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fxrmuladaydreams · 1 year ago

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lucky red bull driver (mv1)

max x reader , george x reader (platonic)

summary: george may have made a mistake when he introduced you to mercedes’ number one rival

notes: george is so dramatic in this, it’s great. i’ll probably write a part 2 to this

next part

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You’re sure there’s a clause somewhere in your contract that says you aren’t allowed to be doing what you’re doing, but you can’t help it.

Being hired as an assistant to Toto Wolff led you into the constant whirlwind of a life in Formula One. You’d gotten to learn a lot about the sport, and a lot about the Mercedes team.

Constantly being by the side of Toto Wolff had it’s perks. You got to travel the world, go to all of the Formula One races, meet and become close friends with Lewis Hamilton and George Russell. You were living the dream of many others.

Then he had to come in and ruin it. He ruined it with his pretty eyes, and his wide grin. He ruined it with his snarky comments, and soft praises. He was a hurricane storming in and you were trapped in the eye.

You could blame the whole thing on George, claim that it was his friendship to Max that had started your romantic endeavors with the Red Bull driver. Whenever Toto didn’t need your help, you were allowed to do whatever you liked, whether that be sightseeing or just relaxing. Recently though, you’d joined George on his paddle outings, which was where you had officially met Max.

George often played with some of the other drivers. Alex, Lando, and Max frequented the group. You had quickly become friends with the others, what with them being close in age to you, and their chaotic and amusing behavior when around one another.

This version of Max wasn’t the version you were used to seeing on the track. That version was serious, a scowl practically glued to his face. He’d gotten into verbal fights with some of the other drivers, George included. But this Max was different. He smiled a lot. He laughed when George and Alex would start bickering like an old married couple. He gave them all a pat on the back whether he won or lost the game.

It was during a game when you first spoke with the Dutch driver. He had tapped out, claiming he needed a break, and sent in someone else that had joined the group for the day. He sat on the bench next to you beside the court, watching the game unfold between the others.

He made quiet conversation with you, just about little things like how you were enjoying your job, your friendship with George. It had gotten to the point where you had stopped paying attention to the paddle game and gave Max your undivided attention.

That is, until a ball came hurtling towards you. You saw it out of the corner of your eye, lifting your arm up and turning your head away so that you wouldn’t get hit. But the ball never came in contact with your head, instead it hit Max’s paddle, which was being held up near your head.

“Watch where you hit the ball!” He shouted to the players on the court.

George looked sheepishly surprised as he jogged over to you. “Are you okay? I swear I didn’t mean to hit it to you-”

“At her. You hit it at her.” Max corrected him.

“I’m sorry Y/n.” George apologized again.

You shake your head. “It’s okay, I’m okay.”

You take a walk with Max afterwards, looking to avoid anymore rouge paddle balls. The two of you refuse to talk about anything that has to do with Mercedes or Red Bull while you walk, knowing that if you did you’d be in serious trouble with your bosses. Instead you talk about your childhoods, about how the two of you actually started your careers in Formula One, and about things that interested you outside of the sport.

You were surprised to hear Max say that he didn’t really excel in any other activities. You were shocked that the three time world champion, the man who was at the top of his sport, admitted that driving was really all he was good at.

You laugh and shake your head as you return to the court. “I don’t believe that for a minute Max.”

“It’s true! Put me in a pool and I’ll drown. On a football field and I’ll fall on my ass more times than you can count.” He grins as you laugh.

“Y/n, ready to head back to the hotel?” George asks making his way over to the two of you. His eyes travel back and forth between you, watching as you’re standing so close to one another that your arms brush against each other.

You clear your throat and take a step away from Max, your eyes refusing to meet George’s. “Yeah, sure.” You turn back to Max. “It was nice talking with you.”

“You too. I hope we can do it again sometime.” He gives you a smile, then leaves you to join Lando.

When you look back at George he’s got his eyebrows raised as if waiting for you to say something. You don’t give him the satisfaction, instead walking back to his car.

You get in the passenger seat of his car silently as he throws his equipment in the backseat. When he gets into the drivers seat he sits quietly for a moment then breaks the silence with a slew of questions.

“Alright, what happened? What is going on with you and Max? Did you tell him anything about Mercedes? Did he tell you anything about Red Bull? Why does he want to see you again?”

You stop the waterfall of questions with a hand on his shoulder.

“We just took a walk. No, neither of us said anything about our teams. And I don’t know George, maybe he wants to see me again because he enjoyed my company.” You last sentence is laced with sarcasm.

George rolls his eyes. “Yes Y/n, you’re an absolute delight. You know Toto will have a conniption if he finds out you’re buddies with Max Verstappen.”

“Well we’re not, so there’s no reason to worry.” You shrug.

You like to believe you kept that up for a while, attempting to avoid the Red Bull areas of the paddock, and running the opposite direction when you saw the navy blue team kit headed your way, but it didn’t take long for you to give into the tugging feeling in your chest whenever you saw him.

Avoiding him turned into brief greetings when passing each other, which turned into longer conversations with each other, which turned into seeking the other out while at work.

There’s no denying what’s going on at this point. Race weekends consist of you sneaking into his hotel room to see him, sharing meals together, and falling asleep wrapped around each other in his bed.

You hide in empty corners and walkways to see each other, sharing rushed kisses and hushed words of affection.

If anyone saw you, with his blue polo, and your white one, chaos would ensue. That’s exactly what happened when you were caught. You were pressed between a wall and his body, your arms wrapped around his neck as his held onto your hips. One of your hands reaches up to tangle itself in his hair, knocking his cap off his head onto the ground.

Even though you’re quite literally wrapped up in him, you still manage to stay aware of your surroundings, listening for anyone who might pass by the dark walkway you currently occupy.

“No one is going to find us liefje.” Max murmurs against your lips. “You don’t need to worry your pretty little head.” He teases you as his kisses start to trail down your neck.

His teeth scrape against your pulse point, causing a light gasp to escape you. You can feel Max smirking into your neck.

“And what if someone does find us? And they see me making out with a Red Bull driver? What will they say?” You lean your head back against the wall behind you.

“Lucky Red Bull driver?” He grins as he pulls away from your neck.

You scoff and hit his chest with your hand. He lets out a loud laugh, slightly stumbling back. You grab onto his shoulder pulling him back towards you and place a finger over his lips.

“Max! You need to be quiet!” You whisper to him.

He leans his forehead against yours as your hand drops from his lips. He looks down at your lips then back up into your eyes.

“I know how you can keep me quiet.” He dives back down to your lips and pressing you into the wall again.

In that moment you’re so consumed by him, by his kisses that become more and more heated, by his tongue that slips into your mouth, by his hands that keep a firm grip on your hips, that you fail to notice the sound of someone approaching.

“Oh god!” A voice rings out.

You’re quick to push the Dutch driver off of you, looking towards where the voice had come from.

George stands about three meters away from you, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth hanging open. His eyes go back and forth between you and Max, who stands next to you, running a hand through his hair.

It’s almost as if the three of you are having a stare down. You’re all searching for the right words to say, but no one can find them.

You take a slow step towards George with a hand lifted in front of you, almost like you’re trying not to scare off an animal.

“George-” you start softly, but that’s all it takes for an endless stream of words to come flowing for the Brit’s mouth.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! You and him?” He points accusingly at Max. “Fucking Max Verstappen? Do you know how bad this is? Toto’s going to kill you!” He points at you now. “He’s going to kill you, then he’s going to kill you!” He points at Max again. “Then he’s going to kill me!” He arm drops back down. “Oh god, we’re all dead!”

You take a few quick steps to stand in front of George, placing your hands on his arms. “No, no one’s going to die, because Toto isn’t going to find out.”

“Because if you tell him I will push you off track.” Max says.

You turn to give him a stern look, then look back at George.

“George, you can’t tell anyone about this, okay?”

“Y/n…” he groans.

“Please George, please don’t tell anyone.” You beg him.

He glances back at Max who’s picked up his hat from the ground and now adjusts it back on his head.

“You really like him? Like you two are together?” George asks looking back at you.

“I mean…” You turn to face Max. You were far too busy sneaking around to actually put a label on what you were.

Max shrugs. “She’s my girlfriend.”

George sighs shaking his head. “Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t you have just dated Lando? Or Charles?”

“Because I like Max, not Lando, and not Charles. Besides, you’re the one who introduced us.”

George groans covering his face with his hands. “I’m dead. I’m gonna be out of a job and dead.”

Not much changes after George finds out. It’s difficult to get him to keep his cool at first, but quickly adjusts to keeping this secret hidden away.

To others he seems closer to Max, the pair occasionally walking together, talking to each other in hushed tones. What was once just an acquaintanceship has seemingly turned into a close friendship.

George, only after being what some may call threatened by Max, now helps you sneak around with the Red Bull driver. He makes up excuses as to why Toto can’t find you while you’re in Max’s driver’s room. He offers to roadtrip with you from track to track so that you can travel with Max.

Everything goes smoothly for a while, until a few photos circulate Twitter.

You and Max were very careful about where you met up. It was usually somewhere secluded, somewhere that others wouldn’t find you or wouldn’t be able to see you.

You really enjoyed being with Max, but the hiding was starting to take a toll on the both of you. You wanted to be able to walk into the paddock hand in hand, and he wanted to be able to sweep you into his arms after winning a race.

It was nearing the day that would mark 4 months with each other, so Max had begged you to do something special. He just wanted to take you out. He promised he would make sure that everything was quiet and no one would catch you.

After reluctantly agreeing Max had called up your favorite restaurant. He paid to make sure the two of you would be the only ones dining there, and that you would have access to any back doors to get in and out.

Surprisingly dinner went off without a hitch. The restaurant was empty when you arrived, allowing you and Max to have a quiet romantic evening with each other somewhere other than between the walls of either of your apartments. You spent the nights smiling and laughing with each other, occasionally stealing food off the other’s plate.

You left the restaurant and headed back to his apartment with your takeout boxes. You spent the night there with Max, cuddled up into his chest as you let sleep overtake you.

The next morning you woke up still pressed against Max. Usually he would stay in bed, stroking your back or your hair softly until you woke up, but now he was sitting up looking at his phone.

His eyebrows were furrowed and a scowl rested on his face.

“What? What’s wrong?” You ask, slowly sitting up.

“I’m sorry liefje…” He hands his phone to you.

He’s got Twitter open, and on it are a few photos. There’s one of you smiling up at Max. You can’t really tell that it’s Max, just a guy in a white shirt. Then one of you kissing the same guy. Then the last is one where you can clearly see Max, his face now turned towards the camera.

Someone took these photos as you were leaving the restaurant. Clearly someone had informed paparazzi that you would be there, sneaking in and out together.

You can feel your heartbeat speed up in your chest. You give Max his phone back and reach over for yours.

You’ve also got a slew of Twitter notifications, as well as a few texts from George.

Are you alright?

I don’t know how the hell that happened.

I’m here if you need me. Either of you.

You sigh and run a hand through your hair. You can feel tears start to well up in your eyes, already picturing what’s going to happen next. You could lose your job, you could be forced to end your relationship with Max, you could be sued for potentially giving Red Bull classified information.

Max sees your eyes become glassy and immediately pulls you into his arms.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Y/n.” He lets you cry into his chest. “It’s okay. We’re gonna be okay. I promise.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head.

Once you’ve finally got your breathing back to normal you slowly pull away from Max. He gives you a soft smile, then softly kisses you. He kisses you once, then twice, then a third time, until you finally return a smile to him.

You lay with him quietly for a few minutes until you hear you phone buzz.

Your screen lights up with a text notification from Toto.

We need to talk. Thursday, 4 o’clock, my office. Bring Verstappen.

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen #formula one x reader #formula one #mv33 x reader #mv33

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buckets-and-trees · 2 months ago

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Welcome Home, Pumpkin [spiced]

Characters/Pairings: Lloyd Hansen x curvy Female!Reader Word Count: 1.9k Summary: Bad ethics. Zero impulse control. This is what everyone says about him. What will it mean for you tonight?

Content/Warnings: dubious consent, soft!dark story, use of pet name "Pumpkin," explicit smut (fingering, unprotected vaginal intercourse), orgasm denial, groping, light choking, bondage

Notes: This is the second of three in a set of short stories with Lloyd served three ways - soft, soft!dark, and dark. The three feature the same setting, overlapping themes, shared thoughts, and bits of dialogue. Spiced is the soft!dark version.

sugar pumpkin | smashed pumpkin

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You shut the door behind you and sigh, happy to be home after a long day - a long week, really.

You slip your shoes off, hang your bag on the hook by the door, and turn on some music before making your way down the hall to your bedroom, ready to change from your professional clothes to something comfy to lounge in the rest of the evening.

You jump when a deep, serious voice you aren’t expecting says, “Welcome home, Pumpkin.”

Your heart rockets into your throat, and you grip the doorframe. “Lloyd Hansen!”

He chuckles, rising from the spot he’d been perched on the edge of the bed.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

He makes a show of bowing slightly, “And yet, here I am.”

You hesitate in the doorway, studying the face of the man you are now so familiar with. The steel blue eyes, the sharp jawline, the ridiculous mustache you hoped to avoid indefinitely.

He looks you up and down slowly, then sits back on the bed. “Did you think I would really be stuck in a Lithuanian prison?”

You narrow your eyes slightly and chew the inside of your cheek. His eyes study you as much as you’re studying him, and you don’t want to give anything away.

“Aw, you did. That’s cute,” he says, voice dripping in saccharine sweetness. “You should’ve known I’d be able to work myself out of there in two or three days, at most.”

You shrug. “A girl can hope.”

“Only one night, by the way, since I know you won’t ask,” he says, clearly wanting to boast.

“And that was six months ago,” you counter. “I finished the job and got the paycheck.”

“The job might be done, but we have unfinished business, Pumpkin. And it’s more fun surprising you like this when you thought you’d never see me again, isn’t it?” he simpers.

He might have been biding his time to drop in on your life again, and you can sense he’s eager, a bit impatient, but you also sense he will play this out the way he wants now that the two of you are in the same room together again.

And you hate the way you’ve been drawn to this man since the day you two first crossed paths. He is dangerous and untrustworthy. You operate in the daylight and occasionally step into the shadows, but he lives in the dark, revels in it.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re keeping from me? Why you took the contract in Kaunas in the first place?” he asks, lifting his chin just a fraction.

And oh that look does something to you - the delicious swoop in your stomach that made you weak in Eastern Europe and traitorously eager for him now.

“No,” you finally answer. Slowly, you take measured steps toward him.

“Fair enough. But I might get under your skin enough to change your tune, wind you up, have you singing all sorts of secrets for me.”

“How much time did you spend thinking up that line? The imagery, the alliteration? Impressive.”

“Not the only thing that’s impressive about me,” he responds without a second thought.

You scoff, but there is an impertinent flutter in your chest you try to tamp down. He talks - a lot - but from the brief time you were in each others’ orbit in Lithuania, you learned he could back up his bluster with brains and brawn. A dangerous player on the board.

“How much time did spend you think about my fingers deep in your pussy like they were in the closet in that day in Kaunas?”

His words hang in the air, a bold challenge that sends a shiver down your spine. Your mind immediately flashes back to the last day in Lithuania, when you had been alone, hiding in a closet and his fingers had boldly started to explore your body. You can almost feel the heat of his touch, his breath on your neck, and his hard body pressed against your back like they were that day. The memory floods your senses, the smell of wood and dust, the creaking of the floorboards as the hired goons patrolled up and down the hallway just on the other side of the door. And now, here he is, asking how much time she had spent thinking about it.

You couldn't deny to yourself the way your body responds to his words, his presence, craving that same intense pleasure again, but you can deny it to him. You have to.

“I didn’t want you then, and I don’t want you now,” you reply simply and walk over to your dresser, bypassing him on the bed. Methodically, you begin to take off your necklace, and then your watch, as if he’s not there.

“Want, need, crave…”

“Lloyd!” You gasp because those words are murmured directly in your ear, as Lloyd has moved with silent precision right behind you.

“…those are all different things,” he says. He presses his hard body up against your back, pressing his pelvis up against your ass, knocking you roughly into the drawers, pinning you. “You may not want this, but need it? Crave it?”

“No,” you whimper when he grinds against you again.

“Mmm, you made some pretty, soft sounds when we were hidden in the dark before. Wonder what sounds I can get you to make now that we’re not trying to be discreet.”

“We’re not trying to be anything,” you argue, squirming against him.

“Anything with labels, no, definitely not,” he agrees. “But you’re itching for it, aren’t you, Pumpkin?”

One of his large hands gropes your breast, and the other moves to your throat. He squeezes in both places, and you groan, a shiver ripping through you.

He chuckles, “I see we like that.”

“No,” you whimper.

“Boring!” he barks.

In one swift motion, Lloyd hefts you up, flips you around and has you on the bed pinned beneath him, body pressing into yours. He growls into your mouth as he claims you in a filthy kiss. He props himself up slightly on one arm, and his other hand reaches to tear the front of your shirt open, rending the fabric in two.

You look up at him, chest heaving, waiting with bated breath.

He unbuttons the top of your pants and drags down the zipper, all the while looking in your eyes.

“I find you wet, and I’m not stopping,” he insists, tone low, calculated.

You could press your thighs together, try to squirm away from him, but he’s too strong, and you know what he’s going to find. You could even turn your head and look away, but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

His fingers dip into your panties, and he goes straight for the cut of you, slick and wet for him, and slips a finger inside.

“I knew it,” he whispers. His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing in slow circles.

You moan, arching into his touch, unable to resist the pleasure he’s giving you.

“Such a sensitive little thing,” he murmurs, adding another finger and thrusting them inside you.

You wriggle and writhe beneath him, unable to control your body’s response to his touch. He watches with dark satisfaction as you lose yourself in the moment.

“Lloyd,” you moan his name, and he chuckles softly.

“You sound so sweet when you say my name like that,” he coos, increasing the speed of his fingers inside you.

Your breath hitches as your orgasm approaches.

But then he pulls his thick fingers away, and a whine escapes your lips before you can stop it. Your body surges up, pelvis seeking his.

"You'll give me what I want," Lloyd purrs, his voice low and dangerous. He brings his slick fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean, maintaining eye contact with you the entire time. The sight makes you shiver involuntarily.

"Never," you breathe, but your voice lacks conviction.

Lloyd smirks, clearly not believing you. "We'll see about that."

He leans down, pressing his body against yours once more. His lips brush against your ear as he whispers, "I always get what I want. And right now, I want you."

Before you can respond, he captures your lips in another searing kiss. His hands roam your body, touching, teasing, igniting a fire within you that you've tried so hard to extinguish. You hate how easily he can affect you, how your body responds to his touch without your permission.

Lloyd's voice is a low rumble against your ear as he pins you to the bed. "You'll tell me everything I want to know."

You struggle to catch your breath, still reeling from the sudden loss of his touch. "I told you, I'm not giving you anything."

He smirks, trailing a finger down your cheek. "Oh, but you will. Your body's already betraying you. I think you’ll give me everything."

You think there’s a possibility he could end up being right, because while you didn’t think of him much after Lithuania, the truth is you did think of him. You thought of him on some of the nights alone in your bed when you had your best orgasms.

"What's the real reason you took that contract in Kaunas?" he demands.

You clench your jaw, refusing to answer. Lloyd's hand slides back to your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp.

"Come on, Pumpkin. Make this easy on yourself."

Your breath catches as his fingers tighten ever so slightly around your throat. The pressure sends a thrill through you, desire boiling in your belly despite your best efforts to resist.

"I won't tell you anything," you manage to choke out, your voice strained.

Lloyd's eyes darken with a mix of frustration and arousal. "So stubborn," he murmurs. "But I did hope you’d choose the hard way."

He takes off his belt and binds it around your forearms. He yanks the clothing completely down and off your bottom half, and then he’s between your legs, cock out, and pushing his thick, blunt head against your entrance. He leans down, his breath hot against your ear. "Last chance to tell me what I want to know."

You turn your head, refusing to meet his gaze. "Go to hell," you spit out.

He chuckles darkly. "Oh, we're already there, Pumpkin."

With one powerful thrust, he buries himself inside you. You cry out, overwhelmed by the sudden fullness. Lloyd groans, his fingers digging into your hips.

"Fuck, you feel even better than I thought you would.”

You moan and push your bound forearms at his chest.

Lloyd growls, grabs your wrists, and pins them above your head in one of his giant hands.

Then he proceeds to fuck you.

Slowly.

He gives you what you won’t admit you want.

Over and over again he gives it to you, until you’re boneless, voice hoarse, throat raw, limbs aching, babbling, but somehow still fighting against giving the one piece of information he’s seemingly desperate to have.

When dawn is about to break, dazed and delirious with pleasure, you wonder which of you will break first - or if neither of you will.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

all Welcome Home, Pumpkin stories

Aaaaah! So with the second one, what do you think? Was this anything like what you were expecting? Did you catch the repeated lines?

...and will you be ready for the third and darkest of the three?!

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen x yn #lloyd hansen smut #female reader #curvy reader #aspen wrote something #welcome home pumpkin collection #tw: dub con #tw: dubcon #tw: dubious consent

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ruskaroma · 2 years ago

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could you do a little drabble of an au of the reader and jw on their wedding night and tbe reader is like pure and naive and loosing her virginity to john 🤭🤍🪷

oh my god.. can i shake this up a little bit?

arranged marriage with john wick.

let’s say you’re the only child of a very powerful mob syndicate, and all your parents wanted is the best for you, so they don’t want you going around fucking with other guys that are below they’re status because it might ruin the reputation they’ve worked so hard to achieve.

so they kept you isolated.

you’re homeschooled, the only friends you have are the maids, the children of those maids and gardeners, you rarely go outside – and if you do, you have a bunch of bodyguards following you around everywhere you go.

of course, you don’t question it. you know your parents only want the best for you, and you know how dangerous it is to live in a world like this. you can’t exactly blame your parents.

when you turned 20, your father introduced you to a man named john wick.

he’s the definition of tall, dark, and handsome you keep reading about in the books. late forties or mid fifties, you don’t exactly know. you just know that he’s a lot older and probably knows better.

your father had explained how you’re going to be marrying john and you were beyond ecstatic upon hearing the news. having a companion in life could open up to so many different opportunities. it didn’t matter that you just met this man. there’s so much time to learn about each other as you two plan for the wedding.

you didn’t ask your parents why they’re suddenly letting you marry a man because simply don’t care. too naïve for your own good. you didn’t know that your parents are only paying their debt to john and you were the only thing in their life that they could just simply give away.

fast forward to the night of your wedding day, let’s say that you aren’t expecting john to be so... rough during your lovemaking.

his actions are rough but his words are soft. it’s confusing you. you thought honeymoons are supposed to be sweet and slow, yet here you are getting fucked on the bed like some kind of cheap whore as john pulls your hair from behind and whispers filthy praises in your ear like there’s no tomorrow.

“my pretty little wife,” john grunts, snapping his hips against your ass, burying his cock so far deep into your little cunt that you could feel it in your stomach. you drool, stumbling over your words. “my wife got the best pussy – so fucking tight and pink. i bet you’ve never let anyone touch you like this before, hm? only me? only your husband?”

“y-yes – yes, john, o-only you!” you sob, clutching the bedsheets in your first as your pussy clench around his dick. “f-feel so full, j-john, feel s-so full – so big.”

“that means you’re doing a great job, baby,” he praises, letting go of your hair to drop his head on your neck, peppering kisses all over as his beard tickles your skin. “my little wife is taking my cock so well. you’re gonna have to get used to it, baby, because i can assure you that i’ll be fucking your sweet little cunt every single day that i come back home. gonna get you so nice and full again like this.”

#ask #drabble #concept #my works #THIS IS RUSHED IM SAWRY #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #john wick fanfiction #john wick fanfic #john wick imagine #john wick smut #john wick #keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves smut #jw

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chichiscloset · 9 months ago

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WHAT IS THIS SEASON OF LIFE TRYING TO TEACH YOU?

When you’re in pursuit of the life of your dreams along the journey there will be many seasons. Some seasons will be triumphant and you’ll feel like anything is possible, while others will be so difficult you’ll be unsure how you’re even going to make it through this season of life.

I want you ladies to remember, and as a reminder to myself as well, that the only constant in life is change. When change comes are you able to withstand the turbulence of life while remaining faithful and focused? And when things are great can you show gratitude for all that you prayed for and received?

“To whom much is given, much will be required”

I love that quote! It’s a reminder that if you want a lot you have to go through a lot. The best things in life are found through effort and experience. I know the “soft life” has convinced us all that being a “bad bitch” is enough to achieve the life of your dreams. However, in reality, that’s not all it takes! The life of your dreams doesn’t just appear! It is a treasure, and like a treasure, a hunt is required because you only find what you seek!

God/the universe, whatever you believe in, is always guiding you to become your best self. Let life mold into what you need to become, so that you can receive the desires of your heart. There is a lesson to learn in every season, and it’s your job to have enough wisdom to let life be your teacher.

At the end of the day, as much as we all want to, there is no avoiding the process or the discomfort that different season bring. If you are not already born into money you’re going to have to figure out how to get everything you dream of. Which means, you’ll have to go through some thangs!

How to embrace each session if your life?

I. PRAY

Pray, pray, pray.

Seriously! Without getting too religious, prayer works! Plenty of the darkest seasons of my life required a crap ton of prayer to get through the days. You have to remember nothing is happening to you, and everything is happening for you. You are where you are because that’s where you’re supposed to be. Trust that God has a plan, and it’s more beautiful than anything you could imagine.

Pray for guidance, pray for clarity, and pray for wisdom. Prayer has a way of providing calm in the midst of a storm.

II. SLOW DOWN

Take a moment to reflect on everything that lead you to where you are today.

Realize that some days will be productive, while others will feel like you aren’t doing hardly enough. We are all human, and growth is never linear. If you’re always moving and doing it’s hard to hear your intuition. It’s ok to slow down and listen to what the universe is trying to tell you.

III.FIND A NEW PART OF YOU TO EXPLORE

As humans we’re always evolving. We change the way we dress, the activities we enjoy, who/how we like to spend our time, and everything in between.

As you enter a new season of being take the time to reflect on what’s changing about yourself. Is it a change you like? Are you regressing? Take the time to explore and get to know this new version of yourself. Be curious without being judgemental.

IV. PRACTICE GRATITUDE

Practicing gratitude is the quickest way to call more good into your life. By being thankful for the good things in your life, no matter how big or small they may be it allows you to focus on the positive aspects of your life and acknowledge the good things that have come your way.

Some ways to practice gratitude include keeping a gratitude journal and expressing gratitude to others, taking time to appreciate nature, and focusing on the present moment. By practicing gratitude regularly, you can improve your overall well-being and increase your happiness, and better weather any season in your life.

Ultimately, accepting the changes and transitions that come with different stages of life, whether they be joyful or challenging. It means acknowledging that life is a journey with ups and downs, and learning to appreciate each moment for what it is. By embracing the seasons of life, we can grow, learn, and become more resilient individuals.

Until we talk again ❤️

Chichi

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tropes-and-tales · 8 months ago

Text

Ten Months as Yours

Colonel Horacio Carrillo x F!Reader

CW: Angst (reader is CIA and has feelings about it; failed first marriages; talk of Catholicism); smut (oral, m! and f! receiving; PiV, unprotected); 18+ only.

Word Count: 10,951

AN: This was from an "Arranged Marriage" prompt list. An anon asked for it, and it was supposed to incorporate dates where the couple gets to know each other. I, an idiot, didn't remember that until nearly the end, but if you kind of squint, you can see it.

AN2: Not edited. Not even a little bit.

AN3: Sigh. I dunno, folks. It's whatever.

Horacio Carrillo’s first marriage was standard Catholic fare: the reading of the banns beforehand, then the long wedding Mass. Heavy on the incense, crowded church, a red-faced priest droning through the Gospel. Juliana, his blushing bride in a heavy lace veil, clutching a bouquet of lilies already wilted and brown at the edges in the Colombian heat.

Then, years later, the dissolution of that marriage. Papers signed separately in the presence of lawyers after an ice age formed between the couple. Then more years of Horacio being single again, but the time slipped by like water. He was so busy with work, he hardly registered the empty house he returned to every evening.

Horacio Carrillo’s second marriage is something else entirely.

It’s not, strictly or spiritually speaking, a real marriage. It’s a bit of maneuvering on the part of the U.S. government, logistical choreography as part of a larger plan. To the world at large, Horacio Carrillo is dead: murdered by Escobar’s men in a trap. Only a handful of people know the truth—the doctor and nurses at the American hospital who healed him under a temporary alias. And this man, Johnson, a U.S. Marshal and handler for the U.S. Witness Protection program

Johnson is the sole witness to this so-called marriage, if one could even call it that. It happens on the cargo plane from Bogota to Atlanta. Johnson sits in the jump seat across from his two charges: Horacio…and you.

Horacio doesn’t even learn your real name. There’s no exchange of vow and certainly no incense or bouquet of lilies. Instead of a blushing bride, there’s a silent one. Your mouth is set in a thin, straight line as you listen to Johnson’s rundown of your new life, and every time Horacio chances a look at you, he only sees the tension in you. Grim-set mouth, clenched jaw…and the white edge of a bandage on your temple, mostly hidden under the sweep of your hair.

Horacio wonders if you’re dead to the world too. You aren’t DEA or CIA, at least not in the Colombian theater, but that doesn’t mean you weren’t nearby. The U.S. agencies have their sticky fingers all over South America.

The broad strokes of the situation: you and Horacio are newlyweds. You met in Spain and are returning to the U.S. Horacio is dead, but he’s been replaced by Davide, and Johnson hands over a thick packet of official documents—Spanish birth certificate, Spanish passport, U.S. green card.

You are also dead, but you’ve been replaced by Gwen. Another thick packet of documents detailing your fake life as an ex-pat American in Spain.

Each packet also contains a simple gold band for each of you. Horacio turns it over and over in his hand, contemplates the little twist he gets in his gut to put a ring back on his finger after years of being divorced.

You slide yours on too, but you fuss with it the rest of the flight, twisting it around and around your finger.

“You’re going to Vermont, of all places,” Johnson tells you. “There’s a mid-sized college there with a lot of international folk coming and going, so you’ll blend in. The house is handled, and you’ll get a stipend every month, but we expect you to find jobs as quickly as you can.”

Johnson doesn’t even attempt to say how long it will be. Horacio knows he has to wait out Escobar before he can return to Colombia. You? Who can say?

The rest of the flight is silent except for the low roar of the engines and the creak of the netting holding the cargo in place. Once you land, you stand and follow Johnson and Horacio off of the plane to transfer to a smaller passenger plane that will take you to Vermont.

The final leg of the journey is silent too.

When you deplane in the small regional airport in Vermont, you stumble on the step down from the fuselage. Horacio catches your arm, keeps you upright.

“Watch your step,” he says softly.

“Thank you,” you reply.

It’s the first words you exchange, and his hand on your clothed arm—that’s the first time he touches you.

-----

Horacio has never been to the United States before, but when he thinks of it, he thinks of what he’s seen in the movies: New York City, perhaps, with the traffic and skyscrapers and Statue of Liberty. Or Miami with its white beaches and turquoise water and neon-tinged nightlife.

Vermont is something else.

It’s green. Everything is so green. The rounded mountains in the distance, the old trees with huge, spreading branches. The grass of the lawns in this college town. Even though it is near twilight, even the shadows are green-tinged as the sun sets.

“At least we arrived in the spring,” you say. You glance at him, explain that New England winters can be brutal.

The house is small, trim. It’s a simple ranch but well-built. There’s a fair amount of land, and the nearest neighbors are far enough away that there’s privacy.

Of course it’s awkward. You don’t know each other at all, and you’re both in hiding. Horacio is out of habit with living with another person, and he has to guess you are too.

That first night, the first moment of awkwardness: when you arrive at the house, there’s two bedrooms, and you both hesitate in the hallway that leads to both. You’re married on paper (kinda) but who would expect you to share a bed? But you’re also both exhausted, and Horacio takes in the dark circles under your eyes. The larger room has a full-sized bed, but the guest only has an uncomfortable-looking daybed.

“Take the master bedroom,” he says. “I’ll take the guest room.”

“You sure?” Your words, Horacio notices, are slightly accented, like you’ve been around people like him who speak English as a second language. He wonders about your past and what landed you here with him.

“Of course. Take the room. We’ll talk in the morning.”

You nod, and he glances down at where you twist that gold band over and over around your slim finger. It’s here, he’ll realize later, that he starts to feel something for you, but at the moment, it’s only sympathy. You’re trapped in the same miserable situation as him, so sympathy is an easy emotion to access.

“I appreciate it…Davide,” you reply, and you give him a nod, then turn in for the night. He hears the quiet click of the bedroom door as you shut it, and he turns in too. The daybed is cramped, and he can’t stretch out completely, but he’s so bone-tired that he’s asleep the minute his head hits the pillow.

-----

The first month, April.

It’s awkward. It’s more awkward for Horacio; everything in the U.S. is familiar, but just different enough to make it seem like he’s dreaming. You’re already an American, and life in an idyllic New England college town is easier for you to settle into.

Living with another person is strange. Horacio finds that the two of you engage in a civil, stilted dance each day that first month. You each tiptoe around the other, defer to each other in a painfully polite way. When Horacio catches you singing along softly to the radio one night, you snap the music off and go quiet. When you walk in on him in the bathroom once—he was only brushing his teeth, so it is hardly salacious—you apologize and refuse to meet his eyes for the rest of the week.

The two of you don’t really talk, not that first month. You aren’t supposed to share details about your real lives with each other, so neither of you know how to converse in the weird liminal space you find yourselves. Your conversations are limited to menial topics. The weather, the house and yard, what you each want for dinner that night. You trade off chores, you drift around each other, and it’s like living in purgatory with another ghost.

Sometimes, Horacio swears he can hear you crying softly through the wall that separates your room from his, but you never offer any insight into your feelings and he doesn’t ask.

-----

The second month, May.

Johnson told each of you to find work, and you land a job first: you get a position at the college. You ask him, a bit shy, if you can take a certain portion of the monthly stipend to buy some new clothes for your office job, and Horacio’s gut does that twist again. Of course you need new clothes. You left wherever with nothing, the same way he left Colombia with nothing.

“Of course,” he says. “You don’t even need to ask.”

That makes you smile a little, and you make a weak joke about not wanting to be the sort of wife to spend frivolously. It makes Horacio chuckle. It breaks the uneasy tension in the house a bit, and he ends up going to the mall with you that weekend as you shop.

There’s nothing like a mall to encapsulate American culture, and Horacio tries to play it cool at the conspicuous consumption on display. The giant building, the icy air conditioning, the cacophony of sound echoing around the marble floors and walls. There’s so many people and only a handful of security guards. When Horacio studies them closer, he sees that they don’t even carry guns—they only have walkie-talkies as they saunter around at a lazy pace.

His life now is a far cry from his life as the leader of the Search Bloc. And when he glances over at the woman walking beside him, he realizes how far this second marriage is from his first.

But the thought leads to him ruminating about his first marriage and all the little ways he failed Juliana. This situation with you isn’t a marriage, of course, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to be better.

So once you are done shopping, he pulls you into the Sam Goody and insists that you buy an album to celebrate. He catches you singing all the time in the house, listening to the radio, humming or singing along. When he imagines your mysterious life before now, he imagines an apartment filled with a big stereo and shelves of albums.

“Seriously?” It makes you smile again, and Horacio thinks you have a nice smile, though he wonders how often people ever get to see it.

“Well, it’s our stipend,” he clarifies. “It’s not like I’m treating you, really. I guess it’s not really a gift if it’s ours.”

Another smile, and he stands back and watches as you rifle through the stacks of vinyl records and CD’s, as you pull one out and read the list of songs, then replace it. You finally settle on one, and the two of you check out, and Horacio pulls out his wallet and pays.

And even if it’s your shared stipend, you thank him and smile again, and it feels like something that he can’t quite name.

-----

The third month, June.

You leave the house every weekday for work. Horacio finally has some firsthand knowledge of what Juliana must have felt when he left each day. He had always prided himself that he was able to provide for both of them, that she never had to work.

He had never considered how bored she must have been.

He wakes up early out of habit, but you do too. In the soft pre-dawn light, you go out for a run every day. Part of him remains Search Bloc; he stands at the living room window and watches for you until you return, panting, your t-shirt ringed with sweat. He finds he can breathe easier once you’re in sight.

While you shower and dress, Horacio makes you coffee. The two of you sip at your coffee in companionable silence, and then you’re off.

It leaves him with a full day with little to do.

He cleans the house, but that takes no time at all because both of you are fastidious and neat anyway. He maintains the lawn, trims back the unruly rhododendrons. He bought a weight bench and a set of free weights from a yard sale a few weeks after you moved, and he spends some time lifting in the garage.

That takes him to noon, if he’s lucky.

His afternoons are when he thinks of Juliana the most. Is this what her life with him was like? Back then, he used to scoff at the claim that women needed a life outside of the home. His mother had seemed happy to be a housewife and mother, and he had always assumed that Juliana was the same. Except the children never came, and Juliana had a degree in fashion design from the university—yet when she broached the idea of a job or even an internship, Horacio had dissuaded her.

He had thought he was being a good husband. Now, as he sits and drowses to “Days of Our Lives,” he wonders how he had missed the obvious.

But if he’s Juliana in this situation, you are no Horacio. For one thing, you return home in the late afternoon—he’s never left to eat dinner alone in a too-quiet house. For another, you immediately kick off your shoes and pad over to where he’s cooking dinner, and you fall into an easy rhythm of helping him finish it off.

Halfway through June, you get comfortable enough to start calling out, “honey, I’m home!” each time you return.

Which makes him smile, every time.

And he’s only a passable cook, but you praise every meal he puts in front of you. You joke once, say “I should have gotten a husband a long time ago,” and that makes him smile even wider, and it is easy to fall into the fantasy that this easy domesticity is real. The fantasy only falls apart at night, when you each retire to your separate rooms, as you do every night.

-----

The fourth month, July.

The easy domesticity cedes to something deeper and darker right at the start of the month.

Horacio has never been to the U.S. before, so he hasn’t experienced the usual Independence Day celebrations. When he asks, you grin and tell him that a good old-fashioned U.S.-style barbecue might be nice, and that’s what the two of you plan. You and Horacio as Davide and Gwen: patriotic Americans.

The day starts off great. The weather is hot and humid enough to feel like Colombia, and Horacio will admit that you look nice in your cut-off shorts and cotton tank top. He will admit that if you were really his wife, he might never even make it to lunchtime before taking advantage of a quiet house set apart from its neighbors.

The barbecue is nice. It’s all-American fare: hot dogs and hamburgers, corn on the cob steamed over hot coals. You buy an apple pie from a nearby farm stand, and you also make some trifle type dessert, and the two of you wash it all down with ice-cold beer. By the time dusk rolls around and lightning bugs start to flicker across the lawn, Horacio is pleasantly buzzed.

The town puts on a fireworks display, and as the sky turns a velvety black, the light show starts. Your house is in the perfect place to see it, slightly set on a ridge, and blossoms of red and white and blue sparks explode across the sky. Horacio, tipsy, watches the first few minutes, completely mesmerized…but when he turns to say something to you, he finds you missing.

He finds you in the house. More specifically, he finds you in the bathtub, hugging your knees to your chest, forehead pressed to knees.

“Gwen?” he says, and he feels stupid saying the obviously fake name, but he doesn’t know your real one.

You don’t answer anyway, and he steps into the bathroom. Studies you closer. Sees that you are shaking, and between the muffled booms of the fireworks, he can hear your panting breath.

He moves without any real thought. He knows—or can guess, at least—at what is happening to you. Horacio has led enough men through enough battles to recognize a panic attack when he sees one, but you aren’t one of his men and this is no battle, so he puts a gentle hand on your shoulder to alert you that he’s there. Then he climbs into the bathtub with you.

“Scoot forward a little,” he orders softly, and you do. He maneuvers himself behind you, then pulls you closer to him. Your back pressed against his chest, and his arms wrapped around you, he holds you close despite the heat and humidity of the day.

“Just breathe with me.” He takes a deep, slow breath, feels his chest push against you. He does it again and again, and after a long while, you start to mimic him.

The fireworks end, and eventually you stop trembling. Tucked this close to him, Horacio can see the edge of a thick scar disappearing under your hair, and he remembers the bandage on the plane from Bogota.

He wonders if the moment that caused that scar is linked to this moment now.

After you calm, and after you sheepishly untangle yourself from him, he urges you to do whatever you need to. To take a cool shower or go to bed. That he’ll clean up. You gaze back at him a long moment, like you’re trying to decide something, and then you nod. You leave the bathroom and disappear into your bedroom, and he hears that quiet click of the door closing.

The rest of the month is uneasy. The panic attack seems to have dredged up the muck in your past, the trauma of a life that has resulted in you being in Witness Protection, injured enough at some point to have a thick scar on your head.

Something about this feels like an echo from his first marriage. Juliana went silent on him too, but for different reasons. Your silence is driven by an inner turmoil that he can only guess at, and he feels powerless to help.

So he only does what he can. He makes you coffee each morning before work. He makes you dinner each night. He asks gentle, tame questions about your work day, and when you don’t have much to say in that quarter, he tells you that day’s drama on “Days of Our Lives.”

“Stefano DiMera is back,” he tells you one night. “And Marlena is possessed by el Diablo.”

That’s the sole smile he is able to coax from you all month. You pick at the dinner he made, pushing it around with the tines of your fork, and repeat, “the Devil?”

Horacio nods.

“Like, Lucifer the Devil?”

“Yes.”

You smile. “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.”

He nods again, smiles back at you. “It really is.”

-----

The fifth month, August.

Horacio finds a job with a state nursery, and when he applies, he nearly despairs at the cliché of it: a South American immigrant becoming a landscaper.

But it’s not landscaping at all. It’s a quiet, peaceful job. The summer interns have already left for the year, so Horacio is hired on to help the old-timer, Lawrence. Lawrence has a thick Yankee accent, says little, but Horacio finds the job a revelation. He walks the rolling grounds and checks on the saplings that will one day be planted across the state. They’ll go into parks and line city streets, and it knocks something loose in him. A job where he’s nurturing life that will potentially live on long after him. The oak sapling he waters and feeds today could live hundreds of years when he’ll be long forgotten.

With him working now, you and Horacio switch off on meals. You teach him how to use the most American of small appliances, the slow cooker. You make him the most American of working class meals, the one-pot dish. He makes you the comfort food from his childhood, and together you find an egalitarian balance.

But something about July and your low mental health…it makes Horacio want to do better. Who knows how long the two of you will end up living like this? He wants to understand you better, and he wants you to know him, because the two of you exist as the sole inhabitants of this weird, unlikely life as Davide and Gwen.

“Let’s each say one true thing about ourselves,” he proposes over dinner one night. He’s bone-tired from work—he spent the day mulching rows and rows of tender little Eastern Hemlocks (and he knows the difference now between them and a balsam fir and a spruce). You look tired too, but at his suggestion, your eyes light up. Maybe you’ve been wanting some familiarity with him too and just were waiting on him to suggest it first.

So August is this: getting to know each other. Dumb stuff, usually. Favorite colors, favorite songs, favorite foods. Most embarrassing memory. Best memory. Age of first kiss.

-----

The sixth month, September.

The weather starts to turn. The nights grow cold, and the leaves transform from all that green to a riot of reds and yellows and oranges. Work at the nursery slows way down, and Horacio spends long hours following Lawrence’s lead, which means an hour or two of paperwork, then lunch, then quietly reading a book at his desk.

You’re busy with the new academic year, but the weekends are spent doing day trips. You’re six months into this, and you’re both braver, more willing to travel afield. You go into the mountains to look at the leaves from a different angle than what you see from your house. You go to pick apples, and you spend a weekend cooking them into pies, cobblers, and apple sauce.

The dinner-time “one true thing” game ends, and it turns into natural conversation. It’s so comfortable now. You chat and laugh and joke, and sometimes he teases you, and it makes you duck your head to hide your pleased smile. You like being teased, Horacio finds. You like being the butt of gentle jokes, so he obliges you as often as he dares.

It’s a revelation to find that he has a sense of humor after all.

Over one dinner, he mentions his first marriage, his first wife. You ask him questions, and he answers them honestly, and then he asks if you’ve ever been married.

“No.” You shake your head to emphasize the point.

“Ever engaged?”

You hesitate, then nod. “Yes. A long time ago.”

“What happened?”

You shrug, lifting one shoulder up before dropping it back down. “Life. Expectations. It’s hard to say.” You take a sip of your water, then settle your gaze somewhere past Horacio, like you’re looking at the specter of your failed engagement.

“I was young and very career-driven,” you add. “And not many men want that in a wife.”

“I’m sorry.” He is, of course, and he’s doubly-sorry because he was arguably one of those men. He kept Juliana at home, stifled her own career aspirations. A flush of shame courses through him at the memory of his own failings.

Another shrug. “It was for the best.”

“And now here you are, married to me,” he teases, and yes—you duck your head, but he catches the shy little grin, the curve of your cheek as you smile at the joke.

-----

The seventh month, October.

It’s the first time you’ve actually ordered him to do anything, so Horacio finds himself busy each weekend, decorating the house for Halloween. There’s ghosts strung in the trees in the front yard. Fake gravestones jut from the lawn like rotting teeth. Purple and orange lights are strung around the windows and banisters of the porch, and the two of you set to carving more pumpkins than Horacio thought possible.

But it’s worth it, because your town goes all out for the holiday. You bought him a costume weeks ago, and when he dresses after dinner, he’s surprised to find you openly checking him out. Your gaze sweeps from the hair on the top of his head—longer than Search Bloc reg, curling at the nape of his neck—to his shoes, and you take in his vampire costume.

“You look handsome,” you tell him, and he tries not to ogle you in turn and utterly fails, because you’re dressed up like a witch but the black dress hugs your curves, and the ridiculous hat, complete with a floppy brim, does nothing to detract from how sexy you look.

Horacio finds himself sitting on the front porch with you, handing out candy to the children that come by. And it charms him, how much you get into it, how you guess at what each child is supposed to be. You read the kids perfectly—you’re sweet with the scared little ones, but you play up the witchiness with the older ones, crooking your fingers and cacking at them.

When there’s a lull in the crowd at one point, he catches you as you shiver, so he pulls you close to him and wraps his cloak around your shoulder. He never touches you much, but this is blatant, and the moment feels heavy with intent.

You lean into him. A moment later, he feels your arm wend its way around his waist, under his cloak, so he holds you closer.

The evening continues like that. The two of you play it up more and more, comfortable with pretending. Not you and Horacio, and not Davide and Gwen, but a vampire and a witch, and the more you cackle and scare the children, the more Horacio flashes his fake teeth and hisses at them.

Who ever knew handing out candy in a cheap drugstore costume could be so fun?

When another lull happens, he pulls you back to him, and the motion takes you off balance a little. You hold him back but lean away from him, searching for your equilibrium, and it bares the smooth column of your neck to him.

Horacio forgets himself. Davide forgets himself. The vampire he’s pretending to be dips his head, and he presses the plastic points of his fake teeth into your pulse point, and you give a squeal of surprise, but when Horacio lifts his head to study you, he sees you staring back at him, your eyes wide and dark with obvious desire.

“That’s a good way to get a hex on you,” you warn, but there’s a smile on your red lips, and you don’t release your own hold on him. You don’t shove him away.

“I enjoy a good hex,” he replies.

The stream of children eventually dies off. The bowl of candy has been replenished multiple times, but you fill it one last time and set it on the porch for any stragglers.

Inside the house, you go from room to room and check the locks on the doors, turn off the lights. Horacio lingers near the hallway, and when you turn to make your way to your room, he stills you. He puts his hand on your waist, lightly, and he doesn’t say anything. The moment hangs suspended as you both stand there, silent.

What does it mean for Horacio Carrillo to take you to bed?

He has always tried to be a good Catholic (the killing of narcos aside). He’s never been with anyone other than Juliana, and he feels a tinge of doubt. Guilt, too. He’s always prided himself on his fidelity, and post-divorce, he took a perverse pride in the fact that he never took a lover. That he still honored his vows despite the legal fact that he was no longer married.

He doesn’t mourn Juliana anymore, and he knows that something is growing between the two of you now, but what does it mean? Would it be right to sleep with you, knowing that this is just circumstantial? That it may end at any moment? That if you both weren’t in WitSec, you’d have never met, and might have never liked each other if you had?

Is this thing growing between the two of you only the result of being flung together by circumstances out of your control?

All of those questions rapid-fire through his head, and you seem to see the doubt in his eyes because the moment deflates. The energy and anticipation sour, and he sees it on your face. Your soft smile falls, and then you nod to yourself, as if you knew it would happen like this.

Then you smile again, thank him softly for his help handing out candy. You stretch towards him and brush the lightest of kisses against his cheek, and you step around him to go to your room.

When Horacio goes to bed, it takes him a long time to fall asleep, and he swears you must be awake too, separated only by the wall between you.

-----

The eighth month, November.

Your department at the university puts on a wine and cheese social, and spouses are encouraged to attend.

“We never really practiced our cover story,” he says as he bends over to tie his dress shoes. “Do you remember all of it?”

“I have a eidetic memory.”

“Yeah?” He glances up at you. “You’re full of surprises.”

“Don’t sweat it. It’s a bunch of tenured professors. They love to talk about themselves and nothing else. They are all narcissists of the worse variety.”

But you aren’t entirely correct. The party is at the house of the department chair, and Horacio finds himself cornered by a pair of fellow lecturers. They are older women, charming and gregarious, and they sing your praises…and his own.

“I can see why she’s kept you hidden away,” says the taller of the two. “She said you were handsome but—”

“You make a gorgeous couple,” the shorter one cut in. “And she’s brilliant, you know, she planned out this—”

On and on they go, cutting each other off, redirecting each other, not letting Horacio get a word in edgewise. It’s not far off base from how you explained it would go, and when he catches your eye from across the room, you smile but mouth, “you okay?”

He nods, smiles back at you.

The evening is halfway over when he realizes with a start that he hasn’t cased the room once.

He hasn’t counted the exits and windows, hasn’t studied the egresses and any obstacles to them. He hasn’t scowled at each face to try and determine what dirty secret they held, if Escobar or one of his men had compromised them or their family. He hasn’t studied the lines of their clothing to see who might be hiding a piece.

What does it mean for Horacio Carrillo to lose his edge?

It’s another question he ponders at night, since the minor disaster of Halloween. He knows he hurt you by hesitating in that moment in the hallway, but it’s a subtle hurt. He can see it in your eyes each morning, the way they study his face as if you could perhaps read his thoughts if you watch him closely enough.

More and more, these questions plague him because there’s no easy answers. Horacio is used to solving problems, but he’d be the first to admit that many of his solutions were just brute force. Displays of power. The Search Bloc has a problem? Send in men, armed men, men with guns and night-sticks, men with flint in their souls, men with hearts cased in granite. Send in Colonel Carrillo himself to a clandestine meeting place where a suspect is strung up. What’s a little light torture and murder when the fate of a country hangs in the balance?

That man is dead now. Horacio Carrillo received a state funeral, and his empty coffin lies in the mausoleum. Davide, his replacement, spent the week wrapping tender saplings in burlap in anticipation for the coming snows—all the while considering his place in the greater world and what his legacy may be.

At the end of the evening, Horacio finds you, brings you your coat, holds it out while you shrug your way into it. When the two of you leave, you pass the pair of lecturers who had cornered him, and their exchange is like a Greek chorus that follows him home.

“He is handsome, isn’t he?” says one. “She’s a lucky woman.”

The other one scoffs lightly. “He’s the lucky one.”

You must not hear them because you don’t react. You only let him lead you to the car, and when he brushes away the light dusting of snow with the snow brush, his eyes find yours through the windshield—and you smile at him.

-----

The ninth month, December.

The university shuts down for most of the month, and Horacio is on an abbreviated schedule a the nursery.

The two of you have so much time together.

Horacio has seen snow before, but never like this. Vermont, so green when he arrived, is swaddled in thick layers of white like cotton batting. It absorbs and reflects sounds in weird ways, and a hush falls over your little home.

Being Colombian, he should hate it. He should curse the cold and the snow and the quiet, but it does something to his soul. It soothes him in a way he never would have guessed. True, the cold is difficult at first, but you take him to the mall one weekend and load him up with sweaters and thick woolen socks, and he’s better after that.

Everything is so calm. Peaceful. Horacio has never slept so well in his life, bundled under layers of blankets, even on the uncomfortable daybed. He sleeps, he doesn’t dream, and he wakes up naturally, in slow measure, to a soft light creeping across his bedroom floor.

Being on break, you still wake up early. Earlier than him, some days, and when Horacio wakes to the scent of brewing coffee and something delicious baking in the oven, he wishes sometimes that this was the afterlife. He wants to freeze the moment in time and never let it slip past him. He wants nothing more, in this moment.

He’s always half-asleep those mornings, but the smell of food draws him out. One morning, he pads out to the kitchen in his thick socks and startles you when he grumbles “good morning.” You shriek, then swear, then lightly try to swat him with the spatula in your hands, but he’s still half-asleep, still incredulous that this is his life at the moment, and he takes the spatula from you and pulls you into a big bear hug.

“What’s this for?” you ask. Your words are muffled against his chest, but after a beat, you wrap your arms around his midsection and hug him back.

“Just because,” he replies.

You spend your days doing puzzles, reading, listening to music. You watch “Days of Our Lives” with him and you both laugh at the bad cosmetics and even worse acting on the demonic possession storyline.

Your evenings are spent cooking dinner together. You make the trip into town every few days, and you rent movies and watch them too. You watch everything together—old Hollywood classics, campy horror, meandering romances. The two of you sit on the couch side by side, and it takes all of a day before you’re tucked in against his side, his arm firm around your shoulders.

Sometimes he glances down at you and sees your face in profile lit by the flickering light of the television. Sometimes he can make out the edge of your scar, but he doesn’t linger there. Instead he takes in the whole of your face—the curve of your cheek, the sweep of your lashes as you blink. When something funny happens on the screen, you smile, and it makes Horacio’s heart stutter in his chest to see it.

What does it mean for Horacio Carrillo to fall in love?

Another question to ponder. Another riddle to solve. He’s losing sight of the man he was. Maybe that man is completely lost already. The thought doesn’t unnerve him; he thinks he likes the man he is here. He likes the man he is with you, the job that coaxes life into being instead of snuffing it out. He likes wearing cable-knit sweaters and thick socks and eating the banana bread you bake on mornings you don’t have to work.

He likes sitting on the couch with you and watching a rental VHS of “Beetlejuice.” He likes the feel of your body pressed against his, and he likes looking down to see you smile.

That’s the night he dares ask for more.

After the movie, you do your usual pre-bedtime sweep of the house—locks, lights—then brush your teeth and go to your room. The usual quiet click of your door closing. Horacio, as usual, goes to his room, peels back the layers of blankets, prepares to tuck himself into the cramped bed….then doesn’t.

Instead, he returns to the hallway. He taps a finger on your door, a soft staccato, and he hears you call out, “Davide?”

“Yes.”

You tell him to come in, and you’re sitting up in bed. Your eyebrows are furrowed together.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He shakes his head. How can he begin to explain it? He’s fluent in English, Spanish, and Portuguese, and his Italian is passable, yet not a single language he knows can capture the maelstrom of emotions roiling through him. He loves you, he wants you. He’s afraid you don’t feel the same for him. He’s afraid you do feel the same for him. Is this just situational or are you truly the woman he was meant for all along? Has he gone mad? Is this some tame mental breakdown, the result of coming close to death and then finding himself, improbably, in Vermont with a woman who also was near death?

From your “one true thing” game, he knows you’re a polyglot too—English and Spanish and Russian—but that shake of his head to your question seems to transcend the need for language. You seem to read it exactly, the turmoil in him, and you climb out of bed slowly, make your way over to where he stands by the door.

You reach down and take his hands in yours, and the touch bolsters him. Reassures him. He’s Horacio and Davide both, and you’re both Gwen and yourself, and he doesn’t need to parse the two. He can be both with you. You’re both complicated people with complicated pasts, but none of it matters right now because the world is swathed in layers of snow, and the two of you are the only two who exist in it.

Neither of you say much else for the rest of the night. When you turn your head to peer up at him, Horacio tilts his head to kiss you, and it’s like a bolt of lightning when he does. Maybe he fell in love with you by small moments, but this is the moment that seals it forever: this first kiss, his mouth on yours, writes your name—your real name, even if he doesn’t know it—on his heart like a line of fire.

You each lead the other back to bed; you tug him, he pushes you, and you fall gracelessly back on the rumpled covers, but each kiss, each searching touch peels back another layer of reserve. Horacio slides his hand under your shirt and cups the softness of your breasts, pinches lightly at your hardened buds. You slip your hand under the waistband of his flannel pajamas and grasp his growing erection, stroke it into full hardness as he groans into your mouth.

There’s no art to it. No seduction. You’re both starving for each other, ravenous, and you both kiss the other as you each strip out of your layers. He kisses down your neck, nips at your pulse point like he did on Halloween. He licks against the hollow at the base of your throat, draws the sweetest goddamned moans out of you, then returns to kiss you, to lick against the inside of your mouth so he can feel the sounds you’re making too.

If he’d known how vocal you were in bed, he would have summoned his courage months ago.

Your mouth is on him too. It’s another line of fire, each press of your lips on his bare skin. He finds himself on his back and you astride him. He reaches up to touch your bared breasts, but you don’t even notice because you lean down, focused only on him. Your mouth on his neck, along his stubbled jaw. You kiss his collarbones, his chest. You bite lightly against his nipples, your teeth making him huff at the sensation, and then your warm tongue laving him. Further down, a trail of kisses across his belly, which is less firm than it was in his Search Bloc days but you make a pleased noise as your mouth places wet, lingering kisses there.

Then even lower, and this is uncharted territory. Love-making with Juliana was only ever for the purpose of making children, and while Horacio had convinced her a time or two to go down on her in the interest of foreplay, he never has received head in his life. Juliana had called it dirty, and he had left it at that.

He doesn’t even register it until he feels your hand grasp him at the root of his cock, then feels the smallest, most kittenish little lick of your tongue against his leaking tip.

“Dios,” he groans out, and then he feels the rest: your tongue tracing a pattern along the length of him, then a teasing rhythm where you work him into your mouth. First just the tip. You lavish him with attention there, suckling against the most sensitive part of him, lapping up the pre-cum that leaks from him. Then more and more and more; you work him into your warm, wet mouth, and he feels your breath tickling against his groin, feels you breathing carefully through your nose as you take him as far as you can, and then you swallow against him, you hum against him, and it’s nothing like he’s ever felt before. You press your tongue against the underside of him and you hollow your cheeks, and when your warm palm reaches up to lightly fondle his balls, Horacio’s orgasm breaks around him like a tidal wave. His hips judder once, twice, and he thinks he warns you, but you don’t move. You only hold yourself there, and when he comes, you swallow every drop of him, and he wishes he could explain this feeling to Juliana: that it doesn’t feel dirty at all. It feels like a sacrament. That it feels like love.

It's only fair that he shows you his love for you in turn.

Once he recovers, he flips you onto your back and repays you in kind. He kisses his way down your naked body, makes a note of all the spots that you moan at. Make a note too of all the scars that speak to a life a lot like his was in Colombia. He kisses your scars, presses his lips to each raised ridge as if he can take away any lingering pain.

Then he settles between your legs. There’s no shyness he can detect; you spread your thighs eagerly for him. You allow him to put a pillow under your hips to tilt your pelvis into a more agreeable angle.

He’s not especially skilled at this. The handful of times with Juliana had been a race against the clock—a sprint to coax her to orgasm before she gripped his hair and made him stop. There’s no clock now, so he takes his time. He settles your legs on his shoulders and he bends his head to your gorgeous pussy, and he takes his time.

He licks against your folds, then reaches down to part them with his fingers. Licks a slow, tortuous route from the firm bud of your clit to your entrance. Over and over and over until you squirm underneath him—then he slides a finger into your clenching heat, then another, then a third, and he feels how your pussy twitches against the intrusion, how you grab against his fingers like you’re trying to pull him deeper into you.

He fingers you in a lazy rhythm, and he circles his tongue against your clit. That does something for you; you whine out a curse, and a moment later your hand is on his head, your fingers tugging against his hair, so he purses his lips, suckles against your clit, and that turns your whine into a wail.

He wishes he could tell Juliana this too, that this isn’t dirty either. When you come, he feels a flush of pride at drawing pleasure from your body—your thighs tight against his head, your pussy clamped down on his fingers, and the slick cum that pulses from you, that coats his tongue and lips in the taste of you.

He’s hard again, but he wouldn’t press his luck. This is more than he ever dared hope for. He’d be happy to curl up with you now, to fall asleep beside you, but when he lifts his head from where he’s perched between your thighs, he sees you gazing back at him.

“Please,” is all you say, and he knows what you’re asking for because he wants it too.

If there’s an argument about this being two people pushed together because of circumstances beyond their control, there’s also an argument about the two of you fitting together so well. Because you do. Your body seems like it was made for his; you fit together like two jagged puzzles pieces. Horacio settles over you, lowers his body onto yours, and it’s like magic: his cock bumps against your inner thigh, but he moves half an inch and he finds your wet heat, and then he’s pushing into you, feeling your feverish flesh part and mold to the shape of him, and then your legs are around his waist, holding him to you as he bottoms out inside you.

He stills for a long moment. He’s unable to move. It’s not because he’s afraid he’ll come too soon but because he’s afraid he might cry. Horacio Carrillo is not a man who cries (maybe Davide is), but gazing down at your face, seeing the stunned love written in your expression, he nearly cries at how lucky he feels. How blessed. That shootout in the Medellín alley should have killed him, yet here he is.

Eventually, you give him the faintest of nods, and he starts to move. He’s gentle at first. He warms you up to the feel of him, and him to you. You lay one hand on the side of his face, cupping his cheek as he thrusts into you, but the other hand settles over his heart.

He could love you like this forever. He coaxes a second, then a third orgasm from you, and he watches your face during each one—the way your eyes go wide, then close tight, the way your mouth takes a hitching breath then goes slack as you breathe through it. The look on your face as it ebbs away, your eyes shiny with tears, and happy little smile curving your lips.

“I want you to come,” you whisper to him. You must feel the tension in him, and you bear down on his pistoning cock to urge him along.

“Where?” he pants out.

“Inside me. Please. Come inside me.”

He knows you’re safe. He’s lived with you for nine months now, and he’s run enough errands with you to know that you have that little plastic compact you pick up from the pharmacy once a month. He sees you swallow the same pill each morning with your vitamin. But still—he’s a man with his history, so he doesn’t register your contraceptive use in this moment. The thought comes to him that if he comes inside you, he may make you pregnant, and Horacio is surprised by how quickly the thought urges his orgasm forward.

“You sure?” At your words, he’s amped up his thrusting, driving forward in deep, strong strokes until he swears he can feel the crown of his cock nudging against the end of you, and the thought takes hold: you round with his child, the two of you in this bedroom with a child in the guest room converted into a nursery. At this moment, it’s the tamest of breeding kinks, but in the morning, he’ll realize it’s just more of this perfect life extrapolated. You not as his pretend-wife but as his real wife. A child as tangible proof that this isn’t just an incongruous moment in time.

“Yes. Please.” You lick your lips, blink up at him. “I-I want to feel you coming inside me.”

It’s only fair that he obliges you. You ask so nicely, so he does: he thrusts three, four times more, then feels his pleasure snap and spark up his spine as he fills you.

Then he collapses on top of you, and a moment later, he feels your fingers combing through his hair, lightly running over his back.

“You can sleep here, if you want.” You say it shyly, like you think this might just be a physical release for him, so he lifts his head to kiss you and reply that he wants that very much.

Horacio never sleeps in that cramped daybed again.

-----

The tenth month, January.

What does it mean to Horacio Carrillo for the lines between real and pretend to blur?

It means that through Christmas and into the new year, you live as husband and wife. You live as newlyweds. You make love in every room in the house, and you spent lazy days tangled up together. It means you draw straws to see who has to drive into town for provisions, and it’s all a joke anyway because you always go together. It means your world collapses down into the most basic of human needs: feeding and fucking.

It means that between love-making, the two of you share more about your real lives. Horacio learns about your family life. He learns that you’re CIA, and you’ve been stationed in Panama post-Noriega. He learns that it was an explosion, a car bomb outside of your headquarters, that left you with that scar on your head.

You learn about the Search Bloc and Escobar. You learn about his childhood as the son of a great military leader, and how that legacy shaped his own life and career.

But what does it mean when that line blurs?

It means that when Johnson returns to your lives, everything ends abruptly.

“Everything is all clear,” he tells you when he turns up one Saturday in the middle of January. He sips at the cup of coffee you made him, and if he notices the stunned silence of both of you, he doesn’t remark on it.

“Escobar was gunned down early today. It hasn’t hit the wire yet.” Johnson glances at you. “And the group that bombed your HQ has been cleared out too. You’ve been safe for a few months, but we didn’t want to upset the situation here.”

“So now what?” you ask, and Horacio feels sick to his stomach as Johnson explains that your old lives are waiting for you and that it’s time to go.

-----

The end comes that day, but not the way Horacio thought it would.

You gesture to Johnson after he gives the rundown on the logistics, and the two of you go outside. Horacio watches from the kitchen window as you cross your arms against the cold. You talk, Johnson listens. Then Johnson talks, you listen. Back and forth, and by the end Johnson shakes his head, shakes your hand, and returns inside.

“Okay, so change of plans,” he says, and he rubs his hands together briskly to bring the warmth back to them. “It’s just you and me now. Go pack and say your goodbyes, and I’ll be back in an hour.”

He leaves, and Horacio watches him pull out of the driveway, and when he turns back to the interior of the house, he sees you standing there. Crying openly, tears cutting tracks down your face.

“I can’t go back,” you explain, your voice thick with tears. “I won’t.”

Then you break down into sobs, and it’s second nature to stride over to you, to pull you into his arms. He tries to soothe you—rubs your back, holds you to him—as you choke out the words. That you have had a crisis of conscience. That you wonder if your work in the CIA did more harm than good. That you think it’s the former, and how you want to spend the balance of your life not doing more harm than good. That you want to live in a quiet town that is green in the summer and swaddled in white in the winter. You want to teach, you want to come home to a house with….and you catch yourself at the last minute. You don’t say it, but Horacio can guess it.

You want to come home to a house with him in it. You want to come home to him.

“I love my life here,” you amend hastily, but you push away from him, aware he’s leaving and that your life won’t be exactly the same either way. You mumble something about not wanting to say goodbye, about wishing him the best, and then you disappear down the hallway. He hears the click of the door and your crying, and it doesn’t abate while he packs.

When Johnson returns, Horacio taps on the bedroom door, but you don’t answer and he doesn’t push it. He’s sleepwalking through the moment, numb, so he leaves. He doesn’t say goodbye. He only climbs into Johnson’s rental car, and each mile that Johnson puts between you and Horacio only makes the numbness grow.

“Women, huh?” Johnson says as they near the airport. “That’s why I said they should never take field work. They don’t have the stomach for it, in the end.”

Horacio grunts a non-reply, but he thinks Johnson is off the mark. It’s not that you don’t have the stomach for it. It’s that you don’t have the heart.

-----

February.

He goes from Vermont to Miami, this time around.

Horacio is given a hotel room, and he’s given the orders to just chill for a bit. Johnson has extricated him from his fake life as Davide, but his old life as Colonel Horacio Carrillo isn’t quite ready for him yet.

There are mountains of paperwork to bring a man back from the dead. There’s talk of giving him a cushy role in Madrid. There’s talk of commendations, medals, a comfortable pension to retire on. He’s done a lot for his country of Colombia, and Colombia wants to reward him.

He sleepwalks through this liminal space. The not-Davide, not-Horacio time. He wanders the streets around the hotel and picks at the food he orders in restaurants, and each time he hears a woman speak, he looks up expecting to see you.

I don’t even know her real name, he thinks.

Gwen, his one-time pretend-wife. Gwen, who had a panic attack on her country’s birthday. Gwen, who questioned the harm she may have caused to another country, another people. Gwen, who only wants the chance to do a little good now, or at least to do no more bad. It wasn’t Gwen at all, but he has no other name to use, so he runs through all the lovely little moments he had with Gwen.

Watching for you to return from your daily jogs. Walking through the falling leaves of autumn with you. Making you coffee, pressing the steaming mug into your hands each morning. Handing out candy to the children at Halloween, tucking you under his cloak at the autumn chill. Watching movies with you as the snow fell outside, then curling up in bed with you, slotting his body against yours, giving you pleasure and taking pleasure from you in equal measure. Threading his fingers through yours as he arched over you, his eyes falling on the glinting light in the gold band in your ring finger, it’s twin on his own.

What does it mean for Horacio Carrillo to finally make a choice?

Of course he’s made choices before. Every day, he made a million choices, large and small. But the big stuff, the giant stuff, the life-shaping stuff—did he have much choice? His father’s military career pretty much guaranteed his own career in the Search Bloc. His family’s status pretty much guaranteed he’d marry a Catholic girl from a family of similar standing. And when Juliana chose to leave him, he really had no choice then, either.

Same with his pretend life of ten months. He had no choice in being paired with you, no choice in ending up in New England, little choice in working as a man who tended trees.

He imagines you in your shared home, alone. Johnson explained on the plane that you’d be able to buy the place, that WitSec only rents homes across the U.S. He explained that this has happened more than once, and that it’s actually not too difficult to let a witness slide into their pretend-life permanently.

The choice comes down to the most mundane thought. Horacio stands in his hotel room in Miami and wonders, who will make her coffee in the morning if I’m not there?

*****

Winter always loses its charm by the time February rolls around. The fleecy white snow turns into grey slush, and everything is cold and soggy and depressing.

Davide leaving doesn’t help at all.

You knew it would end eventually. You didn’t have much insight into his situation, but you knew that the cartel targeting you would be easy enough to neutralize. They were only there because of the power vacuum left behind by Noriega, and they were poorly organized.

You just thought when it ended, you’d have more time. Which is one of your fatal flaws, always thinking you’ll have more time. Your father died from a heart attack when you were in high school, and your mother died from a car crash when you were in college. You, more than anyone, should realize that time was never a guarantee, yet you always think you have a surfeit of it.

It's not your proudest moment, those final minutes with Davide. Not falling apart in a wash of tears, and not fleeing to your room. You should have committed to one extreme or the other. You should have either calmly explained your decision and bade him farewell…or you should have given in to the emotion of the moment and spilled everything.

Why do you never learn your lesson? You never had a chance to tell your parents that you loved them before they died. Why didn’t you tell Davide you loved him before he left to return to whoever he was before?

You know you could find him. You’d caught his lightly accented English and guessed at South America. Colombia, if he was hiding from Escobar. He told you about the Search Bloc. You knew some people in that theater. You could find him and tell him that you loved him, but would it do more harm than good? Doesn’t he have the right to return to his previous life without any baggage from this one?

February, then: grey, cold. You go to work. You teach your classes and hold office hours. Political science can create real monsters, so you gently try to steer your students towards the path of diplomacy and not war. Maybe this is how you make amends, if such a thing is even possible.

You go home each evening and pull together a sandwich for dinner. Sometimes you get take-out, and you eat over the sink. Sometimes you watch T.V. and sometimes you read, but you always sleep alone with Davide’s pillow clutched to your chest, the lingering scent of him fading away within days.

-----

Then March. The snow starts to melt a bit, and under some of the trees in your backyard you start to see the little purple and white jewels of budding crocuses.

You resume your runs in the mornings. The campus shakes off its doldrums too and the students seem livelier.

You made the right choice to stay. You go to the bank with your real name and get a mortgage. You buy the house under your real name, and you go to the university human resources and hand over the paperwork Johnston gave you, and it’s weird at first, explaining why you’re not really Gwen, but it shocks you how quickly people adapt to using your real name.

-----

March is still fresh when there’s a knock at your door one Saturday morning.

Your first guess is that it’s a delivery. Johnson promised to ship all of your stuff from your apartment in Panama City. Not that you have anything valuable, but it would be nice to have your record collection back. You don’t want to have to rebuild that from scratch.

You’re already out of practice from your prior life. You don’t bother to check who it is, don’t look out the window before you open the door, and so it’s a shock to see Davide standing there, his fist lifted like he’s about to knock again.

He drops his hand and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. You are speechless too, but you don’t need words to because as he drops and unfurls his hand by his side, you see the way the gold ring on his finger catches the morning light.

He’s still wearing his wedding ring, you think, and your body moves towards his, you leap into his arms and he’s there to catch you. You breathe out his name, but he chuckles, pushes you gently away from him.

“No, cariño,” he replies, shakes his head. “Not Davide.”

“Well, no. I mean—”

“I’m Horacio,” he interrupts. You reply with your own name, and he repeats it, almost to himself.

“Everything else was me,” he adds. “Everything but the name. What we had…” He trails off, fixes you with that dark-eyed stare of his.

“Everything else was me too.” All of the bare facts of your fake life as Gwen hold little weight to that nebulous everything else: every joke and shared laugh, your Fourth of July panic attack. The feel of his hand on your waist when you went apple picking. The way his hair curled after a shower, and how you loved to run your fingers through it when he fell asleep beside you. All of it. Every stupid little moment that most other people would have already forgotten.

Horacio holds up his hand to show you the ring you’ve already noticed. “I never took it off. It didn’t even occur to me to.”

You hold up your own hand. “Me neither.”

He looks away, squints his eyes as he looks off into the distance, but you swear you can see tears there. He clears his throat, but his voice comes out rougher than usual.

“I’d like to see if I’m as good a man as Davide was,” he says. “I’d like that chance, but only if you…” Another cough as he clears he throat, then continues. “Only if you’ll have me.”

You reach out and take his hand in yours. You touch the warm metal on his finger, then the thought comes to you. You slide the ring off, and you feel Horacio watching you. On the plane, you each put your rings on yourselves, but that wasn’t how it was supposed to go, was it?

Now, nearly a year later, you take his wedding ring off. For a long beat, you study it—it’s a simple thing, nothing elaborate. WitSec wasn’t going to waste money on an expensive ring for a fake marriage, and it already has a shallow scratch in it, likely from his job at the nursery.

Then you lift your head and gaze at him, and without breaking eye contact, you slide the ring back on his finger. The smile that spreads across his face when you do is enough of a promise as any vows recited in a church, and he repeats the motion with your own ring—takes it off, then slides it back on with intention.

And then, because there’s no priest there to give the order, Horacio bends down and kisses you for the first time as himself, and the first time as yourself, and perhaps you learn your lesson about time after all because the moment you part, you whisper, “I love you” to him.

And perhaps he needed to learn the same lesson because he sighs, pulls you closer to him, and whispers “I love you too.”

#colonel horacio carrillo x reader #colonel horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo imagine #horacio carrillo #colonel carrillo #colonel carrillo imagine #colonel carrillo x reader #narcos #tropes and tales

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thebubblesareevil · 1 year ago

Text

Strap in Folks it’s time to learn some shit!

As HR manager at my job I have to look at A LOT of applications because we are primarily a seasonal job. We have busy seasons and slow seasons.

IM SO DONE WITH PEOPLE NOT KNOWING HOW TO ADVERTISE THEIRSELF!!!

Allow me to clarify.

If you take a break between jobs or couldn’t find a job

-did you do baby sitting?

-yard work for family members?

You didn’t have a gap!

Make a note of work history as landscaping or childcare!

Gaps in your employment never look good unless you also state you were in school!

If your previous job sucked and you only stayed there for about a week

- you never worked there

Don’t put on there that you only worked a week or lie about how long you worked there!

-I am absolutely allowed to call previous jobs and not only confirm you worked there and ask how long

-first assumption will always be that you were fired (sucks but it’s true). I don’t have any backstory so I won’t assume the job was at fault.

Resumes!

-Your resume should NEVER be tailored to the job you are applying for.

-this is supposed to be a basic outline of what you have done and what you can do

- I hate the autogenerated resumes from indeed because I have to go down a giant list that tells me you know how to use Microsoft 20 times in a different font.

- if you use indeed please submit an actual resume.

ASK SOMEONE TO READ OVER YOUR RESUME BEFORE SUBMITTING IT!!!!!

It never looks good if you misspell cashier or drink…repeatedly.

-keep it short! Unless you are going into a technical field that needs to know a full list of you certifications and the programs you can use, you want to keep it to 1 page. I need a summary, not a life story

SCHOOL IS NOT WORK EXPERIENCE! Do not put on there that you have 4yrs xp as a student!!!

Speaking of life stories

-do not leverage your kids for a job. If you tell me you have kids and it affects your availability that’s one thing. If you tell me you really need this job because you have kids, now you are using your kids to get a job and that’s not kosher.

Availability!

Do not lie about your availability!!!!

We ask for that for a reason! If you tell me you have open availability and you get hired, I will schedule you based on that availability. If you then tell me you are only available between the hours of 4pm-9pm….you aren’t getting scheduled and will be terminated.

-cannot and will not cater to your availability and schedule everyone else to accommodate your availability. That’s not fair to me or for coworkers.

Interviews!!!

-talk for the love of god, talk! If it’s a group interview, we want to see how involved you are. If it’s one on one, I want to learn about you!

-dress for success! even the most casual of jobs do not want you to show up in a tank top and shorts. You are here for a job not for a party 😭

Okay I think that’s all I need to rant about. There may be more when we hire again and the torture begins again.

#life advice #jobseekers #job interview #resume #please read

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 7 months ago

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Curious on how the Pleiades interact with Flower of Nazarick Mc.

I've already done Entoma and Solution but here are the others! 🖤🖤🖤

Flower of Nazarick Reader with Pleiades | Yandere Overlord

Sebas Tian

“Master (Y/n)!”

“Oh hi Sebas…I seem to be in a predicament.”

“Master…how did you get yourself trapped in the wall?”

I figured out I could phase through things but then I somehow just stopped…But I’ll get out eventually! I'll just be here for a while.”

“I see. Would you like anything while you wait?”

“Hmm, can I get a–”

He finds you oh-so-precious

He just so happens to witness some of your weirdest and vulnerable moments

Internally he’s the happiest dragon butler there can be

He absolutely lives for the times you first discover different parts of Nazarick

When you aren’t training or being babysat by Albedo you’ll be doing your own thing

Sometimes monitored by him and the Pleiades

And the way he’s bared witness to your general silliness is a blessing to him

As much as he’ll preach to Yuri about their job to ‘raise’ you right he too will sway with a bat of your eyes

Yuri Alpha

“Come Master (Y/n). Lord Ainz summons you.”

“So early? Can’t he just wait a few more hours….”

“He’s already been waiting Master (Y/n). Please wake up”

“..”

“...Master. Master? I apologize in advance.”

"Blagh!!!"

Because the floor guardians tend to spoil you to bits no one’s all too keen on actually making you do anything

But with Ainz’s permission, she takes it upon herself to be some kind of disciplinarian

…a disciplinarian whose authority sways with her admiration

She’s well aware that you are a Supreme being in training

So she regales you with tales of the supreme beings who ran Nazarick in hopes of inspiring your greatness

Any kind of decision or even a break in your casual tone with the Pleiades she’s swooning with a blush

She can’t believe her Nazarick’s flower is growing well and will one day be fit to rule alongside Ainz

She will personally take over anyone she deems too forward with you

Whether in disguise or not you happen to be way too flippant about your importance to Nazarick

So until you take the proper discretion to threaten those who disrespect you she’ll do it in the meantime

With extreme prejudice

Lupisregina Beta

“Ah! Master I’ve never tasted something so wonderful!”

“Gee, thanks it’s a favorite of mine back where I’m from!”

“Hmmm~Learning about my Supreme Flower is the best!”

“Ah haha, LP make sure to chew your food before you speak.”

“Ack-! A nickname I’m dying!”

One of the most fun Pleiades to hang out with

Unless given specific instructions she’s all about fun

And she adores how you just want to have fun with her too

That often doesn’t mean being in Nazarick which means you’ll be going a little outside their perimeter

That’s where you’ll probably get to see just how little Lupusregina cares for anyone who is not you

You’ll have to stop her from turning invisible to silently slash away anyone who could take your time from her

She’s not good at filling in the blanks so you’ll have to be very specific

Otherwise, you might just find any place you visit to be a graveyard

Narberal Gamma

“Psst Nabarel…you’re scaring everyone away. I’m supposed to blend in.”

“My apologies Master. It’s just these dirty humans dare look at you so casually I feel inclined to–”

“Nabarel.”

“Right sorry.”

This whole pretending to hide among the humans thing has gotten on her nerves

To see Ainz be treated so flippantly by worthless beings no less

It doesn’t help when the prized Flower of Nazarick occasionally does the same thing

And while she might have the restraint to behave around Ainz

She slips a lot more around you

Glaring more openly at anyone who even looks at you

She won’t even let anyone put a friendly hand on your back

She’s breaking bones if they get too close

But if you bat your eyes and smile sweetly she’ll snap it back

She won’t apologize though

Not for hurting them or endangering their life

Disguise or not she refuses to accept lower-life forms even getting within your vicinity

But she can’t deny the pride and excitement when you allow her to wait on you

Taking a break from her stupid disguise to return to serving you makes it a little bit better

Though she much prefers you stay within Nazarick

CZ2128 Delta

“Master (Y/n).”

“Yes, Delta?”

“May I hold you?”

“Uh, sure?”

“Thank you, Master!”

She thinks you’re so so so so so so cute

She thinks she might short-circuit from cuteness

In her mind, you rival Eclair Eklair Eklare (The penguin Janitor)

If you give her permission to hold you she may never want to let go

But if it bothers you

She’ll settle by resting her head on your lap

Or holding onto any part of your person

She’s not as violent as the other Pleiades when it comes to protecting you but that doesn’t mean she won’t hurt anyone for you

If any creature divides her attention from you she’ll smite them quickly

And then try to get praise from you

#yandere x reader #yandere x you #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yanderexrea #yandere #yanderes #yandere harem #yandere overlord x reader #yandere overlord anime #yandere overlord #yandere overlord x flower of nazarick reader #flower of nazarick reader #yandere pleiades #yandere nabarel gamma #yandere sebas tian #yandere yuri alpha

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allwaswell16 · 1 year ago

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🔔 It's December! That means it's One Direction Advent fic season! Advent fics are generally posted daily from December 1 to December 24/25. Don't forget you can subscribe to the author to get a daily email reminder to read their Advent fic! 🔔

🌟 Baking In December by Itstilliswhatitis

Louis can't believe it! His sisters signed him up for a competition at some bakery and they won! Now he has to spend every day of December baking something with a random dude. Except, the random dude is named Harry and he's hot! Louis realises that this Christmas might be extra special!

🎁 Be Merry All by @justanothershadeofblue {Fic post}

there is a specific sort of oppression that comes with a miserable so-cal christmas, when it’s dark and dirty and rainy or else it's too hot and too bright and everyone’s hustling, and your family is all far away and the laundry machines in your building are broken and you’ve eaten too much take-out and all you want is two seconds of quiet and maybe a morsel of holiday joy.

🕯️ Can I Fly Home by @sadaveniren {Fic post}

“Nothing? A seventy-eight year old woman just gave birth. It’s clearly supernatural stuff at work. How could you say no?” “No.” “Come on, the mystery has to be getting to you just a little.” “Granny being horny isn’t a mystery, Lou. We’re supposed to be on a break until the new year. The real mystery is why you aren’t content to just stay in one place. We’ve hunted everything imaginable to hunt.” “And yet weird shit still ends up happening, fancy that.” He saw Louis change tactics, sticking out his lower lip, pleading. “Please? Check it out with me and then maybe we’ll come back here for Christmas.” AKA Louis and Harry have been hunting together since they were teenagers and it's beginning to take a toll. Harry wants to retire. Louis plans to die hunting. Maybe a "Christmas Miracle" is just what they need. An advent fic.

🦌 Christmas Advent Calendar by enchantedlandcoffee / @alarrylittlechristmas {Fic post}

A collection of holiday drabbles written and posted leading up to Christmas. One posted per day.

🥁 Heart Beat by @allwaswell16 {Fic post}

Hideaway Haven is the place that Louis has always called home. It's also the place that Harry had tried to leave behind him. When Harry returns to start a music academy in his hometown, he finds himself face to face with his high school crush—and his charming daughter who wants to learn to play the drums.

⛄ the holiday remix - choose ur adventure advent series by warmcuppatea / @hlplease {Fic post}

“I love you so much, yeah? And we’ve talked about moving in together when my lease ends. And we’ll be spending so much time together for the holidays, and you know, we get on so smashingly-” “Louis-” Harry laughed. “Spit it out!” “-So I was thinking,” Louis laughed, rubbing his face. “Fuck, I don’t know why I’m so nervous!” He laughed. “I was thinking we should test-run living together this month.” Harry and Louis are very in love, but moving in together feels huge. So, naturally, Louis has the idea to do a holiday test-run.

🔔I'll Be Home For Christmas by lovelarry10 / @chloehl10 {Fic post}

Harry's life seems to be going well. He has a great job working at Festive Furnishings, he has an amazing three year old son called Danny, and his favourite time of the year is approaching. Just as Harry thinks everything is finally going to plan, he finds out that he is going to be losing his home just before Christmas. Louis Tomlinson is happy enough with his lot. He's the CEO of a company he started years ago, Festive Furnishings, he has great colleagues, especially his assistant Harry, and he has the best nephew in the world. But the thing is, Louis is lonely. He has a beautiful house but it's too quiet, especially at this time of year. Not that he'd admit that to anyone. While struggling to find somewhere warm and safe for himself and Danny to stay, Harry makes a decision that might just change the course of everything... and bring himself and Louis closer together as well...

🍪 I Really Like Your Styles: The Baking Advent-ure by @homosociallyyours {Fic post}

Louis isn't much for frills, and the coffee shop he co-owns with his best friend Liam is evidence of that. Yes, it's got a decent sized, well-kept industrial kitchen, but Louis insists that people come to coffee shops for coffee, not mediocre pastry and plastic wrapped cookies. When Liam's campaign for serving treats turns into watching a few baking accounts on whichever popular app he's on now, there's one that really gets on Louis' nerves: "I Like Your Styles." With his chipper demeanor and over the top descriptions of the food he makes, Louis is sure that the (unfortunately cute) baker is full of it. Nothing that adorable could possibly be worth the hype. It doesn't actually take much for him to eat his words...and some quality baked goods, while he's at it.

🎄 kay's 25 days of smutmas by shiptattou / @wecantalktomorrow {Fic post}

Starting on December 1st, I will be posting a new smut fic everyday until Christmas! These are all one shots of varying lengths and content. As they are posted, I will add the links to this post, summaries and lengths will be included under the break! All fics will be Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson.

💌 Lonely Cards Club by @hellolovers13 {Fic post}

Harry's life in Cardiff is rather uneventful. Until he receives a strange Christmas postcard. It gets even stranger when he finds another one the next day. An Advent story about missed opportunities and second chances.

❤️ Love Actually [L.S.] by @louisthiccsexyglitteryass {Fic post}

Louis Tomlinson has just became Prime Minister of the UK. Harry Styles is a housekeeper at 10 Downing Street. Louis can't help but be enthralled with Harry. But, unfortunately, love has a funny of fucking punching you in the gut.

🎅 Neondiamond's 2023 Christmas Ficlet Party {Fic post}

If you know me at all, you’ll know that two of the things I enjoy most are writing fluffy ficlets, and Christmas. This year, I decided to combine the two and create my own little Christmas ficlet party all throughout December! 8 ficlets, 4 different pairings, many different tropes—all short, fluffy and festive! Perfect for a quick reading break with a warm drink!

☃️ Snow In Love by @lululawrence {Fic post}

Harry and Louis are best friends and have been for basically as long as they can remember. For the first time since middle school, they are both single for the holidays leaving them with the brilliant idea to take each other as their dates to work events. To make things easier they will pretend like they’re dating. But then they learn something funny. People thought they were already dating. Weird. An advent fic featuring childhood friends, fake dating turned actual dating, really horrible secret keeping, and a winter weather surprise.

🌲 'tis the damn season by YesIsAWorld / @louandhazaf {Fic post}

Harry returns to her small hometown over the holiday season and starts to think about the road not taken.

🔔 they're singing 'deck the halls' (but it's not like christmas at all) by doesanyonehearrunningwotah

Louis Tomlinson is no fan of Christmas. Between his douchebag ex-husband/co-parent, his two teenage kids, and the awful fact of his torn-apart family, the holiday season isn't looking to be all that festive. But maybe a boy's trip with his closest friends will lead him to something that'll make the season a little more bearable. Or the one where Louis' a bit of a grinch, Harry's a gorgeous present, and there's more weight to the past than either of them would like.

❄️ We Can Roll in the Darkness by LetTheMusicMoveYou / @letthemusicmoveyou28 {Fic post}

Top and Bottom Construction Co. - “We’ll get the job done, however you prefer it!” Louis looks up from the flyer, and back at Niall. “You must be joking?” Niall shakes his head, his mischievous grin only going wider. “Nope! I already researched them. They have glowing reviews AND they’re affordable. It’s perfect!” He pauses then to give Louis a cheeky wink. “Besides their website says they’re full service.” (Or the one where Louis and his best mate Niall decide to take the plunge and open a pub. The goal is to open Christmas Day, but the building renovations are proving trickier than expected. Insert: a construction company with a questionable name, a certain curly haired builder who catches Louis’ attention, and a little festive chaos along the way).

✨ You Ain’t Gotta Feel Fear Just Mingle by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup {Fic post}

Harry has been at his dream job for less than three months, and he knows two things for sure; first, his project manager doesn't know what he's doing, and second, someone in the office is apparently pure evil, and no one will tell Harry who it is. Oh, and the guy who works in conservation at the other end of the building is the most beautiful man Harry's ever seen, even when wielding a hot iron as a weapon. Happy Christmas, here's to many more.

#these are in alphabetical order because that's how I roll #adventfics #advent2023 #hlcreators #hljournal #trackinghome #trackinghappily #1dficvillage #ficsfor4am

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dwailol · 1 year ago

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Great Toss

First post ❤️‍🔥 👅

Summary: Fem reader x Bucky Barnes. Established relationship. You get a surprise visit for the night you thought you were spending alone.

Minors DO NOT INTERACT

Warnings ⚠️: smut, oral (female receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie

Word Count: 1.3k

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

The compound was empty. The lights were down low. I was enjoying my night alone or so I thought. As I was casually dancing around the living room with full control of the music, I all of a sudden felt a presence behind me.

No one was supposed to be back for days. I grab a metal decoration off the side table and hurl it into the dark corner of the room. I hear the sound of metal on metal catching. Out of the dark steps Bucky Barnes. Fuck.

“Great toss,” he says dropping it on the floor and walking towards my frozen body. He caresses my face with his vibranium hand and tucks my hair behind my ear. He leans in close and with a deep hushed voice whispers, “Did they leave you all alone in here?”

Just as I catch my breath, I lose it again at the feeling of his other hand resting on my hip. We are eye to eye. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s gotten me into a rush like this.

“What are you doing here? Everyone left today for—“ I try to explain.

He cuts me off. “Oh no, I knew that they’d be gone and that you had some sort of a ‘conflict of interest’ which makes you the heroic house sitter! For a few days right? I just wanted to get under your skin a bit with that entrance. Did it work?” He gives a smug look. It worked.

He sits down on the arm of the couch behind him and slides his metal hand down to my other hip. Blood rushes where he had his hands that move lower and lower. It had been a while since he had shown his face. That’s what I’ve been coming to learn about the hero life style—that people show up and leave and show up again when you aren’t expecting.

“You could have texted before scaring me like that,” I say.

“Well I just missed you so much doll,” he sweeps my body onto the couch with ease as he pins me under him, “I especially missed seeing those eyes get wide like that.” I feel his hand slip under my shirt. “I missed a lot of things about you.”

I think back to the first time I saw those intense eyes of his staring at me up and down. All with his eyes he told me that he would have me and that he would have me in anyway he wanted. He did. He was about to again.

“Did my good girl miss me?” he asks now squeezing at my breasts and kissing from my collar to my jaw. I take a deep breath. “I missed a lot about you too,” I respond as cool as I can.

“Show me.”

Just like that our faces smash together. Coming up for air was not a priority. He slides his hand under my back to push me as close to his body as possible. His vibranium hand clutches my thigh. There was only so close our bodies could get with all our clothes on. I pause and catch my breath saying, “We need to take these off.”

He kisses me before saying, “You’re full of great ideas bunny!” He sits up and pulls me up close to his face. “You first,” he orders. He takes off my top and stares as he glides his hand over what was his.

“No bra? Making my job easier,” he kisses all up and down me while untying the string of my lounge shorts. “You wearing anything under these?” The answer was also no and I was ready to not be wearing those shorts too.

He pushes me back down and starts peeling away his clothes down to his boxers. He finally slides my shorts off. You could see the shine from how wet I was. He towers over me and starts to run his flesh fingers along the most inner part of my thighs then lightly over my clit. He starts rubbing faster and harder. I let out a gasp.

He grabs my face with his other hand. He locks eyes with me. “I missed my pussy,” he says, inserting a finger and moving it up and down and in and out. I let out a loud moan. We both loved that I was about to be as loud as I wanted.

“Good girl. Whose pussy is this?” He inserts another finger and starts to go faster. I let out a scream and I’m already close. I hadn’t answered yet.

“You can’t cum until you tell me whose pussy is this,” as he holds my arms above my head.

“It’s yours!”

“It’s whose?!”

“It’s Bucky’s!” I cry out. I’m finally allowed to cum. I sigh out the air I’d been holding in.

“My beautiful girl,” he leans down close to my face again. “So beautiful when you’re cumming for me.” My arms are still held down and I can feel him sliding his boxers off. I can feel his precum now rubbing against my entry. I press my hips forward but he moves back to look into my eyes. The suspense was killing me.

“And you’re so so beautiful taking my cock,” and then he slides right in. He starts his first strokes. I moan and feel his girth testing my limits. Thank god he gets me so wet. Having a big dick is one thing but he knows how to use it too. I let him know just how much I’m loving it, “Fuck. Bucky I love feeling you inside me!” His beat is steady.

“That’s music to my ears Angel. Wrap your legs around me.” As I do he sits up while still inside me. I’m in the position to ride him but he never makes me do any work. He grabs my hair and pulls me in for a messy kiss. Bringing my head so that my ear is on his mouth when he says, “Now I wanna hear you sing.”

Just like that he picks up the beat hard and fast. I shriek so loudly it bounced off the walls. He pushes me back so he can see my face while he’s fucking me. I bite down on my lip. He goes harder. “I said I wanna hear you sing!” He pulls me in again so I’m yelling right in his ear to the beat of his thrusts. He smacks my ass, “Good girl!”

He rolls me back onto my back and hinges my hips up while looking over me. He starts rubbing my clit. My breath falls heavy again. “I think I’m gonna cum!”

His beat steadies as he demands, “Not until I say so. When you’re cumming I want to be cumming inside you. Do you want that Angel?” I whimper out an mhm. He picks up the pace, “Sing it for me!” Leaving me screaming “Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! YES!” I hear him grunting which means he’s close too. He begins rubbing away and my pussy is absolutely throbbing waiting for the release.

“You can cum in 5,” he’s moaning.

4. I can see his neck tensing ready to spill into me.

3. He bends over me without his hand leaving my clit. Still caging me in with his other arm.

2. God I am so fucking close. “Please please please!” I beg.

“1,” he grunts out thrusting me through and multiplying my orgasm. He falls onto me with his cock still inside to fuck all his cum deep inside me, making sure none of it spills out. “I love cumming in you.” He kisses the side of my face and onto my lips again.

He gets up and lets a deep breath out. “Want some water before the next round?”

Fuck.

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #winter solider smut #bucky barnes smut #marvel endgame #winter solider x reader #marvel smut #dom bucky barnes #avengers: endgame #avengers smut

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ickle-anthology · 6 months ago

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I’d like to be optimistic and say this will be short and sweet, however it has grown increasingly apparent that I do nothing by half measures. I suppose if you’re going to do a job - do it properly. Go big or go home, right?

I’m trying to learn how to set healthy boundaries, which is extremely challenging for an empath that feels everything as deeply as I do and has been through the things that I’ve been through. I suppose my need to people please stems from wanting to help and lighten the load in anyway possible for the people I care deeply about at the expense of my own peace. It’s even more unbearable when I have walked in their shoes with and know what it’s like when you have nowhere to turn to, unfortunately helping doesn’t always go the way I intend but at-least I can say I tried and gave it my all, and by doing so leaves my conscious clear and unburdened. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had my fair share of awful things in my life, some worse than others and some that have left lasting scars that I’m still sowing up- but I actually quite like me, however I acknowledge that there’s always room for improvement. I have a long list of things that I can’t change but would happily sell my soul to the devil to alter. I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that some things aren’t meant to be changed and that no response is a response. Let’s be honest, you can’t be everyone’s cuppa tea otherwise you’d be a mug.

You ever known what you needed to do but struggled to find the strength to do it? That’s the current predicament I’m faced with. The past few weeks I’ve had a lot of time to digest and reflect on the changes that have happened in my life - recent and not so recent changes. Up until recently, I considered myself to be a healed woman but I realise now that healing isn’t a linear path and the more I experience different things, the more I realise I’m still on that healing journey - and that’s ok, being honest with myself about it is probably the best thing I can do. I like to think I always look for best in people, that I can feel the good in them. But like with anything in this universe, there must be balance and everything that goes up, must come down eventually... I see the undesirable and distasteful flaws too, I don’t look at the world through a looking glass and I’m not as naive as some people may choose to believe. I have this uncanny ability to read people like books, and without a doubt my silence gets mistaken for an absence of knowledge, when it’s quite the opposite in fact. I’m a firm believer that you shouldn’t open your mouth and comment on something unless you know it’s accurate and have the ability to back it up. So with that statement, if you are on the receiving end of me opening my mouth about a subject, then prepare to be slapped with the unbias, and unadulterated truth - which as we know, can be more cold and callous than any lie. Everything I do, I do for a reason. I strategically and methodologically analyse every situation and every possible outcome of it so I am able to understand it but ultimately protect myself. One of my favourite quotes is that ‘the truth always prevails in the end’ and boy does it ever.

It grows more evident the older I get that this ability I have to read people is an unconscious decision that stems from being hyper vigilant. It does present its problems though, like causing the feeling of being constantly stuck between the stages of fight, flight or freeze, it’s a blessing and a curse - one would say oxymoronic at its true core. Life has always been so black and white for me, and learning grey has been exhausting, both mentally and physically but truly worth it in hindsight. Im allowing colour to trickle back into my life slowly though and it’s given me the foresight to see the world (and the people in it) in a different light, just like a kaleidoscope. Up until a few years ago, I was always so sure of the person I was, but the past few years really made me question everything I know about people… myself included. I got hurt by people that I never thought were capable of the things they did, and lost people that I thought would be in my life indefinitely. Some things have become so deeply imbedded in my soul that they occasionally weep, so I guess you could say nothing ceases to surprise me anymore. I always say that I’m going to hope for the best and prepare for the worst but preparing for the worst has become somewhat of a ritual for me and I grow evermore cautious of hope with each passing day.

Without a doubt, the biggest and hardest pill to swallow as of recent months has been that not everyone has a good heart just because I do. More importantly, just because I treat people with kindness, understanding and compassion, doesn’t mean I’ll receive the same treatment back. I’ve realised that over the past few weeks that it reflects more about them and their character, than it does me. Not everyone has the same moral compass as me, nor everyone has a big heart full of love like me and some people are only interested in saving their own skins - don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with protecting your peace. But there’s a difference between protecting your peace and remaining silent and then lying and stonewalling those individuals, especially when they try to communicate in a healthy way with you about a problem. We all mess up, but I think what’s important is owning your behaviours. It’s come to my attention that not everyone I’ve crossed paths with have spent the time looking at their own maladaptive coping mechanisms. They haven’t given themselves the respect to understand or recognise where the dysregulation stems from, and as a direct result from that, it allows for an inability to correct their behaviour at its root stem and be better in the future - so they are just stuck in the same cycles. I’ve realised that you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make them drink, and if this is the bed they chose to make then let them sleep in it. Theres nothing wrong with feeling emotions in that precise moment though and giving yourself time to sit in your grief, but I emphasise that no joy ever comes from wallowing in them for prolonged periods of time and there is a time where you will have to deal with those feelings and situations head on before they swallow you whole.

I think for now I’ll enjoy sitting back, remaining humble and continue to people watch. They say time heals all wounds but I think time only gives us the ability to reflect and process those wounds. If we don’t deal with the monsters under our beds, and the damage they cause to ourselves and others, then they never really go away - they just get better at hiding by wearing a mask. Inevitably, they always trickle back in and just like clockwork, they always come full circle. Poetically, it’s always at the least desirable moment and before you know it, you’re weeping through the cuts you scrambled so desperately to bandage. The right path is not always the path with least resistance, we all know what we need to do but it’s just finding the strength to do it. You really do get back what you put into the universe.

#Healing #people pleaser #heartbreak #trauma #therapy #abuse survivor #mental health #positive mental attitude #psychology #mental illness #friendship breakup

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brf-rumortrackinganon · 19 days ago

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The chance of William not marrying for love is higher than what most people insist.

I just want to answer this anon. I think people like to think that William and Kate aren’t in love because they look at people through their roles or like generalized labels or like through the lens of rules they think should exist in the universe. As Joan Didion said, we tell ourselves stories in order to live. A lot of people know that royals or aristocrat often marry for money or convenience. It’s true that historically, royals get into arranged marriages.

But I would like to offer a different perspective. We can try and see the humanity in each person. I know that’s difficult to do with royals because they’re so media trained and private. But paying proper attention to the stories of these people, the tiny bit of personality that comes through in their interviews and stuff, sometimes we can see their individual stories, their individual personalities. While it’s true that there’s a high chance that the heir to the throne like William would not marry for love, we can infer from the story of his life laid out that there’s a chance he did. My opinion of William is that he’s actually a lot more transparent than people realize. Or maybe it’s just the result of his parents being Charles and Diana who couldn’t stop themselves leaking left and right in the 90s, that there’s no choice but for a lot of things to be laid bare for us. Of course, William is still very private and we might be wrong in our assessment, but we can’t also always generalize.

What I’m saying is, this is the man who in his engagement interview, didn’t shy away in showing how affected he was about his parent’s past. He said something about learning from the past. We also know from things Diana said and from William’s own demeanor that he’s someone who gives a lot of thought to things. We also know from interviews he’s given as a teenager that he struggles with the fact that his role pulls him in different directions and he’s protective of his self, which can sometimes appear to be stubbornness. What I’m saying is, we can infer from these things that this is a man with his own mind. So I would say that from all the things we think we know about William, there’s also a high chance that he would insist on marrying exactly who he wanted to marry or who he loved.

I would also say that even though we know historically that royals get into arranged marriages, we can’t always be sure of how the story goes. I mean, if we’re looking into history, for example, Henry VII and Elizabeth of York married for political reasons. Their union ended the War of the Roses, and yet most historians would agree that it seems they found love along the way and that Henry VII was one of the monarchs with no known mistress. However, royals can fancy themselves in love too in the beginning but the story doesn’t end in a good note. Henry VIII, for example. I think most historians would also agree that he was enamored with Anne Boleyn. Maybe it wasn’t love, maybe it was lust. But the thing is, he fancied himself in love at the beginning, but obviously it ended horribly. A lot of people also forget that Henry VIII was happy at one point with Catherine of Aragon.

What I’m saying is, while we can all generalize that “oh, royals do not marry for love” or we can have a sense of “oh these rich people are all unhappy!”, but they have their own stories too. And so do we, being “norma people” or not being as rich does not guarantee happiness or finding true love. Marrying for love does not guarantee happily ever after also, but we can only wish the best for everyone.

Thanks, anon! You make some really good points here.

I don't have anything to add except: if royals and aristos aren't supposed to be marrying for love, someone better tell the romance writers because they're out of a job now.

#brf #waleses

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crazyqueenmoon · 6 months ago

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LEADING A TIGER

Atsushi x Fem! Secretary, both mid-20s

Setting: 1960s AU

TW: sexism, mentions of s*xual harassment, CW: Drinking, smoking, implied NSFW stuff

!MINORS DO NOT READ!

So I’ve gotten back to watching the rest of Mad Men after so long. Though I haven’t finished it, it’s definitely a show I’ve found myself loving and find kinda similar to BSD in terms of its themes and workplace setting. Though they’re TOTALLY different as shows. Mad Men has no action, gore, or flashy characters and is 100% grounded in real life, so if you can’t be down with that stuff in a live-action show, expect to be bored AF. I’ve come it with some head-cannons around the 1960s. Also, Joan is one of my favorite female characters ever and I love Atsushi. Their personalities are completely opposite from each other, and this idea of Atsushi being this new employee at the ADA being shown around the office by a tsunderish secretary and them falling in love was just begging to be written, so here it is:

• The ADA would be like the Sterling Cooper office but with far less drama and gossip. The office would still look nice, but not nearly as nice

• You’re the badass, snarky head secretary of the ADA, refusing to settle for anyone’s BS. The Agency would not function without you helping all the higher-ups and you have a multitasking ability which allows secretarial tasks that typically take 8 hours to be completed in 10 seconds

• Unfortunately, most people have a hard time taking you seriously when it comes to your ambitions and underestimate your intelligence.

• BC it is the 1960s we’re talking about, unfortunately some of your male coworkers will be sexist a-holes that believe women aren’t supposed to be in higher positions/ ask for raises and should accept where they’re at and not be so demanding:

-Kunikida would say this to you after he got overhears you saying that you ought to be promoted. (I know you all love Kunikida and talk about how he drinks Respect Women juice, but this is 1960s Kunikida we’re talking about NOT Regular Kunikida. Plus Regular Kuni does kind of conduct himself in an old-fashioned way, so it doesn’t surprise me.

-You can expect Dazai to harass you and hit on you every single day unfortunately. He’ll also joke about how you’ve only gotten the job BC you offered Fukuzawa s*xual favors even though he’s well aware that’s not the case at all. But he will shut his goddamn mouth and behave in front of you once Fukuzawa or Kunikida is in sight. You’ve also learned some good comebacks from Yosano that’ll leave him terrified of you for the rest of the day. Interactions between you two will go something a little like this:

You: ‘I wanna be on top.’

Dazai: ‘Of me, dollface? Come on, now. Don’t be so feisty at work!’

You: ‘Of the company.’

Dazai: *laughs* ‘You’re gonna be a secretary for the rest of your life. That’s you’re fate, as a working woman. I don’t make the rules. But if you don’t like being a secretary, you can be mine instead.’

-Tanizaki also laughs when you mention this to him. He won’t make lewd comments about you or act domineering like Kunikida and Dazai do, but consider him trash as well.

-You tried to seduce Fukuzawa as a way to get promoted, but he noped immediately. He thinks of you as a daughter, and engaging in quid pro quo behavior completely goes against his values. He hires you because you’ve got the right skills and bc of your hard work, but doesn’t think you’re ready for a promotion combined with some sexist biases.

-Kenji respects you as his elder and superior. He wouldn’t really have any opinions on you being a leader, but even if he thought the same as all your male coworkers, it wouldn’t really bother you or frustrate you that much.

-Ranpo’s probably the only man in the office who isn’t dismissive of your ambitious tendencies, though he’s not necessarily a cheerleader about it. He’s more of a ‘Yeah, you’d be good at it, I guess’ kind of guy at most.

• You also smoke cigarettes a lot. You need them the way Ranpo needs his snacks, and it’s the only way you can calm yourself down.

•You’re filling in for Kunikida’s secretary today BC she’s sick. He calls you into his office, introducing you to your new employee, Atsushi Nakajima.

• “He’s the weretiger that he spent all night looking for, and now he’ll be working with us.”

• “Working with us?” you ask coolly. “Who’s idea was it, to employ a shapeshifter of all ability users?”

• “The president’s,” says Kunikida. “Should I report to him you doubted his decisions, Y/N?”

• “No need to,” you answer. “If it’s what president decrees, then I can expect it to be good.”

• Atsushi’s in awe as he looks at you pulling out a cigarette as you’re glaring.

• “Show the new guy around for the next hour,” says Kunikida, impatiently pushing a startled Atsushi from behind. “And cancel my 2 PM appointment! I won’t get it done with all these documents to read.”

• “Yes, Mr. Kunikida,” you scoff rolling your eyes.

• “Um, ma’am?” Atsushi asks. “Are you okay?”

• “Yes, I’m okay,” you say icily. “Now how about you shut up so I can give you the damn tour, tiger man? Could you do that for for me?”

• He nods quickly and walks behind you.

• “This is where you’ll be sitting,” you say, pointing to a small desk with a typewriter and a pen holder. It’s also facing a gray wall with no window. “Not pictureresque, I know. Though a chump like you should consider yourself lucky getting a desk with a typewriter. Now that you’re part of the Agency, you’d better learn to be punctual and not let your emotions get in the way. Don’t, and you’re left for dead. God knows it’s a pain, but it’s how work gets done around here.”

• Atsushi has no goddamn clue how to use a typewriter, so you have to teach him the whole day, in between passing out documents from Kunikida to the president and vice versa. You give Atsushi your worst frown once the day is done bc of all the stress he’s piled on you.

• On your desk the next day, you find a ‘Thank You’ card and a bouquet of flowers.

• It’s from Atsushi himself. He thanks you for helping him learn how to use a typewriter, and apologizes for upsetting you. Some of the ink is smeared, and he asks you to let him know how he can make it up to you.

•You march up to Dazai’s office holding the card and flowers, telling his secretary you’d like to speak to him shortly. She tells you he’s busy but he insists that she let you in over the intercom.

• “Eager, to see me so early, honey, huh?” he teases as you enter his office. “I knew you’d come through one of these days. You’re making me one lucky man.”

• “Is this some kind of joke, Dazai?” You demand, holding the card and flowers and opening the card.

• Dazai looks at the card and reads it. Handing it back to you. “Oh no, not my doing at all. The one thing I’d never do in a love note to a woman is let the ink get smeared with my tears. You’ve got an admirer Y/N. Atsushi-kun’s in love with you. You heartbreaker you. You’re makin’ me jealous!”

• You spend the whole day wondering if it’s true. As much of a scheming bastard Dazai is, he is good at solving mysteries

• You spend the next two weeks testing out if Atsushi’s got a crush on you, offering him employee training which he surprisingly manages to catch up on

•At this point, YOU’RE the one whose got a crush on him. He’s sweet, friendly, takes you seriously and doesn’t laugh at your goals. He’ll even bring you a treat from the bakery a couple times a week. But you won’t show those feelings to him. When you ask him if he’d like anything in return, he tells you he doesn’t.

• “Y/N, you never asked me what I can do for you in return,” he says.

• “Take me on a date,” you say. “At the Green Palace. 6 PM sharp.”

• “Date?!” he asks, shocked by your answer and how nonchalantly you said it.

• He takes you out and it goes well, eager to foot the bill despite his lowly salary.

• As you spend more time together, you vent to him about how you’re underestimated when it comes to your abilities because of your gender. He doesn’t know what that’s like, but he confides in you about how he’s felt so useless his whole life growing up in the orphanage and during his time at the church shelter. He also thinks it’s ridiculous that all the men at work belittle you, and believes you have what it takes to be in a higher role at the company.

• You’re one of the few people not to judge him for bringing up his traumatic experiences to him, and if he didn’t already trust you in the first place, he’s now given 1000% of it to you.

• You two keep your relationship a secret, though Dazai and Ranpo know. You’ll hear Dazai ask Atsushi personal questions about you two, but luckily Atsushi knows to be careful around him and scoffs at him, telling him it’s none of his business.

• He’ll come over to your apartment after missions to decompress and he’ll try to comfort you too when you’re stressed with work.

• A year into your relationship, you tell Atsushi it’s time everyone knows. He’s hesitant at first, but then agrees to it, and wants you to announce if this is to happen.

• Before announcing to the ADA, Fukuzawa decides to promote you to junior director. It’s got ‘junior’ in it, but it’s a far cry from being secretary and you get your own office. You’re now the only other female employee along with Yosano to have her own office.

• When you’ve announced to ADA, everyone cheers. Kunikida’s surprised, and angry you didn’t inform him about this, but gets over it. Fukuzawa wishes you told him, but approves of Atsushi as a boyfriend to you.

• Surf rock music plays on a record, and everyone gets drunk and hollers.

• “Happy one year together,” Atsushi says softly, holding a small gift bag. “ I got you this. Hope you like it.”

• “A marble bluebird,” you gasp, looking into the bag.

• “You said they’re your favorite birds once,” he says nervously. “I thought it’d be a great gift to give you.”

• “Atsushi…” you mutter. “Thank you.”

• You walk up him and kiss his cheek. His face turns bright red with everyone looking you two.

• “Don’t forget to give me one, too!” Dazai calls out. “It just took a measly glass bird? I’ll get you all of them, Y/N.”

• Kunikida makes a fist towards Dazai and he gets frightened.

• “ You hated my guts, when you first met me,” says Atsushi. “ The last thing I expected was that you’d fall in love with me.”

• “I never hated you, Atsushi,” you say. “ I just hated how I felt. You’ve helped me to believe in myself, and you’re always good to me. I love you, Atsushi.”

• “I-I love you too, y/n,” he stammers. He’s told you every single day, but he wants to say it again anyways. “You‘ve done really great. You deserve all this. Got any orders for me, director?”

• “Follow me to my office,” you jest, smacking his ass.

JFC this is MUCH longer than I thought it’d be. And writing this has kind of made me hate Dazai. But I had a lot of fun, writing this. If you’ve made it all the way here, thank you, thank you, thank you! Please leave a comment and LMK your thoughts.

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nightghoul381 · 5 months ago

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Ellis Twilight ~ Chapter 6 - His Side Story: “A Faint Wriggling, Deep Inside My Chest”

Disclaimer for route warnings | Masterlist

Additional Content Warnings: This is a side story from Ellis' perspective of the events of Chapter 6, as such it too contains depictions of murder and several mentions of blood.

This a fan translation so it is definitely not 100% accurate. I do not own anything related to Ikemen Villains. Support Cybird by buying their amazing stories!

(For me, Kate is the person I want most to be happy.)

(I’m happy that she’s been smiling more and more lately. And…)

Kate: “Please tell me about what you like, Ellis. Then I can make you happy tomorrow.”

Kate: “So, what’s your favorite food?”

Kate: “Oh, I spread a lot of butter on the toast before it got cold.”

Kate: “Thank you, as always.”

Kate says she wants to make me happy too.

She listens to my preferences and feelings and remembers them carefully.

(Kate is a wonderful person.)

(…I don’t want to make you unhappy.)

The night I went with Jude and Kate to look for the ‘ring-leader” involved in the kidnapping incident.

I’d seen the woman who had come into contact with the ‘ring-leader’ being dragged into a back alley, and reflexively ran after her.

Reaching the back of the alley—I saw multiple men surrounding the woman and trying to restrain her by covering her mouth.

Scenes like this aren’t uncommon—What I do is the same as usual.

Ellis: “Are you the kidnappers?”

The kidnappers were startled by the sudden voice and immediately attacked me.

I just have to deal with them one by one.

A man who looks like a kidnapper: “—Women are worth money, ‘em alive. Kill the bastard.”

(Women…Ah)

Kate: “Gh…”

I heard a gasp behind me and realized that Kate had followed me.

(…it was her.)

(Kate is a hard worker who can muster courage even in times like these.)

I gently restrained Kate, who was holding a deck brush in her trembling hands.

Ellis: “Kate, stay here.”

(I’ll finish this quickly.)

I kick off the ground.

Taking a life is as easy as polishing a shoe if you know how to use the tools.

If you cut a vital point with a knife, the body will collapse to the ground as though a string has been cut.

(Just a few more.)

(I need to finish this quickly and give her peace of mind.)

Kate had been scared when she saw the men attacking the woman.

(I’ll end it right away.)

I silence the last one and let my feet settle on the ground.

Ellis: “…I guess that’s everyone.”

The timing must have been relatively good.

I looked around the alley that looks like I’ve spilled jam all over it, see there are no survivors, and look up.

“Kate…”

Kate: “Eh…Ah.”

Ellis: “Your face is pale… Are you okay?”

I put the knife in its sheath and reached out to Kate.

At that moment her body trembled.

Ellis: “…”

(--it was)

(From Kate’s point of view, these men and I are the same.)

I’m a ‘human being who kills people’ for his job.

(I had a feeling that Kate, was learning to trust me just a little bit… I forgot.)

I want to make her happy, though.

I’m the kind of person who scares her in the first place.

(I should’ve been more careful)

Ellis: “…I’m sorry. You’re scared.”

Ellis: “I should have asked you to keep your eyes closed so you wouldn’t have to see it.”

Kate: “Um, what… what about the woman?”

Ellis: “Hmm, she’s fine… I think she’s just passed out.”

Jude: “Tch… Ya killed everyone?”

Ellis: “Jude. What about the store?”

Jude: “When I came in, he’d already escaped in a horse-drawn carriage from the back door. He’s quick to run.”

Jude, who was supposed to have been chasing the ‘ring-leader’ walked over to a corpse and inspected it coldly.

(…Ah, I think I’m going to be scolded.)

Jude: “Jeez, let at least one of ‘em live. Otherwise I can’t interrogate ‘em.”

(On second thought)

Ellis: “Sorry. He said as long as we didn’t kill the commander I would be fine…Also.”

Ellis: “They were trying to harm Kate.”

Kate: “…”

Kate took a quiet breath again.

(Maybe I reminded you of what happened earlier.)

(…Sorry.)

Ellis: “… It’s okay now, Kate.”

Her frozen expression never relaxed… and I felt a little sad.

(Kate, you’re still silent)

Step by step we proceed down the hallway.

I walked behind her a little ways so as not to make her even more anxious.

(Is this okay…?)

(If you’re worried, if you’re scared, I want to be by your side.)

(But with me, it might have the opposite effect.)

While I was wondering what I should do to make Kate happy, we ended up in front of her room.

Ellis: “We’re here, Kate.”

Kate raised her head and looked straight at me.

(If you look at me, it might remind you of something scary, but… you’re so kind.)

Kate: “About earlier… Thank you for protecting me, Ellis.”

Ellis: “No. It’s my job to escort you, Kate.”

Ellis: “But, this time I failed…”

Ellis: “If you hadn’t seen that, you would be happier.”

Ellis: “I already knew you were a hard worker and that you would push yourself even if you were scared.”

Ellis: “I should have said, “You follow Jude” before going into the alley.”

Ellis: “Next time, I’ll be careful not to kill someone in front of you.”

(Even if I show you something like that…I wonder if I can make you smile again.)

(I need to think of a way.)

Thinking about this, I was about to turn on my heel, when—

Kate: “…Ellis…!”

My palm was grabbed by something warm.

(Kate…?)

Kate: “Ellis…Aren’t you having a hard time…?”

Ellis: “…”

Even though she must have been scared just a moment ago, Kate held my hand and looked straight at me.

(…I…?)

(Why would you say that?)

I was a little surprised when Kate asked me if it wasn’t hard being the object of her fear.

Then I was convinced.

Ellis: “Ah… I see.”

Ellis: “I thought you were just scared of me.”

(Kate is a wonderful person)

She’s the kind of person who listens intently to my feelings, my happiness, and remembers things like that.

Ellis: “You were worried that I was hurt, so you made that face…”

Ellis: “…You’re so kind, Kate.”

Ellis: “If I say it like this, I might scare you again.”

Ellis: “It’s not that painful, so don’t worry.”

Kate: “…Really?”

Ellis: “Yeah, really… See, my hands aren’t shaking like yours.”

As if to reassure her, I held up our joined palms.

--“Killing people and laughing is what the devil does.”

The words I’d once heard echoed in my head, making me feel a little sad.

(But the reason I’m smiling now is not because I’m happy.)

My heart is not moved by the idea of taking people’s lives as a part of my job.

(My desires have nothing to do with it, so I’m neither happy nor sad.)

I still hold the lid on my desires tighter and tighter.

(This time, I’ll take care of someone as wonderful as Kate.)

Kate seemed to have made up her mind and grabbed my hand tightly.

Kate: “…Hot milk.”

Ellis: “Eh…?”

Kate: “My body is cold… don’t you sleep better after drinking it?”

Ellis: “…”

I suddenly remembered drinking it on sleepless nights when I was little.

It has a sweet, relaxing, and calming taste.

(…I loved it.)

(Especially when drinking it in the middle of the night.)

Ellis: “I’d like that.”

Ellis: “In the middle of the night, I actually like hot milk with butter and sugar.”

Even though she wouldn’t know anything about my heart or the memories I had just remembered,

Kate looked happy, but somehow sad, and took my hand.

(Kate… is a bit of a troubled person.)

(…she’s too nice.)

I want to make her happy, and that’s all I feel, but something seems to be mixed in with it.

The desire I had pushed deep inside my heart began to stir in my chest.

Next Chapter

#ikemen villains #ikevil #ikemen villains translation #ikevil translation #ellis twilight #ikevil ellis #ikevil ellis twilight #ikemen villains ellis #ikemen villains ellis twilight #ellis twilight main route #tw: death #tw: blood #tw: murder

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jawritter · 1 year ago

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Carry On

Chapter 29 (Final)

Summary: It was just a simple hunt, found on a pie festival. It was supposed to be easy. Something they’d all done one hundred and one times a million. No one could have told Y/N, Dean, and Sam that nothing from that point on would ever be the same again.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader x Sam Winchester

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Throws some fluffing feels in your face and then closes the door like a boss.

Due to the graphic nature of this fic, and the fact that it will eventually contain Smut. This fic is an 18 + only fic! If you’re under 18 DO NOT read this fic!

A/N: This fic is beta’d by @kazsrm67 Thanks so much love! Please do not copy my work! Feedback is golden! I hope you all enjoy this ride with me!

My Mastlist Series Masterlist

“Wearing a hole in the floor isn’t going to make the time go by any faster,” Y/N reminded Dean as she sat on the counter, nibbling on a saltine cracker, and watching her boyfriend literally pace the kitchen in front of her.

“Sorry,” Dean grumbled as he forced himself to stop pacing, and after a brief moment of deliberation, decided to just take a seat at the kitchen table.

Not fifteen feet away, in the bathroom that adjoined the hallway, were two pregnancy tests sitting snugly under a box on top of the sink. The test took only three minutes to show the results, it had so far been exactly 1 minute and 34 seconds since she placed the boxes over the top of the test once she’d taken them, and honestly, it felt like it had been one year and 34 days instead.

Especially to Dean. That much she could tell. He wasn’t exactly hiding it very well at the moment.

“Dean, don’t get your hopes up, okay? It could just be a stomach bug, and I don’t want you to get disappointed,” Y/N said as her gaze wandered back to the red reamed clock on the wall; checking the time for what felt like the hundredth time in about 40 seconds.

It was true. All signs and symptoms pointed to pregnancy. They’d stopped all preventative measures that could deter conception, but that didn’t mean she’d gotten pregnant yet. She was prepared to have to try for quite a while to even get pregnant. She’d taken birth control for years, and only God knows how long it was going to take for her body to hormonally be ready to conceive.

“Trust me sweetheart, my hopes aren’t up,” Dean assured her, reaching for her to come and sit down in his lap.

Carefully, she pushed down and off of her perch and made her way over to where he was sitting, slipping into his hold with ease.

“It will happen when and if it’s meant to. This is kinda one of those things we have little control over. We can do things to help it along, and there are multiple avenues to try, but after everything in life we’ve been through, I’ve learned nothing ever comes easy, or right away; so I have no expectations, other than making sure you’re okay,” Dean continued, placing a kiss to the top of her forehead.

She melted into the warmth that seemed to always radiate from Dean’s body. Home, no matter where they were in life, no matter where life would take them, this was it, Dean was home. Not a roof and four walls.

“I’m feeling a lot better,” Y/N admitted. “I’m sorry I scared you earlier.”

Dean’s grip tightened around her waist, attempting to hold her as close to him as humanly possible. “It’s okay, it’s my job to take care of you when you’re not feeling well. I just wish you would have told me you weren’t feeling great sooner; I would have never gone into work this morning. I didn’t know this was something that had been kinda going on for days. You’ve got to communicate with me sweetheart.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Y/N said, burying her face in the crook of his neck.

Here she sat with the tables turned, what felt like not so long ago, she was the one telling him that HE needed to communicate with HER when he wasn’t feeling well. God they had come so far, especially Dean.

Just since his accident, he’d proven not only friends, family, but doctors and even himself wrong. He’d far surpassed any expectation any of them set for him. He’d done the one thing Chuck and the universe had tried so fucking hard to not allow him to do - he’d created a life for himself. He’d created a home. He was doing what it was he always wanted to do. He was happy. An ending he never thought he’d deserve, and one Y/N didn’t really feel that she deserved either, but here they were. He should be dead. By all rights, accounts and reasons, Dean should have never lived to see the outside of that barn, but here he was, alive and well. Scared, battered, broken in some ways, but still here. Still alive.

“Did you ever think we’d be here?” Y/N questioned, and Dean swallowed thickly above her.

“No. No I didn’t. I thought I’d be dead by now. I never saw life the way it was not. It was just a distant dream. It still feels like a dream some days,” Dean admitted, and he wasn’t wrong, it did feel like a dream some days. If it weren’t for the hard days, the days that tested the both of them on every emotional and physical level, she’d think they were both dead and in heaven, just playing this thing out, but nope, this was real, this was their life. As fake as it felt, it was real.

“Me either,” Y/N voiced after a moment. “I had given up on anything even remotely similar to this. Never even tried to achieve it.”

“Do you regret it?” Dean asked, his deep rumble barely above a whisper in the silence that hung heavy in the kitchen. “Do you regret giving up your life as a hunter for this? For me?”

Y/N sat up straight as he would allow her with his firm grip on her waist, and placed a gentle kiss to his lips before leaning her forehead against his own. “Not even for a second. I’d do it all over again, no matter how many times I had to live through everything we both went through, I’d do it with a smile on my face as long as it ended right here, right now.”

“Me too,” Dean agreed. “I’d walk right into that barn every time, go through every ounce of pain and suffering, just as long as we ended up right here in this kitchen at the end.”

The sound of her alarm going off seemed much louder than it was -coming from her phone in the pocket of her sweat pants; she’d have jumped off of Dean’s lap had he not been holding onto her. But as the shock of the sudden loud sound waned, the heaviness set in with a rock of nerves in the pit of her stomach. Here it was. The moment of truth. There were only two answers waiting on the other side of that door, but one would change their lives forever. Suddenly, she found herself too scared and nervous to move.

“Do you want me to go and look for you?” Dean questioned when she didn’t move, just sat up ramrod straight in his lap.

“No, no I wanna do it, just… stay here, okay?”

Dean nodded as she stood on shaking legs, and even though she didn’t turn around to see him, she could feel his pale green gaze on every step she made towards the door.

A million and a half memories flooded her mind as she opened the bathroom door and stepped inside, looking at the boxes that were still set on top of the little tests. Memories of pain, so much pain. Pain of Dean never even noticing her. The undesirable pain she felt as she stood there and watched him stuck to that goddamn poll, his life quickly bleeding away. Pain as she watched him struggle to recover. The fear that he’d never be the same again, if he ever woke up at all. The pain of learning how to let him go, so that he could recover on his own, and move from caretaker to partner. The moment they moved in this house. Every step that they made that led them to this moment. She could still see it. It was all still so clear. A horrible ending that they had taken, and rewritten for the good. What could have been a disaster, now could possibly be the start of a whole new life. One that Dean had always wanted. One that she had always wanted.

She felt as if she was having an out of body experience as she lifted the box off of the text, eyes closed; breath held, almost too afraid to open her eyes and see that they were negative, which she had convinced herself that they were.

“It’s okay,” she whispered to herself. “It’s all gonna be okay. No matter what the results are, we’re gonna be okay.”

With every ounce of courage she had left in her body, Y/N forced her eyes open, and her focus to shift down to the counter, where the sticks were.

At first, she thought she was hallucinating, surely she had to be, because one test stood proud and pink with two lines on the result screen, and the other the word YES + . She was pregnant.

Subconsciously, her hand fluttered down to her stomach as shock quickly made way for disbelief, and disbelief to something that she could only describe as pure joy. She had a little life, a little piece of Dean Winchester, the man she loved more than her own life, growing right now inside of her. A piece of him that no matter what, she’d get to keep forever.

Grabbing both tests, she quickly made her way out of the door, and back towards the kitchen, where Dean was still waiting at the table, his head buried in his hands.

Most people would have probably wanted to ‘surprise’ him with something cute. Some way of telling him that he was gonna be a Dad, but not her. They’d waited long enough for this moment, and she wasn’t going to make him wait a minute longer for the sake of theatrics.

Dean’s head lifted as he heard her footsteps approaching, and he was on his feet reaching for the test before she could even make it to him. His hand shook as he took the two test from her hand, and looked down at them. The same emotional turmoil running over his face as had hers only a moment ago, which sent a flood of emotions streaming down her face, or maybe it was the hormones?

“You’re pregnant?” he stated after a while- as if he needed to say it to make it real.

“You’re going to be a father, Dean Winchester,” she said, her voice choking with emotions, as he wrapped his arms around her squeezing her tightly as his own emotional dam broke, and years of pain, rejection, doubt, and fear of never having a life of his flooded down his own face, all while he clung on to her like she was his lifeline. She was honestly, and he was hers.

Life as they knew it would never be the same. Things had forever changed. Dean had a family of his own now. A real family. This was the first day of their forever.

Y/N’s eye’s lifted to the doorway of the kitchen, where had Dean not been holding her up, her feet would have given out from under her as the clear ghost of John Winchester and Mary Winchester stood, arm and arm watching the pair. Jack and Cas stood not far behind in the hallway, along with Bobby, beaming proudly at him.

“All of Heaven had to come and see this moment,” Jack said as both stood there in shock at the faces of family and friends long gone.

“We’re all so proud of you son, and when that boy of yours is born, he’s going to do great things,” John said, pride beaming from his face. “You did good.”

Just as suddenly as they had appeared, in a blink of an eye, they were all gone. Leaving nothing but an empty room, and the promise of a son that Dean had always wanted. She couldn’t think of a better, more fitting ending for Dean Winchester. The righteous man that might have saved the world on multiple occasions, and he saved her. He’d saved her in way’s she’d never stop thanking him for. He was her constant. Her comfort, and now, the father of her child, and the man he could finally call himself proud of. Scared. Battered. Bruised. Broken. But proud of the man, father, and one day husband he’d become.

The End.

Forever:

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Jensen and Dean’s Babes

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