbs, she relaxed her arms but maintained her look of disgust. Not that she had to fake that part. It had become rather unsettling for Nica over time how easy and almost normal it felt to keep up the act. Chucky was always happy to keep reminding her how similar the feeling must be for her to all the times she was hypnotised. If that thought didn’t make her uncomfortable enough, she was more than aware of times when, unless she really focused, she was convinced she couldn’t feel her arms. Even having to discreetly look at her sides to reassure herself or if it was just her and Junior, he would notice and gently take her hands as he asked if she was alright.

Tiffany continued to excitedly ramble about the supposedly exciting day ahead as she fed a reluctant Nica her breakfast. Nica herself had stopped listening almost immediately as she used every ounce of control she had to not slap Tiffany, grab her by the hair, take the fork out of her hand and stab her in the eye… The options easily came to her. She only looked up when she saw a shadow move across the area of the floor her eyes were fixed on. Junior.

Nica looked up a little to see him standing leaning against the door, a small smile on his face. A silent greeting to her, wishing her good morning. She briefly smiled back at him as Tiffany turned to pile the fork in her hand with more food.

Suddenly another shriek of surprise came from Tiffany as she remembered she had forgotten a glass of water for Nica. Nica watched as Junior flinched at the sudden noise, a look of shock briefly on his face.

And then it hit her. She was taken aback. How had she not figured it out before? The eyes, the hair, the facial features. The woman had to have been Bree Wheeler. It was Junior’s shocked expression, it was identical to the woman- Bree’s expression as she fell. Oh gods! Junior still believed her death was a suicide!

“- Okay? Nica!? Did she drug you already?” Nica snapped out of her trance to see a concerned Junior sitting on the edge of her bed.

“No. No, she hasn’t drugged me yet. I’m sorry Junbug. I didn't mean to worry you, I was just… half asleep still.”

Junior gave her a hesitant smile which she returned, stroking his hair with one hand. “Good morning, honey.” Junior closed his eyes at her touch, briefly allowing himself a moment of peace.

“Morning…” he mumbled back. Junior had been feeling increasingly more restless as the weeks went on, he had tried asking Tiffany if he could at least go outside the house if he didn’t leave the grounds. It’s not like he would be able to without Tiffany anyway, she refuses to tell him the code to the gate but it was still a ‘no’. He felt like a rat in a cage, he would settle for just being able to feel a breeze but the windows were always locked.

“I’m back!” Tiffany announced as she made her way back to the room with the familiar click-clack of her stilettos. Junior quickly turned to look at her with a fake smile plastered across his face as Nica simultaneously dropped her arms and expression.

“Look how sweet you two look.” Tiffany admired as her eyes fell on them, “I knew you two would get along, we’re a perfect little family! Now run along, Junior. Get dressed. We’ll meet you in the living room once Nica has finished her breakfast.”

It killed Nica to hide things from Junior but she couldn’t tell him, not now, not like this. She just needed some time to figure out how to bring up the subject in a way that will upset Junior the least. Oh, who is she kidding? It’s going to destroy him no matter what she tells him and worse still, he won't be able to do much to take his mind off it or even fully process it. Not when he’s cooped up in this damn house. With the damn wife of the person who killed his mother, convinced him to kill his father (even if it was deserved) and tried to kill him.

No. She had to tell him. Junior will be heartbroken regardless of when he is told, she can’t allow him to also feel betrayed by her for not telling him sooner.

Before she knew it, the three of them were once again sitting in the living room, Tiffany badly reciting the lines to Liar Liar with a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Nica could tell that Junior was feeling particularly unsettled, she was fully aware that she wasn’t helping the situation. Junior had started off trying to initiate their usual game of mocking Tiffany’s drunken line delivery behind her back, she had smiled back in amusement but couldn’t bring herself to join in with the game. It felt too much like lying to him, acting as if nothing had changed, as if she was as happy as they could be, given the circumstances. She knew she had to tell him but the dread was eating her up.

Junior himself was becoming more hesitant by the moment. Did he take the joke too far? Was he beginning to annoy Nica? Was she just getting sick of him? His thoughts were interrupted as Tiffany unceremoniously dropped herself next to him on the couch. She was moments away from passing out and by the look of disgust on Nica’s face, she knew it too. Ugh. He could smell the alcohol on Tiffany’s breath and mixed with the cigarette smoke was enough to make him feel nauseous. He watched as Tiffany placed the half-empty wineglass down before drunkenly mistaking the same vessel for an ashtray and dropping her cigarette in it.

“That’s ‘nother ten- ten grand in..” The two hostages watched as their captor fully sunk against the couch, out cold. Junior instantly grabbed the TV remote and paused the movie before getting up and quietly making his way closer to Nica. Nica gave more of a genuine smile then, “Hey kid..”

Junior smiled back almost hesitantly, “Hey…” he took a deep breath, trying to gather the courage to ask what was so strongly on his mind. “Nica, can I ask you something..?” He didn't miss the look of panic that briefly flashed across Nica’s face before she composed herself.

“Of course you can, Junbug. You know that, don’t you?”

He nods quickly, “Yeah. Yeah, I know that. Sorry.” He takes another breath, “It’s just… Have- have I done something to upset you? You've seemed quieter since I first spoke to you this morning…” Nica’s expression immediately softened as she reached out to gently squeeze his hand.

“Oh, honey, no. You've done nothing wrong. I’m sorry. I never meant to make you feel that way.”

Junior immediately lets out a sigh of relief, “Okay. It’s okay, but… what is wrong then? Something seems to be bothering you..”

It was Nica’s turn to take a deep breath, “Junior. There’s something I need to tell you. It- It's a difficult situation but I know you hate secrets. If you want I can tell you later if you think that would be better or make you more comfortable, or I can tell you now but I'm gonna need you to do your best to stay calm either way.”

Junior took a moment to consider his options, maybe what Nica was going to tell him would be better said when Tiffany wasn’t in earshot. Even if she was out cold for the time being but the feeling of being kept in the dark was already threatening to consume him.

“Could- Could you tell me now?” He caught a brief glimpse of something in Nica’s eyes. Fear? Regret, maybe? Junior couldn’t be sure.

“Okay… So, Junior, You know the dream that I have been trying to figure out?”

Junior nodded hesitantly, “The Chucky one?” he clarified.

“Yeah, that one. Well… I think I figured out who the other woman is in it.”

“Okay. So that’s a good thing, right?”

It was Nica’s turn to nod, every word felt painful to say. Another torturous step closer to Junior’s inevitable devastation.

“Yeah… Yeah, overall I think it’s a good thing. It’s just that I don’t think it’s going to feel that way at first.” She had to force herself to look at Junior, the look on his face was already painful enough. “You- Your mom. You said she had jumped..?”

His heart sank and he immediately began to feel sick. “Mmm hmm, from her therapist's office…”

“Dr Mixter..?”

Junior somehow managed to become even more pale, “I don’t remember telling you that.”

“You didn’t.” She struggled to keep her voice steady as she moved a hand to his arm, gently stroking her thumb to try and provide some comfort, “Honey, it wasn’t a suicide. Chucky pushed her.”

The words echoed around Junior’s head. He felt numb, as if he was drowning, nothing felt clear. Shouldn’t he be glad, or relieved? She didn’t leave him, his dad was wrong, she wasn’t a quitter. She wanted to stay with him.

And he helped her killer slaughter dozens of others in return!

He couldn’t breathe, maybe he was drowning. Or at least suffocating. Nica’s hands had moved to his face, “Junbug? Junior, sweetie. You need to breathe, okay. Can you look at me?”

He managed to focus enough to redirect his gaze to Nica’s, much to her relief.

“There you go. Good job, honey. I need you to try and follow my breathing, alright. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

He tried. He really did but he couldn’t seem to get any air into his lungs, his fear multiplying at every failed attempt. “Can’t…” was all he could gasp out before the sharp pain struck his chest. Nica felt his body go stiff before slumping against the couch, still gasping for air.

Nica knew the pain all too well, “No.” she mumbled to no one in particular, “No. No. No! Junior! Just hold on, baby.” She had to pry her hands away from him, going against every instinct she had as she began to scream.

“Tiffany! Tiffany!” She saw the blonde woman begin to wake up, sleepily stretching without a care in the world. “Tiffany!” Nica screamed again, finally causing the woman to pay attention to her surroundings.

“Sweetface?!” she responded, visibly unsettled as her eyes scanned over the scene in front of her.

“He needs one of his shots.” Nica informed her as she tried to keep her voice steady, Tiffany however, was clearly still in shock.

“What..?”

“NOW! Tiffany, Please! He could die!” That seemed to get through to Tiffany and she reached for one of the shots of adrenaline and approached Junior, who was getting weaker by the second.

“Under his rib…” Nica instructed softly as she watched Tiffany inject the contents of the syringe into Junior’s system. Junior soon let out a gasp as his eyes once again opened fully and Nica slouched in relief.

As soon as the tension began to melt away, Tiffany was right back to her usual self, “There you go, sweetface!” She rather roughly helped Junior into a sitting position against the back of the couch. His breaths were slowly becoming regular again but he was clearly still dazed. Most likely still processing the sick mixture of the truth and his heart episode.

“Well, what happened there, Junior?” Tiffany inquired joyfully, clearly back in her own world.

“I- I-” Junior was clearly still a little out of it, trying to come to terms with everything that had happened, everything he now knew.

Nica couldn’t help but snap, “Give him some space! He’s only just started breathing regularly again, he's exhausted.”

“It’s okay, Nica.” Tiffany explained as if she was explaining the most basic concept in the world, “I was only asking. The doctor said that would only happen if he did any vigorous exercise or was under too much stress, you know.” Nica simply held her tongue as she feigned ignorance, she had decided it was best to keep her own condition a secret, especially since Chucky’s influence seemed to be stopping any major incidents for the time being. She simply spent the rest of the afternoon keeping careful watch over Junior, waiting desperately for the next chance to talk to him alone.

#chucky #chucky 2021 #child's play #chucky syfy #nica pierce #junior wheeler #tiffany valentine #breaking the dollhouse #chucky fanfiction

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