#albas notebook

[albasnotebook]

Inspired by @monsoon-of-art

Club of red cloak girls who live out of pure spite and the shadow of their former parents.

[heavenlyyshecomes]

The private becoming public, the individual subject dividing, and the writer becoming her own reader and vice versa—the diary, an elusive, elastic container, straddles all this and more. Diary writing may be the most private of forms, but when placed within the context of a novel or when it serves, as it does here, for the structure of the novel itself, this form of confession, dating back at least in the Western tradition to Augustine, contradicts its very nature.

From Petrarch to Gramsci to Woolf to Lessing, all diaries and notebooks, whether intended for publication or not, whether invented by their authors or not, whether framed as (or within) novels or not, are all dialogues with the self. They are instances of self-doubling and self-fashioning. They are declarations of autonomy, counternarratives that contrast and contradict reality. The fictionalized diary has always been especially appealing in that we get to know the character not only as a person but also as a writer. This additional authorial persona is especially provocative in light of female consciousness, which has struggled to find its place in history and in the literary tradition

—Jhumpa Lahiri, in the foreword to Forbidden Notebook by Alba de Céspedes tr. Ann Goldstein

[annacswenson]

« We're always inclined to forget what we've said or done in the past, partly in order not to have the tremendous obligation to remain faithful to it. Otherwise, it seems to me, we would all discover that we're full of mistakes and, above all, contradictions, between what we intended to do and what we have done, between what we desire to be and what we are content to be.»

—Alba de Cespédes, Forbidden Notebook

[dk-thrive]

all life passes in the anguished attempt to draw conclusions and not succeeding

And yet I seem to see everything clearly tonight. When I started writing, I thought I’d reached the point where conclusions could be drawn about one’s own life. But every experience—even the one that comes from this long questioning of myself in the notebook—teaches me that all life passes in the anguished attempt to draw conclusions and not succeeding. At least for me it’s like that: everything seems, at the same time, good and bad, just and unjust, even transient and eternal.

—  Alba de Céspedes, “Forbidden Notebook: A Novel.” Translated by Ann Goldstein. (Astra House, January 17, 2023) 

[iirulancorrino]

Women's words are still laughed at, still silenced, still considered dangerous. De Céspedes vindicates, artfully and ardently, a women's right to write—a right that must never be taken for granted.

Jhumpa Lahiri, foreword to Forbidden Notebook by Alba de Céspedes

[woso-dreamzzz]

If You Were My Little Girl II

Alexia Putellas x Teen!Reader

Summary: Things are looking up

Alexia watches from the stands.

They're mostly empty, like almost all Barcelona B matches.

Women's football has only really started picking up steam recently but only at the top flight. The lower level leagues are still having a bit of a popularity issue.

But Alexia, for once, finds that she doesn't mind.

Because it means she can sit practically alone in the stands as she watches the home match.

A notepad sits on her lap, a pen tapping against the pages thoughtfully as she watches.

Barcelona B are good and Alexia has never expected anything different. She's seen the system at work many times as La Masia churns out players like Aitana and Pina and Jana, and more recently Vicky and Martina.

There's a reason so many clubs wants La Masia products.

They're all good players but even now, Alexia can tell a great player when she sees one.

You rise up among the crowd in the box and slam the ball into the goal, the net rippling with the force of the shot.

The best part, Alexia thinks, is that you didn't even need a moment to control the ball, hitting it in on the volley and grinning as your teammates practically dogpile you.

A hattrick in ten minutes is impressive in any league and Alexia makes another note in her notebook, humming softly to herself.

She rises out of her seat at the end of the match, disappearing into the building and out the doors.

It takes another half an hour for you to appear again, hair damp and an old crew neck sweater that Alexia's pretty sure is Alba's being tugged over your head.

You slip into the passenger seat, throwing your bag into the backseat and Alexia pulls your head down to press a kiss against the side of it.

You smile shyly at her as she offers up the fries she'd bought for a job well done.

"You did good, kid," She says," Very impressive."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. But I think we're going to work on evading slide tackles next," Alexia says as she drives off," We're trying to keep those ankles of yours intact, alright? I'm going to need them this season."

You roll your eyes and Alexia clicks her tongue.

"Don't roll your eyes at me," She says," I've got a good feeling about that meeting later in the week. A great feeling, actually. You should have one too."

"I'm managing expectations."

Alexia looks at you fondly. "Well, we'll see which one of us is right in a few days."

She lets you choose the music in the car, like she always does when you've scored a goal and you pull up to the apartment a lot quicker than you want to seeing as you're in the middle of singing along to your favourite song but, still, you drag yourself out of the car and up the stairs.

"How was the match?" Olga asks as she greets Alexia with a kiss on the lips.

"She did very well," Alexia brags," A hattrick within the first ten minutes and another goal in injury time."

"Exciting," Olga says indulgently as Alexia grins, already giving her running commentary of everything that happened during the match.

You escape though, hurrying to raid the cupboards before Alexia finally comes to her senses and tries to stop you 'spoiling' your dinner.

You don't know if there's any way to thank Alexia for what she's done for you.

Just three months ago, you were convinced that you were going to quit. You had no passion for the game, no hope of what your future was going to be but now all of that had changed.

You had direction. You had a manager. You had new boots and a place to live that wasn't a group home and support and love and everything seemed to be coming together for you.

A toe pokes you in the leg.

"Move."

"Alexia says that if you're trying to nap on her sofa again then I don't have to move," You tell Alba, who huffs and pokes you with her toe again," She also says that you have your own apartment and should stop mooching of us."

"But Olga's a better cook than me," Alba complains and you roll your eyes.

"Aren't you an adult? Even I can cook."

"Yeah but it's not like you could mooch off your sist-"

Alba falls silent quickly and you pretend to not notice what she was going to say for both hers and your own sakes.

The topic of your sister is kind of off limits when you're in the room. It's not completely banned because Alexia's still Jenni's national teammate but she's not really spoken about if you're in the room.

Alba's face flashes with terror for a moment so you pretend you don't notice her slip up ever though it sends a bolt of lightning into your stomach, a deep pit forming there.

It works for the most part, everyone in the house pretending Jenni isn't who she is to you, pretending that she's just Alexia's teammate and not her friend and ex, pretending that Alexia fostering you isn't her walking on a tight rope because Jenni doesn't know.

All Jenni knows is that you didn't quit when she told you to.

Jenni doesn't know that you live with Alexia. Jenni doesn't know anything. You doubt she even thinks about you when she's got a life far away in Mexico.

She lives there, far away from you and your life here in Barcelona.

She lives there and her presence is hardly ever mentioned around you.

Life is good at Alexia and Olga's house. Life is even good at training, though you could do without the smug little smirk Alexia has on her face when she picks you up.

"You already knew!" You accuse her, waving a finger in her face.

"Knew?" She asks, lips curl up in what can only be described as pure smugness," Knew what?"

"Right, who told you? Go on. Who was it?"

Alexia grins. "You do realise I am the captain? Any time they're looking to bring someone in, they ask me my opinion."

You roll your eyes. "Yeah and I'm sure you gave it."

"You're a good player. A great player," Alexia says," All I did was tell them what they already know."

You look down at your lap, fidgeting with your fingers. You want to be mad at her, to yell at her for keeping this from you. Maybe even yell at her for promising to the staff something you're not but you know she hasn't done that.

If she thought you weren't ready, she would have told them that.

But Alexia didn't. She didn't tell them to let you have a bit more time with the B team. She didn't tell them that you don't quite have what it takes.

"Thanks."

Alexia smiles at you as she drives home, a comfortable silence enveloping you both until your hand is on the door handle.

You stop.

"When I open this door, there's going to be a party, isn't there?"

"I may have told Olga...who told Mami...who told Alba...who told the rest of the family..."

"Is that a yes?"

"Possibly..."

"And there's no getting out of this?"

Alexia ruffles your hair, a soft kiss being pressed to the side of your head. "They're here to celebrate you."

You suck in a breath, just ready to turn the handle when the sound of the lift doors opening chimes down the corridor.

Both you and Alexia turn your heads towards.

It's just a fleeting second.

Just a moment.

But your good mood plummets as the door opens.

Alexia's hand tightens on your shoulder, pushing you slightly behind her and putting herself between you and the elevator.

Between you and Jenni.

[httpswritings]

if you were my little girl: the series part 3

alexia putellas x child!reader; this story contains mentions of traumatic experiences as drug addiction, child abuse and similar topics. don't read it if you find those topics triggering.

The Starting Point

Alexia became a familiar face at your house. Everything seemed picture perfect – you, her, and sometimes even her sister Alba, playing dolls and coloring in your room. Alba, with her natural gift for connecting with children, clicked with you instantly. Her calm demeanor and genuine care were a soothing balm for the anxieties you craved relief from.

One day, with your parents momentarily out and you engrossed in a game with Alba, Alexia found herself drawn to a stack of photo albums on the coffee table. Flipping through them, a pang of bittersweet feeling

washed over her. There you were, a tiny bundle of joy with a gap-toothed grin in your baby photos. In others, you were surrounded by family, seemingly bursting with infectious laughter. It was a stark contrast to the subdued mood you'd settled into lately.

Alba returned with you, both of you chattering excitedly about the upcoming trip to the park. You gravitated towards Alba, seeking her comforting presence. Alexia, although happy for the connection, felt a gnawing unease. She needed to understand the reason behind your sudden withdrawal, the reason that left a shadow on your once-radiant smile.

Alexia entered your room.

She knew this was wrong but she needed to find something that would hint the reason behind your behavior.

Having discussed your situation with Alba, Alexia knew the answer might lie hidden in your artwork. Children, Alba had explained, often expressed their truest selves through their drawings, a language unburdened by the need to filter emotions.

Alexia examined the ones you had on your wall.

Alexia studied the drawings displayed on the wall. Friends, football – a testament to your passions – and a surprising number featuring Alexia herself. In these drawings, you had bestowed upon her crowns, angel wings, and an ever-present smile. In stark contrast, there were only one of your family. The difference was a glaring red flag.

Time was running out before you and Alba returned. With a surge of urgency, Alexia knelt by your desk, rifling through your belongings. Her heart quickened when she found a drawing tucked away, partially obscured by notebooks. It depicted your family at a birthday celebration. Everyone seemed joyful, except for you and your grandmother.

Before you could return, Alexia snapped a picture of the drawing, the click a jarring note in the otherwise playful atmosphere. "Ale, Alba told me she got permission to go to the park! Can we?" you asked, your voice filled with innocent hope.

"No, amor," Alexia replied, forcing a smile. "Your parents said we have to stay here. They'll be back soon." Her heart ached for the disappointment clouding your eyes. Yet, the drawing offered a glimmer of hope, a clue to the unspoken pain hidden beneath your brave facade. The path forward wouldn't be easy, but at least now, Alexia had a starting point.

You pouted, pulling yourself closer to Alba, and resigned yourself knowing fun was about to be over.

Alba The Artist

Alexia made Alba go to Alexia's house to discuss the drawing.

Your family: you parents and your uncles were drawn with big smiles and dancing.

On the other hand, your grandmother was sitting on a corner, with an angry face, and you were on the middle.

Your figure was bigger than everyone's else, and you had a sad face.

“This is very weird. What has her grandma had to do with her? Everyone's happy except them.”

Alba wasn't been as helpful as Alexia thought she would be.

Both of them accorded to keep looking for signs in your room.

Now, it'lbe Alba's turn.

Alexia had to go away for like a week.

You hated when Alexia had to travel, because that meant that you wouldn't see her in at least a few days.

Alba had managed to be alone in your room as you were in the bathroom.

Hidden away, she saw the drawing, but with two new additions. Beside you, smiling brightly, was Alexia, whispering, "I'm here." Next to her, an unfinished figure – maybe Alba herself – surrounded by hearts. Alba sent a photo to Alexia, and a tear slipped down her cheek. It was clear you loved Alexia dearly.

When you returned from the bathroom, Alba was almost out of breath after doing everything so quickly.

She had a idea, suggesting to make a shared drawing.

You agreed eagerly.

Alba was very kind and sweet, and she always smelled nicely.

You drew some stars but as you peeked over Alba's part, you noticed that she was drawing you, loving how smiley she had drawn you, finally someone who noticed your smile.

“My parents always say that I should smile more. You should show them your drawing!"

As expected, Alba was noting in her mind everything you were telling her.

You drew Alba with long hair, with shiny clothes and with a big heart on her dress.

“Why don't we draw Ale?”

When Alba mentioned Alexia, your most genuine smile bloomed. "I love her, and I love you."

"We love you too, mi amor." It was a world of just the three of you, a secret language of love.

You drew Alexia exactly the same way as Alba, and she laughed.

“We seem like twins.”

“You almost are! You have the same laughter. Sometimes I can't figure out who's the one laughing!”

“Why don't we draw your parents? So we can show them our drawing?”

“No.”

You didn't even look at Alba, as you were very focused on painting flowers around Alexia's figure, so you missed her puzzled face.

“Why not, little one?”

“This is our drawing. Only Alexia, me and you.”

Alba wanted to understand further, but this was yours, a private conversation on paper. Alba understood and respected your boundaries and you were thankful for it.

“Should we call Ale so we can show her our piece of art?”

As Alexia appeared on the phone screen, you showed off your masterpiece.

She showered you with praise, something your parents rarely did. You used to draw them too, but their lack of interest made you lose heart. Now, you had your own way of expressing yourself.

Matilda

Alexia was finally back.

She had brought you some gifts, like she always did when she travelled.

You were at home with her and your parents.

At first, they were happy about your relationship with Alexia, but envy was starting to make its way to them.

The abundance of Alexia-themed artwork in your room, the practiced calligraphy spelling out her name on every blank sheet, the constant stream of gifts – it all pricked at them. "She's not your mother," they'd mutter under their breath. The way you'd dash to the door whenever Alexia arrived fueled their silent resentment.

But Alexia offered things they no longer did – undivided attention, playful indulgence, a helping hand with schoolwork. It was a convenient arrangement, as long as she did it, your parents didn't have to.

Homework complete, Alexia suggested a movie night. You squealed for your favorite, "Matilda." Curled up on the couch, your head resting on Alexia's lap, her fingers gently stroking your hair, a sense of deep security washed over you.

The credits of "Matilda" rolled, the final triumphant scene a fitting end to your perfect evening. With a contented sigh, you snuggled deeper into Alexia's lap. You weren't quite asleep, but the warmth of her embrace, the safe haven she always created, pulled you into a state of serene comfort.

Alexia watched, a smile gracing her lips as your breathing softened. Witnessing your relaxed state, a pang of guilt stabbed at her heart. Wishing nothing more than to bottle this feeling of peace for you every day, she knew the reality was far more complex.

There were some lines she couldn't cross.

There were lines she couldn't cross. You were a child, and she, an adult entrusted with your well-being. Sharing a bed, no matter how innocent, could be misinterpreted. It could send the wrong message, plant a seed of doubt that could taint your perception of all adults.

A child is very vulnerable and genuine, so Alexia knew she had to protect you from any harmful adult. Protecting your innocence was paramount. She was the one adult you trusted, and that trust needed to be unwavering. Sharing confidential information, forming a bond built on honesty, that was how she'd safeguard you from potential predators.

That's why she started educating you on the dangers a kid could face.

She was a trustable adult, so you heard her very attentive, and agreed to tell her anything that could put you in danger.

Who To Trust

A shadow of concern crossed your face as thoughts of the upcoming family reunion swirled in your head. You knew the drill – alcohol, fights, a tense atmosphere that made your skin crawl. Should you tell Alexia? Would she intervene, potentially put herself at risk?

Your grandmother was there, but being raised as the way women should behave in the Spain's 40s, she never said a word.

You knew she wouldn't stand up for you, wouldn't break the silence.

The need to confide in Alexia burned bright, but the opportunity seemed out of reach.

As if they knew, you parents were always at home, so you didn't have the possibility of being alone with her.

You already knew how to write, but taking into consideration the complexity of the situation, you didn't know where to start.

[albasnotebook]

I hope they die tragically/aff

@ifuckingloveherpes for inspo, sorry for not tagging earlier :[

[mar3ggiata]

professional help, c28. On a leash.

simon riley x original character.

trigger warnings: violence, sexual assault, mentions of rape, trauma, sexual themes, swearing, use of alcohol and drugs, mentions of death, depression, eating disorders.

song to listen to when reading this: Movement, Hozier.

abstract: Judy here, I really don't know what my life is about, I'm working in autopilot. Something is clearly wrong but I haven't figured it out yet… which is weird cause I always figure out everything before everyone else. I feel fucking ill.

'Praticamente niente, ho un nuovo lavoro.' Alba propped her phone against a cereal box and stood in the frame. Salvo's expression, on her phone, turned from confusion to excitement, his big black eyes looking at her in shock. 'Ma che cazzo…' She laughed and sat down on one of the stools. She had her wet hair up in with towel, a oversized jumper on. She got an email that morning from Laswell, said that since she did so well on her last mission she could help out once more. In reality, and she didn't know this, they were calling her just to keep an eye on her, Shepherd's orders. Keep the girl under observation, he had said. It wasn’t because she was good, poor thing. It was because they were scared. The job description was exactly how you would expect it, non existent. She would get briefed that night. Laswell had other things to attend and couldn't really follow smaller missions that were all organised by Price. She told Salvo the news. She told him she was happy, it was basically a promotion without a pay raise, but she liked it anyway. She craved that validation, the fact that she was getting praised by her boss and having more to do than her usual sessions was going to keep her busy and distract her from nightmares and paranoia.

She asked Salvo to remind her what time he was flying to the airport, since she was supposed to pick him up. He would stay at her place for a few nights, and then go back to base. Just to catch up and spend more time together. She sat in group therapy at the edge of her seat, she was eager to get out and go to the meeting with Price, to know what she needed to do, what her tasks were going to be. There were three people in the room with her, she usually had larger groups but many were still deployed or at home to their families. 'And how are you doing with your meds Andy?' She had her notebook on her lap, she put a strand of hair behind her ear. 'Do you remember what I was saying a few weeks ago about panic, about using your senses to ground yourself?' It was almost scary how she liked helping people, and how she never took her own advice. She had a long healing journey from her past, when she was in university she took therapy extremely seriously, since her brain blocked out memories and chunks of her past from bothering her and tormenting her in her day-to-day life. After the attack last year, after Arash… She really wasn't the best to give advice, she was just going with what theories and literature had to offer her. Fix everybody and let yourself rot in bed for weeks. 'It might be useful to focus your attention to something you can see like the cars out of the window, something you can hear…' She gently stretched to her right with her hand open, 'Something you can feel like my hand on your arm, or the chair beneath you…' She gently gave Sargent Alison a pat on the arm. She had time for a smoke break after the session ended, that's where she found the Lieutenant.

He stood alone with his mask raised on his nose, cigarette in his right hand. He wore black, she thought he looked even taller today, taller and bigger. Handsome. He offered his lighter without her even having to ask. He acted like he knew her forever. 'I heard you'll be joining us again.'

'Just make sure you don't say my name again this time, you're gonna get me killed.'

His blood went cold for a second, heat rushing to his masked face. He had thought about what he did constantly after New Years. Even when he was with her on that bench, walking down the street with Jinx or choosing what to eat, he looked at her and thought about her being dead. He thought about her under the desk, at the ballet school, pale and terrified. He ate with her, payed for dinner, told her to get whatever dessert she liked. He held her dog on a leash for her. Her shoulder brushed his arm countless times while they squeezed in the crowd to get to the bench. He almost killed her. He cursed her for joking about it, you’re too young to understand. She was smoking in silence beside him, looking at the sun setting, painting the deserted street pink and gold. He was done with his cigarette, he debated waiting for her. Entering the briefing room together would have looked extremely suspicious. No one knew what he had been doing, no one knew he knew her. He thought Johnny was suspicious for sure, cause he noticed he had been going out a few times alone. But no one could ever imagine he ate dinner at her house, walked with her, talked to her. He hugged her (she chose him). No one knew he knew stuff about her, like her tattoos, that she liked to cook, that she broke her right arm as a kid. No one knew she knew him, that was the scary part. She knew where he was from, where he got deployed, that be enjoyed working in Bulgaria, she knew he didn’t like hostage situations. She knew he was allergic to stupid fucking strawberries… No one could even imagine she had anything to do with him, someone like him.

He snapped back to reality when he felt her pull his jacket. She looked like a child pulling on his sleeve. He looked at her and realised she wanted him to take a step back and take cover from the light rain. She quickly let go of the fabric, he did as she wished and pressed his back to the wall so he wouldn’t get soaked. She was considerate. She was observant. They smoked in silence, he was done before her, he waited for her to finish. He was getting extremely nervous. She seemed to be relaxed, a bit tired even. ‘What’s the mission?’ she asked, they were walking inside, side by side. His boots heavy on the ground in sync with the clicking of her shiny shoes. Her coat was flowing behind her like a super villain cape. ‘Serbia’, he answered, they stepped in the meeting room.

Walking with him made her comfortable and confident. They stepped inside the room together, her in front of him, they gained a couple of weird looks. Even Price noticed. As if he didn’t already suspect that something was going on, and nothing was going on they were literally just colleagues. They happened to be in the corridor at the same time, no big deal. He felt like everyone could hear his thoughts or read his mind. He felt violated, like everyone knew how often he thought about her, and in which situations. He felt terrified at the thought everyone in the room had the right to think about her as well. He didn’t sit next to her, she chose her spot next to the wall, she didn’t seem to mind that he was no longer beside her. She noticed the room counted less soldiers, compared to the Al-Jareena mission. She saw Kyle, Scotland, the guy that mocked her in the past mission. She recognised his face. With the captain, the room counted six people. Price started speaking without even acknowledging her, or the others for that matter. He explained the situation in Serbia was getting out of hand again, but not enough to get deployed there. This time, they were waiting, this time violence wasn't exactly the answer. With a look around the room she quickly understood that she was the only one unaware of what the situation in Serbia was…

Her confused look gained Price's attention, so he made the effort to explain. 'We've been following some criminal gangs in Serbia, they occupy a neighbourhood close to the Romanian border. It was just stealing and drugs at the beginning, it's getting larger now. It's nothing major still, but they seem a rather strong group.' She nodded. The captain turned the small tv in the room on, two faces popped up. Two men. 'This is Smith and Madison, you remember them. They infiltrated the group nearly four months ago. They're reporting some changes in the diplomacy in the group, they're beginning to work with external parties…'

'What do you mean, they're expanding?' someone asked, she didn't turn to look.

'They are. They have arms, they have men, no one really knows who they are, they haven't been arrested yet, they're maybe getting paid to serve as mercenary.'

'By who?' she was the one to speak now, eyes still glued on the screen.

Price gave her a look, before revealing they suspected other terrorist groups to be in contact with them. Jude tried to hide her extremely confused expression, while everyone felt like Price’s speech was totally making sense. 'Jude, we would need you to… listen.' She felt her heart drop at him personally addressing her. 'Beg your pardon?' She whispered. He took a step towards her 'We have a team of two people who listen to the group's conversation basically all day, since Smith and Madison were finally able to plant covert listening devices around their bases. You would be listening, writing and reporting any details you think are important.' She kept looking at him without making a sound. Why don't they do it? Why me? She was about to answer when he started talking again. 'You're Croatian on your mother's side, Serbian is a variety of the Serbo-Croatian language, they even switch to English at times'.

Fucked. She was fucked. She looked at the captain petrified, he knew she wasn't really Croatian for Christ's sake! That's not true I'm not fucking Croatian, you dick! And he knows it. It's part of the fake story, you idiot. 'Correct me if I'm wrong… I'm supposed to sit and listen and take notes? You know I don't know Croatian that well, let alone Serbian…' She hated him for putting her in that position. She felt her face burn up, her ears turning red. I’m not doing it. ‘Well, it shouldn’t be too difficult. Serbian language has three genders, they have neuter as well. They have grammatical cases, nominative, dative, accusative… you studied Latin didn’t you?’ Her face dropped in an even more shocked expression. She did, in fact, study Latin. Ten years ago. ‘I’m sorry, you have two people working on this, what do you need me for?’ She spoke again, hoping no one in the room could sense the panic in her voice. Simon could. He was tense as well, basing off her body language, which he observed from his seat, she wasn’t comfortable at all. Why wasn’t she, he thought she was all proud and confident to work with them. What is happening to you, sweet thing? ‘Because we trust you, Jude.’ The captain assured. You don’t, she thought. ‘Laswell trusts you, she likes the way you work, she feels like she has control over these type of situation if you’re working as well. Plus, the workload is significant…' She felt flattered, don’t get me wrong. But no, something was up. She had a job already, she didn’t know Serbian. She didn’t know the alphabet, she didn’t know the vocabulary. It was absurd, her mom wasn’t fucking Croatian and Price knew. Laswell knew! Laswell was the one who helped with the fake identity thing! They were up to something.

She let out a sight, ‘Will I get compensated?’ She was back, Simon saw her. He saw right through her, he saw her change. He saw the way her eyes looked dark, fierce. She fixed her posture, she looked at the captain through her eyebrows. She was Jude again, Alba was gone. ‘Compensated?’ The captain asked, he made a mistake. She quickly followed. 'I already have a job. I’ll have to learn the alphabet, captain. You’ll need to get me a dictionary. And you said you have two people that are working right now every day practically all day, with me I count…’ she pretended to think about it, ‘eight hours of listening and writing each day?’ Silence. Simon had to repress a smile. 'I guess… yes, no you're right.' She sat back in her seat, shocked that he thought she wasn't gonna ask to get paid.

She quickly realised what mess she had gotten herself into. The men in the room kept talking about the gangs situation, their next steps and when they were going to intervene. She spaced out, thinking about what actually meant to have agreed to something like that. She had work, she had ballet… When was she gonna have time to do this? And, again, she didn't know Serbian! She felt a wave of anxiety wash over her when the captain handed her the two other workers' schedule. She was still looking at the working hours, walking towards the exit when she felt an hand on her shoulder. Her mind went to Simon. It went to Simon immediately to be exact, she thought that she was going to raise her eyes and see him, he would ask her if she was fine with all probability. She felt like she could rant to him and tell him the truth, it was too much to ask her, she felt incredibly lost and insecure… It wasn't Simon.

'You keep surprising me, really. You'll be our official translator!'

She let out a chuckle while Kyle practically escorted her out of the room.

It wasn't Simon.

notes: i am uploading from my hotel in turkey lol.

notes: i inspire my missions to real life history facts, and I think you can kinda see which wars and historical events this is inspired from. if you can't, it means I did a good job hiding it. I want to remind you everything I write is fictional, if I'm taking inspiration is simply from historical facts that are common knowledge. I'm going to refer to Italy and set the story in Italy soon, so I will be talking about war and crime in my own country. still, it will be all from my imagination. bye. I love you.

taglist:

@ghostlythots @sweetfemmefatal @natxpat @chavarriakeren647 @ravenmoore14 @farther-than-pleiades @internallyscreamings @hwromi @atoxicrat @cuti3maddi3 @deafeningkittenblaze @its-celeste @serene-hills @lexidoll12 @poohkie90 @lunatiquess

@warmedbythebody @katzykat @iristhemuse @azkza @keiraslayz @abbyandermine @jennyjencakes @dest-nai @corset-briefs @nutze-kekse @ilytsukiw @b3anspr0ut

@pondsblog @missyouzoe @fallenkitten @bigauthorrascalturkey @bethtay @angelynn-nicole @starluv @stargirlisworld @giyuuslittleslut @impossiblecupcakelight

@rkrivees-blog @ghosts-hoe @kam1snotverysmart @gauky76 @freyjaaasstuff @spicyspicyliving @scottpilgrimvsmyfists @courtney0-0 @shinchanboi @darling006 @my-therapist-hates-me

[freshlyrage]

Running Like Water

Chapter 25

pairing: Javier Peña x OFC (written as xReader)

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

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

word count: 3.5k

IMPORTANT a/n: I am really sorry, you can start the Mari witch hunt now. Chapter 26 is in the editing stage... message me questions. I've had this exact chapter drafted for about a year. I want to hear your thoughts while we enter the third part of this story.

January 1988 Bogota, Colombia

“You do understand that this is a traumatic event?”

Javier ashes his cigarette with a head shake. His bones are aching and tired and he feels old. Like he’s ready to retire at the peak of twenty six. It’s always warm, it’s humid like the day of his false wedding. No one knows his pain but he’s willing to share it. We need therapy, you told him once.

Look at me, I’m trying. 

He doesn’t take the words of his work appointed therapist very seriously but it’s taken him twelve sessions to finally talk about it. The first words other than good afternoon out of Dr. Hertz mouth already frustrates him. It frustrates him more how attracted he is to her. He swears her exact hair color is yours when he left. She sits with a pencil skirt like all the women around the office do. Besides his boss, she’s always in a pantsuit. Skin tan from the Colombian sun, nails always done in a square tip—scribbling in a notebook. That wasn’t like you, the nails. It was rare if you ever had them done, he’d like running his thumb over your nail beds, an odd spot that tickled you. He missed you so badly. 

“The situation hurt her the most.” 

Dr. Hertz fixed herself a frown and a nod, pen to paper a dry sound that ticked him off. “Take it from the top for me please.” 

The night of June 16th 1986

Javier decides to grab his thick work file before  he drives to the hotel he wanted to share with you. Sitting in a chair that has housed many sad men like him, he frowns over the case details of pregnant drug smugglers' corpses and child detainments for gun possession. Ashing into a tray that isn’t his. 

His head hurts and so does his hand, it’s nerves are short circuiting while he holds himself from calling you. He doesn’t want to think about tonight at all. He doesn’t want to continue to be haunted by Lorraine and the swell at her stomach. Avoiding the thought—that it could be—he abandons it. Instead he buries his nose in cigarette smoke and work for the night, he much rather be buried in the crook of your neck. Inside you, beside you, looking at you, holding you, speaking to you– he just wants you here. He hates to waste time and he isn’t sure why he feels a sick instinct that you maybe have less time then he believes. 

He decides to call after his 3rd cigarette. It’s a long shot considering it’s 3 am but he has never been good with self control. He pictures your face as you sleep, he’s watched it despite your pleas to fall asleep alongside you, he likes to watch before he does. You always sleep on your stomach, hands on either side of you like you were tossed in bed, one on his chest and a cheek smushed. You drool, he won’t tell you that but you do. He’s frowning while he dials, you hadn’t told him you loved him back tonight, he wonders what he did wrong. Or if it really just Lorraine. 

“Hello?” Your voice is dry and very much awake. 

“Andrea.” Is all he can itch out his throat, he isn’t even sure why he called you. Maybe just to hear your voice, that's reason enough right? 

“It’s late, baby.”

He thinks maybe he could just hang up now, whatever urge he felt all night had been fulfilled with three simple words in your sweet voice. He closes his eyes fighting an urge to drive back forty minutes to your house. 

“Yeah-yeah I know. Just want to hear you before I sleep.” 

“Well, you're hearing me. I love you.”

He nods, he knows. It’s his religion, those words leaving you.  “Will I be able to see you tomorrow?” 

You hold silence for a beat, an exhale beyond the receiver. “Yes, I want to sleep in your bed this time.”

“Okay.” He says pathetically quick, nodding like you could see just how serious he is about spending time with you. You giggle, and he wonders what changed in the last few hours since he left you in the aftermath of your brother's wedding. Maybe you just missed him too. 

“Okay. Goodnight, I’ll see you tomorrow okay?”

He can't help himself, he just can't. 

He says it like a whisper, like it's a secret. 

“¿Sabes que te amo, verdad?”

“I know, I just–" You take a second, like you know what you're going to say will hurt him. He can't tell if you're bracing yourself or giving him time do so as well.

"Sometimes I just miss you when you're around and it's tiring to feel like I’m still fighting to keep you."

Colombia 1988

“I couldn't understand that. When we were together each moment felt like she was slipping away from me. I just didn’t know she could feel the same way. I was a present partner.” He sighs, an itch in his molars. A weird tick he gets when he wants to see your face. “I tried to be.”

Dr. Hertz pressed her lips in a firm smile, “It may seem difficult to assess a situation you are so tied to, do you suppose maybe Andrea felt this way because your relationship was on borrowed time?”

“It wasn’t on borrowed time.”

“Maybe borrowed time isn't the correct phrase, but you began the relationship fully aware that you would leave. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t you agree that-that idea could’ve struck a nerve in the insecurities you said she had in relationships.”

“Is this a therapy session for her or for me?” Javier snaps and he isn’t sure why he takes it there, isn’t sure why he says her name so bitterly like you did anything wrong. Dr. Hertz nods, and scribbles with a crease between her brow. 

“I have never met Andrea, you are my patient. I want to help you recognize a place we could work together to improve.” 

“Alright.” He rolls his jaw for a moment feeling like a scolded child. His eyes flick to the clock. Another half hour left, he wants to head back into his apartment where it’s safe. 

“Alright, was it the next morning that you met with Lorraine?” 

Javier’s nostrils flare, thinking of her makes him feel physically ill. She says her name and sees your face when he tells you. 

“I didn’t meet up with her, I was ambushed.” He shuts his eyes for a moment, the weight of the word feeling useless in this setting. He knows what the word truly means, ambushed, he stood in front of Carillo’s closed casket days after the ambush. “I was caught off guard.” Javier decides to correct himself.

The next morning, June 17th 1986

There is another car in his driveway. A car unfamiliar to him. The sun blares down and he’s already sun tired and he just woke two hours ago. He decides to light a cigarette before stepping up to his front door, still his father holds a no smoking policy in the house. 

He shuts his eyes, eyelids burning orange and he drags in his first breath since last night. He wonders if you’d be free for a drive to the lake. You played into his biggest fantasy a few days ago in your tiny bikini, nose nuzzled in your mound. He’d like to do it again. 

He could hear the main road 3 minutes down the hill, that and the crackling from his burning cigarette. He flicks his wrist to check the time, strange for his father to have guests at any time of day. Javier shrugged it off with a step on the cigarette butt. He’s been burning through them lately, smoking one for only two minutes. He supposes his habit is now an addiction, he’s good at it at least. 

Javier walks up the small steps to his front door to be greeted by his father with a frown. His eyes scan over his father’s body, blocking any view of the inside of the house. His body on autopilot, he hands the car keys to his father like he does every time he comes home. But the air was still and this wasn’t like every time he came home. Javier’s heart dropped to his stomach, a fear that something happened to you. “¿Qué pasó? ¿Quién está aquí?"

“Lorraine and her parents are here.” 

Javier shuts his eyes and takes a step back into the porch. Allowing his father to follow him, shutting the screen door behind them. Javier pinches his nose. 

“I’m not interested in talking to them. Fuck this.” Javier pats his pockets for the keys he had just given away without thinking.

“You can’t leave this time.”

Javier walks into his home. Feeling like he’s attending a principals conference. His pastor–the father of his ex-girlfriend, her mother and her sat on the couch with solemn faces. Javier nods at both parents, adjusting his collar bundled with nerves. Despite feeling betrayed by his own father, he still will never disrespect guests in the home he built. Javier offers his hand to Mr. Smithfield to which he takes because ultimately he is a christian. He presses a kiss to the cheeks of Mrs. Smithfield and Lorraine. It reminds him of the first time he had dinner at their home. He knew the family his whole life because of church but being introduced as their darling girl's boyfriend was one of the most anxiety inducing moments of his adolescence. He remembers them with the same stone cold faces, ready to devour him whole if he had stepped out of line. 

He knew them as powerful people, he knew if he had wronged their daughter he would no longer have any work in town. 

So, Javier was quite the wreck.

“Sorry If i kept you all waiting— I was caught off guard.” Javi sits across from them, all scary looking with intense sad stares. 

Mr. Smithfield nods, “We knew you wouldn’t have shown if you were given a warning.” 

His initial reaction is to rebut, to jump to his feet and tell them they hadn’t had a clue of who he was. It feels like a body shot. Javier hadn’t grown into a full man yet. The comment still triggered the nerve that sends him off on anger infused raves. He thinks of you, and the face you’d make if he did. He realizes that this moment is one he shouldn’t run from, maybe this will be the moment to prove himself to be a better man. For you. It’s wrong but it’s what he thinks. 

If he stays here and listens to whatever berating this family has for him, maybe, just maybe, you’ll be proud of him for hearing them out. 

So Javier clenches his jaw and allows Mr. Smithfield to speak. “We as parents are concerned for our daughter. Javier— you know we trusted you with her and we see clearly that you took care of her. But—you bolted in her most vulnerable moment.”

Javier furrows his brows, looking into the eyes of Lorraine.

 She seems to have been in another room, on another planet. Her icy eyes, the ones he once gazed into with adoration— served him nothing but coldness. He wanted to snap in her face and ask if she was there. Was this a bad dream? He looks to his father once more. Chucho stands at the arm of the couch with his arms crossed. Javier never felt this weak. 

Look at me

At least look at me Lorraine.

He assumes this silence as an olive branch for his explanation. 

He’s unsure of what he needs to explain but he does anyway. 

“Mr… and Mrs.” Javier looks at the both of them, god what scary looking people. “I care for Lorraine, for a long time I loved her but we were too young and too serious. We fell out of love just as fast and— and we stayed together out of convenience for our careers but there were weeks where we didn’t speak to each other. We didn’t have the time or the will to work on it.” 

It was the truth. Last year they reached a point where she’d come in without a word, dropping groceries on the counter, ripping off her scrubs, getting into bed and locking the door. A sign that tonight, Javier must sleep on the couch. He stared at the bubbled ceiling, with his bones aching from his oversized limbs making space in the futon. He stared until his eyes burned and wondered what he was doing with his life just at the ripe age of twenty three. 

Mrs. Smithfield looks like she’s seen red, like, how dare you not love my daughter? Javier is sure if she’d said those words out loud he’d laugh and send them all to hell. But she doesn’t. 

She does not. 

Her chin quivers and her nose twitches. Teeth barred like she’s about to let out a profanity but instead, she begins to cry. 

“But you have time to get my daughter pregnant.”

Colombia 1988

Javier laughs bitterly. As if the sentence didn’t ruin his life. Here he is whining about it to his beautiful therapist. She frowns, shaking her head. Javier wants the session to end already. 

“It was like I died in that living room. The dreams I was just creating stayed there. I was in so much shock I hadn’t even second guessed the accusation.”

She nods with that understanding face of hers, it reminds him a bit of yours.

“It may be important to understand the rest of your story, it may be important to know exactly what you felt after she revealed the news.”

Javier is bothered by the way the doctor says news as if any of it had been truthful. 

Javier lights another, Dr. Hertz scribbles a short one. Javier flicks his eyes up to hers as his cigarette burns. 

“You keepin’ tally?” He asks with a hint of sarcasm.

She doesn’t smile, “Yes. I am. Please continue.”

Javier stares at her for a moment and it reminds him so much of you it makes him sick. He can’t help but obey. 

“Truthfully, I first felt like I regressed. I had been cruising through my life until that moment, losing track of time. I thought… how? I’m just a kid? I felt like I was ten and my dad was sitting me on that same couch to tell me my mom ran off. I was in that same head space. Both times I felt like I was being punished for my actions, both times I felt like an open wound, ”

“You felt like both situations had been karma?”

“Yes. I felt like a human wedge between my father and my mother. My existence had been a bad mark and when she left it was a final message of “look what you’ve done.” Javier’s throat is scratchy and he wishes these things were said to you first but he supposes a professional listener will do. “And I grew up to be so selfish and reckless, reckless with my relationships and with sex. And so abruptly I decided to leave that all behind for Andrea, I started to be safe, caring, a better man. But there I was facing the consequences of my own actions. Look what I have done.”

Look at the mess I made.

Will you still love me? After I have made a mess of all we found sacred? 

She nods with a look in her eyes that feels bright, like she was so proud of him for such an articulate and honest answer. He wasn’t sure why today he was being so honest. 

“Anyway. I was stumbling over my words asking how she knew— which felt like a shitty question to ask in front of her parents but considering the outcome I guess I was onto something.” Javier pulls his cigarette from his lips with a pulled brow, he’s burning through these far too quickly, he’ll be broke in no time. “She told me she was 5 months which tied me back to being her only sexual partner the entire year of 1985 and some of 1986 you know until I moved away. I just went cold while her family ranted.”

He hears them in his head when he looks at Dr. Hertz. He spares her the details, their time is inching towards the finish line. 

“We talked with your father and we know you’re a good young man. We know our daughter was tempted.”

“I don’t see you as a man to abandon his child.”

“Our daughter will not have this child out of wedlock.”

“We are willing to make arrangements swiftly to stifle the talk in our church.”

He sat with his head in his hands.  Ears ringing and he felt so fucking guilty for having such a reaction to his own consequences. For being so broken when he wasn’t the person carrying the child, for the woman across from him. 

And he knows her family well, he knows that their faith and christianity only stretches so far. He knows about Lorraine’s eldest brother who came out as gay and is no longer seen in Laredo. He knows Lorraine despite their fall out, he knows the stress of image that was placed on her at just six years old. He knows, he held her head as she cried while she spoke about their conditional love. It scares him deep in his soul, he knows and it breaks him. That he’d not only ruin her life but his future child’s life if he doesn’t man up.  He knows that the delicate bones in her body move aside for life, a life he had part in creating. He could not–he cannot add to the stress. He sees it in her gaze.

“I know now I was seeing guilt in her eyes. She knew the child wasn’t mine, she took advantage of me. But at the time I saw a girl I had loved, I saw her alone in a room full of people.” Javier leans against the chair. “I was a fucking idiot.”

“You were trying your best.” Dr. Hertz corrects him, “You were deceived, you were young. When you speak of Lorraine you still have room for grace and understanding of her circumstance despite her manipulating you and still, still you give her that grace to be a flawed human . You should apply that to yourself too. “

Javier looks down at his shoes for a moment. His brows pulled tightly together. His chin quivers and he isn’t sure why he feels her words with such intensity. Two weeks ago Javier told Dr. Hertz that the first time he considered therapy was when his ex-girlfriend burst into tears after sex. It was that session she finally pushed to know who Andrea was, Javier spent the bulk of the session smiling. Hertz had been smiling too, last week Javier had been frowning again. He told her about Louisiana. He had beaten himself up repeatedly for the insecurity he placed in your heart, Dr. Hertz hadn’t agreed. She quite unprofessionally called him, an idiot, for being so unkind to himself. “It seems like you were a great person for her, not everyone gets the chance to truly understand their lover.” Javier disagreed, he explained the wedding and how he hadn't felt so detached from you until that moment in the yard.

“That was the last time we were really together as a couple. “

We never really got the chance to be a couple, huh.

Hertz nods, and Javier drops the pregnancy scandal on her like a small footnote in his story. 

ThenwesplitbecausemyexmanipulatedmeintobelievingIwasthefatherofherunbornchild. 

In one fast jumbled mess between cigarette pulls. Dr. Hertz had thrown her hands in the air, earning him a Javier…

Today he tells his story and it hurts bone deep. Today he couldn't escape the trauma he kept in the corner of his mind during the lonely years in Colombia. Javier pulls himself together, pushing his agony aside to lift his chin. Checking the clock. Five minutes. 

“I knew I would have to-I knew I hadn't had a choice. I knew some sort of modern couple co-parenting with step-parents would never fly. They’d send Lorraine and my baby off somewhere I would never find them. I mean, maybe it's different here in Colombia but I’m talking about bible belt American socialites, it was already a travesty to them that a hispanic man got their baby pregnant. I also knew my father would never speak to me again, he gave up everything to be my father. He lost his own wife while he tried to be the best for me, I knew this wouldn't kill her. I knew I wasn't right for her in any way. I caused so much mess in Andrea’s life, this was the only way to leave swiftly and make her hate me. It would be easier that way, if none of this happened she’d be home in Laredo burning for me. I already wasted too much of her life with my antics.” Fuck it, Javier’s cheeks were wet. He had been crying the second he opened his mouth. Rushing to say his peace until next week. 

He knows todays your birthday, but he wanted to keep something for himself. He wants to suffer that alone.

“It would hurt her but it wouldn't kill her. They knew I’d go away to Colombia anyway but at least she’ll be wed. I was set to be married two weeks later.”

[lanotteviene]

late july/early august reading recommendations.

white moss, anna nerkagi. luminous, moving book about people who've been left behind, and still long for someone or something. about community, about choosing to build lives where you are, about absence as a haunting force, about memory as bridge & quicksand.

the memory police, yoko ogawa. dreamlike, quietly dystopic meditation on the consequences of accepting vs refusing; the existential and emotional value of memories; ownership and freedom to exist.

communion: the female search for love, bell hooks. multi-chaptered essay focusing on the lessons that liberated women might share with younger women -- and anyone, really -- who long for a love that is not patriarchal.

forbidden notebook, alba de céspedes. currently reading x

[dk-thrive]

although I’ve always given myself to others, completely, it seems to me that I still have everything to give

Weariness weakens me, makes me accessible to meanness. But although I’ve always given myself to others, completely, it seems to me that I still have everything to give. So I wait for this hour anxiously, to write, to let a rich stream that runs in me and pains me flow freely, as when I had too much milk. That’s the reason, surely, that I bought the notebook. I remember the day clearly: even though it was late autumn, the sky was blue, the sun warm as in spring. I was alone and it didn’t seem right to be alone on such a day, so I went home in the arms of the notebook.

—  Alba de Céspedes, “Forbidden Notebook: A Novel.” Translated by Ann Goldstein. (Astra House, January 17, 2023) 

[iirulancorrino]

from Forbidden Notebook by Alba de Céspedes, trans. Ann Goldstein

[rachel-sylvan-author]

Happy Women in Translation Month! ❤️ “I Who Have Never Known Men” by Jacqueline Harpman (French) “Drive your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead” by Olga Tokarczuk (Polish) “The Wall” by Marlen Haushofer (Austrian) “An Elderly Lady is Up to No Good” by Helene Tursten (Swedish) “Convenience Store Woman” by Sayaka Murata (Japanese) “The Traveling Cat Chronicles” by Hiro Arikawa (Japanese) “A Woman’s Story” by Annie Ernaux (French) “Childhood, Youth, Dependency” by Tove Ditlevsen (Danish) “My Brilliant Friend” by Elena Ferrante (Italian) “The Forbidden Notebook” by Alba de Céspedes (Cuban-Italian) “The Second Sex” by Simone de Beauvoir (French)

QOTD: Who is your favorite translated woman author, and your favorite book by them?