#also gin but only the part about petting street cats
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Gin and Paleta
Pairing: Javier Pena x Reader
Summary: When a storm knocks out the power, you ask Javier to spend the night with you to ease your fear of the dark. A few drinks later, you admit more than you ever meant to.
Warnings: Drunk and emotional reader, a wee bit of angst at one part, anxiety because of the dark, Javier teasing you, mentions of prostitution
Word Count: 5400
A/N: This is my first time writing for Javier and I’m a little nervous about it. Hopefully it’s alright!
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The wind outside howled with an intensity that you hadn’t experienced in a long time. You clutched your hot tea to your chest, allowing it to warm you in the nice cool Bogota night as you watched the rain fall hard and heavy outside your window. Every now and again there was a flash of lightning that crackled across the sky that was followed by a loud rumble. The storm was right over you and the lightning had gotten closer and closer to the apartments the embassy had put you up in when you moved to Columbia.
It really was quite beautiful, this storm that raged across the city. It had been hot and muggy for days leading up to the storm but now the angry gray clouds that blocked out the stars and the pounding rain brought a blanket of coolness to offer refuge from the constant Columbian summer heat. Your favorite scented candle burned on the table, the smell mixing perfectly with the scent of wet earth, asphalt, and trees overtaking your apartment through the small crack in the window you’d left for exactly that purpose. The TV played mindlessly in the background to create further ambience.
Suddenly, there was a loud flash just outside your apartments that lit up the entire street, sparks flying everywhere out your window. You yelped in shock as the power surged and then cut out completely, leaving you in total darkness aside from the flame of your candle. At the same time, there was a deafening rumble and the whole apartment shook with thunder.
Your heart raced and you panted as you walked towards the window to see that the power was across the next few blocks. There was a downed wire in the next street down that still sparked occasionally in the rain. Car alarms went off in the street. Lightning must have struck the wires.
Then the darkness crept in. When you turned to face your apartment, the utter darkness and silence of every corner began to feel suffocating. You reached over to the table and held the candle up as your breathing struggled to stay level. On shaky legs, you made your way over to a set of drawers that held various boxes of matches and a few old lighters before searching the house for every candle and flashlight you could find. After about ten minutes, you had set up candles all across the main room of your apartment but it still wasn’t much light. Small halos of warm yellow light illuminated only a few feet in diameter around each small flame.
For the final, and perhaps most paranoid move of all, you reached to grab your gun but stopped, fingers flexing and clenching into your palm as you tried to calm yourself down. “It’s just the dark,” you told yourself, breathing deeply, “Just the same things that are here in the day time. Stop being ridiculous.”
It was irrational to have your gun on you. What was gonna happen? The boogeyman was going to jump out of your closet and eat you? Maybe Escobar’s men would come and pick you, Steve, and Javier off now that it was dark. They did know where you all lived and they had already shown they had no problem flexing that fact when they killed Steve’s cat. That also was irrational and you knew it. They had better things to do and plot a whole assassination on three Americans during a power outage when God knows they had many other more menacing enemies.
And even so, every little creak from the storm that had previously been endearing now became footsteps of intruders or monsters. Here you were, someone literally trained to take down drug lords, who had been in their fair share of gun fights and seen first hand the horrors that men can do to one another, cowered in the couch trying to stave off a full blown panic attack as you sat alone in the dark.
Maybe you could hang out with Steve and Connie for the night, at least until the power returned, you considered. No… they had Olivia now and you were sure they had their hands full without worrying about a whole grown ass woman who was just scared of the dark. You weren’t close with anyone else in the building except for Javier but that idea made you cringe. He would just make fun of you and you knew it. You already knew how dumb it sounded to be an adult who was scared of the dark. You really needed to just grow up and get over it. That was exactly what you’d resolved to do.
Twenty minutes passed before you gave in. Twenty minutes full of startled gasps when the wind blew some leaves off the tree and into your window, the car alarms were silenced, or the wood floors creaked beneath your feet. Against your initial judgement, you pressed yourself off the couch, scooped up the candle that you’d had placed on the table and made your way downstairs to Javier’s apartment.
You rubbed your arm nervously while you waited for him to answer the knocks, already foretelling all the shit he was about to give you. He opened the door and you noticed the single flashlight in his hand that seemed to be the only light in his entire abode. “Y/N, you alright?” He asked, noticing right away the way you kept peeking over your shoulder with an anxiety that radiated off of you.
You nodded, “Uh, yeah. Your power’s out too?” The question was stupid and obvious and you both knew that. No shit the power was out. There wasn’t a single light on in the entire building.
“Yeah.” He answered simply but there was little intonation in his voice that was certainly mocking you in his typical lowkey asshole way. He leaned against the doorway coolly and if you hadn’t been freaking out so badly, you would have stopped to admire. Maybe it was best that everything but his general outline was concealed in darkness. You’d been pushing down a crush on your friend and partner for months now, knowing it was unprofessional and knowing that he would probably never think of you the same way even if it wasn’t unprofessional. Coming to him like this made you feel like a damsel in distress and you weren’t sure if you liked that analogy, especially considering that you were convinced nothing would ever come of it.
You rocked back and forth on your heels, “I was wondering if, um, maybe you’d be willing to hang out with me until the power comes back on?”
A small smirk appeared on his face with a quirked eyebrow, “Are you scared of the dark, L/N?” He asked, using your last name as if to exaggerate the humor in the fact that a DEA agent who’s been shot at before is scared of something as little as the dark, “How old are you? Eight?”
You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning red but playing it off with a chuckle. “Shut up,” you whined, “Look, I know it sounds stupid but I can offer beer or gin and a few paleta that I need to eat before they melt now.”
Javier looked you up and down in the low glow of the candle that was held between your hands, almost as if you were using it to keep your hands warm. He couldn’t help the little endearing smile that crept on his lips. In all honesty, he didn’t care much that you were afraid of the dark. He just loved to see the way you got flustered when he made fun of you. His jokes were never meant maliciously, especially when directed towards you, and he was glad you could take the jabs and even throw them back. It was one of the things that made him crazy about you.
After a moment, he nodded, “Yeah, I can come hang out for a few. Just let me grab my keys.” He disappeared back into his apartment, flashlight illuminating his couch and table as he grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter. Soon, he was following you down the hall and up the stairs to your apartment.
You hadn’t even locked the door in your hurried state to get down to Javier but you knew it wasn’t going to be a long trip. He noticed the various candles burning around your apartment, lowly illuminating the small space.
“Beer or gin? I got water too if you want that though.” You offered, making your way to the kitchen to hold up your end of the bargain.
“Uh, gin, please.” He walked in and made himself at home like he practically lived there. He had come over often to go over files sometimes over drinks and food late into the night. He was comfortable in your space and you were in his, with the exception of that hyperawareness of your every move when you’re around the person you like. There was a slightly electric feeling in the air for both of you but neither of you knew that the other felt it too.
You brought two glasses of gin, probably a little fuller than they should have been, in and handed one to Javier and one for yourself. The pair of you sat on your tan sofa and you quickly inspected the packaged popsicles in your hand, “I have cajeta and chamoy.”
“Don’t really care.” He shrugged, “sipping” his gin. You looked between the two and picked your favorite, giving him the other one.
Two hours later, the pair of you were two paleta and three-quarters of a bottle of gin down (most of which you had drunk) and things had gotten personal. Topics had bounced from work stuff, to you teasing him about his well-known rendezvous with his informants, to childhood pets, and more. A silence had settled over the pair of you. Neither of you knew how late it was anymore, just that it was silent out save for the rain and the occasional gunshot. It had become evident early on that Javier held his alcohol better than you did but even he was slipping after this many glasses of hard liquor.
“Do you ever get tired of being alone?” You asked out of the blue, staring up at the ceiling.
Javier looked over at you, the way you tapped your nail against the side of the glass with too much focus. He couldn’t tell if you were trying to avoid his gaze after the question or if you really were just that interested in the sound it made in your drunken state. Your partner just shrugged though and deflected the question, “Get a dog or something.”
Your face twisted in an over exaggerated look of thought. “I thought about it but it makes me sad to-,” you hiccuped, “to think about a puppy being stuck inside all day while we’re out chasing Escobar. No yard or anything for them to run around in.”
Javier nodded in understanding, “Guess you’re right. Wouldn’t be a good life at all.”
“See, though, Javi,” You pointed sloppily at him with a lifted finger from your fifth - no sixth - glass of gin, “You and I both know that’s not what I’m asking. But who am I kidding? You’ve always got all those little informants of yours hanging around. You’re probably not too lonely.”
Your partner sighed, used to Steve giving him crap about it but you didn’t usually say much about it. “Yeah, well we all have ways of dealing with the loneliness.” Seeing the prostitutes in town wasn’t his proudest repeat offense and, if he was being honest with himself, he didn’t just see them for the information they had on Escobar. Even for people who had commitment issues, like himself, being alone got really damn hard sometimes.
“It’s so unfair that they don’t have male prostitutes like they have women. What about all the lonely and frustrated women of Bogota?” You complained, taking a sip to punctuate your sentence.
Javier couldn’t help but laugh a little, “You’re telling me you’d really go see a prostitute if there were men out there that did it?” Yeah, right, he thought.
You shook your head and sighed in defeat, “No… I don’t think I would. I think I actually want someone to love, y’know?” You laughed at your own clicheness, “What about you, Javi? I know you have all your lady friends but have you ever loved someone?”
If perhaps you’d been sober, maybe you would have noticed the way he sucked a guilty breath in and backstepped, maybe even might have apologized for prying into his personal life. In your drunk state, though, you had no qualms with your personal questions.
“I, uh, I did. Once.”
“Yeah? What happened?”
He scratched his nose and hesitated. Another one of his less proud moments that he didn’t like to share. The only person he’d told that wasn’t family or a friend from back in Texas was Steve. Nevertheless, he swallowed hard and continued, the drinks even making him loose at this point, “We were supposed to get married but…”
“But?” You pressed, the intoxication making you obnoxiously impatient.
He gave you a vaguely testing look before continuing, “But I never made it to the wedding.”
You gasped, leaning forward and setting your drink on the table, “You left her at the altar?!”
Javier flinched back at your sudden lurch towards him and looked at you with a slightly annoyed expression, “I know it was a shitty thing to do!” While he didn’t appreciate the judgement because he already felt shitty enough about the whole incident, he knew it was more the gin than you to blame for your outburst. He leaned forward and pulled your half-full glass of gin back towards him, not to drink for himself, just to get out of your grasp. “What about you? You ever been in love?”
You bit your lip, “I don’t know. I’ve never really been in love before but there’s this one guy that I know that I think I could be pretty close to it.”
Javier’s chest tightened at the thought of you loving another man. He knew he had no right to your heart but that didn’t stop the pang of jealousy at the thought. Part of him wanted to pry further, just so he could know you were safe (or maybe to fuel some twisted personal hatred for the man he didn’t know). In typical angsty Javier fashion, though, he opted for the aloof, detached, and slightly annoyed response, “Then why are you complaining about being so lonely? Sounds like you have someone.”
You pulled your knees into your chest and threw the blanket that was draped over the couch over your now balled up form. You shrugged, glancing up at Javier with a look he might have noticed was longing if he hadn’t been looking anywhere but at you. “I don’t think he likes me the way I like him. I think maybe that’s why it feels so lonely. Knowing you could have someone but still being alone.”
“If you could have him then get him.” Javier Pena, always the blunt one, especially when his own feelings were in the mix.
You shook your head, “It’s not that simple.”
Suddenly, Javier got a little nervous at your tone, “He better not be one of Escobar’s fucking men.” The thought of you loving someone else made him jealous and angry but the thought of you loving a sicario made him lividly angry. There was no way you could possibly love a monster like that but it didn’t stop the thought from crossing his mind.
Your mouth dropped in offense, “Fuck, Javi, is that how low you think of me?” Your moods had been swinging all night thanks to the gin but you were pretty sure you still would have found the very suggestion just as offensive if you’d been sober.
“What- wait - no. That’s not what I think of you, I ju-”
“Well, clearly it is or you wouldn’t have suggested it.” You stood up off the couch, stepping away angrily but tripping over the low coffee table in the dark. Your slowed reflexes weren’t enough to catch you and crashed to the floor, “Shit…” You groaned, rolling over and trying to push yourself up to a sitting position. Your hair hung messily over your face when you looked down at where your hand met the floor.
Javier jumped up and clumsily made his way to your side, “Shit, Y/N, you alright?” He knelt down and placed a hand on your arm, offering his other one to help you stand. Sparks flew where his skin met yours but you convinced yourself that you were just feeling because of the alcohol.
You waved him off drunkenly and swiped your hair clumsily out of your face. Instead of sitting up, you leaned back and looked up at him, tears welling up in your eyes for who the hell knows why. Were you angry or offended or desperate or just a drunk mess? You couldn’t tell anymore but you weren’t used to losing your emotions like this and Javier wasn’t used to seeing it either. He halted, uncomfortable at the way your eyes shone in the candlelight with your tears.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even suggested that you’d be in love with a sicario. I really don’t think you’d do anything like that.” Javier apologized, a rare occurrence for the man but, gosh, would he say anything if it meant that your tears would dry. Drunk or not, he couldn’t stand knowing that made you cry.
You sniffled, wiping a crocodile tear from your cheek, “Why the hell do we even sit here and make ourselves sad, Javi? Y’know? I mean I sit here every night and pine over a guy who I’ve convinced myself won’t love me. Isn’t that stupid? I convinced myself! How the hell would I even know? So instead of womaning up and actually finding out the truth, I just resign to the thought that there’s no way he could love me. Isn’t that pathetic? I should just learn to be like you. Confident. Women don’t say no to you because… well how could they?”
Javier shook his head and looked down, “No,” He admitted quietly, “It’s not pathetic. It’s different when you’re talking about love versus lust. I pay for twenty minutes with a poor girl who has to do it to survive. If anything, that’s what’s pathetic. Honestly, I’m scared shitless when it comes to love.”
He thought about your words and how much sense they actually made. The reason he hadn’t told you about his feelings for you were partly because he thought you’d never feel the same way. He was convinced that his reputation as a womanizer asshole, that he had rightly earned prior to you moving to Bogota, had turned you off entirely. Besides, wouldn’t he just mess it up? He thought he loved Lorraine but look how that turned out. The logical reason he told himself was the relationships amongst partners would be frowned upon but he knew that was a lie. Since when did Javier Pena follow the rules? The only thing holding him back really truly was himself. So why did it feel so impossible to come clean?
Javier shook the thought from his head. You were drunk and rambling. Even if he were to man up and confess his love for you, this was not the time to do it. He’d be surprised if you remembered anything in the morning. Besides, you were on about some man you loved and he could only imagine who it was. He’d seen your gaze linger a little longer on Carillo than was usual for a colleague. Perhaps that was who it was, the mystery man that you couldn’t have. He was married, after all. It would be a logical road block.
Part of Javier wanted to probe your brain and know the truth. He couldn’t tell if it was something that would make himself feel better or worse. It would put him out of his misery. Maybe if he heard it straight from your mouth that you didn’t love him, he could finally get over you. It would take a while, certainly many drunken nights and a few visits to Freckles, but he could do it. But if he did know, he also knew himself well enough to know he’d harbor some silent resentment for whoever the man was for taking the girl he loved.
He shook his head at his thoughts when he saw the way you swayed a little, as if rocking on a boat despite being on solid ground, your eyes drifting shut while you struggled to stay sitting upright. You weren’t in your right state of mind and to ask you such a personal question would be a total breach of trust and respect. He’d be furious if he found out anybody else had done the same to you.
“C’mon, let’s get you in bed.” Javier swallowed hard before shifting to help pull you up by your arm.
Your body flopped loosely to your feet and you whined, “Noooo! We were just talking! Besides, you’re just gonna leave me in the dark and go back home.” You pouted, head lulling against his as the full blown weight of the alcohol hit you. Any composure you’d managed to maintain, which admittedly was very little, melted away into Javier’s chest as he hoisted you up and carried you bridal style to your bedroom.
He glanced down at your made up bed and laid down your body as gently as he could, though you did roll on your own accord more clumsily than he had hoped. Javier flinched when your hands shot up to grab his shoulders, “Javi! Don’t leave me! It’s dark and scary still.”
He sighed, his hands settling on his hips once he managed to pry your hands off his shoulders, “Just let me grab you some water and you’ll be fine.”
“What if I wake up in the middle of the night and it’s still completely dark!”
“I have a feeling you won’t be waking up for a while, hermosa.” He chuckled at the way your face was already half smashed into the pillow, your hair was laying over your cheek, and your eyes were closed shut, surely already halfway asleep.
You reached up blindly for whatever you could grab, your fingers sliding down his forearm before they managed to hook onto a few of his fingers, “Please, Javi. I gave you popsicles and alcohol! The least you could do is stay the night and keep me company.”
Javier reached down and pulled the blanket that was folded at the end of your bed over your body. “I’ll be right back.” With that he left your room, feeling his way to the kitchen to get you a glass of ice water before returning to find you curled up in the blanket with your eyes closed. A small smile grew on his face, astounded by how you could still be so beautiful even when you looked like such a mess. A few strands of hair had fallen over your face and Javier reached down to gently brush them away from your mouth and behind your ear.
You shifted a little, “You can sleep here.” Your hand stretched out to feel the other half of your queen sized bed.
Finally, Javier decided to give in. “No, I’ll just make up a bed on the couch.”
“There’s plenty o’ bed to share!” You giggled, thinking what you said was way funnier than it really was.
Javier shook his head, “You're drunk, Y/N. I don’t want you waking up in the morning to see me in your bed and you go getting the wrong idea.”
“You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to wake up to see you in my bed.” You snuggled further into the pillow, your words barely above a murmur.
“What?” Javier’s whole body seized up and he couldn’t look anywhere but you. He shook the thought away. There was no way you meant that. It was the gin and nothing more. He couldn’t get his hopes up, “Nevermind. You just close your eyes. I’ll be on the couch if you need anything.”
You shook your head, “This is why I’m in love with you, Javi. Always the perfect gentleman, even when you’re an asshole sometimes.”
Javier’s breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t deny your words this time. This was different. There was a difference between this is why I love you and this is why I’m in love with you. “In love? With me?” He told himself he wouldn’t pry earlier but the question came out before he could stop it.
“Oh yeah... I’ve had a big ol’ crush on you for a long time. I don’t know what the hell love is but I think I might have it for you.” The wall that kept back your deepest thoughts came crashing down and your sentiments came flooding out like a semi-coherent tidal wave of admittal. “This is why I didn’t want to say anything because I know you don’t like me like that. You got all these beautiful women at your beck and call and I’m just boring old me who’s scared of the dark, spends more time working than living, and couldn’t dream of looking as beautiful as those ladies do.”
Javier struggled to figure out what to say that wouldn’t be crossing the line, “There’s nothing boring about you, hermosa, and you are so much more beautiful than any other woman out there.”
“But you don’t love me.” You insisted, cutting him off.
He chewed the inside of his cheek. This had to be the worst time to be talking about this. If he said he did now, you probably wouldn’t remember it in the morning. Maybe you’d even write off your feelings as just drunken blubbering and he’d have to play along as if nothing had been meant. If he didn’t say it now, would it lock it in your mind that he couldn’t love you? “That’s not true.” He mumbled the words quietly but sincerely. He looked down at your form that was halfway asleep by now and pat your shoulder comfortingly, “Go to sleep. We can finish talking about this when you’re sober.”
By the time the words left his mouth, you were already snoring. With a heavy breath, he looked away from you and walked back into the living room. He kicked his shoes off by the table and laid down on the couch, getting comfortable beneath the blanket that you’d left there earlier. Your conversations ran through his head about a mile and minute and he couldn’t slow them down. You actually loved him- nay, were in love with him. His feelings weren’t one sided. He tossed and turned for a while, battling with himself on how to address this (or even if he wanted to). He wasn’t so drunk that he had no control over what he said but he was just drunk enough to fuel a confidence that made him devise a plan to admit his feelings for you in the morning, even if sober him would most likely back out.
**
When morning rolled around, neither of you were in the mood for admitting feelings. It took several cups of stove brewed coffee before either you were even able to form any more than a groan. The sunlight killed your eyes, even through the grey clouds. Your head pounded and you felt nauseous for the first half of the day. Javier was just slow and a little grumpier than usual. The two of you ate some tortillas that you’d thrown on the stovetop for breakfast in relative silence.
The power was still out, the constant drizzle outside making it too dangerous for the power lines to be worked on. Thankfully, the sun cast enough light for you to not be freaking out anymore. Around eleven in the morning, you were finally feeling a little better and you looked up at Javier, who still had yet to leave your apartment. “Thanks for staying last night. Sorry for getting wasted.” You laughed a little at your expense.
He sipped his coffee and rubbed his eyes, “Of course. You’re a mess when you drink, you know that?”
You buried your face in your hands, feeling your matted hair. Gosh, you needed a shower. “Yeah, I’ve been told that before. That’s why I don’t get that drunk very often.” You sipped your own coffee, reveling in the scent that a few hours ago made you feel sick to your stomach but now smelled like the best thing on this planet. “You can take a shower if you’d like.”
Javier gestured towards the front door, “I’ll just take one when I get back to my place.”
“Oh right, you live here,” You groaned and chuckled at your stupidity, “Sorry, my brain is still moving kinda slow.”
He smiled down at his coffee, fingers playing with the handle of the orange mug. “I, uh, I wanted to ask you about something, actually.” He began, his confidence from the prior night failing him. Javier could be suave as hell when he was trying to pick someone up at a bar but with you, all he could get was radio static in his brain.
Your face twisted nervously, “Oh gosh, did I say something totally stupid last night?” You were already mentally facepalming. There were about a million things that ran through your mind daily, even sober, that you would be humiliated if drunk you had let slip. Things that ranged from a stupid dream you’d had about strapping bombs to pigeons and flying them into Escobar’s fincas to your unrequited harbored love for Javier ran through your head and you desperately hoped you had dumbly mentioned the former of the two topics. You could handle being teased about pigeon bombs. You didn’t want to lose Javier forever because you had your crush on him slip.
One of Javier’s hands moved to his thigh and ran up and down the rough fabric of his jeans. “No, it wasn’t stupid at all, actually.” His pause made you nervous, expecting only the worst. “You said that you were in love with me.”
Oh gosh. This was it. The moment you feared most.
“I did?” You asked like a deer caught in headlights. You could feel your face visibly pale as you stared at Javier with wide eyes. His eyes flicked from yours down to his coffee and you panicked, “I’m sorry. I didn’t-”
“I love you too.” He interrupted quickly and bluntly, knowing that if he waited any longer either you’d say it wasn’t true or he’d back out and either way it resulted in him never getting the words out. This was his shot at happiness and he was going to take it.
Your mouth moved with failed words before finally sputtering out, “I’m sorry, what?”
“I love you, Y/N. And I’m sorry if you didn’t mean it and I just ruined everything but you said last night that we sit around and make ourselves miserable by convincing ourselves that it could never happen and I just- I just figured I’d try to find a way out of the misery.” Javier wasn’t one for grand gestures or sappy heartfelt speeches but the confidence he’d had last night had returned to him for only a second to give you the closest he’d ever gotten to either.
His words seemed to snap you right out of your foggy hangover haze and you couldn’t seem to take your eyes off him and the way his brown eyes seemed to bore into yours with a depth that made you almost scared to look away. “I-I love you too, Javi.”
His eyes lightened up and his mustaches quirked upwards with his lips in a cautious smile, “Really?”
You nodded, your voice breathy when you whispered out, “Yeah. I just- I never thought you could love me.”
“Hermosa, I don’t know how anyone couldn’t.”
#javier pena#javier pena x reader#javier pena imagines#javier pena fics#javier pena x y/n#javier pena x you#narcos#narcos imagines#narcos fics#narcos drabbles#narcos headcanons#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fluff#pedro pascal imagine#pedro pascal x reader#pedro pascal x you
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Oooo are you doing prompts?? Exciting!! May I kindly request vampire!Cas and I'm-definitely-straight-but-this-guy-makes-me-weak-at-the-knees Dean?
Please and thank you and congrats on hitting your new milestone 🎉🎊🎂🍰
thanks for both the prompt and the congratulations! it’s good to be here :) I love this concept--if you want a lil something else after this drabble, my fic cannibal queen does have vampire!cas (it also has zombie!dean and some smut, fyi, but it’s good fun!)
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Dean’s just mixing one of the bar’s seasonal cocktails (something fruity, of course--he loves the touch of shaved orange peel as a garnish) when one of his regulars walks in and sits at his usual spot at the bar, right in front of Dean’s mixing station.
Dean hands the cocktail to a waitress to deliver to the right table and then starts pouring a glass of gin--two ice cubes exactly. He hands it to the man in front of him with a, “Heya, Cas.”
The man--Cas--takes a sip of his gin and raises an eyebrow at Dean. “How many times do I have to tell you--”
“That it’s Castiel. At least a couple more.” Dean winks at Cas and then mixes another round of two-for-one margaritas for the three girls at the end of the bar--they’ll have to be cut off after these, though.
He always tries to keep his flirting with Cas at a minimum. They’re polar opposites, as far as Dean can tell--Cas is a manager at the opera house, has the fanciest name known to man, wears a suit everywhere, and is quiet and contemplative.
Dean had only gotten to know Cas when the other man had started staying at the bar until closing at least two times a week about a year ago. Now, he always sat in the same spot, always ordered the same drink, and always left right as Dean was wiping down the bar.
“See anything good on TV?” Dean asks as an attempt to strike up a conversation.
“I don’t own a television,” Cas takes another sip, “And you know this.”
“Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“I wouldn’t dream of blaming you for anything.” Cas’ eyes are oddly bright, a small, rare smile on his face.
Dean clears his throat. Cas is attractive and friendly (in his own way) and--off limits. “Well, how are things at the opera house?”
“Dull.” Cas lets out a sigh and...loosens his tie, which never happens, and runs a hand through his hair. “I haven’t felt this defeated since I was helping Puccini write Madame Butterfly.”
“DIdn’t know you wrote opera,” Dean said, wiping down a part of the bar that had just been abandoned.
“I haven’t in a long time.” Cas looks wistful, before saying, “Tell me about your brother.”
Dean stops wiping the bar and stares at Cas. “Tell you about Sam?”
“Yes,” Cas clears his throat, and Dean can't help but watch his Adam’s apple bob. “How is he?”
“Good.....finishing up college applications. Smart kid.”
Cas has never asked about Dean’s life. What he knows, Dean has told him. Voluntarily.
Something is wrong.
Cas makes an unusual amount of conversation, but leaves at closing time, like always, and Dean cleans up and grabs his jacket before walking out onto the cold street. On a whim, he googles...what was that guy’s name? Puccini?
Giacomo Puccini, 1858-1924, Wikipedia helpfully supplies.
What the hell?
Just as Dean is turning to walk to the subway station and head back to his apartment, he sees a familiar figure in a black trench coat with dark, messy hair standing by a shop window next to the bar.
Dean walks up to him. Cas doesn’t turn his head.
“I searched that Puccini guy,” Dean says, “He died almost a hundred years ago, Cas. What...are you?”
No response.
Dean puts a hand on Cas’ shoulder, and finally the other man moves, and then smiles, and Dean sees them--sharp fangs curling out of Cas’ mouth.
Cas blinks once. “We can talk about it, if you’d like.”
[Dean learns a lot of things. One, Cas is a vampire. Two, Cas really does hate opera, but “other people hate it more.” (He actually uses the air quotes.) Three, Cas has a pet cat named Houdini--and he has actually met Houdini. Four, Cas owns sweatpants, and he looks damn good in them. Five, Cas is a pretty good kisser.
This last fact is Dean’s favorite.]
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The Intern (CliffxReader)
Requested by @perawuat
Let me know if you want me to add you on the OUATIH taglist! :)
"Y/n? You comin' or what?" Your roommates stopped and looked to you for an answer.
You shook your head with a sigh, "Not tonight, sorry guys."
One of your friends, Ziggy, raised her eyebrow, "Oh come on, Y/n. Live a little!"
There was a party on campus. One of the many....many parties you'd bailed out on that month alone.
They just weren't your scene.
You were a bit old fashioned. More of an intellectual. You liked cafes, ballets, and developing photos. Your friends loved clubs, protests, and being in those photos. Most of your friends were hippies, and whether you liked to admit it or not, they kept you balanced up with the times.
Your other roommate, Rowan, nodded, and nudged you a little with his elbow, "Come on! It's gonna be far out, man!"
Your other friend, Odie, adjusted their collar, "I heard there's gonna be some cats from Berkeley, baby!"
You sighed.... Berkeley kids were known to be on another level of hippy-ness.
Ziggy wrapped her hands around your forearm and bounded up and down with pleading, wide eyes, "USC kids are coming through, come on!"
You studied at UCLA, USC also happened to be a bit of a party school, and was also a rival school. It was certain there'd be a fight or two added to the expected chaos.
"There's gonna be booze, dudes, and no narcs! C'mon, it'll be groovy, baby!" Odie held their hands in the air, vibing and dancing with the wind, "Live a little, Y/n!"
You shook your head, your arms crossed over your books across your chest "Maybe next time, guys." Rowan groaned, "Aw don't be such a drag, Y/n!"
You smiled a little, "You guys go ahead. Catch you tomorrow?"
You walked to the end of the block together. They'd cross the street to get to the party, you'd keep walking down the block to get to your dorm.
There was a parking lot on the corner. It was empty save for a single trailer.
As you waited for the lights to change you all looked into the lot.
Rowan leaned in, and whispered "I heard it belongs to professor McHarris. Say his wife ditched him and how he lives in a trailer."
Odie shook their head, and rolled their eyes with a sigh, "Ugh boys. Who told you that? I heard..." They leaned into the circle, and muttered in annoyance, "It's. Just. Abandoned. Here."
Rowan frowned in disbelief, "Who'd abandon a perfectly good trailer?!"
Odie shrugged, pulling on a pair of shades as they squinted against the setting sun, "Who wouldn't?"
Ziggy, a theater major, and naturally a lover of storytelling, smirked as she leaned in. "Well...I heard some weird stuff goes on in there. Some cult leader or something crashes there late at night after he goes PSYCHO." She waved her fist around like Norman Bates and laughed as the rest of you stepped back and shuddered in horror.
The light turned green and your friends waved goodbye.
You turned and walked down the block as they crossed the street.
You sighed as you climbed up the stairs to your apartment and opened the door. You sat down, and stacked your books and projects up, and started working. You didn’t like parties, but you liked fun and adventures. You liked doing your own thing, sometimes. But, right now you had some work to do... You could have sworn you'd studied the whole night through.
You slammed the books shut. Your eyes were dry and tired from all the reading. You sighed and looked up at the wall. You had strung up photographs you'd developed over the weekend. Some of them were a bit questionable, a little on the avant-garde side of art. But all in all, your work was a masterpiece. The rows of strung up pictures were just a snippet of your impressive portfolio.
Consequently, you'd just gotten an internship in Hollywood on a set.
You were starting the next morning, and looking forward to it, though you were understandably nervous about it.
It was also part of the reason you didn't really want to go to the party..
True, you could have gone just for an hour or two...but acid and protest tunes weren't really up your alley. Maybe a cigarette, gin and tonic, and some Rat Pack records.
Your roommates and friends were probably talking about a protest that would happen on campus next week. But, that also wasn't your thing. You just weren't comfortable with crowds and loud noise. Mysteries.. Now that was where it was at.
At least to you.
You looked at your watch, expecting it to be 3 or 4 am... It was only midnight.
The night was still young.
And you were restless.
You stood up... For once in your life you were going to be impulsive and assertive. You were going to do something crazy.
You were going to find out who the hell really lived in the trailer.
You pulled on your denim jacket, and put on your red go-go boots, rushed out the door, and down the stairs, rushing to the parking lot before you lost your new found sense of curiosity.
You wrapped your fingers against the chain link fence, your eyes zeroing in on the lone trailer in the center of the dark lot.
You sighed, trying to force yourself to do one exciting thing with your life. "Don't be a drag. Don't be a drag, don't be a drag..."
You trudged through the darkness and hovered around the trailer. It was dark and silent. Maybe Odie was right. Maybe it really was just abandoned...
Or maybe...
Maybe Rowan was right. It was rare, but he had his moments.... Maybe that professor really was just trying to get by...
Or...horrifically but also possibly, what if Ziggy was right?! She always had hear-say and gossip down to a t... Besides...
Serial killers weren't not a thing in big cities.... What if this cult leader rumor was real?!
You were close to the door.. You didn't even knock on the door when you heard a guttural growl and a loud bark.
You fell back in fear, and pushed back on your heels and palms.
You unexpectedly ran into something...
You turned around, feeling cold with fear, "Holy shit it's the serial killer..."
You looked up and he looked down.
He was wearing sunglasses for some reason...
You held your breath, "Definitely a serial killer."
He wore a denim jacket over a black shirt.
He reached down and pulled you up, with a seemingly, and oddly friendly smile. "She doesn't bite." He threw his cigarette onto the ground and put it out with his foot.
"Wh...who are..." He was kinda cute... A bit on the older side. And...also still probably a serial killer.
"My dog. Her name's Brandy." He shrugged matter-of-factly, as he looked through a key ring.
You sighed calming yourself down a bit, reasoning that a serial killer wouldn't be human enough to have a dog. You hoped...
He started to unlock the door as he clicked to calm his dog down. "So any particular reason why a kid like you's fuckin' around here and isn't home and asleep?" "Why wouldn't a kid like me be out?" You thought you had him. He shrugged, "Out in the street alone where there's some real creeps?"
"You're not a creep, are ya?"
He chuckled a little " No. I dont think so at least."
You smiled a little as he sat on his makeshift porch, his dog sitting by his side.
"I'm not a kid anyway. I'm twenty-two."
He chuckled a little. He remembered what it was like to be so young, "So why aren't you at a club or a party or a protest or somethin'?"
You shrugged a little "Not really my scene."
"So you're not a hippy?" He sighed a little, a bit more at ease. Even if they were for peace and all, they made Cliff Booth a little uneasy, which wasn't an easy thing to do itself.
"Not really. And you.... Youre not a m..." You bit your lip. Why would a murderer admit to being a murderer?
"A what?"
"Well... Your trailer popped up out of nowhere and there's been... rumors about you..."
Cliff chuckled a little. He wasn't quite a star in Hollywood but rumors always managed to keep him in the spotlight.
"Yeah? What kinda rumors?" He petted Brandy as she laid her head on his leg.
"The best one was you were either a professor that got divorced and lost everything. Or a culty serial killer."
He laughed, "That's crazy talk."
"Yeah...so...who are you?"
He took his glasses off and you saw his beautiful blue eyes under the moonlight. "My name's Cliff. What about you, intruder?"
"Intruder?!"
He nodded, a little amused by your response, "Pokin' around somebody's home at midnight? Makes you an intruder."
"Student parking lot. You are ...probably not a student right, Cliff?" You smirked a little.
"Touche, kid. So...intruders are strangers. You don't wanna be a stranger, right?"
You laughed, "Guess not." You shrugged, "My name's Y/n. I study photography there." You pointed to a building down two blocks, looming like a castle over the new city lights.
Cliff whistled a little, "UCLA. Nice school. You know what you're gonna do when you're through?"
You nodded, "I graduate in a few months. And I just got an internship on some set in Hollywood. I start tomorrow. I wanna work cameras for movies some day. Guess this is how I'll start."
Cliff smiled, "Sounds like a dream, kiddo. Good luck out there." Cliff knew more than anyone that Hollywood was a cut throat place.
He meant it when he wished you luck.
And something about the way he said it let you know that. "Thanks Cliff," You smiled, until you looked around the parking lot and the dark streets. A few hours from then it would be awake with cops raiding the parties and kids scrambling to get to their dorms.
"You gonna be ok, old timer?"
Cliff laughed a little, "Does get loud around here sometimes. College was never really my thing."
"No?"
He shook his head "Nah. I got drafted."
"Heavy."
"Yeah... So I move around every now and then to keep things fresh. There's an empty lot behind this theater. I've been thinkin' of movin' out there next."
You felt a little sad for him. It felt so lonesome out there at night.
You asked again "You gonna be ok, Cliff?"
He smiled a little, "I get by, kid. Don't worry. You go out there, show em whatchu got tomorrow, ok?"
You nodded, "Thanks again, mister," you smiled as you started walking away. "See you around, Cliff!"
You waved back at him and he waved back with a soft smile and a sigh, "See ya, kid."
And...he did...
You were an intern on a set that you knew nothing about.
"Alright L/n. When the director says action you're gonna move down here with this camera. When you get to the third line you have to zoom in on Rick."
"Rick?" Your mentor of sorts nodded "Yeah. Rick fucking Dalton."
Your jaw dropped, "Rick Dalton? Like Bounty Law- Rick Dalton?!"
The cameraman nodded understanding you were star struck. You were fairly young so you'd probably grown up watching his shows. "Yeah. And. After lunch were gonna work with his stunt double over on the horses. That guy's crazy. His name's Cliff."
What were the odds...
"Cliff?"
You heard a third, familiar voice. "Yeah?"
The camernan smiled, "Speak of the devil!"
You turned around and sure enough there he was.
Cliff....
He took off his sunglasses, trying to figure out if it was really you. "Y/n?"
You smiled "Hi!"
He laughed "Well I'll be damned! This is where you're working!?"
You smiled and nodded "Yeah!"
Cliff smiled. He wanted to make sure you didn't end up like him. He knew a few names that might come in handy for you. He wanted to make sure you were alright.
Cliff didn't do that for many people...
Frankly...Well, he liked you.
And Cliff Booth didn't like many people.
He wasn't too social. A bit like you...
Somehow Rick convinced you to go to a Hollywood party with them.
Cliff had to go because Rick needed a ride, as always. And you went because you just wanted to spend some time with them.
They were quickly becoming some of your closest friends.
Cliff was becoming a little more than a friend, a little less than a fling.
But you wanted it to be so much more.
Cliff left you and Rick to get some drinks for the three of you.
Rick laughed as you told him the story of how you and Cliff met. "A serial killer?!" He laughed and wiped away a tear, "Wait till you hear the rumors about him around Hollywood!"
You laughed a little but then Rick noticed something was wrong. You were worrying about something as you looked around at the producers, directors, and actors.
"What's goin' on sweetheart?"
"You think I'll make it?"
He lowered his cigarette and asked, "You shot the Mexican stand-off scene in this week's episode?"
You nodded, "Yeah...? Shit...did someone say something? Fuck did I blow it?!"
Rick shook his head, "Oh, no, no, no! You did great! You're all they talk about in the editing room! You're gonna make it out here, kid."
Rick realized that couldn't be the only thing in your mind. He followed your eyes over to Cliff at the other side of the party.
Rick smiled a little as he murmured so only you could hear, "You know he really likes you?"
You smiled a little, "Ah, you’re just saying that."
Rick laughed and gestured to Cliff, "You really think he gets that cleaned up for just anybody, Y/n? You've seen him on set."
You giggled "I guess you're right."
Cliff made his way through a crowd and made his way back to you and Rick.
He smiled at you, and you smiled at him.
Something told you Rick might have been right...
You were going to make it.
And you were going to have Cliff by your side.
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Chuuya x fem!reader sfw fluff (written for a friend)
Chuuya Nakahara tried to put on a mean face everywhere you went. He hated eyes that wandered, especially when they wandered to you. He was protective, so much so that he asked, no... begged you to quit your job and stay home. He made more than enough, even though you weren’t entirely sure what it was he did for work. Your boyfriend was a bit mysterious. When you were out on dates, there were specific places you could go and not go. He was always touching you in some way; an arm draped over your shoulder, his hand in yours with fingers laced and palms sweaty. He didn’t care, so long as he could feel the warmth from your body on his, he didn’t care.
He was so sweet and dotting. He’d get you anything you wanted or needed. Being alone in the house all day was isolating, and he knew that. What he also knew was the dangers outside of the comfort of his house.
You weren’t forced to stay inside. You weren’t chained there and given no choice. If you so choose, you could walk out the front door and go about your day outside, enjoying the spring breeze and the fresh smell of the blooming flowers. He didn’t like it, but he would never stop you. He trusted you to call him if you were in danger. His only rule was if you saw the man in the picture he had shown you, to run the other way- and fast!
“I know, run.” You kissed his cheek before leaving.
His heart clenched as he watched you walk down the street alone… or at least you thought you we’re alone.
No, he wasn’t following you. Chuuya was an executive of the port mafia. He had more things on his plate than he knew what to do with. He delegated your safety to his most trusted ally: Gin. He knew she was capable of keeping a low profile and eliminating any threats that may come your way. She’d slip from building to building unnoticed watching your surroundings closely.
Maybe it wasn’t the most effective use of his subordinate, but your life is more precious than anything. All he wants is for you to come back safe.
When you did come back, his heart finally relaxed and he pulled you into a tight embrace that cracked your back.
He quickly let go, “sorry baby, I always forget my own strength.”
You melted in his arms, “oh my god, that felt so good.” A blissful smile playing on your lips.
He chuckled and guided you to the couch, “I got you something.” A cheeky smile on his face said he either had a really bad present, or a really good present. There was no in between with him.
Everything he got you came from the heart and you loved it no matter how cheesy or ridiculous it was. The sweater that says “I’m with stupid” and an arrow pointing up: dumb. The socks with bells on the top that chime every time you walk: annoying. The cat figurine that looks like it came out of a haunted house: terrifying. But you loved them all and cherished them dearly. You felt your gut tighten as he came out of the room holding a box. Oh god! What was it this time?
As you forced a smile, the box rustled. Your smile turned genuine when out popped a kitten. It’s sleek gray fur puffed slightly when you went to pet it.
He died a little seeing you so entranced by this little guy. Chuuya was so smitten with you, it hurt.
“I wanted you to have someone here with you so you don’t get bored all day.” He lifted the baby out and placed him in your lap, “meet Mochi.”
A tiny chirp came from the kitten as you scratched it's cheeks, “Chuuya….” you had no words. This was the first gift he had ever given you that was more than just a present for being alive; it was meant to help you combat the loneliness all day. “He’s so cute.”
****
Chuuya glared at the kitten playing with you on the floor. He took a few days off to spend time with you, but the damn cat was stealing his thunder. You kissed it’s fuzzy little forehead, and in return, Mochi rubbed his cheek against your jaw.
This cat was a good idea in theory. But now it seemed to be stealing you from him. It got all of your attention, all of your love. You cuddled it at night and played with it all day. It got special meals made from organic food and all of the love Chuuya so desperately desired. Maybe this wasn’t a great idea. Maybe he should have got you a tamagotchi or a turtle?
He snagged the popcorn and sat on the couch with a loud thump. You smiled up at him, unaware of the anger that boiled just below the surface. He’d mastered the art of hiding his emotions around you, a skill he really should be using when on the job as well.
You took your seat beside him, curling up into his body. You loved how he felt around you; how he smothered you in comfort and safety. It was a feeling you hadn’t felt before- he was your comfort blanket. He brought a sense of security whenever you we’re together. It was a quality that made you consider his proposition for a date in the first place. He made your heart swell with joy and ease. Your relationship was so easy with him. And when he did stuff like this, taking time away from his busy job to be with you and hold you close, you knew he was the man you’d marry and be with forever.
“Mochi.” You called for your precious baby.
He hid the growl as you scooped the kitten from the floor and curled him in your arms. It had only been a month, and this kitten had stolen your heart from him. Taken you with no regard. It drew a wedge between the two of you; a wedge that you weren’t even aware of.
He’d grown jealous over time. He couldn’t stand you looking at anyone, or anything with those loving and adoring eyes. But your head resting gently on his shoulder as you cozied into him rested the rage inside to a mild bubble. At least he knew he could give you something that the cat couldn’t, but that would be saved for the bedroom. He’d have to lock Mochi out. Last time the two of you got intimate, the damn cat started attacking his feet. The rest of the night he was stuck itching the lines of red left behind by the talons hidden under fluffs of fur.
You protested declawing. “That’s inhumane, Chu.” He'd never forget the look of disappointment on your face.
The movie ended and you got up with a stretch, “ready for bed baby?” Your voice made him relax. He loved it.
His lips parted to answer when he realized, the question wasn’t for him. Mochi perked up and you smiled down at him, “let’s go to bed baby boy.”
With the kitten in your arms, you left for bed. Chuuya staying back questioning every decision he's made.
“Beat by a cat…” he snarled, “I will not be beaten by a cat.”
He stood with determination, stomping to your shared room. “Get naked baby! Cause I’m gonna remind you why you love me.” He pulled his shirt over his head and gave you the same smirk that lead you to his bed the first time.
#chuuya x reader#bsd chuuya#bungo stray dogs#fluff#kitten#domestic life#he will not be beaten by a cat#implied sex#female reader
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Task One - Survey
Basic Information
Full Name: He was born Gabriel Anthony James, but his legal name since 2008 has been Gabriel Anthony James-Michaels.
Nickname(s): Gabe, Gabey, G, Briel (Jay only)
Age: 47
Date of Birth: March 03, 1974
Hometown: Roswell, New Mexico
Current Location: Manhattan, New York
Gender: Male
Pronouns: He/Him. However, his friends use pronouns interchangeably, and he does respond to She/Her pronouns when they’re directed at him. Mostly it’s Maxxie and Kale.
Sexual Orientation: It’s taken him a long to figure out a label for his sexuality, and he still doesn’t have a good one. Bisexuality has never felt right, but pansexuality doesn’t feel right either. He supposes he’s homosexual with the rare attraction to the opposite sex.
Occupation: Artist and co-owner of The Alphabet City Art Collective. He teaches art classes.
Living Arrangements: He lives in Manhattan with his husband in the home they renovated together. Their granddaughter turned adopted daughter lives with them, as do their numerous pets.
Language(s) Spoken: English, some Spanish (specifically New Mexican Spanish and California Spanish, which have different slang words and ways of speaking than traditional Spanish).
Accent: He has a New Mexican accent. This is a combination of a West Coast accent with Chicano slang and Navajo words mixed in. It’s faded over the years, but he still has the habit of tacking questions to the ends of his sentences. Typically “or what?” or “Or no?” He also uses the California “Yeah-No” or “No-Yeah” approach to saying yes or no from time to time.
Physical Appearance
Hair Color: Original dark brown bordering on black, but now it’s more salt and pepper these days.
Eye Color: Hazel, leaning closer to an amber color more than anything else.
Height: 6′2″
Build: Lanky is probably a good way to describe him. His arms are muscular from lugging around materials.
Tattoos: A shit ton. 22 at last count. The ones that are most noticeable are the ones on his knuckles and lower arms. Although when they’re at the beach, people tend to be very concerned about the tattoo on his pelvic bone that reads “Lucky You.”
Piercings: At one point he had his nose pierced, but that closed up ages ago.
Clothing Style: He supposes art grunge is the best way to describe his style. He wears a lot of ripped/baggy jeans, and band shirts. A lot of his shirts are thin to the point of almost being see-through. He wears a lot of flannel and corduroy jackets. Beanies and ball caps are a staple of his wardrobe. Everything he wears tends to have paint on it somewhere. Except for when he wears suits - which tend to have patterns.
Favorite Accessories: Leather bracelets, his watch, his wedding ring, and his sister and her husband’s wedding bangs on a chain around his neck.
Distinguishing Characteristics: Other than being covered in tattoos, he’s covered in scars, but his most noticeable scars are on his back. His whole back is covered in lash mark scars. It’s something he used to be embarrassed by, but now it’s just a part of him.
Health
Physical Conditions: He has limited range in his right shoulder from an old baseball injury. Otherwise he’s in perfect health.
Mental Health Conditions: He has lingering PTSD from the things he experienced in his youth and when he was in prison. In the past, he suffered from internalized homophobia.
Allergies: He has a severe nut allergy. He carries a EpiPen with him at all times. Minor contact with nuts causes him to break out in hives.
Sleeping Habits: If he had it his way, he would be up until 4 in the morning and wake up in the afternoon. Of course his husband and Bella’s sleeping habits are the complete opposite of Gabe’s so his sleeping habits tend to mimic theirs.
Eating Habits: He’s pretty careful about the things he eats - always making sure they weren’t made with or near nuts. He tends to eat a lot of fruit and Mexican food. Although he also has a weakness for sushi...
Exercise Habits: He’ll run when he gets conned into going running, but mostly he does Yoga. Both because Velvet and Kale make him, and also because it helps with the long hours of sitting still in one place painting.
Addictions: Nicotine. Definitely nicotine.
Drug Use: Psychedelics only. Mostly hallucinogenic teas and mushrooms. Although he does smoke weed from time to time.
Alcohol Use: Mostly wine. Occasionally whiskey and gin.
Personality
Label: The Artist.
Positive Traits: Creative, Loyal, Street Smart, Paternal
Negative Traits: Stubborn, Obsessive, Nosy, Crude
Goals/Desires: To keep his family healthy, happy, and safe. To see as much of the world as possible
Fears: Losing his family. Leeches (don’t ask).
Hobbies: Reading terrible romance novels, wandering around antique shops.
Habits: When he’s nervous he fidgets or picks at his cuticles. He rubs his hand over his mouth when he’s thinking. He also tends to misplace his glasses in his hair.
Favorites
Season/Weather: He prefers Spring and Fall over the other seasons. They’re too pretty to pick one over the other.
Color: This is a cruel question. It’s hard to choose just one. He supposes a teal or aquamarine palette would be his favorite.
Music Genre: Probably Alt-Rock. Although he does have a fondness for the Cole Porter era of musicals because of his mother.
Movie: Smokey and the Bandit. Partially because of Burt Reynolds, but also because of the idea of found-family.
Sport: Baseball (Go Dodgers!) and football (Go Seahawks!)
Beverage: Tea. He prefers hot over iced.
Food: Apples or pad thai.
Animal: Dogs. Although he has a fondness for all animals.
Family
Father: Francis William James - they are estranged and haven’t spoken in years.
Mother: Maria Anne James, nee Palmer - they are estranged and haven’t spoken to each other in years.
Sibling(s): Georgiana Angelica Adams, nee James was his younger sister. She was murdered in 2002. Elijah Gavin James is his younger brother. They’re still in contact, but his brother lives in California.
Children: He has two biological children: Andrew James and Constance James. While he and Connie are estranged, he and Drew are very close. He and his husband have adopted his granddaughter, Arabella James, as Connie lost custody through a series of bad decisions and abuse. He has a bonus kid through his husband, Juliet Michaels, who is definitely his person.
Pet(s): They have four dogs: Gulliver, Scully, Felony, and Bambi. He has two cats, and they’re definitely his and not at all his husband’s: Buffy and Max. Bella has a rabbit named Fluffy. There's also Pinocchio, the donkey, and Bonnie the alpaca. The two larger animals are living with at his old house with his son, Drew.
Other Important People: Kaleidoscope Johnson, his partner and he supposes work husband. Nicola Marchette is the closest thing he has to a living sister. Velvet Starr is his work best friend, and definitely his partner in crime. Greyson Starr is essentially his nephew.
Extra
Zodiac Sign: Pisces, and he is definitely a Pisces through and through.
MBTI: ENTP: The Entrepreneurs, which are: creative, flexible, and likeable.
Hogwarts House: Definitely a Hufflepuff.
Moral Alignment: Chaotic Good - and all that comes with that.
Primary Vice: It’s hard for him to choose a vice. He’s pretty good at balance, which surprises most people. If he had to choose anything, he would say envy.
Primary Virtue: Patience is definitely his virtue. He has put up with a lot over the years.
Element: He would have to say that he’s very water based, although he does have bits of fire in his personality.
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Fear, Loathing, Capitulation, Relapses, A Cry for Help, and Another Empty Promise to Do Better; In a world of unfairness and charlatans, these are the real things!
Déjà vu all over again. In what is apparently becoming an abusive relationship, I again find myself the victim of Marianne Willburn’s poison pen, which, I now believe she nightly wields in her dreams, inflicting dagger-sized wounds on a field of retreating lesser writers in Play Station-like battles. For again, right here on Garden Rant, my home turf, another rebuttal. Actually, a rebuttal to my rebuttal of her rebuttal to my happy, harmless, and humorous little column, “Time for A Grexit,” which appeared in the July/August 2019 Horticulture Magazine. Just a 500-word bit of sophomoric snark I dashed off last summer when I was still sweet and hopeful. It was cute. It was funny. And, despite itself, it did manage to make a surprisingly cohesive case for American gardeners taking all their English gardening books and dumping them into Boston Harbor. I was innocent back then, and my life was so much simpler. Appallingly, it turns out that having a stalker is nowhere near as much fun as you might imagine.
The end of life as I knew it.
The most recent blog site equivalent to being repeatedly chased down the street by your neighbor’s dog.
This most recent rebuttal wasn’t unexpected. Red flags were up after her first rebuttal, and my family and I worried that Marianne could possibly be a serial-rebuttaler. I could see her in her classy, tastefully appointed, mountain retreat, seething from my jovial retort to her first rebuttal, and working. Working! I cowered, knowing she would soon, on a day of her own choosing, emerge with another 15,000 word tirade. All of it letter perfect and grammatically correct, and crafted to turn all my loved ones against me and laying waste to all I am, all I ever was, all I’ll ever be, and everything I’ve ever loved. Including all my dead pets. And all my dead Stewartia. And, I’ve got to admit, I’ve been a nervous wreck. Pretty much, this has been the worst period of my life, which includes the bout with cancer I mentioned in a previous missive and, in fact, bring up in almost all my conversations.
The rebuttal that came out of the blue.
This is my jovial retort to her first rebuttal. Jovial, yet at the same time devastating.
Here’s the deal. After my last rebuttal, I was out of ammo. I’d used up everything I had. No quotes left in the stockpile. No more references back in the magazine. No last cache of jabs, nudges, innuendo, and implications. Not even a dull, rusty bayonet on the end of my empty rifle/poison pen with which to inflict dagger-sized wounds. So I hunkered down in my ramshackle, mismatched, patched together, horticulturist-class, Midwestern hovel, tried not to notice the leaks in the ceiling and the paint peeling from the walls, and prayed for a miracle.
And, whatya know, I actually got one. Apparently Marianne was out of ammo too. So when the inevitable time came and I looked over and saw the grenade roll into my bunker and blow up, I was pleasantly surprised that it did so with only a soft doink. No blast. No shrapnel. No carnage. What happened was more akin to an uncomfortably loud airing of the “We Are the World” video interrupting your conversation in a bar. Or maybe it’s better described as something like hearing the “I’d Like to Buy the World a Coke” commercial playing on a scratchy transistor radio on a hot day by some kid in line ahead of you at the snack bar at the community pool who walks off with the last French Chew. Or maybe it was more like an overly-affectionate, dripping wet kiss from an older aunt with a weird accent right on the face of your much younger self. Whatever metaphor best describes my response to Marianne’s newest rebuttal–and you get to choose–the fact is that while indeed unpleasant and unwanted, I survived it.
But that doink? Came to find out it was pretty passive-aggressive. One that snuck back up on me after another day and a second look. “Garden Regionally, Get Inspired Globally” was Marianne’s banner, her battle cry and l’appel aux armes. Well, who the hell can argue with that?
Brian at work.
Marianne, you pulled a good one on me. Left me dangling and looking like a real jerk. Reminds me totally of a time when I introduced another friend/nemesis and co-worker named Brian to the audience at one of our symposiums at the Cincinnati Zoo & Botanical Garden. Our ongoing “feud” was pretty well-known to most of the audience, although not all of it, and I decided to deliver the most personally insulting introduction I could imagine, laying it on thick for an awkwardly long time, bringing up typically off-limits things like divorces, and, in my mind, generously setting him up for one of his patented hilarious ripostes. But he said nothing. Just went into his talk. With big sad eyes. Made me look like a complete asshole! A master stroke!
Yep, Marianne, you got me. You got to the reasonable position first and now here I am a rubber ball dangling from a string on your paddle. Well done.
As I’ve made plain, I am but a simple gardener from the heartland forever drawn by the magnetic pull of my next Big Gulp, teetering constantly on the cusp of diabetes, and free of an opioid addiction by reasons no one understands. As such, I too am not without need of nor appreciation for inspiration. So, for you Marianne, yes, if you get that from English writers who for some reason hope to cross how-to manuals with great literature, go for it. It’s kind of weird, but whatever. Just don’t be tricked into trying Meconopsis. It’ll break your heart.
I, on the other hand, I turn to the bottle for inspiration. And, believe it or not, I only discovered that about myself while pondering this. Ironically, it also occurred to me that my method might be even more cosmopolitan than Marianne’s! While plenty of good Kentucky bourbons are close at hand, I sometimes find my inspiration from a single malt Scotch. Or a spicy Caribbean rum. Or a sexy French vodka. Or a hot-tempered Greek Ouzo. Sometimes a warm Japanese sake is just the ticket, but there are times when a smooth Canadian whisky will do just fine. Or a Mexican tequila. Or wines from almost every continent. Even, and I’m gritting my teeth a little as I admit it, an English gin. Fact is, turns out pretty much the whole planet is lousy with spirits ready to light up the masses with inspiration. This whole revelation humbles me. It fills me with wonder. Heck, I’m but a tiny speck in this big Universe. All of us are. And maybe, deep down inside, somehow, we’re all pretty much the same.
I took that idea to bed with me last night. I laid there thinking about people. And Marianne. I pictured her in her home, sitting by the fire with a cat on her lap and a Christopher Lloyd book in hand, sighing at the better passages and finding inspiration. At least between those times when she’s not shrieking abuse towards Ohio and pounding out another manifesto of a rebuttal on her keyboard. Nope. I suppose that when she settles in and watches Monty Don on Netflix that she really isn’t that much different from me when I find my inspiration by stumbling around in the garden at night, a half empty fifth of Jameson in hand, condemning myself to damnation for all the neighbors to hear by way of whatever blaspheme I bellow when I discover brittle, dead branches where my daphne used to be.
A daphne.
Daphnes. My God, how many have I loved? How many I have lost. I feel my mood changing. You know, it just isn’t fair. I just can’t get over the disparity. The disproportionate distribution of the wealth. I’m thinking here in terms of gardening. Those lucky bastards. Those haughty English, PNW, and Japanese gardeners who ply their passion where the soil is rich, the weather is benevolent, and every person who scratches a mountain laurel into the ground gets drunk on their overnight and over-sized success. And they say to themselves, “I’m bloody great. I can grow everything.” And they take a creative writing class on Tuesday nights at the community college and peck out some frilly, freakin’ best seller! Books that we here in the nether regions see in the windows of the five and dime, which draw us inside just to get out of the cold for a minute. But we slobber all over the pictures and the manager comes and makes us buy it, accepting a chicken and a few eggs as partial payment. Figuring that since we now own it, we might as well read it, we do. And then get all “inspired.” Then on the one half of that one spring day that’s sort of nice, we go out, religiously follow all the advice, and then invariably, inevitably, unsurprisingly experience the kind of catastrophic disaster that can only come when you live here and are daft enough to follow gardening advice from those who live over there. In God’s green Eden. In freakin’ Eden!
Wait. Whoa. What happened? It seems I’ve gone back down that rabbit hole. I apologize.
But, you know, there’s another thing that isn’t fair. Here in the continental part of the country, hard-working, decent, good gardening folk who can write and who really need a break never get brought in from the bullpen. Good writers, people who have willed lush, magnificent oases out of hardpan in weather that kills the people whose central air breaks on all but three or four days a year, never get that call from Timber or any other publisher. Why? Because all of their editors are tied up ushering dozens and dozens of spoiled English and PNW writers through their “masterpieces.” So-called gardeners for whom a daphne could fall off a truck and roll into their ditch and still grow like a Callery pear.
Another daphne.
Dammit. Angry again. Wait. I’ve got an idea.
I’d like to buy the world a home, And furnish it with love, Grow apple trees and honey bees, And…
Well, that got annoying really quick. Screw it. I’ve got issues. I’m off to the liquor store.
Fear, Loathing, Capitulation, Relapses, A Cry for Help, and Another Empty Promise to Do Better; In a world of unfairness and charlatans, these are the real things! originally appeared on GardenRant on November 20, 2019.
from Gardening https://www.gardenrant.com/2019/11/fear-loathing-capitulation-relapses-a-cry-for-help-and-another-empty-promise-to-do-better-in-a-world-of-unfairness-and-charlatans-these-are-the-real-things.html via http://www.rssmix.com/
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Fear, Loathing, Capitulation, Relapses, A Cry for Help, and Another Empty Promise to Do Better; In a world of unfairness and charlatans, these are the real things!
Déjà vu all over again. In what is apparently becoming an abusive relationship, I again find myself the victim of Marianne Willburn’s poison pen, which, I now believe she nightly wields in her dreams, inflicting dagger-sized wounds on a field of retreating lesser writers in Play Station-like battles. For again, right here on Garden Rant, my home turf, another rebuttal. Actually, a rebuttal to my rebuttal of her rebuttal to my happy, harmless, and humorous little column, “Time for A Grexit,” which appeared in the July/August 2019 Horticulture Magazine. Just a 500-word bit of sophomoric snark I dashed off last summer when I was still sweet and hopeful. It was cute. It was funny. And, despite itself, it did manage to make a surprisingly cohesive case for American gardeners taking all their English gardening books and dumping them into Boston Harbor. I was innocent back then, and my life was so much simpler. Appallingly, it turns out that having a stalker is nowhere near as much fun as you might imagine.
The end of life as I knew it.
The most recent blog site equivalent to being repeatedly chased down the street by your neighbor’s dog.
This most recent rebuttal wasn’t unexpected. Red flags were up after her first rebuttal, and my family and I worried that Marianne could possibly be a serial-rebuttaler. I could see her in her classy, tastefully appointed, mountain retreat, seething from my jovial retort to her first rebuttal, and working. Working! I cowered, knowing she would soon, on a day of her own choosing, emerge with another 15,000 word tirade. All of it letter perfect and grammatically correct, and crafted to turn all my loved ones against me and laying waste to all I am, all I ever was, all I’ll ever be, and everything I’ve ever loved. Including all my dead pets. And all my dead Stewartia. And, I’ve got to admit, I’ve been a nervous wreck. Pretty much, this has been the worst period of my life, which includes the bout with cancer I mentioned in a previous missive and, in fact, bring up in almost all my conversations.
The rebuttal that came out of the blue.
This is my jovial retort to her first rebuttal. Jovial, yet at the same time devastating.
Here’s the deal. After my last rebuttal, I was out of ammo. I’d used up everything I had. No quotes left in the stockpile. No more references back in the magazine. No last cache of jabs, nudges, innuendo, and implications. Not even a dull, rusty bayonet on the end of my empty rifle/poison pen with which to inflict dagger-sized wounds. So I hunkered down in my ramshackle, mismatched, patched together, horticulturist-class, Midwestern hovel, tried not to notice the leaks in the ceiling and the paint peeling from the walls, and prayed for a miracle.
And, whatya know, I actually got one. Apparently Marianne was out of ammo too. So when the inevitable time came and I looked over and saw the grenade roll into my bunker and blow up, I was pleasantly surprised that it did so with only a soft doink. No blast. No shrapnel. No carnage. What happened was more akin to an uncomfortably loud airing of the “We Are the World” video interrupting your conversation in a bar. Or maybe it’s better described as something like hearing the “I’d Like to Buy the World a Coke” commercial playing on a scratchy transistor radio on a hot day by some kid in line ahead of you at the snack bar at the community pool who walks off with the last French Chew. Or maybe it was more like an overly-affectionate, dripping wet kiss from an older aunt with a weird accent right on the face of your much younger self. Whatever metaphor best describes my response to Marianne’s newest rebuttal–and you get to choose–the fact is that while indeed unpleasant and unwanted, I survived it.
But that doink? Came to find out it was pretty passive-aggressive. One that snuck back up on me after another day and a second look. “Garden Regionally, Get Inspired Globally” was Marianne’s banner, her battle cry and l’appel aux armes. Well, who the hell can argue with that?
Brian at work.
Marianne, you pulled a good one on me. Left me dangling and looking like a real jerk. Reminds me totally of a time when I introduced another friend/nemesis and co-worker named Brian to the audience at one of our symposiums at the Cincinnati Zoo & Botanical Garden. Our ongoing “feud” was pretty well-known to most of the audience, although not all of it, and I decided to deliver the most personally insulting introduction I could imagine, laying it on thick for an awkwardly long time, bringing up typically off-limits things like divorces, and, in my mind, generously setting him up for one of his patented hilarious ripostes. But he said nothing. Just went into his talk. With big sad eyes. Made me look like a complete asshole! A master stroke!
Yep, Marianne, you got me. You got to the reasonable position first and now here I am a rubber ball dangling from a string on your paddle. Well done.
As I’ve made plain, I am but a simple gardener from the heartland forever drawn by the magnetic pull of my next Big Gulp, teetering constantly on the cusp of diabetes, and free of an opioid addiction by reasons no one understands. As such, I too am not without need of nor appreciation for inspiration. So, for you Marianne, yes, if you get that from English writers who for some reason hope to cross how-to manuals with great literature, go for it. It’s kind of weird, but whatever. Just don’t be tricked into trying Meconopsis. It’ll break your heart.
I, on the other hand, I turn to the bottle for inspiration. And, believe it or not, I only discovered that about myself while pondering this. Ironically, it also occurred to me that my method might be even more cosmopolitan than Marianne’s! While plenty of good Kentucky bourbons are close at hand, I sometimes find my inspiration from a single malt Scotch. Or a spicy Caribbean rum. Or a sexy French vodka. Or a hot-tempered Greek Ouzo. Sometimes a warm Japanese sake is just the ticket, but there are times when a smooth Canadian whisky will do just fine. Or a Mexican tequila. Or wines from almost every continent. Even, and I’m gritting my teeth a little as I admit it, an English gin. Fact is, turns out pretty much the whole planet is lousy with spirits ready to light up the masses with inspiration. This whole revelation humbles me. It fills me with wonder. Heck, I’m but a tiny speck in this big Universe. All of us are. And maybe, deep down inside, somehow, we’re all pretty much the same.
I took that idea to bed with me last night. I laid there thinking about people. And Marianne. I pictured her in her home, sitting by the fire with a cat on her lap and a Christopher Lloyd book in hand, sighing at the better passages and finding inspiration. At least between those times when she’s not shrieking abuse towards Ohio and pounding out another manifesto of a rebuttal on her keyboard. Nope. I suppose that when she settles in and watches Monty Don on Netflix that she really isn’t that much different from me when I find my inspiration by stumbling around in the garden at night, a half empty fifth of Jameson in hand, condemning myself to damnation for all the neighbors to hear by way of whatever blaspheme I bellow when I discover brittle, dead branches where my daphne used to be.
A daphne.
Daphnes. My God, how many have I loved? How many I have lost. I feel my mood changing. You know, it just isn’t fair. I just can’t get over the disparity. The disproportionate distribution of the wealth. I’m thinking here in terms of gardening. Those lucky bastards. Those haughty English, PNW, and Japanese gardeners who ply their passion where the soil is rich, the weather is benevolent, and every person who scratches a mountain laurel into the ground gets drunk on their overnight and over-sized success. And they say to themselves, “I’m bloody great. I can grow everything.” And they take a creative writing class on Tuesday nights at the community college and peck out some frilly, freakin’ best seller! Books that we here in the nether regions see in the windows of the five and dime, which draw us inside just to get out of the cold for a minute. But we slobber all over the pictures and the manager comes and makes us buy it, accepting a chicken and a few eggs as partial payment. Figuring that since we now own it, we might as well read it, we do. And then get all “inspired.” Then on the one half of that one spring day that’s sort of nice, we go out, religiously follow all the advice, and then invariably, inevitably, unsurprisingly experience the kind of catastrophic disaster that can only come when you live here and are daft enough to follow gardening advice from those who live over there. In God’s green Eden. In freakin’ Eden!
Wait. Whoa. What happened? It seems I’ve gone back down that rabbit hole. I apologize.
But, you know, there’s another thing that isn’t fair. Here in the continental part of the country, hard-working, decent, good gardening folk who can write and who really need a break never get brought in from the bullpen. Good writers, people who have willed lush, magnificent oases out of hardpan in weather that kills the people whose central air breaks on all but three or four days a year, never get that call from Timber or any other publisher. Why? Because all of their editors are tied up ushering dozens and dozens of spoiled English and PNW writers through their “masterpieces.” So-called gardeners for whom a daphne could fall off a truck and roll into their ditch and still grow like a Callery pear.
Another daphne.
Dammit. Angry again. Wait. I’ve got an idea.
I’d like to buy the world a home, And furnish it with love, Grow apple trees and honey bees, And…
Well, that got annoying really quick. Screw it. I’ve got issues. I’m off to the liquor store.
Fear, Loathing, Capitulation, Relapses, A Cry for Help, and Another Empty Promise to Do Better; In a world of unfairness and charlatans, these are the real things! originally appeared on GardenRant on November 20, 2019.
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