Fem!Cuba/Fem!Canada (1/2)
anonymous
March 13 2010, 03:35:20 UTC
…Otherwise known as one big, heaping slab of WTF
Marisol plays soccer. She’s played since she was a pig-tailed little girl, with a single-minded dedication that can be seen in her long, muscled legs and the strong, indelicate lines of her shoulders.
She spends seemingly all of her time on the field, to the detriment of school. Despite her natural interest in history and her uncanny skill with numbers, overwork brought her grades dangerously low in her junior year. Even a star like Marisol could lose her spot on the team to failing grades.
It is that year that Matilda crosses her path, the nervous, little English tutor, a tiny blonde bundle of “ums” and shy glances. Marisol knows her brother, Alfred, from the school football team (American football, she remembered once correcting the smug boy, as he attempted to show off to her and a few other girls).
Matilda and Alfred look strangely alike, even for brother and sister. If not for Matilda’s long, flowing hair and her quiet, stammering voice, Marisol wouldn’t be able to tell the two apart in the slightest.
Once, she saw a blond-haired figure in a dark jacket walking away from behind, and, particularly annoyed at Alfred that day, kicked a soccer ball at it as hard as she could. When the resulting girlish shriek reached her ears, Marisol realized her horrible mistake. Matilda only looked mildly confused, though, as Marisol stammered out her profuse apologies.
But, Matilda lacks any of her brother’s arrogance or boldness. Every other word out of the girl’s mouth seems to be “sorry,” as far as Marisol can tell, even as she struggles to quietly explain the significance of Age of Innocence to her. Even as Marisol is too distracted by the way the girl keeps readjusting her thin glasses and tucking her soft, babyish hair behind her ears to listen.
That is the book that lays under them, jabbing into Matilda’s side as they sprawl on her bed, hands in each other’s jeans.
Matilda chokes and gasps against Marisol’s mouth, as her hips jerk wildly and her eyes swell with near panic.
Marisol has to smother her strangled cries with a forceful kiss, so that brother Antonio won’t hear from downstairs and come to investigate.
If she thinks back to what started all of this, the catalyst, the picture became fuzzy and uncertain. She remembers Matilda smiling, Matilda shyly asking her what boys she liked, Matilda’s small pale fingers on her arm. And then everything becomes a rush of uncertainty and desperate need.
After they both gasp out their completion, they lie on the bed together, staring at each other, sometimes smiling or giggling or murmuring little kind words, but mostly just looking at the other in wonder.
“Marisol,” Matilda says quietly, just so that she could say the name aloud. She runs her fingers through a bit of coarse, black hair, stroking it and then pressing it to her cheek.
“Marisol.”
“Matilda.”
When Marisol sees her next, in the library, calmly shelving books, it is a shock, like seeing your teacher outside of school, or finding pictures of your parents as children in other people’s photos.
Then, Matilda sees her, smiles, and walks over to her. They exchange awkward mumbled greetings. After a moment’s hesitation, Matilda places a discreet hand on her waist and leans in closer.
The contradiction in Marisol’s mind breaks down. This was the same Matilda. Even after all of that, the Matilda who whimpered as Marisol clumsily fondled her breasts was the same Matilda who helped her through her grammar worksheets and sat on the couch with her, laughing at telenovelas while they emptied a carton of Rocky Road.
On Matilda’s next birthday, Marisol rides out to the department store to buy her a present. She ends up standing in the middle of the card aisle, staring at the walls in bewilderment, panicking that she doesn’t know her girlfriend at all.
Eventually, she remembers that Matilda had once said something about loving maple sugar and hurries gratefully over to the candy aisle. There is only one piece of maple sugar, a solid hunk of candy in the shape of a heart.
It’s bit dopey, but Matilda likes dopey things. The box is also red. Matilda likes the color red.
Fem!Cuba/Fem!Canada (2/2)
anonymous
March 13 2010, 03:37:47 UTC
Matilda’s glasses nearly fall off when she opens up the candy.
“Thank you!” she exclaims in an uncharacteristic shriek, before pulling Marisol into a hug. Marisol thinks that the real present is for her, as she sits watching Matilda tear off pieces of sticky golden sugar and push it into her pink mouth.
Matilda comes to each and every one of Marisol’s soccer games. She is too timid for whooping and cheering, but her bright smiles from the sideline are enough.
Win or lose, after every game, she always gives Marisol a hug, a kiss on the cheek, and a whispered, “You did great.” Then, she slips away to avoid the post-game grumbling or adulation.
In the meantime, Matilda hurries back to Marisol’s house-no problem with Antonio, who fawns over the timorous blonde. He insists on calling her “Solie’s girlfriend,” and eventually Marisol stops correcting him. She thinks he gets the message.
Marisol breaks away from her teammates as quickly as she reasonably can, her chest pounding in expectation, as she makes her way back home. She hurries up to her room and inside, before walking over to where Matilda sits on the bed.
“Hi,” she says breathlessly, placing her hand on the girl’s thigh as she sits down.
“Hi,” Matilda repeats. “You did great today.”
“Not too bad,” Marisol concedes. She strokes Matilda’s leg, sliding her hand down to the hem of her skirt. Matilda takes the hint and doesn’t bother with any more chatting. They kiss, touch each other’s hair, fall back onto the bed.
Marisol can taste the faintest hint of something sweet on her girlfriend’s tongue. Maple sugar.
She would bet anything that Matilda probably has the candy heart in her bag right now, slowly, lovingly, deliberately picking her way through the gift.
“You’re sweet,” Marisol breaths into Matilda’s mouth.
“Hm?”
Marisol leans back in again and pushes her lips forcefully against Matilda’s. Matilda sighs and relaxes in Marisol’s muscled arms.
This is the one thing Marisol likes more than soccer. She likes it a lot more.
Re: Fem!Cuba/Fem!Canada (2/2)
anonymous
March 13 2010, 05:25:25 UTC
Oh author!anon, non!op adores this. I have a (huge) soft spot for genderbenders and femmeslash, and I just love how you characterized the two as girls. The way they interact with one another is so wondrously sweet, and cute and fluffy. *insert fangirlish squee here* Great job anon! =D
Re: Fem!Cuba/Fem!Canada (2/2)
anonymous
March 14 2010, 04:03:19 UTC
Honestly, most of the time I'm not that fond of genderbenders. But this is cute. Especially since I love this pairing. And that last line was absolutely adorable and made me love it even more.
Marisol plays soccer. She’s played since she was a pig-tailed little girl, with a single-minded dedication that can be seen in her long, muscled legs and the strong, indelicate lines of her shoulders.
She spends seemingly all of her time on the field, to the detriment of school. Despite her natural interest in history and her uncanny skill with numbers, overwork brought her grades dangerously low in her junior year. Even a star like Marisol could lose her spot on the team to failing grades.
It is that year that Matilda crosses her path, the nervous, little English tutor, a tiny blonde bundle of “ums” and shy glances. Marisol knows her brother, Alfred, from the school football team (American football, she remembered once correcting the smug boy, as he attempted to show off to her and a few other girls).
Matilda and Alfred look strangely alike, even for brother and sister. If not for Matilda’s long, flowing hair and her quiet, stammering voice, Marisol wouldn’t be able to tell the two apart in the slightest.
Once, she saw a blond-haired figure in a dark jacket walking away from behind, and, particularly annoyed at Alfred that day, kicked a soccer ball at it as hard as she could. When the resulting girlish shriek reached her ears, Marisol realized her horrible mistake. Matilda only looked mildly confused, though, as Marisol stammered out her profuse apologies.
But, Matilda lacks any of her brother’s arrogance or boldness. Every other word out of the girl’s mouth seems to be “sorry,” as far as Marisol can tell, even as she struggles to quietly explain the significance of Age of Innocence to her. Even as Marisol is too distracted by the way the girl keeps readjusting her thin glasses and tucking her soft, babyish hair behind her ears to listen.
That is the book that lays under them, jabbing into Matilda’s side as they sprawl on her bed, hands in each other’s jeans.
Matilda chokes and gasps against Marisol’s mouth, as her hips jerk wildly and her eyes swell with near panic.
Marisol has to smother her strangled cries with a forceful kiss, so that brother Antonio won’t hear from downstairs and come to investigate.
If she thinks back to what started all of this, the catalyst, the picture became fuzzy and uncertain. She remembers Matilda smiling, Matilda shyly asking her what boys she liked, Matilda’s small pale fingers on her arm. And then everything becomes a rush of uncertainty and desperate need.
After they both gasp out their completion, they lie on the bed together, staring at each other, sometimes smiling or giggling or murmuring little kind words, but mostly just looking at the other in wonder.
“Marisol,” Matilda says quietly, just so that she could say the name aloud. She runs her fingers through a bit of coarse, black hair, stroking it and then pressing it to her cheek.
“Marisol.”
“Matilda.”
When Marisol sees her next, in the library, calmly shelving books, it is a shock, like seeing your teacher outside of school, or finding pictures of your parents as children in other people’s photos.
Then, Matilda sees her, smiles, and walks over to her. They exchange awkward mumbled greetings. After a moment’s hesitation, Matilda places a discreet hand on her waist and leans in closer.
The contradiction in Marisol’s mind breaks down. This was the same Matilda. Even after all of that, the Matilda who whimpered as Marisol clumsily fondled her breasts was the same Matilda who helped her through her grammar worksheets and sat on the couch with her, laughing at telenovelas while they emptied a carton of Rocky Road.
On Matilda’s next birthday, Marisol rides out to the department store to buy her a present. She ends up standing in the middle of the card aisle, staring at the walls in bewilderment, panicking that she doesn’t know her girlfriend at all.
Eventually, she remembers that Matilda had once said something about loving maple sugar and hurries gratefully over to the candy aisle. There is only one piece of maple sugar, a solid hunk of candy in the shape of a heart.
It’s bit dopey, but Matilda likes dopey things. The box is also red. Matilda likes the color red.
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“Thank you!” she exclaims in an uncharacteristic shriek, before pulling Marisol into a hug. Marisol thinks that the real present is for her, as she sits watching Matilda tear off pieces of sticky golden sugar and push it into her pink mouth.
Matilda comes to each and every one of Marisol’s soccer games. She is too timid for whooping and cheering, but her bright smiles from the sideline are enough.
Win or lose, after every game, she always gives Marisol a hug, a kiss on the cheek, and a whispered, “You did great.” Then, she slips away to avoid the post-game grumbling or adulation.
In the meantime, Matilda hurries back to Marisol’s house-no problem with Antonio, who fawns over the timorous blonde. He insists on calling her “Solie’s girlfriend,” and eventually Marisol stops correcting him. She thinks he gets the message.
Marisol breaks away from her teammates as quickly as she reasonably can, her chest pounding in expectation, as she makes her way back home. She hurries up to her room and inside, before walking over to where Matilda sits on the bed.
“Hi,” she says breathlessly, placing her hand on the girl’s thigh as she sits down.
“Hi,” Matilda repeats. “You did great today.”
“Not too bad,” Marisol concedes. She strokes Matilda’s leg, sliding her hand down to the hem of her skirt. Matilda takes the hint and doesn’t bother with any more chatting. They kiss, touch each other’s hair, fall back onto the bed.
Marisol can taste the faintest hint of something sweet on her girlfriend’s tongue. Maple sugar.
She would bet anything that Matilda probably has the candy heart in her bag right now, slowly, lovingly, deliberately picking her way through the gift.
“You’re sweet,” Marisol breaths into Matilda’s mouth.
“Hm?”
Marisol leans back in again and pushes her lips forcefully against Matilda’s. Matilda sighs and relaxes in Marisol’s muscled arms.
This is the one thing Marisol likes more than soccer. She likes it a lot more.
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