#Néstor F | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

oonajaeadira · 2 years

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I posted 8,794 times in 2022

That's 1,864 more posts than 2021!

1,286 posts created (15%)

7,508 posts reblogged (85%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@insomniamamma

@grogusmum

@writeforfandoms

@inthetags

@ithinkwehitametaphor

I tagged 6,498 of my posts in 2022

Only 26% of my posts had no tags

#<3 <3 <3 - 1,795 posts

#beautiful reader - 397 posts

#this broke me - 259 posts

#din djarin - 205 posts

#mandalorian fanart - 162 posts

#ask games - 143 posts

#tag games - 97 posts

#maia draws - 94 posts

#grogu - 87 posts

#i love him - 86 posts

Longest Tag: 136 characters

#how terribly sad it is that people are made in such a way that they get used to something as extraordinary as living. --jostein gaarder

My Top Posts in 2022:

(spoiler, it's all PATS and Sweets)

The Tolerant Devotion of Extracurricular Caretaking

(BANANA BREAD WITH BAKING CHIPS- Sweets Series)

Rating: T. Fluffy AF.

Fandom: The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent

Pairing: Javi Gutierrez and f!reader (his assistant “Girl Sunday.”)

Warnings: Javi is...not at his best. Whiny!Javi.

Summary: The hardest part of your job is taking care of a sick Javi. But in many ways, it’s also the best part.

A/N: I hadn’t planned this installment but for an ask that came through asking what Javi’s like when he’s sick. My answer got longer and longer until I thought it might be a nice moment to illustrate a time that Javi isn’t the sweetest–yet still cute AF–so here we are. Also, I started thinking about some of the other employees in the house. I imagine they’re something like a little found family all hand-picked by Javi. You’ll get to meet a couple of them here.

Lo siento = Sorry

Me corto los cojones = here it’s akin to saying “I swear to God” or “sure as shit.” (Literally “I’ll cut my balls.”)

If you’re curious where the nickname “Sunday” comes from, you can find the answer in the first fic at the series masterlist!

“Oh, lo siento, Néstor! That’s mine. Isn’t it your day off?” You’d come into the kitchen to find the cook lifting the pot cover and getting a good whiff of the steamy concoction.

“Sí. But I will be doing a market run tomorrow and forgot to count how many lemons we have. You keep using them for the lemonade. What is this?”

Néstor is a good-looking man in his early fifties, bald, thick-rimmed glasses, tall and sturdy, rarely smiles on the outside. He’s prone to wearing tight-fitting black clothes, a very imposing figure…unless you scan all the way down to his pink kitchen crocs, festooned with Disney pop charms. He’s a big fan of Coco and Baby Yoda.

“It’s my grandmother’s chicken noodle soup.”

His stare is long. Impassible. “It smells fucking amazing. I want this recipe.”

“Of course. It should be ready. You want some?”

“Sí.” Dry as a bone, he collects two bowls from the cabinet and starts ladling up the soup like a bricklayer scooping mortar for a wall, all business, passing the first bowl to you and cradling the second in one square hand, blowing on it a little before taking a sip. “It’s good. Good spices. Chicken is tender. Mm. Chives?”

“Thanks. Yes. Gran used to make it for me when I was sick.”

“You make this for El Jefe, no?” When you duck your head in a nod on your way to the drawer for a spoon, he barks a laugh. “Me corto los cojones you two are like an old married couple.”

Deflecting the blunt jab with a little smile and a sidelong glance, you begin your retreat out of the kitchen

“Eh, Sunday.” Without relinquishing his soup, Néstor moves to the freezer and cupboards, pulling out a couple of items and tossing them on the counter. “Be warned, he is a terrible patient. It will soothe him you make him something sweet. But not too sweet. Not good for sickness. I know he likes your banana bread.” Two black and frozen bananas clatter onto a plate near the hot soup to thaw.

“Oh,” you stammer. “But I don’t have–”

“Yes you do.” Reaching up to a high cupboard and moving a couple of flour packets, he pulls out two bags of baking chips, one chocolate, one cinnamon. “If I don’t hide them, he will eat them.”

“That sounds about right.” Again you turn to go. Again you stop. “He told you about my banana bread?”

Taking a long sip of the soup and stopping to chew a noodle, he nods, stoic, a warm glint in his eye. “He tells me a lot of things.” He tips his chin at the bowl in your hands. “That is going to get cold.”

“Right. See you tomorrow, Néstor. Thanks.”

________________

A knock on the door earns you a pitiful “nnnnnnnnn” from inside Javi’s bedroom and you take that to mean “yes, come in, but oh my god I’m miserable and you should know it.”

Half of Javi’s face is lost in his pillow when you peek in, but the eye you can see squints at you in defiance, his chin curling up in a pout, his voice a low croak. “I feel like shit.” A couple of pathetic coughs wrack his body and he turns his face fully into the pillow to spare you.

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592 notes - Posted February 12, 2022

Good. Things. Take. Time. 3: Leap of Faith

Fandom: Calls (THIS IS AN APPLE TV SERIES. PATS is a character. This is not RPF.)

Pairing: Pedro Across the Street x f!reader

Rating: ***Explicit.*** Those under 18 please do not enter.

Warnings: Wall-to-wall angst. Sex. Sex work. Sexual massage. Painful yearning.

A/N: Breathe. I promise that the sun does shine again.

Summary: This is it, isn’t it. This is happening.

RESIGNATION (1.2k)

DISCERNMENT (967 words)

THE FIRST LEAP (843 words)

THE SECOND LEAP (349 words)

THE THIRD LEAP (653 words)

THE FINAL ASSESSMENT (1.5k)

MOVING ON (492 words)

(gif by pascalsky)

RESIGNATION

The black Subaru hatchback you’re parked behind has a “I brake for animals” bumper sticker. It’s been on there a while; sun faded, shredding at the edges. The other cars on the street you know, the regular Thursday crowd. Most people in this neighborhood park in their garages or in their driveways. Someone must have a guest. You doubt it’s his car.

You realize you have no idea what kind of car Patricio drives.

You’ve done more sexual acts with the man than you can count, have pressed moments of his painful past out of him like a fruit in a juicer, he’s bought you breakfast pastries–twice–and you have no idea if he’s a Ford man or a Fiat boy.

He’s in I.T… Probably a BMW. Or an Audi. Maybe even a Tesla.

Doesn’t matter. Perhaps you’ll never know. Not unless you take a leap of faith. And even then…if you fail, you’ll really never know.

Your car engine clicks through the silence as it cools down, as you watch the clock, preferring as always to arrive just a little early and walk up to the door right on time.

A little too early this time. You’ve given yourself too much time to think.

It’s like he’s put himself behind glass. He’s right there, the same lover you’ve known since that first blissful session, but you just…can’t…get at him. There’s a strange energy in the room now. Hard to pinpoint the exact metaphor. The way he looks at you. Like a monk recognizing the temptation in front of him and denying himself the pleasure in order to save his own soul and stay free to save others. You can see him back there behind those eyes, but you can’t really grab hold. He prefers to remain back there with his pain–the hurt he caused his former girlfriend–a deep, deep wound.

And if you tried to…tried to push through and possess…what would he do?

There’s a good chance that it could be your last session.

You’re not ready. You need some other logic, some other–

A double-tap on the passenger window yanks your focus into the present. A look to the window yanks your heart along with it.

“Hey, sorry,” he laughs nervously once you unlock the door and he ducks his head in. “I saw you out the front window. Would you mind coming in a little early?”

A glance at the clock shows you have eight more minutes.

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598 notes - Posted April 21, 2022

The Blatant Presentation of Glowing Adoration

(DIPPED MADELEINES- Sweets Series)

Rating: T. Fluffy AF.

Fandom: The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent

Pairing: Javi Gutierrez and f!reader (his assistant “Girl Sunday.”)

Warnings: Sappy, y’all. I just pile on the sap. This cupcake is just a vehicle for the frosting.

Summary: There’s a party going on at the Gutierrez mansion and Javi has a gift for you.

A/N: This was originally going to be a two-parter to control the sap, but I thought maybe drawing it out would make it worse, so here we are. Sunday’s dress is based on this one and holy balls I want it.

If you’re curious where the nickname “Sunday” comes from, you can find the answer in the first fic at the series masterlist!

“No, no Giorgio, they need to stay here! Um…las plantas…aquí…shit.” You pull out your phone, desperate for the translation app.

The old Italian gardener rasps out a dry laugh and pats your face with a calloused hand, and gives you his own brand of sunshine with his weathered smile. He says something about it being alright, that he’ll make it pretty, but you can only guess at so much. Spanish you can do, but your Italian is limited, and since Javi is fluent in both, the old man never bothers to translate.

You’d had the big potted palms brought into the courtyard and arranged just so, creating a kind of pathway for the guests of the evening’s party to walk through, and here was Giorgio and his wheeled cart, loading them up, thinking perhaps they were a delivery and he needs to take them out to the garden.

“Giorgio, they’re for the party. The fiesta. Uh…fest..uh, festa!!”

“Festa!” he chuckles. “Sí, sí, festa delle piante!”

“No, Giorgio–”

“Sunday?” Javi arrives from the archway, your benevolent savior, his curls still damp from his shower, the drawstring linen lounge pants and mostly open shirt just a temporary wardrobe for padding around his house before the formal main event this evening. “You are here! I have been looking for you, I have–”

“Oh, thank god, Javi, could you help me? I know Giorgio wants to help but I can’t get him to understand the arrangement and I don’t have time to explain–”

“Yes, yes, of course I can do this.” It isn’t until Javi gently lays his hands on your shoulders that you realize how high you’ve been holding them, and they melt downward with a stroke of his palms. He smiles through his minor concern. “It will be alright. Everything will be perfect. Please do not be upset. Okay? You work too hard.”

You relax a little as Javi enters into lyric conversation with the gardener, trusting him to do the explaining. But the ice sculptures will be delivered any moment and you’ve left the gratuity envelope on your desk, so you leave him to it, calling out a thanks over your shoulder.

“Sunday? Wait?”

But you’re already moving down the hallway.

When Javi suggested you hire a PR agent for this party, you should have taken him up on it. After a recent sickness, both of you were still playing catch up. But this party was for family. His cousin Niko–a young up-and-coming fashion designer–had just landed a commission with Loewe. It was a big deal and everyone was proud of him. Javi never overlooked an excuse for a party, and it was usually your job to coordinate them. It got to be a bit more extravagant than you originally planned and you’d lost track of time and–

As you pass the kitchen, a different voice booms–

“Sunday. Your assistance por favor.”

“Sorry, Néstor. Can it wait? I have to–”

“No, it cannot, get your bum bum in here.”

Puffing up your cheeks, you give a frustrated blow entering his arena, Néstor’s immaculate baking counter lined beautifully with golden, fluffy madeleines, half of them dipped in white, the other in dark.

“This is what you want?” He gestures flippantly, walking away to gather mixing bowls and bringing them to the sink.

“Oh, they’re perfect. Niko will be so happy!”

“I know they are perfect. But you must taste them. I think maybe your opinion is wrong and I will make some that are plain with dusted sugar. These two? Profiles too similar. Taste.”

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634 notes - Posted March 4, 2022

The Superfluous Meeting of Utmost Importance

(ORANGE VANILLA POPSICLES - Sweets Series)

Rating: T. Fluffy AF.

Fandom: The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent

Pairing: Javi Gutierrez and f!reader (his assistant “Girl Sunday.”)

Warnings: Please schedule an appointment with your dentist before reading this fic.

Summary: It’s the day of the meeting.

A/N: Okay, y’all. You asked for the meeting where Javi confesses the love everyone here and everyone in the household knows he has for Sunday, so here it is. However. It’s not the only meeting Javi’s concerned with.

This one’s from Javi’s POV and I hope you enjoy that. I loved getting into his curly little head.

Audemars Piguet = a very expensive watch. Believe me.

If you’re curious where the nickname “Sunday” comes from, you can find the answer in the first fic at the series masterlist!

The way the sunlight kisses your hair, how you move your jaw when you’re thinking–a way of not clenching it in stress–the way your fingers skip over your keyboard. You’re determined to get your work done by his 2pm meeting today.

A meeting you’d set the date and time for per his request–he smirks–to “confess.”

Javi is completely in love with you. Has been for a while now. He’s never felt the need to hide it. It’s not a revelation, it’s just an everyday truth.

You’re wearing one of the tops you brought with you when you took the job months ago. It’s cute on you. It’s the second time you’ve worn it this week. He could buy you a whole closet of clothes, enough to never wear the same thing twice, but you wouldn’t ask for that and he’d never insist.

You don’t care about his money. You’re happy to have a room in the house, but you eschewed the down comforter for your grandmother’s afghan and he even had to push you to choose your office furniture or you would have gone without. The only time he can give you extravagant things and get a reaction out of you is with high end meals…but even then, it can’t just be expensive, it has to be good and prepared well before you lose yourself in a blissful sigh. You appreciate his gifts but value his attention and trust more than anything else, he can see that, see the shine in your eyes when he asks for your opinion or tells you something he’s never admitted to anyone else.

He loves this about you. He loves that he could buy you a Monet and you’d still rather look at the moon.

He knows he doesn’t have to tell you. But he wants to say the words and leave you no doubt. Grins broadly when he thinks about it, feels comfort all the way through to the marrow.

But which words? How to say it? He isn’t sure yet.

Leaning pigeon-toed against the doorway to your office, he watches you for a moment, your back to the door. Even though you’ve positioned your desk to look out at the ocean, you spend much less time staring out the window than he does. He wishes you wouldn’t work so hard–your dedication creates a beautiful, taut ping in his chest–but he knows you enjoy it and he’d be lost without you and your devotion. It is good that you’re different than him in this regard.

A glance down at his Audemars Piguet shows it’s just turning 11. Three hours then. Maybe he’ll go for a swim.

But instead of taking the stairs and heading for the pool, he suddenly has the spark of an idea and heads past them to the kitchen.

“Ah. Néstor, hi.”

“Buenos dias, jefeeeeeee.” The garlic he’s mincing holds the cook’s attention, but he sings off a dry greeting.

The kitchen counter is covered in bowls and plates full of freshly chopped and grated ingredients for tonight’s dinner–a special meal for a special night–they both know how much you like Néstor’s homemade wood fired pizza. A margherita, a pugliese, a prosciutto crudo e rucola… he will keep creating and firing them until you’re both full and then he will keep going so that there will be leftovers for the cook’s day off.

Javi rocks on his feet as he watches Néstor stir the simmering sauce on the stovetop, waiting for a moment when he won’t be too much of a bother, but his patience runs out. He asks the cook for his help. To help Javi make something himself. Something sweet. He doesn’t know what though. He just came up with the idea a minute ago.

Néstor swirls the wooden spoon through the steaming tomatoes, silently, expertly, taking his time and assessing the texture. “Para Sunday?” He asks, frowning, not looking up from his gentle mixing.

“Sí.”

“Hoy es el dia de la confesion, eh.”

“Ah, sí.” That’s right. He told Néstor about the meeting last night at the party, hoping for advice from the confidante but only receiving a thoughtful stare and the assurance that he would plan something special for dinner.

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658 notes - Posted March 20, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Good. Things. Take. Time. 2: One Bed

Fandom: Calls (THIS IS AN APPLE TV SERIES. PATS is a character. This is not RPF.)

Pairing: Pedro Across the Street x f!reader

Rating: ***Explicit.*** Those under 18 please do not enter.

Warnings: Masturbation (f and implied m), hand job, oral (m receiving), feather light dom/sub/switch, P & V (unprotected but with prior safety agreements), kissing, praise in droves, instruction compliance, the usual implication of nefarious massage practices / something like sex work. PLOT. Boring shit about database programming, characters you’ve come to know outside their element, a drop of angst, yearning across a crowded room, character shock and name swap (wait...what?), and, as always, PATS* is his own warning. *Now with more soft.

A/N: I was getting ready to write a one-bed fic and asked y’all to vote on a character. Another boy won, but at one point, PATS was in the lead and I panicked. How do you write a one-bed fic with characters whose whole playing ground IS a bedroom? My brain wouldn’t shake the challenge and this is what happened. I will also say: this is not a direct sequel to the first fic. It continues the entire series that’s been building through the sessions.

I have more notes, mostly thank yous to y’all. You can find them at the end.

Anti-Summary: “This can be a pause. Pause of treatment-client relations. What happens in this room isn’t what happens in your room. That space is sacred and I don't want to compromise that in any way. And if it’s a pause, it’s a complete pause. No touching, just sleep.” (Adira’s note: hahahhAHAHAHAAHAHAHAH GOOD TRY.)

As with the original fic, this will be broken into sections if you need to take a breath.

REGISTRATION (1.4K)

DISORIENTATION (1.8K)

THE FIRST CONUNDRUM (512 words)

THE SECOND CONUNDRUM (784 words)

THE THIRD CONUNDRUM (958 words)

THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED (3.8K)

ASSESSMENT (1K)

REGISTRATION

“I want you to repeat as necessary this week. The key is to enjoy yourself, Preciosa. Feel free to log in and make a note about how you felt when you started, how many times you came, and how you feel at the end. I’d like to hear about it. See you next week.”

You tap your phone on its dash mount to wake it up and press the replay button.

“Hey. So…I’ve never actually done this with a client, so thanks for being my guinea pig. I know you like to try new things. Again, sorry I had to bail on our session, but maybe this will be fun so… Take off your clothes and get yourself comfortable. I’m gonna talk you through a few things. And I want you to imagine I’m there with you, okay? Your hands are my hands–”

It’s the third time you’ve listened to the half-hour recording. After the first go through, you had to find a rest stop and pull over. When you’d finally emerged out of the single-stall restroom, you had to apologize to three angry women waiting in line. You couldn’t–and wouldn’t–do what he told you to do in a public stall, no matter how cleanly it was kept, but it was easy enough to just get a quick fix and clean yourself up so you could keep driving. Sure, listening to Pedro’s mellow tones guide you through the most intense self-satisfaction scenario you could possibly imagine while going 70 on the highway wasn’t the best idea. But as long as you keep your hands on the wheel it should be okay.

__________________

–I’m sorry about this, Preciosa, but I won’t be able to keep our appointment on Thursday. Life is getting in the way. If you don’t mind though, I’d like to make it up to you.

The chat had been waiting for you on Sunday morning when you logged into the portal and he was still active.

–Make it up to me? I’m the one who’s getting weekly sessions at a bi-weekly rate.

–Plus tip.

Oh yeah. That.

–Hey. You deserve it.

The chat sits for a full minute.

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675 notes - Posted December 31, 2021

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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sailors-in-the-night · 1 month

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Os traigo una de romanos (para variar).

Los seres humanos somos un tanto básicos por naturaleza y lo de "Coge el libro que estés leyendo y vete a la página X. Lo que ponga en la primera línea definirá tu vida amorosa/tu 2024/tu próximo viaje, etc." ya lo hacían los romanos:

Fuente: Fake news de la antigua Roma de Néstor F. Marqués. Página 90.

Obviamente me he ido a mi copia de la Eneida (versión de Rafael Fontán Barreiro, Alianza Editorial, página 109), la he abierto por una página al azar y me siento identificada y atacada por lo que pone:

#fake news #antigua roma #Eneida #adivinación #romanos #mi imperio romano y cada día el de más gente #lyzetastoriesposts

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rockinnews · 3 months

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Sweet River Band nos llevan hasta Dublín con ¨North Circular Road"

Hace poquitas fechas os presentábamos a The Sweet River Band, una formación que venía pisando fuerte y que preparaba nuevas sorpresas. Pues bien, una de esas sorpresas acaba de llegar y lo hace en forma de nuevo single. ¨North Circular Road¨, es una canción animada, de esas que escuchas al llegar a cualquier pub y te alegran el alma. Y es que buena parte del sentido de la canción gira en torno a ese sentimiento camaradería que gira en torno a la ciudad de Dublin. Un single con un carácter fresco y que sirve de perfecto puente a lo que será el nuevo disco de la banda, el cual se podrá disfrutar en directo el próximo 19 de octubre en la sala Clamores de Madrid. Las entradas se pueden adquirir en el siguiente enlace.

¨North Circular Road¨ habla de las aventuras de Néstor y su amigo Javi durante el tiempo que vivieron juntos en Dublín. Su casa estaba en 539 North Circular Road y la canción aborda los planes que solían hacer en la capital irlandesa. Esta canción es un gesto de gratitud hacia la gente de Dublín y los lugares que alguna vez fueron su hogar. Un single donde se ve perfectamente las influencias de la banda, las cuales van desde las más clásicas de los 70, pero adaptadas a los tiempos modernos que vivimos. En ellos nos encontraremos Rock clásico de muchos quilates, influencias musicales y estéticas de grupos como los Allman Brothers, The Jayhawks o The Band, armonías marca de la casa y una mezcla de tiempos que te adentran en su universo.

En The Sweet River Band nos encontramos con una banda que hace todo directamente desde el corazón y desde un amor incondicional hacia la música. Canciones hechas como antes, de una manera artesanal y siempre pensando en que fueran como la banda querían que sonaran, sin que ninguna moda o similar se interpusieran en su camino.

La bandacomienza su andadura en 2019 de la mano de Néstor Díaz y Eduardo Madrid, quienes habían coincidido en proyectos anteriores, con el paso del tiempo se fueron uniendo al proyecto Daniel Solano, Adolfo Díaz y Luis F. Camacho, conformando la alineación actual de una banda que llega con ganas de ser una de las grandes animadoras del segundo semestre de este 2024.

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joseandrestabarnia · 10 months

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Marco Antokolsky (1843-1902) NÉSTOR EL CRONISTA 1890 Tamaño - 63 x 42 x 38,1 Material - bronce Número de inventario - Inv.9411 Recibido del Fondo del Museo del Estado. 1927

El escultor trabajó en la estatua de mármol “Néstor el Cronista” en los años 1886-1890. en París. Una vez finalizado, fue adquirido por el emperador Alejandro III y ahora se encuentra en el Museo Estatal Ruso.

La figura de bronce de la colección de la Galería Tretyakov es una repetición reducida de esta obra. Antokolsky aprovechó activamente la oportunidad para reducir sus obras y fundirlas en ediciones limitadas en fundiciones de bronce de París, persiguiendo dos objetivos simultáneamente. La primera es presentar su obra al público en general, la segunda es que este método de reproducción de obras era una fuente de ingresos, lo cual es muy importante para el oficio del escultor: difícil, laborioso y costoso. El propio Antokolsky lo llamó una "publicación" de sus obras. “Néstor el Cronista” se emitió en la década de 1890. en la fundición de bronce de F. Barbedien, la mejor de París. Los bronces de Barbedienne son famosos en todo el mundo, se distinguen por la excelente calidad de los materiales y de los acabados y responden al gusto más estricto. Antokolsky, con su temperamento característico,

Al trabajar en la imagen de Néstor el Cronista, el autor se preocupó por la autenticidad histórica de la imagen: seleccionó cuidadosamente objetos de la cultura material, utilizó hallazgos arqueológicos y consultó con el historiador I.E. Zabelín.

La primera encarnación de la imagen del monje cronista fue Pimen, el protagonista de la tragedia de A.S. Pushkin “Borís Godunov” (1876). Diez años más tarde, Antokolsky volvió a la idea, pero la encarnó en la imagen de otro héroe más importante para la historia rusa: Néstor.

Néstor (alrededor de 1056-1114) pertenece a las personalidades destacadas de la era de la Rus de Kiev, cronista y monje del monasterio de Kiev-Pechersk, autor de "La historia de los años pasados", una valiosa fuente de información sobre la historia, vida, lengua y creencias de las tribus eslavas.

Información e imagen de la web de la Galería Tretyakov.

#art #escultura

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blog-sguera · 1 year

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30.347 — CNCiv., sala E, noviembre 10-977 — Apter, Abraham c. Racki David. 2da Parte

Por endémico que sea, desde hace años, el mal económico de la inflación en nuestro país y, por lo tanto, previsible, no dudo en admitir que la brusca y extraordinaria suba que ocurrió en junio de 1975 excedió lo previsible y hasta razonablemente imaginable, rompiendo estrepitosamente un cauce que, por alterado que estuviera, sobrepasó todo límite. Esa abrupta y súbita depreciación de la moneda, con la inmediata y desmedida elevación de los costos entre ellos los de la construcción- debe calificarse como un hecho revolucionario dentro de la economía, que escapa a lo previsible aun en un régimen económico enfermo, porque importa un salto atípicamente desmesurado dentro del ritmo inflacionario crónico. Bien se ha calificado al "rodrigazo" como una catástrofe.

Ya otras salas de esta Cámara se han pronunciado en la materia, en supuestos que tienen analogías con el de autos, encuadrando ese fenómeno económico en la teoría de la imprevisión que acoge el art. 1198 del cód. civil, según reforma de la ley 17.711 (salas B y C, en EL DERECHO, 74-237, fallo 29.790 y 75-336, fallo 30.114 y diario LL, del 6 de setiembre de 1977, fallos 74.747 y 74.748).

Aparte de que el demandado no se encontraba en mora al trabarse la litis, tampoco considero que existiese culpa de su parte como para impedir el funcionamiento del derecho resolutorio admitido en dicha norma, máxime cuando en definitiva la operación no quedaría resuelta porque el actor, al contestar la reconvención, ofreció a fs. 125/6 "mejorar equitativamente los efectos del contrato" (último apartado de ese art. 1198).

4.° Para determinar la medida de ese "mejoramiento" que por voluntad legal debe ser equitativo, corresponde sopesar todas las circunstancias que presenta el caso, entre ellas las sumas entregadas por el actor antes de promover este juicio y las depositadas durante su trámite; que al fijar el precio inamovible el vendedor necesariamente tuvo en cuenta, con normal previ-sión, la incidencia de la inflación crónica sobre los costos futuros; que el ritmo de la construcción adolece de algunas deficiencias y que si bien la compra se hizo con facilidades, tanto por el tiempo transcurrido como por los efectos de la propia depreciación monetaria, lo equitativo y práctico es establecer una suma única en concepto de saldo de precio, a pagarse al escriturar.

En consecuencia y aplicando el prudencial criterio de la sala en esta materia, estimo de equidad la suma de $1.500.000.

5.° Por tales fundamentos, voto por la confirmación de la sentencia recurrida en cuanto dispone que el demandado debe escriturar el departamento y entregar su posesión, dentro del plazo de cuarenta días, pero disponiendo igualmente que el actor, además de la suma consignada en autos, entregará al escriturar la cantidad de pesos 1.500.000.

Costas de ambas instancias por su orden y las comunes por mitades, en atención a la forma de resolverse y a las particularidades del caso.

Los doctores Padilla y Cichero, por análogas razones a las expuestas por el doctor

Fliess votaron en el mismo sentido.

— En atención a lo que resulta de la votación de que instruye el acuerdo que antecede, se confirma la sentencia apelada en cuanto condena al demandado a escriturar el departamento y entregar su posesión, dentro del plazo de cuarenta días, pero condenando igualmente al actor a pagar, además de la suma consignada en autos, la de $ 1.500.000 en el acto de la escrituración. Costas de ambas instancias por su orden y las comunes por mitades. — Jorge M. F. Fliess. — Néstor Cichero. — Marcelo Padilla (Sec María S. Beneventano).

COMPRAVENTA INMOBILIARIA: Resolución del contrato; fracaso del requerimiento; plazo de gracia. CONTRATOS: Resolución en favor de la parte cumplidora.

1.— Cuando el pacto comisorio es legal o tácito, la parte cumplidora puede optar entre exigir judicialmente la resolución o el cumplimiento del contrato, o seguir el procedimiento que regula el segundo apartado del art. 1204 del cód. civil, haciendo el requerimiento allí previsto, cuyo fracaso lleva, ineludiblemente, a que el contrato quede resuelto "sin más". En caso de que opte por el reclamo judicial de la resolución del contrato, no es necesario que otorgue a la contraparte el plazo de gracia que establece el mencionado artículo.

2. - El derecho a resolver el acuerdo de voluntades solo juega a favor de la parte cumplidora, quien siempre puede optar entre pedir la resolución o el cumplimiento del contrato, no pudiendo el deudor de la obligación remediar las consecuencias de la mora con el cumplimiento tardío de la obligación comprometida.

#justicia #sguera #abogacia #causa #argentina

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jd-patz · 1 year

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“PERIOD OF THE THIRD REPUBLIC"

Néstor Vicente Madali González (8 September 1915 – 28 November 1999) was a Filipino novelist, short story writer, essayist and, poet. Conferred as the National Artist of the Philippines for Literature in 1997.

PHOTOcredit: Positively Filipino

http://www.positivelyfilipino.com/magazine/you-cant-go-home-again-if-you-never-left

Francisco Sionil José (December 3, 1924 – January 6, 2022) was a Filipino writer who was one of the most widely read in the English language.[1][2] A National Artist of the Philippines for Literature, which was bestowed upon him in 2001, José's novels and short stories depict the social underpinnings of class struggles and colonialism in Filipino society.[3] His works—written in English—have been translated into 28 languages, including Korean, Indonesian, Czech, Russian, Latvian, Ukrainian and Dutch.[4][5] He was often considered the leading Filipino candidate for the Nobel Prize in Literature.

PHOTOcredit: Wikipedia

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/F._Sionil_Jos%C3%A9

#PERIOD OF THE THIRD REPUBLIC

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kpwx · 1 year

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¡Que los dioses nos ayuden! Religiones, ritos y supersticiones de la antigua Roma, de Néstor F. Marqués

No tengo para qué resumir el contenido del libro cuando el propio autor lo hace:

Así, hemos descubierto cómo era la comunicación directa de los romanos con los dioses, incluso si no los conocían todavía; las peticiones cotidianas, las grandes ofrendas y también las más pequeñas, igualmente recibidas con gratitud. Hemos hablado de los piadosos, de los impíos, de la superstición y de cómo todos estos conceptos y algunos otros cambiaron de significado con el paso de los siglos. También de sacerdotes, de profesionales y de los que ejercían como tales en su vida cotidiana. Hemos visto las religiones romanas, libres y descentralizadas en origen, pasar a ser controladas primero por el Estado y después por una única institución religiosa cuyo poder llega hasta nuestros días; hemos conocido creaciones y destrucciones divinas, traiciones y lealtades. Hemos hablado de libertad, de tolerancia y de lucha religiosa, de coexistencia, de interpretación, de asimilación, de falsedad y de verdad. De dioses poderosos, de dioses insignificantes, de dioses que terminaron sucumbiendo ante otros y, especialmente, de fieles a todos ellos o a ninguno. Hemos comprobado su evolución, sus rituales, sus esperanzas y sus miedos; hemos viajado por la vida y por la muerte y posiblemente nos haya asombrado descubrir la enorme diversidad de opiniones diferentes que existieron respecto a lo humano y lo divino en la antigua Roma.

A pesar de carecer del aparato crítico de otras obras más académicas, este libro está muy lejos de ser superficialmente divulgativo. ¡Que los dioses nos ayuden! es un recorrido entretenidamente expositivo y esclarecedoramente desmitificador (algo ya típico del autor) del que, por lo completo y abarcador que es, seguramente podrán aprender cosas nuevas incluso los que ya tengan un conocimiento profundo sobre la historia romana. Algo que me gustó especialmente es la forma mesurada e imparcial en la que está tratada la expansión del cristianismo y su instauración como religión oficial, pues generalmente se suele prestar para tergiversaciones y exageraciones de uno u otro lado. Si no se va a leer el libro que se lean estos últimos capítulos.

El canal de Néstor es mi favorito en lo que respecta a divulgación sobre la antigua Roma en YouTube, así que no puedo menos que recomendarlo también. Aquí un video en el que invita a leer la obra.

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diarioelpepazo · 1 year

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León Magno Montiel @leommagnom La Torre de Leandro, con su imponente faro, está situada en medio de la pequeña isla rocosa, abrazada por las aguas del Bósforo. Se erige en el estrecho que une el Mar Negro con el Mediterráneo y es uno de los mayores símbolos de la Estambul milenaria. Recuerda el mito del amor del esforzado joven Leandro por la bella Hera, la hija de Afrodita, quien cada noche encendía su antorcha para que su osado amante cruzara a nado las aguas encrespadas del Bósforo. Hasta que en una noche de tormenta, el viento apagó su lámpara y se quedó sin guía en medio de la marea cruzada. Las aguas se tragaron a Leandro y la muerte lo sembró en lo profundo del mar. Esa torre es una creación del siglo XII, que ha sido modificada en varias ocasiones, pero su aspecto actual data del siglo XIX. De paredes blanquecinas, con la bandera roja de la media luna y la estrella solitaria flameando en lo más alto, alertando a los navegantes que llegan a esa capital mítica, de dos mundos antípodas. Esa torre milenaria me recuerda a mi hermano Leandro Lenin Montiel, el animador, el gaitero que nació en Maracaibo el 6 de junio de 1963. Hijo de Luis Nemesio Montiel y Olga Josefina; quien fue mi compañero de luchas en la gaita y en la vida. Mi padre que era chofer de tráfico, enamorado de la música y la historia que leía como su mejor divertimiento, le colocó su primer nombre en homenaje al barco donde navegó Francisco de Miranda desde Londres hasta Coro en 1806. El segundo, por su admiración al líder bolchevique Vladimir Lenin. Desde niños comenzamos a militar en el canto. Primero en la escuela Gabriela Mistral, inserta en el barrio Amparo, con sus paredes azules, con el rostro mustio de la poeta chilena en su frontispicio y la orientación amable, casi maternal de la maestra Carmen de Mora; mujer bogotana de un inmenso amor por los libros y el arte. Luego en el conjunto de gaitas de la Cruz Roja que dirigía don Luis García Nebot, donde compartimos viajes por toda Venezuela con excelentes amigos, como el merenguero Roberto Antonio, Carlos Brito, Amílcar del Villar, Hendrick Fernández y el maestro Anguito Soto, siempre demostrando un gran carisma, una cercanía natural con la gente, que hacía sentir que era casi un hermano para el recién conocido. Después comenzaron los días en el Colegio Gonzaga, las excursiones con el padre Javier Duplá sj, Paco Percaz sj, Miguel Matos sj, Pechín (Antonio Pérez-Esclarín). LTuvo una amistad sólida con Marisela Árraga, Aidé Devis, Evaristo Pérez-Suárez, Dámaris Madelis Rodríguez, quien sería su esposa y madre de sus hijos mayores: Diego Leandro, y las mellizas: Damelis y Damilé. Juntos conformamos el Grupo Compa y logramos actuar en la Canción Bolivariana organizada por Alí Primera en 1983 en el estadio Luis Aparicio. Logramos ganar varios festivales gaiteros intercolegiales bajo la égida del profesor Néstor Chourio, un exintegrante del conjunto Los Azulejos. En el decenio de los años ochenta, Leandro comenzó su carrera profesional como cantante y animador con lo Zagales del Padre Vílchez, donde sembró una profunda amistad con las hermanas Guerra, con los hermanos Quiroz y Daniel Méndez en San Francisco. Formó parte de Gaiteros de Pillopo, Estrellas del 2000, Gosugaita. En paralelo Leandro hizo radio, como la habíamos aprendido de Pedro Colina al oírlo junto a nuestro padre, participativa, carismática, con contenido social y peso cultural. Coincidimos en Radio Calendario 1020AM donde animaba el programa de salsa junto a Samuel Portillo, con asesoría de Rafael Valladares; en Sabor 106.5 FM, donde demostró su solvencia para animar en la legendaria Fonoplatea. En las tarimas de feria, en los “poliedrazos gaiteros” junto a Ozías Acosta y Adolfo Ochoa, Leandro brilló y cultivó el amor fraterno de sus compañeros de divisa musical. Solo vivió 43 años. La muerte le sorprendió el 21 de enero del 2007, le destrozó el corazón en ese mediodía, después de haber serenateado la noche anterior con su Rondalla al lado de Huáscar Pacheco, Pedro Rossell y Ender Fuenm

ayor. Junto a su hija menor Leandra, nuestra madre Olga Josefina, sus hermanos, los amigos de la gaita, lo despedimos la tarde del 22 de enero entonando las notas de sus gaitas preferidas. Lo sembramos en los jardines del sur, junto a la tumba de nuestro padre Luis Nemesio Montiel. Fue un momento terrible, doloroso, inédito. Ahora en la distancia lo vemos como una hermosa despedida entre lágrimas y cantos para alguien que le dio luz a esta tierra, y sembró el amor a su paso. Una vez más, un Leandro cae entre las aguas de la lucha, de la turbulenta vida, tratando de cruzar el estrecho de las vivencias, para encontrase con su amada, su Hero maracaibera, su gaita. Para recibir en tu celular esta y otras informaciones, únete a nuestras redes sociales, síguenos en Instagram, Twitter y Facebook como @DiarioElPepazo El Pepazo

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enalfersa · 2 years

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Fake news de la antigua Roma: Engaños, propaganda y metiras de hace 2000 años

¿Es posible que Nerón no incendiara Roma? ¿O que Livia no planeara el asesinato de todos los herederos al trono e incluso de su propio esposo? ¿Acaso los romanos no vomitaban durante las comidas? La historia está viva y cambia continuamente de mano en mano. Quien la escribe tiene el poder de viajar en el tiempo y cambiar el pasado, de alterarla interpretando lo sucedido desde su propio punto de…

View On WordPress

#8467055618 #9788467055610 #Néstor F. Marqués #Planeta #Roma #Roma clásica

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somethingsforyoutolookat · 8 years

Video

Aventurarse by Fanzine Paper Via Flickr: by Toni Junyent August 2015 Cover by Néstor F. and ilustrations by Alexis Nolla, Marc Torices and Conxita Herrero

#Aventurarse #Toni Junyent #Néstor F #Alexis Nolla #Marc Torices #Conxita Herrero #Diary #Text

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oonajaeadira · 3 years

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The Superfluous Meeting of Utmost Importance

(ORANGE VANILLA POPSICLES - Sweets Series)

Rating: T. Fluffy AF.

Fandom: The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent

Pairing: Javi Gutierrez and f!reader (his assistant “Girl Sunday.”)

Warnings: Please schedule an appointment with your dentist before reading this fic.

Summary: It’s the day of the meeting.

This one’s from Javi’s POV and I hope you enjoy that. I loved getting into his curly little head.

Audemars Piguet = a very expensive watch. Believe me.

If you’re curious where the nickname “Sunday” comes from, you can find the answer in the first fic at the series masterlist!

A meeting you’d set the date and time for per his request–he smirks–to “confess.”

Javi is completely in love with you. Has been for a while now. He’s never felt the need to hide it. It’s not a revelation, it’s just an everyday truth.

He loves this about you. He loves that he could buy you a Monet and you’d still rather look at the moon.

He knows he doesn’t have to tell you. But he wants to say the words and leave you no doubt. Grins broadly when he thinks about it, feels comfort all the way through to the marrow.

But which words? How to say it? He isn’t sure yet.

A glance down at his Audemars Piguet shows it’s just turning 11. Three hours then. Maybe he’ll go for a swim.

But instead of taking the stairs and heading for the pool, he suddenly has the spark of an idea and heads past them to the kitchen.

“Ah. Néstor, hi.”

“Buenos dias, jefeeeeeee.” The garlic he’s mincing holds the cook’s attention, but he sings off a dry greeting.

“Sí.”

“Hoy es el dia de la confesion, eh.”

Néstor sighs as he tears the casing off a salami, using his knife to hack a heel from the sausage before turning around and leaning back against the counter. Taking a bite, he brings back that same contemplative stare as he assesses his boss, looking him up and down as if he can read cooking prowess from his measurements alone.

“Mm. Okay,” he decides, a sharp nod as he chews. “Los polos de hielo.”

“Polos?” Popsicles? Would that be special enough? Would you like that? Looking out of the large windows, Javi catches the sea, the sun turning it to tinfoil, bouncing off the surface in clear, blinding light, not a wisp of shade. It’s going to be hot today. Something sweet, but not too heavy. Brilliant. “Perfecto.”

“Bueno,” Néstor barks, trying not to let Javi’s dazzling grin rub off on him, wiping his hands on his apron. “Let’s rock and roll.”

Ingredients and freezer molds land on the counter, and while the cook fills the air with tangy, warm, savory, Tuscan scents, he calls out orders to his employer who handles all that is cold and creamy and sweet.

Javi only hurts himself once–catching his finger on a blade when he reaches for the vanilla pod that he dropped into the blender. The cut isn’t very deep.

He glances over the oranges, the cream, the sugar, the yogurt, the vanilla.

I love you, Sunday girl. You are bright and cool and sweet and good for me. To me, you are perfect.

Yes. He will bring you this confection and this is what he will tell you. You will understand this.

You will understand him. Like you always do.

And you will smile.

Yes. This is good.

________________

What was he heading off to do? Oh, yes. Swim.

Ach. He’s not wearing his swim briefs. Upstairs to his closet then.

It takes him a moment to find his favorites, the ones with the stripes. He forgot that he asked Rosi for them and they’re laid out on his dressing table. Left his sandals on the balcony.

The balcony….

The balcony off his bedroom looks down over a stone terrace which in turn overlooks the sea. There’s a table and chairs there, with one chair pulled out and turned to face over the vista. He imagines he can see the outline of your shape in its cushions, you sit there frequently enough in the evenings, watching the swallows race each other over the watercolor palette of the sunsetting sky.

It is always a comfort to find you there, to discover you taking a moment to relax, untangling your own thoughts. You will sit and admire your view, and he will pause in passing to admire his.

The first time he saw you, you were sitting in that chair.

Seven. There were seven finalists for the job, and they were asked to wait on the terrace. Javi had begrudgingly agreed to an assistant at his board’s insistence, not exactly relishing the idea of being anyone’s boss, but he couldn’t deny that there were just parts of his job he didn’t have the want or attention span for. And he was very bad at keeping appointments. And organizing documents or filing them on time. And concentrating on actual work. But on the day of the secondary interviews, he was called in to meet the finalists personally and this was by far the most irritating part of the agreement. He didn’t know what to ask or what to look for in an assistant. He wasn’t ready for them to judge him or wait for them to tell him what to do. He decided he would just keep quiet and let two of his board members do all the work. Surely they would know better than him what makes a good P.A.

He’d put off coming out of his room as long as he could, peeking out over the balcony at the applicants below.

There was a pair of young women both in short skirts and heels. The one with the long, wavy brown hair was sitting on the low stone wall out of the sun, lazily typing with too-long fake nails on her phone, bored and lost to the world around her. The one with the long bleached locks was speaking on hers. She was annoyed, authoritative, something about a driver, and no, she didn’t want to go to dinner in a white car, she wouldn’t be seen in anything but a black one.

A young man nervously paged through a file on his lap, checking and rechecking all his papers. He looked about as flustered as Javi was feeling. That was relatable.

Three more women–less fashionable but more professional and personable–were sitting at the table having a seemingly cordial chat. But there was something about their body language, maybe the way they kept their hands in their lap rather than leaning into the table, or the way they watched each other without breaking eye contact that suggested the competition was being assessed.

And then there was you. The woman sitting in the chair turned out to the sea. An easy blouse and capri pants, clean and fashionable sneakers that would be good for walking cobblestones. Did you walk here? You didn’t look like you spent hours on your appearance but that you were able to have an easy prettiness about you. And unlike the others, you were still and focused, gazing serenely out over the sea, unconcerned with the others or with the file held easily on your lap, content to keep your quiet little queendom of thought and vista.

Calm.

That’s what it was about you. A calm.

He must have stared too long. Your eyes shifted to the side, using your periphery to confirm what perhaps you could feel, before looking up to him on the balcony.

It caught him off guard, your openness, your ease, and he lifted an awkward hand in what should have been a wave and shouldn’t have been a wave, he really shouldn’t have been standing there staring out in the open where you could all see…

And then you smiled.

The sun bounced off your earring and a breeze fluttered your collar.

That was all. Just a serene smile and a turn back to the sea. No judgment, no coyness, nothing disingenuous. Just a girl enjoying the view and kindly acknowledging a stranger.

Suddenly, he wasn’t so nervous after all.

A gull cries out overhead, and the terrace is quiet, the chair empty; Javi stands in his swim shorts, sandals dangling from his fingers as he comes back from that day many months ago.

I love you, Sunday. You are my perspective. From the very first day I met you, you have been the calming, soothing song of my heart. All you have to do is smile and I can do anything.

He’s only just realized this.

He should tell you this.

You should know.

________________

The pool water stings the cut on his finger, but this is good. This way he won’t forget the popsicles.

While he swims laps, his mind churns, recalling in startling detail the first week–your delightful disbelief upon being ushered into your own office, his embarrassment over his files and how you had them organized in a matter of hours. The first time you brought his coffee and agenda for the day, how you’d quickly adjusted to his erratic schedule, how you easily assessed what he didn’t need to do and you could take off his plate. It took you a little longer than that to be easy with him, to understand he wasn’t helpless or lazy or even just testing you, but that he very much needed a friend and a gentle hand …that he very much needed you. And soon afterward you had clicked in, effortlessly finding the best way to bring him what he needed when he needed it, whether it be contract signatures first thing in the morning when his head was not yet full of other things, scheduling an afternoon swim before a stressful meeting so he could get the jitters out, or texting him a meme from across a conference room during a presentation when he was daydreaming–a monkey looking through binoculars, “Focus.”

Even that very first day–

The first candidate had been the pretty brunette. She was skilled, but seemed just as unaffected in her interview as she had been on her phone out on the terrace.

Then the young man, recognizing Javi right away and all but falling over himself to shake his hand, under-qualified but eager, son of a friend of the family.

By the time one of the more professional women from the table came in, Javi’s mind was buzzing and his knee was bouncing. She asked more questions than she answered and he felt as if he was the one being interviewed.

But the world came to rights when the fourth candidate–you–came in and sat calmly across the table, laying your file simply and neatly before him.

And again, you smiled, clearly recognizing him from the balcony, but without calling undue attention to it, simply nodding as if you were now old friends.

His associates sat on either side of him conducting the interview, and when they introduced him, you’d smiled a third time and said in English, “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Gutierrez. You have a beautiful home. I like the view.”

“Thank you.”

Your Spanish was careful and formal, but fluent, your body language relaxed, but alert. You listened closely to each question and answered confidently, had a good history of executive assistance and had been working in Barcelona for a short while before this.

“I love Barcelona,” you’d offered to a stray question, “but this is my first visit to Mallorca. It’s a different kind of beautiful. Barcelona is like being in another time, but this is like…being in a beautiful movie. I feel like a star.”

This, of course, caught his attention. “Which star?”

It was the first time he’d addressed you and your eyes snapped to his with a glimmer. “I guess I hadn’t thought of that…well, maybe not someone glamorous like Zoe Saldana or Cate Blanchett but… more relatable? Like a girl living a dream? Like…Sally Hawkins?”

“Sally Hawkins.”

“Yeah, you know. Happy Go Lucky? The Shape of Water? Or Paddington? I doubt you’ve seen that one.”

“Yes, I have seen it.” His cheek pulled up in a smirk.

The associates had more questions for you, more serious ones regarding background checks and financial credibility, your visa status, and you launched into a detailed explanation of timeline and process.

But Javi’s world simply tunneled in on you. On your personal file sitting on the desk in front of him. On his cup of coffee between himself and the folder.

And without thinking too hard about it, he reached out with the pretense of grabbing that file, and instead upended the cup, sending coffee spilling out over the table.

There was immediate action on either side of him–his associates jumping up and going to the service tray for towels–and also before him as you simply stood and moved all the papers out of the way from the encroaching stream; your file, his team’s notepads, a stray pen that had been pushed away by the initial wave.

He noticed as you picked up his cup and absently licked the coffee off your thumb on your way over to the service tray. How you continued in Spanish to explain that a work visa of this kind was only going to take a week’s review with an expedited order. How–as his associates mopped up the mess in front of him–you refilled his cup and added cream and sugar before bringing it back to the table and, sitting back down across from him, carried on as if nothing momentous had happened.

And yet, it had.

The coffee was just as he took it, American style, with plenty of cream and sugar.

Cream, because you’d seen the color when it had spilled over the table.

Sugar, you knew, because you had tasted it on your thumb.

He did not hear anything else you said regarding the job, only watched as you shook hands with both of his board members before nodding to him.

“Pleasure to meet you, sir. I hope to see you again.”

He stood, extended his hand, not wanting to regret sending you off without a touch. “Are you staying on the island?”

“Yes. At a roomstay in town. It’s above a bakery. Smells wonderful in the morning.”

“Do you need a driver to take you back?”

Another smile. And a shake of the head. Your hand was warm in his. “I’ll follow the beach. The tide is out. It will be a nice walk.”

After the door closed behind you, Javi opened your file, flipped through to the visa application, and signed his name in the employer field.

Her, he’d told the board members as they objected, explaining there were three more applicants to see and a third round of finalist interviews after that. Dotting and crossing the appropriate letters, he dropped the pen in finality as he grabbed his blazer and headed for the door.

“Her.”

He caught up with you at the front entrance.

“Miss…Miss? There is a shortcut out the back to the beach. Allow me to show you?”

I love you, for seeing me, for anticipating my every need, for being a partner in every way–

A wild waving of arms catches Javi’s attention at the side of the pool, and he brings himself out of his back float to discover the old gardener signaling him.

“È ora che io tagli le palme, signore! Ti dispiace?”

Ah. Time for him to trim the poolside palms. “Sí.” Javi blinks. Time for… time… “Che ore sono, Giorgio?”

“Quasi le due, signore.”

Shit. Almost two o’clock already?

He’s never swam so inelegantly, a mad dash to the edge, hoisting himself onto the deck like a wounded orca and bringing half the pool out with him–

This is one meeting he cannot be late for! He cannot be late–!

________________

When he finally makes it to your office, the tips of his hair are still sparkling with beads of pool water and his clothes are sticking to him for not properly drying himself and damn damn damn he forgot the popsicles–

“Sunday–”

–but that doesn’t matter now because he’s just late enough and you’re on your office couch sitting patiently and he didn’t mean to make you wait he only wants to see you smiling–

“You’re late!”

–but you are smiling, you are standing and smiling and forgiving, oh so forgiving, always overlooking his scattered relation with time and you know he always means well with his shoddy organization–

“Sunday, I–”

–and he realizes he’s telling you this as he reaches for you. What was it he was going to say with the sweetness? No, he forgot the popsicles. But you’re so calm and soothing and the things you do for him, the way you know him, he knew right away you were best for him and he wanted to give you whatever you wanted and it was always just a matter of a little more love every day and you’re listening so intently and it’s only when your eyebrows pinch upward when he calls you pichurri that he realizes you don’t know that word and that he’s been rambling in Spanish but everything he’d planned to tell you is getting mixed up but you’re smiling, you’re keeping up, you know him so well and his heart is overwhelming him and he’s a little too worked up–

But like always, like every day since he spilled his coffee on purpose, you know exactly what he needs.

And you stop his mouth with your own.

All these thoughts of you get flushed clean of anxiety and doubt, and his heart no longer flutters like a bird in a cage but rather soars like a swallow in the sunset.

You fit so easily in his arms, and your lips are exactly as sweet as he thought they would be; they are rich and complex and fulfilling. They are the perfect indulgence. They are worth waiting for.

But just to be sure, he takes another sample. And another. And you are generous with him and let him taste all he wants.

“Miss,” he kisses the little upturned corner of your mouth, nips at the little bow, “I know a path to the beach. Will you allow me to show you?”

Even now, even after you’ve kissed him, he hopes you want to follow him. But of course you smile. And he is all courage and takes your hand, leading you away from your work and out into the sunshine.

But first there’s a detour to the kitchen to retrieve the frozen treats. And then there are free hands that clasp each others’. And then there is easy laughter and there is sun and there are bare feet in the surf. And at the end of the popsicles, there are chilled lips that need warming, and the kisses bear the sweetness of orange and vanilla.

So it was a good choice after all.

As were you.

Pichurri. Dear one. Sweetheart.

You.

___

SERIES MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

#sweets series #javi g x sunday #javi gutierrez #javi g x reader #javi g x f!reader #tuwomt #tuwomt fanfic #the unbearable weight of massive talent #the unbearable weight of massive talent fanfic

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