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l0ngschl0ngking · 2 years ago

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Not his type

Javier Peña x f!reader

summary: you are helping at Chucho’s ranch and Javier thinks you are still definitely not his type

warnings: as usually SMUT ( vaginal fingering, oral -m!receiving, male masturbation, protected p in v, biting, hair pulling), cursing, soft!Javi - cuz that’s my favorite genre of Javi -, just a smudge of angst, mentions of bullying, mentions of food, fluff

word count: 10.5 k (I like them big I guess *wink wink*)

A/N: I planned to start my Marcus Pike fic but then this idea popped into my head and I just had to write it. This is basically just a long friends to lovers fic.

Javier Peña is not a simple man – far from it. He is bitter and hot-headed, and he feels small no matter what he does – he should have done better, he should have been smarter, quicker. He shouldn't have been such an idiot. Maybe then he wouldn’t be now standing in front of his childhood home. Maybe then...

But no matter what Javier thinks of himself he is a good man. He is caring and always wants to do the right thing – even if the consequences of his actions make him look like a bad guy. He doesn’t care – or he does but doesn’t let it show. Doesn’t want people to know that perhaps he is not as strong as he seems. Doesn’t want them to know that he cares – sometimes too deeply. Doesn’t want them to know he might feel – it's better if he seems unapproachable and looks like if you'd touch him, he'd burn you too greatly - so much that you would want to do nothing with him ever again.

So Javier feels the weight of all of his sins drop into his stomach when he keeps standing on the porch of Chucho’s house with a suitcase that he had packed with himself from Bogotá. He wanted to leave all of his old life behind but some memories stay with things that are bound to them.

He feels like a little boy again when he came home crying because lads – older and bigger than him – were picking on him. He feels like the little boy who hid behind the skirts of his dear mama when guests came to visit. That’s why he wants to look so tough, that’s why he is so hard around the edges – he changed, Bogotá changed him so he wouldn’t have to feel that small ever again. But even that didn’t help. Deep inside he is still that little boy. He can hide behind his bravado - his stern scowl and cold gaze- but that fact will never change.

He doesn’t know how long he has been standing there until the door swings open – almost hitting him in the face – and he sees Chucho standing in the doorway. His signature cowboy hat on his head and that old red flannel shirt he bought him on Christmas ages ago seems a little tighter around his middle than he'd last seen him in it. He is older – slower, the age showing on his face. But when he smiles as he sees Javier in front of him he looks 30 years younger.

Javier looks a lot like his pops – he has the same nose that he hated when he was younger – and pops had the same colored dark hair once that curls if it gets too long. They have the same dimple on the left side of their face if they smile too hard and like his pops, Javier could never really grow a proper beard.

Pops hugs him as if he hadn't seen him in ages – and to be honest, that is true. Work and life always got in the way and he regrets all the time he missed with him. He also didn’t want to come home – his mother’s things were still everywhere in the house. Her pictures, the warms blankets - that Javier loved to wrap around himself on the colder nights in Laredo - scattered on the armchairs and couch. He didn’t want to see Pops sad and so he stayed behind in Bogotá drowning in work, booze and women. The Peña men had different ways of grieving. Chucho never said anything to Javi though – he didn’t blame him for not coming, didn’t yell at him for letting him be alone on holidays – and he should have. He should do all those things because maybe then Javier wouldn’t feel like such a bad son.

When they part Chucho smiles – he didn’t smile a whole lot after Javi's mom died. “It's good to see you, Javier.” He pats him on the back – a little clumsily, Javier notices but he puts a tight smile on his face. He missed a whole lot.

“You too, pops. How have you been?” It’s a question he knows the answer to. He always answers the same – busy. After the death of his wife Pops seemed to spend most of his day outside working on a ranch. Barely coming home to eat or drink. Wanted to occupy his mind. “Seems like you started actually eating as I said.” Pops waves his hand back at him.

“You calling me fat, mijo?” Javier opens his mouth to answer but Pops beat him to it, his belly shaking a little with laughter. “Someone has been helping me out for a while now. Cooking and cleaning the house once in a while.” Javier quirks an eyebrow at this and he pushes the small suitcase as he enters – now his home, too. It didn’t change here in the slightest. Pops throws him a look above his shoulder as he looks him up and down quickly. “Seems like you have been skipping out on meals, my boy. Come, Bee is here and the lunch should be already done. She made Pozole de Pollo o Guajolote. Your mother's recipe.” Javi stands straighter at the nickname. Surely he didn’t mean...

The delicious smell coming from the kitchen makes his stomach rumble and he doesn’t remember the last time he had a proper meal. He abandons the suitcase in the hallway after he takes off his boots and jacket that he puts on the old wooden hanger for coats he made with Pops when he was around 12 –its asymmetrical and weird-looking seeming like it was made by a child – which it was but it’s a memory Javier is very fond of.

The floors creak under Javier's quick footsteps and he stops in the doorway as he watches you fuss around his dad. His entire body softens, the crease in his forehead disappearing as he sees you in the Peña kitchen. The past coming into the present. Prepping the silverware on the table that lays in the middle of the smaller kitchen. He sees that Pops kept everything in place like it was even before the death of Javi's mother. He missed this place. Even though bittersweet memories crawl out on the surface of his mind and his heart aches like it hadn’t in a really long time.

“Seems like you are a busy bee, Bee.” Javier smirks when you look up at him. You didn’t really change after the last time he had seen you. Sure, you aged – as has he – but you still kept your spark from all those years ago. You smile fondly – and a little unsure – at him as you quickly wipe your hands on the apron wrapped around your middle. And Javier notices - of course, he does. The hesitation in your step when you walk to him. The little twitch of your lips you make when you are nervous.

He is an observant man. He watches and analyzes. And he is good at it too - you squirm under his intense gaze. As if he could see every little part of your soul, even the deepest secrets you kept hidden somewhere back down inside of you. That’s why he is such a good agent. Was, at least. His dark eyes shift to your cleavage just for a second. You don’t notice - his eyes quickly scanning you up and down.

He looks good. Even better than the last time you saw him. The mustache he grew suits him. His hair is longer than he had when he went to high school with you. He is broader and seems even taller. He is a man now, not the little boy you played hide and seek with. He still wears the same smirk on his lips though - that kind of smirk that meant trouble when you two were younger. His jeans hug him in just all the right places and the black shirt he is wearing makes him somehow look even hotter. All man.

“You know me. Never could keep still.”

And he does. He does know you. Or at least he did - when you two were just young kids, then stupid teenagers and suddenly - strangers too. You grew up at the Peña dinner table as much as your own. Your mothers were great friends, your fathers old buddies. You had a farm right next to them which you eventually sold when your folks passed away and it was just too much work for only you alone. You bought a small house with the money you received.

Javier still remembers when he first saw you – all toothy grin and two braids sitting on top of your head. You wore that stupid flowy dress in an ugly mustard color. You were more of the outgoing type and Javier – to everyone's surprise – was more of the lonely kid. He was smaller than his peers – smaller than you even, when you first met him. And he doesn’t remember why you started talking to him and wanted to become his friend but he didn’t complain at that time. You visited him almost every single day – looking for mischief all around. Broken glasses and bones were nothing new to both of you. The two of you were inseparable – until high school. Javier – for once in his life, thanks to you - didn’t feel so small anymore. He grew up to be a handsome and smart, confident and funny, pretty charming and self-assured young man. Girls started noticing him and he loved the attention – when their heads turned around to look. They thought he never noticed. But alas, Javier was an observant boy even back then and he noticed – his cockiness getting on your nerves sometimes. He never wanted to feel small again.

And like almost every girl – you developed a huge crush on him. But it wasn’t because he was tall and cocky, no. It was simply because you knew the real Javier – your Javi. Who hated being alone and who hated going to the church every Sunday – hiding in the dusty, covered in spider webs attic. He never noticed you – like he noticed the other girls. He never gave you that loop-sided grin or the puppy heart-filled eyes. You were just great friends - even when you wished for more. And one day you weren't even that.

You should have seen it coming, really. With Javier becoming popular, he started hanging out with you less and less. When you came to Peña's household he was already out with his new friends. And you always came running to him like a pathetic little puppy who comes to his owner no matter how many times they kick him. His friends laughed at you. And later on, he started laughing with them. He got a girlfriend – Lorraine, the sweet and perfect Lorraine – before you two stopped talking. The old memory still stings when you think about it.

It happened on one of those super warm summer nights in Laredo. You wore one of your favorite dresses. It hugged your curves and you thought you look absolutely beautiful in it – your mother said so too. You asked Javi if you could meet up at your spot – the old scrap yard just a couple minutes' walk from both of your houses. When you arrived there your stomach dropped to your feet – his friends sitting with him on your favorite car that was reserved for only you and Javi. Laughing and drinking booze, the atmosphere lose. But you didn’t feel lose – your muscles taunt and all you wanted to do was just turn on your heels and leave. Cry about this stupid little crush you had on this stupid Texas boy. But Javier spotted you before you could do so – somehow he could always spotted you even in the biggest of crowds.

“Bee! Come and join us!” He yelled, one of his hands shooting into the air as he held an unopened can of beer. And with his other hand...he was holding Lorraine. They were close to each other – her almost sitting on his lap as she placed kisses on the column of his throat. You swallowed the ball of anxiety that was building in your throat as you heard them whisper: “Why did you call her, man?” He didn’t answer as he smiled at you. Lorraine's eyes squinting at you in annoyance.

Clearing your throat you asked: “Javi, can we talk?” He just shrugged his shoulders as he hopped off from the roof of the car mumbling a quick “sure”. He wasn’t wearing a t-shirt – you noticed just then. The sun was slowly setting and his golden skin shined. The butterflies in your belly made you want to go home and squeal into your pillow. You gulped and a few of his friends whistled – noticing the once-over you gave him.

“Someone has an admirer here, Peña. Too bad she is so fat and ugly! Like a pig – oink oink!” All of them bursted into laughter and to your surprise – so did Javier. He laughed straight into your face and you fought the tears in your eyes to not spill as you finally turned on your heel – as you should have done much sooner – and left. You didn’t see the remorseful look in his eyes and the way his muscle twitched, his mind screaming at him to go after you. He never wanted to feel small ever again and his friends said you were a loser – people like him shouldn’t talk to people like you. He didn´t want to be loser again.

Lorraine pulls him by the shoulder back to her – her tongue plunging into his mouth and when they pull apart she grins, the long nails of hers scraping across his golden-tanned chest.

“Forget about her, Javi. You don’t need her.” He nodded – unsure – but he didn’t have time to think about it too much as her tongue fought with his once more – the heavy taste of beer on her tongue filling all of his senses.

After that, you stop talking to Javier. You still came to his house - with your mama - but you didn’t greet him anymore and he was pretty sure you told your and his mother as well, as they always threw him a dirty look whenever he was in the same room as you. You didn’t look at him and you didn’t acknowledge his presence anymore. He hated that he felt so small again even though he didn’t have a reason to. He had friends and a girlfriend, and all the girls threw themselves at him. So why does his stomach pull tight anytime he is near you, why does he feel like he lost peace of himself?

One day he decides he has had enough. Both of your mothers went outside to catch the last rays of the sun and you are alone in the kitchen – baking your famous apple pie. He sneaks behind you and cages you in. You feel his breath on your neck, the slow raise and fall of his chest. You turn around – your noses almost touching – and he sees the hot fury in your eyes. You are covered in flour and Javier thinks – just for a split second - he had never seen you look so fucking beautiful. His gaze lingers on your mouth maybe a little too long because he sees you are talking – your mouth opening and closing.

“What do you want, Javier?” You ask and he had never heard you so annoyed, so drained. You didn’t look like yourself anymore and didn’t sound like it too.

“Us to start talking again, Bee.” Because Javier is selfish and he takes and takes. Sometimes forgetting to give something back in return. He widens his eyes when he feels the sting on one of his cheeks – his head moving to one side with the force of it. You slapped him. He looks at you – you are all wide eyes and snarling teeth.

“Fuck you, Peña.” You quickly try to scramble away from him because you feel like crying again. No because of sadness – no. That sadness turned into raw fury after the incident at the scrap yard. Because of how idiotic and stupid he is. And because – no matter what he had done and told you – you can’t seem to shake off the crush you have on him. He grits his teeth and his hand grabs your wrist. Both of your breathing erratic.

“It's not my fault you are not my type, Bee.” He didn’t mean to say that - the words coming from his mouth sound foreign to him. Not right. But his hot temper gets the best of him and the way he said and what he said should not hurt that much. But it does. It feels like he had just stabbed you in the heart and then twisted the knife – deeper and deeper.

You yank away from his grip and you point a finger at him – your hand shaking with the hurt, anger, sadness, Everything coming at you in waves - it feels so fucking overwhelming. You want to scream at him, kick him, hurt him as much as he had hurt you. But what good would it do? None.

You exhale shakily and Javier waits for the fight but it doesn’t come. You shrink into yourself and turn to leave. You look at him above your shoulder as you whisper. “I hate you so fucking much, Javier Peña.” And you are gone.

The heavy weight of your words lingers in the air and he feels the hot tears running down the apple of his cheeks. He quickly wipes them away. His ears are ringing and he doesn’t hear your mother yelling at you about what happened. He doesn’t smell your apple pie burning in the oven. He fucked up. Because he will never get to talk to you again or feel your touch. He will never hear you laugh and he will never get to comfort you again when you cry. Because the only source of your sorrow is him – the stupid Texas boy you now despised.

Javier comes to present and you give him a quick side hug telling him to sit down. Chucho watches both of you and he prays that you are both wise enough now to sort out this little grudge you have. But you are also both too stubborn and the dinner passes in silence. The only sound is the clinking of silverware cutting through the thick air and sometimes Chucho quips in to ask Javier about Colombia - Javier doesn’t want to talk about that, though. So he stays quiet as he chews - the food tastes exactly like his mother’s.

When Javier sneaks a quick look at you he thinks that maybe he wasn’t such an idiot. The bitterness from your last talk makes his face twist. He hates how - even after all these years - you seem to not acknowledge him even though you try to stay as polite towards him as possible. As if you just look through him and not at him. He watches as you pass his pops a salt and you grin at something he says.

And yeah, you are still definitely not his type.

Javier sees you almost every day. It drives him fucking crazy. The way you just nod at him when he passes by or is in the same room as you – which is mostly kitchen -, the way you don’t answer his questions about you. How have you been, what did you do after high school? He only knows your folks passed away shortly after he left for Colombia – Chucho told him over the phone. Your parents felt like second ones to him. He wanted to call you after Chucho told him, he really did. But he didn’t know your number – that was just an excuse, he knows that and he also knows Chucho would have given it to him if he asked. He feared that you would hang up on him, that if he heard your broken voice he would book the closest flight to come to you. After all – you were best friends a long time ago.

Javier wants to know everything about you – but you give him nothing. You are just a big complicated riddle to him and he has no hints to figure you out. He notices you though and the things you still do. You still enjoy watching sunsets as you did when you were younger. And that you talk to plants when you water them or that you still secretly go and feed horses a few sugar cubes even though you really shouldn’t. That you still hum when you cook and squint your eyes on either him or Chucho when they enter the kitchen because you don’t like when somebody disturbs you while you are in you’re your element. You always liked to bake and cook – often sneaking into the kitchen with him late at night because he wanted cookies and you gave in and baked them. Because he asked you to and said please – Javier never said please often and that habit he kept.

So because you don’t seem happy when he wants to talk to you or occupies the same room – you actually don’t seem happy with his presence in general and that makes his heart tighten even if he doesn’t understand why – he spends most of his day tending to the ranch. Feeding the animals and fixing the old barn. Today he started fixing the old fence that didn’t even look like a fence at all anymore. He grunts as he stands up – he is getting old and his back is fucking killing him. The Texas sun makes him sweat, he smells and he feels thirsty – has felt thirsty for a while now. But he knows it's afternoon and you are probably in the house cooking. He contemplates it – he doesn’t want to see you uncomfortable around his sheer presence but fuck. He feels like he could drink a whole gallon of water. Fuck it, he thinks as his steps lead him to the Pena house. You knew he was coming back home – if you didn’t want to stick with him, you wouldn’t.

When he is finally inside and the sun doesn’t burn his face, he takes off his yellow aviators and the thick working gloves. He is covered in sweat and dirt and as he enters the kitchen you think he never looked better. But he always does in your eyes and you hate yourself for it. You gulp and turn your back to him as you try to quickly scribble the things you need to get at the farmers market today. Your body stiffens when he walks behind you – his shirt brushes against your shoulders - and grabs one of those old funny-looking glasses you painted together when you were probably around 9. The air thickens and the atmosphere is awkward – you both want to say something but nothing comes out of your mouths. Finally, Chucho enters and he looks at Javi and then back at you.

“Go shower, mijo. You are going with Bee today.” It's an order and Javi doesn’t want to argue. His house, his rules. Quite the opposite – maybe the change of setting will finally let you loosen up and you will talk to him. He wants to say to you so much. He looks at you and you gape at Chucho as he throws you a pointed look. You swiftly shut your mouth – Javier taking the steps by two as he wants to scrub himself squeaky clean as soon as possible. He feels positively giddy – it reminds him of the times when he got his first car and drove around Laredo with you.

When he comes down the hushed conversation between you and Chucho comes to a halt and he looks between you two before Chucho almost pushes you out of the house. You drag your feet behind you and the giddiness he felt leaves him as he sees your “enthusiasm”. He wants to go and hide in the nearest hole, lick the wounds he pretends he doesn’t have but you are already sitting in the passenger seat by the time he gets his head out of the gutter.

The ride is awkward, filled with silence and you squirm every once in a while in your seat. You glance at Javier's profile a few times – his strong jawline and his aquiline nose. You stare at his hands and how come they are so big? The veins are prominent on the back of them - leading to the thick fingers, nails trimmed neatly. His hair is longer now after a few weeks already spend at home. He looks better than when he arrived. Now he didn’t look as...tired. And as skinny – he always devours the meals you cook and you can see him filling up around the middle. His arms were much stronger and more muscular than before because of all the work he did on the ranch. Domesticity looks good on him. You watch as he grips the wheel and see his jaw tick before he sighs.

“I am sorry, Bee.” You raise your brows at him when he glances to see your reaction to his words. He never was good with them “actions speak louder than words” he always said. “I am sorry for what I said and how I treated you during high school. I was a fucking idiot and if I could take it all back-”

“You were.” It's a simple phrase, your words coming out fast and he grips the steering wheel tighter when your hand lands on his thigh. “But that’s all I ever wanted to hear, Javier. Yes, your words and actions hurt me in the past. And they still hurt me now when I think about them. But there's nothing we can do about it now. We were kids and if it didn’t happen I don’t think I would become the person I am now so I accept your apology even if it could have been a better one. You should really work on your people skills.” You shrug your shoulders as you tease him and the hand that was resting on his thigh moves into your lap once again. He wants to tell you you could have kept it there – it felt too fucking good even if it was such a simple and innocent touch. It grounded him and Javier is touch deprived.

“So, that’s it?” He asks, his tongue poking out to lick his lower lip as he raises his eyebrows while he watches the road.

“Yes, that’s it.”

The conversation flows smoothly after that and Javier can't believe it was that easy. If he apologized much sooner he could have been talking to you for weeks now. He missed this – your talks. You talked with your hands a lot and he enjoys how expressive you are when you are telling something. He learns a lot about you. You own a little bakery here - that’s why you are so flexible and can come almost anytime to the ranch. He feels proud of you – your dream was always to open a small bakery somewhere. At least one of us could make their dream come true.

You laugh and talk, and tell stupid jokes or occurrences that happened in your life. He missed a whole lot and so have you. Your favorite story of his is when he told about the time his neighbor – an old lady – saw him butt naked because the woman he slept with locked him out of his own apartment after he told her he wanted nothing serious. His neighbor called him over to have some fun which he politely declined. You double over laughing and Javi grins, his cheeks hurting. He missed your laugh – he didn’t feel this comfortable ever since...well ever since you stopped talking.

The ride passes quickly and when you step out of the car you come around – grabbing Javis's hand as you mumble something about “want to show you around here, Javi, so much changed after you left” as you throw him a quick grin. He can only concentrate on your nimble fingers between his and how it feels so fucking right before you are dragging him behind you.

You are not his type he has to remind himself as he squeezes your hand tightly.

Javier comes into the house all muddy once again. It has been raining in Laredo for the past few days - the land all soaked soil and dirt. He takes of his boots before he enters. His nose drags him into the kitchen as he catches the smell of pie. Sweet and delicious - or was it just you, standing here all soft and pretty? He can't tell anymore. These past few weeks were filled with nothing but joy – almost. You played cards with him and Chucho late at night, drinking beer and listening to Chucho's stories. Sometimes you went riding with him on the ranch. Your love for horses didn’t die out and you always were natural with them. You have your favorite one too – the small chestnut-colored mare with a fiery temperament that seems to tolerate only you. Chuho wanted to sell her a long time ago but you begged him on your knees – literally – not to. His eyes softened and he agreed reluctantly – he could never say no to you. Something both Peña men had in common.

Anytime Javier looks at you he feels his stomach tighten with something – sometimes arousal but he blames that on the lack of sex, sometimes on something entirely else. He tries to push it deep inside him but whenever he catches your smell his head gets all dizzy and he has the need to find you and talk to you, be near you He hates it. He hates it so fucking much. He doesn’t know what you did to him. He can't seem to shake you out of his mind. He thinks of you anytime he sees the sun setting down or the last time he picked violets for you as he saw them growing a few miles away from the ranch. Because you love violets. He gave them to you with a darker shade of red covering his ears as he scratched his neck. You thanked him and kissed him on the cheek then – his heart hammering in his chest, his pulse quickening and his lower half seemed all too interested in the skin-to-skin contact. As your lips lingered on his cheek as he thought about against what other parts of him would they feel so soft.

Javi leans against the doorframe as he watches you knead the dough – one of the pies already in the oven. You look so nice in your overalls. He could just bend you over the kitchen counter and -

Shut the fuck up, Peña. Don’t even think about getting hard.

You startle when you turn around and see him, your dough-covered hand flying to your chest as you yelp. “Javier Peña, don’t scare me like that!” You scowl at him, your lip pursed and he grins – his hands shooting into the air in a silent apology.

“Didn't mean to, Bee.” The corner of his lips pulls up as you murmur “sure you didn’t" and turn back around to put more flour in the dough. He quickly washes his hands in the sink and comes behind you – he inhales your scent and closes his eyes. The hair on your neck stands up. “You smell so fucking good.” It's a quiet statement. You look at him wide-eyed and he gives you a confused look in return.

“What did you say?” Your throat pulls tighter. Shit, shit, shit.

“Uh-um, that if you'd show me how you knead the dough.” He closes his eyes – idiot, idiot. You breathe out a small “oh” and shake the shock off of you as you nod and come behind him as you grab his hands in yours.

And fuck, Javier thinks his pulse went from zero to a hundred in this second. His heart feels like it will jump out of his chest any second. Your small hands on his makes him think back to a few weeks ago.

You stayed at Peñas that night. You always drove back home but that night it was raining a lot and it was too late anyways. You agreed as Chucho asked you if you wanted to stay – they had a smaller spare room right next to Javis. You bid them both good night and fell asleep quickly after that. You were exhausted but a scream woke you up and you swiftly stood up on your feet and scrambled into Javier's room. He sat on the bed – all sweaty, his breath quick as his head rested in his palms. He looked up at you when the old wooden floor creaked under your footsteps. He cleared his throat and tried to hide from you. You crouched in front of him and offered him a little smile.

“You don’t have to hide from me, Javi.” And then he was pulling you into him, breathing you in, his hands pulled around you tightly as he sobbed into your shoulder. He was exhausted of pretending everything was fine. The weight of all the things that he did in Colombia came crashing down on him. You just shushed him as he listened to your heartbeat – his head on your chest, your hand in his as you stroked the back of it. When he finally calmed down he told you everything – the things he did, the things he should have done and the things he shouldn’t have. He told you about Los Pepes and Carilo, and the nightmares that still haunted him.

“I am just a shell of a man I once was, Bee.” He whispered into the night and you grabbed both sides of his face as you frowned at him.

“You are far more than that, Javi.” He wanted to kiss you right there and then but you pulled him on your chest again and he breathed you in once more. The slow rise and fall of your chest lulls him to sleep. He never slept that well in his life.

When he woke up the other side of the bed was cold but the smell of you – like an apple pie – lingered on the other pillow and he wanted to drown in it. He stroked himself at the thought of you as he smelled the pillow. Your soft hands and the feel of your breasts against his face, the small brush of your lips against his forehead. He came embarrassingly quickly and couldn’t look you straight in the eyes for a few days after that. Neither of you talked about that night. As if it never happened.

So now he curses himself as he feels how he twitches in his pants – the soft swell of your breasts pressed up against his back. The collar of his shirt is a bit too tight as well as his pants. For fucks sake, Peña. He hasn’t slept with anyone since he came back home and it showed. You don’t seem to notice though.

“You are pretty clumsy with your hands, Javier.” He chokes on seemingly nothing and almost pushes you onto the ground as he stumbles a few steps back. Let me show you how good with my hands I can be -

“Gotta take a shower.” He says and he takes the steps by two - almost falling over. He closes the door of the bathroom with little more force than necessary. He scrambles with his closes almost ripping them from him and he grabs his aching cock – tugging on it firmly as a spurt of precum shoots out of the head. He steps into the shower – the spray of cold water not helping him calm down his hammering heart or the way his skin seems to be on fire. He strokes himself quickly – the strokes measured as he thinks of your pretty lips around him or that pretty pussy you sure have. He thinks of the swell of your breast on his back, your breath on the back of his neck, your hand in his, your pretty smile and kind eyes. He thinks about how you would feel around him if he pounded into you from behind or what sounds would you make when he would go down on you. How wet would you be? Are you the quiet type or would he have to put his fingers – or something else – in your mouth to shut you up?

He grunts and his forehead bumps onto the cold tiles of the shower as he cums. He watches how the water downs his spend and he tries to wash the guilt he feels off of him too.

You are not his type, he thinks as he tugs on his cock for the final time.

You are going on a date. Javier watches with a frown on his face as you fumble around to finish the dinner. You are wearing a pretty dress – a light green one with a flowy skirt that exposes the whole expanse of your back. The strings on your shoulder are the only thing keeping it in place. You look absolutely incredible. He didn’t want you to go. Fuck, what if the guy was some kind of psycho? Or worse, what if he was actually a decent guy and you'd stop helping Chucho because you would be too occupied with your new little boy toy? What would Chucho do without you – yes, Chucho of course, not Javier. Javier wasn’t jealous and he definitely wasn’t praying that your date would end up in disaster...Okay, he felt jealous. Like “I will rip that guy in shreds” type of jealous.

And Javier would be alone tonight – Chucho left in the morning to visit his “friend” - he knows he went to Mária living across from the barber's shop. He didn’t say anythimg – the lie falling out of Chucho’s lips easily. And he felt happy for him – him moving on meant he was healing. Slowly but healing. Javi wanted to do something nice for you two tonight– the store-bought cheesecake lying in the fridge. He thought that you could watch TV today – watch anything you wanted. Maybe then he would slip his hand under the hem of your dress and he would -

“Javi!” You wave your hand in front of his face and he blinks a few times. You even put on makeup – the red lipstick making your lips look downright edible and he licks his own lips. He could pull you in and make you forget about your silly little date. But for once in his life Javier didn’t want to be greedy when it came down to you – you seemed so excited when you told him you had a date and he planted on the best fake smile on his face he could muster. Even though he felt sick to his stomach when you told him, his fingers twitching to catch your wrist and pull you close – to tell you you should fuck that guy and stay with him tonight. “You listening?”

“Sorry, what did you say?” You groan in annoyance – already running late – and you grab him by the collar – oh, he likes this a lot. You are so fucking close he feels your breath fan across his face.

“Listen, Javi. I don’t have time for this. The Chiles Rellenos are in the oven so they won't get cold as quickly. If it gets cold just put it in the microwave.” he nods – he knows this, of course – but wants to keep you busy because maybe then your date would cancel – no, he can't.

“Okay.” He says slowly and you let go of the collar of his shirt – just now noticing you grabbed him by it. You pull away from him. “If anything-”

“I call you. You already told me. Don’t worry, dad. I'll be fine.” You grin and turn on your heel waving a quick goodbye before the doors shut behind you. Javier gulps the growing ball in his throat and curses at himself. Idiota. But you know - of course you are not his type.

Javier watches the starry sky tonight. The cheesecake forgotten in the fridge alongside your dinner – he felt so sick to his stomach he was pretty sure he'd throw up if he ate anything. The warm blanket his mother knitted lays heavy on his shoulder as he looks at the sky – millions of stars showing tonight. You'd love to see it – maybe you already are. Star-watching sounds like the kind of date you would have loved. He fiddles with the handle of his mug filled with hot cocoa in his lap and thinks. About how he got here, about his fuck ups – and the biggest fuck up he has ever done was to let you go on that stupid date, he concludes. Okay, maybe not the biggest fuck up but close enough. He straightens up when he spots a car pulling into the driveway – your car. A small grin makes its way onto his lips until he sees your sagged shoulders and the slow way you drag your heels behind you.

“You have room for another in there?” You ask – your voice small compared to when you left. Pointing a finger at the spot next to him. He nods quickly and when you sit he immediately wraps the blanket around your shoulders – your head resting on his shoulder. It's quiet for a while as he offers you his mug and you drink from it leisurely. He knows you will tell him what happened if you want to. The silence is not awkward – it’s a comfortable one. He always feels comfortable with you. You pull away from him and put the mug on the ground – pulling your knees close to your chin.

“Can I ask you something?” You look at him from the corner of your eye, your words muffled by your knees.

“Anything, Bee.” And he means that. You could ask him anything in the world and he would answer you no matter what question.

“Why am I not your type? You know, cuz it seems I am no one's type.” He knows you are referring to the time when he was angry at you after you slapped him. But he didn’t mean to say it. He doesn’t know how to answer – his tongue heavy all of the sudden and fuck, why is so hard to just tell you.

Rather than answering you he twists his torso so he can look at you – really look at you. The moonlight shines on half of your face and how did he never notice how pretty your eyes were? Or your plush lips, your soft hair? He gulps as he reaches forward tentatively – his palm resting on the side of your face now. And he expects you to pull away – to tell him to fuck off. But you don’t. His throat is dry and he feels like his lungs can't seem to have enough oxygen in them because his brain seems to stop functioning too. He brushes his fingertips across your cheek and you would have never expected that Javier Peña could be so gentle with his touch. He looks at your lips – your mouth open just a tiny bit and he sees your Adam's apple bob. Do you want this as much as he does? Or is he imagining things and projecting his own fucked up desires and feelings onto you at this very moment? He doesn’t have much time to think about it before your fingers tangle into his hair at the back of his head, his breath picks up and your mouth surges forward – your lips meeting his.

He feels like fireworks just exploded in his stomach. His skin tingles and his hands brush against the front of your dress. Your hand on his nape makes him groan into you and he brushes your collarbone with his calloused hand. He wanted this for so long and he didn’t even know about it. The other grabs you by the neck and pulls you even closer – the blanket falling off of you two when you swing your legs on either side of his narrow hips. He presses his lips against yours with more force and he is confident and greedy with it. He curls his hand around your waist and his fingertips dig into your hip while the other hand presses into your shoulder blades. He can feel the blood rushing through his veins and he is warm and fuzzy all over – his body humming with something he never felt before.

You were never kissed this way before – Javier takes, and takes but gives back even more in return. The kiss is impatient and hungry – like he waited for this all of his life. His hands on your skin make you hum out in pleasure and you trail your hand to his jaw – you can feel the stumble he has under your fingertips. You open your mouth to him and the hand on your hip squeezes you tighter, and he wants you closer, closer – this is not enough. Not close enough. And you feel the same as you pull him closer by the collar and he groans into your mouth. You can taste the warm cocoa on his tongue and his smell invades all your senses – cigarettes, his cologne and something entirely him. Musky and sweet. Your cheeks burn and your palms are sweaty when he pulls away from the kiss – his hands brushing along the exposed skin on your back, his thumb circling your hip. His forehead rests on yours as he tries to calm down and your nails scrape across his exposed chest – he always has a few buttons unbuttoned on his shirt and it drives you insane. He moans when he feels the sensation of your nails on his skin – his hips bucking up to meet yours and you mewl as you feel the bulge press up against your core.

“Fuck, Bee. I want to fuck you so badly. Do you want that too? Tell me. Tell me, please.” Javier Peña said please. He never says please. Yoou nod furiously as you peck him on the lips – his mouth surges to meet yours once again and you lap at his lower lip, your hands fisting into the material of his shirt.

“Wanted this since I was 16 and crazy in love with you, Javi.” You whisper against his lips and your confession makes his heart beat with joy. You loved him. He grips the flesh on your hips and mumbles a breathy “okay” before he stands up and carries you with him – your legs wrap around his middle. He stumbles a few times and almost trips on the stairs as he keeps kissing you – his tongue nibbling at your collarbones, his hands supporting your weight as he holds you by the back of your thighs.

When you arrive in his room he throws you on the bed and starts to quickly undress. His fingers shake and he can't seem to unbutton the fucking shirt. Fuck. He stands in front of the edge of the bed and you lean back on your elbows – your gaze heavy with lust. As you see him struggling you crawl onto the edge of the bed and loop your fingers between his belt. He stops and looks at you – you eye the heavy bulge between his thighs and he gulps when your fingers trail his jean-clad cock which jumps with interest under your touch. He has never been this fucking hard before and he knows it's not because for the past few months, the only thing he has been fucking was his fist – it's because of you. “Let me.” You murmur and he nods, he watches your nimble fingers working on his buttons and when he shackles the piece of clothing off him your hands map out his chest, coming down to his belly button and you lick your lips when you see the trail of hairs leading down into the waistband of his jeans. You kiss him right there – on the soft swell of his tummy – and he jumps forward, his hands gripping your head to keep you there. You grin against his skin and your tongue pokes out of your mouth to lick him there – he shudders, and the grip on your head loosens. You pull away from him and your hands start working on his belt – it falls to the ground with a quiet cling of the metal.

You cup him in your hand through the fabric of his jeans – even now you can feel how heavy he is and that he will feel fucking big inside of you. “You are a big boy aren't you, Javi?” He whimpers at your question and nods furiously as he looks down at you – your gaze immediately locking with his as you are already peering up at him through your eyelashes and you pout at his state. You never expected Javier to be so...needy. He closes his eyes when you squeeze him again and then he hears the sound of a zipper, he feels your breath ghosting over his tip. “No underwear?” He shakes his head and chokes when you lick the salty precum.

“No-no. Fuck. Too uncomfortable.” His eyes close as if he's in pain and his nostril flare when he feels the first velvety slide of your tongue against his cock. Your pulse quickens and you feel too fucking powerful right now as you feel him swell even more in your mouth. You hold his gaze as you pull off of him and flatten your tongue – licking your way to the underside of his cock. His hands cradle the back of your head, his pupils completely blown as he watches you put open-mouth kisses onto the hard warm flesh that jumps under your attention.

And he is fucking big – his size obvious by sight and by the way he feels around your hand – heavy and warm. But you really feel it when you take him deeper into your throat the girth of his cock opens your mouth wider. The broken sound between a whimper and a groan makes you clench around nothing and he tastes exactly how you imagined him – clean and delicious – exactly like Javier looks. You can't fit all of him in your mouth but you try – focusing on your breathing and relaxing your throat – the squelching sounds of your mouth bobbing up and down his length filling the room. You try to take him deeper and deeper – until you gag around him and pull away. Javis's mouth is wide open when you pull off of him – spit trailing from your lips and connecting you to the swollen tip of his cock. His chest heaves and he swipes his thumb across your bottom lip – collecting the saliva – and puts it in his mouth – he groans with approval and it makes you want to give him more. You sink your awaiting mouth back onto his cock once more and moan when another spurt of precum lands on your tongue. Your hand is securely wrapped around the base of his cock as you stroke him slowly and you look back up at him.

He looks absolutely and positively wrecked – his hair falling in front of his eyes and sticking to his forehead as he grits his teeth struggling to not make you take him deeper – to not fuck your throat. His grip on your hair tightens as he starts panting harshly and you feel him twitch in your mouth – you can feel he is almost there – but then he pulls back from you.

He almost lifts you into the air as his tongue delves into your mouth – wanting to taste himself on you. The bitterness of himself on your tongue makes him groan into your mouth and you never expected him to be this vocal. He steps out of his jeans and then he is back on you – his fingers working on the straps of your dress while he plants butterfly kisses on the column of your throat. He discards the piece of clothing as if it has offended him somehow and he pulls back to look at you – you can see the muscle on his thigh flex as he tries to keep his balance on his heels. His hands reach back for you – grabbing you under your knees before he is pulling you closer to him. His fingers dip into the waistband of your panties before they are too thrown somewhere behind him.

His thick fingers work their way inside you without a warning – two of them plunging deep. You are soft, and pliant under him. Your walls squeeze him tight when he moves his finger up, up – until you sob and grab his wrist - to stop him or to plea for him to keep doing that you aren't sure. It never felt like this and he grins against the flesh of your cheek – kissing you there softly. His other hand grabs one of your tits and he pinches the nipple – it hardens under his hard touch. He bends down to suck it into his mouth and your hand shoots out to the back of his head – keeping him there. One of your thighs is firmly planted on his shoulder and his fingernails dig into your ankle, the blunt nails creating crescent shapes. Your heel digs into his shoulder with a particular shove into your cunt – the tips of his fingers brushing against something that makes you hold your breath.

The way you keep repeating his name makes him want to never leave your perfect cunt. His name and the wet sounds of your pussy sucking him in make him light-headed. He wishes no one would call him Javi again after he hears it from your mouth – whiny and high-pitched, filled with the need to let go.

“Come on, Bee. I can feel you squeezing me. Fucking give it to me. I want you to soak my fingers.” You nod vigorously and sob when his thumb starts drawing harsh circles against your clit. He hits nerves inside of you you didn’t even knew you had before. You take everything he gives – the flick of his wrist, his fingers petting your walls, his mouth on yours. You cum when he bites you into the juncture between your shoulder and neck – his tongue smoothing the bite. You feel him smile against your mouth when you cry out into him – his fingers still working inside of you until you wheeze and tell him to stop. He pulls them out and maps your body with your juices – the slick trail shining under the moonlight that falls onto the both of you.

He reaches into his nightstand and pulls out a condom – ripping the foil packet between his teeth before he puts it onto his length. He sits up on his heels – his cock bobbing with the movement and you gulp as he pats his thigh – telling you to come to him and you do – all jelly legged and sedated after your first orgasm. He pulls you close by the small of your back and his cock nudges against your entrance when you swing your legs around his waist. His hairy legs stick to the back of your thighs and you can feel the sweat rolling off him – his hands supporting you as you sink down on him. Your mouth forming into an “o” and you let out a breathless moan. You knew he was big – as his girth opened up your mouth more and the weight of him heavy on your tongue. But this feels entirely different. You squirm on his lap and he grunts – his other hand coming down onto the flesh of your ass. The pinch you feel as he fills you completely is uncomfortable and you grip his bicep – your nails digging into the flesh there. He hisses and kisses you – the kiss languid and slow. His tongue traces your mouth and your grip loosens – your muscles start to relax.

“Javi, you are so big.” You don’t say him to make him feel better or feed his ego – it's just a fact. Clear and simple. His nose bumps against yours and he looks into your eyes – he is so close he is breathing the oxygen you exhale.

“I know, hermosa. But you can take it. Can’t you?” The new term of endearment falling out of his mouth is surprising but welcome nevertheless. He waits for your answer as he fights himself not to move – your walls squeezing around him and he counts to five so he doesn’t cum right now like some kind of fucking teenager.

Javier slept with a lot of women. One night stands, prostitutes, his fiancé. But he never felt like this with anyone. His heart never hammered in his chest so quickly and the blood in his veins didn’t boil. His skin never felt like it was on fire by a simple touch. It's new and he welcomes it with open arms. He is tired of fighting and running. This is his new life and it's not too bad – it's better than it ever was. He never feels small with you and he chases that feeling.

“Yes, I can. I can take it. Please move, Javi.” He listens to your command – the first drag of his cock through your walls feels intoxicating. His hot breath fans against your chest as his forehead rests on it and his hand that was gripping your ass moves to your hip – dragging you up and down his cock as you meet his every perfectly measured thrust. He maps your body and listens to your reactions – he figures out what you like or what you really don’t after a few minutes as he pounds into you.

You don’t know which one of you is louder but it makes him even sexier – the guys you’ve been with before weren't so enthusiastic about it and you felt like they didn’t even wanted to be there – the only hint of them enjoying it was when they came with a quiet grunt and fall onto the bed next to you. Javier is different – he always was – and you live for all the sounds he makes. How he gropes you and maps out your body – his fingers dipping into every crease and curve of your body. And you can feel that in each thrust there is this hidden emotion that he doesn’t want to show. But you grew up with him and can read him pretty well – and your heart swells with the unspoken words. You don’t need to hear them. He will figure it out himself eventually.

He feels that you are close after he gives you a particularly hardh thrust and you squeal – your nails scratching his muscular back that you’ve been ogling anytime he came out of the shower without a t-shirt or when it was too hot outside and decided the piece of clothing wasn’t necessary in that kind of weather. His mustache scrapes along the flesh on your breasts and you feel his hips shift – the change of position making him feel even bigger. He puts his thumb into your mouth as he looks at you and you suck it – it tastes of you and sweat but you don’t care – as he pulls it out and starts rubbing your clit with it.

It only takes a few drags of his cock before you are cumming – your clit throbbing as he keeps pressure on it. Your walls squeeze him and he feels like he can't move any further. Your fingers curl into his hair and tug him so he is looking at you. He is all lust-blown eyes and his baring teeth turned into a snarl. You can feel every vein and bump in his cock with every thrust and he twitches inside of you – his hand coming to hold the hinge of your jaw as his tongue tangles with yours once again. It's frantic as are his deep thrusts and you are pretty sure he will break the bed soon – the headboard hitting the wall with every pass of his hips. You admire how fucking lost in you he looks – slack-jawed and dazed. You tug on his hair once more and the reaction is almost instant – his hips faltering for a moment seemingly losing his rhythm.

“Come on, Javi. I want you to look at me when you cum.” Your requests makes him shut his eyes before he shudders and opens them – your name a broken record when he spills into the condom. You scratch him on the back of his head – your movements slow and languid. He pulls out of you after a moment – when he catches his breath and his heartbeat evens out – even though when he is with you it seems impossible.

The aftercare is soft and sweet as he lays on his back and pulls you close to him – stroking your spine and kissing the top of your head.

“Do you want me to leave?” He pulls you tighter against him after you ask him that and he grips your chin so you look at him.

“Never again, Bee. I want you right here with me.” You sigh in contentment and give him a sweet kiss.

You are definitely his type, Javier thinks as he feels your breath even out and slowly, he falls asleep too – you in his arms – and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

#javier pena #javier pena narcos #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal characters #javier pena reader #javier pena x reader #javier pena x f!reader #javier pena x female reader #javier pena x you #javier pena smut #soft javi #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal ff #narcos smut #javier pena one shot

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queersolarfandompage · 1 year ago

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⚠️TW vent⚠️

Realizing today why I don’t enjoy Christmas anymore. It calls for people to get together more. I enjoy hanging out with friends, but every family get together are awkward, making small talk with people you know and kind of know talking about my two least favorite subjects school and work. I spend more time hidden in a corner wishing it wouldn’t be seen as rude if I spent the remainder of the event on my phone since no one bothered to talk with me past our initial greeting. Every conversation I partake in has to be instigated by me, except for with immediate family. If I wanted to talk with someone my dad’s side of the family offers; men - talking about trucking, hunting, or some kind of project they’re working on, women - usually the women gossip of complain otherwise they talk about child care, of children - besides my baby nephew most of these children are brats. Tonight for our Christmas I got hit in the head several times, had a cousin try and shake up my soda every time I set it down, dealt with a child screaming and throwing a tantrum because on of the younger kids kept knocking over his tower, after the cousin continued to knock over everyone else’s towers. But the kids are the easiest to get along with so I usually play with them. On my mothers side we’ve got Great Grandma and her five daughters - too intimidating to talk to, they will judge me on my career choices of my education choices and tell me what I should be doing, the tweens - one of my cousins kids and their friends(?) I genuinely don’t recognize some of these kids, they’re all bratty so I never really interact with them, the misfits 1.0 - my grandmother’s family. I fall into this group and am comfortable chatting with most people in it except for one of my uncles, the misfits 2.0 - consisting of my methhead uncle and the two angry siblings who blame their mother for all their problems when she is the sweetest woman alive, I try and avoid talking to most of this group.

So to recap I’m forced into a social situation where I’m left uncomfortable no matter what I decide. But I have to go otherwise family will start messaging or calling me about my absence. I’d rather be doing my own thing but I have to participate in this social hell. Then to make things worse we add in gifts.

I’m expected to spend my money buying nice thoughtful gifts for family I barely talk to, and if I don’t I feel like an asshole because I’m no longer a child I’m an adult and I should be giving back. So I spend time picking out gifts and I spend money paying for them, I’m happy with myself because I got things I genuinely think the recipient will enjoy.

And I get my own gifts. For many years I wouldn’t make a Christmas list because there wasn’t anything I necessarily wanted. So if I wasn’t happy with my gifts, then it was my fault for not telling people what I wanted. But for once I put in effort and I made a list for those asking what I wanted. I gave suggestions of things I liked of clothing I was wearing. I got one thing that I asked for. Between my mom’s families Christmas, my dad’s family Christmas, my friend’s Secret Santa Party, and gifts from my parents, I got one thing that I asked for. And I don’t want to complain because I am thankful that I was even given something, but I put effort into making shopping for me easy. I had a relative ask me what I wanted and I told them a flannel. They asked if I wanted a flannel shirt or jacket and I told them I wanted a shirt. Well after answering some more questions the relative decided to talk with my stepmom about the flannel and my stepmom decided I needed a jacket. Jackets make me uncomfortable, they feel bulky against my arms and back and I don’t like them. My parents used to fight me to wear a coat until I stole one of my dad’s old jackets and I use that to this day. My point being I didn’t want a jacket and my stepmom thought I did because I always use my dad’s old jacket. And my relative listened to her on what I wanted over me. Why ask me if you’re just going to ignore my answers? Why should I put in effort to make a Christmas list and pick out perfect presents for others when my effort is ignored? And then to top everything off it started snowing today and I ran into something on the drive home and broke my side mirror.

Anyways now we all know why I’ve started hating Christmas

#solar vent

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meirimerens · 2 years ago

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may I ask where you get your clothing, based on the few twitter pics you have my dream wardrobe 🫶

YOU FLATTER ME... i will tell you: most of the things i'm wearing in twitter images are either thrifted or were bought secondhand on dedicated platforms (Depop but mostly for me since i'm in France Vinted. Vinted also tends to run less expensive than depop bc the Depop Girlies haven't jumped on it yet, but if you're in the US you might pay more for shipping.)

in the fucking. quieres leaf image of my artvsartist, my green shirt was bought irl in a vintage-clothing dedicated secondhand store: these tend to run a lil bit pricier than your average goodwill (which i also go to [well the french equivalent]) bc it is Curated but you do find good pieces. i've mostly had luck with good outdoors shirts & flannels with them (a lesbian into flannel. groundbreaking.)

vast majority of my beautiful sweaters were bought on depop or vinted. check out search terms like "winter sweater", "christmas sweater", "grandpa sweater", "patterned sweaters" etc. on vinted (which you can also access and navigate well on desktop btw, which i. can't fucking manage to do on depop for some reason so 10 points to vinted etc) you can search by color, i search for mostly greens. my little scarf is from there too.

my green vest was found at emmaüs which is just french goodwill. men's section (idk if i've mentioned it but i always look in the men's section lol haven't worn """women's clothes""" in like 5yrs now). DON'T HESITATE to check out stuff that looks like it'll be a lil big on you, you might be surprised that you like the fit. YOU CAN ALWAYS ROLL THE SLEEVES ALWAYS! same for pants: if they fit your waist & hips but are too long at the legs, who care, you can roll the legs up. i really like the look of a M-size or even bigger on me especially for shirts & sweaters bc Huge Fan Of THe Look of a very ample/wide top & relatively tight pants, so again, don't hesitate to check out stuff that looks like it'll be a lil big on you, and see how it looks with rolled sleeves/cuffs & tucked in the pants w a belt if it's a top.

& maybe most important...... i prioritize stuff i know i'll want to wear. is comforble. sweater is a turtleneck the color i wanted but the cut makes my chest area look weird and feel too tight? get chucked. pants beautiful but the pockets are tiny or fake(<- rarely happens now that i shop in the men's LOL)? get chucked. a number of men's jackets will have little pockets on the inside. very useful for wallet, migraine roll-on stick, ibuprofen box, spare pads, a knife if you feelin risky.

most importantly. have fun 👍🫶

#ring ring (answers)#anonymous #meiri fashion advice column.....

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calliekarlay · 3 months ago

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therecordchanger62279 · 5 months ago

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A TRIP TO THE FAIR

Something from the archive. This is the first of three pieces I wrote about attending the Montgomery County Book Fair. It's something I did every November for years until they moved from the fairgrounds to another location.

One of the things I most look forward to each year is the annual Book Fair held at the Montgomery County Fairgrounds the second weekend of November. I’ve attended the fair nearly every year since I moved to Dayton 24 years ago, and I always have a great time. This year was no different.

There’s something about the smell and the look of old books; books that have been read and reread; books that have been passed from generation to generation; books that have been loved and cherished. I like being around them. I love book fairs, and used bookstores, and libraries.

The annual book fair here is not only an opportunity to get some bargains, but it’s a great chance to people watch as well. There are tables set up throughout the gymnasium, each labeled a different topic with the books separated accordingly. If the tables weren’t labeled, though, you might still be able to tell which books were where simply by looking at the people gathered around them. For example, you’ll probably see pregnant women or women pushing strollers at the Parenting table or the Children’s Books table. The men dressed in button down shirts, and corduroys look like teachers and professors. You can find them perusing the Poetry and Philosophy tables. There are a lot of female senior citizens at the Mystery and Romance tables, while men of that generation can be found in History and Government (guilty – although I’m still a generation younger than most of them).

The tables with Vinyl Records or Video draw an array of different types. I didn’t have a lot of luck finding used LP’s today (though I did score a couple of things I was happy to get), but the company was interesting. There was a guy next to me that looked to be in his late 20’s wearing a surgical mask – presumably afraid of getting H1N1 from the rest of us. He was crowding me a bit so I coughed a couple of times, and saw the look of abject fear in his eyes as he took my hint and bolted. (He probably headed straight to Walgreens for a second shot before making his way to the emergency room at Miami Valley.) There was another guy with a flannel shirt, and suspenders, balding, but with long grey hair in the back looking at the rock records. He asked me who in the world would want Iron Butterfly’s In-A-Gada-Da-Vida album. I told him that my wife owned that LP and that I found it in her collection when I looked through it on our first date. It was there filed alongside a lot of Barry Manilow, John Denver, and Air Supply records. When I asked her how she happened to own that one, she told me she thought it was a birthday present, and she kind of liked the song when she heard it on the radio. The guy laughed and said, “I wonder if she was as happy with it when she found out the version on the album is almost 20 minutes long.” There were a couple of guys in their 30’s who were discussing the plethora of Dixieland and Big Band jazz records this year. (I didn’t want to disappoint them by telling them they were the same records you see there every year.) And there was a woman who was deliriously happy to find boxes of sheet music labeled “Hymnals”. From the way she was going on about it, you’d have thought Jesus himself was standing there handing them out to the crowd.

After I left the vinyl tables (where I picked up a Chick Corea LP, Leon Redbone’s debut album, Joan Baez’s Christmas album, and a copy of Louis Armstrong’s ‘Hello Dolly’ LP on Kapp in mono) I wandered around for awhile, visiting my usual haunts, going through my annual routine. I hit Philosophy, Plays, and Short Stories and then moved to Classics. Then I made my way over to Sports where I found not a single book about the Cleveland Indians or anyone else I cared about either. I had no luck with the Mysteries or Westerns either. But two tables of History and Government were calling my name. And it was there, largely, where I made my greatest contribution to the cause (in this case, Planned Parenthood).

While I’m disenchanted with the state of the country, and more so with the men and women who are in the process of running us aground (read presidents, vice presidents, senators, representatives, and all media) I still love my country and what I love even more is its rich and varied history. I’m also a student of politics and government, and I walked away from those tables with about a dozen books on various topics.

I love books about the period in which I grew up, but if you’re a student of history, you limit yourself to understanding it better if you restrict yourself to reading only the books written after the history was made. There are revisionist historians everywhere, and I’ve discovered that it’s beneficial to also read the books and texts that were written while the events were occurring because too often the details that better explain why the history came about are lost to the ages. Too many people write history books based on other history books without going back to the source of that history. That’s the lazy man’s way of doing it, and it does a disservice to readers. Anyway, I’ve been collecting books about Russian history because I got little of that in school, and I added a few more today. I also picked up a few books about the Kennedy administration – including a collection of speeches. I saw Kennedy on a DVD release of the old Jack Paar show not long before he was elected president, and was stunned to hear some of his policies. He sounded to me more like a hard-line conservative than the liberal Democrat he’s thought of being today. Which made me realize he might be a good subject of further study. My best find at this table, however, was a collection of essays (vintage 1960’s) by one of my favorite writers, the late William F. Buckley, Jr. I have a number of his books, but this was one I’d not seen. And it made the entire trip worthwhile. Whatever disagreements I might have with Buckley, he was a brilliant writer, with a remarkable wit and sense of humor. And he is always a good read.

I also like biographies, and the People table had a few finds as well. I found a 1968 autobiography by Joan Baez, along with a book about Mayor Richard Daley of Chicago, and his entire political machine written by longtime Chicago newspaper columnist (and personal favorite of mine) Mike Royko. But the best find here was a biography of actor James Dean written by his best friend William Bast. I read a terrific bio of Dean when I was in my teens, and had searched for this book by Bast for years because I’d heard it was even better. Now I’ll find out for myself.

Sometimes I’ll even buy something I’ve already read, or already own simply because there may be a different edition with a better cover, or possibly something added to it, or maybe it’s a paperback edition or a nice hardcover copy. One of the first serious books I read as a young boy (I think I was 9 or 10) was Jim Bishop’s ‘The Day Lincoln Was Shot’. I bought a paperback copy of it a couple of years ago at the fair because I’d like to read it again. Believe it or not, it’s a real page-turner even though we all know how it ends. Anyway, today I found an edition that matched the one I had as a boy. What does sentiment cost? Just a buck, according to the inside first page.

I did break my usual habit of visiting the snack bar for a hot dog and a Pepsi before heading home. The tables were all full today, so I called the wife and offered to pick up lunch on the way home. When I checked out, the guy who bagged my books for me looked at the titles and asked, “History teacher or History buff?” I answered “Buff.” The woman behind him said, “That’s quite a collection of topics.” I smiled. I don’t mind being mistaken for an intellectual.

When I walked into the Subway to get lunch, I saw what I hope was a premonition. There at a table eating a sub, and reading a book on a beautiful autumn afternoon in November, was a man who looked to be in his 60’s, to my eyes, retired, and enjoying some time on his own. I thought, I hope that’ll be me once I’m able to retire. Because who has time to read all these books now? I’ve got a record player that’s warm all the time from always being on, a computer that taps me on the shoulder whenever I leave it for too long, and a job that’s necessary to earn me the money to buy all the books I hope to find the time to read once I retire. I can resolve to read more books now. Today! But the best intentions don’t always become reality.

So that was my trip to the book fair. I’ll play the records before the week is out. The books will be filed while I try to finish the two I have going on the coffee table at the moment. And then when I’m ready to read a new one, I’ll go into the small room where I keep them all, and I’ll pick one. Maybe it’ll be one I bought at this year’s fair. Or maybe one I bought at the ’89 fair. Or maybe one from ’96. Or…who knows? I’ve got a great library in there. Now all I need is all the time in the world.

#book fairs

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customsweaterproducer · 9 months ago

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progiftreview · 1 year ago

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Mando Is Bountry Hunting Ugly Sweater Christmas Party

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grannyandgrandpascreations · 17 days ago

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Cozy Merry Christmas Flannel a Rustic Holiday Apparel

Stay cozy and festive this holiday season with our "Merry Christmas" Flannel! Featuring a stylish and eye-catching Christmas-themed design on the back, this flannel combines rustic charm with holiday cheer. Perfect for family gatherings, holiday parties, or a cozy night in, it’s a must-have for anyone embracing the Christmas spirit. Available in multiple sizes

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Embrace the holidays with our "Merry Christmas" Flannel! Featuring a festive design on the back, this cozy flannel is perfect for holiday gatherings and winter wear

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imaginedreamwrite · 2 years ago

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Cop!Andy takes future Mrs barber to a local Christmas festival, this time finally not dressed as elf

His appearance surprises you, so much so that you almost blister past him before you turn around and spy him waiting for you at the entrance gate. He’s waiting for you with a coy smirk on his face and his ocean blue eyes glinting with amusement.

Instead of a red and green elf costume or the police uniform you’d seen him in before, Andy Barber is wearing a thick flannel with a grey shirt and fake wash jeans that make his legs look miles long. His beard is freshly trimmed and only pieces of his hair is visible beneath his black toque.

“Andy.” You speak his name with a slight spike to the end, clearly surprised by him.

“Almost blew right past me, Mrs. Barber.” He continued the tease and struts, naturally struts, toward you. “Are you playing hard to get sweetheart? Or did you not recognize me?”

“I was expecting to see you in a costume. Ya know I was partial to the ears.” You retort and feel your breath constricting in your throat because he has no right to be that beautiful.

“Not today, missus.” He steps in line with you and brushes the outside of his hand against yours before he finally grasps it. “You look beautiful, honey.”

You’re not wearing anything special, not like some of the women who comes to these things with sleek winter sweater dresses or tiny skirts and act like they’re not cold. You know they probably feel confident because they obviously look good but you have to wonder if they actually feel good.

It wasn’t as if Boston was some hotspot in Winter, weather and temperature wise, it was still afflicted by storms.

Instead of dressed up, you chose something simple. You are wearing a pair of thick fleece lined leggings and a university hoodie, a men’s style that you got big on ourptose.

“That flannel looks comfortable. I’m gonna steal it.” You’re bold with your statement, hoping you can throw him off but instead he raises an eyebrow and his smirk widens.

“Do you like me putting you in cuffs that badly, Mrs. Barber?” Andy coos, seductively, and you shiver in response.

“Chippendales wanna be…” you mutter, his hand tightening on yours as a large group passes and you feel yourself haphazardly getting tossed around.

You note that in grabbing your hand he’s saving you from being thrown into a safety barrier, and your natural response was to step closer to him.

“What would you like to do first, Mrs. Barber?” Andy looks down at you as things calm, his eyes searching yours. “Apart from the obvious don’t break the law-“

“You take the fun out of everything.” You rolled your eyes and huffed, only momentarily, before you caught the sight of an outdoor rink.

“How good of a skater are you?” You begin walking toward the arena and the skate rentals, Andy following behind.

“We’re gonna find out, jailbird.”

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jawritter · 4 years ago

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Twelve Days Of Christmas

Chapter 2

Summary: Dean never realized that Y/N missed Christmas until he turned off an annoying Christmas song on the radio on the way home from a hunt, now he will make it his personal mission to give her the Christmas he misses so much, and if he plays his cards right, maybe he will give her what he has wanted to give her for so many years, himself.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Written For: @spnchristmasbingo

Square Field: Christmas Shopping

Word Count: 1306

Warnings: Hint of anxiety issues, fluff, Dean being a sweetheart. I think that’s about it.

A/N: This is to help me catch up on my SPN Christmas Bingo card lol. This is the last one for today! Chapter 3 will post tomorrow! I knew chapter will post every day until Christmas! I know I’m insane lol. This is a real time fic collection and all mistakes will be my own! Please do not copy my work! Hope you all enjoy these!!

**SERIES MASTERLIST** **MASTERLIST** **BECOME A PATREON**

Dean grabbed a shopping cart from the rack at the store entrance and pushed it awkwardly through the store as well as the crowds of people. The light sounds of Christmas music played through the speakers in the background of the roar of constant chatter. Items were in display boxes in the center of aisles marked For Sale! in red letters on big signs. Different things from men’s and women’s cologne to fuzzy socks and bigger things like expensive and needless foot massagers.

Needless to say, Dean didn’t know where to start, but he was going to walk around until he fingered it out. He was determined to give you the Christmas you deserved. He had a plan that he’d cooked up on the way up here. He had twelve days to give you the holiday experience of a lifetime, and he wasn’t going to let any of it go to waste, he was going to start with a small Christmas present for you to open tonight when he returned to the Dean cave, and then spend each day surprising you with something new.

Tonight there was a big snowstorm coming, and he’d already had his plan for that as well, but he needed something he could give you for tonight. Being hunters, you didn’t really wear makeup. He didn’t want to get you something for the kitchen because then he felt like it looked like he was asking you to cook more when he wasn’t.

He did keep coming back to the fuzzy socks. The bunker was always cold this time of year, even with its artificial climate control, and he had more than once seen you shivering in the morning and walking around with his jacket on. So he grabbed those, and also a pajama set that looked like it matched with a long-sleeved flannel shirt and plaid fuzzy pants. He also knew you liked hot chocolate, so he grabbed the stuff to make some hot chocolate and some alcohol to add to it. He knew it wasn’t much, but it was only the start.

He did feel a little strange Christmas shopping. It was something he had never actually done before, but he had to admit that he felt a little string of excitement as he looked at your new pajamas and socks. He hoped this was the start of something between the two of you. Something that would last long after Christmas had come and gone.

Back at the bunker, you took your time in getting to the shower. You had spent some time in your room looking through old family photos you had hidden under your bed of Christmases past and things that you would never have again with a heavy heart. You also spent some time kicking yourself for worsening your mood when Dean wanted to spend time with you. That was something normally that made your day. You carved the attention of the elder Winchester, even if you had never admitted it out loud. So when he came up with this whole movie night idea you should have been over the moon and not dwelling on the past.

After some time you pulled yourself up off of the floor and put the pictures away before making your way to the showers, where the promise of steaming hot water and Dean’s soap awaited you. You wondered if he noticed you using his shampoo and soap but just chose to never say anything. It smelt like him, and it was comforting on those cold nights alone.

Speaking of cold, the temperature had started to drop a great deal tonight, you could feel it in the air that hung in the bathroom as you peeled the clothes from your body and stepped under the scalding spray. You were glad to be back in the bunker and out of the storm outside. You loved the snow, and you loved to play in it like an overgrown kid, but you didn’t like traveling in it.

By the time you had gotten out of the shower, your skin was wrinkled and the shower was filled with warm steam, but you felt more relaxed in body and mind. You had been able to mostly get your anxiety under control with the help of the hot water and Dean’s soap. When you stepped out into the steam warmed room and wrapped the towel around your body you were surprised by a poorly wrapped present on the sink waiting for you. You blinked for a moment and looked around cautiously before making your way to it.

There was a little note taped to the top of the package that said, “Day 12, something to keep you warm, D,'' written in Dean’s handwriting and you swore for a moment your heart stopped in your chest as tears pooled in your eyes. Had he really gotten you a present?

You tentatively unwrap the gift to find a new pajama set with a set of fuzzy socks sat haphazardly on top of the folded clothes and smile to yourself at his obvious attempt to do it himself. Your heartfelt like it could swell up and sore around the room and tears were steadily tracking down your cheeks as you quickly dressed in your gift. Dean didn’t have to go to the store and do that for you, but he did, and it meant the world to you.

By the time you made your way to the Dean Cave, Dean was sitting a tray of hot chocolate on the little table in front of the oversized recliners, and grinning widely at you as you appeared in the doorway in your new PJ’s.

“Looks great on you Sweetheart,” he said proudly as you blushed and made your way over to him. “I’m glad they fit.”

“Dean, you didn’t have to do this, but you made my day. Thank you so much,” you tell him, throwing your arms around his neck and his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you into a tight hug before lowering you both down to sit in the same recliner and handing you a mug of hot chocolate that you were pretty sure he’d spiked with alcohol like you had done for him that one hunt in Detroit when he’d caught himself a pretty nasty cold.

“I wanted to do it Y/N/N, and this just day 12,” he told you with a wink, and you giggle in spite of yourself as he turns Elf on the TV, and wraps his arms around you, and pulls you into him. Something he had never done often, but you love it nonetheless.

“You really don’t have to do this, Dean. I know you don’t really like the holidays all that much,” you tell him earnestly as he sips from the much in his left hand.

Dean shrugged and smiled at you, “maybe I just never had anyone I really wanted to celebrate it with,” he said simply, and your blush deepened as your heart pounded against your rib cage.

You snuggled down into his hold a little more comfortably, a content sigh leaving your lips. You had no idea what Dean had planned, but you were excited to see what the next few days had in store for you.

Dean couldn’t wipe the smile on his face off if he wanted to, and even long after you had fallen asleep in his arms he didn’t even bother moving you, just slouched down the chair more than content to sleep right here with you all night long.

The way your face lit up as you walked into the room in his gift made his broken and battered heart beat again for the first time in ages, maybe celebrating Christmas with you is just what he needed too.

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@bobbie3939

Jensen and Dean’s Babes

@akshi8278

@love-jackles-37-blog

@supernatural-bellawinchester

@bobbie3939

Twelve Days Of Christmas Tag List:

@440mxs-wife

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester series #dean x reader #dean x you #x reader inserts #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fanfic #spn fanfiction #spn fanfic #jawritter #twelve days of christmas #jensen ackles

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imjustalonesomewriteblr · 4 years ago

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Chapter One

Word Count: 1,936

Warnings: Maybe mild language (I forget), tiny bit of violence (it isn’t described besides a bruise/mark and hinting), government people and maybe some politics (?).

Alright, this one’s three and a half weeks behind schedule, but who cares. It’s done now. So far the only criticism I’ve gotten on this one is that the dialogue in the beginning is too long and the ending is too short, so I’ll try to fix that next time. :)

Léonie enjoyed listening to Florette whistle in the morning. It was a nice, peaceful way to wake up, especially because the alternative would be a loud alarm. Today, even though it was summer, Florette was whistling a Christmas song, but Léonie didn’t mind. It still made her happy.

The room’s large windows gave the two of them a wonderful view of the lake. That was the one good thing about waking so early in the morning: everything was calm and quiet. The dim light from the moon lit the room more than their weak ceiling light ever could. A few birds sang and flew past the window.

“Good morning, Florette,” Léonie turned over and looked down from her top bunk. Florette was stretching on the floor, as she had done every morning for almost three years.

“Mornin’,” she replied.

“How did you sleep?”

“Not as well as I could’ve.”

“That is too bad,” Léonie laid on her back and looked to the ceiling. She hardly had any wall space next to her bunk, so she had resorted to decorating the ceiling.

Ms. LaPore had only allowed the volunteers to take objects home from their missions that could fit in a tiny plastic bag. This resulted in the volunteers having an unusual amount of posters and short books and not clothes or larger objects. Léonie’s ceiling was mostly covered by old movie posters and magazine covers, plus several postcards.

“We’ve gotta hurry up,” Florette tied her shoelaces, “The meeting’s early.”

“I am aware,” Léonie scooted to the end of her bed and jumped down, “Did you read over your folder?”

“Nope. I’ll do that during breakfast,” Florette said. Léonie sighed.

Léonie walked over to her dresser and pulled out her uniform: a grey shirt, black pants, and simple white shoes. She had been instructed to wear her name badge this time, so she pinned it on her shirt.

“Why don’t you wear a dress or something,” Florette was sitting on the lower bunk now, watching a deer walk in front of the window.

“I am not supposed to.” It was only then Léonie realized Florette was not completely in uniform. She was wearing a dark green flannel over her shirt and her socks were pink. Florette’s hair was in two buns, which was against Assembly policies.

“Take those off, Florette,” Léonie put her own white socks on, “and change your hair.”

“I’m going to wear my hair however I want.”

“You will be in trouble.”

“I wasn’t last time.”

“Last time, Mr. Steinberg interrupted Ms. LaPore as she was trying to discipline you. That was simply luck,” Léonie put her final shoe on and began making her bed before it was time for breakfast.

“Whatever,” Florette mumbled, laying on her back, “I don’t care.”

Léonie shook her head and sat down on the rocking chair next to the window. She picked up the book she was currently reading and opened it to the page she had bookmarked. Léonie had read Aesop’s Fables innumerous times now, but it was one of the only books she had and she didn’t want to bother Mr. Johnson for any new ones.

Within five minutes of Léonie sitting down, there was a knock on their door. Florette opened it, revealing Reese on the other side.

“Breakfast’s ready,” she said, “I wouldn’t get too excited about it, though.”

“What is it?” Florette asked.

“Water and toast. There isn’t any butter or jam, either,” Reese said.

Florette groaned and walked past Reese.

“At least it is something,” Léonie said as she exited the room. Reese shut the door behind them.

Breakfast was held in the kitchen of the main house. The main house, which was owned by Mr. Steinberg, was a large, brick building from the early 1900s. It had seven bedrooms, all of which were converted to offices, a large basement, and multiple repurposed living rooms. It also had a nice conservatory, which Mr. Steinberg and, occasionally, Danilo spent time in. The main house and the volunteer’s guesthouse were separated by a large yard, forested area, and pool.

Danilo met the tree of them in the hallways and, together, they grabbed their folders and began walking to breakfast.

“How did you sleep?” Léonie asked.

“Fine.”

“Bene.”

“That’s good.” Léonie said.

The smell of fresh grass wafted past them. The yard had been cut recently, probably for the officials who were visiting. A pool boy was taking the leaves that had fallen out of the pool and another was cleaning the stone.

As the volunteers neared the house, they could see a large group of men in suits and women in nice dresses crowded in the conservatory. Others were viewable through the windows and glass door.

“What the crap is going on here?” Florette said.

“Did you not read the stuff in your folder?” Reese asked.

“No.”

“Oh my God, you idiot.”

“If I read this stuff,” Florette motioned to her folder, “would I know who those people are?”

“Duh!”

Danilo shushed the two women as the glass doors opened in front of them.

“Volunteers, I need to speak to you in the kitchen,” Ms. LaPore whispered almost immediately after they stepped into the house. She examined their appearances quickly, before stopping at Florette, “Especially you, Travere.”

The volunteers made their way to the kitchen. It was noticeably quieter, and colder, than the entryway. The only person in the room was a maid, who was cleaning the metal counters. The room was all white except for the metal counters, which had dark red details, appliances, and chairs. There was a plant in the corner and a chalkboard, but otherwise, the room was empty.

“You’re late,” Ms. LaPore snapped, her anger visible on her face. Her red dress and black heels seemed to match to her mood perfectly, “I don’t tolerate late volunteers.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but it took a while to.. find our uniforms,” Reese said.

“Really? All of you had trouble finding one of your three pairs of uniforms?” Ms. LaPore asked, then she turned to Florette, “I see Travere he-”

“It’s Miss. Travere, Juliette.”

“Do not address me by my first name,” Ms. LaPore hissed at Florette, “I see Travere had no problem improvising.”

All eyes turned to Florette’s outfit. She pulled the legs of her pants down so that her socks were covered, but her flannel was simply unhidable.

“Do you have an explanation for your attire, Travere?” Ms. LaPore said.

“Uh, yeah, Juliette,” Florette responded. Léonie mumbled a quiet ‘Oh my goodness’ and shook her head. Florette continued, “I thought, because I’m ninety-two and not incapable, I should be able to dress myself in whatever I see fit.”

Ms. LaPore’s face turned bright red and she stormed towards Florette. Almost like they were in a cartoon, Ms. LaPore grabbed the back of Florette’s collar and began pulling her towards the other room. Before they entered, Ms. LaPore turned to the rest of the group, “I want complete silence in here until I return! Anyone who speaks will end up like Travere here.”

The door slammed behind them and the three volunteers were left alone in the kitchen. None of them spoke and they ate their toast in silence.

A man in a business suit worth more than Léonie had seen in her lifetime walked in the room quickly to grab some cups. His glare lingered on the three of them and their measly pieces of toasts as he made his way through the room. Other than that interruption, their breakfast went on quietly.

The moment Danilo finished his toast, Florette walked through the doorway. Her head was down, hiding a bright red mark on her face, and her arms were crossed in front of her.

“Ms. LaPore says to meet in the amphitheater,” Florette said as she grabbed her piece of toast and continued towards the other door.

The amphitheater was in the front woods, so that guests could not see the volunteer’s housing. It was surrounded by trees, but because of its weekly cleaning, there was no sign of dirt on the stage or seating. There was a circle stage made of bricks in a herringbone pattern. The seating was also brick, and for this occasion, cushions had been put at each of the guests’ spots. The volunteers had been placed in the very back, with only Mr. Johnson to watch over them.

After a few minutes of the volunteers mindlessly flipping through their folders and Florette refusing to talk to Léonie, Mr. Steinberg and DeBurrow began leading the guests towards the amphitheater. Some of them looked at the amphitheater in an awe-like wonder, while others, who were unimpressed with the small size, chatted among themselves. The volunteers watched as the guests filed through the rows of seating and selected their spots. Most of them already had partners and sat together. A few of them were in military uniforms.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. DeBurrow spoke. He stood behind the pedestal that was positioned in the middle of the stage. He shuffled some notecards, “I thank you all for being here so early in the morning.”

Mr. DeBurrow cleared his throat, “Did you know that 98% of the officials in this room were formerly employed by their militaries? Mr. Howard Steinberg, Mrs. Juliette LaPore, Mr. Xavier Johnson, and myself included. Yet, 100% of you still work in the governm-”

Mr. Johnson awkwardly ran down the terraced seating down to Mr. DeBurrow. He whispered something in the elder man’s ear and then returned to the volunteers.

“Excuse me,” Mr. DeBurrow, “I know you all have been out of school for years, but I need to take attendance. We’ll do this quickly.

Anyone associated with the United States Central Intelligence, please raise your hand.”

Two men raised their hands. Mr. DeBurrow crossed something out on a piece of paper and told them to put their hands down.

“British Secret Intelligence Service?” A woman who resembled Reese raised her hand along with another man.

“Polish… Agencja Wywiadu?” A woman raised her hand.

Mr. DeBurrow called out names for at least five minutes until Florette was sure he had listed every country in the world. Well, every country except two.

“Now that that’s finished,” Mr. DeBurrow glanced at Mr. Johnson, “I can continue my speech. You all are gathered here today because you are, one, the best of the best in your respective countries and, two, you are some of the few individuals aware of the troubles brewing in China and Russia.”

A wave of murmurs rushed over the amphitheater. A few individuals seemed confused at the mention of the two countries, but were quickly informed by their companions.

“As of two weeks ago, China and Russia have been at war. It started near the town of Jalai Nur and Lake Hulun, on the Northern Chinese-Russian border,” suddenly, several holograms appeared behind Mr. DeBurrow. The Assembly had installed them instead of screens because of their effectiveness and inability to get wet. Only a few of the crowd was surprised by their appearance, as holograms and projections had been used for at least a decade.

A map of Russia and China, plus several statistics, appeared on the projection behind Mr. DeBurrow. He grabbed his pointing stick and directed the crowd’s attention to the map.

“I won’t get into much detail on the attacks so far,” Léonie sighed in frustration. She wanted to know what was going on. Mr. DeBurrow continued, “but if this war between these two countries carries on any farther, the world will irreversibly be thrust into World War III.”

#assembly of absolutists #11.. 4.. 3..#writblr #writeblr #writers of tumblr #writers on tumblr #writing #my writing #chapter two #leonie gloria thalmann #florette priscille travere #danilo santo potenza #reese daisy ellis #xavier clement johnson #fiction #realistic fiction #my oc #my ocs #imjustalonesomewriteblr

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star-anise · 5 years ago

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why would your social environment affect if you identify as a woman or nb?

I don’t know if you meant it to be, but this is a delightful question. I am going to be a complete nerd for 2k+ words at you.

“Gender” is distinct from “sex” because it’s not a body’s physical characteristics, it’s how society classifies and interprets that body. Sex is “That person has a vagina.” Gender is “This is a blend of society’s expectations about what bodies with vaginas are like, social expectations of how people with vaginas do or might or should act, behave, and feel, the actual lived experiences of people with vaginas, and a twist of lemon for zest.” Concepts of gender and what is “manly” and “womanly” can vary a lot. They’re social values, like “normal” or “legal” or “beautiful”, and they vary all the time. How well you fit your gender role depends a lot on how “gender” is defined.

800 years ago in Europe the general perception was that women were sinful, sensual, lustful people who required frequent sex and liked watching bloodsport. 200 years ago, the British aristocracy thought women were pure, innocent beings of moral purity with no sexual desire who fainted at the sight of blood. These days, we think differently in entirely new directions.

But this gets even more complicated, in part because human experience is really diverse and society’s narratives have to account for that. So 200 years ago, those beliefs about femininity being delicate and dainty and frail only really applied to women with aristocratic lineages, and “the lower classes” of women were believed to be vulgar, coarse, sexual, and earthy, which “explained” why they performed hard physical labor or worked as prostitutes.

Being trans or nonbinary isn’t just or even primarily about what characteristics you want your body to have. It’s about how you want to define yourself and be interpreted and interacted with by other people.

The writer Sylvia Plath lived 1932-1963, and she said:

“Being born a woman is my awful tragedy. From the moment I was conceived I was doomed to sprout breasts and ovaries rather than penis and scrotum; to have my whole circle of action, thought and feeling rigidly circumscribed by my inescapable feminity. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars–to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording–all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery.”

She was from upper-middle-class Massachusetts, the child of a university professor. A lot of those things she was “prohibited” from doing weren’t things each and every woman was prohibited from doing; they were things women of her class weren’t allowed to do. The daughters and sisters and wives of sailors and soldiers, women who worked in hotels and ran rooming houses, barmaids and sex workers, got to anonymously and invisibly observe those men, after all. They just couldn’t do it at the same time they tried to meet the standards educated Bostonians of the 1950s had for nice young women.

Failure to understand how diverse womanhood is has always been one of feminism’s biggest weaknesses. The Second Wave of feminism was started mostly by prosperous university-educated white women, since they were the people with the time and money and resources to write and read books and attend conferences about “women’s issues”. And they assumed that their issues were female issues. That they were the default of femaleness, and could assume every woman had roughly the same experience as them.

So, for example, middle-class white women in post-WWII USA were expected to stay home all the time and look after their children. Feminists concluded that this was isolating and oppressive, and they’d like the freedom to pursue lives, careers, and interests outside of the home. They vigorously pursued the right to be freed from their domestic and maternal duties.

But in their society, these experiences were not generally shared by Black and/or poor women, who, like their mothers, did not have the luxury of spending copious amounts of leisure time with their children; they had to work to earn enough money to survive on, which meant working on farms, in factories, or as cooks, maids, or nannies for rich white women who wanted the freedom to pursue lives outside the home. They tended to feel that they would like to have the option of staying home and playing with their babies all day.

This is not to say none of the first group enjoyed domestic lives, or that none of the second group wanted non-domestic careers; it’s just that the first group formed the face and the basic assumptions of feminism, and the second group struggled to get a seat at the table.

There’s this phenomenon called “cultural feminism” that’s an attitude that crops up among feminists from time to time (or grows on them, like fungus) that holds that women have a “feminine essence”, a quasi-spiritual “nature” that is deeply distinct from the “masculine essence” of men. This is one of the concepts powering lesbian separatism: the idea that because women are so fundamentally different from men, a society of all women will be fundamentally different in nature from a society that includes men.

But, well, the problem cultural feminism generally has is with how it achieves its definition of “female nature”. The view tends to be that women are kinder, more moral, more collectivist, more community-minded, and less prone to violence.

And cultural feminists tend to HATE people who believe in the social construction of gender, because we tend to cross our arms and go, “Nah, sis, that’s a frappe of misused statistics and The Angel In the House with some wishful thinking as a garnish. That’s how you feel about what womanhood is. It’s fair enough for you, but you’re trying to apply it to the entire human species. That’s got less intellectual rigor and sociological validity than my morning oatmeal.” Hence the radfem insistence that gender theorists like me SHUT UP and gender quite flatly DOESN’T EXIST. It’s a MADE-UP TERM, and people should STOP TALKING ABOUT IT. (And go back to taking about immutable, naturally-occuring phenomena, one supposes, like the banking system and Western literary canon.)

Because seriously, when you look at real actual women, you will see that some of us can be very selfish, while others are altruistic; some think being a woman means abhorring all violence forever, and others think being a woman means being willing to fight and die to protect the people you love. As groups men and women have different average levels of certain qualities, but it’s not like we don’t share a lot in common. The distribution of “male” and “female” traits doesn’t tend to mean two completely separate sets of characteristics; they tend to be more like two overlapping bell curves.

So, like I said, I grew up largely in rural, working-class Western Canadian society. My relatives tend to be tradesmen like carpenters, welders, or plumbers, or else ranchers and farmers. I was raised by a mother who came of age during the big push for Women’s Lib. So in the culture in which I was raised, it was very normal and in some ways rewarded (though in other ways punished) for women to have short hair, wear flannel and jeans, drive a big truck, play rough contact sports, use power tools, pitch in with farmwork, use guns, and drink beer. “Traditional femininity” was a fascinating foreign culture my grandmother aspired to, and I loved nonsense like polishing the silver (it’s a very satisfying pastime) but that was just another one of my weird hobbies, like sewing fairy clothes out of flower petals and collecting toy horses.

Within the standards of the society I was raised in, I am a decently feminine woman. I’m obviously not a “girly girl”, someone who wears makeup and dresses in ways that privilege beauty over practicality, but I have a long ponytail of hair and when I go to Mark’s Work Wearhouse, I shop in the women’s section. We know what “butch” is and I ain’t it.

But through my friendships and my career, I’ve gotten experiences among cultures you wouldn’t think would be too different–we’re all still white North Americans!–but which felt bizarre and alien, and ate away at the sense of self I’d grown up in. In the USA’s northeast, the people I met had the kind of access to communities with social clout, intellectual resources, and political power I hadn’t quite believed existed before I saw them. There really were people who knew politicians and potential employers socially before they ever had to apply to a job or ask for political assistance; there were people who really did propose projects to influential businessmen or academics at cocktail parties; they really did things like fundraise tens of thousands of dollars for a charity by asking fifty of their friends to donate, or start a business with a $2mil personal loan from a relative.

And in those societies, femininity was so different and so foreign. I’d grown up seeing femininity as a way of assigning tasks to get the work done; in these new circles, it was performative in a way that was entirely unique and astounding to me. A boss really would offer you a starting salary $10k higher than they might have if you wore high heels instead of flats. You really would be more likely to get a job if you wore makeup. And your ability to curate social connections in the halls of power really was influenced by how nice of a Christmas party you could throw. These women I met were being held, daily, to a standard of femininity higher than that performed by anyone in my 100 most immediate relatives.

So when girls from Seven Sisters schools talked about how for them, dressing how I dressed every day (jeans, boots, tee, button-up shirt, no makeup, no hair product) was “bucking gendered expectations” and “being unfeminine”, I began to feel totally unmoored. When I realized that I, who absolutely know only 5% as much about power tools and construction as my relatives in the trades, was more suited to take a hammer and wade in there than not just the “empowered” women but the self-professed “handy” men there, I didn’t know how to understand it. I felt like I was… a woman who knew how to do carpentry projects, not “totally butch” the way some people (approvingly) called me.

And, well, at home in Alberta I was generally seen as a sweet and gentle girl with an occasional stubborn streak or precocious moment, but apparently by the standards of Southern states like Georgia and Alabama I am like, 100x more blunt, assertive, and inconsiderate of men’s feelings than women typically feel they have to be.

And this is still all just US/Canadian white women.

And like I said, after years of this, I came home (from BC, where I encountered MORE OTHER weird and alien social constructs, though generally more around class and politics than gender) to Alberta, and I went to what is, for Alberta, a super hippy liberal church, and I helped prepare the after-service tea among women with unstyled hair and no makeup who wore jeans and sensible shoes, and listened to them talk about their work in municipal water management and ICU nursing, and it felt like something inside my chest slid back into place, because I understood myself as a woman again, and not some alien thing floating outside the expectations of the society I was in with a chestful of opinions no one around me would understand, suddenly all made sense again.

I mean, that’s by no means an endorsement for aspirational middle class rural Alberta as the ideal gender utopia. (Alberta is the Texas of Canada.) I just felt comfortable inside because it’s the culture where I found a definition of myself and my gender I could live with, because its boundaries of what’s considered “female” were broad enough to hold all the parts of me I felt like I needed to express. I have a lot of friends who grew up here, or in families like mine, and don’t feel at all happy with its gender boundaries. And even as I’m comfortable being a woman here, I still want to push and transform it, to make it even more feminist and politically left and decolonized.

TERFs try to claim that trans and nonbinary people reinforce the gender identity, but in my experience, it’s feminists who claim male and female are immutable and incompatible do that. It’s trans, nonbinary, and genderqueer people who, simply by performing their genders in public, make people realize just how bullshit innate theories of gender are.. Society is going to want to gender them in certain ways and involve them in certain dynamics (”Hey ladies, those fellas, amirite?”) and they’re going, “Nope. Not me. Cut it out.” I’ve seen a lot of cis people who will quietly admit they do think men and women are different because that’s just reality, watch someone they know transition, and suddenly go, “Oh my god, I get it now.”

Like yes, this is me being coldly political and thinking about people as examples to make a political point. Everyone’s valid and can do what they want, but some things are just easier for potential converts to wrap their minds around.. “I’m sorting through toys to give to Shelly’s baby. He probably won’t want a princess crown, huh?” “I actually know several people who were considered boys when they were babies and never got one, and are making up for all their lost princess crown time now as adults. You never know what he’ll be into when he grows up.” “…Okay, point. I’ll throw it in there.” Trans and enby people disrupt gender in a really powerful back-of-the-brain way where people suddenly see how much leeway there is between gender and sex.

I honestly believe supporting trans and enby people and queering gender until it’s a macrame project instead of a spectrum are how we’ll get to a gender-free utopia. I think cultural feminism is just the same old shit, inverted. (Confession: in my head, I pronounce “cultural” with emphasis on the “cult” part.)

I think feminism is like a lot of emergency response groups: Our job is to put ourselves out of a job. It’s not a good thing if gender discrimination is still prevalent and harmful 200 years from now! Obviously we’re not there yet and calls to pack it in and go home are overrated, but as the problem disappears into its solution, we have to accept that our old ways of looking at the world have to shift.

#staranise original #lgbt discourse

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mr-barrow · 5 years ago

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A little Modern AU oneshot. Happy Valentine’s Day! ♥

By the time Thomas got home from work, it was nearing midnight and he was dead on his feet.

It was usual for him to be stuck with the closing shift on Fridays, really. But today was Valentine’s Day, and that made work a little more hectic than usual; honestly, the number of proposals he’d seen that day was staggering (not that four was a particularly high number itself, but it was four more men down on a knee than he usually saw in a day). He’d gone in earlier too, just as the reservations started to overlap the most for dinner.

He was used to it. He always worked holidays, him being the only one who was consistently unattached.

But now he was attached, and he’d had to work anyway. Somehow that wasn’t surprizing. The first time in years he’s had someone to spend Valentine’s day with, and he’d missed it. At least he didn’t work tomorrow. He clung to that silver lining.

There were thirteen minutes left of the day by the time he walked into his flat. Thomas wondered if that was some kind of omen.

The key stuck in the lock more than it usually did, due to him being tired and clumsy. He yanked it out and closed the door with more force than strictly necessary. Walking deeper into the apartment, Thomas noticed the aroma in the air; sweet and savory and warm, in every sense. Taking an active look around, he noticed the little table in the breakfast nook was set and a single, vibrant red orchid at its center.

“Richard?” Thomas asked as he rounded the corner into the kitchen. No one was there, but there was a tray of brownies cooling and the oven was still on. He stood in the middle of the room, unsure of what he was feeling but pretty positive he liked it.

“Darling? That you?” Richard’s voice sounded from behind him. Thomas turned to see him coming from the bedroom, tugging his t-shirt down over his middle. Thomas couldn’t help but drink in the sight of him. He always revelled in getting to see Richard like this. He was always so put-together, so polished, but Thomas loved to see him dressed down and comfortable.

Granted, he liked Richard in either case.

Richard smiled and gave Thomas a lingering kiss. “Welcome home.”

Thomas could only think to say, “You waited up?”

“Of course I did. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

Thomas felt warm all over. “House special tonight; maple roasted chicken and vegetables. After that, Grammy Ellis’ famous brownies and that bottle of port from Christmas.”

“You did all this for me.” It wasn’t a question. It was only beginning to really sink in. Thomas thought he might actually love this stupid holiday.

Richard kissed him again. “Go get changed, dearest. You’re very overdressed.” And he went to the oven.

Thomas went and dressed (or undressed, rather) and they ate dinner at midnight in their undershirts and plaid flannels and houseshoes. Richard was truly an excellent cook, and honestly was at his most vibrant under the light of the moon and stars.

Desert was to be even less formal; Richard placed the tray of brownies, the port, and two glasses on the coffee table, and told Thomas to get comfortable. “I thought we might get on with our marathon. We’ve got From Russia With Love next, if you’re up for it?”

Thomas smirked. “I do hope you’ve got the late shift tomorrow.”

“I’ve got the day off, in fact.”

“Do you?”

“Well, I did request it off. Seemed the thing to do.”

Thomas didn’t quite know what to say to that, so he excused himself to retrieve his own gift. He felt rather silly, after all this. His contribution to the evening wasn’t nearly as lovely as anything Richard had done.

Back on the couch, he very nonchalantly handed the book to Richard--it wasn’t even wrapped, for goodness’ sake--and coughed to clear the nerves from his voice. “It’s not as--well, I can hardly keep up with you, can I, in the way of sweeping you off your feet. But I found this at Cromwell’s a couple of weeks ago, and...well, I only thought you might like it.” Christ, he was awful at this.

But Richard held the book reverently, fingers softly grazing the faded green cover and the gilt lettering. He smiled one of his glittering smiles as he read the title, and Thomas felt like he might’ve gotten something right. “Flappers and Philosophers. First edition, too, bloody hell, and you just happened upon it.”

“I thought we might--” damn, but this was soppy. “I thought we could read it together. If you like.”

“Darling, I’d love nothing more.”

The book was placed, for the time-being, on the bookshelf--on what had become Richard’s shelf, specifically, right between his collection of Tennyson and a particularly large volume about the House of Medici. The humans settled on the loveseat, Thomas tucked into Richard’s side and both sharing the quilt Mrs. Hughes had given Thomas many Christmases ago.

As the opening theme drew to a close--and after they both calmed their heckling at the women dancing in projector light--Richard placed a chaste kiss on Thomas’ temple, and Thomas smiled.

#Thomas Barrow #Richard Ellis #thomas barrow x richard ellis #barris #modern au #valentine's day #my writing

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erintoknow · 5 years ago

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so unfamiliar now

Spiraling - A Fallen Hero: Rebirth Fan-fiction

Unless you want Ortega hounding you to the end of your days, you’re going to have to put on a show and convince her she doesn’t need to keep worrying about you. You’re fine. Everything’s fine. She’s fine. Wait – [Horseshoe Crab]

It’s my birthday today so have a second update this week!!!!!

[Read on AO3]

If you’re going to get Ortega to lay off of you, you need to start thinking about your appearance again. Dressing in hoodies to look inconspicuous doesn’t do you any good if it actually ends up drawing more attention to yourself. So… What do you dress like?

Once upon a time Ariadne fancied anything and everything from skirts and the femmest outfits she could get her hands on all the way to shrugging on a leather jacket and gloves as part of her roller derby get-up. What could possibly be a logical progression from that?

Don’t want to look too affluent. A waste of resources. But you don’t want to look destitute either. So… Clean, some color. Mostly greens, some purples and black for variety. Cloth and cotton, things you can layer. Mix in some new items with thrift store purchases to fill out the rest.

One day at the mall, you stumble across a cute pair of shoes with a 1” heel and add them to the pile. The old Ariadne would never have worn something like that, but fuck her. She’s dead.

Should you start doing make-up again? Stare yourself down in the mirror in the morning and make a face. Bad enough you have to see that wretched thing as much as you do already. The concealer work is enough. Leave the eyeshadow and lipstick in the past. Anyone misgenders you, you can just beat the shit out of them. It’s 2020 now, you’re totally allowed to do that, super villain or no.

God. Do you look human yet? You don’t feel it. What is Ariadne like? How do you play this? Do you play up the stutter or tamp it down? Does she find it cu– Fuck. Fucking hell. No. No you are not thinking about that. Jesus fucking christ.

You pull fabric around your shoulders, frowning in disapproval at the mirror. Once upon a time, Ortega’s mother gave you a serape like this for Christmas. That one was a rainbow of color. This shawl is a duller green, with a white geometric pattern along the edges. Still, it’s long enough, draping down to your waist. You could hide your arms completely underneath, maybe a few other things if there was a call for it. Kind of like the cape for your villain suit.

So is this you, now? Or at least, if not you; is it Ariadne? You’re allowed to change, right? Will she even buy it? You’re not sure that you do.

When you get the phone call from Ortega one evening you go along and let her make plans. You’ve got time to kill before your next big operation anyway. And you can field test your new wardrobe.

–––

“Ariadne! Hola!” Ortega raises her arm, a bright smile on her face. Looks like the last of the stitches are gone. Thank god. She’s got jeans on, another flannel shirt. No jacket today? If it wasn’t for the gave-away glint of metal embedded in her arms and hands she’d look like a textbook middle-age butch lesbian.

Did she always dress like that? Is it because she’s seeing Jane now? Swear she flirted a little more femme when she was with men. Not that you were paying attention at the time. Of course not.

Shut up.

You raise your hand back, “Hola yourself. Y–you look happy today.”

“I like the new look.”

You blink, glance down at yourself. Doubt creeping back into your head. “Uh. Well. It’s uh, it’s just stuff I had… laying around… you know.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure.” She doesn’t believe you at all, damn her.

“D–don’t think it’s for your benefit!” You hiss back, you reach up and grab the edges of your shawl, pulling the green fabric closed over your body. “B–because it’s not!”

Her smile broadens. “I didn’t say anything, Ariadne.”

“F–fuck you.”

“I like the shawl, it’s cute.”

Oh god. You can’t look at her. Face warm. Ortega has a girlfriend, what the hell is she doing? “G–good for you. You um, you want to – to get on with w–whatever the fuck we’re doing today?”

“Alright, alright.” She laughs, turning and beckoning you to follow. “We’re already here actually.” Ortega gets about halfway to the front doors before she realizes (acknowledges?) that you aren’t following her. She turns her head, flaps her arms in a ‘what?’ gesture.

Pulling your shawl tight around you, there’s newfound gratitude for how your sunglasses help to mask your eyes.

You stare up at the front facade of the Los Diablos Children’s Hospital, white tiling and red brickwork and dozens of little panes of glass like too many eyes. “Ortega…” you try to keep the panic out of your voice. “I thought you said we were doing something fun.”

She walks back to you, tight frown on her face. “We used to do this all the time, remember?”

You stare at her, “Do what?”

“Visits? Readings? You know?”

Bite your lip, is that true? Ortega seems so sure of it, but… Thinking back to hospitals all your memory coughs up is a very different kind of picture. One that makes your stomach roil and your head dizzy. True or not there’s still one problem: “Ortega… I’m trying to keep a low profile, remember?”

Ortega sighs and pats you on the shoulder. “Look, there’s no PR crew, no cameras, I haven’t even told Chen. The only person who knows we’re coming is the lady in charge of managing volunteers, Sue, and as far she knows you’re just a friend I’m dragging along.” She steps beside you, hooking her arm in yours. “So, you’ve got nothing to worry about, okay?”

You tense up as Ortega half-walks, half-drags you to the doors. “If – if, um – ninjas descend from the ceiling and kidnap me, I want you to know…”

“Yeah?”

“I f–f–fucking hate you.”

Ortega laughs, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Bright lights and white walls, men and women in scrubs, medical masks. You keep your shades on, damn politeness. Mercifully, hardly anyone spares you a thought, eyes sliding off. Fewer people than you'd believe recognize Ortega out of her Ranger’s outfit. At the same time, you do get the sense she’s a known quantity here, this isn’t her first rodeo. You’ll just have to trust her; there’s an uncomfortable thought.

You wish you had the Rat-King handy, you can wrap a song tight around your head but you could stand to have a little help filtering out the background noise. Maybe it’s your own baggage, but the chatter of hospital thoughts always has this tension to it – forced cheeriness.

Hang back and let Ortega talk to the front desk, a few minutes of waiting and the woman, she mentioned, Sue? –Susan?– comes out frowning behind the too-thick fireproof doors. Straight brown hair, dressed in white, stud earrings.

It makes an interesting contrast between her and Ortega. Ortega’s sporting her Ranger-branded sports jacket today. Ranger-blue indigo shirt underneath. Her bronzed skin a touch darker in shade than her conversation partner. It’s a good look for her – the outfit that is.

You guess.

Not that you’re an expert on Ortega’s style choices or anything.

What do you care what she looks like?

You don’t.

Shut up.

Sue and Ortega make small talk, and Ortega keeps glancing your way. Expecting you to join in? You’d rather hang back. Not talking to any doctors today, thanks.

You worry the sleeves of your shirt, pulled down to the wrists. Rub the fabric between your fingers, trace patterns over your thigh, anything to do that isn’t further chewing up the inside of your cheek.

It’s been weeks now and neither one of you have discussed the kiss in the Hospital. Maybe Ortega doesn’t even remember. Some drug-fueled fever dream.

Or…

Or maybe she hated it? Is politely letting you pretend it never happened. She’s with Jane, you have to remember. Ortega is a lot of things, but she’s not a cheater.

And now Ortega’s beckoning you over. Welp.

Take a breath, in – hold – out. You’re not scared. What are you scared of? You are Ghost, the mysterious plight of Los Diablos. They ought to be scared of you. Ortega taps the side of her head. No shades? You make a face and she gives you a serious look. You huff and pull them off, fold up and tuck them in your purse. White walls. White lights. Can feel your heart jump. Fuck. Ortega smiles at you, you fake a smile back.

You’ve got this. Everything’s under control.

Here we go.

Sue hands the two of you off to a nurse who in turn acts as your guide. You trail behind, not paying much attention to his and Ortega’s conversation. What you bother to pick up confirms that Ortega’s made a habit of these low-key visits apparently, to different hospitals across the city. Ever since returning to the Rangers.

Did Ortega used to drag you along to official Ranger PR events? You can almost remember. The memory of remembering. Try to think too hard about hospitals though, and you get panicky. Short breath. Little dizzy. A hospital is the last place you want to pass out at, thanks but go fuck yourself.

–––

A pair of tiny arms clings to your leg and a jolt of panic shoots through you. “Uh… H–h–hello?”

A girl with cropped brown hair stares back up at you. “HI LADY! I like your hair!!”

You glance at Ortega, she’s got her back to you, teaching a boy how to do some fancy handshake. You catch the eye of the nurse, hanging back by the doorway. He gives a small smile. No help there. Look back down at the kid, “T–th–thanks? Um– Don’t you want to talk to Charge over there?”

She remains undeterred. “What’s your name?”

“Ari?” You glance towards Ortega again. Help. She remains utterly unaware of your plight.

“Are you a boy or a girl?”

You choke. “W–w–what? I’m uh– I’m a girl.” Fuck. What did she pick up on? You usually pass just fine these days. Could just die right now, that would be great, thanks.

“Oh. Okay!” There is absolutely no hint of embarrassment in this girl’s mind. “Are you Ms. Charge’s girlfriend?”

You hunch down and very gently try to pry her arms off your leg. “What um, what gives you that idea?”

She tilts her head, staring you down with full intensity. “‘cause you keep looking at Ms. Charge AND everyone knows the hero’s girlfriend ALWAYS has red hair!!”

You smile to hide the panic. “W–what uh, what makes you say that?”

She gives you a doubtful look, can’t believe an adult doesn’t know this. “‘cause it’s in all the movies!! Duh!!”

“Ari!’ Oh thank god. You breathe a sigh of relief as Ortega walks over, the other kids curiously watching behind her. “Making friends?”

“Hi Ms. Charge!!” The little girl fixes her full attention to Ortega.

“Hello!” She smiles widely, “Introduce me to your friend, Ari?”

“Uh–”

“My name is Casey!” The little terror cuts in. “SHE never asked!” Casey huffs. “Your girlfriend is RUDE Ms. Charge.”

“Girlfriend?” Ortega raises her eyebrows at you.

You shake your head wildly, suddenly way too warm. “S–s–she came up with that one herself!”

An hour and a half later of helping Ortega handle the meet and greet and you’re free again.

You slip your shades back on as the two of you exit the hospital. Run a hand through your purse to find the chocolate bar, peel off the wrapper at one end with shaking hands. “That was… that was something.”

Ortega claps you on the back and you stumble forward a step. “See? I told you you’d be fine.”

“Y–yeah, well…” You frown, “If you d–don’t hear from me in a week, you only have yourself to blame.” You break off a piece of chocolate, “Want any?”

“I’m good.” Ortega smiles, you shrug and pop the candy into your mouth “So…” Her smile fades as she glances towards you, “what did you think?” The two of you leave the parking lot, walk the sidewalk, you follow her lead through the streets.

“What d–did I think?”

“Want to come with me the next time I go?”

You give her a wry smile, “Y–You’re not gonna just, uh, just spring it on me again?”

She smirks back at you, “Me? Spring something on you? Never.”

“F–f–fucking smug-ass liar.” You punch her in the shoulder, and Ortega overplays it, comically swinging to the side. “W–why do I keep letting you do this to me?” You keep asking yourself that, and the answer hasn’t gotten any less terrifying.

“Do you remember the last time we did one of those visits?” Ortega glances at you as the two of you hurry across the street.

“When was that?”

“It must have been… well, right before–” She grimaces.

“Oh.” You chew your cheek, trying to think back. Can feel your stomach lurch as the world tilts under you. You have to stop and steady yourself. Cover it up by shaking your head. “I… kind of do? I–I–I haven’t thought about this in years, sorry.” You furrow your eyebrows, “I…”

“You were–” Ortega stops herself, “Oh, sorry, go ahead.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, finish your thought, it’s fine.”

Damn.

“I… think this might be… um, the first positive experience I’ve had with a hospital in… in years.” You grimace, keenly aware of the line you’re skirting. “Between uh… you in the hospital and…”

“And…?” Ortega slows down to match your pace.

Shake your head, “No, it’s – it’s nothing. Sorry. I don’t want to talk about it.” You try to smile even though it feels fake. “What were you going to say?”

“Oh, well–” Ortega rubs the back of her neck, “I was just going to say; I had to step outside to handle a phone call. And–” She laughs, “You were on the verge of panicking, all ‘Charge! Don’t leave me alone with these kids!”

You come to a stop, and groan, run a hand over your face. “Oh my god.”

“You remember now.”

You bite your lip, nod your head. “Uh-huh.”

“How did you get into teaching them about taxonomy? You never told me.”

You can feel the heat on your face now. “Okay. Look. It–it–it made sense at the time okay!? I thought it’d be easiest to keep them from going crazy if I r–r–read them a story?”

“Okay?” Ortega stops walking, leans her shoulder against a boutique storefront’s window, watching you with a smile. You cross your arms under your shawl to try and keep your hands from shaking.

“Okay. So. I just – just grabbed the first children’s book I saw. It–It–it was this animal book? I think? But it was all cutesy and inaccurate.” You bite your lip. “And when I pointed out a mistake, they all laughed so… I just… kept… doing… that…?”

She laughs at you.

You cover your face in your hands, heat going straight to your ears. “D–don’t laugh!”

Ortega covers her mouth, “Okay, okay. Sorry, you’re just so–”

You drop your hands to your sides, “I’m just so what?” You narrow your eyes at her.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “We’ll have to get you a book to read, the next time we go.”

Oh god.

“You’re going to – to kill me Ortega…”

Her smile falters, “I hope not.”

The two of you walk the next block in silence. Is it as awkward for her as it is for you?

Finally Ortega stretches her arms over her head and says, “I don’t do these hospital visits often enough these days.”

Watch her face from the corner of your eye, trying to get a read on her. “How come?”

Ortega sags, shoulders slumped forward. “Too easy to get caught up in work. Especially lately.”

Ah.

You have to keep your face blank, don’t let your heart race. “S–still obsessed with trying to figure out Ghost?”

She gives you a grim smile. “You know it.”

#fallen hero: rebirth #fallen hero fanfic #fanfiction #fhr/Ariadne

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