#not american but i have mommy issues

[thoradvice]

mother's day is coming up, so please know that if you have a poor relationship with your mother, you don't have to celebrate her. you're not a bad person, or a bad kid. you deserved a good mom, better than what you got. it's okay to know that & act accordingly. i hope you have a good sunday.

[theres-an-endless-starry-sky]

I was going to put a funny caption here but I can’t think of one

[seventh-district]

i’ve just finished season one of TMA, and being someone who’s okay with spoilers is fun because it means i can peruse the wiki and scroll through the tag and i get to become privy to all sorts of weird, wonderful, halfway-out-of-context information that i get to look forward to understanding in the future

like. what do you mean Leitner’s in the tunnels?

what do you mean Jon eats the extinguished sun??

what do you mean it’s spelled Gerard Keay???

[aha-my-villainous-thoughts]

My mommy issues can't make their mind up on how to unhealthily channel into my boundary-positive intimacy-replacement faux-fetish sex life... like do I want to be your mommy or do I want you to be mommy? I don't know!! Let's try both and figure it out ig

[neon-danger]

And just so you know we live for porny chapters 🥰 you write them so well

This is all well and good but writing the same thing over and over is how gifted kids get burnout

[sar3nka]

Something I find really fucked up is that if I get a good grade at art history when finishing art school, I'll be more likely to be accepted into uni to study japanese. And, that's all good etc, but we literally don't learn anything useful about Japan in art history classes. No country outside of europe is mentioned for the most part of it, we only talked abt some regions in Africa when going over prehistory and ancient Egypt etc. My knowledge is gonna be p much worthless... bruh!

[skylarsblue]

✦Even. More. Incorrect C.o.D Quotes.✦

Y/N, pinning Soap’s arms with their thighs in sparring: Haha! Eat shit, Scotsman! Soap, struggling: FUCKIN’ ‘ELL, The hell is in your thighs?! Y/N: Pure spite and protein, bitch! --

Someone: Hey Johnny. Y/N: Oh, no, only Ghost can- Soap: Oi! Only Y/N & Ghost can pull that off, it’s Soap to you. Y/N: Yeah he- wait me too? *gaaassp* Ohhh is this what favoritism feels like?! Soap: Pfft, maybe! Y/N: I enjoy it a lot! <3

-- American!Y/N: Fuckin’ git, he’s off his rocker, that one. The entire team: … American!Y/N: *dramatically smacks their hand over their mouth* Gaz: *laughing* Was that genuine?! Y/N: AH, I’ve been conditioned! I’ve been colonized! Soap: COLONI-*WHEEZE*

-- Fem Fatal!Y/N: What th- what is this, a spy movie? You want me to infiltrate by being some eye candy?! Laswell: It’s the best option we have. Ghost: I disagree with this. Soap: Me too! This feels real nasty, I think. Fem Fatal!Y/N: *sigh* Fine, I’ll do it. God gave me these tits for a reason, might as well use’em for somethin’. Gaz: PFF-no no, don’t be funny, this is a bad situation.

-- Graves: No! You can’t, cause if you take it- …you’ll be hurting my feelings :((( Ghost: You know, I was thinking about that. And, the thing is…I really don’t care.

-- (In a ride back to base; just makin’ conversation)

Gaz: Do you find boys attractive? Or girls. That’s one what to check, if you’re not sure. Y/N: *chuckles* You think I’m not sure? Y/N: Everyone’s attractive to be honest, even if it’s just something small. Like, some people have really gorgeous hands. Y/N: I don’t know…I’m a little bit in love with everyone I meet. But I think that’s normal. Gaz: …hm, suppose that’s a fair answer…

-- Soap, laughing: You watch it or might just start fallin’ for ya, L.T! Ghost: …would you like to? Soap: Eh-…huh? Simon: Would you like to? Fall in love with me, I mean… Soap: ….well I-…well, yeah. I wouldn’t mind…if you’d let me. Simon: …I’d let you. Soap: Well then, guess that’s it then. Woo me, Si. Simon: I’ll do my best.

-- Someone: I don't need advice from a team of virgin losers. Y/N: VIRGIN LOSERS?! *grabs Price’s shoulder and motions to him aggressively* You gonna tell me you think this man doesn’t fuck for a living?! HAVE YOU SEEN HIM?! Gaz & Soap: *for the millionth time trying not to laugh* Price: *he’s not encouraging it but he does look kinda smug*

-- Gaz, on TikTok: Everyone’s always like “Kyle how’d you bag a baddie, how’d you bag that baddie bruh-“ I didn’t bag shit. Y/N picked me up from my neck, threw me over their shoulder and I’ve been on it ever since. (Zooms out to show that he is in fact, on their shoulder) Gaz: And I ain’t got no plans on getting off anytime soon-

(This also works with Soap & Ghost)

-- Y/N: Why’s it always you got mommy issues or you got daddy issues? Me personally? Both my parents got me messed up, the side I pick? Is mine. I ain’t Hannah Montana- Y/N: 🎶but I got the best of both worlds!~🎵 Ghost: *he’s laughing on the inside, I swear*

-- Ghost, on the verge of dissociating: Why be sad…when you can just be ✨g o n e✨ Soap: Si, no-

-- Graves: Punch me. In the face. Didn’t you hear me? Y/N: I always hear “punch me in the face” when you speak, but it’s usually subtext. Graves: *huff* Well I- *gets punched so hard he falls over* Y/N: ….that felt good. Ghost: I’m so proud- Price: Stop encouraging them.

-- Soap, bursting into the briefing room: Y/N got into a fight! (Insert running scene) Price: Soldier, what hap- Ghost, sliding up in front of them: Did you win? Y/N: Of course I won. Ghost: Nice. Price: STOP ENCOURAGING VIOLENCE-

-- Y/N, in a vent above a room: Soap, it’s me, the devil! Soap: *wheeze* Gaz: *trying so hard not to laugh* Y/N: I’m here to convince you to do SIN. Come with me. Steal candy from babies and from small businesses! Soap: *WHEEZE*

-- Y/N, passing by: *does that super flirty “up & down” look* Hey König…~ König: Hallo, guten morgen. Y/N: *smiles and keeps going* König, as soon as they’re gone: *deep breath* Ohmeingottohmeingott *tiny scream*

-- Ghost after being asked about his feelings on Soap: *heavy breathing* ……..nextquestion-

-- Gaz, a menace on TikTok: Batches be on the lookout for Captain Save-A-Hoe, cause he savin’ hoes. Price, minding his business: ? Y/N, dramatically “swooning” in the background: I WANNA BE SAAAAAVED *falls* Price, unaware he’s having a thirst trap made for him: ?????

-- (I think bullying Graves is funny)

Graves: Let me tell you how this is gonna work- Y/N: You ain’t gonna tell me shit. Graves: Listen!- Y/N: Suck my dick. Graves: Listen to me!- Y/N: Suck my dick. Graves: Shut up, listen to me! Y/N: Suck my dick, you fuck man. Graves: Listen!! Y/N: Suck my dick. Graves: You will be here and listen to my ord- Y/N: You’ll be here sucking my dick. Graves: Listen to me, now! Y/N: Go fuck yourself.

-- Y/N: I would rather lead my team into a pit of fire, than have them wield guns for your ignorant usurper cunt of a general. Price: *mans is so proud it’s showing in his chops*

-- Simon: Your eyes are like sapphires…jeez…ahem, that’s pretty corny though, huh? Soap, swooning: No, not at all. Anyone would like it…aha… Simon: …uh…is this- Soap: Working? Oh yeah, thoroughly wooed, sir. Simon: Good, good.

-- Price: Please tell me you didn’t drag the boys into this. Y/N: I didn’t drag Soap & Gaz into this! *insert banging on door* Price: Who is that? Y/N: I think you know.

-- Soap: I wouldn’t wish that ‘pon my worst enemy. Unless, of course, we’re talkin’ ‘bout my enemy Philip Graves. Soap: Fuck you, Phillip(/neg), you know what you did.

-- Gaz: So you have feelings for this person. Just rip the bandaid off. Y/N, with daddy issues: It’s Price. Gaz: *inhales through his teeth* Put the bandaid back on.

-- Y/N: …Ghost? You’re into Ghost? Soap: Mhm…thoughts? Y/N: And prayers, Johnny. And prayers.

-- Gaz: Are you straight? Y/N: *chokes on drink* Don’t ever fucking insult me like that ever again.

-- (Some type of escort mission or somethin’)

Price: This woman wouldn’t know how to fix a broken fingernail. Fem!Y/N: Honestly, you lot have to be the most boorish, crude, pig-headed men I’ve ever met. Price: Hey, I’ve seen the high-bred boys you’ve hung out with, princess. I’m the only man you’ve ever met.

(Insert overly intense sexual tension here)

-- König: How does that even make any- *knife sound* König: *looks down at the knife in his thigh* Did you just- *takes knife out* Did you just stab me? What is your problem?!

-- (I’m only using Alejandro cause the dude in the audio had a slight Spanish accent, mans is definitely a feminist)

Alejandro: It’s not natural for girls to fight. Fem!Y/N: Now it’s not natural for a man to be as stupid as he is tall, but mm. Here you stand! Alejandro, in love: …

[womenloverlmao]

Tricky Treat (Spencer Reid X Reader)

In which Spencer finds out about the most amazing treat but it’s a tricky situation

This is extremely cringy and I don’t know why I wrote this but I did and you’re facing the consequences so.

(600 words)

Spencer had a hard time censoring himself, of that much, you were sure. When he wanted to say something, it would come out whether or not it was appropriate. He started to work on that once he started dating you, realizing now that it did matter what someone thought of him. Of course, he never was intentionally rude, but…well, you get the idea. 

It was his favorite time of year: Halloween. He could go into detail about every reason he loved it, maybe it was the fact that it was uniquely American, or the fact that he had good childhood memories of it, or pretending to be someone else, etc, but either way, as his now wife, you still couldn’t explain his love for the holiday. You without a doubt loved it too, but no one could love it half as much as Dr. Spencer Reid. 

For the past few days to weeks, he had noticed a few small changes in you, but you didn’t say anything. He was extremely nervous about you, as you were getting dizzy, having abnormal bleeding, frequent urinating, boobs hurting, and mood swings. He definitely started to connect the dots, but he was at the point where he didn't know what applied to the case of appropriate or not. 

You were without a doubt pregnant, but he didn’t know how to say it to you. He assumed you knew, but even so he couldn’t breach it with you. And there was a possibility that you had something else going on, an issue with your ovaries and hormones…there were many possibilities as to what could be happening. 

The final night where he couldn’t ignore the signs was his favorite holiday. You were planning on telling him as a sweet treat, but he was facing a tricky situation in trying to figure out how to broach the subject with you. Should you have told your husband you were pregnant before eight weeks? Maybe, but you had been planning this reveal ever since you found out and you didn’t want anything to mess that up. 

Halloween was his favorite holiday, and you knew that the greatest treat he could ever wish for would be finding out he was a father that day. You knew your idea was what some would call cringy, but at least it was something that would make sense to both of you when it was time for the breach. You were a mummy…cause, well, mommy? Yeah, you would have hated this in any other case, but you still thought it was cute. 

Spencer came in while you were getting ready, and he noticed that bump…it was little but very obviously there. He stared, he knew that he had to say something, but…what could he say? “You’re a mummy.” Smooth, genius, real smooth. 

“Yes,” you responded with a small, confused smile. “I’m a mummy.”

“This was supposed to be a play on the word,” he thought out loud. “Mummy…mommy.” 

Now was your turn to stare. 

“I ruined the surprise, didn’t I?” He realized. 

“Well…it was supposed to be a trick or treat, but no, I wouldn’t say it’s ruined. We got the point through, didn’t we?” 

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said before he let it sink in. Of course it was his top theory beforehand, but now there was no possible way for him to ignore it. He was going to be a dad. “You’re…pregnant?”

“Happy Halloween?” You said, before he came over and hugged you. You could hardly call it a Halloween spook, but he was very happy that he got this little treat and that next year at the same time he would have his own little pumpkin.

[batboyblog]

I just saw someone call "vote blue people" fascists today on this godforsaken website. They also rambled about Jews Zionists a little too much and repeated some blatant blood libel points so like, I shouldn't take anything they say seriously but.

Is that what we've come to? People voting for Democrats, the party that wants to destroy the world and its people the least... Fascists? Is there no winning with these damn people? What the hell is considered acceptable to them anymore?

hm, I mean I think there are a number of different types of these people. I think there are people who grew up in Republican households and took on all the anti-Democrat baggage and their leftism is rebellion against mommy and daddy but not very deep.

I think there are people influenced by the silly idea that the worse things get the better it is for the Communist Revolution thats totally about to happen any day now we swear, Karl Marx the once and future King will rise from his sleep to lead Britain in its hour of greatest need or whatever.

I think the media are really failing, because they love an idea of "balance" but like when it comes to say Republican criminality there isn't balance? there's no Democratic counter point? so they have to under cover Republican scandal and also lean into an unthinking narrative that whatever Republicans do is somehow Democrats fault? in some way "why didn't Democrats stop them?" well because thats not how it works? why did Republicans do it in the first place? why wasn't the public aware thats what Republicans would do if elected?

I think the antisemitism is a big factor this time around as you mentioned the raving about Zionists or whatever, putting all issues on the back burner to somehow "punish" Democrats for the fact a war broke out in a foreign country on the other side of the world when a Democrat happened to President.

which leads me to the final part, propaganda. When Trump was President he recognized Israel's annexation of two areas, East Jerusalem which has long been talked about as the site for a Palestinian capital, and the Golan Heights a legal part of Syria. This is the first time an American President (or any world leader) had recognized land occupied by Israel in the 1967 Six-Day War as a PART of Israel, rather than occupied. Trump went further and put forward a plan drafted by Israel and right wing American Israel hawks which would have reduced Palestine to a bunch of little islands of sovereignty cut off from each other by land annexed to Israel. A Palestine of bridges and tunnels. And Netanyahu claimed, and I believe him, that Trump said he could go ahead and annex that land even if the Palestinians said no to the deal (which they did)

do you remember the big protests then? no? none? you don't recall any of this? strange... because there are big bot networks boosting content about this conflict, making sure it makes it into your timeline, making sure you tie it to somehow be Democrats fault and that its the most important thing in the world and showing how upset you are by it is the single most important thing imaginable. All day, every day.

As far as Palestine goes, there are two options. The Party that believes in a two state answer, and the party that doesn't. Trump already signed off on annexation once, when he's back in office, now, after October 7th? ooof. Any one who's serious and not cooked knows which is the better choice.

[garzasheart]

general valeria garza headcanons

summary: just valeria being her silly self + some relationship headcanons

author notes: nothing to say, i just love this woman

━ valeria is definitely the type to watch telenovelas and pick sides when characters have conflict

━ walks around the house in a wife beater and boxers

━ always needs the air conditioner on and gets all bitchy if it isn't freezing cold

━ somehow wins every argument she starts even if she is in the wrong

━ unless it's an argument with you than she will let you win

━ listens to 90's spanish music and maybe even some 2000's american rap & rnb

━ if your first language is english than she will ask you what the lyrics mean in the american songs

━ loves tupac just because he can get real violent

━ says the most unhinged shit at random moments because in her mind it's normal. "amor, should we be buried together when we die?"

━ a total cat mom. on her list of people she will kill for is you and y'all cats

━ if you have her meet your mom, she becomes a total mommy's girl (because she misses her own mother) and always be like "how was my mom?" whenever you go to visit your mom alone

━ always has a grumpy lil frown on her face, but smiles when she sees you

━ if you introduce her to games her favorite is mortal kombat because it's violent & she always wins against you

━ chronic eye roller™

━ low-key sassy and doesn't give no fucks

━ super sarcastic especially when annoyed

━ figured out she was lesbian in her early twenties and was like "oh, that figures"

━ HATES bugs. will act like she's all tough if others are around and a bug is nearby, but by herself she moves as far away as possible

━ can actually cook pretty well

━ loves spicy food AND sugary food. she's just versatile like that

━ probably got addicted to coffee once when she was younger, but broke that addiction once she hit her 30th birthday because she refuse to let a little drink control her mood

━ has trust issues, attachment issues, abandonment issues, and commitment issues

━ a stomach sleeper 100%

━ doesn't care for holidays, but will go all out if you like them

━ a lil menace who sometimes acts like a bad ass little kid

━ "gimme a kiss" whenever you ask her to do anything

━ gets annoyed when you don't reply to her text messages right away. you take an hour to reply? alright see you tomorrow girlie because that's when she's going to text back

━ p e t t y

━ a little toxic but it's fine because she loves hard

━ once she found out how to do 0.5 photos just know that's how all the photos she takes of you are taken now

━ laughs loud asf when people fall. might even point too

━ loves freezepops in the summer and winter, no difference to her

━ loves to play fight and wrestle

━ if you two get a dog, she will always rile it up and than complain about it

━ dances a little when she's tipsy

[heller-castiel]

🥳🥳It’s my birthday!🥳🥳

celebrate by reading some of my old fics

Bobby Day - Sam and Dean don’t have a mom to celebrate on Mother’s Day - they just have a Bobby.

This’ll Be The Day That I Die - “They had this song, before they got married, that they loved. Cheek to Cheek, you know? And they’d look so damn sad when it’d play on the record, even though he asked her to marry her to that fuckin’ song. Had to tell Sammy to stop playing that record cause they hated to be reminded of their marriage so much.” Dean swallowed. “Hell, the song feels more like a funeral march than anything else after a childhood of that. Promise me? Promise me we won’t be like that? Together and hating each other for it?”

Castiel took in a mouthful of smoke and lied. “I promise.”

Or: The American Pie (by Don McLean) fic

Holy Palmers’ Bloody Kiss - It’s nice, getting to take care of his family, getting to heal his family. Dean’s always been looking out for everyone else, was raised for it, bred for it even, and he’s made his peace with that. Held his baby brother in his arms and he knew what he was made for, going to sleep in beige hotel rooms stained in dark browns and reds with a baby in one hand and a revolver in the other.

He’s never gotten to offer healing, saving, before. It’s the first time since he was a kid that looking out for family didn’t mean guns and death and revenge.

Goodnight, Moon - Cas shifts in his arms, turning to face Dean, and just as Cas wants to hold him, Dean is ready to be held in return. Their left arms reach across their chests where they are pressed together, and they do not clasp hands but rest the backs of them against each other, and Dean’s right arm falls to rest on Cas’s hip just as Cas’s right falls to Dean’s hip, and together they let their foreheads rest on each other’s.

Or, Cas has insomnia sometimes. Dean brings him back to bed.

You Can Start to Make it Better (Beautiful Beautiful Boy) - Dean goes to bed with Cas on the night Jack's finally ready to reform heaven and give up his Godly powers; but before he does, he pulls Dean into heaven to bring someone back, one last time.

Or: Dean Winchester works through his mommy issues with some heavenly therapy.

if you ran away, just come home - Dean wandered, after. The night that Chuck died, subsumed into Amara, he had silently climbed into his car in the dead of night, walking past Jack's room, past Sam's room.

In his room, Sam laid in his bed with Eileen, and felt the air displace itself around where Dean slipped past in the hallway, instincts attuning him to movement just as they made Dean move soundlessly, without a thought to it. but Dean didn’t think of that. Dean only thought of moving, getting out, going -

Going to something the bunker couldn’t be, anymore. Something he couldn’t ever go to.

But he had to go.

[cameronspecial]

Before The Last Petal Falls (Part 1)

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Talks about sex and drugs.

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 2.4K

Summary: Coming home is supposed to be a happy occasion, but it's hard to be happy with your ex-boyfriend lurking around the corner.

A/N: This is a sequel series to Thorn In My Side, Rose in My Hand series.

Masterlist

Going back home is the last thing Y/N wants to do right now. The Outer Banks is full of memories from a heartbreak she does not want to remember. However, she is no match for the force known as Cassie and Marvin, and that is how she finds herself on a plane back to North Carolina. For the past five years, Y/N has done everything in her power to not step foot on the island again and now, it is all for nothing. “Please fasten your seat belts, we are preparing for landing,” the pilot’s voice stirs Y/N from her slumber. She can’t believe this is actually happening right now. The elderly lady beside her smiles at her, “First time going to North Carolina?” “Uh, no. I actually grew up there, in the Outer Banks, but I haven’t been back since I left. It feels a little weird,” she answers honestly. 

“Ahh, so you were running from something.” 

“Yeah, I was. But it looks like I can’t anymore. I just hope that something isn’t there anymore.”

The plane lands and Y/N gets her bags from the carousel. She waits for Mason in the pick-up area, running towards him when she spots his car. Mason crushes Y/N in a hug, “It’s so good to see you back on American soil. This is long overdue.” Y/N pats his back while returning the hug. “Yeah, yeah. It’s good to be home. Did Lace get Sparky here okay?” Mason picks her suitcase up and packs it into his trunk, “Yep, he’s probably being a little energy ball in our living room as we speak.” They both laugh at the joke and then hop into the car. “So how’s your internship at the architectural firm? Is it different from the one in Toronto?” she asks her brother, bringing her hand to the locket around her neck. Heading back to the Outer Bank is causing her to be anxious and playing with the locket calms her down. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Mason that she still wears the necklace and is playing with it. 

“It’s going well. Most buildings that people look into getting built here are a different style than in Toronto. OBX wants beach boxes, while Toronto has a wide range of styles. It’s really fascinating watching how my boss’ designs still match to look different from one another.”

“That’s cool. I like the name beach box. It sounds fun. Like a giant sandbox. And are you enjoying it?”

“Yeah, I really am. Although, I do want to see if I can get an internship in an Asian country afterwards. They have a different style that’s interesting. How is the bookstore coming along?”

“A little stressful right now to be honest. Juggling my book edits and what I need to change or add so that the building is up to code and now being here. It’s all just a little too much. At least, I have a name Bookkeeper. It’s gonna confuse people who actually know what that career is but I think it’s funny.”

“It is a good name. It’s very punny.”

“Ugh, that was so bad.”

———

One of the worst places to be is her childhood bedroom. The countless days they spent cuddling on the bed haunts her. The love they expressed physically all over the room is practically engrained in her brain. She had never been able to feel that way again. She unpacks her clothes into her closet and goes to check on Sparky downstairs. He was left down there because she didn’t want him sitting on her suitcase like he did when she was packing her bags in London. He has gotten bigger and he has a little bit of an attachment issue. He doesn’t like being very far from his Mommy for very long. Y/N’s heart drops to the pit of her stomach when she sees the open front door and bolts out of it in hopes of catching her dog before he gets too far. 

She follows his barks like a trail of breadcrumbs to the sidewalk. If her heart wasn’t already giving her problems, it certainly is now. The sight before her is one she never thought she would see again. Rafe Cameron is kneeling down and petting Sparky. Beside him is a beautiful woman in a sundress. Her long black hair cascades down her shoulders and her brown almond-shaped eyes show such warmth behind them. Her makeup is done to absolute perfection. Y/N slowly approaches the trio without hesitation. She doesn’t want to go near Rafe, but seeing as it doesn’t look like Sparky is nowhere near going home, she had to go get him.

 “Hey Sparky, long time no see. It’s good to see you again, Bubba. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for ya. You’ve gotten so big,” she hears him greet. As she approaches, she accidentally steps on a stick and the crack alerts the others to her presence. “Hey,” she awkwardly begins. “I’m just here for my dog.” Rafe nods and stands up, moving to wrap his hand around the woman’s waist. “Uh, yeah. I remember a time when he used to be my dog too.” Sensing the tension, his companion introduces herself, “Hi, I’m Blythe Katsumi. I’m Rafe’s fiancée.” Blythe sticks her hand out for Y/N to shake, which she does. “I’m Y/N Y/L/N. Rafe’s- uh…this is Sparky.”

“It’s okay. I know you were his high school girlfriend. He told me about you.”

“Right. And he didn’t tell me about you.”

Rafe rolls his eyes and huffs, “Yeah, well it’s not like we were doing a lot of talking in the last five years. What are you doing here, Y/L/N?” 

“You mean besides looking for my dog, in front of my house? The better question is what are you doing here Rafe?”

“I have every right to be here because unlike you, I’ve been coming back home.”

Before Y/N can retort, Blythe stops the conversation from going any further. “Well, it was lovely meeting you, but we need to go. We have to get some stuff ready for the engagement party.” Blythe waves goodbye and takes Rafe’s hand to walk away. This draws Y/N attention to Blythe's left hand with the giant diamond engagement ring. This causes a stabbing feeling to shoot through Y/N’s heart. Her hand shoots up to her locket and she begins to rub it for some comfort. This action doesn’t go unnoticed by Rafe as he catches it from the corner of his eye.

———

Everyone has their own vices. Cheating. Gambling. Alcohol. Lying. Rafe’s is drugs. There was a period of time in his life when weed was not the outlet he turned to when in need of getting out of his own head. That one blissful year he had with her was his escape instead. But after the breakup, weed was the only thing that made him forget about her. Eventually, he became numb to the weed and he needed something stronger, so Barry introduced him to cocaine. Mason didn’t know that Rafe had stepped it up in the drug department because if Mason knew, he would’ve found some way to get Rafe to stop. And Rafe didn’t want to, he needed to escape the feeling of being consumed by her. 

Before today, Rafe had managed to go a month without thinking about her at all. It was his highest record in the past five years they had been apart. There was no bookstore he walked by with a girl quite similar to her standing at the window. No hard kombucha in Mason’s fridge to indicate that she had been there. No caramel ice cream at the parlour that she would beg him to buy. It was like the universe was giving him a break from being haunted by Y/N. It seems the universe is done with giving him that gift because as he drives to Barry’s house, he is drowning in thoughts of her. He loved seeing Sparky, of course, but why did she have to come back? He couldn’t get the smell of her hibiscus body wash out of his mind. The sweet but gentle tropical scent she wore contradicted the foggy and rainy place she had moved to. Her hair is held back in a claw clip he used to play with whenever she would leave them around. 

And the thing that had really caused him to spiral is her hand still holding the locket he had given her for their first Christmas as a couple. Has she been wearing it for the past five years? Had she worn it while she let other men make her feel good, but nowhere near as good as he can make her feel? Would she wear it when she told them she loved them? But most importantly, how dare she come back to what is now only his island and wear it as if she cared for him? She hasn’t been back in years or talked to him; she doesn’t get to pretend like she’s thought about him. It is driving him crazy and he needed something to stop him from going too deep down this rabbit hole. 

Barry hears Rafe’s motorbike and is waiting outside for him. “Well, well, well, look who came back from the dead. Thought you went sober on me for a second there, country club. What can I get you for you?”

“However much you got. I got a feeling that I’m gonna be needing it more often.”

He knew he would need whatever he got his hands on to help him forget about her because if he didn’t then he would remember. And it would probably kill him to remember just how his heart almost leapt out of his chest when he saw Y/N Y/L/N right before his eyes.

———

When they broke up, Mason told both of them that he would not be used as a source to find out more about the other. He said it was for his own sanity in not wanting to be caught in the middle of his sister and best friend, but it was also in hopes that it would cause discourse between the two that would lead to their reunification. So it made sense that Mason would keep an engagement from her. But she still needed more information that she would give Mason no other choice but to give her. “How long have they been together, Mace?” Mason closes his eyes in a silent prayer that he isn’t about to have this painful conversation with his sister. He lifts his head from his laptop and turns towards her, “A year and a month. They’ve known each other for a year and a half.” 

“How long have they been engaged?”

“Four months.”

“Did you help him propose?”

“He didn’t ask.”

“How come you didn’t tell me?”

At this, Mason can hear the sadness in his sister’s voice. He knew no matter how much she says she is over Rafe, it isn’t true. It’s why she still wears his locket after all. He knew she needed to know though. 

“You know I don’t want to get in between you two. Also, I just didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want to tell you something that would hurt you so much. I love you and I want to protect you from that pain.” 

“Yeah, I get that. It just would’ve hurt less if it came from you,” she whispers, not knowing what else to ask or add to the conversation. She turns around and goes to her room, where she finds Sparky waiting for her. He gives her a pouty look, asking how come he couldn’t go with his Daddy. She sits down on her bed beside him and places his head on her lap, “I’m sorry, Bubba. But I did what I had to do. Breaking up with him was necessary. I mean I set him free and look at him now, he is getting married.” It hurt. It hurt that he was okay with marrying Blythe before he turned twenty-five. He wanted to speed up his life plan two years earlier just for Blythe. How come he was willing to do that for Blythe but not for Y/N? Was Blythe really that much better than her?

Doing what any other girl would do, Y/N resolves to some internet sleuthing. It wasn’t that hard to find Blythe’s Instagram. She has a public account and Mason is following her. She has an impressive 500K followers; probably because she is the heiress to a popular Japanese hotel chain. All her posts have her makeup done to perfection and her clothes are all designer. One of her saved reels is of her and Rafe partying on New Year's Eve. At least Blythe can keep up with Rafe on that level. Y/N moves her search to Google and finds Blythe’s Wikipedia page. She was born in New York and raised there. She attended UNC for fashion. From multiple tabloid pictures, she can tell that the party scene is one Blythe frequent but she is also a sweet girl. In one picture, she is giving her jacket to a homeless person along with some money when she is returning home from a party. She helps out at soup kitchens and takes children out on shopping sprees. Y/N supposes that Blythe could just be doing it for the media attention, but the look in Blythe’s eyes tells her it isn’t true. 

After finding out possibly everything she could find out about Blythe, Y/N turns all of her electronic devices off to stop her from spiralling on social media anymore. She heads over to her bookshelf in need of a bookish escape. Her eyes glance over the different titles until her eyes find one particular book she had not thought about it in a while. She pulls the book off the shelf and opens it up to the title page with the inscription on it. The copy of The Lightning Thief that Rafe had annotated sits before her. She had left it here when she went to university because it felt too hard to bring with her. It held too much meaning. As she sits down on her window sill, she begins to read the book with a special focus on the inscriptions. She reads for hours, allowing herself to feel every bit of emotion that passes through her. God, it hurts to be back home.

Taglist: @sublimepenguinpeach-blog @gillybear17 @f4ll-for-you

[freshlyrage]

Running Like Water

Chapter 30

pairing: Javier Peña x OFC (written as xReader)

fic warnings: NSFW Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI) language, strained family relationships, mentions of drug abuse, discussions of insecurities and body image issues, daddy and mommy issues

fic tags: Best friends younger sister, Life-long crush, Friends to lovers, Unrequited love, slow burn, Push and Pull, Small Town Dynamics, Secret Relationships, latina MC, Fluff and Angst, OFC!Jessica Alba face claim, sorry Lorraine I'm bringing you into this, Time jumps, 2 year age gap, pre-canon

word count: 5k

Masterlist

Genie gives you a sly smile when she sees your smirk when you sit back down on the couch.

Javier trails behind you, excusing himself to the kitchen to cook. You’re not sure what you’re doing. Honestly, you’re probably going to regret this. Fuck it. It felt too good to hold him. You tasted him, lips pressed to his neck. Touching someone you love,  what a dangerous game. You’ll stay here tonight, then you’ll make a decision on what the next week looks like. A personal test that will probably have Jayla yelling your ear off about how bad of an idea this was. 

 Still you watch him from the love seat that faces the doorway to the kitchen. Seeing him move in the kitchen with deft, wiping his brow, clenching his jaw and looking oh so tortured. Your legs crossed, preventing any silly ideas you might conjure up from the beers Genie kept feeding you. 

Everyone in the house seemed to be in good spirits. Even your mother who had been housing a glass of wine. Everyone was a bit tipsy by ten. The girls asleep atop coats on Chuchos bed down the hall. They’ll be woken from their slumber at midnight to ravage through the gifts under the tree. 

Javier comes in alas, two beers in hand and beelines straight toward the empty seat next to you. Settling down, legs spread, offering up a beer for you. Your cheeks redden at the gesture, feeling your brother's knowing gaze. “Thank you.” You whisper, nudging him. 

He doesn’t respond and just shifts to get more comfortable. Settling into the couch, shoulder to shoulder with knees pressed against each other. He could give you space but he decided against it. The closeness sends a shock to your core and you wish to forget it. He clears his throat and looks ahead at his father who also had a knowing smile at the interaction.

“It’s great to finally have both of you home.” Chucho nods. “Through all the ups and downs I’m just happy to see the four of you— Frankie, Genevieve, Andrea and Javi still friends. Just glad you guys are over your marijuana phase.”

The room erupts in laughter, you put your hands up in defense. “I never! Never smoked in here.”

Frankie cackled, “Yeah because Javi never let you, he was all— she’s too young for that shit.” The living room swirled with another round  of laughs at the spot on impression of Javier. 

“Wait… you guys smoked pot?” Your mother asked, eyes wide. Devoid of anger, just shock. The four of you grinned. 

“It was the seventies.” Genie comments, cringing and bringing her water to her lips. She had been the only one of us completely sober. Your mind began to wander. James shook his head.

“Listen, they smoked pot and look how well off they all are. Beautiful family and two thriving salons. School teacher in New York City. And an American hero.” He butts in. Everyone in the room nods, your brother and his wife leaning into each other with smiles. Your eyes fall to your lap and slowly ride up from Javi’s knee to his face. A frown taut on his lips. 

“Don’t look so down Javi. What are your next steps now that you’re here?” Your mom slurs, gesturing for him to speak. Her gold bangles sounded like sleigh bells from hell. You suck your teeth, feeling him tense up next to you. An American Hero. It strokes something in him and you feel him closing in on himself beside you. 

“Uh- I just-I haven’t”

“Mami, he just got home today.” 

She waved a hand for you to scratch. “Ay nena, I’m talking to Javier here.” 

You fought the urge to roll your eyes, seeing him struggle to adjust to all this attention. He must have spent a lot of time talking about anything but himself. It would be a lot for anyone. To come home after three traumatic years to pestering questions from drunk elders. You see his eyes, nervous and unlike himself. You resist the urge to place your hand on his knee. He glances at your eyes then down at your lips swiftly before focusing on your mother again. Your brain short circuits at that, severely confused by his decision to fuck up your plan to keep your panties on tonight. 

 “Uhm-ehem.” He clears his throat. “I’m going to take it slow. Hopefully find someone, start a family. All in due time I suppose.” He chuckles and your mother nods curtly. 

“Well…” And when your mother begins a statement this way you have to brace yourself for complete and utter nonsense. Shoot. “Lorrianne is still single only–”

“We do not speak the devil's name in this house.” Chucho cuts. And thank god he knew how to dial a room because still you all drunkenly laugh together. Your mother cackled, repeating that it was a joke. Some part of you feels like it’s not. 

Still you laugh anyway.

Your mother is too tipsy to question why she’s now riding home with your brother. So is your brother but Genie—she’s winking at you while she pulls out of the parking lot. And Don Chucho doesn’t seem to be bothered. He squeezes your shoulder while you sit at the kitchen table, watching Javier rinse off the dishes. 

Truthfully, you’re a bit more tipsy than you thought. There’s something about stepping out into that brisk December air that really hits you with the reality that you had been fed beers for the past five hours. 

“You heading to bed?” 

“Yes, happy you're home. Don’t do anything stupid.” He whispers the last part in your ear and kisses your cheek before exiting. “Merry Christmas!” He calls from the hallway, a bit slurred. 

The entire night had been filled with stolen glances and knees pressing against each other. Not a direct word shared but now you were alone in the kitchen. The tipsier you got, the hotter your cheeks grew. Staring at his back while the stream of the water he uses occupies the silence, you cross your legs. He clears his throat, like he’s waiting to see who breaks this game first.

 But honestly, all you could do is stare at the way the ripples of his back muscles and shoulder blades stretch his shirt. 

Christ, you think while sipping the cure to your state. Water.

Luckily the pressing questions died down into a session of nostalgic storytelling. You try not to be bothered by your mother not being able to recall one dear moment from your childhood. It seemed everyone had one about you except her. 

It made you think of the bee earrings that catch dust on your vanity. You are suddenly too sad to speak. 

He clears his throat and turns. Arms crossed, making his biceps bulge in his shirt. Fuck, he was sexier than before. And he’s looking at you that same way. Like it’s taking a lot from him to not just spread you open right there in the kitchen. Your stomach pits at the distant memory of your breasts rubbing against the kitchen counter while he fucked some sense into you. Pretty little wife. 

“I’m going to head out for a smoke. My clothes are unpacked yet, there should still be some old shirts in the drawers for you to change into.” 

His words are like a splash of cold water, he exits the kitchen and the front door follows. Your brain barely caught up with anything he said. You were faced with the reality once again. You were going to sleep in Javier’s bed, and you promised yourself it was going to be casual. 

Good god, why do I set such unrealistic expectations for myself?

You get up anyway, relieved that he’s allowing you privacy to change. You think if he was in the room while doing so you might’ve urged to just take it off himself. 

You expected there to be more sentiment when you walked into his room after so long. After the last time.

It was the last time you had sex. It was a memory you liked to not look back on. Your last time being spent with him comforting you after having a panic attack. It was when you told him that you never thought you’d have a healthy sex life. Yet it was so much more than that. You were overcome with the trauma of your first relationship and the blistering reality of being so in love, that you couldn’t bear to watch him leave. 

You’re back in that same spot, yet the room is empty, filled with boxes and suitcases. 

You feel nostalgia run down your throat with a swallow. But ultimately are left with yearning to make more revelations here. 

His bed was ruffled like he napped during the day and he had a suitcase open with clothing jumbled. You know he said to check his drawer but the smell of his cologne enticed you far too much to just throw on some old threadbare shirt that probably smells like a closet. 

You pick a green t-shirt. A favorite of his, you remember him wearing it at Xavier’s memorial day barbecue a few years back. With a sting at your knee, you bend down to grab it before striping yourself of your sweater dress. Stockings off and tossed on the floor. With just your panties and hardened nipples grazing the thin material, you climb onto his bed. Dazed and determined to not let your pussy get the best of you. 

The door creaked open and he came through. Hooded eyes blinking in disbelief. Maybe being perched on the bed with your thighs on display wasn’t the smartest. Perhaps shuffling under the covers would have been preferable to keeping his or your hands to yourself. He clears his throat and gives you a nod. 

“You still smoke.” You comment. You never liked it, far more research has been done and you hate for him to get himself sick over something so trivial. 

He clenches his jaw, eyes stuck on the curve of your breasts and nipples for a moment before he bends down to grab a pair of sleep pants from his suitcase. “Yes.” He turns, the unzipping of his pants makes you shift on your heels. Dropping his pants, the backs of his thighs and black boxers in your sight. Still, he respects your earlier requests of no funny business and he pulls on his new pants without a lingering second of sexual suggestion. 

Much to your dismay he keeps his shirt on. “It’s still really bad for you.” You whisper, changing your seating position— knees to your chest now, back against the headboard. Javier turns with a small smile on his face observing your things tossed on his floor. 

“Wanting things that are bad for you is healthy.” He murmurs, bending down with a soft groan. Folding his pants and placing them back in his suitcase. He looks up into your eyes, “So is wanting something that’s good for you. Makes us human.” He gets into bed with another grunt, old man. 

You nod, hands holding your knees. Feeling your wound throb. You bite back a wince. Javier’s eyes are on your knee the second he feels you next to him. Creased brow, he takes his big fingers around your wrist and reveals the injury to him. In an instant, he’s manhandling you, still delicate and considerate of your stinging knee. He moves your legs across his lap. “How’d you get this?” He thumbs the surrounding area, inside of your knee and you throb. More ways than one. 

“Fell in the subway.” 

He grumbles, stroking and soothing your skin. It’s so much contact in one moment. You’re overcome with the urge to cry and tell him that every time you’ve ever felt pain you wished he were there. Any tiny cut, any feeling hurt, you wished to come home to tell him about it and curse the world together. 

God bless you, you’re an honest drunk. 

“It was a brutal fall, ripped my stocking and bled all the way home. Then it was snowing so it was all dirty. You ever get hurt and realize you’re no better than a kid, like you just wish there were someone there to kiss it better. Or like wanting someone to rub and be like sana sana colita de rana.” You ramble, eyes on the way his hand covers your entire knee and the way his thumb works into your soft skin. You gaze trails back up to his face and his stunning side profile is what you’re met with. The arch of his nose, the thick hair above his pretty pout. You wanted to drag your lips across it all and claim him. 

His brow furrows, and you realize that may be its natural state. His free hand comes up and points at a tiny scar across the bridge of his nose. Eyes widening, you shove your face into his to get a view. Tip of your nose touching his cheek while you observe a new part of him. He chuckles. 

“I’ve been on scene for more raids than I can count. Usually it’s a shoot out.” Your chest tightens and you back your face away. “Dodging, frantic, whatever. But there was this one, where we had one of Escobar's sicarios cornered. Well I had him cornered. Really fucked up guy, got two pregnant women killed sort of fucked up. Anyway, I was tired, and angry. And I should have just detained him when I had the chance. But… I was the one who saw the bodies. I wanted to rough him up myself. And I did, but in the midst of it all he head butted me and—yeah. Cracked my nose. Had a small gash and was bleeding all the way down to my teeth.” His finger traces to his mustache.

 “Went back to my team, blood still pouring, drying on my mustache. In so much pain I could barely see. The adrenaline was so high so no one bothered to help me. I didn’t want to help me either, I just wanted to get the night done and over with. It was when I got home and dunked my face in cold water that I really wished I had someone there to take care of me.”

He frowns for a moment, not able to look you in the eyes. You both sit in silence and you digest it all. You knew—know, that your lives turned out very differently, you guess you haven’t even thought about how different. 

 Your frown isn’t momentary, your heart slows in your chest and you swear you don’t think. Maybe you can blame it on your drunkenness tomorrow. But you bring your pointer finger to the scar on his nose and he doesn’t flinch. The crease between his brow just flexes then smoothes out all together.

You rub the scar, and trail down the bump of his nose. You feel the slight crook that it must have left. You move again, grazing the tip, and landing on his mustache. The thing that used to brush against you, and at one point soaked his blood. His lip twitches when the tip of your nail brushes the soft skin of his cupid's bow. The pad of your finger presses against his lips and he cracks into a smile. One that’s more genuine than any he let out today. Maybe it’s because you’re both tipsy that he allows his eyes to crinkle and dimples to deepen. Your finger slipping and pressing to the cold surface of his teeth. 

You let your hand fall to his chest, “I wish I was there.” You admit in a whisper.

“I don’t.” His voice vibrates against your palm. 

You know what he means, and he knows you know what he means so he doesn’t rush to reassure you. You’re beyond need for that. “I know it was dangerous but I wish I was there to listen to you, wipe off your blood or whatever.” You whisper, doubling down. He huffs, he’s much more solid under your palm than he was a few years back. It must be tough work. You fight the urge to press your lips against the scar on his nose. 

“You would have been disgusted by the person I was there—the person I've become.” 

“No.” You mutter, you’ve already thought of all the horrible things he could have been doing and forgave him in your head years ago.

He shakes his head and grabs your wrist to move your hand onto your own lap. “I’ve killed people.”

“I know.”

“I fucked at least 2 hookers a week.”

He’s saying it like he wants you to run away or tell him he isn’t good enough, that he’s not the same person. Does he want you to snarl in his face and be angry? It seems like he must have forgotten the type of person you are. “Was it a different one each time?” You ask so maybe you cared more than you’d like to believe. 

“It was the same four women.” He burns a hole through the wall with his gaze. He couldn’t even look at you. 

“What were their names?”

He snaps to look at you, eyes roving around your face. Utter confusion between his brow. “Do you want me to hurt your feelings?”

“What did you think I was sitting with my legs crossed in New York City?” 

He quirks a brow for a moment, you see the smallest glimpse of jealousy in his eyes before he sits up right and smirks. “Julia, Camila, Daniela and Dulce.”

You nod, “I’m hooking up with my colleague.” 

He tightens his lips, “Alright.”

You chuckle dryly, tilting your head. “Does that bother you?”

Javier shrugs, “No but unlike you I rather not hear about my exes sexual whereabouts” 

Your eyes drop to your lap at that. Tiredness creeping in to protect you from the danger that is speaking to Javier so late in the night. You hated that, “I never thought we’d ever be exes.”

It's silent again, you can almost hear Chucho snoring down the hall. How is it Christmas already, how is he here? How, why the fuck are you in his bed. “I don't typically go into relationships thinking we’re going to be exes.”

“I never thought we’d even be together.” You whisper the confession. Sometimes, she creeps through, who you were ten years ago. Insecure and unsure of everything when the answers are right on display for you. Javier's body is much closer to you this time, sneaking his chin on your shoulder. Lips grazing your jaw. It sobers you up, you bring your hand to the back of his head. Cradling him, while he presses slow kisses to your jaw. Lips just as soft. Your eyes flutter shut, “This is such a bad idea.” 

“Why?” He gravels out. His adams apple rolling against your shoulder. 

“Because we’re going to end up fucking.”

His teeth grazes your neck, “Would that be so bad?” He slows down, nosing your chest, with hands coming to your waist. Like he’s ready to pull you into his lap at any moment. 

You don't want him to stop, the way he’s moving is all that you've craved for years. His shirt thin on your skin, he’s all opened mouth–inching toward your peaked nipples through the shirt. Threatening to mouth away at your breast. His large hands move from your waist, up, up to your breasts. Holding the weight of them, palms covering it all, he inspects it like it's his job. He looks up at you through his brows. Your mouth is open, unable to speak. “Huh Andrea?” He teases. A smirk twitching the edges of his mustache. 

Your mouth dry, you lick your lips and snap out of it. “We can’t kiss.”

He takes it as a go ahead, and it is. He kneads at your chest, palm grazing against your nipples and causing your legs to part. “Can I touch you like this?” It's husky and mocking, the way he’s already done it without asking. It's pathetic the way you’re allowing all of this to happen before you even have a serious conversation about everything that went down. You nod. 

“We can’t kiss–oh.” He lifts the shirt and attaches his wet mouth to your bare breasts. You moan, toes curling. “We can’t fuck.”

“I'm clean.” He mumbles against your breasts.

“Me too-that's not why–Javi…” Your breath catches in your throat when his free hand grabs a handful of your inner thigh. He’s like a starved man, you, a delicious meal out in front of him, prepared for devouring. Your hand comes to cover his. Moving with him while he moves up the inside of your thigh.

“Why not?” The both of you are staring at your hands conjoined, slipping dangerously close to the gusset of your panties. His eyes flick up to you but your mouth is agape and distracted by the closeness of him, about how he smells the same, how everything feels like before. Why is it so easy to fall back into him, why was it so hard to resist. 

Because it’s too much, I’ll tell you I love you again. I’ll never leave. I will never let you leave. His pointer finger grazes then slips in between your panties and your cunt. You were destined to fail your attempt at self preservation. “Just…” You lean back fully and you can feel him heat up beside you. “Just touch me, make me forget.” You whisper. Legs spreading he takes his place, on his knees in the space you’ve made. His hands make no hesitation, he grips at your simple cotton fabric and pulls them off swiftly. He stares, hands on your knees. Eyes hooded and his length hardening before your eyes. Licking his lips, his brows furrow. 

“Que quieres olvidar?” It comes out low, whispered and strained. He knows that this means more than just two horny exes rekindling for a night. He knows this comes with years of pain, and bliss and confusion. Slightly toxic, beautifully romantic. He knows this could never be just two people having casual sex, he ignores it anyway and so do you. 

You shut your eyes for a moment 

“Summer.” 

Is all you can think of. It answers everything. Javier’s jaw tightens, you watch the word take meaning in his brain and he nods. Good thing we have all other seasons, he thinks out loud, beyond a whisper. You know he’s your one and only. He leans forward and flips his green shirt up the slightest. He presses two wet kisses to your belly and whispers words unheard before inching his lips right where he’s needed most. His bottom lip ghosts over your clit and your stomach pits. He cuts through his breath with his hot and heavy tongue flicking you. “Mnm” It’s one touch and you're reduced to whimpers of jumbled letters. His pretty lips kissing and sucking at your bare cunt. 

“Still…” He grunts, before licking again from your pulsing hole up to your clit that's doing just the same. “Still taste so good.” His southern drawl that he loved to hide creeps up in moments like this. Moments when your face is flush and your chin is quivering from pleasure and agony. Your legs are spread wide and you feel your bruised and cut knee sting but your senses are overloaded so the pain is close to non-existence. You squirm and he murmurs, stay fucking still, before swinging your good leg over his shoulder and continue his feast. 

His hot mouth moves to your labia, sucking just to make noise, and back to your cunt that's weeping for him to just put a little bit of him in. But no Andrea-no. You're making such a mess of his face you feel slightly sheepish. His eyes are closed and he’s in his element between your legs. Chin quivering, you want to hold him, he’s reminding you that sex is fucked if its not with him. Your hands fly to the mess of hair on his head. Tugging and moving him, you sit up slightly. Finding him rutting his hips against the bed below him and you feel for him. Your hands slip from the back of his head down to his broad back, taking advantage of the width of him. The hand that found its place holding your thighs in place reaches to your sensitive knot of nerves. 

Thumbing you and your body drops back down on the bed. Desperate to scream and moan his name, your shaky hand grabs a pillow from next to you. You stuff your face, and weep against it. “Javi–I’m going to come– oh god please.”

His moan vibrates against your core and he drives. Sloppy and rushed, he rubs you out while his tongue fucks you. On the silent Christmas night you whimper against a bitten pillow while Javier makes out with your pussy. “You're so close baby– did this pretty little cunt miss me?”

“It did–no one compares–oh!” You shriek but it's muffled. He lets your other leg go and slips two fingers inside of your unexpecting cunt. He’s relentless, finger fucking you knuckle deep while his tongues makes its deft movements against and it was enough. You're gushing all over his hands, he moans at the sight, smiling at the way you writhe and hold the pillow against your made up face. Hips twitching while he coaxes you with kisses on your stomach. “Easy…” He holds your belly with the wet hand, settling your twitching form down. You always come this way when it's him, embarrassing to you when you come down, completely out of control of your body for a few seconds. You toss the pillow, white with black streaks of your mascara. 

He’s kissing you all over, lifting your shirt– his shirt, kissing your hip bone, kissing below your breasts, your neck, your jaw, your cheek, eyelids and the corner of your mouth. 

You lay side by side. Sweating and unsure what happens next. You let the sound of his ceiling fan play out for a moment.

“I thought about you every day.” He speaks and it's gravelly. “Sometimes I’d see something so horrible or embarrassing and think only Andrea would understand– only she would laugh with me.”

Chest rising with a stutter, you're on the verge of a sob. “I pay ten dollars a month for a Colombian newspaper subscription because they have a DEA column.” Suppose it was time to be honest. “Every time I saw a bee I thought of you.”

He chuckles next to you, “C’mere” He whispers and you move immediately. Finding your head on his chest and your arm snaked on his waist. His large palm covers the back of your head. You’re in heaven. Complete bliss. How have you been so strong without him? “I’m not taking time off, I was fired and paid to not expose the DEA.”

You nod against him, not entirely shocked. You never really liked the idea of Javi– Javi, who has so much good to offer- selling his soul to government agencies. It was a selfless thing he did for a selfish system. “I have birds.” You giggle, not having a great follow up. He laughs with you, your cheek vibrating. 

“What in the world are we doing?”

You have no fucking clue. But you think you understand him now, the way he wanted all of you before he left for Colombia. The way he seemed selfish to others to keep you wrapped around his finger when he had a flight booked. 

Now it's you leaving, you’ve got that flight, you’ve got a life elsewhere, yet you can't help but keep him while you can. 

“Being selfish. Or at least I am.” 

“No.” His response is quick and cutting. “You can do whatever you want to me. You can leave tomorrow and I’ll be satisfied that you gave me a chance again.”

Your brows furrow and you don’t like that at all. You hate to hear your own thoughts out of his lips. You don't scold him for being honest. “I leave two days after New Year's Day.” It's so dark in the room, still you look up at him when you say and you see his face unmoved. 

“Stay here… for the week I mean.” He's desperate, holding onto you. You want to kiss him. “Cancel your hotel, bring your things here. You know this is your home.” 

 “Okay.” You nod instead, “I will.”

“Good.” He smiles in the dark, his teeth illuminating the perfection that is his face. He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Good.” He says it to himself.

“Can we keep being honest?”

“Yes. I had a picture you taped to my desk.” 

“Must have scared all of your sexy female co-workers away.” You grin. 

“Sure did, doing your job from countries away.”

“Hm.” You catalog all that he has missed in your head, thinking what to tell him next. “Do you know Whitney Houston?”

“Eh.” 

“Well…the week after we broke up. When Lorraine was staying with you, I listened to ‘Saving All My Love For You’ and cried like every day.”

“Andrea…” He groans teasingly like you’re hurting him. “What was the song about?” 

You burn bright red, “Being the other woman…”

“Oh please.” He grunts, holding you tight against him. You almost forget you're completely bare from the waist down. “No seas tan ridícula” He mutters against your head while kissing you aggressively there. 

“Let's just sleep before I embarrass myself some more please!”

“Mmm good idea. I was close to telling about jerking off in a storage closet because someone smelled like you.”

Your mouth drops wide and you slap his chest, “Javi!” 

“All right I’ll save it for a less… holy day.”

Right, good ol’ JC’s B-day. 

“Fuck… I was making a mess of your bed on our lord's day.”

He shrugs. It’s so easy to just fall back into everything when it’s him. Like four years haven’t passed. 

“Well, consider it a Christmas gift.” 

You chuckle, “Well Merry fucking Christmas.”

 “Maybe I do know how to be your friend in the winter Andrea.”

It's a whisper, like a prayer.

[gayerthanevertbh]

high and dry | s. johansson

navigation | natasha romanoff series masterlist | celebrities masterlist

pairings: older!scarlett johansson x fem!reader

series summary: you and scarlett are in a secret affair, and you think everything was amazing - outstanding even, until you have yourself wondering that you aren’t a normal girl. you ARE an american whore for the actress.

 warnings: heavily detailed smut, secret relationship, age difference (scarlett is 40 while reader is 20), angst, slight toxic!scarlett, dom/sub references, cheating, severe mommy issues, possessiveness & controlling moments, and fucked up reader - MINORS DNI.

trope: secret affair, angst, and manipulative scarlett.

author’s note: the layout design is inspired by @scarlettsandmaroons (FAV HUMAN BY THE WAY), and it’s expected that this series is fucked up like the rest of my series so goodluck reading this story LOL

GOD DAMN IT I HAD TO CHANGE THE FUCKING NAME

chapter one: she knows

chapter two: eyes on you

chapter three: tomorrow never came

MORE TO COME!

[sknnyvanilla]

The Chic Diet by kit olsen

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Diets

The Baby Food Diet

Ohmigod, tell me more, right? Enter: the Baby Food Diet.

You don't have to chew anything since the blender did that for you. Portion control won't be an issue either since all of the stores carry single-servings with really low calorie counts. And, like, I guess that babies need clean and well-rounded food or something because, like, all of the ingredients are things that you've heard before and are actually good for you. It's like a juice fast, but with a little more substance and a little less lawnmower drippings. But, like, waaay more affordable, so you can use all of the money that you save on some flavored Pedialyte, which is really just like a zero-calorie coconut water.

Plus, thanks to all of the crazy and demanding yoga mommies decked out in Lululemon with their obscenely expensive strollers, Whole Foods has really upped their game in the baby food aisle. There's seriously a flavour for whatever type of mood that you might be in so don't even worry about the lack of variety. It's like chic girl heaven. Make sure you get there early though, so you won't have to fight with the colicky toddler in the Missoni Bugaboo over the last "zucchini banana & amaranth."

Ella's Kitchen and Plum Organics are good for your basic blends of fruits and vegetables, but I swear that the marketing team at Earth's Best was targeting chic/orthorexic adults when naming their product lines. "Antioxidant Blends?" "Super Fruits?" "Gourmet Meals and Seasonal Harvest?" Um, yea, okay. Like 6 month olds care about that kind of shit.

So, apparently, Tracy Anderson (bless her heart) suggests that one should consume 14 jars per day. Um, no. It's not like we're headed into famine or something. A couple of jars or pouches should suffice and, even then, you should be watching your carb intake. That means NO all-fruit blends, you fat fuck. Make sure to pick vegetable-heavy varieties, though those can be sugarific also. I mean, even "spinach + apple + rutabagas" has 8 grams of carbs after adjusting for fibre. Ugh. Who knew that babies were such sugar whores? It's just, like, really unfair for all of the other customers who are trying to watch their figures.

Take a good look at Abbey Lee Kershaw and Hedi Slimane. See their jutting cheekbones and bulging eyeballs? Yours can totally be like that too, so long as you're willing to adhere to the uber cutesy diet that these two effortlessly chic Skeletors have been known to follow.

Now, everyone that knows that digestion isn't very glamorous. The act of mastication is, in itself, so very vulgar, and then that nasty bolus of caloric horror settles into your distended stomach, stirring up a whirlwind of has and discomfort as it waits for hours to be broken down. After that harrowing process, a trillion fat globules get sent directly to your upper arms and inner thighs. And then, well, you know... something really un-chic happens in le toilette.

But what if you could bypass all of that unpleasantry and just follow a really adorable diet that consists of only a few hundred calories a day? And, like, your stomach will stay flat since it's not filled with festering kale and noxious fumes.

The Air Diet

Every wannabe Carrie Bradshaw (or Charlotte York if you're really annoying) yearns to achieve maximal chicness with minimal effort. And nobody can do posh like the French, right? Even their diets ooze superior elegance that we ugly Americans could only aspire to attain.

Like, take the Air Diet, or L'Air Fooding as French Grazia dubbed it. God, even the name is so chic, I DIE. So anyway, you basically pretend to eat whatever the hell you want, without actually allowing it touch your lips. Naysayers and physicians will be like, "Ohmigod, that's called anorexia!", but, um, no. Anorexia is what my roommate, Sydney, has, and she won't even go near food without having a twitching episode. This is, like, a lot healthier psychologically.

I mean, I totally get it. Everyone knows that enjoying food is an experience and this diet allows you to immerse yourself in the whole process until the actual eating part. But you still get to order your meal, pay for it, cut it up, smell the aromas, and Instagram pictures of your drool-worthy plate. You just don't absorb all of the calories and fat associated with ingesting the actual food. It's like you're a chic French diet mime who traded eating for the right to talk. Ooh, maybe you can buy a really cute. A.P.C. striped shirt to go with your performance. So authentic.

It's not like you don't eat at all, either. You still get to binge on all of the la soupe a l'eau (translation: chic soup with an uber pretentious name) that you want. Oh, you want to know what's in it> Um, I had the recipe right here. Hold on. Oh, here it is. Boiled water and sea salt. Hm. But sea salt has, like, a lot of minerals in it, right? How nutritious.

So, yea. It seems like the majority of my friends have been on this diet for a really long time. Like even before that issue came out. What trendsetters. I mean, it's a great way for cutting calories, you know? As a bonus, it's not even restrictive! Like, you can help yourself to all of the fancily named soup and air that you want. And, like, a variety of air at that. Just stroll through the perfume section at Barney's or traipse through Le Labo when you're feeling bored with the plain, bourgeoisie oxygen around you. And if you're feeling especially ravenous (um, binge eating disorder, anyone?) you can practice some yoga breathing. It's like dietary meditation. Kay, now Ocean Breath, everyone.

The Paleo Diet

While cavemen might not have been very fashion-forward, they apparently knew how to be skinny motherfuckers. The Museum of Natural History really needs to slim down the mannequins in the exhibit to reflect this don't you think? So inaccurate. Anyway, this hunter-gatherer-centric diet is very simple in that it has one rule- only eat shit that Betty Flinstone would have prepared.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with history, this means that Kettle Chips and peanut butter are no-goes. Anything processed, such as Lean Cuisines, or foods that require relatively modern technology to produce, such as grains, are not allowed. Neither are dairy products, refined sugars, legumes, potatoes, processed oils or alcohol. Yup, even alcohol. No, they did not have "Stone Age" vodka or sugar-free "Bedrock" Red Bull back then. Yes, I am positive.

Anyway, you're basically allowed to have wild seafood, organic eggs, grass-fed game, vegetables, fruits and some nuts. The idea behind this style of eating is that humans, as a species, have not greatly evolved since the era of our cave dwelling ancestors. That is, our digestive systems are largely genetically similar to those of dinosaurs and are still not fully adapted to the vast changes in diet that have occurred since the dawn of the agricultural age. Simply put, we're not that great at digesting the majority of the shit foods that line supermarket shelves today. Yes, even the shelves at Whole Foods.

By following the palaeolithic diet, however, we would be providing our bodies with ideal foods to which our digestive systems are genetically adapted, When we are better able to process and absorb nutrients from these easily digested foods, we would be more capable of achieving optimal health.

But who really cares about primal strength and surly shit like that? Not me or any of my friends, despite the fact that everyone I know has "gone Paleo." What we love about this diet is the amount of control and restriction that it provides the user. You can basically reject most foods so long as you can come up with some inane reason as to why. "I'm only channeling cavewomen who lived in the Northern Hemisphere, and I don't think those were native to that region," you can say with a dismissive sniff as you swat away a platter of seasonal stone fruit. Um, apricots have a lot of carbs, didn't you know?

Plus, the diet itself is just really trendy. It's like the new Dukan Diet, which was originally the new Atkins, which was basically the new Cabbage Soup Diet. You'll probably be consuming the same meals that you normally are, but can now affix the hip label of "Paleo" to your dietary habits. But don't do that shit where you put goat's milk butter in your coffee or inhale bushels of avocados in one sitting- no=carb calories are still calories, after all.

The Ridiculously Low Carb Diet

In the world of the chic, all of the inhabitants are consumed with keeping their carb intakes as close to zero as humanly possible. Throw any generic food product at a chic girl and she can spit back its estimated carbohydrate content in mere seconds. And, as if she were a neurologist treating childhood epilepsy, she knows the ins and outs of the ketogenic diet like the back of her Rodin Crema slathered hand.

Though she may have no idea what mitosis is, or how photosynthesis works, ant legitimate chic girl could pass a PhD-level Nutrition exam with flying colours. "In order to get into a state of ketosis, you need to deplete the glycogen stores in your liver and muscles before even tapping into your fat energy sources. To do that, you have to keep your net carbohydrate intake below 25 grams a day," she will prattle off expertly, though she may not even have the faintest idea what she is actually talking about.

Basically, she knows that the lower your carbohydrate intake, the more fat you will end up burning. Thus, being the borderline-psychotic overachiever that she is, she will set an upper limit of approximately 5 grams of net carbohydrates per day for herself.

Plus, carbs are totes unnecessary. No one has ever looked cute while gorging on a slice of pizza or inhaling a burrito. But nibbling on a piece of asparagus or noshing on a sliver of pecorino is just adorbs. They're like low glycaemic pieces de resistance that compliment your Zac Posen cocktail dress. Bread used to be the official food of peasants, just so you know.

"I only eat foods that are green or white," were the first words that my soon-to be-future roommate, Lauren, ever muttered to me. No mention of her name, age or hometown- nothing. That's how seriously a true chic girl take her carbohydrate consumption- it defines who she is.

"What do you mean?" I had asked innocently like a clueless martian. Mind you, I still wore leggings and thought Greek Yogurt parfaits were healthy at the time. (I know, I know- don't judge me.)

Lauren, bless her heart, had then taken me under her wing, expertly gu8iding me into my current status of perpetual ketosis. We basically subsist on kale, spinach, avocado, egg whites, cheese, white fish and chicken breasts. And what can I say? I'm obsessed. The far just melted off like butter (which is totally allowed, by the way.) Like, I never want to belong to any other metabolic state of mind. It's just so simple, and everyone's doing it. I mean, just saunter into a Fashion Week after party and it'll reek of Chanel Chance and ketones. So chic.

So you can go the high fat route a la Atkins, or limit your fat consumption in the way of Dukan practitioners. Either way, you'll lose the flab and be super taut. But you can never go wrong with the Green and White Diet, the secret weapon of fashionistas in the know. And, while trends may come and go, there is one combination that will always be in style- ketosis breath and look of death. #Chic

The Strategic Starvation Diet

"You just don't eat for, like 18 hours a day," the chic girl will explain when concerned friends inquire about her new stringent diet du jour. "But you totally get to have balanced meals for the other 6! It was on the news. They tested it on mice and they, like, totally lived longer. Ew."

Intermittent fasting is like a godsend for the chic. Apparently, it's actually really healthy and has a bunch of scientific studies published to back it up. Not that the chic girl will ever read them, of course. But if positive results actually exist, then there's actually something to validate her cray.

I mean, what kind of diet condones extended periods of starvation? It's as if this way of eating was made up specifically with the chic bitches in mind. Not to mention that i's supposedly uber effective! Like, in clinical trials, researchers found that overweight participants how utilized intermittent fasting lost way more fat than those who ate the same meals spread throughout the day. I knew that whole "6 mini meals a day" adage was total bullshit!

Of course, the chic girl is just an extreme case of human, so she'll narrow her eating window to 2 hours or so. Some deranged bitches may even aim for 20 minutes! Talk about efficiency.

There's an even wackier version of this method that's been named the "Bulletproof Diet," whatever that means. Basically, you drink black coffee with butter or coconut oil stirred in so that you don't get hungry while in your fasted state. Um, that sounds like a lot of unnecessary calories. And chic girls don't get plagued with hunger- we like to refer to it as "getting of track.: Lile, seriously? Drinking butter> That's not even real fasting. People have no willpower nowadays.

Supporters of this way of eating suggest that people snack on healthy foods during their feeding periods, like bananas and apples. Um, bananas are super starchy. And apples? Did you know that apples don't actually have much nutritional value> The only real benefit that comes form apples is from pectin, which will help to regulate digestion. but since chic girls already consume astronomical amounts of fibre, they won't be receiving many benefits from munching on apples. They can totally get their Vitamin C from elsewhere. Ohmigod, you're learning, like, so much from me. This might as well be a textbook!

I suggest that you nibble on a piece of cheese or some veggies during your allotted eating time. That way, you can totally maximize ketosis and burn as much fat as fucking possible. I mean, Emily Blunt's character in The Devil Wears Prada totally knew what she was doing. She was just way ahead of her time. Like, don't you want to be one stomach fu away from sample size too?

The Raw Food Diet

This one's for the extremists, of which there are many in the upper echelons of the chic. Basically, you stick to a diet of uncooked veggies all day long, with the occasional piece of fruit thrown in. As expected, these bitches are skinny as fuck and look great in just about anything. They also absorb, like, maximal nutrients and have beautiful skin and hair. Plus, they get to lecture and judge others all day long about the importance of enzymes and whatnot. These skinny twigs can also consume bushels of allowed foods and still keep their daily calorie counts in the hundreds. Totes ideal, if you can stomach it, I mean. But have you ever tried raw broccoli or mushrooms? Ew.

If you've lost all sensory input from your taste buds, as can happen when on frightening amount of amphetamines, this is the perfect lifestyle for you. You can be like a super svelte panda bear and nosh on stalks of celery or fistfuls of curly kale all day. You'll lose heaps of weight and will have a spotless digestive tract, I'm sure. Just be proactive about taking, like, 15 Beano with each meal. Gas isn't cute, even if it's being caused by adorable produce like grape tomatoes and baby carrots.

Some people will get all technical and allow themselves to have sashimi, but staunch raw foodists will shake their heads at this practice. I don't see what's wrong with it, especially since sushi is, like, so yum. Anyway, soaked nuts and sprouted seeds are allowed, but make sure to watch how much you eat. They're still packed with calories and, this, aren't totally conducive to rapid fat obliteration.

People on the raw food diet love to chirp about mental clarity and feelings of euphoria, but I think that they're just really happy because they can slip into Gareth Pugh leather leggings without putting up a struggle. I highly doubt that weeping into bowls of raw radicchio and consuming bland vegetables dressed in the salt of my tears would make me feel vibrant and more alive. I mean, I would be completely ecstatic about sticking to a strict diet of copper pennies and shards of glass if it, too, left me with a 3-inch thigh cap. But to each her own, I suppose.

It's also well known that a lot of working models are technically raw foodies since they basically just consume cauliflower smoothies and piles of wilted spinach. No wonder they always look so sad. But have you seen their hip bones? Um, yea.

So I totally just ordered a raw organic vegan Kale Dulse Salad and a cold-pressed coffee from Seamless. They better fucking hurry before all the nutrients break down. Ooh, do you think calories can break down over time too? Let's hope so. Enzymes, here I come!

The One Food Diet

Basically, anyone who lacks even a smidgen of self-control should consider this dietary tactic. It allows no leeway for excuses or exceptions so long as you follow just one simple rule: consume only one type of food.

When you define vague dietary rules, such as allowing low-carb or liquid items, you'll find that the hungry fatass within will convince herself that certain foods fit the guidelines. I mean, butterscotch pot de creme is technically liquid, right? And an entire stick of butter covered in guacamole is totes low-carb. Inhaling, like, three bowls of blood orange sorbet doesn't constitute cheating on a raw food diet, either...

Stop. Just stop. You obvi have issues with following rules, oh voracious one. Technicalities are just fancy excuses for the dietarily inept, and one shouldn't be allowed to make risky, body composition-altering decisions when starving and delirious. So do as the OCD-inflicted waifs do and pick one food with which to thoroughly familiarize yourself to the point of disgust for the next two weeks.

You won't have to waste time obsessing over meal planning or calculating nutritional contents. It's basically like putting your diet on auto-pilot ass you graze on your one allowed food in a fat-shedding haze. Honestly, yo can pick whatever you want, since you'll likely get sick of it as time goes on. Like, did you know that Uma Thurman once went on an ice cream diet? She lost 25 pounds over a six-week period. On ice cream. ON ICE CREAM.

Now, I don't suggest that you pick the congealed, sweetened mucus of dairy cows as your food of choice, as that' s just, like, not really a good starting point. Pick something like tomatoes, or green apples, or avocados, Bananas and grapes work also, but do keep in mind that they are quite high in sugar. My personal choices are either eggs or grapefruit with Splenda. Whatever you choose, make sure to stick with it. That's all there is to it.

Some proponents believe that partaking in the consumption of only one type of food allows your body to become more efficient at digesting and metabolizing it, but I'm not sure. I mean, I guess it makes sense. But who really gives a fuck about all of that health-boosting mumbo jumbo? The real reason that this diet is so attractive and effective is because it helps to teach you a lesson in discipline and restraint. By sticking to this diet for just a short while, you'll see that you're more than capable of controlling yourself when it comes to impulsive food-related decisions.

It's like dietary therapy, but without having to visit an overpriced psychiatrist who just nods along and asks you obvious questions about how you feel about that time you ate a lobster roll. Um, I feel like shit, okay? You didn't need to remind me. That's why I'm allowing myself zucchini slices for the next month, duh.

The Two Cup Diet

Did you know that your stomach is only the size of your fist? So why are you stuffing it until you can't breathe? Um, I don't care if you're a firm believer in Volumetrics- that method only works if you're feasting on organic iceberg lettuce and sparkling water.

Now, getting a bariatric surgery done costs roughly $30,000. Trust me, I went to go get an estimate. The doctor was actually really rude and scoffed at me during the consultation, which I really took offense to. He was all, "Um, you know that this is for, like, clinically obese people, right?" So I was like, "Er, yea. It's called preventative medicine, natch." And then he, like, totally rolled his eyes at me and said in a condescending tone, "You obvi don't qualify for the procedure, especially since your BMI totes falls into the underweight category. Sorrz." I'm not an expert in medical law or anything, but I think that's called discrimination. Horrible bedside manner, not to mention illegal, no? I really need to call my dad's attorney about this.

Anyway, my friend, Melissa, found a totally cheap alternative to getting your stomach stapled until it's the size of a walnut. She learned it from a group of 14 year old Latvian models that she shared a room with during Milan Fashion Week. You basically take two tiny Dixie cups and fill them with whatever food you might please, though preferably of the low-calorie, low-carb and low-fat variety. Then you can enjoy your mini feast without worrying about portion control. It takes the stomach roughly four hours to empty, so you can set an alarm on your iPhone for four hour intervals to remind you of when you're allowed to have another two cups. Um, genius, right? And who said that teenaged models needed to stay in school to have good heads on their shoulders?

Don't abuse this system by using the red plastic cups of beer pong infamy, though. You're not an obese retired frat boy living it up in Murray Hill. By Dixie cups, I'm referring to the uber cutesy 3 oz. waxed paper ones that are meant for gargling in the bathroom. If you want to take it to the next level, you can also use tiny utensils, like oyster forks, to slow down your consumption and increase satiety. There w as this one girl that I interned with who carried around a tiny Tiffany & Co. silver baby spoon with her everywhere. Totally crazy, yet totally chic. Did I mention that she weighed, like, 85 pounds?

So who cares if you look like an unhinged betch for scarfing down tiny bites of wild mushroom fricassee from a mouthwash-delivery vessel using a toddler's fork? You'll be laughing all the way past the antiseptic-scented waiting room of a really rude weight loss surgeon's shabbily decorated Upper East Side clinic while your critics slowly begin to qualify for Lap-band installation. Um, who said that preventative medicine had to cost a year's worth of college tu8ition? People with no self-control, obvi.

The HCG Diet

Only a batshit cray person would willingly stab herself repeatedly while wincing and bellowing in pain, right? Um, yes, but that mentally unstable waif wielding the 25 gauge needle sure is tiny. Enter the HCG Diet, a regimen in which one is required to inject oneself with a variety of vitamins and hormones while subsisting on a maximum of 500 calories per day. HCG, or Human Chorionic Gonadotrophin, is basically a hormone produced by pregnant women soo after conception for... I don't know. The guy who came up with the idea to implement it in a weight loss regimen said that it suppresses your appetite and helps with fat loss, or whatever. Anyway its use as a weight loss agent is, like, really frowned upon by the FDA, which everyone knows must mean that it totally works. Like, remember ephedra? And phentermine? Uh, yea.

It's really easy. You basically follow an ultra low-calorie, low-carbohydrate, low fat, high-protein diet (uh, don't we regardless?) and give yourself daily injections of Vitamin B-12 and HCG in your hips and thighs, respectively. A physician or medical professional has to hand then over, so expect to pay a pretty penny (or 60 thousand) for a three-week program. If you're feeling super ambitious, you can also drag the whole thing our for six weeks!

Everyone will be like, "Er, of course you're losing weight. You're only eating 500 calories each day!" Ohmigod, really? Thanks for the news flash. I totally didn't know that. Um, of course anyone will lose weight on a 500-calorie diet, you observant twats. But who (other than an anorexic ballerina) actually has the discipline to stick to those numbers? Uh, a really chic girl who just blew one week's pay on dietary heroin, that's who.

So even if HCG isn't actually clinically proven to assist with fat loss or appetite suppression, who really cares? Even if you had spent hundreds of dollars on sterile syringes filled with Flinstones vitamins diluted in Diet Sprite, you would still have an obligation to stick to the accompanying regimen. I';s called financial responsibility, people!

But, oh Chic One, how come we can't just use the homeopathic drops that they sell on Amazon? I don't want to hurt myself, you say. I really don't like needles, you cry out. Um, in case you haven't been paying attention, there's a concept called "No Pain, A Lotta Gain." And it's just, like, totes legit? I mean, just because you rub to botulism toxin all over your skin doesn't mean that you're going to do skit about your crow's feet or laugh lines. You're just going to have a really dirty face. But inject some Botox all up in those crevices? Um, hello Bruce Jenner!

Besides, didn't you know that "homeopathic" is just Latin for "faker than a Canal Street Kurakami Multicolore Monogram Speedy 25?" Ew.

The Cabbage Soup Diet

"I lost, like, 10 pounds in 3 days," the chic girl will announce with widened eyes to all of her entranced comrades. "I didn't even know that I had that much to lose!"

Going on the cabbage soup diet is akin to complaining about having to fly home for the holidays or binge drinking over Memorial Day Weekend- it's just ingrained in American culture. Eating disordered betches of yore have passed this timeless diet on from generation to generation and, as unglamorous as it may be, it still prevails as a magic bullet of sorts to this day. So when you need to get skinny stat, show a little patriotic spirit and boil up a giant vat of cabbage and under-seasoned water. Your tummy won't thank you, but your thigh gap sure will.

You can binge if you'd like, but I'm sure you won't want to. The soup isn't particularly enthralling to the taste buds, but the parboiled vegetables will help to satisfy the vacuous pit that is your empty stomach. And, even if you stuff yourself senseless with the tasteless broth, you'll still probably only consume a couple of hundred calories a day. Just don't try to stand up too quickly, or you might just faint from chic overload!

Some variations of the diet allow other foods, such as bananas and meat, but you really shouldn't stray from tradition. Like, what would your ancestors say? They would likely shake their pin curls in disappointment.

The basic recipe calls for cabbage (duh), celery, mushrooms, tomatoes, peppers, onions, carrots, pre-made bullion cubes and your seasonings of choice. Sounds super yum, right? Um, this is when you're supposed to nod and be like, "Ohmigod, delish."

Anyway, I wouldn't bother adding onions or carrots since they're uber starchy. I just don't want you to get kicked out of ketosis, you know? Come to think of it, throw those tomatoes out too. That bouillon just seems totes unnecessary also. Okay, so our soup will basically consist of mineral water and cabbage, I suppose. But now we're, like, totally doing the One Food Diet, too. And Paleo! And, like, this is uber vegan-friendly. Gawd, talk about multi-tasking.

The "I can't see it!" Diet

If you're a fixture on the fashion industry's party circuit, you are well aware of the au courant set's penchant for microscopic portions of distinguishingly decadent food, I mean, what exactly is the purpose of serving miniature cupcakes? Is this a test? Like, what's with the tiny sandwiches and cheeseburgers? Is the bread just there to keep your fingers clean? And someone please explain to me the obsession with canapes and fried puffs. All I see are fat and carbs sharing real estate on a tray smothered in grease and shame. It's actually really confusing yet insulting yet intriguing yet tempting yet cute yet revolting, all at the same time.

Am I supposed to eat it? I think I am. I mean, these kind caterers have already done all of the hard work and cut everything into tiny, guilt-free smidgens. And how terrible could everything be when the portion sizes are so adorable? That grilled truffle oil-infused gruyere sandwich can't be so bad for me, right? It's only, like, half the size of my Amex card. And that microscopic scone? It's the size of a quarter! Having one doesn't make me irresponsible.

Wait a minute. Ohmigod, are people watching? Do I look poor and desperate? How come no one else is eating? Should I not be eating either? I think I just saw that blogger pop a tiny piece of fried macaroni and cheese into his mouth. Or did he? I repeat, is this a test?

There is a reason that all of the offering at such glamorous parties are bite-sized enigmas of congealed cheese and bacon grease. They're your cheat treats! Enjoying a few tiny morsels of forbidden food is totes acceptable, so long as you don't carry around a plate laden with them. As a reward for all of the other 364 days a year that you deny yourself of such scrumptious evils, you are allowed this one window of glorious opportunity to indulge in two or, daresay, three pieces of wanton abandon.

Oh, but the fashion crowd is a clever one. While each itty-bitty hors d'ouevre might seem relatively innocuous, it is still a miniature recreation of something that you would never be caught dead eating in front of Anna Wintour. Thus, you must wolf it down as surreptitiously as possible while still keeping your composure. And in that is where the genius lies.

After committing such a deplorable act as inhaling a mini brownie in three seconds flat while crouched down behind a crowd of fashion photographers, you are overcome with remorse and shame. What has come of you? Have you no self-control? It wasn't even worth it! That's it- no more food for the rest of the night! Then you will ration out a mini green juice for the rest of the evening in hopes that it will at least help to dilute your transgressions.

Do you see what just happened? You got your junk food fix, yet your calorie count for the day will be kept low by the guilt that overwhelms you. If you're lucky, the remorse will spill over into the next day. Maybe even the rest pf the week! D you know what just happened? It's called psychology.

The I'm-fucking-rich-and-glamourous Diet

For the impossibly chic girl, it's raining oysters, sashimi and tartare every night, with a guarantee of accompanying champagne showers. She loves to order seafood towers for the table and is obsessed with rhubarb mignonette. "I'm basically on a raw food diet, as you know," she will explain to her friends as she persuades them into doing a $300 caviar tasting. "Just a really fancy one."

Or is black & blue filet mignon considered raw? Whatever. The chic girl loves her steak, especially if it's of the Kobe Wagyu variety. She'll do lobster or butterfish or even sea bream, but forgoes salmon because it's "so 2011." "I only do lox when I have Eggs Norwegian at Balthazar," she will say with a sniff as she pursues limited menus with disdain. "And I'm talking about Paris Balthazar, not the one on Spring."

She is like a culinary hipster in the sense that she basically shuns anything that wouldn't be available to the general public at Food Emporium. Um, farro risotto? With fucking kale? You better back away slowly before she scratches your face in frustration. How dare you offer her that. She doesn't do proletarian foods; didn't you know?

Basically, she will turn up her perfectly rhinoplasty job at the foods of mere mortals, rolling her eyes if someone suggests going out for pizza and snarling in disgust at the mention of gourmet burgers. "I tried a cheeseburger for the first time whilst on holiday in London last year," she will say as she lets out a harrowing sigh. "It was the worst experience of my entire life."

"Cava is not champagne!" she will vehemently cry out, snatching the menu away from the basic bitch who had the audacity to suggest it in her presence. "And oysters from New Jersey? Get the fuck out of my face."

This emaciated diva loves herself a good tasting menu, even if it consists of, like, 18 courses. But haven't you noticed how all of the nicer restaurants, like Per Se and Daniel, are basically just never-ending parades of microscopic low-carb morsels? Obvi the people in the kitchen get the picture! And as for dessert, this lavish betch never partakes- she's just so full, you know?

So be it foie grais brulee, organic rabbit rillettes or diver scallop carpaccio, this extravagant girl knows how to execute the zero-carb diet in style. And while other chic ladies around town may have to sacrifice pricey food in favour of fashion, this is never an issue for this rich bitch (or, perhaps, her sugar daddy). For the girl on the FRaG Diet, compromise is never an option.

[pub-lius]

Hyper niche question for my autism warrior: What was the perception of aide-de-camps during the AmRev like? I assume it would be viewed as a softer position - though of course, the extent would vary depending who your CO was - but many did see action and a few were reassigned so they could fight

Hey y’all… how y’all doing… i know its been yet another period of many moons since ive posted or answered (i hope this information is still relevant btw), but ive had a lot going on with getting a job, finding colleges, my mommy issues, travel, etc. anyway, im back, and im here to tell you about my main men

It actually was not viewed as a softer position at all! The station of aide-de-camp was highly desirable for several reasons, which i will describe approximately right now

1) people had to compliment you a LOT to get in

Most of the results I got from my research on this ask were letters of recommendation for potential aides-de-camp. Letters of recommendation were high honors for any station, especially for that of a military capacity. According to my favorite source on the American Revolution (which you should know by now), George Washington’s Indispensable Men by Arthur S. Lefkowitz, it was practically impossible to get a job as an aide-de-camp if you did not have a widely positive reputation or a letter of recommendation from someone reputable (or both if you wanted to clerk for the Commander-in-Chief).

I found one letter of recommendation from j*hn ad*ms that i think serves as a very good example of the sort of statements that could land you a seat at a Continental officer’s writing desk:

“There is another Gentleman of liberal Education and real Genius, as well as great Activity, who I find is a Major in the Army; his Name is Jonathan Williams Austin. I mention him, sir, not for the Sake of recommending him to any particular Favour, as to give the General an opportunity of observing a youth of great abilities, and of reclaiming him from certain Follies, which have hitherto, in other Departments of Life obscurd him.”

-John Adams to George Washington, June 19-20, 1775, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (Founders Online, Washington Papers)

Those are my italics btw. These compliments are carefully chosen to suit the honor culture that was so pervasive throughout the 18th century and first half of the 19th century. A liberal education at the time was very hard to come by, and would be of great importance in a clerical position. Great activity also helps, because you dont want some lazy ass writing to Congress under your name, or god forbid George Washington himself, you might get hung (not really). The mention of youth is also intentional, since young men have always been preyed upon by the military. I think it’s especially noteworthy the final phrase of “reclaiming him from certain Follies”, which indicates that he might have previously had a negative reputation- whether it was warranted or not, im not sure.

2) the pay was fucking fire

For this we’re going to be utilizing my super amazing math scores that im renown for throughout the math community (yall dont know about my math tumblr), and we’re going to be using Alexander Hamilton as our lab rat, as per usual.

Alexander Hamilton joined Washington’s staff in early 1777 where a regular aide-de-camp (not a military secretary) made $33 dollars a month, which averages to about $1.10 a day. Meanwhile, according to the University of Missouri, the highest paid laborer in Massachusetts in the same year made $0.50 a day, which is about $15 a month, others making as little as about $0.22 a day, so around $7 a month. If you’re looking for ratios, by the end of the war, a pound of raisins was around $0.30. So, the highest paid Massachusetts laborer could save up every paycheck from 1777 to 1782 and buy 324 pounds of raisins, and Alexander fucking Hamilton could waltz up next to him and buy 712.8 pounds of raisins and rub it in his sad, poor face. And he wouldn’t even share because he was a congressman by that time and congressmen HATE THE POOR.

Disclaimer: Hamilton’s numbers dont include the time he quit the office bc I didn’t feel like googling how long he was away for and also i dont care. And yeah he probably would share his raisins with the guy, Hamilton was pretty nice, but i dont think he’d buy 712.8 pounds of raisins in Massachusetts anyway. Or maybe he would, I dont fucking know, stop asking me questions

3) it gave you a lot of street cred

There are many instances of aides-de-camps rising to higher status after their service, but i dont give a fuck about those nerds going into politics and law and stuff.

Most people now only know about Washington’s aides (or if you’re really autistic you know Lafayette’s too), but at the time, being an ADC to any general would get you fairly well known in society. General Sullivan’s aides seem to have been pretty well known and admired, as they are frequently mentioned in John Adams’ correspondence with other congressmen, as well as that of Benjamin Franklin with French diplomats all the way across the Atlantic.

But I imagine you’re also wondering (or at least i am) about what the everyday enlisted man thought of the ADCs, and that answer doesn’t really change. Of course, the men sitting out in the rain and mud without food for the past week are going to be envious of the guys who get to sleep in a house, but their quarters weren’t the most comfortable either. Aides-de-camp were probably the most connected out of the disconnected officers, if that makes sense. They weren’t fraternizing with the enlisted, but they were seen by them more frequently than the generals, and they were the ones advocating for the needs of the enlisted men. Even if they didn’t have any battle experience whatsoever (which really was never the case, i cant think of an aide who WOULDNT have seen battle), they would still be respected by the men as hardworkers and the only people who might actually get them food and clothes.

Thank you for the ask! I really enjoyed researching it and my family had a great time joking about me hunched over my ipad reading through the national archives while we all watched jeopardy, misspelling like every other word because its hard to type on an ipad. Im going to try to be more active, so please feel free to send further questions! I forgot how cathartic research is for me so id be very happy to do more. I have one more ask in my inbox i’ll try to get done sometime in the next few days. Love yall!