#spent 11 hours in the city i went to

[sprinklethetangerine]

I'm gonna make..

Doughnuts

And I...

Kinda don't fucking want to

(Pretend there are sparkles there)

[sturniqlo]

Pretty Girl- M.S

summary: where matt slides into singer!y/ns dms not knowing she would respond back, and it leads into something more.

cw: cursing, FLUFF; sweet messages, first meeting, honeymoon stage, kissing, ANGST(very little); second thoughts on relationship(?), past relationship issues, insecurity of not being good enough, social media hate

an: i just love fics where reader is a famous singer :) | very fast paced timeline | as usual, not proofread

masterlist | join my taglist

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"said you're not in my time zone, but you wanna be."- bed chem, s.c

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matthew.sturniolo 12:47am

hi, you're like really pretty :)

Matt exits out of the dm and scrolls on tiktok for the remainder of the night. He shuts off his phone completely forgetting about the message he had sent to Y/n. There was no way she would respond. Y/n was a famous singer with millions of more followers than him. He had been following her for sometime now, as he had discovered a song- many songs- he really likes from her. Matt also saw his big of a fan Nick was, which introduced him to his favorite songs.

Y/n was currently in New York finding some inspiration from her upcoming album. Usually she resides in LA but she loves being in New York while she writes. It's more homey to her, it was fall after all, her favorite season, the leaves were turning orange and falling off of their branches, landing on sidewalks all over the city, the weather was chillier, she loved it. Back in LA it was many degrees hotter, she couldn't wear her cute cardigans without sweating.

The next morning, Matt woke up to a loud commotion coming from the kitchen which was very close to his room. Groggily he came out of his room and saw his brothers arguing. "I hid the last bagel for a reason because I was going to fucking eat it this morning." Nick angrily crumples up the empty bag the bagel was in. "How was I supposed to know?" Chris argues back, taking a bite of the bagel.

"Do you guys mind? I was sleeping peacefully and I got woken up to you two arguing over a fucking bagel." Matt scoffs. He goes back into his room and shuts the door. He rolls his eyes and walks over to his bed where his phone is laying. As it turns on, he sees a instagram notification. Unlocking it with his face id, he sees Y/n replied to his message. "Holy-" He cuts himself off.

y/n/y/l/n 2:47pm

thank you! you're cute yourself ;)

sorry for the late response it was 3 am when you dmed me haha!

Matt stared at the message opened message with his mouth slightly open. you're cute yourself? He was about to faint. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard thinking about what he was going to say next.

matthew.sturniolo 11:49am

holy shit you actually responded... also thank you :))

sounds like you're three hours ahead of me??

y/n/y/l/n 2:50pm

hahaha

i believe so. i'm currently in new york, i'm assuming you're in the west coast? la possibly?

She responded quickly and Matt's heartbeat only got quicker.

Y/n had spent her morning bright and early. She woke up at around seven am and did her morning which consisted of her morning shower, skincare routine. She ate a bowl of strawberries and blueberries while she answered some emails. About an hour after sending emails and responding to important messages she went out for breakfast.

At her favorite cafe, she ordered her usual bagel and iced coffee and sat down by the window. She ate her breakfast and stared out the window watching people walk by going about their morning. A few fans spotted her as she was leaving so she took some pictures with them. "Excuse me, Y/n?" A soft shy voice said as she exited the bagel shop. She looked back and saw two teenage girls nervously smiling.

"Hey, guys!" She gasped, letting her wired headphones hang. "Hi, we- we uh. Sorry I'm so nervous." Y/n smiled. "Don't be nervous. I promise you it's okay." She giggled and walked closed to them. "Okay, thank you." The one girl sighed in relief. The three of them made a ten minute long conversation. "We're so sorry for taking your time!" One of them gasps realizing how long they've been talking for. "Don't worry about it, it's okay."

Y/n returned to her apartment at around twelve and cleaned up a bit. She'd been in New York for about two weeks now. She took a quick shower and chilled on her phone for a bit. Here and there she liked to go through her instagram dms and respond to some fans. As she was scrolling through, she saw that Matt has dmed her. Y/n has known about the triplets for sometime now, she has watched a couple of their youtube video. And to be honest, Matt had caught her eye those couple of times.

She blushed, she opened the dm and read the message fully. It was sent about eleven hours ago. She responded anyways and she was bold enough to send a second message. Exiting out quickly and scrolled and responded back to some fans who just wanted to say hi or wanted some advice.

Two minutes later, a notification from Matt appeared at the top of her screen. She smiled and opened it right away responding quickly, Matt responded seconds later.

matthew.sturniolo

i am

also, new york? i bet it's beautiful out there now that it's fall time

y/n/y/l/n

it's really is! have you ever been out here?

matthew.sturniolo

yeah, a couple of times actually!

are you there permanently?

y/n/y/l/n

nope, just here to get some writing done :))

matthew.sturniolo

new music im assuming?

y/n/y/l/n

can't say tooo much but yess

Over the few weeks, the two messaged each other everyday and eventually exchanged numbers. As much as Matt wanted to tell his brothers. He wanted to keep his 'relationship' with her hidden for a while and be in this little bubble. Matt really enjoyed messaging her and talking with her on the phone that he asked her if she would be up to the idea of talking romantically and see where it would lead them to. Obviously she said yes.

Y/n had never felt like this, Matt was amazing to say the least and she hasn't even met him. Every morning when she would wake up, a good morning message from Matt would be waiting for her. He'd send her little messages throughout the day when he wasn't filming and he calls her when he knows she's about to go to bed. Yeah, she's had her boyfriends here and there but they were nothing like Matt.

Her past relationships were so public from the beginning to the end they almost felt forced. Anytime they would go out there was always a new article and new pictures about it. There were rumors, allegations, and opinions. And she never dated the best people.

matt

hi pretty girl :)

y/n

hi pretty boyyy

matt

are you busy?

y/n

for you? neverrr

matt

okay, i'm calling you now!

Before Y/n could even type out a response her phone rang in her hands with Matt's contact filling her screen. She immediately answered. "Hi Matt." She put him on speaker. "Hi, pretty lady. How's the writing going?" He asks her. "It's.. going. I can't really think of anything right now, so I'm taking a break." Y/n brings her knees up to her chest and scoots her writing book away from her.

"Anyways, what have you been up to?" She says, pressing the facetime button. He answers it right away. "Nothing much, me and my brothers just finished filming a video." He brings his face into view. "Sounds fun, what'd you guys film?" She smiles. "Just a car video talking about random things."

They talked more for some time until someone interrupted Matt's rant by barging into his room. "And then- do you not know how to knock?" He scolded whoever came in. "Who are you talking to?" She heard Nicks voice. "Don't worry about it, what do you want." Matt huffs. Y/n noticed how he tilts his phone away from Nicks view. "Can you take me to-" Matt cuts him off.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll take you. Shoo now." He motions his hand for Nick to leave so he can keep talking to Y/n. A small giggle leaves Y/n and Matt looks at her through the phone and she gasps. Nick must've heard her because he also gasps. "Matt! Are you talking to a girl?" His phone is suddenly snatched from his grip.

Nick looks at the screen and Y/n is with wide eyes and a slight open mouth due to her being shocked of what's happening. Y/n knew that Matt wanted to keep this to himself, as well as her. "Oh.. my god." Nick said and quickly gave the phone back to Matt when he saw who it was. Y/n heard Matt's door close and started laughing, so did Matt. "Holy fuck."

"I'm going to let you go, I need to deal with Nick. I'll call you later." He smiled and waved at her. "Okay, let me know how it goes." She waved back.

"Nick?" Matt walks out of his room. "You, as in Matthew Sturniolo, my triplet brother, are talking to the Y/n. As in the famous singer. Fucking Grammy award winning Y/n!" Nick yelled with his eyes wide open. Y/n was probably- no, is- Nicks favorite artist. He couldn't belive it. "Yes, Nick. Is that so hard to believe?" Matt giggles. "Motherfucker yes! How did you of all people bag her?!" "I'm offended?" Matt furrowed his eyebrows.

Matt goes to tell Nick how everything had happened. "Oh my god, I can't believe this!" Nick yelled into his hands. "What's going on?" Chris comes up his set of stairs. "You'll never believe it!" Nick says. Matt- actually Nick- catches Chris up with everything he missed. "Matt, I've never realized how much game you have."

After everyone - Nick- calmed down, they decided to sit and watch a show.

y/n

i'm assuming everything went well?

matt

yes, nick had a moment of starstruckness i guess, but it went well in general

y/n

omgg, he is so me

will he be okay with me following him?"

matt

pls do, i would kill to see his reaction

y/n

okok

Y/n giggled as she went to her instagram and searched up Nicks username and followed him. Across the country, Matt was secretly recording Nick who was unintentionally scrolling on instagram. "No fucking way! She- she just followed me." Nick flipped his phone to Matt. "She just followed me too!" Chris jumped up from his spot on the couch.

matt

*video attachment*

chris was a plus

y/n

hahaha

one month later

"Alright, we have this shirt with these jeans or," Y/n holds up a potential outfit and shows Matt over facetime. "Ok, I like that one." He nods. "There's also this dress." She holds up the material. "That's the one. I like that one." Matt points and she giggles. "Okay." She leaves the frame and comes back in once she's changed into her outfit.

"It's four over in LA right? I still get a bit confused over timezones." She says as she applies her eyeliner. "Yeah, and it's seven for you, correct?" Matt watches intently as she does he makeup. "Mhm, I have to leave in like forty minutes." Tonight she was going to an album release party for her friend, Conan.

"I would love to be in your timezone. Makes it easier to talk to you." Y/n smiles at an idea that popped up in her head. "Would you -I don't know- maybe want to fly out here? I- you don't have to, but it's just an idea." She rambles a bit. "I'd love to actually. But, I'd have to talk to my brothers first, not that I need their approval or anything, just I'm not sure if they'd want to come." He says.

"You could bring them too. It'd be fun either way." She says. As much as Matt loves traveling with his brothers, he'd appreciate it if this trip was just about the two of them. It's be their first meeting after all. "I hope this plans out well, I really want to meet you, officially."

"I'm tryin' to go to New York." Matt blurts out randomly. He had finished his call with Y/n about two hours ago and all he thought about was possibly getting to meet Y/n and spend sometime with her. "Matt flying across the country for a girl? Who would've thought." Chris says. "Shut up." Matt rolls his eyes. "Do you guys want to go? Or?" He says.

Both Nick and Chris looks at each other and shake their head. As much as Nick wanted to go and possibly meet Y/n, he wanted Matt to have his moment. "Nah, we'll let you enjoy your time with her." Nick says and Matt dramatically sighs in relief. "Thank god! I didn't want to take you guys anyways." Nick gasped. "You know what, i'm second thought." Matt shook his head. "Nope, you made up your mind."

matt

guess who's going to new york :D

y/n

no wayy?!? i'm so excited!!!

liked by sabrinacarpenter, clairo, matthew.sturniolo, jennaortega, nicolassturniolo and 825,733 others

y/n/y/l/n: i am new york, new york is me

view all 9,372 comments

jennaortega: y/n in new york>>>

| y/n/y/l/n: you get it 🙂‍↕️

y/nfan57: it's y/n's season

y/nfan19: matt liked...

| loser4: okay? so did nick?

sadiesink_: you're so cool

matthew.sturniolo: you

| y/n/y/l/n: me

two weeks later

"I'm by the taxi pickup." Y/n said on the phone to Matt who was somewhere inside the airport. "Is there a sign or something?" Matt was having a hard time looking for the right place. "Uhm... oh yeah, there's a bright green sign that says taxi only. It's pretty big so you can't really miss it." She let out a breathy laugh. "I see it, and I see you." Y/n turned, but still couldn't see him. "Other way, pretty girl." She turned the opposite way and saw him.

"Matt!" She squealed, and ran to him as he dragged his suitcase behind with a huge smile on his face. "Y/n!" He let go of his suitcase and she jumped in his arms. "Oh my god! I can't believe you're actually here!" She whispered into his neck. "I can't believe it either." He says and she pulls away from his neck at looks at him. "You're even prettier in person." She blushes. "Stop it! I could say the same thing about you." She places her feet back on the ground. "How was your flight?" She asks. "It was good, except for the guy snoring next to me."

They arrived at Matt's hotel, and he settled in before going out for lunch together. "Okay, my favorite spot to get lunch is here." She says and Matt opens the door for her. "Thank you, Matt." Matt smiles. For the three- almost four hours they've been together, it all felt natural, as if they've known each other for years.

"What do you usually get?" He puts his arm around her shoulders and she smiles at the action. "I usually get the chicken wrap and a mango lemonade." She looks up at him. "I'll get the same." He nods and kisses her forehead. See, natural.

"What do you think?" Y/n covers her mouth as she speaks through a mouthful of her wrap. "It's very good, you weren't lying." Matt says as he goes in for another bite.

For the rest of the day, they walked around the city hand in hand, Matt pointing out at certain billboards in time square.

Later that night, they returned to Matt's hotel where Y/n said goodnight and went home. But, not without a kiss. A first kiss. "I hope you had fun today." She says as she walks towards the door. "Trust me I did. Thank you for today." He says, following behind her. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow, Matt." Y/n smiles. "For sure." He unhesitatingly grabs her jaw and plants his lips on hers with a gentle kiss.

The room was soon filled with the soft smacking sounds of their lips intertwining with each others. Soon enough her arms ended up wrapped around his neck, with her back against the door and Matt's arms holding her hips. A couple of moments later, they both pulled back gasping for air. "Wow, I- mmph!" Matt was cut off by Y/n putting her lips back on his.

"Okay, I should- I should go now." Y/n pulls away and giggles. Both of them out of breath and their lips red and swollen. "Okay, I'll see you tomorrow."

The next day, the two of them went out for breakfast and were especially giddy the whole day, sharing kisses, holding hands and small touches. "So, this one is- Matt?" Y/n stops herself. "Yeah, yup. Mhm." He says. "You weren't paying attention were you?" He breaks out in a laugh and shakes his head. "Sorry, but you're just really fucking pretty." Her cheeks redden up by the compliment.

"Matt!" He grabs her chin and kisses her. "Okay, I'll listen this time, for real."

It was now eight pm and Matt's hand was wrapped around her shoulders as usual. As they walked in a comfortable silence, Y/n heard a series of whispers behind them. Her first reaction was to look back, and as she did she saw a flash of a phone.

"Oh my god." Y/n mutters under her breath. "C'mon Matt, let's go." She grabs onto his arm and leads him to the opposite way of the stranger. Matt had noticed the person taking the picture as he also turned his head a little bit after Y/n did and saw how her mood had changed.

"Hey, you okay? You've been pretty quiet." Y/n stands in front of Matt once they've entered her apartment, moving bits of his hair that covers his eyes. "Mhm." He hums. "Matt, you can talk to me. Is it what happened with the person who took the picture?" Matt looked away from her. She had gotten it right. "Matt," She sighs, pouting slightly. "I- are you having second thoughts about this? I just- I don't know." He says. "Hey, no, of course not! It's just- I really like this little bubble we're in right now, with no unwanted opinions." She pauses before continuing on.

"And I know I shouldn't care about what people say about us or anything, but it gets to me sometimes. With my past relationships I feel like the media got involved so much that it ruined them, and- and I don't want that to happen with us. I really like you" She interlocks their hands together. "I really like you too." He gives her a soft smile before pulling her in for a kiss. "Are you okay now? Did I clear something's up." He nods. "Yes, thank you for letting me know. I really appreciate it."

Y/n was right, the internet does have a lot of opinions. After Matt had left Y/n's apartment, even though she had told him to stay, Matt did it nightly call to his brothers before going to bed. When he had woken up in the morning, he went on social media and saw tiktok about the picture and another picture that they didn't know of and and there were many negative comments about his and Y/n's relationship. Specifically about him.

y/nsoulmate: broo... how is she going to go from dating a famous singer/actor to a youtuber💀

soulmatey/n: she should get someone better

ilivefory/n: dare i say it, but she downgraded

slutniolo: why is he dating her? isn't she on her tenth relationship?

y/nismygf: y/n, matt, if you're seeing this just know twitter is rooting and happy for you guys! tiktok police is annoying!!!!!

y/nismommy: he isn't it for her 🤷

prettyy/n: he could never treat her like danny did.. oop

ang3ly/n: y/n, baby, leave b4 u can, he's just going to use u🥴

everythingy/n: not a youtuber

y/nsgirl: why is everyone being so negative? this isn't your guys' relationship to judge or comment on. get a job, get a life!

Although the last comment made him chuckles a bit, the other comments hurt him. Were they right? Yeah, he wasn't on her level of famousness, but was it such a big deal? His phone suddenly rang in his hold as he was too deep in his thoughts. It was a call from Nick. He answered. "Good morning sunshine!" Nick said. "Why are you up so early? Isn't it six am over there?" Matt says. "I haven't slept actually. It's kind of worrying me." Nick laughed as he got comfy on his bed.

"I saw the pictures. How're you guys feeling about it?" Great, something he didn't want to think about right now. "I don't know? She wasn't the happiest when she caught that one person taking a picture, but she gave me her reasons and it was understandable. I didn't realize it at first, but she was totally right. The internet can be harsh, holy shit." Nick furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean?" Matt sighed and got up to sit against his headboard.

"I saw a video and the comments were a bunch of people saying that she shouldn't be with me because i'm not on her level of success, I guess, and that she also downgraded. I mean, what if they're right? What if I'm not good enough for her?" Nick felt bad, he hated that the internet was making Matt have second thoughts about his developing relationship. "Don't listen to them Matt, they're just a bunch of losers. And, you are more than enough for her. I was called her earlier today, yesterday I guess, and she was so excited to tell me what she had planned for you two. She's in deep and so are you, I can see it. There's no way you can back out now." Nick reassured him.

As Matt got ready, he thought of what Nick had said. She's in deep and so are you, I can see it. There's no way you can back out now. He was right, he is in deep. Matt knew Y/n was going back to LA a week after he was. They'd have all the time in the world to hang out. However, he wanted to be hers.

He was going to ask her today.

"Hi, pretty girl." He kissed forehead once she let him in. "Hi, how was your morning." She closed and locked the door behind him. "It was good, how about yours." They walked into her bedroom so she could continue getting ready for the day. "I had an early morning." She sighs. "I had a last minute meeting, luckily it was short and over zoom." She wraps her arms around Matt. "Hi." Y/n whispers. "Hi." He giggles and she leans up to kiss him.

"Okay- shit!" Matt stumbles a bit to the side with the bike. It was a couple of hours later and Y/n and Matt decided to rent bikes and bike around the city for a bit before heading to their planned picnic Y/n really liked to go to. "Why is it so heavy?" He says, trying to put the bike up straight. "They're so heavy for no reason, the amount of times I've fallen to the side with it is ridiculous." She starts to peddle slowly, waiting for Matt to catch up. A folded blanket is held by the basket that is on the bike.

"Are you sure you can ride the bike and carry the picnic basket at the same time?" She asks him. "I'm sure, just can't go too fast or I'll bust my shit." They rode around for thirty minutes sight seeing before heading to the park. "This looks like a nice spot." Matt pointed out an empty spot near a tree. "Okay, I'll lay out the blanket." Y/n unfolded the blanket and carefully placed it down on the grass.

"So, you're going to be in LA a week after I go back, right?" Matt says as he sips on his water bottle Y/n had packed. "Mhm, the twenty fifth. We'll finally be in the same place permanently. I'd love to hangout more with you." She smiles at him. "About that, I actually had a question for you." He caps his water and places it down next to him, moving his body to face her. "Oh, okay."

"Can I be yours, pretty girl? Officially yours." She gasps lightly and breaks into a huge smile. "You were always mine, pretty boy."

[b14augrana]

Ad Astra Per Aspera

Your story goes deeper than what meets Alexia’s eye

Alexia Putellas x teen!reader

pt. 2 masterlist

Warnings: this story contains depictions of alcoholism, adultery, and familial issues. read at your own discretion. aditionally, alexia is pretty mean in this and there wont be a happy ending for a few parts 😬

A/N: massive thank you to this request for the amazing idea 🫶🏼. r is 18 y/o but still going under teen!reader. this is going to be multiple parts because theres so much i could do for this request that i find impossible to fit into one part and write to a good standard, so here you go!

The Stands

Football unites the world. It brings people, cities, and countries together, like nothing else.

You’ve seen it happen in your beautiful hometown of Barcelona — all you can see during the hours leading up to any match set to be played in the Camp Nou is red and blue in the sky. Blaugrana painted the streets below, and the entire city came alive with the commotion from the stadium.

You spent your entire childhood being part of the roaring atmosphere, waving your Barça flag proudly in the air alongside every other flag and wearing the infamous colours across your chest.

Most of all, you prayed with every bit of faith in you, that one day you’d be on the pitch, playing for the club of your dreams.

Everyone in the crowd had their own individual life. There could be a single mother, a lawyer who used up his last days of leave to attend the match, a young boy with his father, an elderly person on an outing with his wife, someone from abroad who’s spent thousands and travelled for hours to watch their favourite player in real life.

11 players could bring together almost 100,000 people just to watch them kick a ball around, and you wanted to have the same effect. You wanted to be so good at football and have the ability to transform a simple sport about kicking a ball around into 90 minutes of entertainment, performance, art. You wanted to do it with Barcelona.

You trained meticulously for months. You passed your small, worn out ball against the same fence in your backyard, you practiced your touch by juggling until the frustration made you storm away in tears and you learned new skills and used your own shoes as cones to pose as defenders and dribble around.

When you went to the Camp Nou to trial for the renowned La Masia academy, you were little and clutching your FC Barcelona backpack for support. The stadium already looked so big when you were up in the stands, but when it was empty and you were actually on the pitch, it was even bigger. You were stood on the same grass as your idols that once had the same dream as you, and that was unbelievable.

The start of your journey as a player at FC Barcelona had begun.

Day after day, you woke up early for training. Your siblings were never awake at that time, so the rare moment of peaceful alone time with your mother was something you looked forward to every morning.

She drove you to the La Masia facilities and then picked you up at sunset. Sometimes, when she had to work late, you and some of your teammates would go to the park and play with the other local kids until your parents came.

Those were the same teammates that you got promoted to the B team with, and the evening 5-a-side games in the park never stopped. They were your best friends — you all shared a common dream of getting to the first team and playing in big tournaments and winning titles, and even though you realistically wouldn’t all be able to do that, no one ever stopped believing that one day it would happen.

As you grew up and your career just started to take off, things started to change. Not just in football, but your life off the pitch too. All at the age of thirteen.

Your father started coming home late. As if your mother was stupid, he’d waltz into the house in the middle of the night, claiming he had to stay a little late because a last minute meeting was called or he lost track of the time. The mild arguments started, and when the late arrivals became more frequent, your mother’s suspicions grew stronger.

One night, it came to a halt. Just when you stopped expecting it, he came home at his regular time; half past six. The only difference was, he didn’t look happy to be home at all. A frown tainted his face ans there was something off-putting about his demeanour. Soon, it all made sense.

You watched from around the corner, your head barely peeking out. Your dad shrugged his blazer off, and you noticed the way his mouth twitched as if hesitating to say something. Once he spoke, a big part of you wished he hesitated a bit more and realised down the line that he was making a bad decision, but it was too late.

The reason he was working late, the secrecy, the floral smells that lingered on his shirts; he was never working overtime, the floral smells were not from the diffuser in the office, and he did have something to hide.

It was called infidelity.

Your siblings emerged from their rooms as soon as the cacophonous yelling started, and you were quick to usher them away from the arguing.

The reality of how bad the situation really was hadn’t yet settled in, but you knew the outcome wasn’t going to be good.

Your youngest brother complained about his rumbling stomach, and the other two were quick to jump on the hunger train. For a moment you were stumped, because you didn’t want to go into the kitchen where the argument was taking place and get dragged into it, so your solution was grabbing a €50 bill and sneaking out to the nearest restaurant.

You were the oldest of four kids. After you was one of two boys, Lorenzo, and then the twins, Magdalene and Dani. They shared the same passion for football as you, and your fondest memories consisted on being in the stands of Camp Nou with them.

All of you snagged a table in a cozy restaurant, one you were familiar with due to going there multiple times with the rest of your family.

The hour you spent in that restaurant with your siblings turned out to be the last hour of a carefree life you’d get to indulge in.

The Pitch

You turned 18 last week, but you got promoted to the first team last month. The headlines painted you as an emblem of success for Barça’s youth programme, the future captain of the first team, and there were all these opinions flying around about you as a player. The opinion that mattered most, though, was that of your captain.

You and Alexia Putellas didn’t get along. Her opinion on you was nothing short of disapproving, and she let you know of that as you arrived at practice.

“(Y/N),” the woman said, her voice holding notes of irritation as she approached you. You looked at her, preparing yourself for the inevitable lecture.

“You’re late again. You might be young, but over here you’re the same as all of us no matter your age, which means getting to training at the same time as us,” she berated you, her hands set on her hips and her eyebrows furled in annoyance.

“Look, captain, I had to–” you started, but your explanation was cut short by Alexia.

“I don’t have time for your excuses. Do better next time, or you’re sitting out of practice entirely. Go run your laps,” she snarled, dismissing you with a wave of her hand.

You could only watch in anger as she stormed away while the others looked at you sympathetically, and you bit your tongue as you walked to the locker room and dumped your bag in your cubby.

She belittled you in every interaction you two had, which was a shame because you really liked her beforehand. In fact, you looked up to her, and you looked forward to being captained by her, but now it was hell on earth every time you entered the gates and met her scrutinising gaze.

Training was nothing special. It was the same old passing drills, small-sided games, shooting and free kick practice, and then before you knew it, home time.

You slung your bag over your shoulder and left before Alexia could stop you and give you yet another lecture. After stopping at the primary school to pick up Magdalene and Dani, you three drove to the middle school to pick up Lorenzo. Barcelona rush hour was rife around the time you picked up your siblings, so you spent another half an hour stuck in traffic until you finally got home.

All you wanted was your bed, and a nap. Still, you dragged yourself to the kitchen to make something quick for dinner so it was ready for your siblings when they were hungry, and then you tidied up in the living room.

Ever since your dad left, your mother was a wreck, leaving you as the successor to her caretaking duties of the kids. She was never a drinker, but after he left, she found herself depending on alcohol for a quick escape.

It was nice for a little bit; a short break from the world that always ended too soon. She kept chasing and chasing that relief until she was in too deep, and it was never enough. The bottles multiplied, the cans lined the rubbish bins, the stench polluted the air that once smelled of a fresh vanilla essence, and she became latched onto it.

You blamed your father for it all, because it was his unchastity that motivated every drink. Your mother was a beautiful woman who loved her family more than herself.

That was what ruined her.

“Hermana, hermana,” Magdalene spoke, tugging on the sleeve of your shirt. You looked down just as you turned off the stove, and she rubbed her stomach, “I’m hungry.”

“Okay hermanita, ask the boys if they’re hungry, please,” you replied, smiling at her. She nodded and ran to their bedrooms, and soon they all emerged from around the corner.

After scooping generous amounts of macaroni and cheese onto their plates, you put some onto your plate and sat down with your siblings to eat. Together, you all talked about your busy days and they listened to you tell them all about your training. They loved hearing your stories about Barça, and every time, Magdalene and Dani would ask you to continue your stories until they fell asleep.

Tonight was no different as you tiptoed out of the twins’ bedroom, gently shutting the door behind you. As much as you loved sleeping after a long day, part of you also dreaded it, because it meant starting a new day and facing Alexia.

When you woke up, it was to gentle knocking on your bedroom door. You were awake enough to comprehend the quiet pattering of footsteps across your hardwood floors, and when tiny hands grazed your skin, you jolted awake. “Hermana, time to wake up! School time!” Magdalene chimed.

So your morning routine began.

With one sock and half your jacket over your head, you made three lunches for the kids right after making their breakfast. Your mother slowly slumped out of her bedroom, wrapping her robe tight around her.

“Bon día,” she mumbled, a smile on her face. With a glance over your shoulder, you acknowledged her before going back to slicing two oranges.

“Morning, mamá,” your siblings responded quietly, shoving food into their mouths to avoid speaking any further. She sat on the couch, sighing deeply.

As she walked past you, you could immediately recognise the stench of alcohol — no surprises there. Years ago, she would’ve smelled like warm musky perfume, not the pungent smell of chemicals.

“Can you make me something, hija? ‘M very hungry,” she said to you, looking your way. You kept your head down, sealing the lunchboxes and cleaning up the counter.

“No, ma, I have things to do. Make your own breakfast,” you responded coldly, “Hermanita, pequeños, bring your dishes here.”

Your siblings scrambled from the table with their empty plates, giving them a quick wash before retreating to their rooms to get their uniform on. On the couch, your mother was still begging for food.

“Hija.. I’m hungry,” the woman slurred.

“Mamá, I have to get your kids to school and go to my own job, which my captain is already angry at me for being late because I have to drive them all around Barna,” you hissed.

“Then I have to come home and make dinner after cleaning your mess. You can make your own breakfast, for once!”

You always felt bad for yelling at your mum, but your life was hard enough with trying to get to work and drop off your three siblings in time while worrying about making your mum a meal.

You had a chance at life. You had a chance to succeed, and you weren’t going to waste it. You weren’t going to rely on a man to look after you in the future until he turns around and wants to look after another woman, leaving you damned.

“Bye, mamá,” you grumbled, grabbing your keys from the bench and swooping your boot bag up from the floor.

It was Dani’s turn to pick which song to play on the radio on the drive to school. He chose a very popular song within your siblings; ‘Me Gustas Tu’. The song had been broadcasted on the radio one day, and everyone seemed to love it. Their favourite part of car rides to school was winding the windows down and singing as loud as they’d like.

Somehow, amongst your father leaving and your mother’s new habits, your siblings were always happy, and that’s what you admired most about them. Maybe they were unaware of the harsh reality, but they were still naïve and unscathed by everything that happened.

It was almost 9:30 in the morning when you started making your way to the training pitch. Mentally, you were preparing yourself for the big lecture you were about to get from Alexia and seriously didn’t need, but physically, you looked unbothered if not a bit tense in the shoulders.

You almost tripped on your way out of the car as you rushed around to get your gear. Walking into training everyday just to get yelled at by Alexia was never nice, but you were used to it. Unfortunately.

That wasn’t the sort of relationship a captain should have with one of her players. It was almost like she despised you, and if she had her way, you probably would’ve been off the team within the first week.

Sure enough, when you appeared on the pitch, the first thing you heard was the low whispers beside you.

“…She’s irresponsible and doesn’t belong on the first team. Being late once, I understand, but multiple times? Her excuses are not good enough–”

“Excuses? Ale, you’ve never let her explain herself.”

“There shouldn’t be any need for excuses anyways, because she shouldn’t be late at all. If she wants to take her time and be let off easy like a child, send her back to the B team. Look, she isn’t even here yet.”

“She is, though. Look behind you.”

The woman turned around, her glare settling on you and being as cold as ever. She spun her whole body around and folded her arms across her chest, her frown heavy.

You sighed, looking down to your feet. It made you feel even worse that you couldn’t help it, and you couldn’t explain it to her either, because that action had potential to get your siblings taken away.

“Drop your bag, get comfortable. You’re not training today,” she snapped.

Your heart sunk. You fought to fend off any tears from forming on your waterline as you nodded, raising your head slightly.

“Listen, (Y/N). This team is everything to me. I have lots of respect for the people who coach us and come here to be coached. You, showing up late? That shows a lack of respect for those people. You’re lazy, unorganised, irresponsible–”

Irresponsible was untrue. If anything, you were the most responsible person you’ve ever known, but Alexia didn’t know that because she didn’t care to know you.

“…I can’t expect you to represent our club and our city on big stages if you can’t even come to training on time. You aren’t FC Barcelona material, and unless things change, you never will be.”

Your lip quivered as your body aligned to bolt for the locker room as soon as she left you alone, away from the watchful eyes that surveyed you in pity when had you arrived. Alexia turned on her heel and stormed away past Mapi, whom she was talking to previously.

She left you in her wake, crestfallen and misunderstood, defeated by circumstances beyond your control.

[ln444]

santa doesn't know you like i do. . .

kinda part 2 of this

cw: spiderman!lando, fluff fluff fluff, mentions of food.

now playing: santa doesn't know you like i do by sabrina carpenter & winter time by sabrina claudio

note: happy holidays everyone ! <3 here's my gift for you, enjoy! :D

______________________________________________

lando being late didn't really faze you anymore; after all, he was spider man, and that came with a genuine excuse. however, tonight was christmas eve, and lando has promised to spend the day with you. it was already 11 am, yet there was no sign of lando. you checked the news multiple times to see if any villains required his attention, but there was nothing. sitting in front of your phone, you debated whether to call him. perhaps he was caught up in something or even sleeping; you couldn't blame him, you see everyday how being spider-man affect him physically and mentally and it's not easy. still, the disappointment lingered, especially since it was your first christmas with him.

lando checked the clock in the small, crowded coffee shop, tapping his foot impatiently and cursing under his breath. thirty minutes had passed, and he was finally nearing the front of the line, letting out a sigh of relief. unable to text you because his phone had died –a common occurrence thanks to his absent-minded self with a perpetually uncharged phone- he continues to wait, his mind torturing him with the thoughts of you waiting for him, and his anticipation grows as the scent of fresh coffee surrounded him.

after what felt like an eternity, lando finally slips back into his spider-man suit, swinging his way back to the city. his mind is clouded with negative thoughts, weighed down by the guilt of being late on such a special day. this time, he didn't really have an excuse. he had spent a good hour attempting to wrap your present earlier that morning, followed by another hour swinging to get your favorite cakes from out of town, that you mentioned a few weeks ago. the thing is, he didn't expect the place to be so popular on christmas days. he blames himself for not waking up earlier or considering watching wrapping tutorials on youtube in advance, to avoid wasting precious time trying to do it all by himself.

his heart tightened at the thought of you sitting alone in your decorated apartment –the cozy space you both had adorned together just a few weeks ago. memories flooded his mind, recalling how he got easily distracted by you every time you needed his help. eventually, it resulted in both of you sharing kisses amidst the decorations on the floor, finishing late at night. with these thoughts filling his mind, lando couldn't help but wear a smile as he swung faster, his heart beating with excitement to see you.

with his backpack loaded with the gift he got for you –and that he spent most of his morning wrapping– and one hand tightly gripping the box of your favorite cakes, lando swung as fast as he could. he was determined not to ruin the cakes, not after everything he went through. most importantly, he didn't want to disappoint you. the thought of your smile when you open the box keeps him grinning as he fly through the city.

feeling a bit down, you decide to call lando around 11:30 am, but it goes straight to voicemail. frustrated, you toss your phone on the sofa and slump onto it. gazing out the window, you hope to spot a sudden spider-man at your window but a delightful surprise awaits. instead, you found a breathless lando, adorned in an ugly christmas sweater, that matches yours –you both made a pact to wear one today–, standing outside with messy hair, braving the cold breeze. opening the window in a hurry, you're about to voice your thoughts, but lando silences you with a warm, unexpected kiss. despite your annoyance, you find yourself kissing him back.

"well, hello to you too," you scoff as you pull away, observing lando entering the room. he closes the window behind him, and you stand there with your arms crossed, lifting an eyebrow. you examine his face; his nose and cheeks turned pink because of the cold and his eyes was slightly watery because of the wind, making it hard for you to fight the urge to wrap him in your arms.

"i... baby, i'm sorry. i can explain!" he looks like a lost puppy and your heart was about to explode. you find yourself already forgetting why you're mad just by the sight.

"look!" he pulls out a box, and it doesn't take you much to recognize the logo of your favorite coffee shop. your expression softens immediately as you gaze at the boy in front of you, who wears an apologetic smile.

"lando... are you insane? how did you manage to get this?" you take the box from his hands, your fingers eager to open it to verify if it's exactly what you think it is.

"i went to that coffee shop you mentioned, that's why i'm late. i'm sorry," lando explains, and you place the box on the table, your attention now focused on him. your hands slide around his neck as you get a closer look at his face, making your heart soften. your fingers gently caresses his hair as lando's arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer, and he almost sighs at the warmth of your body against his cold one. "you remembered," you whisper close to his lips, your eyes drowning in his, and his smile widens. "of course," he replies simply, pulling you into a soft and warm kiss.

"i hate you," you whimper, and lando raises an eyebrow, confused. "you make it so hard to be mad at you," lando chuckles, pecking your lips. "you have every right to be mad at me, baby," he says softly, and you use all the strength you have to fight the growing smile on your face. "you know what it means, right? no more kisses for you..."

"what? never mind, you're not allowed to be mad me," he pouts, and you giggle, pulling him for another kiss. "well, you're excused for this time, just because you brought me cake," you pull away from his embrace and lando softly whines, feeling cold again.

you take the box in your hands, placing it on the small table as he eases off his backpack. pulling out the present from it, his eyes wandering to the christmas tree adorned with festive lights. a proud smile graces his lips, but it transforms into a heartwarming glow as he notices a present beneath the tree –his present, thoughtfully placed by you. his heart swells with gratitude and affection.

"wow, looks like you have better wrapping skills than me," you playfully comment from behind, drawing him out of his reverie. lando chuckles, recalling the earlier events of the day. settling beside you on the sofa, he envelops you in his arm. "oh, i forgot to mention that i spent a good hour wrapping it this morning, thanks to youtube," he laughs and your eyebrow arches in mock accusation. "so, you're a cheater!" he pulls you closer, both of you sharing a lighthearted laugh.

"let's just eat the cakes, please. i want to erase that traumatic moment," he whines, and you giggle, placing the box on your lap. as you share your thoughts on each cake, lando's attention wavers. lost in the light of your eyes, he finds himself enchanted by the simple joy your bring to the moment. the warmth of your laughter and the sparkle in your eyes makes the moment unforgettable for him. it's moments like these that become some of lando's fondest memories, wrapped in the comfort of your company. the way you can make every single little things so interesting always fascinate him.

you turn to him, a spoonful of cake in hand, bringing it towards his mouth. a smile naturally graces his lips as he opens his mouth to accept the bite. lando doesn't miss the way your eyes gleam with a mix of excitement and impatience, and he can feel his heart warming. playfully, he draws out the moment, savoring the anticipation in your eyes, earning a playful eye-roll from you. finally, he takes a real taste, and the widening of his eyes sends a momentary wave of worry through you, concerned that he might not like it.

lando's smile widens as he observes your reaction, earning a playful slap on his thigh. "so ? do you like it?" a hint of impatience can be heard in your voice and he takes the chance to tease you about it, responding with a small kiss on your neck, sending shiver through you; "so impatient, princess," he whispers playfully and your cheeks heat, which he doesn't miss either, only deepening his grin. "no but seriously, it's the best cake i ever taste," he sincerely says and a warm glow of joy fills you. as he pulls you closer, his eyes locked onto yours, and you exchange a gentle smile.

"maybe we should go there next christmas," he casually mentions and the idea of spending another christmas with him makes your stomach flutter. "i mean, in a car, of course," he adds with a laugh and you can't help but join him, quickly pecking his lips "i would love that."

you chose to spend the day in your apartment immersing yourselves in silly christmas movies –that you take way too seriously than you should– and sharing joyous memories of holidays past. the warmth and fullness in your hearts become a precious imprint, each second spent together etched into your minds forever.

in those sweet moments, lando felt at ease just being himself around you. the chaos of superhero life fading, and you presence became a comforting escape. with you, he didn't need to be perfect or carry the superhero burden. it was a simple, special connection where he could be lando, unmasked and genuine. he realized that the past months spent by your side made him a better person in so many ways.

lost in his thoughts, he didn't catch your question or the way you patiently waited for his response while he's dumbly staring at you. "lando! are you even listening ?" you whine and, to be honest, lando did not listen, too captivated in the depth of your eyes.

he doesn't bother responding, surprising you with a kiss that feels entirely different from any you've shared before. it's like lando is trying to convey something. the kiss is filled with an overwhelming amount of love and affection, making your heart threaten to burst out of your chest. it takes a moment for you to gather yourself and reciprocate, getting lost in the rush of emotions filling your body.

lando doesn't pull back after a minute like he always does. instead, he draws you even closer, your two bodies fitting together like two puzzle pieces. his tongue meets yours, initiating a dance in perfect harmony.

both of your cheeks were burning, like two teenagers sharing their first kiss. in that moment, it felt as if it was just the two of you in the whole world. lando never felt so loved and complete.

"i'm so in love with you, i think i might go crazy," lando blurts out, caught in the passionate moment you're sharing. the words lingers in the air, both of you breathless from the intensity of the kiss. his eyes reveal a mix of nerves and sincerity, and your heart races with a whirlwind of emotions, making it harder for you to catch your breath. the warmth of the embrace deepens the impact of his words, making it hard for you to think straight. lando's cheeks are burning and he mentally curses himself, blaming himself for always talking without thinking twice.

in response to lando's heartfelt confession, you tenderly stroke his warm cheek, your voice carrying the sweetest tone. "oh, lando... i'm crazy in love with you," your whispered words against his lips feel like an intimate secret shared between the two of you. your words leaves lando in awe, his mind momentarily blank, and he can't help but pull you into another kiss, drowning in the depth of the emotions exchanged.

as the soft glow of christmas illuminates your cozy apartment, you and lando find yourselves lost in each other's arms. with every shared kiss, you both savor the warmth of the holiday and the special connection makes this christmas unforgettable. in the embrace of each other, you discover that loving each other is the greatest gift, and you find yourself already excited to spend next christmas –and maybe the next one, and so on– together.

______________________________________________

[galescafe]

09 JUNE 2024 | 90/100 DAYS OF PRODUCTIVITY

moved back into my apartment in the city this weekend! my parents drove me out bc i am broke and don't have a car but have a lot of stuff i wanted to bring, and then they stayed for the weekend

spent time decompressing from having them over, cleaning up, and went grocery shopping

back to studying! my last full day of being able to study, since i am starting back at work tomorrow

content revised: behavioral chs 8-11, biochem ch 5, 757 anki cards

🎧: romeo and juliet, fantasy overture - tchaikovsky 📚: anansi boys - neil gaiman ⏰ 63/300 hours

[vanishingcherry]

GOT A SENSE I'D BEEN BETRAYED

pairings: lando norris x reader

warnings: swearing, mclaren being shitty, lando being shitty for agreeing with mclarens plans, break ups, general angst

authors note: based on this request hii! thanks for requesting! the start is just a bit of a backstory, so its not that great. prompt 9 is "'you promised' 'i know'", prompt 10 is "none of it was real... was it?" and prompt 11 is "don't touch me". check out my prompt list

masterlist

๑ ⋆˚₊⋆────ʚ˚ɞ────⋆˚₊⋆ ๑

When introduced to the world of F1, you immediately became a fan.

After a couple years of watching the sport on TV, you managed to get tickets to a Grand Prix not too far from your city. You were overjoyed as you walked through the entrance on Friday, having managed to snag tickets for all three days of the race weekend as well as a paddock pass for free practice.

Decked out in all the merch you owned, you were a sight to see. Lucky for you, the clashing shades of red, orange, black, green and blue were an all too common sight at a race, allowing you to comfortably blend in wherever you were.

Your day at the paddock was amazing, to say the least. Watching pitstop practices, meeting other fans and even taking pictures of and with a few of the drivers. It was, arguably, one of the best days of your life.

You were just about to leave the paddock when a McLaren employee walked towards you, blocking your path.

"Hello! I'm Julie, what's your name?"

After replying with slight confusion, she explained why she was talking to you.

"Lando saw you earlier in the day when you were outside his garage and wanted to talk to you! I'm glad I caught you, he wanted me to give you these paddock passes for tomorrow on behalf of McLaren."

She went on about everything the passes included, but you were still stuck on the fact that Lando was the one who had invited you.

"Wait- I uh- Lando? As in Norris? The driver?"

"Yeah." she laughed at your reaction. "Just come and show these passes to anyone at the McLaren hospitality tomorrow and they'll tell you where to go."

When you showed up the following day, weirdly enough, they directed you straight to Lando. You got to talking, and before you knew it you had spent hours with him. The two of you were interrupted a while before qualifying was meant to begin, and shockingly, he asked to take you on a date the next week.

You were slightly skeptical, it seemed like something straight out of a movie and you knew that going on a date with Lando could have repercussions on your entire life. Nonetheless, even you knew that turning down this invitation would be stupid. Even if it didn't lead to anything, it would be an experience for sure.

To your surprise, it was one of the best dates you had ever been on. A year later, the two of you were still together. Despite the unordinary circumstances that had brought you together, you were glad to have caught his eye that day.

Since then, you had accompanied him to many races, and today was no different. Heading towards his driver room, you lift your hand to knock, before stopping centimeters from the door. Someone else was in the room, you could hear hushed voices. You turn around, taking a few steps away, giving them their privacy.

"Y/N deserves to know!"

It was the voice of one of his friends, and the sound of your name had caught your attention.

"I can't tell her right now, okay? I- I'll tell her soon." That was Lando. You frowned at his statement, now wondering what he was keeping from you.

"Lando the longer you keep this from her, the worse it's going to get. In fact, you're probably lucky if she finds out now and doesn't leave."

"Don't you think I know that? Why do you think I'm not telling her?" Lando's sudden outburst was too much. He was hiding something that potentially changed the entire course of your relationship, you deserved to know what.

You slowly open the door, walking in just in time to hear what Lando's friend says.

"If you're not going to tell her, I am. She deserves to know that this started as a publicity stunt, even if that may have changed now."

"What?" you say in disbelief. Even though you barely heard the word yourself, both Lando and his friend turned to you at the sound. It would have been comical, how fast their eyes widened and expressions changed. But in the moment, all you could focus on was the fact that Lando didn't deny it.

Started as a publicity stunt.

Why do you think I'm not telling her!

You're probably lucky if she finds out now and doesn't leave.

Lando's friend murmurs an excuse, brushing shoulders with you as he walks out and softly closes the door behind him. Leaving you and Lando alone. If it was any other day, you would have been overjoyed to be alone with Lando, with his schedules and races you were rarely left alone. But right now, all you wanted to do was leave. Still, you ask.

"None of it was real... was it?"

Lando didn't answer. At a loss for words, his mouth opened and closed. He was wracking his brain, trying to think of something to say that would make you believe him, trust him. He had fucked up, he knew it. He just had to figure out how to fix it, make things right so that you wouldn't leave him.

You didn't notice the look of anguish on his face, instead you continued speaking, trying to make sense of the situation.

"You just thought that it would be okay to lead me on. That when I found out I was just for publicity, I would be okay with it. Or actually, you probably weren't going to tell me at all, based on your conversation" you all but shouted, referring to what you had overheard.

"I can't believe you!" The room, although large, seemed to be closing in on you. You felt like you were suffocating. "Say something Lando."

He stayed silent.

"God!" you turned around, resting your forehead in your hands, going through every moment of your relationship. The bright and happy memories were now darkened with the knowledge of Lando's initial intentions.

Waking up from whatever trance he had been placed in at the sight of you, Lando silently walks over. He carefully wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest.

"I'm so sorry, my love. I wanted to tell you I swear, I just chickened out every time. I love you, okay? I love you so much and I swear I'm not lying." He starts off, trying to explain before you cut him off.

"You promised." you whisper.

"I know." he mutters, knowing exactly what you meant.

"You promised, Lando. You promised you would never hurt me." Your voice cracked as you shrugged off his arms. He takes a few steps back and instead picks up your hands and plants a small kiss to your knuckles.

"I know, I'm so, so sorry. Darling, please just-"

"Don't touch me!"

He flinches at your tone, moving his hands from your own and taking a step back. Taking a couple deep breathes, he tries again.

"My love, I am so sorry." He bends down slightly, trying to make eye contact. "It started as a publicity stunt, yes, but I fell in love- I am in love with you."

He pauses for a moment, but remains undeterred when you don't respond. "I swear, all of it was real. My feelings are real, I never lied about those."

"Yeah, just lied about everything else" you scoff.

He almost reaches out to you before remembering that you didn't want to be touched by him. He flexes his hand before balling it into a fist near his thighs.

"I'm so sorry. Please just let me explain and I swear I'll fix this, okay? I- i'll figure something out and I'll fix this and we're going to be okay." At this point, he was convincing himself more than he was you.

Before he could say anything else, there was a knock on his door, signalling that he had to get in the car.

"Lando, its time."

"I know, I- just give me a minute" he begs.

"Lando we have to go right now, the race starts in 10 minutes". His engineer is adamant, slamming the door behind him, leaving no room for argument.

"Fuck!" he turns to you. "Darling, just stay here, yeah? Just for a while. I- we can talk after the race, I'm so sorry, just please stay here."

He waits for you to nod, eyes frantically scanning every inch of your face for a sign that you would stay. When you don't provide one, he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

"Please. Please, I am begging you just don't lea-"

"Lando! Now." A voice calls through the door.

"Coming." He shouts back. Turning to you again he speaks, walking backwards out the door as he picks up his baclava and helmet. "Please, just stay. I'm so sorry, we'll talk right after the race I promise. I love you."

With that, he leaves you alone in his driver room. You take a deep breath before sitting on the chair. You couldn't find it in you to stay, and so the moment the race started, you were up and finding a taxi back to the hotel.

Lando couldn't focus. From the moment he sat in the car till the moment he got out, all he could think about was you and the pained look on your face when you found out.

He regretted everything. The fact that he had kept this a secret for so long, and the fact that he didn't let you find out this way. But most of all, he regretted the day he agreed to the publicity stunt.

No one was supposed to find out about it. It was simple. He would date you for a couple months, and then make an excuse to break up. You wouldn't find out, the media wouldn't find out and he would have the publicity the team wanted. It would serve as the perfect distraction too, any poor performances would be overshadowed by the news of his new girlfriend. The team thought it was great, it would mean more fans interested in him because it wasn't everyday a driver dated someone that wasn't a model or famous.

Till he fell in love with you. He fell hard too, it wasn't slow and gradual but all at once. He was just sitting at his apartment, watching you read a book on the sofa when the realisation crashed down on him. That he would give up anything for you, that you were it for him. You were the only one he wanted to spend time with, only one he wanted to see when he came home after a race.

Lando knew that he should have stopped it then, broken up or at least told you. But he was selfish, he wanted to stay in the bliss you had created together. And so what was supposed to be a few months turned into 6 and then a year.

The race was shit for Lando. He had half a mind to crash on purpose, just because it would mean getting back to you faster. Nonetheless, he stayed on track, praying that there would be no red flags to delay the end. He had qualified well, at P8, but slipped back to P15 by the time the checkered flag came out.

The second he entered the garage, he walked straight to his drivers room, completely ignoring all the mechanics and engineers trying to console him after the bad result.

Opening the door in a hurry, he swears at the sight of no one in the room. "Fuck fuck fuck!"

He spins around a couple times, making sure you weren't there before opening his phone and walking out of the room in a hurry. At the back of his mind, Lando knew that there were a million things he had to do before leaving, but he forgot about all of them, running to the spot where his car was parked.

He tries calling you, repeatedly pressing on your contact as he speeds past the red light. He'd pay all the fines they wanted, getting to you was more important. He sighs when you don't pick up, face scrunching as he tries to keep the tears back.

Reaching the hotel, he hands the car to the valet, running through the lobby, just managing to slide into a closing elevator. Once at the right floor, he unlocks your hotel room.

He is close to crying when he realises that this room too is empty. You had taken your belongings, and all that was left was Lando's half-open suitcase in the corner.

But what really got him crumbling down is the note you'd written and left on his pillow. He read it over and over, making sure his eyes weren't deceiving him.

I'm sorry, I just can't. Don't message me. Please.

[yandere-paramour]

Hello! So I don’t know if you already done this but can you tell us more about Ata’s childhood?

You're right, I need to compile all of the tiny bits of lore I can together.

Atalanta's Childhood

Atalanta was born sometime in early January the late 90's.

She was a normal Montclair baby, the spitting image of her mother and her father's eyes.

She initially imprinted on her Father the most as he (apart from her nanny) spent the most time with her, but she loved her Mother too.

She was an extremely stroppy toddler, prone to large screaming tantrums because she absolutely HAD to get her own way all the time. She also dragged her stuffed elephant around everywhere.

As you know, she started to notice and ask about her parent's relationship when she was about 4, leading Jamie to try and abscond with her unsuccessfully.

After that, Jamie was basically grounded for several months except for dinnertime which was the only time he would see Ata, but she didn't notice anything was off because she was a young child and also starting school (and she knew her father was always a bit delicate).

Atalanta attended a private girl's day school in the city every day, and she went to her parent's townhouse after school where she would be looked after by her nannies or Jamie. She would go to after-school activities, do her homework, have dinner with her parents, and go to bed.

Yes, she did wear a cute little kid's school uniform with a skirt and tie and everything and her hair was fairly long at this time. She actually dressed pretty girly when she had to go to formal events as a child.

Jamie would tie up her hair in a ponytail with a matching ribbon every morning.

Sometimes on school holidays she would go out with Jamie or the nannies, or even go to the Montclair building with her mother and see what she would grow up to inherit (obviously she was in awe of her mother and idolized her as she always did).

At age 11, Atalanta graduated from day school, cut her relatively long hair, ditched the skirts, and went to the same girl's boarding school her mother attended a few hours away from the city.

She excelled as always, making perfect grades, working with the debate team, and starting her own martial arts club. She visited her parents some weekends and most school holidays and they always came to Parent's Weekend and to see her martial arts tournaments.

She was acquaintances with some other girls and even kissed some but never became super close to them (even though many tried because she was the Montclair heir).

She never really came out directly to her parents but it was clear she was gay.

Not much teenage dirtbag behavior from her, she was always too mature and they didn't really see her for weeks at a time. They did call often though.

At age 18, she graduated from upper school and left for college at an extremely prestigious private university where she studied business.

After college, she came back to the city to work at Montclair Industries and do her heir lessons.

[mychoombatheroomba]

Proximity Alert

Between the Bones (Leon x GN! Reader) - Chapter 11

And into the minefield you go. Little do you know, Leon is fool enough to follow you.

(Cross-posted from Ao3)

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Chapter Index

Flustered or not, Leon was, as you came to find out, a damn good shot. 

He would have had to have been, you supposed, to survive what he’d survived. Still, you found yourself very much impressed as the two of you spent your hour unloading magazine after magazine into the targets down range. You didn’t mind losing to him. 

Not when three points was all it took for him to smile the way he did. 

“If you can shoot like that now, just think of how good you’d be if you cut that hair so you could see,” you’d said, and you weren’t sure where the energy you had was coming from. 

Maybe you said it for the same reason you'd called him pretty; it was true, yes, but you also wanted to get a rise out of him. 

And a rise you got. “You must not hate my hair too much, if you think I’m pretty.” 

Oh, he was getting better at countering your jabs. Knives and words. And just like when he managed to get a successful counter in while sparring, you watched his eyes go a little wide as he realized what he’d just said. 

You were both flying by the seat of your pants, then. 

“I won’t matter how pretty you are if someone can throw you around by your fringe,” you said, ignoring the way it felt like you were walking over the edge of a cliff. Ignoring the way your mouth curled without you meaning it to. “And if I remember right, I’ve done it before.” 

“Guess I’ll just have to be extra careful, then.” His own smile returned, and it lingered until the two of you said your goodbyes. 

That smile made some stupid, sentimental part of you ache because it made him look young - young and proud and excited that he’d done well. For a moment, he looked like Raccoon City never happened. Like the two of you weren’t training to fight what spawned from mankind’s darkest ideas. For a moment, as Leon beamed at you, you could almost imagine that things were normal. Or, as normal as they ever had been for you. 

You felt that way more and more when you were around Leon - strange, because if anyone should remind you of what waited for you out there in the real world, it should have been him. Instead, you found yourself smiling more when you were around him than you had in the last year. The smiling wasn’t the dangerous part, though. 

Ever more, you were ignoring the warning bells in your mind in favor of holding his gaze for a second longer than you should have. Letting yourself study the strength of his jawline, the way the boyish fullness of his cheeks was sharpening into something harder. Or the way his arms were being cut by more and more defining lines. You let yourself say things you shouldn’t have because getting those little rises out of him made you feel . . . 

It made you feel something other than the misery you’d been wallowing in for so long. 

Something you almost felt you didn’t deserve. 

That had been the silent war your thoughts had been waging, because it was stupid to get close. It was completely and utterly reckless. 

And you thought of that smile as you went to bed that night, anyway, because it felt good to imagine something other than the snow and cold, and the dead eyes that waited for you in your dreams. Thinking of the warmth of his hand on top of yours, his smart mouth, or the way his cheeks and the tips of his ears would redden when he was embarrassed felt like you’d found a place to rest your weary bones. Maybe you could afford a moment of weakness, every so often. 

Thoughts were harmless without action to give them life. A gun with the safety on. You could think whatever you wanted. 

So long as it stayed safe in your mind, where it belonged. 

⧫⧫⧫

Pretty boy. 

It really shouldn’t have taken up such a big space in his head, but Leon found himself thinking of those words as he lay in bed that night. It didn’t stop the nightmares, but it was a far better thing to remember when morning came than rotting flesh, or heavy footfalls at his back. 

Or the feeling of someone’s hand slipping through his fingers. 

He would much rather think of you and whether you were being serious or not. 

That was the question he tried to puzzle out that day, well aware that he was putting too much thought into a single moment. A joke. Had to have been. 

Still, he sure as hell wanted more, whatever it was.  

So, when evening came and he met you in the training yard, he did so with a mission he had no notion of how to carry out. You were already there, as always, the sunset casting you in honey gold. You tossed him a knife. “As promised,” you said as Leon caught it. 

“So, what do I get if I win this time?” he asked, flipping the blade back and forth, just as you so often did. It was becoming more and more natural to him, now. 

Still, if it was natural for him, it was second nature for you. 

“I wouldn’t worry about something that’s not going to happen,” you shrugged, a glint in your eyes. You’d always seemed sure of yourself, but with the passing of the last few weeks, he’d come to see a different side of that confidence. One that wasn’t afraid to dish out a bit of trash talk. An Army brat, through and through. Leon didn’t mind it, so long as he could give as good as he got. 

He rushed forward, knife aimed at your chest. You moved just as fast as Leon knew you could, bringing your hand up to smack the blade away. A few weeks ago, you would have blocked him, but Leon had gotten faster since you began teaching him. 

More than that, he’d gotten wise to a few tricks. 

He tried not to be too proud that he was nearly fast enough to pull the feint off. Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, after all. Still, as he changed his weapon’s course at the last minute and felt the blade catch your shirt, if not your skin. You felt it too, he could see it on your face as you leapt backwards to safety. “Don’t be so sure,” he breathed, locking eyes with you. “I learned from the best.” Flattery had worked the night before. Maybe-

“I’ll tell Krauser you said so.” 

“Not what I-”

“I know what you meant,” you nodded, eyes softening almost imperceptibly. “Now, come on.” 

You were all business when the knives were in play. He knew that. Still, it had been worth a try. Besides, he didn’t think he would ever get tired of watching you fight. Even if he was the one on the business end of your knife. 

You were a viper. When you reared up to strike, one couldn’t help but watch, wide-eyed as adrenaline filled them. Fear and bewilderment in equal measure. And when you moved, god help anyone within reach. You were too fast for him several times that night, as you always were. Too fast and too dangerously beautiful-

Focus. 

The difference lately was that Leon was beginning to move the same way. Those patterns that he’d been watching for from you, he’d finally begun to learn. You favored protecting your torso over your legs. You liked feints. Wrist locks and knocking him off his feet. Controlling his arm. All favorites that he learned to watch out for. It let him stay “alive” longer and longer. All secrets that helped him avoid a disarm, or a takedown. He was learning more than how to fight, he was learning you. For every disarm or takedown, he gave you a scrape or a bruise. You were showing him how to bridge the gap between the two of you. 

That was why he thought he had you when you bent his arm up after a jab at his side, the strain of it edging just short of real pain. 

Your hands were both occupied. His left wasn’t. 

He kicked towards your leg, and you shifted a bit to avoid it. 

His wrist being free was just enough mobility for him to toss the knife up. His left hand caught it, and again he just nearly missed the swipe he took at your head. You ducked under the swing in a blur of motion, and he followed through. You caught the attack, and again your hands were moving to control. Just as he knew you would. 

Shoulder protesting a bit at the speed with which he moved, Leon wove his arm under your own. You blocked the first strike. Just barely the second. 

Your bodies were pressed together, your hands just barely stopping him from checkmate. With steel just an inch from your throat, your lips parted as you looked up at him, first in surprise and then in struggle. Victory was there, within reach. So close Leon could reach out and grab it. Get drunk off of it. 

Drunk off of the idea of winning and drunk off the way you felt against him. 

Then he felt something else. The weaving of fingers through the hair on the back of his head. Gentle for only a millisecond. The sort of sensation that made it feel like someone had hooked him to a high-voltage battery. That gentleness died before it even drew its first breath as he remembered the warning you’d given him the day before. 

⧫⧫⧫

You’d done it to win, and maybe to prove a point. What you could never have predicted was that bragging rights were absolutely nothing next to the real prize. That being the sound that Leon Kennedy made that evening in the training yard when you pulled his head back by his hair. 

You’d heard his pained groans a hundred times now. This one, though . . . it was different. Throaty and strained, and downright sinful. No human being had a right to make that noise. Not in a situation like this. 

If that was the sound he made when he was in pain . . .

What were you doing?

Both of you froze as soon as you realized what had happened, staring at each other from a distance that seemed too far and too close all at once. His eyes were dark, even with how wide they were. His breathing shallow. His body tense. His lips parted. His throat was exposed, the knife in his hand still pressed against it. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed thick. 

It was then that you realized just how far into that minefield you’d wandered.

And the way he was looking at you, those shadowed blue eyes searching your own, only made it worse. 

What the fuck were you doing?

“Told you about the hair,” you said, not of your own volition. Something cruel had a hold of you. Cruel and wild and full of a fire that burned you from the inside out. A year’s worth of pushing want down in favor of need was all threatening to split you open, now. 

You were stronger than your impulses, though. Or more cowardly than you’d like to admit. 

Whatever the case, you let go of Leon’s hair and stepped away because you knew if you didn’t, it would mean the beginning of something you couldn’t allow into reality. You just hoped that you had bailed out early enough, because as you moved away from him, that tension in the air remained. 

“You okay?” you asked after a moment of silence, because you genuinely didn’t know what else to say. 

“Yeah,” Leon nodded, and even if he was lying, you weren’t going to call him on it. Not right now. “Yeah. Just . . . point taken about the hair.” 

“Hmm,” you nodded back. 

Another beat of oppressive stillness, and you could only do your best to tread water through it. That, and try not to linger on the way Leon’s lips had looked only seconds ago. It was just a moment, and it passed. The safety was still on. 

“So, are you going to cut it?” you finally asked, pointing to his hair. 

Leon had looked lost up until that moment. Even as you spoke, it took him a second to register what you’d said. He looked at you for the first time since you’d let him go - just a glance, but one that let you know that you’d kicked up a storm in his mind. He breathed a single dry laugh and shook his head. “Not a chance.” 

⧫⧫⧫

He couldn’t sleep. And not entirely for the usual reasons. 

No, that night, Leon was kept awake by the memory of your hand in his hair and the sharp pain of you pulling on it. That, and the warmth of you being so close to him. The way your eyes had been so bright with an emotion he’d never seen in you before, one that burned low and true like embers. 

He replayed the moment in his mind, out of embarrassment, true, but also to chase the phantom of what he’d felt. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought of you in the dark - his thoughts had drifted to you more and more lately. That night, though, he wasn’t just thinking about you. He was imagining you. He imagined what you might feel like in his arms, what the skin beneath your shirt might feel like against his fingertips. 

He imagined what it might be like to feel the kiss of your lips instead of your steel. 

And as he imagined, he fought back the guilt that wrapped its cold hands around his throat. Who the guilt was owed to . . . that was becoming a more difficult thing to know.

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Chapter Index

A/N: This chapter brought to you by the sounds Leon makes when he's injured. Also shot myself in the foot putting a Leon pic in every chapter . . . gonna need more than 40 of these mfs 😂

[1mlostnow]

Guyssss I wanna start a reblog chain talking about our days :3 and one thing we’re looking forward to tomorrow

Today I had camp from 8-11, then went tot the dentist and therapy, the latter at which I realized I’m doing really really well compared to where I was two months ago. Then I went back to camp from 2-4, and we got rained out for part of it so we spent an hour watching dci shows :> then I went home for a few minutes and then went into the city to get my bearded dragon !! He’s a little baby and his name is Greg, he’s so chill he’s like the calmest dude ever. And I had a cheeseburger for lunch today.

Tomorrow I’m excited to wake up and have breakfast bc my mom got me some protein bars and they’re really yummy with peanut butter and chocolate and caramel 🤤

Anyways, what’d you do today, and what are you looking forward to tomorrow?

[linghxr]

My trip to Taiwan

I took a break from posting because...I went to Taiwan! This was my first time going there, and I was mostly in Taipei. I had a great time and took many, many photos. I'll share some highlights here (along with commentary) to commemorate my trip.

Left: Liberty Square 自由廣場 Right: Chiang Kai-shek Memorial 中正紀念堂

You can't tell here, but there was a row of porta-potties directly to the left of the archway. That was a funny sight. There was also a stage in the middle of the square. Maybe they do outdoor concerts?

Left: Tamsui Old Street 淡水老街 Right: "Sidewalk"

Besides the main roads, most streets lacked raised sidewalks. Instead, they had a painted path. I had to get comfortable being very, very close to cars and other vehicles.

Left: Motorbike parking lot near Tamsui Old Street Right: Covered sidewalk.

I’ve seen motorbikes before in China, but Taipei took things to a new level. Motorbikes were absolutely everywhere. I even saw this parking lot exclusively for motorbikes. They rule the streets.

In the busy downtown districts, you often don’t need an umbrella due to the covered sidewalks. You can walk for blocks and blocks while staying covered. This was pretty convenient on rainy days.

Left: Jadeite Cabbage 翠玉白菜 at the National Palace Museum 國立故宮博物院 Right: Umbrella rack (also at the museum)

Confession—I didn't think the National Palace Museum was that good. Probably because I've been to the actual Forbidden City in Beijing. And sadly, the Meat-Shaped Stone wasn't on exhibit.

In the US, some stores will provide a plastic bag for your wet umbrella. In Taipei, many stores had a rack or basket outside instead. Most were not as secure or elaborate as the one pictured.

Left: Eslite Xinyi Store (bookstore) 誠品信義店 Right: Sun Yat-sen Memorial 國父紀念館

I bought a couple books and a Yoga Lin CD at the Eslite 24-hour bookstore. I only planned to swing by, but I think I spent 2 hours there. I definitely recommend checking it out if you're in Taipei.

Taipei 101 台北101

It was overcast when I went to Taipei 101, but the view was still nice. On the bright side, there was NO line. 101 is by far the tallest building around, so you really feel that you're looking down at the city.

Taroko National Park 太魯閣國家公園

Taroko was the only place I visited outside of the Taipei/New Taipei City area. It's in Hualien county on the east coast. There were so many betel nut stores in the countryside on the way there.

Left: Pond at NTU 國立臺灣大學 Right: 228 Peace Memorial Park 二二八和平紀念公園

Taipei has the best parks! They really put American parks to shame. Before going, I didn't understand why so many Taipei parks are tourist destinations with 4.5+ star reviews, but now I totally get it.

Elephant Mountain 象山

I didn’t realize how mountainous Taiwan is. Taipei is cradled by mountains, so there are many places to hike, even within city limits. I braved the rain for the famous view from Elephant Mountain.

Subway billboard 臺北捷運

The Taipei Metro/MRT was amazing. So fast, clean, frequent, and convenient. US subway systems are a joke in comparison. These are from an amusing series of billboards promoting riding etiquette.

Some other observations:

I was quite impressed by all of the English signage in Taipei. I think it would be very easy to navigate even if you don’t know Chinese. Many stores and small eateries had menus, signs, etc. in English.

I knew Taiwan had many convenience stores, but I was not prepared to see a Family Mart or 7/11 on every block. Someone needs to open this style convenience store in the US ASAP.

I saw numerous adds featuring Korean actors like Son Ye-jin and also kpop groups like IVE and NewJeans. I also heard kpop playing at various stores, whereas in America, I only hear it at Hmart.

I was struck by how many street signs and subway stops names used pinyin romanization. There was a lot of inconsistency and mixing of different romanization systems. For example, you have Taipei vs. Beitou (same character: 北).

There were many Japanese stores, pharmacies, and restaurants. Upon further consideration, this makes sense given Taiwan's history, but it stood out to me nonetheless.

Overall, I had a lovely time in (mostly) Taipei. As a big city (but not too big) surrounded by beautiful nature, there's something for everyone. I already want to go back! Of course I also want to see some other areas of Taiwan too. Maybe next year.

[panvani]

Tokyo districts we've visited RANKED:

14. Akibahara: inhospitable for human life. only place in Tokyo where they not only spelled out why they specifically had 24hr surveillance on escalators but they felt the need to put signs reminding you on every available surface. so many signs telling you to Speak Up if you think someone has been molested. genuinely felt like an insane person there but at least my girlfriend found a Transformer there (we did discover that Akibahara is vastly more approachable when you get off the main roads)

13. Harajuku: this one also felt inhospitable for human life but in like an extreme gentrification way instead of like Literally Not Made For Humans way. very weird walking through THe Clothes District and finding no clothes I wanted. almost all of the food vendors were selling extreme overpriced meme foods but we did find a surprisingly good katsudon place

12. Shibuya: the Scramble ! nowhere else in Tokyo played as much Western music. clothes were either Y4k for some shit that looked like it would disintegrate in 5 days or Y20k for like. some canvas with stains on it. a robot served me a mid as fuck highball

11: Asakusa: It was insanely fucking hot the day we happened to be in Asakusa so maybe I'm not judging it entirely on its own merits but kind of an insane area in which to exist. Very touristy (largely towards people natively from Japan/Tokyo) ergo very expensive. Maybe if we had spent longer there I would have liked it more but for now my most vivid memory is of the rickshaws which my girlfriend pointed out were almost exclusively used by Japanese people

10. Ginza: This was not unexpected in any capacity but everything is so expensive here. Ginza was the only location we visited in urban Japan where we could walk for an hour and not encounter either a vending machine or a convenience store. "Do rich people not need to drink" - my girlfriend

9. Kichijoji: We bought Blue Ham Ham here and then ate at one of those restaurants that lets you pick from a selection of raw eggs to eat with rice which was good as fuck

8. Akasaka: kind of nothing here but bars, office buildings, and an entire block dedicated to Harry Potter so we didn't do anything of note here. Yu Gi Oh Curry !

7. Nagano: Pretty unremarkable except for having a mall full of old stuff but we went to some shitty hole in the wall where we were served by someone my girlfriend described as "definitely transgender" the moment we left the restaurant

6. Shimokitazawa: We saw some cool clothes here and like 15 seconds of an indie band playing in a building. Kind of the most insanely hipstery area in Tokyo by a huge margin like astonishingly so. Only time I saw anything be specifically marketed as vegan in Japan

5. Shinjuku: Shinjuku, or at least my personal experience with Shinjuku, is sort of hard to describe. It was the first district in Tokyo that I'd seen after leaving the airport and it imposes this vision of a city that is incomprehensibly vast and dense. I don't think other districts dispelled this image but Shinjuku is by far the most successful at affirming it

4. Ikebukuro: Kinda like Akibahara lite which makes it a lot more tolerable. I could not stop saying "are you inspired with lust for Irish women yet" any time we encountered a location that was even slightly notable. I don't think either myself or my girlfriend ended up buying anything here but we went to a nice restaurant so it all worked out. There's something charming about the police outposts that seem to be present on every 2 blocks and the number of cameras randomly scattered about

3. Ueno: We rly only saw the zoo here (it was mid) but upon stepping out into Ueno park we discovered a Pakistan-Japan Friendship Festival where we watched some women dance and bought some good as fuck sweets

2. Sumida: Quite cutes :) we spent a lot of time wandering around residential areas which always make me feel way more amiable towards an area. Skytree was cool though I probably wouldn't pay for it again. Katsushika Hokusai museum was very cool.

1. Jimbocho/Ochanomizu: We went to the Museum of Modern Art in Tokyo and walked around for 1 million years looking at books and posters and various other items and got some lovely coffee. Wonderful place

SPECIAL MENTION: Chiba: I got a really bad sunburn here

[html-nae]

T R A P S O U L

42!Miles x fem!OC

Part 4 of the 42!Miles x fem!OC series

WC:777

Love.

Love, by definition, is an intense feeling of deep affection.

Or

A strong affection for another out of kinship of personal ties.

Or

Attraction based on sexual desire.

It could be anything or everything you hope for.

Or

The feeling can haunt you.

Love or Lust? Is a question that the majority ask.

All of us ask.

Love is when you try to place them or it out of your mind. But you can’t. You can’t think of anyone or anything else. Just them.

If he danced, she danced. And if he didn’t

She still did.

I hope you find some peace of mind in this lifetime. Or at least something you can call your paradise. Give it a chance Morales.

That’s the same advice Harmony would give him any time he felt stressed.

Say yes to me, I’ve got my eye on you.

Harmony never said those words out loud. She refused, she valued their friendship too much.

She was willing to stay if he left, just so he would have someone to come back to if he decided to return.

He stayed in her mind.

Just like Gwen stayed in his.

Just like Harmony stayed in Miles’.

Not her Miles. The other Miles.

The Miles that knew who she was. The Miles that would burn the world down just to make her happy. The Miles that would sacrifice anyone and everyone to keep her safe. The Miles that loves her.

He’d give anything to spend a few hours with her again.

Hours.

It’s been hours since she heard from Miles.

Don’t let him forget about me.

She didn’t want to relive this feeling of being alone. Harmony didn’t want to keep crying in the silk cloth of her pillow. She didn’t care how long it took.

All though she should've.

As long as she was with Miles, a smile adorned her face. He was her own personal sun. Always bubbly, but left her cold and alone at night. Just to pop back up again the next day and do it all over again.

Harmony hated to admit it, but she was scared.

It felt like he didn’t care.

Why am I still here?

She didn’t mean to be complacent with the decision he made.

But why?

Why her?

Did he think of her every night before he went to sleep or did he think of Harmony for hours on end?

Hours.

It’s been hours since she heard from Miles.

A knock sounded from her window.

Maybe he didn’t forget about me.

Harmony thought while throwing back the comforter.

Not Miles.

Miles’ suit wasn’t white.

Nor did it have a hood.

Or pink.

It was Gwen.

Harmony raised a brow and opened her window, the outside air was cooler than it was inside her room. It was almost 10 at night and the city was lively.

You could hear the laughter from where they were. You could see the fluorescent lighting from the neon signs that were still lit and wouldn’t be turned off until the sun came up the next day.

It was calming.

Calming would’ve been the word to describe the music that was playing on the record player a few feet away.

It would’ve been calming if the coolness against his face wasn’t coming from a metal gauntlet that covered the hand of the other version of himself.

It would’ve been calming if he wasn’t tied on a stiff punching bag. His back was aching.

Everything was aching, like it had been for hours.

Hours.

He’s been here for hours.

If he wasn’t glitching then he was begging for his escape.

Or he was taking blows.

His face was covered in dirt and more bruises.

He was exhausted.

Miles from Earth 42 didn’t bat an eye.

He was envious.

Envious of what Miles had back on Earth 1610.

He had Harmony.

He wondered if she was like his Harmony.

She shined like the patent leather on his new 11’s.

She read him like a book, like he was the Bible and she was the reverend.

Miles spent hours talking about his days as a youth to her.

Exposing all his demons and exposing the reasons he was the way he was.

While Miles was too scared to exposed himself, Harmony knew him better than he knew himself. She got him. She hugged him. Told him she missed him.

He fell in love for the first time.

And now that was all gone.

He was envious of everything that he lost.

Everything and anything he hoped for was gone.

Taglist:

@urmotherswhor3 @not-aya @ihavenousernamewhyy-2 @erensbbg @reneuv @notsaelty @blackwxdo @bajadotcom @delulu4yuta @soseoulol @literalawkwardsimp @m9rgaux @kimchikim @mama-2001 @shoyofroyoyoyo @littleshybunbun

[catslvrr]

heaven sent — 11, 12, 13. everything in between

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The next three days spent together were a blur.

It was complicated — the two of you tiptoeing the line between embracing your time together as a couple, and dealing with the fact that your time together was running out.

You explored the city together like tourists, cramming each day with location after location. You went to the aquarium:

(“Do we really have to wear these again?” You grumbled as Danielle tucked the strawberry sunglasses on your head.

“Well, you were the one complaining about it being a one-time use thing. Now, it’s a two-time use thing!”

“The aquarium is indoors. We don’t need sunglasses.”

“Don’t you want the fishes to think that you’re cool?”

“Why would I care about what the fishes think?”

“What if I was a fish?”

“What?” You asked, perplexed. “Where did that come from?”

“If I was a fish,” she continued with a knowing smile. “Would you still love me?”

“I don’t know if I’d want to be in a romantic relationship with a fish,” you frowned.

“Hypothetically, what if I could shapeshift from fish to human? Thing is, you have to kiss the fish’s lips so I can transform, and I can only stay human for a few hours each day.”

“I guess I could do that,” you grimaced. “But I feel like every time we’d kiss as humans, I’d just imagine fish lips and get turned off.”

Danielle slapped your shoulder. “Is kissing all you think about, you pervert?”

“What?” You sputtered, turning red. “You’re the one that brought kissing up first!”

“Come on,” she laughed, dragging you to the car. “We’re gonna be late.”)

The zoo:

(“Danielle,” you mustered up a sweet tone. “Please get the koala off me.”

She laughed at your petrified face as she took photos. “I am so gonna show these to Minji when we get home.”

“Don’t you dare,” you said in a low voice, craning your neck as far away as possible from the furry monster. “I will revoke your big spoon privileges.”

“You sure about that?” she grinned annoyingly. “I know you like being the little spoon.”

“Well, why don’t you show Mr Koala here how good you are at being the big spoon,” you said through clenched teeth. “You have so much in common — being Australian, and all.”

She clicked her tongue teasingly. “I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your cuddles. You look comfortable with him.”)

On picnics:

(“It’s such a shame,” Danielle sighed melodramatically. “Our picnics aren’t as romantic as the first.”

You gave her a side eye as you sat down on the picnic mat. “Mind you, you’re the one that built a fantasy of that first date. I don’t even know where you got the idea of scattered petals from.”

“A girl can dream,” she pouted, laying her head down on your lap and started to hum a familiar tune. You gently traced her collarbone, reveling in the way the vibrations of her throat sent a tingle throughout your whole body.

“...Am I not romantic enough?” You frowned.

She opened her eyes to meet your pleading ones.

“I’m just teasing, silly.” She flicked your nose, smiling gently. “Everything you do is romantic to me.”

You cringed, but could feel the blooming warmth in your chest.)

You especially loved the drives in between.

(“You know,” Danielle was playing Flow Free, her latest obsession. “You never really told me why you chose law.”

“It’s nothing interesting,” you said, glaring at a car that just cut you off. “I just didn’t know what to choose, and law seemed like something my parents would be satisfied with.”

“What about now?”

“What about now?” You repeated in confusion.

“If you had a chance to restart, would you still have chosen law?”

You pursed your lips in thought. “I don’t know. Probably not.”

“Music?” Danielle suggested with a smile. “Maybe in another life, I could’ve been a singer, and you could’ve written songs for me.”

You scoffed playfully. “Like you’d be good enough to be a singer.”

“Really now?” She smirked, a challenging look in her eyes. “I remember someone asking me to do the vocals for a song they wrote.”

You feigned ignorance. “Oh? And who would that be?”

“I don’t think you know her. She’s pretty cute, though.”

“Don’t tell me you’re cheating on me,” you tried to fight back a smile. “I’ll file a lawsuit against you.”

“With what money?”

“I don’t think God would appreciate you making fun of broke uni students.”)

You would finish each day at ungodly hours, when one of you was too exhausted to continue your musings and debates about random topics, falling asleep mid-conversation.

But you would wake up at seven in the morning the next day, without fail, to that stupid Madagascar song. You grew fond of it, eventually, when you associated it with Danielle’s giggles that would accompany it.

You couldn’t have asked for a better person to spend this time with. Despite your alleged ‘way with words’, you always had trouble finding the right words to express how you felt about her.

You always hated that about yourself, especially in these three days, the feelings bubbling inside of you left unspoken. You hoped Danielle knew just how much you loved her.

You never had to worry about her not loving you, however. She was just like before that day at the beach, still squeezing your hand, still smiling brightly, still asking how your day was.

(“You know what I’m gonna ask,” she smiled, standing outside the apartment door, looking as angelic as always.

“And you know what I’m gonna say,” you stepped closer, pulling her towards you by the waist. “Every day with you is a good day.”)

But the two of you knew that this would not last forever. You would see it in the way Danielle’s smile would suddenly waver, imperceptible to anyone else but you. You would see it when she would clutch onto you at night, tears staining your shirt when she thought you were asleep.

Danielle would see it when your step faltered for a split second, and your eyes would glaze over with that faraway look she once saw at the cat cafe. She would see it when you would hurriedly pull her along to the next destination, as if you could both run away from the fated 14th day.

Neither of you dared to speak about it out loud, choosing to just hold the other tighter when either of you remembered. You thought about what Danielle said to you at the beach. Your memories will be altered, as if I was never here.

Is it worse that you’ll never remember that she existed, or would it be worse if you remembered, but you would have to live with the fact that you’ll never see her again?

You were sure you’d always pick the latter, just as Danielle had chosen. She had left an indelible mark on you, and you would do anything to remember it.

Back then, you were too timid to stare at Danielle for more than a few seconds. But now, you find yourself constantly staring at her, wanting to capture every detail on her face and burn it in your memory. 

You would study her face when the two of you lazed around in bed, gently tracing from her jawline to the bridge of her nose, doing it until you felt like your fingers were molded to the shape of her.

You inwardly laughed at the irony of this whole situation. The reason why you made the 11:11 wish in the first place was because you couldn’t move on from grief and loss. And now you would have to deal with it all over again, in a slightly different way, because you won’t even remember who you’re losing this time.

God had a funny way of doing things.

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[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Alta Ifland

Published: Mar 25, 2024

Most of us have had at least once in a lifetime the experience of paradise when a place seems suddenly transfigured and elevated to an otherworldly realm. I experienced paradise in Iceland’s Reykjavik Airport in September 1991, where the plane that took me as a political refugee from Romania to the United States stopped for a couple of hours for a layover. It was the first time I had left my country of birth, and Reykjavik’s airport was my first contact with the West. I remember entering spaces that made me think of Aladdin’s cave of wonders, where under transparent glass lay mesmerizing diamond necklaces, and gorgeous saleswomen with seducing smiles inviting me to try them on; and I remember the impeccable marble-white restrooms like an alien spaceship with curious buttons I had no idea how to maneuver. Everything was clean, as if under the care of a doting fairy, and everybody smiled quietly as if life was a streak of uninterrupted joy.

I went back to Reykjavik for a literary conference twenty years later, but I could no longer find paradise. The diamond necklaces had no sparkle, Aladdin’s cave turned out to be a banal store, the women were like everywhere else, and the toilets nothing to write home about. The gap between the two experiences paralleled my first encounter with JFK Airport in New York, where—having to wait for my connecting flight to Jacksonville, Florida—I wandered for several hours among a hustle and bustle of people, stores, restaurants, buses and taxis, convinced that I was exploring the city itself. I mean, who in their right mind would imagine that they could find all of the above in an airport? It was only years later when I returned to New York that I realized that all I had seen of the city was, in fact, the airport.

These two primal encounters have left me with a lifelong love of airports, although life post-9/11 has considerably altered the experience. But the impression that our existence is made of two irreconcilable universes remained for a long time until, roughly, the advent of social media, which managed to unite the two into one indistinguishable blur and a chorus of mingled, screaming voices. Having spent my life between different worlds, I’m fascinated by the different frameworks people can place around the same events, according to the point of view given to them by their location in time and space.

As newly-arrived immigrants, my then-husband and I naturally gravitated toward other immigrants from Eastern Europe, and since they often went to church—which was, anyhow, the only socializing venue in Jacksonville (a city immortalized by Henry Miller in The Air-Conditioned Nightmare as a soul-killing locale)—we found ourselves for two years in the strange company of puritan evangelicals. After this edifying experience, my admission to an M.A. program at the University of Florida threw me into an environment that seemed completely opposite to the previous one, as if America were made of two separate worlds with two different types of people. Both types were a shock because they didn’t resemble the Americans I had known from the movies I’d seen—neither the neighbors who asked our Romanian friends to cover the non-existent breasts of their five-year-old daughter at the pool, nor my professors from the English department who joyfully professed their Communist and Marxist convictions to a roomful of sympathetic ears.

I cannot forget one professor who praised Mao’s “cultural revolution”—to this day I have no idea whether he was aware that millions had died as a result of this “revolution,” and that many Chinese in rural areas were so starved that they ate their own children.

It was clear to me that these academics knew nothing about the world I came from, which was, again, shocking, given that I knew a lot more about their world even though the country I grew up in was so isolated from the West that we used to refer to it as “outside.” I was the one who grew up in a prison, yet it was American academics who were the ignorant ones.

Growing up in Communist Romania, I read many American classics (the first book I read at eight years old was Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer) and watched countless American movies. On the other hand, my American counterparts never read any books by Romanians (though I am not arrogant enough to demand that) or by Eastern Europeans generally, and rarely watched any European movies, let alone Eastern European movies. Yet these people who were clearly ignorant about my world were not shy about letting me know that what I experienced was not “real” Communism and that they—who had never set foot in a Communist country—were much better positioned to define Communism. How was that possible?

Let me tell you what nobody teaches Americans about the part of the world I come from.

--

For years, whenever I drove on one of America’s ten-lane highways, it felt impossible that this world existed in the same historical era as the world of my grandparents. I don’t have any photos of my paternal grandparents because in Communist Romania very few of us owned cameras. But they have remained etched in my mind in a way that makes them immortal, eternally old, as if their dark faces had always been crossed by deep ridges—the kind of faces only Indians (as we called them back then) had in black and white Hollywood movies, their feet always bare and so thick with calluses that when they washed them at night you could see the solidified dirt like mortar between brick-like layers of skin. They never used soap yet they had a drawer full of it, every single piece sent or brought by my father from the city. For them, soap was the equivalent of expensive jewelry, which Grandmother occasionally showed me, opening the drawer with pride: “See? Your father sent them. I keep them all.”

My grandparents lived in a world in which there was no money—I mean, there was no exchange of money, save for the rare occasions when Father gave them a few coins to buy bread. I remember walking with Grandfather unending kilometers through a sea of yellow corn until we reemerged in the world of the living, and Grandfather took out a handkerchief with a complicated knot that he untied to free the coins in exchange for the loaf of bread handed to him by the store clerk at the edge of the cornfield. But this type of exchange happened rarely. Usually, we ate hard polenta, the default everyday meal of Romanian peasants. We ate it either as a substitute for bread, which my grandparents usually couldn’t afford, or else as a meal immersed in a bowl of milk, one bowl for the entire table, inside of which our spoons often met, clanking.

My grandparents lived in the same way their ancestors had for generations in that part of the world: the province of Oltenia in Southern Romania. The only thing that had changed was that they were no longer periodically invaded by the Turks. The stove Grandmother used for cooking was like none other I’d seen except in films about remote indigenous populations—an oval-shaped structure of whitewashed clay set on the ground, with an opening through which one could glimpse the burning twigs, and atop, simmering pots full of aromatic dishes. In front of the stove, wearing her long Gypsy-like dress and stirring the pots, was seated Grandmother on a tiny chair, it too from a different world—about twenty inches high, with only three legs.

My grandparents’ village is where I spent my summers until I finished high school. During the school year, I lived with my parents in a small town in Transylvania in one of the countless intensely ugly Soviet-style flats. The grade school I went to was five minutes away on foot—since first grade, we all went on foot everywhere, unsupervised, and had the apartment key tied on a cord around our neck (apparently, today’s Romanians call us “the generation with the key by the neck”). Needless to say, we came back home on our own, warmed up the food prepared by our mothers, and were responsible for the supervision of our younger siblings until our parents came home from work.

My classmates were mostly children of factory workers and public office clerks; many of these parents had never finished high school and those with university diplomas were rare. Under Communism there was almost no middle class, and for a simple reason: the majority of people who had been part of it (university professors, politicians, economists, sociologists, priests, artists, writers, journalists, etc.) had been imprisoned, tortured and murdered.

Their guilt? They were all “enemies of the people,” the “people” being defined as dirt-poor peasants and what Marx called “the “proletariat.” Neither of my parents had college degrees. My father, whose parents were illiterate, never read a book; my mother, whose father was a chiabur (a farmer who paid for the sin of once owning land by spending a year in prison and having his eldest daughter refused admission to high school), used to read and over the years acquired a small library of Romanian, French, and English classics which I read dozens of times. After I finished reading our library, I began to explore the local libraries. With my best friend, whose parents were construction workers and morbid alcoholics, we took weekly trips to a library where the books were so yellowed and old they fell apart, and returned with a huge travel bag full of books. Without any guidance, we discovered many of the great classics: Sartre, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Cervantes, Gide, Flaubert, Zweig, Twain, Dickens—we read them all, entirely unaware that they were “great writers,” because no one had lectured us on their greatness. In our isolated world, we had a great advantage over children growing up in Western countries: we could discover the world with our own minds and in our own words.

When I say we had an “advantage,” don’t imagine that I'm glorifying the “system” in which we grew up. The world in which we were reading these books had the following characteristics: long lines to buy anything, major food items (sugar, oil, coffee, flour, butter) rationed and hard to find, hygiene products (soap, feminine products, toothpaste) entirely absent, winters without heat spent with our coats on inside our homes, electricity two hours a day, a single TV channel with most of its programs being delirious political propaganda, water cut off for days and sometimes weeks. In order to survive most city dwellers had to use the black market, where you could buy a pair of jeans for the cost of a monthly salary. For reference, my parents’ incomes combined totaled about eighty dollars per month.

In school we studied French. Without anyone’s exhortation and only the help of a dictionary, I soon began to read French classics for my own pleasure: Mérimée, Gide, Zola, Martin du Gard, Dumas, everything I could find. I was the best student in my grade in French, so I decided to major in it. In order to be admitted to college one needed to pass a very difficult exam in one’s specialty, and there were only about twenty positions for French students per university with just a handful of universities in the entire country. The majority of applicants able to pass the exam were either children of university professors or students from preparatory high schools. Given these circumstances, my teachers, neighbors, and parents all insisted that I should study engineering like everybody else and told me I was crazy to even consider French. Yet I persisted and passed the exam with the highest possible grade. While in college, during an internship where I worked as an assistant French teacher in a high school, I attended a class where the lead teacher introduced French food to the students, and after several minutes of hearing descriptions of baguettes, brie, camembert, and the like, one of them fainted. For us, this food was like fiction—not only had we never tasted it, we couldn’t even imagine that we would ever see it outside of a book. We were hungry and cold all the time, yet whenever we’d turn on the TV all we'd hear was that we lived in a “golden era”—the regime’s official language—for which we’d have to thank the Communist Party and its General Secretary, Comrade Nicolae Ceaușescu. All the country’s institutions held regular meetings where everybody, using a language of thought-terminating clichés which we called “wooden language,” had to massage the ego of the “Dear Leader” who made such an era possible. In this language, Ceaușescu was a “skilled helmsman,” a “beloved parent,” and “the exploitation of man by man” had been forever abolished.

During this "golden era” of Communism, when I was barely twenty-one, I got blacklisted as a “person very dangerous for the security of the state” because I had married a dissident. You see, in Communism, the entire family paid for the deeds of any of its members, including those of the dead ones. My husband’s main guilt was that he was the brother of a famous Romanian journalist who worked abroad for one of the Western radio stations that condemned the injustices of Communism. To understand why this was considered a crime, you need to know that the first thing Ceaușescu did every day was read a report on what had been said about him the previous day.

Since his fate was already sealed and he wasn’t even allowed to go to college, my husband and a few friends tried to create a political party that would have been an alternative to the only official one. Needless to say in a country where one in four citizens was an informant, they were quickly apprehended and subjected to harsh interrogations. This happened before my husband and I met; him being too traumatized to talk about it, I found out from his parents how he had been imprisoned and cruelly beaten. After we got married, he signed a petition demanding that the regime stop the demolition of villages and churches, a project Ceaușescu had started because he realized that the traditional rural lifestyle still gave people some independence. Consequently, Ceaușescu put us under 24-hour surveillance, with a car constantly parked in front of our building. We were young and foolish, and so we made fun of the unending series of spies who were struggling to remain inconspicuous every time we went out and they followed us. Sometimes we mocked them overtly, laughing out loud as we hopped on a bus, while they remained outside, but it was a dangerous game: you never knew when an “accident” could happen.

One afternoon, an individual in a black leather jacket got out of the car parked in front of our building while holding an envelope in his hand, entered for a few seconds, then returned with his hand empty. We didn’t keep the letter that my husband had retrieved from our mailbox because it made him so furious he tore it to pieces. The letter warned that “some people” might want to hurt me badly. The police summoned me a few days later to their headquarters for an undisclosed matter, with my husband forced to wait outside. Nothing horrible happened to me that day, save for the fact that I was asked to wait for several hours while my husband remained outside, not knowing when—or if—I was going to come out. When I was finally brought into an office, the officer informed me in a performatively worried tone that “some people” wanted to hurt me, and he wanted to make me aware of this danger.

This is how we lived for about two years until the anti-Communist Revolution from December 1989 swept the dictator and his clique away.

In the first week after the dictator was killed a member of the newly formed Front of the National Salute—the revolutionary organization that replaced the Communist Party and of which my husband was briefly a member—came to our home to uninstall a microphone that the Securitate (the Secret Police) had hidden behind our bed.

It took another quarter of a century until my husband was allowed to see the file the Secret Police had on us. It contained two thousand pages of content produced through the coordinated efforts of dozens of individuals and tens of thousands of dollars spent every month on our surveillance—in a country in which the average income was forty dollars. It also included the names of the “friends" who had informed on us—some of which we’d already guessed, others, a surprise. Our Secret Police file remained open until December 1991, that is, two years after the regime had fallen, and three months after we had left the country for America.

--

I left the building where my parents lived almost forty years ago, but when I last visited, some of the neighbors I had growing up were still there. Imagine passing by an old man who looks twenty years older than you, and then remembering that you had a crush on him when you were twelve and he was fourteen. The grey Soviet flats have remained unchanged, but in a certain way give you the reassuring feeling that time stands still and there's a continuity between generations—something absent in ever-changing American society.

While the memory of life in the small town of my childhood is ambivalently hazy, when I remember the rural world of my grandparents a wave of nostalgia washes over me. The three-legged wobbling chairs, the haystack above the cow barn where I used to read, even the short-lived doll made of rags that a friend from across the street had taught me how to make, ephemeral as she was, is now bathed in a golden aura of longing for a lost world.

[ Photos of Alta's grandparent's home, taken during a recent visit to Romania. On the left is the cow barn where Alta used to read. ]

I sometimes look at the children of my American friends, with their room full of toys, and I know that their toys don’t make them any happier than my rag doll had made me. And I know that my American female friends, emancipated as they are from the “patriarchy,” aren’t happier than Grandmother. In all traditional societies, labor is organized according to the existence of the two sexes and this has nothing to do with anyone’s “oppression.” Men do some things, women do other things—it's simply a division of labor based on physical differences between the two, and it’s a division that can be observed across cultures and millennia. According to all statistics and their own statements, it’s obvious that many American women are in profound disharmony with themselves and the world in which they live. And this is certainly not because the world in which Grandmother lived was better—although I am wondering more and more whether it was much worse.

The first thing you need to be unhappy is to ask yourself whether you are happy or not—Unlike American women, I am convinced that this is a question Grandmother never asked herself.

Grandmother, just like her mother and her mother’s mother, lived in a way that imitated the lives of previous generations, in an entanglement with “tradition”—the dirty word that American feminists and progressives utter with so much disdain and which they translate as “oppression” and “victimization.” I often try to imagine what Grandmother would have answered had I told her that she was “oppressed” by the patriarchy in particular and society in general. I think she would have had a hard time understanding the concept. You see, it’s hard to feel “oppressed” when you have inner freedom. Aside from this, nobody in the world of my grandparents thought in these terms because in traditional societies it is shameful to be a victim. Only in a world of privilege can victimhood acquire a desirable status. I call this the law of subliminal contradiction, something I discovered by observing how Americans behave. Another example: only in a society of excess can the richest people dress in a way that imitates the homeless. In the society of poverty in which I grew up, it was shameful to wear torn-apart clothes; on the other hand, if you look at the way most well-to-do Americans are dressed today, you’d think they live on the street. Consider high fashion clothing that gives the illusion of poverty and manual labor, like mud-splashes and rips on jeans.

Today I write these lines from France, in my second exile. And many things have changed! My husband is now my ex-husband; he has returned to Romania, and I to Europe. My best friend with whom I used to explore libraries and books, and who grew up in a one-bedroom apartment with two parents, a grandmother, an older sister, and her daughter, and who at ten years old was forced by circumstances to take care of the entire household while her father lay drunk in a ditch and her mother worked on construction sites, is now a doctor and owner of a major medical lab. Unlike my American acquaintances, she never saw herself as a “victim” of anything. When I came to this country as a political refugee over thirty years ago, the thing that most impressed me about Americans was that they were very responsible and resilient. Thirty years later this country has been turned upside-down. But the truth is that the signs and the seeds of this reversal were already present thirty years ago, mostly in one particular space: academia.

The rare Marxists from back then are now the norm (although many traditional Marxists point out that, unlike American academics, Marx was never concerned with “race and gender”). They are the people who call Putin “right-wing,” as if he'd been schooled by the Republican Party rather than the Communist Party, whose Secret Police he represented as an officer of the KGB. The reason Putin is “right-wing” is because he’s a nationalist and anti-LGBT—but if these academics had read any books from my part of the world, they’d know that every single Communist country was ultra-nationalist and homophobic. In Communist Romania you could go to prison for twenty years for being a homosexual. Putin may no longer be a “Communist” because the gifts of the Capital are way too sweet, but his authoritarianism is rooted in Communism nonetheless, and his homophobia has nothing to do with being “right-wing” unless you project a Western value system onto a completely different world in which the categories of Left and Right merge.

After you’ve experienced the clichés of Communist propaganda, you can easily spot the mental structures underlying the impulse to reduce the complexity of the world down to one huge power struggle in which everybody is either an oppressor or a victim. This is why having lived through Communism has become very useful in contemporary America, and it's why the few of us who denounced the insanity of Communism when it could have cost our lives won’t keep our mouths shut now that America is losing its mind. For instance, the concept of “reparations” based on inherited collective guilt is eerily similar to the Communist practice of punishing an entire family for the deeds of any of its members, including the dead. Just like the “Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion” activists who are being paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to lecture you, the Communists created a privileged class called the “nomenklatura”—Party activists who did nothing but spread ideology and propaganda, making sure that the rest of us conformed to the official dogma. One trait of people who create dogmatic ideologies is that they never feel obligated to obey their own dogma—if they did, they would have to cancel their own privilege.

Because history is always written from one point of view, being an American academic often comes with the privilege of (re)writing history. And in an Americentric world, these academics look at everything through the lens of their own history, which they project onto everybody else. When have you ever heard academics from English departments and Women/Gender/Ethnic Studies—who have been teaching generations of students about the evils of European colonization—denounce the colonization of Eastern Europe by the Russians and by the Turks? It’s as if 500 years of history—the history of the Ottoman Empire—never existed. Or as if Russia started its colonial history with the invasion of Ukraine.

According to these academics, being European is equivalent to having a mysterious essence called “whiteness,” and I should repent for my “white privilege” and Europe’s colonial history, as if my “white” ancestors had colonized anyone and not the other way around, or as if they had enslaved “brown” Muslims and not the other way around.

Let me tell you an anecdote about how I was made to pay for my “white privilege.” You may remember the brouhaha after the poem performed by the young, black author, Amanda Gorman, at Biden’s inauguration, was commissioned to be translated into Dutch not by another black woman, but by a white person. This white person happened to be Marieke Lukas Rijneveld, who identifies as “non-binary” and is a few years older than Gorman. After a complaint that the chosen translator was not black, the translator withdrew from the project and the publisher issued a public apology—never mind that it was Gorman herself who had chosen the translator and that it’s quite likely that there aren’t many black translators who translate into Dutch and have Rijneveld’s literary skills. I know this because I had read Rijneveld’s award-winning book translated into English and recommended it on social media. When the scandal broke, many American translators—some of whom I was personally acquainted with through my work as a translator—commented on the affair online, supporting the decision to replace the white translator with a black translator. In response, I dared to share the comment of a French member of PEN, who believed that skin color should have nothing to do with who translates what. I accompanied this comment with my own: “I think that, this being a forum of translators, we should give a voice to different opinions from other languages.” I was subjected to a pile-on of virulent attacks, summoned to delete my “inflammatory” remarks, and it was made clear to me that my opinion could only be the result of my “white privilege” because I was (I'm not kidding you) a “cultural essentialist.” The cherry on top was that I was also called a “transphobe” because I had “misgendered” Rijneveld—the irony being that I was the only one in that group who had actually read and supported the “non-binary” author. I left these discussions after it was clear that I didn’t have the “revolutionary consciousness” to belong.

The fact is that nothing—and certainly not “white privilege” or any kind of “systemic” anything—is stopping anyone in America from learning languages and translating. When I was a graduate student in French at the University of Florida, my black classmate had spent time in France, just like everybody else in our program. I was the only one who had never been to France. Yet if I could learn French while believing that I would never see France because traveling to Western Europe was, for a Romanian of my station, as impossible as going to Mars, then any American—black, blue, or purple—can do it.

Privilege is a funny thing, especially in a society in which being a victim grants the highest social status. I for one prefer to assume the privilege of having experienced both Communism and life as an immigrant—a privilege America’s social justice warriors will never have—because it has taught me that you can be free under the worst dictatorship and a slave to groupthink in the freest of worlds.

==

#SmashCapitalism

🤡

[shewhohangsoutincemeteries]

to ashes, in memoriam

Clint Barton x F!Reader

To Ashes, Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Summary: the third anniversary of the snap thaws some of the tension between the two of you.

Warnings: hurt/comfort

Word Count: 1,570

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Days Since the Decimation: Three Years

Springtime in London might have been lovely, had it not been for the blanket of solemnity hanging over every square mile of the city. The third anniversary of the Decimation had been looming over you, over everyone, for weeks now. And now that it had arrived… you had spent much of the day locked away in your room, hoping to simply sleep through it.

Clint had stayed, and the two of you had returned to old routines, making your way west until you’d finally found yourselves on the outskirts of London. If possible, the two of you communicated even less than before, and you found yourself avoiding him just to make it easier to ignore the tension between you. The longer it went on, the more frustrated with your situation you became. Much of your time seemed now to be spent expelling the energy building inside you.

So, when Clint knocked on the door to the room you had claimed when you’d found yourselves an apartment on the outskirts of the city in a building too rundown for the city to relocate locals into, you were surprised. You sat up in the bed, pushing hair out of your eyes.

“Come in?”

“Hey,” he said gruffly, averting his eyes as if you were in some way indecent. It was almost normal to you now; you swore the only time you ever really felt his eyes on you was when yours were turned away. “Did I wake you?”

You shook your head; you’d been laying there for the last two hours, staring out the window at nothing but the sliver of sky you could see between the curtains. But that didn’t feel like something worth mentioning. “What’s up?”

“Get dressed. We’re going out.”

You frowned, pushing the blankets off of your legs. “You’ve got a target?”

“It’s not work,” he replied, his tone unchanging. “Civilian clothes.”

“…Okay.” you said, confusion furrowing your brow. “Okay, just, uh… Just give me five minutes.”

***

Hyde Park was crowded, throngs of people choking the pathways that led to the lake. Lingering in any one place with this many people made you feel exposed in a way that you’d come to loathe over the last three years, and you tugged the baseball cap you wore a little lower on your brow.

“What are we doing here?” you asked quietly.

Clint shrugged a shoulder as though his leading you out that evening had been no more than a whim. But despite his reluctance to talk, to even spend time with you outside of a hunt, this was where he’d brought you. “It’s a memorial.”

Daylight was beginning to ebb as you approached Serpentine Lake, and the lights that marked the edges of the path the two of you were following were starting to glow against the soft light of dusk. The crowds around you collected in smaller parties, and the atmosphere that hung like a mist around the park kept their tones hushed. Reverent. The result was an almost hypnotic hum, and you found yourself stepping closer to Clint’s side at the noise.

He didn’t move away.

You didn’t understand quite what he meant until you finally reached the Lake proper. And your breath hitched.

Countless lights bobbed along the surface of the lake, slowly moving in and out of view between the bodies lining the shore. Each light was carried by a delicate paper lantern, the underside waxed against the water. As you drew closer, you could just make out the lines marking the sides of the lanterns still in the hands of the people ahead of you; the names of those they had lost.

“Clint…”

He didn’t say anything; and you didn’t know how you were supposed to finish that sentence. Booths had been set up about thirty feet back from the shoreline, and you followed Clint wordlessly towards one of them. The table was carefully piled with paper lanterns and tealights, and after collecting two of each from a kind-faced woman, he led you to an unoccupied patch on the shore.

The sound of water shifting joined the soundscape around you, the scent of it at the edge of your mind. Clint knelt down on the grass, handing you one of the lanterns and a marker. You paused after taking them, running your fingertips over the dense paper before you joined him.

You wrote their names slowly, carefully, turning the lantern so the letters formed a morbid crown around its head.

Wanda… Sam… Bucky… Vision… Hill… Fury… Peter… T’Challa… Shuri…

You hesitated for a long moment before following their names with two more words.

I’m sorry.

***

The crowds grew so slowly and steadily around you that you barely noticed it before you stood and found yourself surrounded by bodies. Clint’s arm brushed against yours as he straightened too, the two of you holding your lanterns carefully before you. Your fingers tightened briefly on yours as though it would be ripped from your hands; wax slid under your nails.

Your eyes dropped to the near-identical lantern in Clint’s hands. His thumb stroked over the rigid paper almost idly, and you turned away again before your eyes could focus on the words that he had written on the side of it. Instead, you shouldered your way through the people crowding the shoreline until the toes of your boots were kissed by the soft ebb and flow of the water.

Once again you felt Clint’s presence by your shoulder, and you resisted the urge to lean back into the warmth of him. Instead, you turned to face him, swallowing as you took his lantern gingerly. You held them steady, your eyes meeting his in brief, flickering moments as he lit the candles within.

And the two of you set the lanterns down on the water, and you wrapped your arms around yourself as they ever so slowly bobbed out to join the others to reflect golden light on the mirror’s surface.

***

It wasn’t long, despite your best effort, before you lost sight of which lanterns were yours, eyes blurring with the pinpricks of light in front of you. Clint still stood by your side, and the more time stretched out before you the more the sounds of murmured conversation and the acoustic guitar someone played nearby fell away. It all fell away until all that anchored you to reality, to that spot you stood on, was the soft sound of Clint’s steady, calming breath.

The crowd moved around you in the same kind of slow ebb and flow as the water; the two of you standing sentinel on the edge of the lake. The sky darkened above you, and the lights on the lake warmed as the water turned to ink. Someone was speaking over a microphone, a grave voice intoning a eulogy to everyone that had been lost.

What you noticed of the speaker’s words soon turned to messages of hope and ‘togetherness in the face of adversity’, and Clint’s own voice broke you out of your revery.

“Hey,” he said softly, his hand touching the middle of your back. “Come with me.”

You nodded, wrapping your arms around yourself as he led you away from the bulk of the crowd. You found yourself needing to fill the silence that hung between you, and you spoke quietly. “How did you hear about all this?”

“There was something on the news,” he replied, an almost forced casualness to his tone. “I thought… I thought this might be good for you.”

You raised a brow in touched disbelief at his concern, a small, snide smile blooming at the corner of your lips. “Just me, huh?”

You saw his own smirk flash over his features beneath his hood despite himself, but he didn’t reply.

“Thank you, Clint.”

He nodded; his eyes still turned ahead of you. A part of you wondered what if would take for him to meet your eye again. He’d shaved, for the first time in weeks, and you cursed yourself silently even as you considered briefly what it would be like to trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips.

A shoulder knocked into yours – a passerby unaware of either of your identities – and you stumbled slightly. It was only for a second, but it was enough to separate the two of you for a brief moment. And you looked down in surprise as Clint turned back towards you and caught hold of your hand with his own.

You watched his hand slip around to take yours, his fingers lacing with your own. His palm was warm and softer than you remembered. He tugged you back into step beside him gently, and something selfish in your chest flipped when he didn’t immediately let go.

***

Clint led you to the bridge that overlooked Serpentine Lake, tucking his hands into his pockets as you stood against the rails. He’d later, when he’d heard your breath shudder, wrapped an arm around your shoulders and tucked you in against his side. You hadn’t questioned the change in his demeanor – the anniversary had granted the two of you a brief reprieve in his staunch avoidance of you – you’d just let your head rest against his shoulder.

It was hours before you left that spot, long after the last mourners had gone, and after the very last candle had gone out.

.

.

.

tags:@trekkingaroundasgard@lovely-dreamer19@wittyforachange@wefracturedmotivation@january-echoes@glossyloner@capitalnineteen@youclickedthislink@s0ftness@castieltrash1@drakelover78@queenoftheunderdark@lol-you-thought@akumune@xxboesefrauxx@enna-core@hearmyharmony@katsies@youralphawolf72@maenji@rhymesmenagerie@gwianasky@melaclintbartoncorner@loki-is-loved@whovianayesha @bradfordbantams @alice-the-nerd@fanofallthefics@ace-fandom-dumbass@kaelyn-lobrutto24@twsssmlmaa@earth-pig-fish@meeksmusic83@hallothankmas@justanothermagicalsara@janineb86@darsynia@rhymesmenagerie @thatwelshbi @lauraashley93

[boombambaby]

As Emperor, I can’t have any of those ‘flaw’ things!

[ another flashback / He’s about 11/12 here ]

Tense, judgy faces stare back at him from across the room, each expression more hard and unyielding than the last. Yzma is amongst them, sitting at the end of the table with a look of cold disinterest on that ancient, wrinkled face of hers that only she could be capable of. “It’s an outrage! He can’t go out like this.” She spits with venom in her voice as she gestures at him before turning to face the council member directly opposite of her.

“What will the peasants think? That our Emperor, a descendant of Inti, is unable to tend to himself for an hour alone outside, even with the assistance of royal aid? That he goes out looking for fights? How can they think someone so careless can rule the Kingdom?!”

Low murmurs of agreement sound around the table, and Kuzco casts his gaze towards the floor in an uncharacteristic display of shyness, with one of his hands coming up to rub his opposite arm. He can feel the Royal Records Keeper’s presence behind him, along with the nanny who had been tasked to keep track of him, and the scribe who is transcribing this entire ordeal. In a room full of people, he feels completely alone as the council talks amongst themselves about what they should do with him.

Kuzco had tried to defend himself earlier, insisting that it wasn’t the nanny’s fault and that he purposely got away from her, but how could he have possibly known what would happen if he went into the city on his own when he’s always been kept safe to the point of mundane boredom within the confines of the palace. Almost immediately the council shut him down, their faces stoic as they told him in no uncertain terms that she had been tasked with the responsibility of keeping an eye on him and that this entire mess was her fault.

From the moment he was old enough to speak, Kuzco has had it beat into his head that he was the next in line for the throne; the true Emperor, set to take over the Kingdom as soon as he came of age with his father missing from the picture. It wasn’t until he hit double digits that the true grooming began, and all of his time began to be spent undergoing lessons, rituals and meetings to prepare him for his inevitable future role. Like any adolescent, Kuzco found it hard to focus and preferred to be on his own, especially if it meant being outside. He regularly threw fits when a meeting went on for too long, or he started to get tired of listening to Yzma overseeing the peasant complaints and trying to follow along. It was necessary, of course– one day it would be him on that throne, but it was sooooo boring.

Yzma never had any issue giving him what he wanted if it meant getting him out of her old lady hair, ordering nannies to keep him busy so she could uphold her agenda for the day. As long as he was content and more importantly NOT her problem, she was happy– and so, he had learned early on not to bother her with aimless requests, and instead found his way around curfews and pestered the nannies into letting him do what he wanted when he could get away with it.

Which is exactly how he had ended up in this mess.

In a droning, uninterested tone, the Royal Scribe had been going over the ‘schedule’ for the day, what meetings or lessons he has, when he will need to meet with Yzma to discuss what she plans to do with a new tax (that he ultimately has final say on, even though he understands exactly NOTHING about it) and the upcoming plans for the festivities taking place in a local village. Something about a potato growing contest? No thank you. Kuzco decided rather quickly after that, that he would rather put pins in his eyes and had waited only as long as it took for the scribe to leave to sneak out of the room, and then the palace. Warm, somewhat balmy early morning air greets him as he first steps outside, and Kuzco takes a moment to breathe it in while he contemplates his options. Complete and total freedom is at his fingertips, there’s a whole Kingdom to explore without the guards trailing him or official matters to bore him to tears and he intends on enjoying it to the fullest.

Despite how often he’s been seen in public with Yzma and boasted about as the future Emperor, very few people take notice of him as he finds his way into the Imperial city, and starts to wander through the busy city streets. Peasants sell their wares, haggling with each other over everything from pottery and foods to farm animals, and Kuzco is in awe as he watches them and takes in all of the intricately designed items for sale. The occasional person turns to their neighbor to whisper about the unaccompanied child, but he pays them no mind and for the most part is left alone. It’s his first time in the city, and one of the first times in his life he isn’t the center of attention, and the longer he can keep it that way, the better.

Kuzco watches as a fight between two peasants breaks out over a llama, and he stares openly at them as their raised voices turn into flying fists and a scuffle that quickly becomes reckless. While other peasants cleared the way for them as they threw each other around the street, Kuzco moves closer– which is exactly how he ended up slammed into a wall himself, with a hit to the face by an arrant elbow that will most certainly cause a darkening bruise and open a small cut above his eye. Two female peasants gasp and rush forward to pull him away before he can be pulled back into the brawl, but that’s the exact moment that the Royal Guard appears, and — recognizing Kuzco immediately— head straight to his side to pull him away from the confrontation themselves.

Lips twist in a grimace as he struggles and fails to hold back the sobs threatening to escape him from the pain, and his hands press over his face to hide his injury from the guards who try to check him over. It must be obvious who he is at that point, as the peasants fighting stop to stare, and the few that were rushing to his aid all take several steps back and away to give them space. Before he can so much as give any of them another passing glance, he’s being whisked away to the palace by the guards to tend to his injuries and resume his Royal duties for the day.

One visit from the Royal Healer later for a few bandages and some salve, and Kuzco is back in his robes and standing before the council, wringing his hands as he awaits his judgment. It isn’t fair that the nanny is being punished for his insolence, but he’s hardly in a position (at least, in this current moment) to argue with the council who is already disappointed in him.

“Kuzco!” Yzma’s shrill voice cuts through his thoughts like a knife, and Kuzco blinks himself back to awareness as he stares up at her. “You cannot behave like this. Do you understand? As Emperor, it is imperative that you appear to be perfect to your constituents at ALL times. You are a descendant of the Sun God; that makes YOU a God, and God’s do not have weaknesses, or imperfections!”

He swallows and nods his head, wincing when the movement makes his head ache and dutifully ignores the murmurings from the council at the table. “I need an answer Kuzco; DO you understand?”

“Yes, Yzma. I get it.”

Yzma scowls, folding her spindly arms over her chest rolls her eyes in annoyance. “Very well. Go get cleaned up; you will NOT be able to make your appearances today with that bruise on your face, but I expect you to be ready for your lessons later on. Go away now.”

Without another word Kuzco turns, huffing as he strides out of the room with a different set of servants trailing behind him. At least he got out of seeing the winner of the stupid potato contest for the day. Next time, he’ll make sure to plan it out a lot better.