#i feel like primo looks nothing like primo though its the damn MUSTACHE

[mickeymirandas]

The Holy Trinity of “Very Evil and Definitely Not Straight” Luca Marinelli Characters

Fabio Cannizzaro | Mickey Miranda | Primo Nizzuto

[gingersnappe-9]

Quisiera: Growing Pains (2)

Javier Peña / F!Reader; Post Narcos

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1.9K words

Summary: You have a lot on your mind. You never expected Javi to be one of them. But that's nothing a good soak can't fix, right?

Warnings: mention of loss of parent & degenerative diseases, minor depictions of sexual thoughts, minor profanity

A/N: because I'm a major dork, and no one asked, I created the floor plan for the reader's house and my friend @followwhereshegoes designed it in Sims for me. The photos are at the end of the chapter. I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!

Your hair blew in the wind as you drove your work-beaten Ford F-250 home. Papers from a long day of checking up on animals and livestock fluttered beneath your now empty thermos for coffee. Your head bobbed with the familiar bumps and turns of the road as you drove home. The ride wasn’t unlike it had been any other day, but as you pulled into your driveway and peaked to the left and you knew he would be there. You had known for a few weeks now that Javi had been back. On a courtesy visit for Don Jesús -- Javi’s dad -- he had mentioned his son might be returning to Texas soon. That had to have been roughly two, maybe three months ago?

You never thought you would see him again. The kid who always thought he knew best. The one who was so sure of himself and that the world was his oyster. You weren’t surprised that he didn’t recognize you though. That was Javi you grew up with. This Javier was different. It was plain to see that he carried a weight with him. Knowing the things he knew, holding on to whatever he’d done in the back of his mind now and forever. He wasn’t the bright and shiny version of Javi you once knew, but he was still as golden as ever.

As you hopped out of the car and twirled the keys on your finger, you were beyond satisfied at your decision to postpone your reunion with Javi. Crossing the threshold of your house you recalled how panicked he looked. The quick flashes of “oh shit” in his eyes before he masked his uncertainty with precision and a charming smile. To others, he played it off fine, but you knew Javi before he was Agent Peña. You’d practically grown up with him so you were privy to those subtle tells.

Javi’s abuelos moved to be closer to their son and his family. His grandparents and your parents met in English class after they moved to America and the families stayed close ever since. Javi’s family was from Mexico, and yours came from Colombia. Each of your tíos and tías helped watch and raise you and your primos. While most of your blood relatives were still in Colombia, you loved your found family here in the States. All of the birthdays spent in one another’s backyards with copious amounts of candy that came pouring out of piñatas. Big Christmas gatherings with mountains of food like ponche, pozole verde, and dulcitos like your favorite manjar blanco. Above all, you remember the laughter.

You laughed so much as a child. Someone could look at you in such a way and you would have burst out into a fit of giggles and happy squeals. It was a bittersweet thing to recall. Things were just… different now. You grew up. Life changed, you certainly had.

This was the home your parents had built not too long after they came to America. You still felt like a little kid playing house sometimes. Being the sole occupant felt strange after the years you spent growing up with the place bursting with laughter, people, and above all love. But life changed. Your mother had died of a heart attack the year before you finished vet school. Ten years back, your father was diagnosed with early onset dementia and it was left to you to make the hard decision of placing him in a nursing home. You couldn’t care for him with the hours you worked at the clinic, and you didn’t think your heart could bear seeing the man you admired slowly fade away. It made you feel awful to admit, but there was only so much a heart could take. It could’ve been different if you still had your mamá, but it was just you.

Your body hitched a bit as you bent over to pull the dirt caked boots off your feet. Growing up is fun, they said. They never mentioned anything about rapid onset aches and pains once you passed thirty. You loved being a vet, you loved taking care of horses and all manner of livestock; being there for the folks who relied on you, but man alive was it taxing on the body.

As you padded your way into the study just to the left of the front door, you dropped the excess paperwork and lunch pale on your desk; your boots onto the old mat so as to not spread anymore dirt in the house. Trying your best to properly file away your paperwork, billing receipts and lists of future visits, you found your mind wandering back to Javier.

The wonderful way his bone structure had sharpened with age. Yeah he was a good looking teenage boy -- a bit on the thin side, but strong in body and mind -- but this version of Javi was a stud. His skin was naturally tanner than some, but it was even more bronzed by the sun from his time down in Colombia. A man with strong looking hands that wrapped the circumference of the tumbler glass filled with neat whiskey meanwhile yours could only manage to get around halfway. You were extremely annoyed at how he could pull off a damn mustache without looking like a creep. Finding that you were spending far too much time thinking about Javier Peña rather than getting your ass ready for bed, you set off on your nightly routine.

Pushing yourself up and out of the desk chair was more tiresome than you would have liked to admit, but not impossible. You then opened the door that led into your bedroom. It still felt a bit weird to call it your bedroom after all this time.

You had redecorated the place to your tastes. The main bedroom now had a beautiful four post bed with pleated gossamer drapes around the posts. The warm wood bureau and doors matched the deep trim of the window sills and frames throughout the house. You removed your everyday jewelry and placed them in the little wooden dishes you had bought in Colombia the last time you visited. You had just turned twenty two then, and didn’t care to remember how old you were now. Admiring the fine artistry of the delicately carved lines and lacquered scenery of a village always brought back fine memories, summers spent in a home away from home. Peeling off your work clothes proved a bit more challenging now that your muscles and bones had started to stiffen from the wear of the workday. You walked into your bathroom as naked as the day you were born, a small perk of having moved into the main bedroom since it had an ensuite bathroom.

After the long day, a shower just didn’t seem like it was going to cut it. You pivoted to the left and began to draw a steaming hot bath. A few drops of essential oil were splashed into the piping hot water. Your abuelita did always say, “Medicina cuando la necesita, pero los remedios naturales siempre son los mejores.”

Medicine when you need it, but natural remedies are always best.

Once the tub was filled as high as it could go and still accommodate your body, the taps were shut off, and you slipped into the warm bliss. The water worked its magic while you turned on a small radio that sat on the windowsill. It was tuned in to some station based in Mexico that always played música rancheras. You were a self-proclaimed “old soul” and loved your parents' generational music. It was a not-so-guilty-pleasure for you. Even when you were younger, some of the other kids made fun of you for not liking the more modern music. But your mom always reassured you it was because you were un romántico. A romantic.

The soulful melodies and elegant guitar echoed through the steam from the bath as your aches and pains were softly pulled from your bones. The sky outside the window was a dusty pink muddled with orange. The heat from the bath was wonderful. Your mind wandered ever farther as you sunk deeper into relaxation. Tonight was one of those evenings you imagined someone else in the tub with you, it was one of the reasons you’d thrown in a couple extra bucks when you redid the bathroom. You imagined leaning against their chest, them running their hands up and down the inner part of your thighs, getting closer and closer to where you wanted their touch the most.

Big and strong hands. Ones that weren’t afraid to leave an imprint, a reminder of their presence. Your cheeks flushed at the thought of them gently pressing and squeezing into your thighs, chest, and hips. The fantasy completed itself when you put a face to this mystery man.

Warm brown eyes, a well-defined jaw, somewhat pouty lips that practically begged you to kiss them with a fucking mustache of all things. You imagined the sound of his voice right next to your ear, whispering dirty things while he continued to paw at your body with confidence. The fresh recall of your most recent conversation made the day dream seem all the more real. It was intimate, enticing. You hadn't had any real boyfriend in a while and with the luscious way the water lapped over your skin, you couldn’t help but squeeze your thighs together unconsciously as his conjured words echoed in your mind.

You feel so soft, Armorsita. Do you like when I touch you here, baby? Oh, you do. I can tell. Mi dama. Tell me. Tell me how much you like it, how much you love being mine. Let me have you, all of you. Let me show you just how much I love touching you right…

Your mind snapped back when your head slipped from its perch on the back of the tub. The room felt steamier than it had before even as the water temperature had dipped to lukewarm.

Was I really just fantasizing about Javier Peña of all people?

It was official then. You needed to get into bed and sleep off whatever delusions these were and come back to reality.

Fully washed and dried, you finished your routine by lathering yourself in your favorite lavender body lotion. Your body felt much better without the thin layer of Texas dust smothering your skin. Something different, however, clouded your mind, or rather, someone. It was a bit alarming how easily Javier permeated your idle thoughts. The encounter suddenly became very clear.

Why did you say goodnight as sultry as you did? Was that even sultry? Why do I keep thinking about it being “sultry”?

Your mind recalled the brief moment your lips touched his cheek. It wasn’t unlike any other time you kissed a friend goodbye. You’d been doing it forever. It was how you said goodbye. You knew that, and so did he. So why did it carve out its own special place in your mind? Why were the sensations so clear and vidid? Why did you so badly want to do it again and again without pause?

Of course your mind would fixate on the person who had just recently come back into your life. It was only natural. Humans are designed to notice differences. It’s a survival technique. To pay attention to possible threats. And you had yet to make up your mind if you considered this version of Javier Peña a friend or foe.

Taglist: @hnt-escape @betti-book @mcueveryday @athalien

[shimmershaewrites]

Waltzing's for Dreamers, Chapter 4 (a Walking Dead story, Caryl AU).

Title:  Waltzing's for Dreamers

Rating:  Hmm.  Maybe PG-13?

Warnings:  Adult language. 

Characters/Pairings:  Daryl Dixon, Dwight, Axel, Oscar, Big Tiny, mention of the Morales family, mention of Sherry, Merle Dixon, mention of Carol Peletier and Sophia Peletier, and a couple of other little Easter eggs for those of you paying attention, lol. 

 Don't mind me.  Just having some fun remixing these characters.

 Sorry about the delay in posting this chapter.  Work kicked my ass and took some names this week and it took me all day yesterday to pull said ass out of my all-consuming exhaustion.  Hence, I'm posting today instead of yesterday when I really wanted to. 

 Anyway.  I hope you enjoyed this chapter.  Off to work on the next one.  Fingers crossed I get it finished in time to post later tonight. 

   Waltzing’s for Dreamers

    More than six years after Vegas.  Early Summer. 

      “90 degrees in the fuckin’ shade out there,” Dwight mumbles around his nub of a cigarette. 

  Beneath the hood of the Morales’ Suzuki, Daryl inwardly sneers.  I’ll match the sweat rings around your scrawny neck and raise you a couple of stank-ass armpit rings, Asshole.  The words never leave his lips, though.  All he gifts the sonofabitch with is a noncommittal grunt.  In the interest of keeping things civil, of course.  Axel’s okay by him, handed over the keys to this Bakersfield shithole like it weren’t nothing and gave him and Merle a chance to start over when they’d up and moved themselves clear across the country trying to outrun the demons of both their pasts.  The man’s harmless, not much left knocking around in his pharmaceutical soaked brain, but his piece of shit cousin is another story altogether, and it’s really too bad they have to keep pretending to coexist peacefully because Daryl can’t really put his finger on it but something about the guy makes his skin crawl.  Oscar’s too, apparently. 

  “Man, put your shirt back on.  You lookin’ like some starved feral ass cat.” 

  Big Tiny stops swaying with the oscillating fan in the corner of garage only long enough to snicker an agreement.  “Oscar ain’t wrong.” 

  “Probably is,” Axel puts in his two cents, his handlebar mustache twitching with each word.  “Starved,” he elaborates, as if anybody had any lingering doubts.  “Sherry don’t like to cook.  Can’t say as I blame her considerin’ she only sees daylight from the inside of that diner.  Poor woman,” he shakes his head.  “Works her pretty little fingers to the bone.” 

  “Might be you should take some pointers from her,” Oscar suggests dryly.  “That wagon ain’t gonna up and fix itself and the way I remember it, those two flower children be thinking they’re getting it back first thing tomorrow.”   

  “Might be,” Dwight spits as he jerks his arms back through his dingy, oil stained shirt, “you can mind your own goddamn business for once.”  He skulks back to his designated corner of the shop, grumbling beneath his breath with every step. 

  “What bug done crawled right up his skinny ass?” 

  The question is drawled right into his ear, and Daryl nearly jumps out of his skin.  Swears and rubs at the bump he can already feel forming on the back of his head.  Slams the hood of the Suzuki shut and scowls at his brother, who brandishes a popsicle in his hand like it’s some kind of sword.  Or a peace offering of sorts.  “What the hell?” Daryl growls, snatching the damn thing and ripping the wrapper impatiently.  “How ‘bout a fuckin’ warning next time?”   

  “Used to be, you didn’t need no warning,” Merle pointedly reminds him, sucking his own orange popsicle back between his lips as only he could, in a manner bordering on the obscene. 

  “Got any more of those?” Big Tiny asks longingly. 

  ��Why?” Merle leers with a wink.  “Ole Merle makin’ you hot?”  

  Flustered, Big Tiny groans.  “You nasty.  Anybody ever tell you that?” 

  “See now,” Merle trots out his trademark coat hanger grin.  “That’s all a matter of opinion.  The ladies don’t seem to think so.  In fact…”

  Before he can go any further, Oscar interrupts him, “Little E on deck.” 

  It’s not a moment too soon, and Daryl’s grateful for the reprieve.  His brother might have come a long way, kicked his own drug habit and put his life in some sort of order.  All thanks to a little rude awakening and the kid that’s joined them, bearing a whole box of sweating popsicles like a gift from the Man Upstairs on this sweltering summer day.  But the one thing he ain’t cleaned up is his mouth, especially when it comes to women and his supposed prowess with them.  And he’s far from the only one in this establishment could grow weeds out of his mouth with as filthy as it is, Daryl’s own included.  He gives Oscar a subtle nod of gratitude and leans against the Samurai’s bumper, takes in the scene with an air of wistfulness he couldn’t shake if he wanted to, and damn.  Does he want to. 

  Big Tiny relinquishes his primo spot in front of the fan to lumber over to arguably one of his favorite people—and not just at the moment.  “Got one of those for me, Angel-face?”

  “Grape?” 

  “There any other kind?” 

  Daryl smirks.  Watching when his niece presents the big man with his preferred flavor popsicle and he bows clumsily at the waist in thanks, getting himself a coat hanger grin in response that’s undeniably reminiscent of the one his brother wears much more often these days, although the kid’s is much harder won.  The irony don’t escape him.  Couldn’t if it wanted to.  If somebody’d told him have a dozen years ago Merle would find his happiness just as Daryl’s own life went to absolute shit, he’d have accused them of bald-face lying.  That’s what he would have done.    He don’t begrudge him, though, because God and the Devil both know.  If circumstances were different, if he weren’t such a no-good fuck-up not worth the heartache he knows he’s done caused Carol and her little girl, well.  He don’t resent his brother a moment.  Not at all. 

  “Thank you kindly, Little Miss,” Axel charms as he receives his own popsicle.  “Need me some of them there boots you’re wearing,” he says, openly admiring the black combat boots that are about the biggest things on the eleven-year-old’s ever-growing feet. 

  “Them’s ass kickers,” Merle crows proudly.  “For my ass-kicking girl.” 

  Daryl huffs out a laugh and crumples up his wrapper when his brother’s version of praise earns him a sassy purple tinged tongue, tosses it in the general vicinity of the trash can.   

  “Still like ‘em,” Axel shrugs his skinny shoulders.  “Might even go find me some.” 

  Oscar’s lips twitch before breaking into a grin full of shark-like teeth.  “Man, you couldn’t even kick your own ass.” 

  “Might be you’re right,” Axel agrees amiably.  “Just sayin’, though.  Them’s some mighty fine boots.” 

  “Yes, Ma’am, they are,” Big Tiny chimes in.  Holding out his mammoth paw, he bashfully bargains, “If I show you the car your uncle’s been working on, you think there might be another grape popsicle in it for me?”

  “All that’s left is cherry.” 

  “Cherry just happens to be my second favorite,” Big Tiny tells her as his palm all but swallows up her small hand.  “It’s a ’67 Impala.  Like the one in that show you like so much with the brothers.  He’s fixing it up for the coach at the high school.  Be glad you haven’t met him, Angel-face.  Man loves to hear himself talk.” 

  “You look at that,” Merle remarks as the unlikely pair disappear into the back of the garage, Oscar and Axel trailing not far behind them.  “Girl’s got him wrapped around her little finger.” 

  “Ain’t the only one,” Daryl points out as he bends to retrieve the garbage that’d fallen just short of its mark and drops it into the can.  “Reckon you’re going to be lost without her when her and her mama move to Jacksonville come the end of July.” 

  “About that, Baby Brother.” 

  Merle scratches absently at the prosthetic on his right arm in a gesture that makes Daryl straighten and study him with a more critical eye.  “Merle.” 

  “I should have told you a long time ago.” 

  “Told me what?” 

  “When that girl leaves?  I’m going with her.  And I want you to come with me.  It’s high time, Boy.  High time.”