#I just feel like a tattoo would be a great way to reclaim my own body and self presentation in a way I cant rly do with clothes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rae-gar-targaryen · 3 years

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loved you once [angel reyes x fem!reader]

A/N: So, this is NOT the Angel fic I previewed the other day. That one (and the EZ fic) is STILL COMING, I PROMISE! This just jumped into my head and wouldn’t leave. And I wrote it with a speed I am heretofore unfamiliar with (heretofore? Did I use that right?) I invented a tattoo and an ex-girlfriend for Angel, and I fudged the timeline a bit. So, apologies in advance for that.

As always, if you want a tag in anything I write for Angel, EZ, the Mayans fandom (or anything else), please feel free to send me a message or an ask, or add yourself to the taglist (link in profile).

Pairing: Angel Reyes x fem!tattoo artist!reader (as always, the appearance is ambiguous, but the reader is described as having female pronouns/parts. Also, the reader here speaks a bit of Spanish. I’m half Mexican, so I do imagine a latinx reader, but I hope I’ve written this so you can imagine yourself with no restriction.)

Word Count: 15.3K (HAHAHA WHAT THE FUCK all for a TWO AND A HALF MINUTE SONG, ARE YOU KIDDING ME????) of ANGST! (SERIOUSLY THIS IS SO ANGSTY) lyrical nonsense and the remnants of sticky, cotton-candy sadness … fluff that makes you feel empty.

Warnings: ANGST, non-explicit references to infidelity, sexual references and sexual content, oral (male receiving), fingering and other nastiness -- so 18+ ONLY, please! Canon-typical douchebaggery, references to a past relationship, song references and poetry. (It is me, so yeah, poetry.)

Summary: You and Angel may as well be strangers now. But why? After all, you loved him once. And he loved you, right? Based on the song “Loved you Once” by Clara Mae. Listen here.

We don't need to be best friends, we don't need to hang again. But tell me why we have to be strangers because I loved you once?

What were you doing here? You haven’t been back to the clubhouse in months. Not since -- well, you know. You hadn’t talked to him since then, either. But that wasn’t your own doing.

No, Angel had erected a veritable wall of silence, and you respected him enough not to breach it.

That was what relationships were all about, anyway, right? Mutual respect of the other’s needs? So when Angel had told you in no uncertain terms that your relationship was over, you were … upset. Understandably. You wanted to sit with him, talk about where this sudden insistence that you depart his life had come from, but he was resolute. With the absolute air of authority that comes with either a great deal of thought, or borne of virtually sudden external influence, with nothing in between. He clearly didn’t want to sit and talk about it.

And so you didn’t.

Ever mindful of his wellbeing, and when he was and was not receptive to communication.

"It ain't working," he had said. You had settled for merely imagining the faraway look in his large, oilslick eyes, since he was much more interested in staring at his boots and the grooves in his floor, his forearms laid over spread thighs, unmoving and resolute from his spot at the end of the bed. Refusing to meet your eyes.

From your seat next to him, you made to brush the arm closest to you with your fingers. When you touched, he gave no indication that you were even there. That he even felt you. Which you knew was bullshit. He always felt you.

"Angel, what --" you hated the way your voice cracked as you tried to ask him what the hell was going on. You hated how you had sounded so small and quavering to your own ears. That wasn't who you were. You were clear, outspoken. It was always one of the things Angel said he loved about you. Loved.

You didn't know this, of course, but Angel hated it, too. How you’d sounded in that moment. Hated that his words had taken the fire out of yours, your voice unfamiliar in its timidity.

"It ain't working," he repeated. "I can see it. Not my fault you can't."

That was it.

No "I'm sorry, querida."

No "I hope we can stay friends."

Not that you would expect an apology, or anything as cliché as a "let's be friends," from a steadfast man like Angel. Predictable in his volatility.

You should have pushed back. Demanded an answer. You hated that you didn’t, the shock and sudden sadness morphing you into a silent, crystalline girl you didn’t recognize. Your eyes welled with tears, turning your head away from where Angel sat -- at least you wouldn’t let him see you cry. Even if you knew he knew the tears had spilled over your lashes and down your cheeks were of his own doing.

You had arrived back at his place a day after your tense "conversation" to discover that your items you had come to reclaim were tossed into a box and left outside of the door.

You had knocked once, in the hope that if Angel was home, he’d at least come to the door to shout through it, or, heaven forbid, would open it so you could look him in the eyes just once more while he shattered you. Your knock was met with silence, though you could have sworn you felt Angel on the other side of the door.

In the months since then, you had cried (obviously), you had questioned (it was sudden, it wasn't just you; your friends were surprised, too), but most importantly, you had persevered.

You had taken a bunch of new clients and inked some pieces you were incredibly proud of. You had gone out with your friends a few times, always with a wary eye on the door of the local dive, ya know… you never knew who would walk in.

Santo Padre is a small town, after all. And the cracks in your soul were nowhere close to healed. No molten gold to spill in and repair the fissures of your heart, rendering metamorphosis of something broken to something flawed, but beautiful. You sat, alone, still just… flawed. You had never felt less beautiful. Even after all this time.

And your friend Aneesa, ever the supporter, would stop at nothing if it meant hyping you up enough to leave your cave of blankets, sheet masks, and comfort movies. Your only rule? All nights out with Aneesa were strictly girls’ nights. She was gracious and understanding of this rule, of course. She and Gilly had been together a touch longer than you and Angel.

And if Angel had ever asked Gilly to ask Aneesa about you? Well… you never heard about it.

Not that Angel would do any of that. Shit like that was so middle-school.

So, here you were. Back at the clubhouse after months of self-imposed exile for the sake of self-preservation.

Coco had texted you -- the first you’d directly heard from anyone within Angel’s circle, inviting you to a patch party for some nameless, faceless newbie. The invitation had a string attached to it, of course -- the tattoo artist’s chair in the corner of the clubhouse needed a resident for any partygoers jonesing for new ink. Certainly, the new patch would need something decidedly “Mayan” to show off his new status.

You had hesitantly agreed -- Aneesa would be in attendance of course, and offered herself as a human-sized buffer to separate you from people you were otherwise hoping to avoid.

Now, perched near the tattoo chair, you busied yourself with setting out your portfolio of completed pieces, sketches and most-requested designs. You wiped down the chair a few more times than strictly necessary, but you wanted to be ready for anyone who might plop themselves down for a new piece of art.

The main room of the clubhouse was sweltering -- a familiar blend of desert heat, cigarette smoke, citronella, and the smell of citrusy, foamy beer. The dim lighting and thundering bass giving everything a slightly blurry edge in your party-periphery. You glanced across the room at where Aneesa and Gilly sat together on a corner couch, thighs pressed together. Aneesa tossed her head back in a full-bodied laugh at something Gilly had whispered into her ear, swatting his arm -- Gilly’s reciprocal smile demonstrating his pleasure at having garnered such a reaction from his girl.

A wave of cheers and noise accompanied the thwack of the clubhouse door swinging open -- more Mayans pouring in, jostling one another's shoulders, slapping each other on the arms, and good-naturedly cajoling.

There was Coco, mid-pull of the cigarette between his lips, quicksilver eyes flashing around the room, taking stock of who was where. EZ followed, million-watt smile on full display as he gently guided a pretty girl with long, inky hair through the bottleneck at the entryway.

If EZ was ambling his way in, then, surely, not far behind ...

With an arm around a tall, broad guy you hadn’t seen before, was Angel. Midway through a joke with the guy you assumed was the new patch, you took the opportunity to study the man you had once considered the moonlit orbit of your entire world.

You hated to admit it to yourself, but he looked good… His arms still replete with thick, corded muscle. His hair was a tad longer on top than you remembered, slicked back and belied with cleanly-cropped sides. His smile as warm and blinding as the cruel light at the end of your better dreams, only for you to awake each day alone.

As you continued your silent study, you were surprised to see -- still adorning his left arm … the tattoo you had given him on the day you had first met. You had thought he would have blacked it out by now … a cover-up on top of a cover-up.

But there it was --- the soft, leafy greens creeping down his forearm on sharp vines, abutted with bursting blooms -- small, ornate gladiolus buds and a sprig of purpling rosemary. Such a flowery piece on the arm of someone like Angel might have been laughable. But if anyone dared, he would simply stare, stone-faced, with burning eyes and a set jaw, ready to ask just what they thought was so fucking funny.

To you? It was perfection. It was remembrance.

‘Cause I loved you, once…

---

You had moved to Santo Padre from Oakland. Hardly an axis-tilting move, but significant enough to you.

Your friend Oliver had offered you a seat at his tattoo shop. And you? You were positively itching to get out of the city. A few too many bad nights with a few people you could no longer in good conscience consider friends.

So, here you sat, resident of one of two chairs in this corner parlour off the so-called “main” drag in sweltering, dusty Santo Padre.

Your books were pretty clear … Not that you attributed much logic to the ebb and flow in any conceivable pattern of the tide that was tattoo shop patrons, but January seemed an agonizingly slow month. You filled the idle time with keeping the shop neat, disinfecting and re-disinfecting every surface, and organizing Oliver’s books.

And if you weren’t dreaming up new sketches and designs for the more adventurous prospective client, you were jotting idle lines of lyrical poetry in the margins of your sketchbook.

If the month dragged on like this, you were sure you could publish an entire book of moody, mid-winter prose that would make Charles Bukowski want to drown himself in stiff Cabernet.

The dinging of the bell above the parlour door yanked you from your doodling stupor. You looked up to see who had come in, your gaze met with a towering, golden-skinned man donned in a leather vest, his boots squeaking on the shop’s linoleum floor as he made his way to the front desk. He leaned over it and rapped his silver-ringed hand against the top with the ease and comfort of someone who had been in many times before. If the ink trailing his arms was any indication, he may as well be a regular, though you hadn’t seen him in before. There was no way you could forget that jawline, and those shoulders.

“Yo,” he called in greeting, eyes flashing to where you stood, walking to meet him at the counter. You swore you saw his gaze dart over your form, giving you the old up-down. An easy smile graced his full lips as he made himself comfortable leaning against the counter.

“Oliver here?”

You shook your head, the action serving to answer his question and --hopefully-- clear your head of the foggy spell this man was casting over you with his presence alone.

“Nah, sorry. He’s guest-chairing at his buddy’s shop in L.A. Did you have an appointment?”

“I look like the kind of guy with a datebook?” He chuckled at his own joke. “No appointment, corazón.”

“Walk-in? Always a risky strategy,” you lilted.

“What can I say? I’m a risk-taker,” he replied with the practiced ease of breezy flirtation.

You smiled softly, grabbing Oliver’s calendar from the desk, flipping to the following week. “He’ll be back in next week, if you want to wait?”

“That’s no good for me, babe, I’ll be out of town.”

“Ah.” You huffed a bit through your nose “Bike rally?” You asked, gesturing at his worn leather kutte, cringing internally a little at the teasing edge your voice had taken on. Were you always this bad of a flirt?

The man looked at you shrewdly for a beat -- seemingly trying to discern just how much fun you were making of him before taking mercy on you and peeling back the slight layer of awkwardness the conversation had taken. He scrubbed the back of his neck before confirming,

“Uh, yeah, actually,” he rumbled a chuckle. “Why? You wanna go?” He raised a full brow at you in a mild challenge.

Your eyes widened at his seemingly-serious invitation. You took in the quirk of his lips, causing the slightest crinkle at the corner of his warm eyes -- the look of a man borne of good humor and who smiled often. It was endearing, and if you were honest, made you melt a little. Even if you now realized he was teasing you.

“Sorry, guapo,” you cracked a smile of your own, gesturing at the empty shop. “As you can see, I’m a very busy girl. Highest of demand.”

“Claro,” he replied. “So, I better get in while the getting’s good, huh? Your chair open now?”

“Uhm,” you chewed your lower lip, now slightly nervous at the prospect of spending more time with this man. “¿Quieres esperar para Olí? I won’t be offended. You haven’t even seen any of my pieces.”

A beat of silence passed between you both, the man seemingly weighing his options.

"I mean," You broke the silence and leaned forward, lightly tapping a fingernail against his bicep. “What if my art style doesn’t suit the king of the bikers?”

"Something tells me you'll suit me just fine." His smirk was full-bore now. He didn't miss a beat, did he?

You were silent, probably for a few moments too long. Was he actually flirting with you? You blinked. He probably flirts with everyone ... get over yourself, you internally chided.

"Angel," the man said, recovering the moment and holding out a large, ringed hand for you to shake. You gave him your name, shaking his hand firmly.

You nodded your head over your shoulder, toward your chair.

"Well, come on back, Angel, you can tell me about what we're doing today."

Angel followed you back to your station, and you could swear you felt his dark eyes on your form as you walked, the thought that this man was looking at you with any kind of discerning attention made your cheeks warm a little. He folded his long body into the chair you gestured toward, and you took the rolling seat next to him. He proffered his left arm to you, tracing down a spot on his forearm.

"Just wanna cover this up," he paused, letting you observe the offending ink. "It's about time."

"'Clara Forever,' huh?" You took in the faded, loopy lettering down his forearm. "Who's Clara?" Your tone was gently teasing by nature, but he seemed to clam up a bit at the question, regarding your sharp tongue with sharper eyes.

"Well, it wasn't forever," he finally bit out, shoulders now a little more tense than before.

"Aw, cariño," you sighed in good-natured taunting. "Didn't anyone ever tell you the number one rule of tattoo? 'Forever' is a certain jinx. And a name is almost never a good idea… unless it's your dog's."

You made a sweeping hand gesture over the rest of his person, your eyes noticeably cataloguing the ink adorning most of the real estate on his arms and what little you could see of the top of his chest.

"How did anyone let you get this far without telling you the rules?"

He relaxed at the humor in your soft voice, comfortable now that he had confirmation that you were teasing him rather than seriously ridiculing. His posture relaxed once more, he waggled his eyebrows at you, also teasing,

"Le sorprendería saber que nunca fui uno para seguir las reglas?” He asked. Would it surprise you to learn that I was never one for rules?

"¿Tú?" Your eyes widened in mock surprise. “Para nada.” Not at all.

"Hey," he swatted your arm gently. "Cuidaté, niña. Insulting your customers? I can see why your chair is empty." He chuckled at his own little jab as you busied yourself gathering your supplies.

You turned and reached for him, holding his arm in one hand and running your now-gloved thumb over "Clara Forever."

"So?" You queried, "What are we doing with this? How do you want to cover it?"

Angel shrugged, the leather adorning his shoulders creaking ever-so-slightly with the movement.

"Figured I would just black it out. I've been putting it off long enough. To hell with her anyway, yaknow?"

"Hmm…" you considered his proposal. "I could do that, if that's what you really want. Easy enough. But…" you trailed.

He shifted in the chair, arching an eyebrow at you.

"But?" He pressed.

Now it was your turn to shrug. You released his arm from your grip and gestured to the booklet containing photos of your most prized work.

"Why waste the opportunity to give yourself something you really want?" You handed him the book. "Besides… from the looks of things, you have limited real estate left on this arm. May as well fill it with something… more you?” You made to hand him the scrapbook. “You can see what else I've done. See if anything sparks an idea."

Angel regarded you for a moment. Leaning forward in the chair and slightly more into your space, eyes never leaving yours. He took the edge of the book, deliberately brushing his fingers over yours as he did so, making you hold your breath a little. If Angel noticed, he had the decency not to say anything.

“Why not?”

You exhaled softly as he leaned away again, flipping his way through your book.

As he scrutinized the photographic renderings of your pieces, you took the chance to really take him in. His strong jaw and full lips were objectively pleasant, abutted by deliberately-shaped facial hair. He had a prominent brow, something that would surely give away his feelings, even if he decided not to verbalize them. There was no hiding a frown or a smile on that face. You fiddled with your fingers as he flipped through the pages.

“This is some seriously top-notch shit, querida,” he voiced his approval, followed by a warm smile. He flipped his way through your minimalist renderings, floral pieces, lines of script, and one particularly involved piece with a burgundy phoenix and lifelike flames...

“Yeah?” You couldn’t hide the pleasure in your voice that he might think of you in a positive light. “Which one do you like?”

He flipped the book to you, gesturing at a geometric planetary canvas piece you had etched down a prior client’s thigh.

“Did you think of that one?”

“The client had their ideas, I just execute, I guess… That was a fun one.” You shrugged, glancing at your shoes scuffing at the linoleum, suddenly feeling very shy under his scrutiny.

“Hey, don’t do that,” he leaned forward once more, his fingers gently brushing along your chin to bring your eyeline to his. “Don’t downplay your talent. You’re a badass. Own that shit.” He gave you a soft wink, releasing your chin from his grip.

Um, wow.

Was it always this hot in the back of the shop? Or were you just spontaneously combusting? Did that seriously just happen?

All you could do was nod.

“Aight,” he crossed his legs at the ankles, making himself comfortable in the chair. “I’ve decided.”

“Yeah?” You breathed, “What’ll it be?”

As if he was doing nothing more complicated than ordering fries, Angel pointed at your book. “Dealer’s choice.”

“Excuse me?” You couldn’t believe he was just going to trust you to cover up his ex’s name etched into his arm. “¡Oye! Did you hear nothing I said earlier about walk-ins being risky? Nothing about the rules?”

Angel scoffed. “About as well as you heard that I don’t give a shit about rules, babe,” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You like rules, huh?”

Oh. The rumbling tone his voice had taken on with his last question did not go unnoticed by you. If there was any heat to spare in this shithole desert-town, it was now one hundred percent flooding through your body.

But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d had that effect on you… (although, let’s be real, he probably, definitely, already knew).

“Fine, Angelito,” the mocking tone had returned to your voice. “But unlike Clara, this one’s gonna be forever. If I find out you cover up my art, I’m gonna blacklist you at every shop in Southern California.” You raised an eyebrow at him in a challenge. “Can you live with that?”

Angel nodded.

“Do your worst, Vince.”

You wrinkled your nose at the moniker. “Vince?”

“Yeah,” he seemed so assured in his own cleverness. “Like Van Gogh?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Van Gogh!?” You feigned offense, hand-over-heart, lashes batting. “Not even Frida? Come oooon, Angelito.”

He chuckled. Shifting in the chair and offering his arm to you so you could get him ready.

“You gotta earn ‘Frida,’ dulcita.”

“Everyone’s a critic,” you sigh, shifting your focus and taking stock of the space on Angel’s arm and what you had learned of him so far.

Someone who was seemingly confident and breezy, whose rough exterior belied something softer that was just out of reach. Someone who clearly cherished things and people he adored, if the tribute you were now covering was anything to go by. And, by the same token, more than a little impulsive. He wore his heart on his sleeve, apparently literally.

You gathered your inks and began to work, your playlist and the buzzing of the tattoo gun filling the silence.

It’s not like you had any reason to know it, but Angel considered you as you were working, admiring your focus and the intensity with which you afforded your art. Was he a little nervous about the fact that you were free-handing a design for him off the top of your head? Maybe... But what was life without a little risk? And he certainly wouldn’t mind a little risk with you. You were, it was obvious to him, very pretty. It was more than a little off-putting how easily you traded quips with him, seemingly unaffected by his presence and everything that came with it. If it wasn’t for the little hitches in your breath when he gently flirted with you, he wouldn’t have anything to go off of in terms of your interest. Something that was both respectable and maddening to him.

He reached his other arm over to the side-table, grabbing your sketchbook and idly flipping through the etchings.

Not only was the book filled with little designs, splashes of watercolor mixing with pen and charcoal, but he noticed the cramped words in the margins, perusing at his leisure and ignoring the itching buzz of the needle on the skin of his other arm.

“So, not only a Vince, but a Frost,” he broke the silence.

You paused your work, wiping your brow with the back of your hand and looking at him with a question in your eyes.

He tapped his finger along the lines of prose in your book. “A poet,” he said.

“Ah,” you said. “Uhm, more like a bad poet,” you chuckled, embarrassed. You made to begin again, when Angel gently gripped the wrist of your free hand.

“The fuck did I just say?” He lightly tugged, forcing you to look into his maddeningly honey-dark eyes. “Don’t brush off your shit. Would Frida do that?”

You regarded his eyes for a moment longer, darting your gaze to his pouty lips, resolutely set in their mission of imparting some of his confidence onto you.

“Point taken, Angel,” you pulled your hand from his grip, which he released, trailing his fingertips over your hand as he did so. “I’m the greatest poet who ever lived, you’ve convinced me. Fuck William Shakespeare.”

“Yeah,” Angel boisterously agreed, pleased to be bolstering you but surprising you with the little barking shout, “Fuck that dude!”

You chuckled, shaking your head and silently returning to your work, the silence filled once more with the pleasant buzzing as you drew away.

When you were finished, you released Angel’s arm, allowing him to inspect the clean lines of the greenery that you had drawn out of his former-love tribute. What were once loopy, cursive letters were now vines creeping steadily along his forearm, soft, yellow and red gladiolus buds emerging from where Clara’s name had once sat, neatly finished with the clean lines of the purpling sprig of rosemary along the edge of the piece.

Angel was speechless, leaving you to marinate in your nerves.

“It’s …” he started, “... flowery,” he supplied, lamely.

“No shit it’s flowers,” you shot back, feeling a little defensive now, but wanting to make a quick recovery. “And they’re for you, Angel.”

He seemed puzzled.

“Gotta say, Vince, this is the first time a chick’s gotten me flowers,” he chuckled, “Guess they won’t die?”

“They won’t,” you assured. “They really are for you, you know? Look at you, the rest of your ink. What it covered. You’re clearly a man formed by your experiences. It only seemed right, si? Gladiolus? They’re for remembrance. Rosemary? Symbolizes thoughtfulness and memory.”

You continued as you began wipe the piece clean before wrapping it in new saran-wrap, “Your memories and choices make you who you are, sure. But you never know… something good could bloom from them, through the cracks."

His silence at the end of your little soliloquy was deafening. He hated it, you were sure of it. Fuck. Why did you have to get so fucking clever with him? You should’ve just done some black ink in something tribal, something masculine. What the fuck was wrong with you??

You dared to sneak a glance at his face, only to find that he was already staring at you, lips softly upturned in the hinting bloom of a smile, tarpit eyes twinkling with a good-natured mirth he would come to reserve just for you.

“Fuck Shakespeare. That was damn beautiful, Frida.”

The heat had returned to your cheeks, standing quickly.

You stripped off your gloves, and made to turn your way to the counter, gathering the aftercare sheet and balm for Angel to take with him.

You spun back toward him before he could get up.

“Oh! Can I take a picture?” You held up your phone, shaking it lightly. “For the ‘gram?”

“Sure thing,” Angel dutifully held his arm under the lamp you had used to work, letting the fresh ink and colors pop against the golden dunn of his skin.

You took a few photos, deciding to scroll through your camera roll later on and post your favorite. You made quick work of wrapping his arm in a sheet of clean plastic wrap before relinquishing your hold on his arm, turning to walk back to the counter.

“Uhm,” you trailed … the telltale squeak of Angel’s boots on the linoleum indicating he was following you back to the front of the shop. You assembled everything into a bag for Angel to take with him, grabbing one of your cards from the front card-holder, and quickly jotting your number on the back next to your where the instagram handle for your art page was neatly printed, hoping he didn’t notice your sneaky little move.

Angel resumed his comfortable lean against the counter, turning and tilting his forearm, scrutinizing your work.

“It’s gonna be a clean one-fifty, Angel.”

He looked slightly surprised at the figure, a light frown dusting his features.

“You sure about that? For the size, and the color, and time and everything? It’s been, like, hours.”

You shrugged.

“We’ll call it the friends-and-family rate.”

He gave you a long look, very clearly looking you up and down now, a prolonged edition of the greeting he had graced you with when he had entered your shop mere hours before.

“And is that what we are now, querida? Friends?”

How was it even possible for his voice to reach such a low register when he said these things to you?

While your insides flip-flopped at the flirtation, you hoped your face was the impassive mask you were trying to school it into. You subtly brushed your slightly-sweating palms against the frayed hem of your shorts before bringing an elbow up to the counter, resting your chin in your palm, lightly batting your lashes at him before responding...

“Sure,” you replied. There! Easy, breezy, cool-as-you-please. How does it feel, Angel?

“One day with you and friends already?” He rapped his ringed hand gently against the counter. “Can’t wait to see where we’re at tomorrow.”

He swiped the bag off of the counter, tossing a few crisp bills onto the countertop and a wink over his shoulder before exiting the shop.

You counted the bills on the counter, watching as Angel left the building.

Holy shit.

Three hundred bucks. He had tipped you 100 percent of what you charged him.

Cheeky.

Maybe Santo Padre wasn’t so bad, after all…

---

Now, staring at him from across the room made you feel like you were drowning in the sickly-sweet cotton candy of sugared dreams, now lost to time. The saccharine balm melted to acrid wax, leaving you with only the tinge of bitterness.

You were jostled out of your reverie by the sudden appearance of EZ’s blocky frame, ambling toward you with the same girl from before on his arm.

He greeted you with a slow wave and a soft smile.

“Hey, girl,” he greeted, clearly unsure of how much friendlier and closer he should approach you.

You took mercy on Angel’s sweet, (big) little brother, opening your arms slightly for a hug. EZ took to the gesture like an over-excited golden retriever, scooping you up and spinning you once, before putting you back where he found you, slightly dizzier than you were before.

He offered your name to the girl by his side, who looked pleasantly amused at the spectacle before her, her amusement melting to recognition at the name EZ had imparted to her.

Ah. So she knew who you were.

You tried not to let that realization sour your encounter, easing a practiced smile onto your features and offering your hand to the girl to shake.

“Oh!” EZ chuckled. “This is Gaby -- er, Gabriela.”

“Encantada,” you eased, gently shaking her hand before having a realization of your own. “Gaby, as in Leti’s friend?”

She nodded, a warm smile illuminating her already sunshiney features. You could see why EZ obviously liked her. She had the practiced social grace of a debutante, but the friendly aura of someone you had known for your entire life.

“I hope you’re keeping Ezekiel out of trouble,” you teased gently.

“Only as well as I can,” she replied. EZ rubbed the back of his neck as you two gossiped about him like he wasn’t standing right there.

“Listen, hermanita,” EZ began, swirling the dregs of his beer around the bottle clutched in his hand as the conversation lapsed into comfortable silence, “About Angel --”

That was a hard no.

“Coco!” You called as you spotted the lithe man prowling through the crowd after obtaining a drink from the bar, effectively shutting EZ up.

Coco sidled over, slinging an arm over your shoulder and nodding in greeting to EZ and Gaby.

“Wassup, chiquita? Over here with all the cool kids?”

“You know damn well I was never cool enough for the cool kids,” you knocked your shoulder into Coco’s good-naturedly.

“Dunno about that, pequeña,” Coco took a drag of his cigarette, sighing as he exhaled. “I’ve got some pretty cool body armour thanks to you.”

“All in a day's work,” you mock-saluted. You were doing great. Keep it light, keep it friendly. You may be able to make it out of this unscathed, after all.

Gaby and EZ were speaking softly to one another just to your side, as you and Coco continued your conversation.

“So, who’s the new guy?” You asked, nodding over to where Angel and the still-unnamed newbie were tossing back shots. You tried to ignore that each one had girls placed on each of their laps. Well, mostly you were trying to ignore one girl placed on one lap; tried to ignore as ringed fingers trailed up and down her thigh hypnotically as he howled in laughter at something the new guy had said.

The longer you stared at the way he was touching her, the more You thought you could feel it on your own skin. And you knew all too well how that touch felt. Memories, make you, right?

You blinked harshly, turning your face back to Coco’s, only to find his hawkish eyes trained on you as he continued to smoke. Now you were certain he had seen everything you had, and more. And you cursed yourself for slipping. Because nothing slipped past Coco.

He took mercy on you nevertheless.

“Andres. He’s aight. You may not remember him from before, when he was just a prospect.”

“Guess not,” you agreed, shrugging amiably, suddenly very interested in toying with the hem of your flowy little summertime skirt.

“Mierda,” you heard Coco hiss, glancing up to see none other than the new guy -- Andres -- walk over, his arm around the waist of the girl from his lap, accompanied by none other than Angel Reyes, furnished with his own lap-turned-arm candy. She was giggling in his ear, popping her gum and bumping her hips against Angel’s as she walked by his side.

You felt EZ stiffen from your other side.

Great.

The easy smile you’d had when conversing with Coco now felt positively screwed into place, settling unnaturally, a stranger's face made up of your own features.

Andres smirked at you in greeting, eyes trailing over you -- the most unwelcome iteration of that gesture in this context to-date.

“I hear you’re the girl to see about some ink.”

You bit back the snarky response that rose to your tongue. You see anyone else here, tonto?

“Sure am,” you replied, cool as you pleeeeaseeee. Maybe a little too cool. The ice in your voice was obvious to everyone except the strangers before you.

You really were doing great, weren’t you?

“Great,” the new meat brushed the girl off from his side, plopping unceremoniously into your chair. “You did that right?” He pointed behind you to where Angel was standing, gesturing at his arm and your miniscule mural of memorial greenery.

“Cierto.” You nodded, sparing Angel’s arm the barest of glances.

“Aight, well, none of that girly shit, alright, sweetheart? Angel may have had the good grace not to say anything, but flowers ain’t really my style, yeah?”

What the fuck.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Coco visibly tense next to you, obviously displeased at the uncalled-for critique of your work. Of a piece he himself had often admired. He would never admit it, but he thought the story behind it was even better. It’s like you had walked out of some shitty romcom Leti watched with her tittering friends and into Angel’s dreams, sinking yourself beneath Angel's skin like a dream he would recount to all of his friends. Coco knew the most about you by nature of Angel's second-hand stories when you were together. Although Coco thought, once he had met you, Angel's stories didn't do you justice. How wonderful and talented you were. How warm and welcoming.

Angel watched the exchange silently, clearly none too keen to defend the piece you had designed for him. That had come to mean so much to you.

That stung.

You winced, almost imperceptibly. But you were certain Coco saw it, not much escaping his sniper’s eyes. EZ, with his owlish perception and photographic memory, certainly would have seen it, too. If Angel saw it, it’s not like he was going to say anything now.

Where the fuck was Aneesa? Wasn’t she supposed to be heading this kind of shit off? You glanced over at the couches in the corner where your friend had previously been sitting with GIlly, and was now nowhere to be seen. Fuckin’ typical.

“Aight, no más flores." No more flowers. “What were you thinking, then?”

That was you, ever the professional.

Andres showed you his phone, a rendering of an old-style beastly cat, like a panther from an old folktale, pulled up in his image search.

“Something for a warrior,” he puffed his chest slightly. “I was thinking here,” he shrugged out of one side of his new kutte, tugging the button-up to expose one side of his chest.

“You got it.”

You set to work, cleaning the area to be inked and getting your tools ready. The rest of the group drifted as the project progressed, clearly not feeling the need to stand there for the entire duration of a tattoo.

You were acutely aware that Angel hadn’t stepped as far away as the others, circumventing the periphery of yours and Andres’ space, not close, but not far. And he still had yet to even look in your direction. Or acknowledge your existence.

You tried your best to ignore the icy shard of Angel’s indifference that was currently wedging its way between your ribs and lodging itself firmly once more into your heart. At this point, you guessed it would never heal.

“Sooooo,” Andres lolled his head to the side of his chair to face you, slinging back the beer from the bottle dangling in his free hand. “I haven’t seen you in a while. You were around a little bit when I was prospecting.”

You opted not to respond, aware that Angel was likely listening, and you would need to choose any words carefully. Andres had no such reservation, clearly uncaring about who might be listening. He pressed on, each word more infuriating than the last.

“You were Angel’s little sidepiece for a while, right?”

You tried to keep your despairing sigh to a quiet little nothing.

“Sure.” You offered lamely. “Sorry, man, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really work better when I’m not talking.”

“S’alright, jaina. I can talk enough for the both of us.”

You hmm’d nonchalantly at that, lip imperceptibly curling over your teeth in distaste at the moniker. You chose instead to focus on the piece. You wouldn’t give a shitty tattoo, even if this guy was a douchebag. And the pleasant buzz of the tattoo gun. Maybe you were etching the lines a little sharper than strictly necessary. If he noticed, Andres gave no indication, continuing on with his diatribe:

“So, what happened? I mean, Angel knocked that other chick up? Ouch, right?”

You were now seeing red, the edges of your vision blurring slightly with angry, pinpricking tears. Thank fuck you were just about done with this.

“But that’s the life right? I mean, we’re not exactly known for being steady with just one chick. You know how it goes ...” He eyed you up and down again, lingering a little too long on your legs before finishing his thought with a smirk “... Clearly.”

You hated his use of “we,” like he was in any way, shape, or form worthy to be in the class of man EZ, Coco, Bishop, or, hell, even Angel, was. None of them would talk to you like this. No matter what Angel had done.

You shut off the gun, pushing back from the space with Andres, spinning in your chair, and grabbing the clean wipes for Andres’ fresh ink. As you dabbed the area and made to bandage it, the oblivious biker grabbed your wrist. None of the teasing fun or gentleness in the same gesture that Angel had imparted when you had first met. No, Andres’ grip hurt. It was all bruising possession and entitlement.

“I think we would have fun, you and I.” He leaned forward and far too into your space, the stale stink of warm beer heavy on his breath.

You wrenched your grip from his, standing quickly and offering him a tight smile, cheeks flaming with your anger and embarrassment. How dare he speak so trivially of your relationship with Angel. How dare he think you were so easily won with his kutte and shitty attitude.

“Uhm,” you tugged your fingers agitatedly through the ends of your hair, chewing your lip. “You’re all set, Andres. Aftercare sheet is on the table next to you. It’s on the house. Happy patch party!” Your voice sounded so shrill and fake in your own head, but you just didn’t have it in you to care at the moment.

With that, you quickly whirled on your heel, in a distressed flurry past the Angel-shaped blur who had been watching the entire encounter, and out of the clubhouse door into the cooler late-night air.

Getting heavy to breathe in this room together. It’s so awkward, we can’t seem to do it better. Can’t we just fake a smile and put our shit to the side?

---

Angel had waited a whopping 18 hours to text you after your clandestine tattooed meet-cute.

You were in the middle of exchanging consultation e-mails with a prospective client when your phone had buzzed.

“Vince?” The text read.

You bit back a smirk before responding,

“Vince? No Vince here. This is Frida’s phone.”

You watched as the little bubbles appeared in the corner, disappeared for a second, and then reappeared. You were grateful for the little manifestation of Angel’s hesitance. It made him seem more human. And it made you appreciative that he was clearly trying to choose his words with you, when words had seemed to come so easily to him when you had met.

“My bad. Oh, beautiful, talented Frida.”

You couldn’t hold back the smile on your features now. Grateful it was still you and only you in the shop so that no one could see your “obviously-texting-a-cute-guy” face.

“It’s nice to hear from you, Angel. Good thing you didn’t throw away the card.”

“That card was clearly a gift, querida. Much like the pretty flowers on my arm.” He snapped you a picture of his tattoo, the healing process underway.

“Looks great!” You sent, cringing at your lack of ability to effectively flirt via text. It was something that your friends had teased you relentlessly about back in the Town -- your notorious lack of game. No! New home, new you! Be cute. Be cute.

“So, if I’ve given you all the gifts, what do I get?” You sent with a “thinking” emoji.

Angel at least had the decency to wait a minute or two before replying, either thinking about his response or keeping you in suspense… you weren’t sure. But you were grateful for the little opportunity to catch your breath. How did he make you so speechless when he wasn’t even in the room with you? Some things just weren’t fair.

“Niña, I paid you for this ink. What more could you possibly want from me?”

Tricky Angel. Zorro. Like a little fox, he had effectively maneuvered the conversation back to you -- the ball was in your court. Would you tell him what you wanted?

You chewed the end of your fingernail thoughtfully before responding.

“You texted me, boy. Are you sure it isn’t you who wants something?”

If only your friends could see you now. That was damn smooth.

“Boy?”

You snorted to yourself. Trust a guy like Angel to get hung up on something small like that. The bubbles reappeared.

“I was thinking about this pretty girl I met the other day. Hell of an artist. But a shit poet. Thought I would see if she was free sometime?”

Angel was merciful. You could kiss him. Had he seriously just taken all the weight out of this conversation? Your heart felt a million pounds lighter in your chest, knowing he was asking you. The wave of relief that he wanted to see you again crashed through you, replaced in the tide with the backdraft of a feeling of mischievousness. You wouldn’t let him off so easily.

So you waited before responding. Let him sweat a little, right?

Only… you weren’t sure Angel was sweating as much as you were, fingers itching with the desire to text him back and accept immediately.

When what had felt like an eternity (but in reality had only been about seven minutes) had passed, you picked up your phone, opening the conversation with Angel.

“She’s free next Thursday … After your bike week, el rey de los bandoleros.”

You put your phone back down on the counter, grinning like an idiot, feeling like you had just swallowed a bunch of bubbles. You entertained the notion that if your combat boots weren’t keeping your feet weighted to the floor, you would have floated away.

Your phone dinged once more.

“See you then, mi reina.”

Time passes slowly the more you want it to go quickly. And whenever you have a deadline you’re dreading, it gallops ahead. Time really is that bitch, and she does not give a fuck about your feelings.

The following Thursday felt like it took a year to arrive. But it found you closing up the shop, your stomach fluttering with butterflies and pop rocks, adorned in your favorite pair of jeans and boots, a clean, flattering tank top that showed off your own ink. You hoped it was fine for whatever Angel had in mind.

Honestly, he hadn’t said anything about your date. A few flirtatious texts here and there? Obviously. You sent him photos of the pieces you had done for new clients. He sent you ridiculous selfies and a couple of group pics of him and his friends at the biker event. One guy who kept popping up in the photos, Angel had told you, was his “little” brother. But there was nothing “little” about that dude.

You loved seeing all of Angel’s goofy, smiling faces. Treasuring the photos in your small moments of quiet downtime.

The rumbling of a bike engine greeted your ears, like the seductive purr of a large cat. You glanced up, a full Cheshire grin alighting your features at the sight of Angel’s gorgeous, deep forest green bike, and the man of the hour looking very at home on the seat.

He rolled to a stop in front of you, unclipping his helmet and dismounting with his winning trademark smirk, ambling over to greet you.

“Frida,” he scooped you into a hug, his tall frame causing you to lift, your toes now barely brushing the ground as he brought you to his height. He pressed a soft kiss to your check, setting you down gently and letting you get your bearings, chuckling pleasantly at the obvious, dizzying effect his greeting had had on you.

“Angelito,” you returned. “Back in one piece?”

“Hail to the king, baby,” he countered.

“Yeah, yeah,” you teased, scuffing the toe of your boot into the gravel of the lot. “So, where are you taking me, o benevolent one?”

“Just gonna hafta find out.” He handed his helmet to you, helping you clip and tighten it beneath your chin. “Ever ridden before?”

“Uhm, well, sure” you replied too assuredly, quickly realizing your slip. “I mean, no. Not like that. I mean, yes, like that. But not on one of these.” Fuck. Could you be more embarrassing?

Angel released a full-bellied laugh at your response, his head tossing back a little.

“You’ll have to tell me more about alla that later, cielo.” You put your head in your palm willing the embarrassment to go away. Angel quickly pried your hands away, cupping your cheeks with his own warm hands, long fingers brushing your cheekbones reverently. “In the meantime, just hang on, okay?”

You nodded, still cursing your idiot-brain that had partnered with the dirtiest corners of your mind to take over your mouth. Shut the fuck up, dumb-dumb.

You clung to Angel as he drove, your hands roaming his firm torso probably a little too-familiarly. You enjoyed the way the wind whipped around you, tugging at yours and Angel’s clothes as you made your way up the canyon overlooking the desert that was Santo Padre.

Angel parked his bike on the ridge overlooking the town, the sun beginning its descent in the desert sky in swirling hues of pastels and cotton candy pink-purple-blue overtaking the orange hue.

You had never been up here before, and you told Angel as much. He looked pleased at that, pleased that he was the one to show you the best view of the Santo Padre sunset.

Angel busied himself unpacking the bags on the side of his bike while you enjoyed the scenery. Pulling out a couple of wrapped sandwiches and bottles of water, he handed yours to you, coming to stand next to you on the ridge.

"Thanks," you acknowledged, looking at the offerings. "What, no beer?"

Angel chuckled a little at that.

"I ain't tryna liquor you up, niña. Besides, you want warm beer that's been rattling around on my bike all afternoon?"

You crinkled your nose a little at that. "No," you decided. "Never mind. Besides, I'm more of a whiskey girl."

Angel glanced at you, sipping on his own water idly.

"Really?"

"Really," you confirmed. "Don't tell me you're one of those guys who thinks it's impressive when a girl drinks whiskey because it's such a 'man thing.' "

Angel held up one hand, defensively.

"Nunca. Just took you for more of a… dunno? Maybe a rum kinda girl?"

"Don't think so. For now, though? Water and sandwiches do me just fine. Whiskey can come later." You took a bite of the now-unwrapped sandwich. "This is good," you confirmed around a slightly-full mouth. "Did you make this?"

"Of course. Pop owns the butcher shop down the street from your parlour. Sliced the meat myself, an' all," he said, a little proudly now that he knew you approved of his sandwich-making skills.

"Bueno," you giggled. "Thank you for this, Angel. Really. This is one of the nicest nights I've had since moving here." You shuffled a little closer to where he was standing, looking in his eyes as you thanked him.

"Bah," he waved away your compliments, "it ain't alla that. This can't be the most exciting thing you've done since getting here."

"Maybe it is," you pressed. "I dunno. Maybe I'm too boring for the king of the bikers?"

"I doubt that very seriously, querida," he turned his body so he was facing you now, sandwich long gone, fiddling with the water bottle in his hands. "You play your cards right, I'll introduce you to the rest of the club. Then things'll get really exciting."

You blinked. One date and he already was thinking about introducing you to his friends? Your inner shy romantic (okay, not so "inner," right? You're pretty clear about who you are) was doing little somersaults in your chest.

You must've been silent a beat too long because Angel was quick to supplement, "Only if you want."

"I'd like that," you confirmed, nodding and smiling gently.

"So, are you gonna tell me what brings an East Bay girl here?"

You raised a brow. You didn't remember telling him where you moved from. He rubbed his hand along the back of his neck nervously, realizing you'd caught his slip.

"I maaaay have scrolled your Instagram?"

You finished your sandwich, thinking about how much you wanted to tell him.

"Just time for a change of scenery. Olí is an old friend, and he offered me a job. I think he wants to travel more." You shrugged, "It just felt like it was time. Plus, I dunno… I like it here. Much quieter."

Angel nodded at that, not having the heart to tell you that his club was not at all quiet and was the source of the disruption in the otherwise-quaint town.

You kept talking, telling him about the friends you'd left behind, your old shop, weekends spent in the park surrounding Lake Merritt, and going to Raiders games. Angel took in your features as you spoke, the golden light of the sunset making you glow like something out of a dream he'd had once. Your eyes sparkled as you talked about things you loved, the books and art that inspired your poetry. How you'd gone to art school. You were something.

"-- Sorry, I'm rambling," you breathed in a rush, flush with the amount of talking you'd been doing in a record amount of time. "What? Do I have something in my teeth?"

Angel realized he'd been staring as long as you'd been talking.

"No, querida. Nothing in your teeth." He gave you a dazzlingly white smile.

"Oh thank God," you returned his smile with a small one of your own, shying a little under his gaze, and wondering how long he had been looking at you like that as you'd talked.

He leaned over you now, his height giving him the definite advantage as he'd -- not unwelcomely-- invaded your space. He brought one hand up to cup your chin, his dark eyes revealing flecks of sparkling gold in the pastel wash of the sunset as his gaze once again met yours.

You saw his quick glance down at your lips, you unconsciously giving a small nod before his warm lips met yours.

Oh.

You had obviously been kissed before, been the recipient of past romantic attention. All of that paled in comparison, melting away as Angel's full lips maneuvered over yours, both of his large, calloused hands gently brushing your cheeks as he cupped your face, sliding one hand down to rest on the side of your neck.

You sighed lightly, one of your own hands twined into his shirt, the other resting on the side of his firm torso.

Angel took the opportunity to slide his tongue past your lips, your own brushing against his as the kiss deepened.

You were in no hurry for the kiss to end, enjoying the way everything about Angel was so warm, something that was surprisingly welcome, despite the ever-present desert heat of Santo Padre. You could get used to this.

You had only known Angel a short time, realistically. Your one meeting spawning a series of flirtatious texts and snaps, and now this date that, while low-key, felt almost too perfect to be real. He made you feel safe, desired.

You could already feel him slipping beneath your skin to rest in a special place in your heart. And while you as a person were generally reticent to share that part of yourself with anyone, you had a feeling Angel could take up permanent residence there. If he wanted.

You dropped from your tip-toes, effectively breaking the kiss.

Angel blinked, looking down at you and noting the pleasant glow on your skin, lips now slightly swollen from his kiss. He could get used to this.

The rest of the evening passed in a pleasant blur, trading quips and stories as the sun went down. Angel told you about his club, his brothers. About his pop and Ezekiel, and how at one time, he enjoyed being the bigger brother, teasing, pranking and lording over EZ until EZ had hit his growth spurt and could (and would) definitely hit back.

As he drove you home, you snuggled a little bit against him, pressing yourself into his back and enjoying the way you swore you could feel his heart pounding through the kutte and over the rumble of the bike and the road.

He'd dropped you off with a parting kiss and the promise of another date.

Another date turned into several. Time you weren't at the shop was now spent with Angel, showing him what you were working on, inviting him over for dinners and to watch mindless television while he told you what he could about his day.

The both of you were slowly peeling back the layers around your respectively guarded hearts, revealing more of yourselves only to be met with pure acceptance by the other. Even blindados had to take off their armour at some point.

You cherished your time with Angel, and he quickly found himself stumbling, head over his own biker-booted heels for you.

After a few months had passed, he had brought you to meet the club. You had manifested nothing but general acceptance of his lifestyle and were eager to meet the people Angel had so obviously cared for. Who had helped shape him into the brash but conscientious person he was with you.

And one sunny afternoon had found you bringing lunch you had made for the entire club over to the scrapyard, Angel agreeing with your plan. You never were one to show up empty-handed.

As you walked across the yard, past the gate, and into the clubhouse, your eyes adjusting to the dim interior from the blinding sun outdoors, Angel bounded over to greet you. Taking the bag full of homemade goodies from your arms, he pressed quick kisses to your cheeks, and one to your forehead.

He turned, met with the pleasantly-surprised stares of his brothers. He announced your name to the room before turning to you, pointing at each man and supplying a name. You nodded, smiling and offering a warm wave to each.

The man you knew to be EZ from all of Angel's initial texts and photos quickly strode over to you, shaking your hand in his impressively firm grip before bending down to press a quick kiss to your cheek with a,

"Bienvenido, hermanita. Angel's told me a lot about you. Won't shut up, really," giving you a sly wink as Angel swatted EZ's arm in annoyance at his brother's revelation.

Boys.

The smaller man with the sharp eyes and full curls you knew to be Coco made his way over to where you were now seated as Angel went to get you both drinks, the other men digging into your offerings as you made yourself comfortable.

He sat next to you, tossing you a, "You mind?" Lighting his cigarette after you’d shaken your head.

He studied you through his own plumes of smoke before leaning across the table and speaking to you, lowly and with an almost conspiratorial rasp to his voice,

"You did that cover-up for Angel?" He asked on a smooth exhale.

"Mhmm," you nodded. "He gave me free reign. I was nervous he'd hate it."

Coco seemed to chew over your words for a dragging moment. You shifted in your seat. He was definitely sizing you up.

"Bold move, pequeña, giving the secretario of a biker club a sleeve of flowers."

"I suppose it was," you sighed, more than a little uncertain now. "But it felt meaningful, right, I guess. I just sort of… started drawing. I… think it worked out, though?" You trailed off.

Coco nodded. "It's a fuckin' good piece, mami. Angel told me what you'd said about memories making you who you are." He snorted lightly through his nose. "It's funny. We've never even met before, and you're already sounding like me."

A small smile played across his lips, returning it with one of your own.

"I'm glad you approve," you nodded. "Angel's opinion obviously matters, and don't tell him I told you this, but it means alot coming from one of his family."

And that's what they were. His family. You could see it. The obvious camaraderie and care underlying each of their actions with the other. You admired the system of support, cushioned by good humor, despite being flung regularly into harsh reality. It was clear -- they were there for one another.

Coco's voice broke your train of thought,

"Maybe you got space for me in your books one-a these days?"

Your small smile was a full-blown, sunny grin now.

"Of course. Anytime you want to drop by, you're more than welcome."

"Gracias, chica." Coco leaned across the table and patted your shoulder before getting up and taking his leave.

And so it went. The boys would filter through your shop. Olí teasing you about his offense that all of his most lucrative, inked clients were now going to you.

You enjoyed the time working on pieces for them afforded you -- offering you a glimpse into their inner workings, what they felt was important enough to take up permanent residence along their skin. Making idle chit-chat with you while you worked. And always, always sharing embarrassing little anecdotes about Angel.

The months passed with you and Angel, finding comfort in your unpredictable, but welcome, respective routines.

One night in particular found Angel wrapped up in your embrace, the physical embodiment of your gradual and growing trust in one another.

He had arrived home more than a little rattled, his eyes wildly darting to the corners of the room before settling in you, exhaling a shaky breath before striding the length of the room and crushing you to him, pressing a bruising kiss to your lips.

You understood he probably couldn't tell you what had happened, but you asked anyway, needing him to know you would hear him.

"Angelito, everything okay?"

He shook his head softly in the negative, but didn't elaborate.

You pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Okay. We don't have to talk about it," you wound your arms up and around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer to you. "But it's going to be okay. I've got you. I won't let go."

He gripped your wrists, pulling your hands from his neck and sliding your arms down, bringing them to rest around his waist. Once he had positioned you where he wanted, he brought his hands to cup your cheeks, eyes heavy and dark with the weight of his stormy thoughts.

He nodded at what you had said before bringing his lips back to yours.

You brought one hand up to meet his, where it rested along your cheek. You twined your fingers through, joining your hands while breaking the kiss. You lead him through the apartment, bringing him to the bedroom. You had music softly playing from your speaker in the corner, candles lit to bathe the room in ambient glow and a warm, honey smell, all in anticipation of Angel's eventual arrival home.

You silently gestured for him to sit on the edge of the bed, where you took your seat next to him.

You tugged the leather kutte from his shoulders, folding it reverently and placing it on the chair near the bed. He exhaled in relief, shoulders sagging once the leather manifestation of his obligation to a darker world had been removed. The weight of the world a little less on the mantle of his shoulders.

You turned your attention to his feet next, unlacing and tugging off his boots. Then, his belt.

Once he was just in his jeans and his t-shirt, you resumed your seat at his side, bringing him back into your embrace and carding your hands through his hair, as his head rested on your shoulder.

Angel spoke, voice cracking as he broke the seal of silence in the room.

"It was… it was awful, Frida." He sighed. "I do everything they ask. It's my job … Fuck. Sometimes I wonder how much more my heart can take. But then, I get to come home to you."

His breath was shuddering now.

And while you didn't always know what to say -- it was a rare sight to see Angel so rattled. But you were a caregiver by nature, ready to give him the pieces of yourself that would make him feel whole.

You guided him down so that he could recline, you came to rest at his side, winding your arms around his torso, your face turned into his neck, cuddling him as he came down from the mania of his emotional high.

The moments passed, Angel's breathing leveling again as you stroked his hair in time to the soft music.

He turned his head to look at you, admiring the flutter of your lashes as you blinked at him, your gaze warm and adoring, full of twinkling fairy light and starshine.

"Te amo, querida," Angel breathed. This was not the first time he had said it to you during your months together. But each time felt as momentous as the first, each declaration of love felt like the slip of something sweet, and you were determined to store it in your heart and mind forever.

"I love you too, Angel. More than anything," you murmured. "I love your smile, your sense of humor, your strength." You pressed kisses to his face and neck with each admission. "Mostly, I love your strength. And that you trust me enough to tell me when you don't always feel it."

He sucked in a shuddering breath before whispering to you,

"I love your mind. How creative you are. How you see everything so beautiful, just like you," he hmm’d. "Mostly I love your trust. And that you choose to give it to me."

You kissed him again, leaning over him with your entire body, pressing your palms gently into his shoulders.

As your kiss deepened, you each began to tug at the other. His hands carded through your hair, tugging gently, but firmly. You lifted his shirt from his torso, the kiss breaking so you could peel it away.

You divested one another of each layer, baring yourselves to the other, body and soul. Again, this wasn't the first time you had done this. But this felt momentous nonetheless.

Angel skimmed his hands over your form, running his hands softly down and over your breasts, loving your soft sigh at his touch.

You leaned over him once more, reluctantly removing his hands from you, and placing them gently down at his sides.

"Your heart is mine, mine to protect," You hummed softly, invading his senses and placing kisses down Angel's neck and to his chest, trailing your lips lovingly over Angel's heart, and pressing one last deliberate kiss there. "And I take my job very seriously."

As you kissed him, you lightly trailed your fingers down his torso, coming to rest at his hip.

Your declaration was met with silence; you glanced up at Angel through your lashes only to find him already looking down through heavy-lidded eyes at you, his now swirling with some unnamed, weighted emotion.

You trailed your hand across his hip, not breaking eye contact as you took his hardening length into your hand. He inhaled sharply at the sensation of your grip, but refused to look away as you began to pump him slowly, still pressing kisses to his hips, torso and thighs.

"Please, querida," Angel gasped.

"Please, what?" You murmured back, your voice taking a throaty register you reserved strictly for private moments with your beloved.

"Please… use your pretty mouth?"

You nodded.

"Relájate, baby, I've got you," you assured. Sweeping your hair back, the action washing Angel with the sweeping comfort of your scent as you made your way lower down his body.

Angel slumped back against the bedspread, glittering galaxy eyes still trained on you as you lavished him with attention.

You took the opportunity to flatten your tongue, licking a broad stripe up the length of him, one hand braced against his firm thigh, the other holding him gently at the base of his cock as you worked.

You swirled your tongue around the tip of him, delighted at his throaty moans, feeling the effect they had on you, making you feel like you were burning from the inside, feeling the slickness from your own center as your thighs rubbed together.

Taking Angel wholly into your mouth now, you bobbed over him, relishing in the heavy feel of him in your mouth and the throaty groans you received from Angel in response.

Before you could spend too long lavishing him with attention, Angel tugged on your hair at the base of your neck. Following his grip, you lifted your head and released him from, watching (a little greedily) as his thick length bobbed against him when you relinquished him from the confines of your mouth.

He guided you up his body, hand still knotted in your hair, pushing his mouth onto yours, uncaring of the saliva on your lips and chin, and the taste of himself on your tongue.

You straddled his hips, surging the rest of the way up his body and effectively deepening the kiss. The hand that was once in your hair now made its way to loosely grip at your throat, the other skimming his way down your breasts, across your ribs and toward your center.

As his fingers traced through your folds, you involuntarily rolled your hips into his hand, alight at his touch, and desperately seeking more.

Angel touching you was like the shock of a live wire. Every time felt just as electric as the last, goosebumps erupting across your flesh as his fingers traced across your skin.

He chuckled through your fused mouths, drawing back at your reaction and the wetness he found between your legs.

"Eager, amor?" Every word fell that fell from his lips sounded like a dangerous purr.

You nodded, drunk on the way Angel's hand gently squeezed your throat, while the other was teasingly making its way to-and-fro across your wet folds, occasionally making his way up to lightly circle and press his thumb over your clit, making your eyelids flutter. Your hips continued to rock against his hand, silently begging for more, his teasing touch making you more than a little crazy.

"Yeah?" Angel asked, his voice thick and syrupy, the timbre like dark clouds. "That shit turn you on? Sucking my cock?"

His words combined with his touch made another rush of heat flood through you. You were certain you would pass out, that your knees would buckle. And you were doing so well, holding your place up and over his hips while he played with you.

The hand on your throat gripped a little tighter, causing your eyes to flutter shut.

"Nuh-uh, baby," he shook you lightly, all mirth gone from his eyes, no more pleasant, smiling crinkles at the corners. His full lips pressed firmly together. "I asked you a question. You answer that shit"

He pressed two fingers teasingly against your entrance, refusing to insert them, despite the little roll of your hips.

"Y-yeaahh," you sighed, head tossed back, "I-I fucking love it -- love you, Angel."

He rewarded you by sliding a long finger into you, allowing you to ride his hand. The hand still around your throat guiding you forward, over him, allowing him to press hot, open-mouthed kisses, first to your lips, dirty and raw, like an exposed nerve in his unabashed want for you.

He relinquished his hold on your neck, allowing him to trail his lips and his tongue there, kissing you softly behind your ear, down and around your neck to your collarbones, all while his fingers continued their earnest treatment inside of you, his thumb now pressing to your clit, your warming crescendo building.

Using his height and the fact that you were straddling him, Angel encouraged you to lean forward, allowing him to capture one of your breasts in his grip, his mouth following. His warm tongue swirled around your nipple before he sucked the bud into his mouth, grazing his teeth ever so gently over your sensitive flesh.

Angel's attention was rewarded with your gasping sighs and breathy moans. How anyone could make you feel this good was beyond you. Angel had an uncanny ability to elicit responses and feelings like no other person before him.

You felt the thrumming hum and warm, sticky wave of your orgasm building as Angel worked his fingers inside of you, stroking that particular spot from within that he knew would be your undoing.

"O-oh," you whined, keening noises caught in your throat. "Please, baby, I n-need you. Need you inside."

The room was sweltering. Or was it just you? Angel withdrew his fingers smoothly, not sparing you the chance to be disappointed at the loss of feeling as he smoothly flipped the two of you, guiding you down to the mattress and hovering over your trembling form.

"Yeah?" Angel asked. "You ready for that, querida?"

You gazed up at him through your lashes, longingly. He would give everything, anything, that he had in the world if you only looked at him like that forever, gaze full of warmth, heat, and unfiltered, starry adoration.

"Mmm," you nodded, "Please? Angel?"

He was only a man, after all. Who was he to refuse when you asked so prettily for him?

He gently turned you over so that your back was to him, running his hands down the slope of your back and guiding you to your knees, propping your hips up.

Positioning himself behind you, Angel resumed his grip on your throat, using it to guide your head around so that he could kiss you again while he guided himself inside of you. You moaned into the kiss at the sensation, never tired of feeling every ridge of his thick cock sliding into you like he belonged there.

Angel groaned, breaking the kiss and shaking his head, chuckling darkly, his eyes flashing as he swore,

"Never fuckin' get tired of that shit," he began to move his hips, using his other hand that was gripping your hip to guide you along his lengthy, meeting his thrusts. "Never tired of your pussy … You're so … good."

Angel's words coupled with his thrusts were driving you crazy, causing you to eagerly meet him with the momentum of your own hips, the heat in the room spliced with the distinctive noise of his skin meeting yours.

Angel, leaning over your back, crowded your every sense, the taste of him, of his kisses still lingering on your tongue. Your ears met with the harmony of your two bodies and the filthy words and sounds coming from Angel's mouth. The sight of him was as intoxicating as ever, as you looked over your shoulder at him, the shadows of the room playing across his tawny skin, glimmering in the low light with the sheen of sweat you knew was also present on yours.

“Say my name,” Angel pants into the slick skin on your back, kissing a line down your spine, his body covering yours possessively.

You were too caught up in everything Angel, failing to respond quickly enough for his liking as you gasped at every thrust.

A crack of heat flashed across your ass, Angel swatting you there once. You should be annoyed, but you couldn't lie -- you fucking loved it when he was like this. Only for you.

"A-angel," you sighed, the crescendo of your orgasm climbing, threatening to burst any second, you tightening around Angel.

"Bueno," he purred. "You close? Yeah, you fucking are," Angel snarled, taking in the way you threw your hips back desperately to meet him, squirming one hand beneath you to touch yourself. "You can have it, baby, I'll make it good. You just gotta ask pretty for me."

You deepened the arch in your back, flexing your hips back toward Angel, and gripping the bedspread before you in your fingers, face pressed flush with the sheets, your other hand still pressed to your clit.

Angel tilted your head, leaning over further and gripping your jaw, squeezing to pucker your cheeks. He kissed you, sucking your lower lip between his. He kissed you gently, a deceptive contrast to the hand gripping your face, his hips snapping into yours at a now-brutish pace. He pecked another light kiss to your lips, followed by another, gently biting your lip and dragging it lightly as he drew his face from yours.

He released your lips as you whispered another plea into his mouth.

"Come on then, baby."

Your orgasm washed over you, pinpricks of striking matches splintering across your skin, followed by a euphoric wave of white-heat, blissfully soothing every nerve it had just lit.

Angel followed, emptying himself into you with a few final thrusts, groaning at the way you tightened just so around him.

He withdrew gently, collapsing next to you as you both caught your breath.

Your lashes fanned your cheeks as you blinked hazily at the form of your love through the soft glow of the room.

"I do love you, Angel," you told him, leaning across the sheets to rub your nose back and forth against his, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, grazing your soft fingers against the lines of his forehead, easing them away into an expression of soft serenity. "Always."

---

Now, you walked out of the clubhouse, around to the side of the porch, a quiet corner away from the noise. Willing yourself to calm down as small, hot tears trickled their way, uninvited, down your cheeks.

Your thoughts were moving a million miles a second, the battle of luck you were waging with the universe saw you quickly losing.

The year you spent with Angel replaying itself in your mind. Every word, every touch, that goddamn tattoo. Remembrance, my ass. How you would hold him when he came home too high-strung and strung-out emotionally for words. How you would save the best leftovers for him when you knew he had been away and would be craving the Chinese food from the place down the block when he got back. How he felt inside of you on the coldest nights and in the most tender mornings. How he would whisper enchanting endearments into the shell of your ear as he rolled his hips into yours, your mind and body completely his. How you would wear his shirts and overly-large socks around his apartment, leaving doodles and scribbled poems on sticky notes for him to find in his moments alone. How he kissed you warmly, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like syrupy possession that you never wanted to end.

How it did end. How he had thrown out your world, crumpled it into a crushed paper ball and tossing it away with the carelessness of a child. Ending things with seemingly no spare thought for your feelings. How EZ had let slip when he saw you in town that Angel was expecting a kid, the timing of everything suddenly making a little more sense. How it made you feel, now that you knew you were wholly his, but he was never entirely yours. How you had kept to yourself in the months that followed, the cracks in your heart widening until you felt like you would drown in them.

The pulse of your feelings for him, always strong; they warm you. But it was still you they all left behind.

Your thoughts were still swirling when, off to the side, you heard the porch door open and close again, and you prayed that whomever was coming outside was going to have a smoke out front, or that they were on their way out. That they wouldn’t find you.

But of course, these things never worked out how you wanted them. You cursed any god you could think of for just how un-fucking-lucky you were sometimes.

Because, really, who other than Angel was making his way around the porch to you? Taking in your hunched form as you leaned over the railing, looking anywhere but at him.

Of fucking course.

You kept your eyes down, focused in your clasped hands as you leaned over the railing, refusing to look at him.

And now? Now he was looking at you, and it's the one time you wished he wouldn't.

One thing you wouldn't do, now that he was here, was break the silence first. He didn't want to hear what you'd had to say, so why would you grace him with your thoughts now? Petty? Sure. But you weren't the one in there with your hands on some ass while a so-called friend harassed your ex.

A few uncomfortable beats dragged on before Angel broke the silence, shattering it like glass with a verbal hammer.

"What'd he say to you?"

You remained silent.

"What the fuck did he say, Frida?" His voice angry now, demanding. The same tone he used to break your heart.

"It ain't working. Not my fuckin’ fault you can't see it."

You rolled your eyes, another shard of icy glass painfully wedging into your heart at his use of the name. Still refusing to look in his direction when you replied, softly but sharply,

"You know exactly what he said. What I'm trying to figure out is why, exactly, you care."

"I care, Frida," was all he offered.

You snorted in response. Undignified, sure. But couldn't he see this was killing you? Where was his mercy?

"I do," he insisted, the thud of his boots across the wood of the porch indicating that he was crossing to you, coming to stand a ways behind you.

"I'm not going to do this with you. He said some shit. It's over. We move on. What more could you have to say about that?"

Keep it simple, keep yourself safe. You gave him nothing to say back. And then…

"And if I told you I wanted you? I wanted you back?"

You whipped your head around to -- finally -- meet Angel's eyes, which you did for a fleeting moment before zeroing in once more on your shoes, staring resolutely at the ground. You were not going to let him see you cry again, godfuckingdamnit.

The fleeting glimpse of his face, of his eyes meeting yours once more after all this time, was enough. He looked more tired up close than he had before. Still unfair in his striking beauty, his midnight eyes still enough to pull you in, drown you in their oceanic depths. You hated it. Hated that he still had that power over you. But try as you might, you couldn't hate him.

Your silence was killing Angel with the precision of a thousand miniscule cuts. Each deeper than the last. Until he couldn’t take it any longer. He reached through the space between, for where your hand rested on the railing. You saw the gesture coming, and whipped your hand away at the last moment, cradling it to your chest like he had burned you. You faced him fully now.

You chuckled softly, wryly, and devoid of any humor before you muttered, "You don't want me, baby. Please don't lie."

“And how do you know that’s a lie?” Angel mumbled thickly, working his tongue around the words, through his own emotion.

You scuffed your toe into the hewn wood of the deck, shrugging before you responded, simply,

“If I was what you wanted, you wouldn’t have gone looking elsewhere. And you certainly wouldn't have found someone else. You wouldn’t have said what you said, ended it like you did, with everything on just your terms.” You sighed deeply, with the rattle of tears lodged into your chest before you spoke again, “You made up your mind and never even let me say a word. If you wanted anything to do with me, you could have at least given me a word.”

Angel blinked, hard. The familiar pressure of real tears building behind his eyes. You were right of course. And fuck, weren't you always? You'd always told him like it was, harsh truths that only you could cushion in your gentle, empathetic way.

"Please, querida, just let me explain what happened--"

You held up your hand, shaking your head firmly, effectively silencing Angel.

"No!" Much softer now, "No. I- I'm sorry, Angel, I don't mean to be rude. But, no." Your voice small, but clear, as you'd finally gotten your opportunity to say something back to him. "I, uh, I don't want to hear any explanation, and you really don't have to?"

You lilted the last part like it was a question, but continued on.

"You, um, you've had a lot of time to tell me something, anything, about what the fuck happened. And you didn't. You left me with nothing. Just confusion and hurt, and I've made peace with that. It's taken a while, but … I just… I don't need that from you. I gave you space, always respected your decisions and opinions, and now you won't do the same. You're still trying to take from me. Offering me an explanation now?" You scoffed. "That isn't for me, and don't fuckin’ act like it is -- it's for you. And I understand that, that's fine. I'm not angry at you for that, but I'm also not going to humor it."

You exhaled shakily, you couldn't believe you'd said all of that, that you had made it through.

Angel was speechless. It made your heart feel even sicker -- all of this silence from him for so long, and he'd offered to explain himself and you'd (gracefully) told him to fuck off. Why had you done that??

It was about time you'd stood up for yourself, that's why.

An explanation would be nice, sure. But where Angel's words, whispered affirmations and heady declarations of love, had once made your soul swell and sing… now, you knew, anything he'd had to say to you would only serve to do the opposite.

And your heart, perpetually bruised by nature of you being a hopeless romantic, just couldn't take it.

You hopped off the porch, spinning around to face Angel, finding his eyes on you still. Hadn't you wished for him to look at you? To really see you once more?

"I'm out," you tossed a thumb over your shoulder toward where you'd parked your car. "Sorry, I don't mean to abandon the old post, but uh, I'm sure you guys have someone to fill in. I'll text Aneesa to grab my stuff, don't worry about it."

Like he would, you thought.

You were mostly rambling to yourself, and not really to Angel, as you backed away, fleeing to your car.

Angel watched you go, the resonant ache in his chest that had been ever-present since tossing your stuff out, amplified when Luisa had left him, and now sure to be permanent, buried in cement beneath the weight of his every decision, and every word.

You looked good, he thought. Your hair was longer than when he'd seen you last. Your little skirt flouncing as you strode away. Your skin still glowed, full lips still twisted into that wry smile of yours that he had seen from across the room. All of that was true, but your eyes were also tired, and your smile never quite reached them.

The thought that he was responsible for dimming that sparkle made him feel sicker than he already had. The way you had brushed off Andres, despite his obnoxious insistence, and the things the cocky new patch had said to you -- may as well add those to the ever-growing pile of things stained and tainted by Angel's guilt.

And he was left alone with that guilt as you left the lot. He turned back to the party. His cool facade slipping back into place. Not ready to face the wrath of EZ and Coco, surely waiting inside to proverbially beat his ass.

What would you say if I come over? And we stand face to face now that we're older?

---

Angel shuffled into his apartment, the late hour catching up to his weary form as he ambled over to his bedside, flicking on the lamp.

Rubbing a large hand down his face, he sat on his bed in a huff of exhaustion. Your first encounter in months since he'd all-but tossed you from this very room was pricking him with a kind of nauseating nervous energy. But all he wanted to feel in that moment was you, whether he deserved it or not.

He'd still had it, didn't he? Where was it?

He pulled open the drawer of his nightstand, fishing through its contents for what he hoped was still in there.

His fingers curled over his prize -- a slip of paper adorned with your handwriting. Scrawled lines of poetry on a neon pink Post-It note, curled with age and disuse, something you had left for him while he slept in one morning.

“I was thinking of you,” you had said when he had asked you about it later, shrugging as if it were the most matter-of-fact thing in the world.

Your love for him was clean in its simplicity and forwardness, whenever he could wade his way through the mire of your shy demeanor. You had stuck the Post-It to his nightstand while he was sleeping and you made your way to work. Your words were cramped and crunched into the small paper square, but ready to greet him with the shining light of a sunny new day.

“I see your ardor through a pearlescent lense, and all is pleasantly pink and blurry with you-- Resplendent in your love's solar hope. You are so warm beneath the brush of my fingertips, and I burn. So in love with you, as I am and as I do."

Now, his eyes scanned the words for the millionth time since you had written them. He had committed it to memory by now, wishing he could hold you instead of this crumpled piece of paper, mocking him with its annoyingly bright pink hue.

But how could he? Angel was the kind of man who simmered in his emotion -- burning slowly, lowly, only to reach a pitch. He kept to himself until he couldn’t any longer -- and then it was all bleeding hearts on a very crisp sleeve.

He had done what he had thought was right. Cutting you out with all of the brutality and finesse of a battleaxe, to focus on Luisa and his unborn son. He thought she was what he wanted. But now, he didn’t even have them. He had nothing to show for his decisions but the lonely, sick feeling ever-present in his chest.

The you at the beginning of your relationship would have kissed each bruise in his soul, one by one, until they were better. Would have gifted him with the warmth of your time and attention until he was made whole again with the molten heat of your gracious heart. But the you now?

Angel could never, would never, cover the tattoo on his arm, though he had thought about it. Blacking it out once and for all, so the piece of you he wore on his sleeve would finally match the pitch, and emptiness inside. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was, as he’d said all that time ago, your gift to him. And he’d made you a promise that he wouldn’t.

All he wanted was to look you in the eyes so he could remember that he loved you once.

And not that he had any reason to know it, but across town, you had made it home. Your phone shoved to the bottom of your bag, lighting up with texts from Aneesa, EZ, and Coco. But the only person on your mind was Angel.

How much of what he had said was true? You weren't sure. But you were sure that you knew where you stood, still painfully alone and in love as ever, the cracks in your heart only fillable by the very person you had brushed off earlier.

And, while Angel readied himself for bed, snapping the lights off and attempting to cut through the oppressive darkness by staring at the ceiling with his own penetrative gaze, the empty side of the bed had never felt more cavernous, but more weighted. Mocking.

If Angel was being honest with himself -- something he was never too keen on being in his more sobering moments -- he didn't love you once. He still loved you.

Thinking after all this time, I just wanna meet your eyes so I can remember why... Why I loved you once.

Tagging:

@themarcusmoreno @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @steeeeeeeviebb @qveenbvtch @mxsamwilson @ifimayhaveaword @huliabitch @pettyprocrastination @phoenixhalliwell @flightlessangelwings @cinewhore @velvetmel0n @moonlight-prose @rebeccasficrecs @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @aerolanya @djvrins @jenrebloggingfics @ciriswife @justanotherblonde23 @superhoeva @witching-hour @luckyharley1903

#angel reyes fic #angel reyes x reader #angel reyes x fem!reader #angel reyes x you #angel reyes x oc #angel reyes angst #angel reyes smut #angel reyes #clayton cardenas #mayans mc #mayans fx #mayans #mayans mc fic #my writing #rachel writes #holy shittttt this boy is long #it just got away from me #sorry #loved you once

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dollarstoreartsupplies · 2 years

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I think my favorite thing about a flower shop/tattoo parlor reddie au is that a lot of people’s initial casting of roles doesn’t fit nearly as well as if you swap them.

Tattoo artist Richie like generally makes sense, she’s creative and between the two of them definitely the more artsy bullshit one, but Eddie is absolutely a better fit to work at a tattoo shop. It’s an environment that needs to be kept sterile and it’s an incredibly precise job. I think Eddie is the kind of character that thrives best when you take her out of an office or really high level of education required job settings, like making her a driver or a mechanic or a tattoo artist. (I’m a firm believer she would not even know what a risk analyst Was had pennywise not mind wiped her.) She’s not calm or orderly, in my professional she’s just as ADHD as Richie, it just presents itself in different way.

She would be a great tattoo artist, she’d hold herself to an insane standard and be incredibly detail oriented because she doesn’t want to mess up someone else's body permanently, but she would also meet that standard she’s set every time and have incredibly happy customers.

I also really think Eddie would get tattoos as a way or reclaiming her body as her own, it’s feels like her way of reminding herself that she is her own person instead of someone her mother can control and she’s allowed to do whatever she wants to feel in control and happy with herself.

BUT RICHIE IS MESSY!! Richie is messy creative!! While Eddie is the kind of person who finds perfection in permanence Richie is really good at discovering beauty in things that are temporary.

She’s not detail oriented or all that careful but she does know all her regulars by name and is never attached to arrangements enough to refuse to change something for someone, she names all her plants and treats them like her human children and is allowed to get distracted because flowers are something that can always be rearranged or you can grow more of if something goes wrong. She can do whatever the fuck she wants and if someone else doesn’t like it she can fix it. It’s all very, very low stakes in a very fun way, but because of that she’s really good at it. If it was more stressful she might overthink or get wrapped up in other people’s opinions and fuck it up, but here she can do whatever makes her happy.

I also love fics where they make the flower shop Maggie’s that got passed down to Richie, she loves it because of what it is but also because she grew up in it, learning from her mom, and now she just really, really loves it. I also think it’s a fun contrast between Eddie getting into tattooing as a final break from her mom, totally freeing herself, and Richie working in this flower shop is a tie to her mom, keeping her grounded.

And then,,,, they meet,,,, and they kith,,,, and Richie keeps giving Eddie flowers that mean ‘I love you’ but Eddie isn’t versed in flower language and thinks she’s just being nice and then richie cries about being rejected and all their friends think their fucking dumb

#oh no I wanna write it now #my favorite reddie au of this stopped updating like three years ago but I dont even care its so good #I just think its GOOD #also anything with sorta punk Eddie and Richie wearing overalls has my full heart #fem Reddie #Reddie

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recurring-polynya · 3 years

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Hi Polynya! I’m curious and in the spirit of Ginrei’s birthday, what do you think are his opinions of Rukia and Renji separately and together?

Ha ha, this is such a simple and straightforward question and my answer is going to be so long and so complicated and have almost nothing to do with Rukia and Renji because Ginrei's feelings toward Rukia and Renji have almost nothing to do with Rukia and Renji.

So, I want to start out by saying that Ginrei is a lot like Hisana in the sense that he's a canon character, we get the idea of him and what he's there for, but there's no actual characterization of him, which gives fanfic writers a tremendous amount of leeway to do whatever they want with him. I'm not going to try to justify anything I say here, it's just my ideas and how it goes in my fanfiction. I love it whenever a writer tries to take on the Kuchiki clan and I'm always interested to see what other people's takes are, even when they vary wildly from my own.

I love the fact that "Kuchiki" means "dead tree." We meet Rukia first, and it's sort of a delightfully spoopy name, very appropriate for this salty, overdramatic, grim reaper girl, but it takes on additional meaning when we meet Byakuya, the noble and powerful scion of a dying house.

The thing that makes Ginrei interesting as a character to me is that he is the one who ruled over his house as it fell. I tend to regard filler episodes as semi-canon, so I like the idea of Kouga, even if I don't want to acknowledge the rest of the Zanpakutou Rebellion shenanigans. I think that the main line of the Kuchiki was already running a little thin, Soujun's health was a big concern, and so they marry in this guy who is a scholar and a powerful shinigami. They never say what Kouga's previous social status was, but given that they emphasize what an accomplished dude he is, I think he was chosen for his skills, not his lineage, to strengthen the Kuchiki bloodline, except it backfires. Then Soujun dies, too, a few years later.

Ginrei strikes me as the type of leader who thinks he can control everything. He manages his clan with an iron fist. He is pragmatic, not sentimental. He’s not bad or mean, but he can see that he does not have a lot of room for missteps, and he takes his role very, very seriously. Despite this, he’s lost the generation under him, and all that he has left is Byakuya. There are cousins and branch families, but to the pride of the Kuchiki is its main line, descended from great generals and heroes and the very founders of Soul Society. Byakuya, in a lot of ways, hearkens back to the great Kuchiki of old, and Ginrei sees that he has the potential to reclaim the power and glory of his house. He’s hard on Byakuya and has high expectations for him. Ginrei loved his son and he loves his grandson, but after Soujun’s death, he often wonders if he was too soft on him because of his health, if Soujun would have lived if Ginrei had just expected more of him. Byakuya is the last hope of the Kuchiki and Ginrei knows he can achieve great things, and Ginrei is determined to do everything in his power to make sure Byakuya achieves his full potential.

And some ways, Byakuya is the perfect Kuchiki. He’s strong and he’s hard-working. He’s principled. He’s working on his self-control, and he’s very good at when it comes, to say, sword practice, he’s just not so good at in when it comes to interpersonal relations, but he’s coming along. Then he meets Hisana.

Hisana is absolutely unacceptable to Ginrei. Byakuya needs a marriage with a woman with strong spiritual pressure and a noble lineage so that he can gain some alliances from the marriage and then she can pop out some strapping young heirs while also managing his social life for him, just like Ginrei’s wife did for him. Hisana obviously isn’t going to check any of these boxes.

I headcanon Byakuya as demisexual, in the sense that he doesn’t experience sexual attraction very often, and if he does, it’s only to someone he’s already got strong feelings for. He was sort of okay with the vague idea of marrying someone for the purposes of procreating until he met Hisana and realized how much that would pale in comparison to actually being married to the love of his life.

Up until this point, Byakuya has had some minor rebellions against Ginrei, but they’ve never really gone at it, but this is one time that Byakuya stands firm. Ginrei is super-pissed. He lets Byakuya marry her because he figures she’s going to die soon anyway, but he’s mad about it. He never comes around to Hisana and he’s mean to her and this is really the nadir of Byakuya and Ginrei’s relationship.

Finally, we are getting around to what you asked. Hisana dies and Ginrei softens a little toward Byakuya in his grief. He retires and turns the clan and Squad 6 over to B, hoping it will be a distraction and that Byakuya will finally turn his focus over to what matters. This seems to be going well for about one year and then BAM! Byakuya acquires an orphan.

I am guessing that Ginrei didn’t know about Byakuya’s promise to Hisana to take care of Rukia, but even so, I think if you asked him, he would have regarded Byakuya’s duty to his clan and promise to his parents as more important. It’s not that Ginrei isn’t an honorable man, it’s that his concept of honor doesn’t necessarily extend to a dead peasant in comparison the Noble and Ancient House of Kuchiki. So Byakuya adopts Rukia and Ginrei’s immediate reaction is panic. What is Byakuya doing? Is he going to marry this girl? Is he going to name her his Heir? Has he cracked? And it turns out to be none of those things, he’s just going to keep her around as this sad ghost that haunts his house, but Ginrei’s initial reaction toward Rukia is that of interloper. He thought this Hisana nonsense was overwith, but no, we’re still doing this.

When Ginrei first meets Rukia, she is in her overwhelmed, lonely stage of first becoming a Kuchiki. Ginrei also criticizes her for being small and meek and basically useless. She’s a mediocre shinigami. She’s not beautiful or talented, so Byakuya can’t even marry her off for political gain. The real issue, though is that Rukia is just emblematic of the fact that Byakuya doesn’t intend to move past his grief and remarry. He works his ass off as Captain and Clan Head, but other than that, he’s just gonna be a sad widower and sit in his big house and write letters to his dead wife and the Kuchiki are going to die off. There is really nothing Rukia could do, no way she could be different that Ginrei would approve of, because it was never really about her in the first place.

Fast forward a few years, and now we come to Renji. I also headcanon that in his retirement, Ginrei has moved out to a scenic portion of Rukongai, so he doesn’t interact with Byakuya much on a day-to-day basis, but he hears stuff through other family members that come out to visit him. He’s never actually met Renji, all he knows is that Shirogane retired, and Byakuya hired some tattooed goon from Squad 11 instead of one of the dozens of Kuchiki cousins that are lying around. In my fanfic Call Me Back When the War is Over, Byakuya explains to one of his aunts that the reason he did this was because he didn’t have a relative who was capable of passing the Lieutenant’s Exam. She replies that he just should have pulled some strings so that someone (preferably her own son) could pass, assuming it’s a mere formality. Now this is exactly what Ginrei would have done. This is a problem, though: it involves choosing sides. I’ve got the top seats of Squad 6 set up as follows:

- 3rd Seat Ohno is the Heir to the most powerful Kuchiki branch family. His father is arguably the next in line for Clan Head, based on power terms - 4th Seat Kuchiki Choei is an actual Kuchiki, but he’s a younger son and he’s a clown, meaning that he got bored standing in line for Clan Head and wandered around the corner to vape - 5th Seat Kuchiki Takehiko is the actual closest of Byakuya’s relatives to him, and is arguably the next in line for Clan Head, strictly on family line terms

Pulling strings to help any of these three become the next lieutenant would be a very political move on B’s part, tantamount to anointing his successor. Ginrei assumes that B picked an outsider for the purposes of recusing, of saying “I shall simply refuse to die and remain Clan Head myself, forever’, with the addition fuck you of picking the Actual Worst Person Byakuya Could Find for the job, instead.

This really isn’t the case at all, it is literally that Byakuya feels that you shouldn’t be a lieutenant if you can’t pass the exam. He’s basically a rule-follower, and also it’s a good rule, and also his dad died as a lieutenant and I think he thinks a lot about how that could have been avoided through actions, whereas Ginrei tends to think of it more of a thing that could have been avoided if Soujun was better.

So, that gets us up to the beginning of canon. I am (in theory) working on a fanfic that takes place in the 17-mo timeskip where Ginrei comes to visit and actually gets to know Rukia and Renji and (spoiler alert, but is anyone really surprised) he ends up liking both of them a lot. Part of it is just Ginrei has chilled out somewhat in his retirement and realized that it’s okay to have parts of your life that are not completely devoted to the Good of the Clan. Part of it is that Ginrei loves Competence and Rukia and Renji are so, so competent. Part of it is that Byakuya is obviously doing a lot better than he was, and it’s just really obvious why. Like I said, Ginrei does and always has loved Byakuya, he just wants what’s best for him. It’s just that if there is one thing Kuchiki are terrible at, it’s expressing their love for one another in a positive and healthy way.

As to Ginrei’s feelings about Renruki as a ship, he’s for it, actually. Conniving family members have been trying to marry Rukia for years in hopes of getting an in with Byakuya, and I’m sure they’re setting their sights on Renji, now, too. Ginrei likes them well enough, but he can imagine what a shitshow this could turn out to be, and he finds it very convenient if they were to just marry each other.

I’m rather fond of the idea of Byakuya appointing them as a branch family to the Kuchiki, because I’m not super keen on them going full-Kuchiki if Renji married in, but I think Byakuya would be upset if Rukia married out and he wasn’t able to provide her with the lavish lifestyle he thinks she needs (she does not). It’s a nice compromise that lets them be a part of the family, but out of the limelight. In any case, I think that was Ginrei’s idea, thanks Granddad!

#ginrei kuchiki #renruki #i feel like i have written so much fanfic on this topic #except that i've never posted most of it #¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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kienava · 3 years

Text

Randivor has me by the throat and won’t let go. Romance-heavy smut under the cut.

_______

Everything Else

_______

Eivor couldn’t help but laugh. It wasn’t a sound she often heard coming from herself outside of mead-soaked feasts or on the heels of a successful raid. Even then, in halls filled with drunken friends and by riverbeds lined with fallen enemies, there was always an air of performance, a twinge of bold, fanged cruelty that came from victory.

Not tonight, though. Not with Randvi.

Their bedchamber was not a raised stage or a proving ground. There was no performance to be put on here.

Randvi’s touch was sharp, precise as a whetted blade splitting flesh. Where no blood spilled, a more delicate sensation lingered on Eivor’s scars. With muscles spent and nerves singed by a rush not unlike the storm of battle, Eivor could only gaze up at the ceiling. And laugh.

“What is it, my love?”

Eivor would never tire of this. Odin’s halls of glory were nothing to the glow of Randvi’s skin.

“Look up,” Eivor said. She pointed lazily. “There’s a face in the wood.”

Randvi settled the hand that had been tracing a tattoo on Eivor’s bare hip. Her palm burned against it as an ember.

“A face?” Randvi said, skeptical.

“Look,” Eivor repeated.

Careful to keep her head where it was on Eivor’s chest, Randvi glanced up. “Where?”

“Right above us. See the eyes and the mouth?”

“Is it meant to be frowning?”

“Hm. It does look displeased. I’m afraid I cannot empathize.”

Randvi pushed herself up on one elbow, taking her warmth with her. She stared down at Eivor, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. It was a familiar expression, one she could not resist making whenever Eivor arbitrated a ridiculous quarrel with a perfectly straight face. “Have you not noticed this face before?”

The dregs of a laugh caught in Eivor’s chest, rumbling deep and pleasant. “Sleeping in my own bed used to be more a privilege than an expectation.”

“Hm...” Randvi’s fingers trailed up to Eivor’s ribs. “Maybe you’re just spending more time on your back nowadays.”

Eivor’s breaking grin was interrupted swiftly. Randvi kissed her, long and full, the heat of her skin enough to melt tension that was already hours since dissolved.

“I am hardly opposed,” Eivor muttered.

Randvi’s hands betrayed no hurry - Ravensthorpe was well-stocked, thanks to recent river raids, and the Ostara Festival was coming to a close. Everyone was happy and drunk, off dancing until the sun came up and telling stories.

“Have you not had your fill for one night?” Eivor teased.

“We have many nights to make up for, darling.” Randvi’s mouth landed on the scarred line of Eivor’s throat. It was as a feather, tickling and tantalizing. “And I would expect Ravensthorpe's prized drengr to have more stamina.”

“Sweetness and salt, all at once,” Eivor prodded, head lolling back on a rumpled pillow. “You are a difficult woman to argue with.”

“Good.”

The woman with the wildling soul was pleased to reclaim her own freedoms. Time for exploration was something she treasured, she was already well-versed in traveling south.

Her gaze burned from between Eivor’s legs, twin blue flames as if the sky itself were alight. Eivor could let it consume her, she thought, and die breathless and content.

Randvi could hold her own in any fight, but she needed no blade to take a warrior apart.

When a shiver struck and made Eivor’s legs quake, Randvi did not miss it. “Who would have guessed the great Eivor Wolf-Kissed would fall to such a lightness?”

It was unusual, compared to how it had been with others. Strength was Eivor’s native language, something to strive for and admire. She’d always met opponents and lovers with the same shows of force.

But never Randvi. Hers was not an arena where power was proven with dominance.

Where drengrs roared and raised their fists, Randvi’s voice and hands were soft. Battles chewed steel and shattered bone, but this was a quiet and sure balm to the most harrowing of wounds unseen.

How amusing that Eivor knew she had wanted this for so long, yet she never minded when Randvi took her time.

Between gasps, Eivor asked, “Tell me - Randvi - when did you know?”

Randvi shifted as water, fingers flowing to where her mouth had barely left. “I know many things. You'll have to be more specific.” Her lips pressed together, shining into a smirk.

Eivor managed to think her question into form. “When did you know you wanted this?”

As the moon commanding a ruthlessly gentle tide, Randvi’s assured smile waned into softness. “I’ve always known, Eivor. Since the first moment I saw you. So hardened, so fierce. I wished to know what was underneath it all.”

“Oh? And so you - ah.” Bold to try and taunt from such a compromised and vulnerable position, but Eivor did not relent. “So you always wished to be as a dagger... to my sheath?”

Randvi paused - a warning. She sat upright, but her fingers remained still.

The way she regarded Eivor, as a wolf might a sheep - it sent sparks up the taut column of the sheep’s spine.

“A wise woman can make use of any tool, I think,” Randvi said finally. She knew she’d won the point even before her fingers dipped and curled, a flourish as graceful as a spinning silver sword.

Eivor’s back arched, and she was as a sheath, seeking. She conceded, “And wise you are.”

Fortunately, Randvi loved hearing such things, especially from Eivor, and it was a sure way to bring out a sly grin that thinly shielded a deceptively fragile part of her heart. If there was one thing Randvi deserved, it was praise. She’d gone unappreciated for too long - even a moment was a sin - and yet she never shied from her post at the heart of their town. It would never have become more than a pile of bricks and stray ships without her guidance.

“The oldest trees must envy you,” Eivor went on.

“Must they?”

Eivor would not have the chance to say more if Randvi was allowed to continue, the waves building. So Eivor sat up to see her face-to-face, pulling her into a narrow straddle and kissing her, first on the forehead.

“For all their years, you are sager,” Eivor said.

She took Randvi’s hand to her lips and kissed her palm.

“For all their strength, you hold firmer. And for all their roots,” one last lingering kiss over her heart, beating wild, sealed by the same steady, guided palm, “yours run deeper.”

Randvi said nothing for a moment, her expression one of pure, quiet awe. Then, she shook her head slowly, keeping her eyes on Eivor’s. “Your poet’s soul is a dangerous thing.”

Eivor took her by the waist, revering the way she could look up at this woman who put the staunchest, most resilient trees to shame. “Even so, when the possessor is in truth the one possessed?”

“Especially then, you minx.” Randvi bumped their noses together, a novel gesture that Eivor was suddenly very fond of.

“I am afraid I cannot offer an apology.”

Randvi was the one to initiate their next kiss, though it was as fleeting as a bird over a river. “It is a beautiful thing, my love. I would accept no apology for it.” Her voice grew stern as she continued. “But nor do I possess the possessor in question.”

Eivor needed only gesture to their position. “Ah, but you do have me, do you not?”

“Cheeky,” Randvi chastised. She poked the side of Eivor’s face for good measure, and her touch trailed down to the jaw. “If that is the frame, then you are mine only insofar as you are your own.”

“Then I am yours - and my own, and the Raven’s - entirely.”

Randvi hummed, considering this, playfully cryptic.

“Do you find these terms of alliance agreeable?” Eivor joked.

“Ah, is this how you made us so many friends?”

“Well, these Saxons are less stubborn with their bellies full of mead and their mouths full of--”

With a kiss, Randvi cut her off and confirmed their jest of a treaty.

“I have made but one pledge in this way,” Eivor said for the sake of clarity. “And it is to the woman I call my wife.”

Randvi would have embraced her again and sent them both toppling onto the bed furs, but Eivor held her rooted in place.

Eivor’s hand snuck between them, finding its purchase as Randvi settled and relaxed against honed callouses. She had no qualms with the roughness - quite the opposite, actually. They built a pace together, painstaking, but with all of agony’s antonyms. Randvi’s breaths came faster, shallower, as she clung to the unwound remnants of Eivor’s dark braids and a shaky imitation of control.

“I must ask you,” Randvi exhaled all at once.

“Anything,” Eivor interrupted.

“Tell me when you knew.”

“That is not a question.”

Randvi nipped at Eivor's neck - not wolf-kissed, this time, but something close. “Petulant.”

“When did I know, or when did the gods know?” Eivor asked. Rarely did she have such a perfect set of conditions to toy with the greatest strategist the snows had ever produced.

“Either. Both,” Randvi managed.

“I cannot speak for the gods.”

Randvi grasped at the smooth muscle of Eivor’s back, blunt nails scraping across the flat planes of her shoulder blades. Her breath came hot against Eivor’s ear, along with her next words: “When did you know you loved me?”

The drengr’s iron resolve to taunt and pester shattered, armor falling away to reveal the poet’s vulnerable heart.

“I must be honest, you were the faster study between us, Randvi,” Eivor began. “I could not name the thing that pulled me to you, even when it was like a vine around my marrow, so ingrained that I could not walk without feeling its tug.”

“More,” Randvi said. “Tell me more.”

“Everywhere I went, I heard the flowers sing of your beauty. The trees whispered about your wisdom. Great dark clouds and lightning proclaimed your unwavering strength and loyalty to all those you care for.”

Randvi said no words, but she was not quiet.

“And these were pieces, pieces - only fractured shards of a reflection.”

“Eivor...”

“I did not realize they were my own heart-thoughts the world had given voice...”

A barely stifled moan.

“Until the wind itself called me back to you.”

With that, a broken groan slipped from Randvi’s throat and her rigid fingers dug in, bruising, driven by the sheer desperation for release. Her purgatory lasted, fueled by a merciless hand, until - “Eivor!” - less a name than a surrender to catharsis.

Eivor was braced for the collapse, easily keeping Randvi from falling limp into their bed. Somewhere in Eivor’s mind, there was a witty crack brewing about stamina and poetry and how’s that for wisdom, but the peaceful flow of Randvi’s breathing as it steadied and deepened was too lovely to cut short.

Eventually, Randvi righted herself, every inch of her covered in a fresh, fine dew.

“And you thought I was fierce,” Eivor said. She started to brush a piece of sweat-stuck hair from Randvi’s forehead, but the distance between them vanished quickly.

Randvi was not capable of sloppiness in anything she did, but this - crashing their mouths together while still working to catch her own inhales - was the closest she ever came. “I stand by it,” Randvi sighed as she rested her forehead against Eivor’s.

“I’ve thought of another question for you,” said Eivor.

“Hm?”

“Are you trying to wake the whole town?”

Randvi’s laugh was a delicate wisp, but not lacking bite. “And just how many times have you cried my name tonight?”

“You assume I can count that high?”

“If either of us wakes the town tonight, it will be you, my love.” Her thumb stroked the sharp corner of Eivor’s jaw before another promising kiss. “And that is as much a threat as it is a vow.”

“So be it,” Eivor said, lying back, arms splayed freely by her head. “Let them know for whom their jarlskona bends the knee.”

***

[cross-posted on AO3]

#randivor #randvi x eivor #eivor x randvi #randivor fic #assassin's creed valhalla #acv #my writing #valhalla #if you saw me take this down and then repost it no you didn't<3 #asscreed

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theclockworkmonk · 3 years

Text

Cultural Exchange

Written for @kataang-week

Day 2: Blending Cultures

Words: 2,009

Read on AO3

Read on FF.net

Summary: Katara has some selfish reasons for encouraging Aang to explore Fire Nation culture.

*******

Katara was starting to get worried as she walked up to Zuko's old family house on Ember Island. The outdoor furniture was smashed and splintered, and the door was ajar, hanging off its hinges. She sped up, beginning to panic, and ran up the stairs onto the porch.

She threw the door all the way open forcefully. "Hello!? Aang?"

She was greeted by a chorus of pained male groans.

"Close the door!" Haru wailed, shielding his eyes from the bright morning light that was now flooding the front room of the house. All the other young men, basically every male friend their group had made since leaving the South Pole, gave similar cries of distress from where they were strewn haphazardly across sofas and armchairs.

Katara sighed in relief, but then grew annoyed at the boys for scaring her. Instead of closing the door, she moved to the windows and threw all the curtains open.

"You're evil!" moaned Te'o from the floor, where he had fallen out of his chair.

"What exactly happened to those plans for a laid back, calm bachelor party?" Katara asked the room harshly, "How did it go? 'Oh don't worry, Katara, Zuko's not one to throw wild parties!'"

"Uggghhh, I"m not, but I'm friends with a lot of bad influences," came a weak voice from under a coffee table.

Katara laughed at the sight of the soon-to-be-married Firelord crawling out from under the table, looking like he had been put through a dozen successive Agni Kais. But her laughter died and she gasped when she saw what was on Zuko's head.

"Zuko, what happened!?"

"What does it look like? Your brother got us drunk."

"No, I mean what happened to your hair!"

Katara bent all the water from a nearby vase and froze it into a flat, shiny mirror, and held it up to Zuko's face. His eyes widened in horror and he leapt to his feet, upending the table.

All of his hair had been reduced to a narrow strip down the center of his head. That hair had been left long, and was tied back, but both sides of it had been shaved down to his scalp.

He recognized this look. It was exactly the way Sokka had his hair when Zuko had first encountered him.

"Aw Zuko, I'm touched!" crooned Katara dramatically. "Showing your support for rebuilding Southern Tribe culture by sporting a warrior's wolf tail!"

Zuko stared in disbelief at his reflection. He raised his shaking hands to the sides of his face.

"I look like I stuck my head between two grinding stones," Zuko muttered.

"Oh, don't say that, I'm sure once the Firelord is seen sporting this hairdo at his wedding, it will be all the rage across the Fire Nation," said Katara with a grin.

Zuko buried his face in his hands. "Oh, spirits, the wedding! Mai's going to kill me."

Katara was about to agree, but was interrupted by a scream of anguish and horror coming from the bathroom.

Katara and Zuko both bolted across the room and down the hall. She whipped out her bending pouch, ready to slice the door open, but lucky it was still unlocked. She kicked the door open and her blood froze in fear again as she saw Sokka doubled over, his face buried in the sink and his hands over his head.

"Sokka, what's wrong!?" asked Katara urgently, placing her hands on her brother's back. "Are you hurt—oh…."

She jumped back and gasped when Sokka turned to face her, his lip quivering.

He was completely bald, with a crude painted blue arrow leading from the back of his head, ending between his eyebrows.

Katara's chuckle at Zuko's expense was nothing compared to the explosion of laughter that erupted out of her now. She had to put a hand on the wall to steady herself as she shook until she was out of breath.

"Well, it was just a regular festival of cultural exchange last night, wasn't it?" she squeaked out.

"This isn't funny, Katara!" said Sokka desperately. "You don't understand, it's not coming off! It's real! And my hair! Next time I visit home, my brain is gonna freeze!"

"Oh, calm down," she said dismissively. She grabbed her brother's cheeks and pulled him down to inspect his new body art. "There's no inflammation on the skin, it's not a real tattoo. You just found some...wow, really durable face paint."

She looked him in the eye suspiciously. "Where did you get this stuff?"

"Uuuuhhh," said Sokka uncertainly. He turned to Zuko. "Where did we get this stuff?"

"Uuuuhhh," Zuko concurred.

Katara rolled her eyes. "Seriously? You don't even remember last night?"

"I can remember most of it," said Zuko defensively. "Things just get a little fuzzy after that bottle of moonpeachshine got opened. He was the one who brought that, so really this is all his fault."

"Hey, I don't remember tying you up and forcing the stuff down your throat, Lord Lots o' Shots," replied Sokka.

"Where's Aang?" Katara suddenly said, her grin wiped from her face.

For a moment, they just looked at each other in silence, then ran through the house again.

After searching the whole house and not finding Aang, Katara was beginning to panic again. But when she checked the back garden, she found Appa there sleeping soundly. A lumpy mass was sitting on the bison's head: a human body, the top half covered by a blanket, but long legs protruded from underneath, with blue arrows ending at the feet.

"Aang!" Katara called as she ran towards him, and thankfully the tattooed feet stirred. Aang slowly sat up, squeezing his eyes shut at the sunlight as the blanket fell from his face.

"Oh come on!" Katara sighed in relief. "You too?"

"What?" he mumbled, getting his bearings. He reached up to scratch his head, and discovered what was itching him.

Aang was wearing a wig. Avatar Aang, the mightiest being in the world, was hungover with a lopsided wig of black hair glued to his head. The foreign hair was pulled back into a knot that was contained by what Katara recognized as Avatar Roku's old hairpin.

Aang reached up and felt the hairpin, and winced. "Oh Spirits, I had hoped that was a dream."

"So you actually remember what happened?" asked Zuko, joining them outside along with Sokka, who had put a hat on to avoid getting sunburned.

"Well last night, Sokka got excited by this idea of me wearing Roku's hairpin at the wedding, as a sign of the Fire Nation's commitment to the Avatar and the balance of the world. I wasn't as intoxicated as he was, so I pointed out to him that one needs hair in order to wear a hairpin crown."

"Oh yeah!" said Sokka, remembering now, "Seems like a short sighted fashion decision."

"It's not short-sighted, that's the point," said Zuko irritably, "When royals or generals suffer a great defeat, they cut their hair off. The crowns of the Fire Lord and Prince are designed so that you can't wear them unless you've gone long enough without a defeat to have enough hair to wear it."

"Yeah, you said all this last night," said Aang. "Then Sokka suggested that I could borrow some hair, and we asked who would have extra hair to borrow, and that's how we ended up partying with the—"

"The Ember Island Players," Zuko finished in horror. "Oh, kill me now, this is going to be the subject of their worst play yet."

"I certainly hope so," said Katara. "I'll be there opening night."

"The wig and the facepaint….seemed like a good idea at the time," finished Aang painfully.

"Well if this stuff doesn't come off my face soon, then the Firelord is going to have to have them interrogated about how they undo it," said Sokka.

"Oh I will?" asked Zuko, raising his eyebrow. "The way I see it, I just have a bad haircut, I didn't put any crap on my head, so you can go begging for them on your own."

"It is not a bad haircut!" said Sokka angrily. "You're now the best looking guy here, saving my dignity is the least you can do."

"I might need help getting this thing off me too," mumbled Aang, futilely pulling at the wig. "And we should probably put this back in a safe spot."

He detached Roku's hairpin crown from his knot, and Katara gasped as his hair (that wasn't actually his hair) fell from it.

The messy black hair fell to the base of his neck, covering his ears and hanging in bangs over his forehead, partially obscuring his eyes. He scrunched his face in annoyance and brushed the hair away from his face. Katara felt her face grow hot as she watched her boyfriend's fingers run through the hair, and an image floated up in her mind of her fingers replacing them.

Zuko and Sokka went back into the house, Zuko cheekily offering to melt the facepaint off of Sokka, and promised to keep most of his face intact, as Aang climbed down off of Appa, still pulling at the mop glued to his head.

"I need to find a way to get this thing off me," Aang grumbled. "It won't stay out of my face, people can't see my arrow."

"Well, we can't have that," Katara chuckled. "The world can't know that the last airbender has broken such an important air nomad requirement as the sacred chrome dome."

"Well, it's not a requirement," said Aang, "but I still suspect I look far too much like Zuko for my taste—"

"Wait, really?" Katara cut him off, her eyes widening.

"Well you tell me. I don't have a mirror, but I suddenly feel the urge to sulk and reclaim my honor— "No, I mean, shaving your head isn't a requirement or anything?" Katara asked quickly.

Aang seemed surprised by her question. "Uh... no. Most of the boys did anyway, because it gives you a slight edge in airbending, since your skin is in tune with the air currents. We all had to shave it once, when we got our arrows, but most girls grew it back."

He continued to fidget with the wig as he started walking back towards the house, seemingly oblivious to the blush creeping up his girlfriend's face.

Katara tried to act casual as she fell in step with Aang and linked her arm with his.

"Sooooo...hypothetically speaking," she began, not looking at him, "you could have a full head of hair. If you wanted to."

Aang shrugged. "Yeah. But I've never really felt the desire to. With hair, you have to wash it, and there's so many different haircuts to pick from, it's easier to just shave it in the morning."

He turned to look at her curiously. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason!" she said innocently.

They walked in silence for a few seconds, then a strong morning breeze blew past them and Katara felt her knees grow weak as Aang's messy "hair" whipped in the wind, dancing around his handsome face beautifully, in a way his real hair had never grown long enough to do.

"I was just thinking Sokka might be onto something!" she blurted out before she could stop herself. "You know, about wearing Roku's crown. Maybe the Avatar adopting a few Fire Nation fashions will placate a few of the naysayers, who say that you're a foreign interloper. It will show them that you're their Avatar too. It would be a great exchange and blending of cultures, to reflect peaceful cooperation."

Aang frowned thoughtfully. "Well, I….guess that kind of makes sense." He shrugged and chuckled. "I'm still definitely going to get this hair off me, though. Then I can decide whether to start growing my own."

"Hmmm….yeah," Katara whispered greedily under her breath, "I bet that'll look even hotter."

"Hmm? What was that? I didn't hear you."

"Nothing!" she squeaked, and ran back into the house.

#kataang #kataang week #kataang week 2021 #kataang-week #aang x katara #katara and aang #aang #avatar aang #katara #fanfic prompt #atla fanfic #ao3 fanfic #atla #avatar: tla #avatar the last airbender #avatar #hangover #day 2: blending cultures #bachelor party

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incarnateirony · 4 years

Text

15.15: The Absent Mother

I’ve had to take a great deal of time to pull my thoughts together on this episode because it was so MUCH. I’ve said in the past that I wasn’t a fan of Davy; he often layered his things very thinly. But today was a masterfully interwoven piece to the point I literally watched another show for an hour while thinking about it, went and took a shower for half an hour to scrub my head clean, and came back to this and STILL sat to write about it.

So if you’re new to my meta, I’m going to break the ice. You need to read my The Generational Family post to dip your toes in. It speaks in plain english things that will be less-plain english in this post.

If you’re less-new to my meta, but often floating in the occult references, I’m going to try to drop links to posts or tag folders of references.

But what a fantastic salute to the Empress this entire episode is.

Now let’s dive in.

It’s no secret my blog bangs on about arcana on the regular. I have spoken of the four colors (represented in the above gif but also frequenting the #hues of involution tag).

Frankly, I consider it invariable that the brother focused episode will summon forth The Emperor as a key focus. Somewhere in that chaos binder of tags I even predicted that much when I saw the color themes of the episode, but that’s a whole other aside--just something to put a pin in the idea of while I speak of the Empress, and the Generational Family.

(15.16 update: hahahahah)

I’ve gone feral

BACK TO ORIGINAL 15.15 POST

Some time back I had made a post about Castiel’s tie to this path; be that his frequent association with Mary over time (be it storyline parallels in general arc, John and Mary’s meeting, mixtapes or whatever else); that he and Rowena served as mirror and foil from her earliest conception, back when his parental storylines hovered more in regret over Claire; that Amara and her forced bond were associations of the profound bond and many lines directly mirrored while other motions challenged each other (Eg, heart tie, profound bond>mark bond);

I even made a joke at one point that Castiel should wear a pink trenchcoat to match Rowena’s dress.

This, of course, I joked equally was absurd, and that we would probably have to settle for the violet-pink light of Death on both him and Dean in 15.13′s alchemical Marriage of the Minds.

This Marriage of the Minds you’ll find plenty of topic on for my blog, and all in association with the Art arcana, from which the Occultum is drawn to begin with in its concept. This may seem like a long drift aside from the episode itself, but is more a preface of discussion based reminders.

Either way, @meta-mania-spn outright trolled in to my trenchcoat joke with this when it was released, saying “here’s your pink trenchcoat.”

And how on point you were!

But I’m going to have to ask fandom to do me a favor before we continue any further in this discussion.

I’m going to need you to stop trying to shove everything in singular boxes applicable to one and only-one storyline. Go back to the Generational Family post. Make sure that’s anchored like, in your subconscious at this point. Know it, feel it.

Okay, now we can continue.

Hah hah “You’re standing in The Trap zone.” Okay.

So obviously, we have two major story ends going on right now: On the one hand, Sam and Dean go have a discussion to Amara where they plan to lie to her to pull off a stunt against Chuck; on the other hand, we have Castiel and Jack working a case. This seems simple enough in our structure.

Amara’s face of this ends up being entirely reflection. Of her cosmogenic origins (”We are the same.”), We Are Twins (I point to Thoth’s use of the twins in generational storytelling), etc. Of her history with Dean. Of her reasons of bringing Mary back.

Fandom may not like her reasons for bringing Mary back. They may even hate them. And we’ll get back to this later, but this is the sum of this.

On the other hand, Cas and Jack think a demon is involved. They even summon one. Turns out Rowena, in taking over hell, has adopted a new system. No more tricking and damning souls. People end up where they belong. The demon is bored (which has a funny shout out at the end on him trying to find a new purpose--as a cop, which is about six levels of commentary but I digress), but the continued path of Rowena renovating hell from welcome meetings for damned souls to lack of intentionally dragging others down is made clear, while evoked.

I point back to Rowena’s own history: at one point she aspired for power, but after Funeralia, she was stricken with guilt and grief over feeling like she abandoned her son. This is a thread that I have tried to put in videos over time as a still-binding tie; Castiel staring into Belphegor’s husked out eyes at one point, even if it wasn’t really his fault, just as we lost Rowena who went to essentially reclaim her son’s legacy and throne since she couldn’t atone for his loss.

But then we get to the case. It’s a whole long adventure, much of which has some bog-standard casework; we do have Castiel coming to speak that he found new meaning in becoming a parent (rolling back to the parental thread), and there’s a bunch of great imagery we’ll cover below. But before we get to that, let’s focus on the resolution.

It reveals a broken family structure: Mother was sick and felt shoved away, Father Changed Things, and the child ended up on a destructive path about following god.

Now when I talk about not boxing things in on one level, I’m going to break down this family a bit. We’ll also just totes ignore the Joseph-the-Carpenter tattoo on the pastor that clearly has NOTHING to do with Joseph behind Dean only an episode ago and the entire Emperor theme with the sun behind his head. After the whole Mary behind Cas thing. Nope, nothing to see here. Has NOTHING to do with the generational stuff I’m about to talk below. That’d be silly right?

You also have to think of it this way. If Pastor Joe (yes that’s his FKING name) a parallel, so is his dead wife. There are levels where it was felt she was mocked, and pushed away, which tied into Amara this episode. You have your Chuck and Amara level parallel. However, on the emotional level, the mother figure that Castiel actually ends up representing is also coming due to be absent. And this is about the father's atonement with that just as much as it is with Dean having his dialogue with Amara.

On many levels. Dean and Amara’s dialogue trades of old grudges, old motivations, but also current events and learning to live in the now.

The child, however, was still stuck in the past--a past the mother who told her to believe in God seemed to want, but the same kind of duty Castiel became aware of needing to change in the past. But she got stuck in it.

While she judged people by their sins, Jack and Castiel end up finding the poor unfortunate man judged by Lust, after an entire aside Castiel had with the pastor about one of the victims struggling as a gay man and what-not; For Reasons(TM). But this is an arcana post, not a “point out the obvious fucking screaming queer text and subtext being put in blinker lights this episode” post, so I’m going to generally show that the misguided and wrathful child thought she was carrying out God’s will.

And then I direct you to my Lust tag.

I have far longer stuff on it, but if you skim, you’ll find the loudest message is about not letting a wrathful god judge or punish you for sins. It involves the Whore of Babylon as a symbol of power riding a beast that represented (Aleister) Crowley; or in this case, Rowena riding Crowley to power, but also birthing and rearranging a new world. I point back to the demon in question, and then I gesture to the stuff about Castiel’s impending storyline overlap.

Did other sins get punished, sure; the one girl got greed, for example. If you check my posts on the Lust topic, there are other forms of debauch actually associated with lust beyond just carnal lovers, but the message about ignoring god’s wrath and making the new world remains in-tact.

This is the kind of wrath enacted by the girl. Who is furious about how the aeon changed. Because you changed everything, dad. They don’t worship God, they worship You.

So here’s the fun question: Is this a child of man furious that man is no longer the true god because Chuck in the corrupted Emperor path has changed the world to his whims, just flipped? That is to say, that they no longer see the Shadow as The One True God? Or is this someone throwing a tantrum on Chuck’s behest that the world of man is being reclaimed? Or is it a generalized moral of all of these things contingent on the choices The Ones -- Sam and Dean -- make moving forward? And what of Jack inevitably feeling like he has to do Dean’s commands, with the task laid out to destroy God as mapped by Death, in the inevitable absence of Castiel?

Now this has drifted a wide-berth from speaking of the Empress herself, which I’ll roll back to. I had mentioned, for example, the pink. So let’s talk about why that is.

The Empress is the Matron. While she goes through many forms, this is sort of the central or individualized one. She represents a fertility in preparing to birth the new world. She holds a blossom, she takes a pose I’m not gonna bother breaking down in this post, and she is crowned in a sphere that is passed to her from the Emperor which she will wear until the next aeon from their union is born.

She is represented by the moon, and though her child will eventually become the new sun it must first be the earth, her emperor is her current sun; the son is the reflection of the father in the eyes of the mother; the Empress Moon lets the Emperor Sun shine on her face and brings life to the earth in their union, and again, I point back to the Marriage of the Minds post.

Now, see that bird in the corner? That’s a pelican. It’s frequently associated in old alchemy as the mother giving her life, as part of the birthing process is also death, for her next generation. I have spoken in the past that Byzantium itself is an ideal example of that. The pelican has intensive alchemical implications, but it was believed she “fed her child from her own heart.”

Okay cool so there’s just a bleeding heart right there while Jack struggles with feeling like he has to deal with this alone, while Castiel tries to insist he doesn’t, with the renegade child taking it upon herself to carry out god’s work and essentially going mad/bad. Castiel not wanting to let that all fall on Jack.

There’s also giant posters about THE WORLD and a mirror shadow Safe Place poster which I’m not even going to talk on much beyond gesturing vaguely at my Shadow tag and Universe tag and move on, but I will take particular note of the hands reaching out to Cas and the world as a vague gesture to once again stick a pin in.

I mean there’s a few other themes I’m going to point out for general notes: hearts everywhere,

Some stuff on Day and Night and hands all over/handholding, which I’ll point to my talk on Absence for false dichotomies

And an admittedly offtopical “lmao fuck this news screen”

But with that, I move forward:

The child here was dressed almost EERILY like Mrs Butters, for the record. And uh-- /wore her cross upside down/

They both kind of represent the same thing of misguided ideals, though Mrs Butters proved able to be reasoned with at the end and went to go return to nature where she belonged, just as man should return to his place some day free of god’s machinations; but she didn’t break her cycle and her fate is to be decided after this by court and what-not, which.. you know, fine.

But that’s a note worth passing re: Mrs Butters, but again, it needs to fall to generational; child vs parent, with Mrs Butters being the lightly lamia-associated elder who lost her sons and went mad trying to protect them according to how she had been commanded, just like this story, too, comes to misguided commands in absence.

Add in of course that Butters pointed out Jack was “too much like his father”. This, of course, was a shot at Lucifer in a way, but the serpent she evoked isn’t truly symbolic of Lucifer in our show, it’s about humanity. And uh, who is synonymous synced to in SPN? Even ignoring the relevance of the serpent to the Emperor?

Throughout this episode, Jack waltzes around imprinted on habits from Dean, taking on the weight of the world, sacrifice, doing it alone, and inevitably, small bursts of anger.

While... Amara tracks and polka dances sideways across the Mary issue of idealizations vs realities, of the Now being more important than the Then. Fandom gets stuck on how unfair it was to Dean and considers it torture which, human perspective, fair. But Amara isn’t thinking on your human level. In fact she very loudly flags around how Dean (and frankly, the audience) doesn’t properly perceive the scope of what she even is.

Castiel, driving home, continues to try to be an improved parent. He talks with Jack, and tries to tell him he doesn’t have to do this alone. But Jack is stuck in that rut, and it’s a rut Castiel knows too well. He’s walked these paths and the audience has walked these paths and he can’t let the child handle this alone, though Jack declares it isn’t his choice. Jack has surrendered to what he believes Death commands of him, what the job is.

It’s going to be about choice.

But right now, Jack is too much like his father. And I point back to the Moon, who lets the Sun shine on her face, perceiving the world as a reflection of the Father, of Soul in the eyes of the Mind. This is the path to teach their son to avoid just as much.

Meanwhile, Castiel is punched in the FACE basically by Jack saying not to tell Sam and Dean he’s turning into Soul Bomb Take 2. He doesn’t want to worry them over something he can’t do anything about. Congratulations, Castiel is now living the mirror of Jack knowing the Empty deal and Sam and Dean not being told, and you can SEE the reality of it ALL slam him in the face. Not just because Jack blowing up would negate the point of his sacrifice; I don’t know if that even really plinks his mental armor; but the actual magnitude of that kind of secret.

Burying my clown brain’s fierce desire to talk at length of small details like Cas opting not to wake Dean up in the room, we see a recursion-yet-subversion at the end.

We cut off, here, abruptly. In context of the episode, we know Castiel has at least learned one lesson and is going to try to tell Dean about his deal. But on some level, this all enmeshes thoroughly to Castiel’s Empty deal. Do I think Cas is going to tell the Empty deal in 16? No, I’m gonna guess on some level Sam gets his hands on it around 17 maybe, or nobody at all finds out--or at least Dean himself doesn’t find out--until 18.

In that time they *still* will not have stopped Chuck, that won’t be until 19. So I really wish this arm flailing about “oh god they’re making it all about Cas saving Jack and then dropping it!” would stop because man guys, I’m tired, I’ve been writing you the roadmap on this for two years and haven’t failed yet, pls listen.

Even after episode 18, Castiel’s role is inevitably going to be to take the burden from Jack. ...And Dean will too, but you won’t really even start to wrap your heads around the how and the why until at *least* 16 covers the Emperor path better in scale of the generational family. That’s going to be a joint thing.

Yes, I’m saying that’s going to be a joint thing after the Empty.

The show has taken a highlighter repeatedly to the fact that Jack was neither ready to rule or remove Chuck and that it was all a bad idea. Like “Then who?!” yes HMMM WHO.

Who is sitting here following the path of all of these individuals in this very episode? Do I need to gesture people to literal years of Castiel being associated with every one of these women’s central stories in my meta, make everyone read literal compendiums of it to get the where and why, or is it at least enough in the collective subconscious to be recognized?

What is Rowena doing? What is Rowena doing, right now? She unbirthed an entire realm and is restructuring it; where people go only where they deserve to go, where they aren’t as boxed in but certainly aren’t out there being shitheads for the sake of being shitheads. But man, if only there was SOME ONE ELSE lined up on this whole lunar path, somewhere, with these women.

(For more on the blossom, see my Albedo tag)

For the full context and, frankly, mental breakdowns about 15.13 and what all that amounted to, I point you to the tags I linked above in discussion and lead-in to this post, because I’m not going to re-tread that ground right now.

But Castiel’s deal has always been about saving Jack. Castiel has been the Empress all year and before it. He will continue to be the empress, symbolized as feeding her young from her own heart, and--well, like that above gif (and also like 15.09, but with Sam in that generational rotation), receiving the sphere from the Emperor (Dean) and passing it to the new aeon to be reborn. Jack is the new Aeon. the mother will protect this at any cost.

But I don’t know why fandom pole vaults into assuming then that the Emperor suddenly has no place in this fascinatingly interwoven play. They are part of this cooperative birthing process together. Even in and beyond Death. As it is, there’s parts of Jack’s resignation that will inevitably tie to Castiel with Dean in 18.

As always, the case is a warning tale, but just what side of it you take really depends on where the characters choose to step. Is it a warning of man stepping away from god or god changing the rules on man?

Even Amara’s message is multifaceted: Knowing when to walk away on your own path is not the same as betraying someone. And it’s only going to be by Dean’s manipulation that she would consider it, while he is in fact lying to her; but that’s NOT going to come without a long term price. And frankly, is itself a message for the endgame of this show, with some people thinking taking ones’ own path is tantamount to betrayal. It is not. But what matters it the truth. And the choice. And remembering that we all have a choice.

And what of Cas, after the Empty then?

My soul went to heaven, big surprise.

In order to be in the Occultum, the Occultum must be in you.

To know what he, himself, is also worth, Castiel will have to make that place within himself. And that will also be the place for his child, and his family, and humankind as he has come to adopt as his people.

...But there was a two step phase to that spell and I remind you Rowena wasn’t alone in that image.

The pink of fertile rebirth.

For more on the Empress, click here.

Anyway

#CASTIELSUTERUS2020

#supernatural #spn #empress #lust #amara #castiel #rowena #mary winchester #15.15 #15x15

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everywhereallofthetime · 3 years

Text

Some Girl ... Part 12

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: None.

// * // * //

Sunday / July 25th

After talking before bed the night before, Charlotte and Shawn agreed that he would ride with her, Jonah, and Mackenzie to Elisa and Jack’s. It didn’t make sense for them to take two vehicles to the same place. Shawn said he’d walk over and grab coffee on the way. Make a good first impression, he had chuckled, although Charlotte could hear the truth within his words.

Shawn arriving early would give him, Jonah, and Mackenzie a chance to meet and get to know one another a little before they joined everyone else. They would talk over coffee and after Sebastian woke from his morning nap and nursed, they would leave for brunch.

Charlotte nearly swooned when she opened the door for Shawn.

His skin was bronzed and glowing, having spent so much time outside over the past week. His hair had lightened a shade as well, and whatever products he had put in it that morning had his curls and waves behaving beautifully.

He was wearing white jean shorts with a brown belt, a trim-fit, navy blue button-down with the first few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up, and brown Vans with blue accents.

“Good morning, babe,” she beamed. She hated how only one day away from him had suddenly become too long.

“Good morning,” he grinned back, wrapping the arm of his free hand around her and snuggling her tightly to him. He breathed her in. It had been only one day but he had deeply missed the soft scent of her.

When they eased out of their hug, Charlotte ran the open placket of Shawn’s shirt between her thumb and forefinger. “You look so handsome,” she smiled. “I love you in blue.”

“Thank you, darling. You are as beautiful as always.”

Charlotte was wearing a white, short-sleeve, off the shoulder blouse and white and navy blue striped shorts. She noticed that her outfit complimented his perfectly.

“Are you ready to meet my brother and his fiancée?”

“I hope so,” he chuckled.

She linked her hand with his which wasn’t carrying their coffee and together they walked further into the condo. Jonah and Mackenzie had been sitting at the kitchen island but stood when Charlotte and Shawn entered the room.

Before any introductions could be made, Mackenzie breathed, “Oh my God, you two are adorable.”

“I swear, we did not discuss what we were going to wear today,” Charlotte laughed.

“It’s perfect,” Mackenzie giggled, “I love it.”

Charlotte introduced Shawn to Jonah and Mackenzie.

Jonah gave Shawn a once-over when they shook hands. He was tall, fit, and clean-cut, with a strong jawline and five visible tattoos. He was very attractive. Any man secure enough in who they were could admit when another man was attractive.

Mackenzie, on the other hand, gave Shawn a thorough head to toe.

Charlotte was used to women reacting favorably to Shawn, and she also knew it was something that was always going to happen with him being who he was. Even if the person didn’t know who he was, aside from being a global popstar, he was simply an incredibly attractive man. In any case, Charlotte had no true claim on Shawn. Besides, Mackenzie was happily engaged to Jonah; Charlotte knew she meant no harm or disrespect.

They all sat together at the dining room table with their coffees. Charlotte took a sip of Shawn’s coffee and instead of giving it back to him, she handed him hers.

“Babe,” he chuckled.

“Yours is better.”

“It also has a lot more caffeine,” he tittered.

She took a couple of additional sips and then, somewhat reluctantly, handed it back to him, reclaiming her own.

Charlotte looked at Jonah and Mackenzie’s amused expressions, and explained, “Too much caffeine isn’t good for Bash.”

“I started reading What to Expect: the First Year after I met Charlotte and Bash for the first time,” Shawn admitted, blushing.

“What? I didn’t know that,” Charlotte breathed, astonished. Shawn shrugged nonchalantly. “Why are you so fucking cute?” she smirked, briefly cupping his face, stroking the pad of her thumb along his cheekbone.

Jonah didn’t say so out loud, but that was something truly admirable. Not many male friends of a single mother would bother to take the time to do that. Hell, not many boyfriends would.

“How old are you, Shawn?” Jonah wondered. Shawn was already proving himself to be quite mature, but he still looked relatively young.

“I’ll be 23 in two weeks.”

“August 8th,” Charlotte offered.

“Leo,” Mackenzie tacked on. “And Charlie, you’re an Aquarius?” she asked. “February?”

“The 4th,” Shawn said, with a nod.

Mackenzie simply smiled in an all-knowing sort of way.

“Are you originally from Toronto?” Jonah asked Shawn.

“Born and raised in Pickering. Graduated from Pine Ridge.”

“I have a buddy who went to Pine Ridge. Played varsity hockey.”

“I played hockey. And soccer and basketball, too. I was in drama and the glee club. I also did Leadership Camp every year except my last.”

“Did you go to college?” Mackenzie asked.

“No. I was too busy touring…”

Jonah looked confused. “Excuse me?”

Shawn looked at Charlotte. Jonah and Mackenzie noticed that an entire conversation seemed to pass between them without words.

“I don’t meet very many people who don’t already know who I am,” Shawn said.

“Should we know who you are?” Mackenzie asked.

“Not necessarily. Not by sight anyway. Maybe not at all. You may know some of my music.”

At that moment they all heard Sebastian through the baby monitor. It wasn’t the ideal time for him to have woken up.

Charlotte frowned. “I would say, hold that thought, but...”

“It’s all right. Go,” Shawn smiled reassuringly.

She stood from the table and ran her fingers through the little curls at the nape of his neck. “May as well get it out of the way, babe.” Just before Charlotte entered the nursery, she said, “Alexa, play Shawn Mendes.”

// * // * //

The moment Charlotte returned after nursing, she heard Jonah ask, “Elisa and Jack, and everyone, you’ve met them already? We’re not springing any surprises on them?”

“He met them last weekend,” Charlotte answered.

“Hi buddy!” Shawn beamed at Sebastian.

Sebastian was already reaching for Shawn when Charlotte handed him over. “All except Valerie. And she is very excited to meet him today.”

Jonah could easily see that Shawn and Sebastian had already bonded, and he really liked that Shawn was thoughtful, sweet to, and respectful of his sister. They made a good match, even if they weren’t officially together in any capacity more than friendship.

“How did it go?” Charlotte asked, looking from Shawn to Jonah and Mackenzie. “You’re cool?” she said to her brother and his fiancée.

“We’re cool,” Mackenzie smiled.

“I always expect everyone to immediately recognize him.” Charlotte turned to Mackenzie, “I was anticipating having to have a conversation with you yesterday when you saw the picture of us on the console table.”

“What picture?” Shawn asked.

Charlotte retrieved the photo and brought it back to Shawn.

“Aw babe, I want a copy of this.” Sebastian tried to grasp the frame and bring it to his mouth. “Really, little man? Everything has to go straight into your mouth, eh?”

“I thought you might,” she smiled and pulled from her pocket the coolest flash drive keychain he had ever seen. “All of the photos from the zoo are on it. You can keep whichever ones you want and delete the rest.”

“This is amazing. Thank you, darling,” he said, grinning brightly, wrapping an arm around her waist.

“Should we get going then?”

// * // * //

Charlotte’s family was ecstatic when she and Shawn, with Sebastian in his arms, arrived at brunch with Jonah and Mackenzie.

As Jonah was swept up in hugs and excited chatter, Shawn whispered encouragingly to Mackenzie, “Try not to feel overwhelmed. You’re marrying into an incredible family.”

Mackenzie squeezed Shawn’s forearm. “Thank you, Shawn.”

Jonah introduced Mackenzie, who was eagerly and enthusiastically welcomed.

Everyone was happy to see Shawn as well. They adored him almost as much as Charlotte did, which settled warmly in her chest.

The only one who hadn’t met Shawn yet was Valerie, and with the tiniest nod from Charlotte in her direction, she finally approached, greeting her cousin with a bright smile and a hug.

Charlotte squeezed her back, quick and tight. “I’m happy you’re here.” She then took Sebastian from Shawn and introduced him to Valerie.

She and Shawn could both see how excited Valerie was to meet him, but she did an admirable job keeping her composure, which was good. She needed to get used to Shawn being around.

Elisa swept by and snatched Sebastian from Charlotte’s arms and yelled over her shoulder at the trio, “Go eat!”

// * // * //

Once stomachs were full and minds were mimosa-relaxed, and when Jonah had the chance to step away from the whirlwind of aunts, uncles, and cousins, first making sure Mackenzie felt comfortable enough for him to do so, he went looking for Shawn.

He found him with his sister, of course; they were practically joined at the hip after all. They were cleaning up the kitchen, laughing so hard about God knows what that they were wheezing.

“So this is where the real party is. Clean up. Who knew?” Once Shawn and Charlotte had a chance to catch their breath, Jonah asked, “Do you play pool, Shawn?”

Charlotte gave Shawn a look that said, I warned you this might happen.

Shawn just smirked at Charlotte before turning to Jonah to say, “I’m better at ping pong than pool, but sure.”

“Great.” He then said to Charlotte, “I’ll get him back to you before you know it.” She softly bit her bottom lip and blushed.

The two young men headed downstairs to the rec room.

After the break and when they had each had one turn, Shawn said, “Charlotte told me you would want to talk, man to man.”

“No pretext then, eh?”

“What are my intentions with your sister?”

“We’ll get there,” Jonah chuckled. “How long have you and Charlie known each other?”

“Not long. Less than anyone might expect. We’ve never been outright asked and we’ve always sort of skirted around the specifics.”

“Why?”

Shawn nervously ran his hand though his hair. “Because it’s kind of ridiculous and we’re afraid we’ll be judged for it.”

Jonah was both curious and apprehensive. He waited until after Shawn took his next shot, sinking one ball, but not the next. He was hoping Shawn would offer more on his own, which he did as Jonah took his turn.

“I don’t know how you felt when you met Mackenzie for the first time, but Charlotte and I... It was immediate, the connection we made. She was heaven-sent when I needed someone the most.”

“And when was that? I’m asking outright.”

Shawn’s cheeks reddened. “A week ago.”

“Wait. Hold on.”

Shawn looked at Jonah in a way which said, now you know why we skirt around it.

“Okay. Reserving my judgement. Go on.”

Shawn continued, telling Jonah about where, when, and how he met Charlotte, and how their lives have intertwined since then. He took a deep breath before saying, “You know how you hear about ‘love at first sight’ and ‘when you know, you know?’ It’s like that with us. I mean, not exactly. We’re not in love,” he blushed. “But there’s deep affection and appreciation between us. She’s the most honest and accepting person I know. She’s sweet, and she’s kind, and I know I can place my faith and trust in her.”

“Forgive me for asking, but I have to. I have to watch out for my sister. I’m sure you understand, having a younger sister yourself... You’re not looking for a rebound or taking advantage of her in any way, are you?”

“Wow. Blunt. But I appreciate that. If you know Charlotte at all, she doesn’t let anyone take advantage of her... And with who I am, I have to be careful that I’m not the one being taken advantage of.”

“I didn’t even consider that,” Jonah said, thoughtfully.

“Regardless, no. I care about her too much. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her.”

“Has Charlie told you much about Booker?”

“I know that she loved him, and she said he was good to her when he was around, but she also used the words 'complicated', 'reckless', and 'dangerous'. I haven’t pressed her for more. We don't really talk about our exes.

“She hasn’t asked me about my ex aside from wondering how I’m doing. I know Charlotte would tell me about Booker if I asked, but I would rather have her offer to tell me when she feels ready to. It doesn’t seem to matter much though because, as far as I understand, he hasn’t even tried to reach out since she left him. Which is a dick move, by the way. If I had a son, I’d do anything to be in his life; never mind what kind of relationship I had with his mother.

“We’ll have those conversations when we’re ready, or when we need to.” Shawn then said, “She misses you a lot, you know. You should really make an effort to come back to Toronto more often. And Bash is going to grow up so fast. You don’t want to miss that.”

“I like your integrity,” Jonah said. “And I like you. I like you for Charlie.”

“We’re-”

“Just friends, I know. Still. You care for her. She cares for you. I like how you treat her and my nephew. I see how you watch out for them. I hope you’re in their lives for a long time, whether you stay only friends or someday it turns into something more.”

// * // * //

Part 13

#shawn mendes #shawn peter raul mendes #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes fiction #shawn mendes fluff

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lesbianclaryfray · 3 years

Text

underneath my skin's an intrinsic shrine

Written for @shadowhunterbingo

Square filled: “wing fic”

Rating: E

Pairing: Clary/Maia

Warnings: explicit sexual content

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Their bedroom smells like jasmine and vanilla and hairspray. Jasmine from the vase of flowers in the corner, vanilla from the scented candle still burning away, hairspray wafting in through the open door of the bathroom. The blinds are drawn, the only light coming from the hallway — and that candle, burning patiently.

Clary and Maia enter in a haste, hands itching to grab at each other’s clothes. The moment they’re within five feet of the bed, Maia pulls Clary in for a wet, passionate kiss.

“Someone’s eager,” Clary teases.

“Yeah, yeah,” Maia says against her lips. “Says the girl feeling me up under the table all night.”

“Let’s call it even, then,” Clary says before diving back in for another kiss. Her hands gently but insistently pull at the fabric of Maia’s blouse, tugging it out from under her skirt, and she reluctantly breaks the kiss to pull the blouse over Maia’s head and completely off.

“Wow…” Clary whispers, which is what she always does when she sees Maia in any state of undress. She’s seen her naked so many times before — after a fight when Maia is shrugging clothes back on after shifting back, after a shower when Maia is wrapping a towel around herself, while getting dressed in the morning in their shared apartment, and of course, the countless other times they’ve reached for each other desperately before tumbling into bed — but the awe of undressing her never fades. Clary doesn’t just think, but knows, that Maia Roberts is the most beautiful person in the world. And when she bares herself like this to Clary, with warm and trusting eyes and scarred skin seeming to glow in the light, Clary feels like she’s looking at something holy.

( Heaven and the Angels have nothing on your breasts, she wants to say.)

Maia kisses her again, and this time Clary busies herself with unbuttoning Maia’s skirt — until Maia’s lips move to her neck and Clary loses all control of her limbs and can only cling to Maia’s hips for dear life while her love sucks a bruise into her skin.

“Why are we still wearing clothes?” Clary groans when Maia has moved on from the hickey and is instead placing gentle kisses along Clary’s throat and jaw.

“I don’t know,” Maia says. “You should probably do something about that.”

Clary agrees. She returns her attention to Maia’s skirt and undoes the last few buttons before pulling it down. Maia lets it drop to the floor and steps out of it, kicking her shoes off in the process. Clary quickly pulls her hair over her shoulder and turns to present the back of her dress to Maia. Maia unzips it for her, then helps her peel it off completely. Maia pulls her close then, her chest to Clary’s back, and presses her lips to her shoulder while she unhooks Clary’s bra. When the garment is off, she only steps back far enough to be able to trace a finger down the lines of Clary’s back. The touch is just shy of tickling, but Clary doesn’t mind. In fact, she lives for these moments, and she knows that Maia does too.

“Can I…can I see them again?” Maia asks softly.

“Yes,” Clary says. She steps forward, just to be a safe distance away, and closes her eyes. She doesn’t need the rune to summon them anymore, and she’s finally managed to block Raziel’s attempts to push back. They are now hers and hers alone.

And Maia’s. Maybe, mostly, Maia’s.

With a deep breath she summons them. Maia lets out an awed gasp as two great white wings arc above Clary’s shoulders, glowing bright for a moment before settling in place on her back. Clary folds them behind her. Maia gingerly touches one, and Clary feels the heat of her hand as if she’s grabbed her arm, or her face, or her thigh.

“Beautiful,” Maia mutters.

Clary turns to face her, and almost subconsciously wraps her wings around Maia’s frame, pulling her closer until their chests are pressed together. Her lips find Maia’s. “I love you,” she mutters into the kiss. Maia’s mumbled reply is swallowed up by Clary’s eager lips. They hold onto each other, and Clary pulls Maia back with her until they reach the bed. Clary lands on her back on the soft pillows. Her hair spreads like a halo around her head and her wings splay out on the blue sheets. Maia climbs on top of her and kisses her again and again and again. Then her lips trail over to Clary’s jaw, and her finger begins to stroke a single feather on Clary’s left wing.

“Are you sure—?” she begins to ask.

In answer, Clary spreads her legs, wrapping them around Maia’s waist. Maia smiles against her chin and lowers her lips. Her kisses are gentle, feather-like connections with Clary’s skin, lingering for only a moment or two before she moves on. From Clary’s jaw, to her neck, to her collarbone, to the space between her breasts. Finally, she pushes herself up and takes one of Clary’s breasts in her hands and, with one last look up at her from beneath her dark lashes, Maia takes the other breast into her mouth.

The pleasure is instant. The wet warmth of Maia’s mouth combined with the circular motions of her thumb around Clary’s nipple have her throwing her head back and gasping before Maia’s even truly started. If her arousal wasn’t strong before (and from where Maia’s sitting, she can tell that it was), it’s now growing rapidly. When Maia’s teeth gently graze her nipple before she gives it one last lick, Clary has to fight to stay put.

Sensing her tension, Maia smiles. “You’re getting impatient again,” she says, but there is no heat or warning to her tone. She loves how eager Clary gets when they’re in bed together. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t just as impatient herself. But she holds back, because she wants to take her time, to give Clary as much pleasure as possible, and she knows that Clary would do the same for her.

She starts to lick Clary’s other breast while her hands trail slowly down the redhead’s sides. She hooks one finger under the waistband of Clary’s panties and begins to pull.

Clary’s wings flap once, forcefully, in anticipation, sending a gust of wind that flutters the curtains. Maia chuckles as Clary flushes, more in embarrassment than arousal now, and fails to hold back a laugh of her own. She adjusts her legs so it’s easier for Maia to take her underwear off. Maia throws them somewhere over her shoulder and climbs back up the length of Clary’s body. If Clary sees heaven when she looks at Maia, Maia sees everything else when she looks at Clary. The blue sky and the bluer ocean and the unexplored deep and a million galaxies mankind has yet to discover. The woman beneath her is her everything. She’s something deep and unknowable and welcoming. Her undoing and her salvation. And if she wasn't naked and wet and waiting under her right now, Maia would stop everything to say all of that out loud. But it's rude to keep a lady waiting.

When Maia’s fingers first find their way between Clary’s legs, the latter’s eyes flutter closed. They do this routine often, so often they know the steps like a dance: Maia working slowly and tirelessly, her hand everywhere but where Clary needs her the most, and Clary breathing heavily, her hands clutching the sheets and Maia’s shoulders and everything else that’s within reach. But every time, it's just a bit different. And every time, no matter what, it brings about indescribable pleasure.

Maia’s thumb caresses Clary’s clit after what truly feels like forever. Clary’s body reacts instantly. Her back arches off the bed and her wings — those beautiful great wings that fit so perfectly around Maia every time, as if they were made to hold her — lift off the bed and wrap around Maia’s shoulders, holding her close.

Once upon a time, Maia would have felt conflicted about them, these wings that Clary had given herself using Angelic powers. But ever since the Angels cast Clary out, ever since she turned her back on them in turn and reclaimed the power as her own, her wings have felt less like a consequence of an Angelic gift she’d never asked for and more like an extension of her. They are warm and soft and when it comes to Maia, they seem to have a mind of their own. And Maia loves them. She loves the way they sometimes extend over her sleeping form when Clary’s spooning her. She loves the way Clary sometimes brings them out when they’re outside together, watching clouds or stars, so Maia has something soft to lay on. She loves the way Clary holds her close with them when Maia is naked in her lap, keeping her warm and safe no matter how exposed she is.

Maia smiles and leans down to kiss the side of Clary’s mouth as she continues to gently stroke her. Clary chases her lips and earns a kiss on the mouth as well.

“Maia…” she mumbles, nuzzling Maia’s neck and kissing the hollow of her throat. “

“Yeah, baby?”

Clary opens her eyes. “Take off your goddamn bra.”

They both laugh and Maia shifts, as much as the wings will allow her, until she’s unhooked her bra. She leans over again so Clary has a clear view of her cleavage, then lets the bra straps slip from her shoulders. Clary snatches it up and tosses it off the bed as if afraid that Maia will put it back on again.

“Thank you,” she says, pushing herself up to kiss the tattoo under Maia’s left breast. She looks up into Maia’s eyes. “You can go back to doing what you were doing now.”

And Maia does just that. Her fingers continue to circle Clary’s wet folds, her thumb gently and, often, teasingly rubbing her clit, and watching Clary gasp and moan and cling to her with need. Eventually, Maia slips a finger inside her, and Clary’s wings bristle.

Maia kisses her jaw. “You okay?”

Clary nods feverishly. Then, as if her wings aren’t doing a fine enough job of it, she wraps her arms around Maia too and uses them to pull her in for an open-mouthed kiss. Her hands trail over Maia’s bare back, then down to her hips, then up her sides until she’s cupping both of Maia’s breasts. Maia’s breath hitches at the contact, and it takes her more than a moment to be able to focus back on what she’s supposed to be doing.

She thrusts her finger slowly in and out of Clary a few times before adding a second. And then a third. And the whole time Clary grips and kisses and bites various parts of her body — and the sheets beneath them, and Maia kisses every inch of her skin that she can reach from her position. And her wings slowly lose their hold on Maia, instead beginning to flap and flutter in reaction to the intense pleasure.

Before long, Clary's hold on Maia stiffens and she throws her head back in a moan as she climaxes. Then she falls back against the bed, limp and panting, wings fluttering.

“That…was…” she sighs contentedly, ecstasy still on her face. She opens one eye halfway and gives Maia a small smile. “Wow. Give me one minute, okay?”

“‘Course, baby,” Maia says, lying down on top of her and waiting patiently. She loves watching Clary like this: hair sticking to her forehead with sweat, limbs splayed across the bed, and that euphoric look on her face. With a view this beautiful, Maia doesn’t mind waiting her turn one bit.

A few minutes later, Clary starts to sit up, and Maia rolls halfway off of her to allow it. Clary reaches for a water bottle on their bedside table and sips at it. She offers it to Maia, who also takes a sip before putting it back.

“Okay, now,” Maia says, tracing a finger up and down Clary’s stomach as she gives her a teasing look. “Where were we?”

Clary smirks, as if to say, Oh, I’ll remind you, and switches their positions so quickly that Maia is left to wonder whether she’s activated her speed rune.

With Maia on her back, Clary positions herself between her legs and leans down to kiss her. This is another part of their dance:

Maia is attentive and focused and so, so, so good at what she does and in the time they’re together like this, all she cares about is making Clary feel good. It makes her feel good too, of course, especially with Clary’s hands on her breasts and Clary’s wings on her back, but Maia’s own focus is on making certain her girlfriend is getting as much out of the experience as possible. But when Clary starts to kiss her like this — slow and deep, her tongue in Maia’s mouth guiding the kiss — Maia knows what it’s signaling. That it’s Clary’s turn to take care of her now. That Maia just has to sit back and relax and not worry about a thing in the world.

They don’t always do the same dance, but this kiss from Clary is almost always there to remind Maia that all she needs to do now is feel good .

Clary pulls away slowly, looking down at Maia with half-hooded eyes.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” Maia says.

They smile at each other for a long moment. Then Clary places a kiss on Maia’s cheek, then her jaw, then her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone, her chest. Each breast. Down the lengths of her arms. Her stomach and sides. Her thighs. Knees. Ankles. She takes her time kissing every inch of Maia’s body, her hands roaming Maia’s skin all the while. When she finally arrives at the practically-soaked underwear, Maia is breathing heavily and urging her on with her eyes.

Clary sits on her hands and knees, spreads her wings wide, and begins to mouth at Maia’s pussy over the fabric.

Maia makes a noise that is half-squeal, half-groan. “Clary…” she says breathlessly.

Clary knows she doesn’t expect an answer, so she doesn’t bother stopping what she’s doing with her mouth. She alternates between kissing Maia’s thighs and the space between them for what feels to her like barely more than a minute, and to Maia like an eternity. Then Clary uses one hand to carefully push the fabric of Maia’s panties aside, granting her full access to the main event without having to take them off Maia.

Maia moans beautifully when Clary starts to lick her directly, her tongue moving in slow, deep circles. And then, when Clary’s tongue flicks her clit, Maia cries out and buries both hands in Clary’s hair.

Clary giggles and turns her head to kiss the inside of Maia’s palm.

“You doing okay, babe?”

“Yeah,” Maia says, biting her lip. “Just— don’t stop.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Clary says, and dives back in. Maia writhes in pleasure and lifts her hips off the bed, one hand leaving Clary’s tangled locks to grab her own breast. That’s my job , Clary thinks distantly, but doesn’t dwell on it. She lowers one wing to Maia’s face and caresses her cheek with the soft feathers, making Maia smile. Then she continues to lick and tease Maia with her tongue.

Until Maia gasps and shudders and twists her hand in her Clary’s hair as she’s overtaken by waves of pleasure.

Clary doesn’t stop until Maia is gently tugging her up to kiss her deeply, tasting herself on Clary’s tongue. Then she lies back and smiles, playing with the strands of Clary’s hair still in her hands. Clary adjusts herself so she’s lying next to Maia and drapes one wing over their still-naked forms. Maia turns into her arms, facing her, smiling broadly.

“I take it you enjoyed that?” Clary says more than asks.

“Always,” Maia says. “I love you.”

Clary kisses her on the forehead. “I love you too!”

Maia glances at the white feathers on top of her. “Does it take a lot of effort? To keep them out, I mean.”

“No.” Clary shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind if it did, though. You like them.”

“Oh, I more than like them.”

“Oh, I’m aware.”

Maia laughs and wraps her arms around Clary’s middle. Her hair tickles Clary’s chest and nose, but Clary isn’t bothered by it.

“They feel nice,” Maia says after a moment. “They feel like…”

“Yeah,” Clary says. “You feel like that for me.”

“I love you,” Maia says again.

Clary kisses her.

#shadowhunterbingo #sh fic #claia #clary x maia #maia x clary #mine #my writing #...#no comment!

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suckerforsmylex · 4 years

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Ripe Peach - Pt. 8

Joker POV

She stood there in my blazer, looking delicious with the makeshift Harley outfit on. An insatiable thirst for her coursed through my veins, making me clench my fists violently. Her body was a beautiful paradox. There was a profound softness and pureness to it, like the flesh of virgin fruit on my carnivorous mouth. Yet, underneath her sweet candor, I picked up the scent of a more…carnal inclination. The thought of possessing her thrilled me immeasurably and I had to run my fingers through my hair to reclaim my thoughts from the dark place they had settled into.

You’ve been a bad girl, haven’t you sweetheart?

Yes, she was a precarious creation and my favorite kind of challenge. Her voluptuous curves spilled out lustfully and brazenly on display. The diligence she put into hiding behind fabric was undone by the very quiver of her breasts as she sauntered toward me. There was an alluring plumpness to her lips whenever she looked at me, whether in a moment of poutiness or pleasure. I was addicted to the flush of her face, taking great pleasure in inflicting her with doses of humiliation. Seeing her cheeks warm and redden whenever my desire simmered over into an intense stare became an addiction that required almost hourly satiation. My eyes would pierce her, chipping away at her chastity, until she would pinken with a pretty blush. She unfurled for me at only a glint of my metal grin.

That’s it. Melt for Daddy, my little peach. I want to see some cherry in those cheeks.

My old flame had caused a conflict within my battered brain. My mind had trouble processing Harley’s unannounced, grabby little fingers all over my luscious peach. Yet, I was captivated by how she flushed at Harley’s desperate advances. It was uncontrolled and her confusion at her own arousal was scintillating. I relished the heat of her surprise and shame as it coursed through her, with her wrists restrained by me. It emanated through her and onto me, from their spontaneous synthesis. Chemical reactions appeal to the mad chemist in me. The forming and breaking of bonds, the unstable elements, they have a certain undeniable charm. Still, I always feel the dominating urge to exert my power and neutralize these reactions. I marked her as MY property, biting her ravenously and growling as Harley came forward, but it was to no end. Harley is insatiable. She doesn’t understand what boundaries are. Her ultimate mistake was to grab the delicate treasure that is my Peach’s ankle. I hadn’t even been able to kiss there yet. I cocked the gun and aimed at Harley in a manic, angry bloodlust. She should be dead, but the feeling of holding the gun with Harley at my feet and Peaches against me having her scorching awakening, rendered me so hard that I couldn’t concentrate. I gave her the option and she chose to spare Harl. She asked so nicely that I couldn’t kill her. My bloodlust vanished, replaced by a serious, intense longing to be inside of her.

That’s it, beg Daddy to stop – such a good girl.

I wanted to rip her panties off with my teeth and destroy her. Her utter ignorance of my compulsion with The Bat only distracted me for a moment and I reluctantly suppressed the urge to reach out and choke her soft, vulnerable neck. I let the twitch in my jaw soften and gave her a stern warning. “Don’t bring up The Bat. I’m still cooking up some ways to kill him, but right now, I’m more interested in murdering you in bed.” She bit her lip and I could tell without even examining her that she was dripping for me. I led her, gripping her at the nape of the neck, into my black, 4-door and threw her onto the back seat. Her eyes called for me to impale her right there but I had better plans. “Lay down,” I commanded, stifling the urge to release myself.

That’s it. Get on your back. Daddy’s gonna’ make you squirm first.

She surrendered beautifully to me and I slammed the door shut, jumped into the driver’s seat, locked all the doors and turned on the car. I hit the gas and accelerated to 90mph and I could hear her moan softly. She likes me crazy and wild and I decided to give her a little test. “Are you Daddy’s good girl or Daddy’s bad girl?” She was so thoughtful, always wanting to please me. I felt her struggle with her answer before landing on saying, “I’m whatever you say I should be Daddy.” This is what I mean about her being dangerous. She’s a literal split between so very good, and so very naughty. I purred uncontrollably and grabbed the clutch, shifting gears abruptly. “That’s a perfect answer. Daddy wants to you be a bad girl right now. Take off your clothes, but leave your panties and heels on.”

Put on a show for Daddy. I can taste you on my tongue already.

She was eager to please me, ripping off the blazer, jacket and shirt with reckless abandon. I closed my eyes for a moment while weaving in and out of the traffic, thinking of how her bare skin felt against the leather of the back seat. I opened my eyes and had to look up to get a glimpse of her in the rear-view mirror.

Fuck.

It took all my strength to avoid slamming into the back of the charter bus in front of us. I barely missed the collision as I jerked the car to the left, laughing hysterically. “Mmmmm. Now spread your legs and touch yourself until we get home and don’t you dare cum. Say yes, Daddy J.” She spread her legs, parting them slowly with her left on the seat and her right onto the car floor and began touching herself aggressively.

Say it, say it, say it, say it…

“Nggg…Yes Daddy J.” She said my name as I got onto the expressway and I nearly flipped us off the side rail of the onramp. I gripped my left hand onto the wheel and pinched as much of the side of her ass as I could, hard and fast. I wanted to hear her squeal, and squeal she did. The sound made me think of all the times I had ever plunged into her, thrusting hard into her tight center. I was in pain, constricted and bulging against the fly of my pants. I quickly unzipped and released myself, sliding my hand down my shaft and rubbing the dribble of liquid from my tip into my palm. “Look at what you’ve done to me. You’re such a naughty, naughty girl. I am going to have to spank you. Shall we use the cane when we get home?”

Daddy’s cane awaits, my juicy peach.

“Yes Daddy. You’re the boss Daddy. You should use the cane.” I looked at her again through the rear view and she was breathing heavily, slipping into her folds and rubbing all over. She was beginning to place a finger underneath her panties and into herself when I decided to stop her. I braked hard and pulled the car over to the side of the road and turned the engine off. “Did I say…to put your fingers inside of yourself?” Her eyebrows raised and her eyes widened and she knew she was in trouble. I began to laugh uncontrollably and then I lunged into the back seat, gripping her with both hands at the throat. Her eyes were wide and frightened and welling with tears. “Youuuu, are just too naughty for your own good, aren’t you? You don’t put your fingers inside unless I tell you to. Take off your panties.” She removed them and I quickly shoved them into her mouth. I pat her between her legs, making sure to graze her clit. She was a sopping, slippery mess. “Tell Daddy you understand. Touch it and say ‘Daddy, I don’t put fingers in my pussy unless you tell me to’.” I still held her in the choke hold and only loosened so that she could speak as much as she could, with the panties still in her mouth. Her speech was garbled but she repeated the edict. “Daddy, I don’t put fingers in my pussy unless you tell me to.” She reached down to touch herself as I had instructed and I released the grip, stroking her face with my lips, kissing her and biting her ear. “Spit the panties out baby.”

That’s right, repeat after Daddy, my sweet whore.

I grabbed her by the hair and dragged her out of the car and onto the open highway. “Okay, Peaches, you want to be Daddy’s bad girl? Then I’ll fuck you like a bad girl.” She started to protest but I put my tattooed hand over her mouth and started to cackle. Her body glistened against the backdrop of the night sky as the cars whizzed by, blinding us with their lights. I slammed her onto the hood of the car and held her there with my forearm as I bent down to nuzzle into her nakedness. “I want a taste of you right here and right now.” She writhed underneath me as I slowly extended my tongue and stabbed into her swollen pussy. Her dampness bubbled onto my tongue and her cries became louder as I lapped at her relentlessly. She tasted sweet and was endlessly slick as I darted my tongue in and out. “Always so juicy for me.” When I could feel her release building, I stopped and jerked her back again by the hair. I took my other hand and grabbed her crotch, dipping a long finger inside. “You come when I tell you to. Do you understand?” But it was too late for my little peach to stop herself. She was already bucking onto my hand and crying out as she orgasmed. It was an intense orgasm that she couldn’t will herself to stop and I made sure to pour it on thick as I looked at her with strict disapproval.

You’re in trouble now, Peaches.

After the last aftershock of her orgasm subsided, I pulled the long finger out of her slowly, never breaking the intense glare I was giving her. I looked at my glistening finger and shoved it directly into her mouth, feeling for the back of her throat. “Taste your failure, you dirty slut.” She choked on my fingers and tried to utter an apology. “I’m sorry Da…”

*SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!*

I backhanded her across the face and gripped her chin and to my surprise, she looked up at me smiling and giddy, and panting. I reached into the back of the car and grabbed my golden cane and then back down to grab myself and stroke my thick length. The little cock tease was killing me. I leaned in close, pressed my cheek to hers and spoke directly into her ear. “What did I just say?” I kissed her earlobe and she breathed into my ear and started to moan. I gripped her by the throat again, shouting loudly. “WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST SAY?” Her doe eyes looked watery again as her apology came tumbling forth from her mouth. “I’m sorry, Daddy! I’m so sorry, I know I wasn’t supposed to come.” I released her and slammed her back onto the hood of the car. “That’s right. You weren’t supposed to. I guess we’re going to have to continue treating you like the whore that you are.” I grabbed the cane and smacked her across the thighs and watched her body jump. The sight of it made me throw my head back and laugh. “Ok Peaches, you ready for Daddy to murder that pussy?” She nodded profusely. Of course, she was ready.

They are going to draw chalk lines on the pavement, after I’m done with you peaches.

I held the cane across the base of her neck so that it choked her tightly. “Spread your legs wide.” I placed the tip of my cock at the base of her entrance and when I felt she couldn’t take my teasing anymore, I forced myself inside with one thick thrust. “Ahhh!” She screamed at the feeling of me filling her. “That’s right doll face, I’m going to destroy you.” I thrust into her in a frenzy, disregarding her screams and purred into her ear with each thrust. “Fuck Daddy, it hurts!” I looked down at the tears rolling down her face and it only served to spur me on. I spoke to her with mock sympathy. “Oh no, it hurts, sweetheart? Is Daddy too big for you? Too fucking bad. Turn over so I can finish stretching you out from behind.” She started moving slowly, but I couldn’t wait any longer and I yanked her by the arms and pushed her down onto the hood, kicking her feet apart roughly with my shoe.

Are you crying baby girl? I’ll give you something to cry about.

She was spread open in front of me and I couldn’t stop my wicked idea from coming to fruition. “You know, we never christened this cane.” I grabbed ornamental cane by its decorative knob and began to push the straight end of it into her, knowing that any minute she would realize and protest. “No Daddy, please!” She turned back over her shoulder with a desperate look in her eyes. I gave her a grin, my words coming out of my mouth like silk. “Now Peaches, you know when you’re bad that you deserve to be punished. Isn’t that right? Now, push back and fuck Daddy’s cane.” She agreed reluctantly and began to push back with hesitation, her tightness sliding onto the metal of it, drenching it with her juices. “Yes, that’s right. Let’s see a more spirited performance for.”

Again, she obeyed my command until I could see that she was starting to enjoy it, moving back and forth onto it with more fervor until her voice broke through the nasty, lewd sound of her cunt being impaled. “Daddy, Daddy, fuck, please, please, please let me come!” I pulled the cane from her swiftly and stabbed into her again with my cock. “Come now! Come all over my cock. Give Daddy all of it! Give it to me! Give it to me! Give it to me! Fuck yes!” She came all over me, bucking into my crotch and triggering my own release. I felt it gushing into her, hot and satisfying as she slumped onto the hood unable to move until I carried her into the passenger seat and wrapped my blazer around her and buckled her in, kissing her sweetly. “How can one peach be so deliciously sweet, yet so horribly rotten at the same time?” She smiled up at me in a daze and I began driving us towards my home base.

#leto joker #joker #jared leto joker #leto joker fanfiction #joker pov #ripe peach #revised and much darker

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lisarichardsonbylines · 4 years

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How to Tell Your Husband You’re a Witch

Witches we need you. Now more than ever. In the time of COVID-19 we can find respite in place-based reverence, plant magic and the divine feminine. So writes Lisa Richardson, who came to witchiness with nothing but white hetero straight-lacedness and a crush on a yoga teacher.

Lisa Richardson | Longreads | April 2020 | 15 minutes (4,084 words)

On a Friday afternoon, pre-COVID-19, my husband dropped some ice-cubes into glasses, ready to make us screwdrivers and cheers to surviving another week of working/parenting/wondering where the hell the years were going, only, the vodka bottle was empty.

“Oh yeah,” I said, my eyes sliding sideways, trying to not cause a fuss, “I used it for medicine.” The previous week, the kitchen counter had been cluttered with a giant mason jar full of oily plant matter. “Balm of Gilead!” I explained, brightly, as he wiped away the breakfast crumbs around it.

“But what is it?”

“Cottonwood tips in oil.”

His eyes had flicked, then, over to the brand-new bottle of extra virgin olive oil that was now nearly empty, as I enumerated the medicinal benefits of this old herbal remedy (and all this from a tree in our backyard!). Twenty-four years together means I could hear the abacus in his brain clicking, as he wordlessly calculated the cost per milliliter of a gallon jar of plant matter masticating in top-shelf olive oil, against the cost per unit of a bottle of generic aspirin tables, overlaid with the probability of me losing interest in this project.

First the olive oil. Now the vodka for dozens of little jars of tinctures — garden herbs and weeds soaking in now-undrinkable booze. My midlife quest to attune more deeply to the rhythms of the natural world was starting to incur unexpected, but real, costs.

He was quiet, as he opened the fridge and pulled out a beer instead.

* * *

In my defense, I could have pointed my finger at Natalie Rousseau, a yoga teacher living in my 5,000 person village, who I’d first encountered leading a solstice yoga class billed as a way to survive the madness of the holidays (in slightly more gracious language). Thanks to her offerings of insight I did survive the commercial horror of the “festive” season, and a few months later, as the new moon entered Aries (whatever that actually means), I plonked down $200 to subscribe to her online 13 Moons course — my foray into “slowing down and being more present,” as I pitched it to my husband when he inquired about the strange entry on the credit card statement.

But I did not deflect the simmering tension between us by naming Natalie as the instigator of these “kitchen witch” experiments. Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

But there it is. The word. Witch. The wound.

* * *

Every day, after COVID-19 entered our world, Natalie Rousseau has responded with an offering, a teaching — a meditation, an ancient mantra of protection, a yoga practice for managing anxiety, a how-to video on harvesting poplar medicine. It’s as if she’s been resourcing herself for this moment to develop the richest arsenal imaginable, to navigate, not the public health crisis, but the billion personal crises each of us is forced to confront as life as we know it slams into pandemic mode. It’s not what I thought a witch would do, if I ever thought about them at all.

Natalie doesn’t look like a witch either — not in the way I conceived it for last year’s Halloween costume, with my long black skirt, dollar-store pointy hat, and heavy black eyeliner, walking alongside my 6-year-old vampire-werewolf. Natalie is petite, just a few inches over five feet, her long blond hair still evoking the decade she spent living in a west coast surf town, her chest and lean muscled arms bright with full sleeve flowery tattoos and Mary Oliver quotes. She moves like a dancer, demonstrating yoga poses as if she’s transcending gravity. As a teacher, she speaks exactly, even in Sanskrit, and guides movement precisely, padding gently and soundlessly through the room, making an adjustment here, offering an instruction there.

So, I was surprised when she used the word “witch” to launch her new online offering, The Witches Wheel. The lure was irresistible. Natalie was claiming the word “witch�� without flinching, without anger, without provocation, not as a way to reclaim feminine power and stick it to the men, warranted as that may be: It was essentially an invitation to observe the cycle of the seasons.

A threshold beckoned.

* * *

Natalie, a recent empty-nester, lives with her husband Paul and two dogs in a modest townhome, with a creek and a dozen rogue gardens installed by various residents running behind it. The garage is full of motorbikes. The porch is swept clean on the day I visit, six months into the 13 Moons program, wanting to talk with her about this radical word and why, in a world still unsure what to do with powerful women, she’s not afraid that she’s exposing herself to pitchforks and fires, haters, and trolls.

Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

A tea blend of her own mixing — vanilla chaga chai — is brewing on the stove in an open saucepan. She tends to it, as I settle in, sneaking glimpses around the room, looking for evidence of witchcraft — pentagrams, cloaks, bottled frogs. Nothing. The space is uncluttered, a throw-rug on the armchair, a couple of stark white deer skulls are mounted, European-style, on a wall against a reclaimed barn board — definitely more Soho chic than occult-goth. Her husband returns from town, where he has picked up fresh croissants for us. He’s tall and strong, with a tightly cropped red beard — he looks like a guy you’d run into at the gym, at the surf break, at the hardware store.

“So, what’s it like living with a witch?” I ask him as Natalie attends to our tea, a light-hearted question sprouting out of the great compost of fears I am thinking. Is it impossibly hard to be with a woman who comfortably claims her own power, magic, cycles, voice? What kind of a man can love and honor a witch? And lurking deep beneath it all: Will my husband be one of them?

Paul rolls his eyes, overly-dramatically, pointing up to the light fixture in the kitchen — light bulbs housed in mason jars of all sizes, evoking summer cabins and fireflies and Kinfolk magazine dinner party lanterns. “I made this for her because everything ends up in jars. Have you seen inside these cupboards?” He walks around the house, in faux-exasperation, opening doors to reveal neat stacks of jars, full of dried petals, leaves, syrups, tonics, salves, salts. “And there’s more upstairs!” If it hadn’t been for the dinner party they’d hosted the previous night, most of their apartment’s horizontal surfaces would be covered in jars, he tells me, and the front porch would have housed a dead raven and a dead Cooper’s hawk.

“She’s always sending me out in search of dead things,” he jokes. He picks up roadkill in case she can salvage feathers or skulls.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

The two of them are remarkably self-sufficient — an animal lover (“he loves animals more than people”), Paul realized veganism left him tired and undernourished, so took up hunting to procure his own meat humanely; one of the deer skulls mounted on the wall was harvested this fall, its meat now fills their freezer. They grow a garden, wildcraft, eat well. There is an ease between them — a tidal push and pull as they navigate their modest shared space and the morning routine, without evidence of fake niceness, of power trips or struggles.

Witchcraft, in Natalie Rousseau’s mind, is too non-dogmatic and non-hierarchical to submit to a single all-encompassing definition. “As a practice, it’s so highly individual,” she says, “but across the board, it is very place-based, land-based and body-based. For me, it’s about cultivating a relationship with your own body, your own mind, your emotions, and subtle sensing faculties. It’s learning how to trust your intuition. It’s about reclaiming your own instincts, but also being able to feel: this is what stress feels like in my body, this is what relaxation feels like, this is what it feels like to say yes to something out of a sense of obligation or pressure, this is what it feels like to have a boundary. This is what it feels like when I’m safe. These cues come to us from our bodies. It has to be, for it to work well, otherwise, you’re always reaching outside yourself for another authority.”

This is what she wants to help women, particularly, to reclaim: their sense that they are the first authority on themselves, that they can trust their bodies’ wisdom.

“The biggest thing I want to share with people,” says Natalie of her teaching and online courses, “is how to trust themselves. Everyone can very easily make the medicines that their household would need for common household complaints — colds and flus and chest colds and menstrual cramps — so many basic things that anyone can make very simply, quite affordably. I’m not anti-pharmaceutical. There are many medications people have to take daily to live. And if I have a serious infection, I’m going to take antibiotics; if I am seriously ill, I am going to go to the doctor; if I have any kind of trauma, I’m going to be so grateful for that form of medicine. But I believe the role kitchen medicine has is in the maintenance and prevention of illness.”

One of her biggest laments, though, as she makes videos and handouts and shares them with her online community, is that even people who have paid to do her course don’t feel that they have the time to take it into their kitchens. “Making a tincture is literally pouring vodka over plant materials and leaving it on your counter for four weeks!” she says. But it is easier for most people to just buy one online and have it delivered to their doorstep. “I am saddened by how easily women give their power over. This is the biggest thing I’ve noticed as a teacher in the past couple of years — how quickly women will say, ‘but how do you do this? I don’t know how to do this! I’m afraid to try this because I might not be good at it, I might be doing it wrong. I’m an imposter.’ I really struggle with this. Where is it coming from?”

But she knows. We have relinquished our power, over a thousand years or more, of wounding, of witch-burnings, of patriarchy either convincing us we have none or forcibly stripping it away, (hello Harvey Weinstein), until all we feel empowered to do, now, in 2020, is consume. And we’ve been doing that with all our might.

We override the listening, we ignore the nudges, we push through, like good soldiers. “Most people are running so hard,” observes Natalie. “Our culture is so focussed on productivity. We are so overly heroic — it’s all or nothing. I can’t do something unless I’m an expert. I don’t want to try. But this is a craft. It’s a path of education.”

Natalie’s invitation is gentle, and she’s crafted her online course to serve that: Start with one plant and learn its taste, its smell. Spend five minutes a day on meditation or in conscious ritual and begin to notice what’s going on in your nervous system, in your mind, in your body.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

Don’t get so distracted by the word witch, that you fail to notice that it is connected to craft. Witchcraft, for Natalie, is a path of learning “how to trust and problem solve, from within, knowing that we are in a system of power that, for better, for worse, will strip us of any ability to trust ourselves and to always feel empty so we have to keep buying more stuff.”

When she says this, a deep thrill of recognition hums in me, accompanied by a shiver of fear. Those are revolutionary things to say out loud, to cast into the open air. I recognize it viscerally as the kind of talk that gets people in trouble.

* * *

Last summer, before I met Natalie, I had stepped from my backyard patio stones onto freshly cut grass and spied the sinuous form of a wandering garter snake. I leaned in quickly, excitedly, about to call my 6-year-old over to glimpse the garden visitor before it shimmied away. But it was eerily still. Ugly slash wounds marked its body. It was dead. Innocent victim to the ride-on lawnmower. Obliterated by our oblivion.

“Oh no,” I muttered. “I’m so sorry!”

I had already begun to wake up to the natural world, it’s rhythms, it’s offerings of medicine, it’s otherness, but it had come with a shadow side, a growing despair at what we were doing to the world. Even without a malicious intention, I was causing death and destruction — just mowing the lawn, drinking my coffee, wiping my ass: My actions, all our human activity, had compounding impacts that were destroying the snakes, the ocean, the atmosphere, the forests, the icecaps — beyond repair.

I wanted my garden to be a habitat. I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. My penitence froze me in place, scared to make a move for fear of ruining something else. Then, regret overriding my squeamishness, I fetched the flat-bladed shovel and edged it under the dead snake. I carried her body over to the vegetable patch, and in a space between the beds, where the mower never goes, I laid her down. I picked marigolds and calendula from around the garden, where they’d been planted to keep the snails away, and lay the bright orange blossoms in a circle around her.

Grandmother snake, I whispered, hoping that some force that exists beyond the definitively dead snake at my feet, might spread the word among the entire species, “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean it. I will try to be more careful.”

It was a made-up ritual, the kind that a kid might perform deep in her dream world at the bottom of the garden, and it made my 44 year-old-self feel a little bit better. At least I’d made a gesture of repair, had expressed my desire to return into balance with the living world around me. If it had any effect, I’d never know. I went back inside, said nothing.

A few days later, out in the garden, my husband tripped over the skeleton of a decomposing snake, ringed by wilted flowers, half consumed by ants.

“That was spooky,” he confronted me. “What’s going on? Are you some kind of witch?”

* * *

Natalie has always been comfortable with the word. Now she’s having fun inviting people to consider the archetype, circle it, unpack it, stumble upon some kind of recognition: Wait a second! Maybe I am a witch!

“It’s cool how people in the western world can take a description that has been used mostly as a slur, and turn it around to use as something empowering,” she says.

For thousands of years, witch was a term used to incite violence against women. By the most conservative estimates, half a million people, mostly women, were executed in the European witch craze between 1300 and 1650. Accusations of witchcraft were used against women, says Rousseau, “in ways that were extremely dangerous and terrifying. It was really about getting power from them, and getting land back. So, to use a word like that in an empowered way, even today, you have to know you’re safe to do it. And it’s important to realize that in many places in the world, it’s still not safe for women to say that. But if we can, in safe places, take that word and turn it around, that, to me, is extremely powerful.”

I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

Natalie herself embodies empowerment. Not in the traditional way I have come to recognize power — as someone standing over, dominating someone else, her source of power comes from within.

She doesn’t need to take any from her partner.

“Do you find this relationship at all emasculating?” I joke to Natalie’s husband.

“I don’t. Not at all. No,” he replies.

“We’ve always given each other space to be ourselves.”

But that’s not always a guarantee of safety.

If it is dangerous to be an empowered woman in the world, then it’s dangerous, too, for the men who love them.

Lyla June Johnston is an author and activist of Diné and European heritage. Her inquiry into her disowned European heritage led to a realization: The millions of women burned alive, drowned alive, dismembered alive, beaten, raped and otherwise tortured as so-called, “witches,” were not witches at all. They were the medicine people of old Europe. Her lens, as a contemporary indigenous woman, and as a survivor of sexual violence, helped her identify that those were the women who understood the herbal medicines, the ones who prayed with stones, the ones who passed on sacred chants. And the all-out warfare of the witch burnings didn’t just harm the women. It had a profound effect on the men who loved them, their husbands, sons, brothers. She recognizes the echo of this in the story of her own time, of her own people. “Nothing makes a man go mad like watching the women of his family get burned alive. If the men respond to this hatred with hatred, the hatred is passed on. And who can blame them? While peace and love are the correct response to hatred, it is not an easy response by any means.”

How many men have kept their women down, tried to keep them at home, have become the handcuffs that the women fought against because they were answering to their own unarticulated primal instinct to keep them safe?

Natalie Rousseau speculates, “I am sure historically you had lots of husbands telling their wives to tone it down, not because they didn’t respect their power, but because they were genuinely afraid. I’d apply that to any women described as uppity — getting involved politically, or getting involved in local stuff that’s happening, fighting for the environment: Stop getting noticed so much. This could be dangerous.”

Some dangers are too great to be able to protect each other from. And so we turn the fight on each other — little domestic power-trips that distract us from the fact that we’ve relinquished all our power any way to the Great Machine.

* * *

My tentative inquiries into witchcraft, becoming fluent in my own moods and emotions, and paying attention to the seasons, barely prepared me for the abrupt slow-the-fuck-down order that came when COVID-19 landed in British Columbia, in my village, as school broke for spring break. The emergency handbrake was pulled. Everything came to a squealing stop — all my plans, canceled; all the stores, closing; the whole damn world, under house arrest and in a panic. The whiplash from the stunning speed of that shift has left my whole being hypersensitive to any sudden movement, to being jerked around. But the first things I have staked my trust in, in that space of uncertainty, were Natalie’s teachings: First, trust your body. Pause. Listen.

In self-imposed isolation with my husband and just-turned-7-year-old, I dance with anxiety and curiosity and disconnection and too-much-information. The well-trodden pathways we have all been racing along, flexing our power and exercising our entitlements as consumers, are suddenly bordered up with emergency tape. This invitation that Natalie has been dripping out, month after month, takes root. There is far more potency available to us, than shopping, driving, holidaying, consuming, endlessly moving around the planet.

There is potency in all the feelings that have been showing up at my door. Oh, good morning frustration. Ah grief, yes, I suppose you’d like a cup of tea. Hello there, existential terror, I wondered when you’d pop by. There is potency in sitting with my back against a huge cedar tree and listening, in slowing down so much that I can give my 7-year-old my full attention. There is potency even in my words, when I soothe him down from a tantrum by saying, “you know, this is a really hard time for everyone in the whole world right now because no one knows what’s going to happen and no one can play with their friends. I’m really proud of you.” And I can feel his body relax into this space of being acknowledged in his struggles and his efforts.

I don’t know if there are any medicinal properties in the tincture of St John’s Wort and valerian that I drop into water and hand my husband, to gentle his nervous system. Or in the jar of immune-boosting oxymel, that I brewed up with grated ginger and turmeric and orange peel, and shake every day. But even if it’s a placebo, there’s a relief for me in feeling I can do something, can offer my people some kind of healing intention in a little glass, that I can acknowledge that this is hard for my husband too, and that acknowledgment isn’t a concession that takes away from my own sense of struggle.

For decades, we’ve bought into the illusion that our power is as consumers. Now that stores are closing and the shelves are emptying and we have to stay home and not immediately indulge every whim that arises, we all feel powerless. But that was never our truest source of power. There’s another source that we can all plug back into, our deep relationship and interbeing with the life force. Maybe, this is our threshold moment. Maybe, this is a chance to craft a few little spells, to speak the words of the world we long to inhabit — a place where the currency of kindness and wonder flow, where humans return to a deep memory of belonging among the plants and creatures, and to brew up a cup of tea, light a candle, and dream it into existence. Maybe it’s an invitation to say, “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to, I will try and be more careful,” and to build a little altar, even if you feel kind of cray cray doing it. Let your nervous system settle as you invent some small ritual, (just ask your inner 5-year-old for guidance, she probably remembers exactly what to do), and make a gesture of repair.

“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have on my Apocalypse team,” I tell my husband, the night the global virus countertops 400,000. He’s been chopping wood, auditing the pantry, getting our kid across the finish line of the LEGO project that has absorbed him for four days. My husband was a farm kid. He’s always been practical, my polar opposite. Even when we have battled each other, (am I giving up too much of my power to him? If I acknowledge his pain and his needs, will that cancel mine out?) I’ve always known he would do anything to keep me safe. “Not that I can request an upgrade now,” I joke. “But I bet you’re glad to be stuck with me. One always wants a daydreamer at your side in a pinch.”

“Oh yeah,” he spoofs me: “’ The stock market is collapsing, let me just go check my Tarot cards.’”

We laugh. And hold each other. We can’t buy our way out of this. None of us. Our entire species, our global community, is being vividly reminded that we are all in this together, inextricably connected, epidemiologically entwined, in our vulnerability and our sweet potential. We didn’t need Amazon and airlines and online shopping to know what the witches have been telling us all this time. All the power we need is right here — between us, around us, within us. We just have to remember it.

* * *

Lisa Richarson

is a senior contributor to Coast Mountain Culture magazine and a columnist for Pique newsmagazine and edits the hyperlocal websites,

TheWellnessAlmanac.com

and

TracedElements.com.

She’s deep into a decade-long mission to slow the fuck down, but still optimize life for happiness and productivity. Born and raised in Australia, she has lived as a guest on the unceded territory of the Líl̓wat Nation since a ski vacation went rogue 20-odd years ago.

Editor: Carolyn Wells

Posted by

Lisa Richardson

April 8, 2020

https://longreads.com/2020/04/08/how-to-tell-your-husband-youre-a-witch/

8 notes · View notes

talesfromtinytonka · 3 years

Text

Prompt 10 - Heady - Overboard

(Author's Note: Zadnor/Blades spoilers, some minor Stormblood Spoilers)

Gerolt turned in his sleep as the sounds of an albatross’s call rang high in the sky above him. The blacksmith grumbled and turned in his sleep, the sharply bright sun hitting his darkened face with the intensity of a busy forge. The man had not known the weather in Gangos to be this inhospitable since his arrival at the resistance’s camp, and he certainly was in no mood for it after last night’s celebration. Gerolt turned in place, the swaying of the sands around him making his stomach churn as the man fought for an onze of comfort for his rest. It was not long before he emerged from the battle defeated, his desire to sleep overcome by his annoyance of the conditions he found himself in. The blacksmith sat up shakily, his eyes burning like coals as his vision weakly attempted to merge his double vision down to a single focused point, the man letting out a groan of exhaustion. In his haze, Gerolt attempted to turn and call out to the particularly unremarkable Hrothgar he shared his workstation with. “What was the name again?...Zurvan?....Zadnor? Somethin’ with a Z…” Gerolt thought awkwardly on his companions name before trying to play it cool. “Uh…Z, what the ‘ells going on with the weather this morning?!”

Gerolt waited for the telltale disappointing sighs of his companion, as well as an explanation, but neither seemed to come. The camp sounded oddly quiet, Gerolt thought, as the usual bustle of the crowd seemed to be replaced almost wholly with the rhythmic sounds of ocean waves. Gerolt smeared his black gloves into his eyelids, his skull pounding in cadence with the waves. “Bleedin’ hells…did I really drink enough to warrant this kind of treatment?” Gerolt waited for his body to calm a bit, his eyes adjusting to the rough texture of his gloves before he allowed his hand to move from his face. Gerolt let out a scream of a curse as he finally gained enough sense to look around him: there was no Hrothgar near him. There was nothing at all near him, in fact, save the endless sights of ocean water for malms ahead. Gerolt looked down and found the shifting, wobbling sands beneath him to be naught but a dearly beat-up boat, containing little but his tools and a rather weathered looking rolled up parchment. As Gerolt tried to make sense of his circumstance, he pulled the parchment from its lodged place between the planks of weathered wood and unfurled it. The parchment contained a simple sentence, written in both the languages of Eorzean and what Gerolt presumed to be Hingan. “May you rot in the sea, drink-thief!”

The words dislodged a cloudy memory from Gerolt’s mind, reminding him of the night before. It was at the height of the celebrations of the imperial retreat that Gerolt found his casks and mugs empty. The camp, despite all its joyous excitement, knew the blacksmith for the errant drunkard he was; not one among them providing him a cup from their own reserves. Gerolt was hell-bent on getting a well-deserved drink, however, regardless of where it came from. It was for that reason that the man had found himself snuck onboard a docked ship carrying goods at the makeshift Gangos port, the crew busy far too negligent of their precious offerings left just under the deck. The boxes of wines and casks of aged ale, Gerolt thought, would be easily paid off by the resistance with the resources reclaimed from their hard-earned victory. Gerolt quickly got to work upon the many offerings of the hull, and as his memory ended in fuzziness, the man certainly had an idea of how it would have lead him to the situation he now found himself in. As Gerolt contemplated his next move, the shaky planks of wood beneath him began to let out a dismaying groan, water moving a little too quickly between their cracks with each passing wave of the ocean.

Gerolt surveyed his surroundings once more with increasing worry. Beyond the cloudy skies of the sea, the blacksmith believed he could spot a few notable landmarks of which he had never seen before. Far ahead of him seemed to rise a treacherous looking volcano, the muted glow of lava and smoke rising from its inner reaches into the cloudy skies above. Behind him, he saw some strange structure rising high into the sky; a tower of thick, stone-like boxes, stacked like links in a chain. In both directions Gerolt could not make out the sight of ground beneath them, guessing that their distance was still a far bit too long for the blacksmith to make it by swimming. The man quickly found himself without options, however, as his turning and moving on the boat seemed to quicken its deterioration to the point where water was irreparably permeating the interior. Gerolt looked nervously to the depths of the sea beneath him before throwing caution to the wind and jumping off the sinking boat, opting to swim for as long as he could in the direction of the volcano. The waves were much more fearsome than they had appeared on the boat, each one rolling over the blacksmith and sending him further back from his target as he struggled to move his sluggish body in a way that would at least mimic a decent swimming pattern.

The man was fighting a battle he knew he would lose, and he expected to lose it quick. He felt already a great deal dehydrated from his escapades the night before, and the burning of the sun and salty water had seen to it that his sleep had been abruptly interrupted before it could replenish him any strength for the task ahead. Gerolt swam with the grace of a wounded goobbue, his heavy body struggling to remain above water as his arms began to cramp from overexertion. He had not even managed to catch sight of the base of the volcano when his arms fully gave out, forcing him to pedal in the place in a meager attempt to keep his head above water. “This is it, then.”Gerolt thought. “s’ finally come to this…my drinkin’s finally taken me to my grave.” Gerolt’s legs lost paddling speed as he looked back to his many fumbles and accomplishments in his life: the many things he had crafted and had yet to craft, as well as the many wrongs he had wished to right before his time had come. As Gerolt felt himself sink into the warm blue depths of the sea water, his thoughts turned to his friends, the Warrior of Light, and not least of all to the one he had loved so dearly. “Guess I’m not payin’ that debt off after all…goodbye, Rowena…” Gerolt felt a strange calmness overtake him as he took solace in his fate, allowing himself to sink to the depths below.

When Gerolt had awoken again, he had thought himself to be in some strange resemblance of an afterlife. All around him were the beautiful lights and colors of the sea, the ground beneath him made of sand and stone. He appeared to be in a bubble of some sort, the air completely breathable to him despite the bubble being clearly under the sea he had nearly perished in. Gerolt looked around the dome to find a number of turtle like people living out their lives. The man thought back upon his meeting of such individuals on his way to Gangos, recalling that they called themselves the Kojin. Gerolt sat in breathless amazement at the sight of it all as a particularly official looking Kojin noticed the blacksmith’s consciousness, walking over to him. “It is good to see that you are well, friend. The currents would have carried you even further out were it not for the grace of the Kami. You are safe here, in Tamamizu.” Gerolt turned to the Kojin, taken somewhat aback by the gracefulness of his words as he felt his waterlogged glove rub the back of his bald head. “I thought for sure I was a goner…don’t know how I’m gonna’ repay you for that...thanks.” The Kojin let out a laugh as he kneeled down next to the man. “There’s no need to worry, friend…though I do have a question for you. Your name wouldn’t happen to be Gerolt, would it?” Gerolt looked to the man, surprised to hear his name as a creeping feeling of worry set in his heart.

Gerolt soon learned that the Kojin here had recognized him by his tattoo. His name, he discovered, was synonymous with a particular warrior of “unrivaled strength” who carried a weapon the Kojin regarded as a sacred relic in its own right. Gerolt couldn’t help but let out a grin as he learned of the Warrior of Light’s open commendations of his work. The Kojin were keen-eyed artisans in their own right, collecting heirlooms and trinkets as an important part of their beliefs, and Gerolt could certainly respect that. As the Kojin Gerolt now knew to be named Kabuto spoke with him deeply of the arts of craftsmanship, the man posed a question to the blacksmith. “You need not feel obligated, Gerolt…but would you consider donating a piece of your work to us? Surely the Kami would look upon an offering of yours with delight.” Gerolt seemed surprised to hear the Kojin ask so forwardly. “Yer too kind to an old drunkard like me…the praise ‘n all is appreciated, but do the Kojin really need a weapon like the Warrior of Light’s? It’s a dangerous thing to have…not t’ mention hard to acquire the materials for.” Kabuto shook his head. “We would be beyond honored to have a weapon of yours, Master Gerolt, but it wasn’t what I had in mind...our mutual friend says you’re as adapted at kettles as you are at arms…is that true?” Gerolt stared at the Kojin wide eyed before cracking a laughing grin. “A kettle? That damned’ man…yes, of course I can craft you a Kettle! The best bleedin’ kettle you’ve ever had, no problem at all!”

Gerolt quickly got to work for the Kojin, seeking to repay their rescue of him and their encouraging praise. “Feel’s good to work on somethin’ fer someone that appreciates me, fer once.” As the blacksmith took to the task, he discovered that the Kojin were quite an agreeable bunch by his standards. Aside from their access to all sorts of unique and strange materials from the sea and trade, they seemed to enjoy the revelry of drink and part as much as he did. His first kettle was met with intense appreciation and praise from the people of Tamamizu, who thought so highly of it that it soon found its place beyond the talisman-covered barrier of their shrine. Gerolt didn’t stop there, though, as he soon found that kettles were an object critically missing from the everyday life of the Kojin that lived down here. Gerolt made custom ones for their use, simple in appearance but effective at boiling tea water even in the damp conditions of the underwater city. The Kojin in turn lavished him in exotic wines and alcohols from Kugane, Doma, and even places further beyond such as Nagxia and Bukyo. “I could get used to livin’ in a place like this.” Gerolt thought, feeling truly accepted and appreciated for once in quite a while. The Kojin seemed to be of like minds to him, Kabuto offering such a proposition upon the unveiling of his fourth kettle to the settlement. “You are a gift to all of Tamamizu, friend. I can see now why the Warrior of Light spoke so highly of you…would you consider staying here for a time? There is no lack of unusual goods coming here for you to inspect and use in your work, and we would gladly have more in our shrine if you would do us the honor...”

“I’m afraid he can’t accept that offer, Kabuto.” Gerolt turned to the crude sounding voice, confused. Its owner appeared to be a rather plainly dressed Lalafell, a book and quill in hand as she walked forward into the gathering of Kojin near the blacksmith. Gerolt grew wide eyed as he considered what a Lalafell would possibly be doing down here. “Gods, don’t tell me…” Gerolt watched as the Lalafell approached and looked in his direction, grinning. “Master Gerolt Blackthorn, in the flesh…. I’d heard you were washed up, but I fear this is taking it to another level entirely. Do you know how long Rowena and the others have been searching for you? Long enough to send out an order to the entire House of Splendors.” Gerolt felt a lump grow in his throat as he tried to swallow nervously and form a response. “Y’see, there’s a good explanation-“ The Lalafell let out a tsk sound as she interrupted him, turning to Kabuto. “I’m afraid his expertise is needed elsewhere. There’s a resistance that still needs his skills, and a debt he still owes to the House…could you please prepare a striped ray to take him back to Kugane? We’ll just put the cost of travel on his tab…” Kabuto looked between the two of them curiously before nodding, turning back to Gerolt. “It has been a pleasure, friend. You are welcome any time.” The blacksmith considered begging the Kojin to intervene, a thought that had apparent crossed the Lalafell’s mind as she gripped his arm tightly and pulled him away from the Kojin and back towards his friends—and ever growing debt—that awaited him on the surface.

#ffxivwrite2021 #ffxivwrite #ffxiv #ffxiv fanfiction

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theskyeandsea · 4 years

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Do You Wanna Be My Roommate? || Rio & Skye

Timing: December 10th

Location: Nic & Skylar’s Home

Tagging: @3starsquinn & @theskyeandsea

Description: In the wake of Winson’s departure from town, Skylar and Rio reclaim weeb night!

Warnings: Drug use mentions, chronic illness symptoms mentions, addiction

Tugging at the sleeves of her shirt, Skylar looked around the house-- it looked normal, right? The last time someone had been here, she’d been caught off guard and hadn’t had time to try and make the place look presentable. But, she had invited Rio here, wanted to be here to support him. Because that was what a good friend did, and they, they were still friends. She wanted to be there for him because break ups were hard. She might not know much about them, but she remembered how much it had hurt when Shiloh had left town, in much the same way to Winston. Just a quick word and then Skylar was left with the other woman’s absence.

Swallowing, Skylar hooked her hearing aids in and turned them on. Dundee was sitting on the edge of the couch, watching her from his nest of blankets. He used to like spending time in her room, but lately he spent most of his time out in the living room. Maybe he was waiting for Nic to come home? Before she could fall too far down that rabbit hole, the doorbell rang and she hurried to the door. “Rio! Hey--” Her eyes flicked over his appearance and she blinked. “Are… What happened to you?”

Orion and Skylar had made plans, he didn’t want to cancel those just because he had almost been murdered and spent a few days in the hospital. He hadn’t seen her in awhile, his own life being too caught up in the trauma and the drama. As if the Lydia situation hadn’t been horrifying enough, Winston’s departure and the werewolf attack had to add a little extra disaster to Rio’s life. Just in time for the holidays. But despite the solemn mood Rio had been stuck in, he had no plans in continuing that tonight. He was hoping to enjoy his time with Skylar tonight, where the both of them could take their minds off of everything keeping them down.

When Skylar answered the door he could see that she had her hearing aids in, but he signed anyways as he greeted her. It was mostly out of habit, but he enjoyed the practice regardless. “Oh. These” Rio grinned nervously, he supposed he couldn’t ignore the fact that it happened, no matter how much he wished he could pretend he had never seen any of those dead bodies. Or heard their screams. “There was an… incident a few nights ago. A werewolf attacked a cafe that I was at.” Though his hoodie and jeans worked to block the main injuries that he had suffered, bruises and cuts all over his face and hands were still far too visible. Realizing that he was a hunter who just told Skylar about a werewolf attack, Rio thought that he should specify, “I didn’t kill it. Just uh- so we’re clear. I just tried to stop it from hurting others.” He did stab it. But he remembered how scared Skylar had been about hunters. He didn’t want to freak her out, “It’s alive. And hopefully back to human and not hurting anyone.”

Stepping out of the way to let him in, Skylar did her best not to stare at the cuts as he explained. An attack? A werewolf? What had happened to them? Not that Skylar knew many werewolves-- just Ulfric, the man from the coffee shop with all the tattoos, and Ariana, who she’d only known as a student until recently-- but they’d both seemed… in control. The thoughts slid through her mind like water, though, slipping from her mind as she led the way to the living room. Dundee was still curled up in the pile of blankets, little tail wagging as he caught sight of Rio and stared at the young man with his beedy, unblinking eyes. “It? You mean… them, right?” Skylar said, the words coming out before she could stop herself. But, werewolves, they were people. Maybe not human people, just like she wasn’t human people. But they were people, right? “I-- sorry though. That something like that happened to you. I’m glad you didn’t need to hurt anyone badly, though.” She nodded.

Sliding through the front door, Orion was surprised by how long ago it seemed that he had last been here to hang out with Skylar. Despite that, it came with a surprising familiarity to follow her down the hall and into the living room. As per usual, Dundee stared at Rio as if staring directly into his soul. The dog was cute and incredibly uncomforting at the same time. “Hey buddy!” Rio went over to the pet little guy regardless. At Skylar’s words, Rio froze. His hand hovered to his bottom lip, barely pressing against it almost in shock of what had just come out of his mouth. “I-uh” It. When had Rio ever talked like that? He had spent his entire life trying and failing to convince his family that there was humanity to supernatural creatures. Especially werewolves, who weren’t destined to be murderous monsters their entire lives. How had that same person become the one that casually referred to a living person as it? “Sorry. Yeah. Them.” He pulled his hand away, shoving both of them into his pockets and refusing to make eye contact with Skylar for a moment. The word kept repeating itself in his head over and over again. “It’s okay. The werewolf, I don’t know who they were. But they didn’t have control. I don’t know if they woke up remembering everything or completely ignorant. That’s scary stuff.” A chill shot down Rio’s spine and he readjusted his stance a bit too quickly, catching his breath at the sudden pains. He slowly stretched out before forcing a smile back onto his face. “Sorry, I want this to be a fun night. All this’ll be gone in a few days anyways. Let’s just try to have fun.”

Skylar barely noticed the way that Rio went stock still-- it was the way his hand moved that caught her attention. He hadn’t even realized he’d said it, had he? Tilting her head slightly, she did her best to peer at him. But, the trace amounts of Bliss kept her floating, just floating on by, and it was always a little hard to grab the finer details. But, she could tell that he was upset. And she didn’t want him to be upset, she really didn’t. Rio was a good guy, a good person. “I hope they’re okay. And the other people who were hurt too-- and you too! Obviously. But. I hope they’re okay.” She said, knowing all too well how much it hurt to have gaps in your memory, to have entire parts of yourself locked away. Noticing the way his chest caught, Skylar blinked. “You’re not still hurt are you? You didn’t need to-- we could have cancelled if you’re still hurt. Sit down, sit down.” She said, urging him to take a seat. She could still take care of people, she could still do this. She could be the Skylar everyone wanted her to be.

Orion nodded his head, maybe a bit too enthusiastically. He didn’t need Skylar too worried about his wounds. She had already helped him before when that evil watermelon thing had bitten him. Just like that time, these would heal. “I’m okay. I’m still sore, but it’s not too bad. I’ll heal quickly anyways.” He still hated his hunter abilities. Not because they weren’t useful, he had been attacked way too many times for him to try to claim that. It just didn’t seem fair that he got this advantage while others around him were put at risk. “Seriously, I wanted to come over here. I’m happy to be here, sore or not.” Rio grinned, slowly easing himself back and onto the couch. “If I had cancelled I would have just ended up lying in my bed at the house all night anyways. I definitely didn’t want to do that. So you’re doing me a favor.”

“If you say so.” Skylar said as Rio took a seat on the couch. Walking to the fridge, she pulled out a bottle of water and a can of Mountain Dew. She’d remembered that he liked them when she had been wandering down the aisles at the store, running her fingers against the shelves. “Want a drink? There might be some beer left over from when Nic was here, if you’d like. I don’t really keep beer here.” She said as she scanned the shelves. “I’ve never really been able to do the whole… post-break up ice cream and cookie dough thing that you see in movies, but I have both if you’d like.” She offered. “But, ah-- sorry. That might be too soon to say.” At Rio’s words, Skylar nodded, a smile spreading on her face. She was helping him. “Of course. I’m glad I can do something to make you feel better. And hey, Yuri on Ice is a great show, it always cheers me up.”

Skylar disappeared in the kitchen for a moment and came back with a mountain dew. Orion sat forward enthusiastically to reach for it, trying to be careful not to stretch too many injured muscles. It was only partially effective. “Oh you’re the best thank you so much.” He had been so tired recently, he needed some caffeine. The mention of Nic was a sudden reminder that he had been her only roommate. He knew about him no longer being in town but he hadn’t exactly connected the dots. “Oh right. You don’t have any other roommates do you? You have this whole place to yourself?” It was a big house, something that could either be a lot of fun or really lonely depending on the person. “It’s been weird at my house too. Ricky’s always so busy at the workshop that it was usually just Winston and I. Now that he’s not there it’s just a whole house to myself with all the things Winston and I used to do.” Rio shrugged. Admittedly, it had bothered him how much time he spent noticing small things that Winston left behind. But there wasn’t much he could do about it for now. “I have no experience with post break up junk food, but am assuming that it tastes similar to regular junk ice cream and cookie dough. Both of which I’m a huge fan of.” But more than sugary distractions, Rio was mostly excited for another reboot of their anime night. Hopefully this time it would be without the snooping or weird tension that was present the previous times. “I cannot wait, I am so pumped for this it’s been on my list forever.”

“Of course.” Skylar beamed as she handed him the soda before settling down on the couch with some space between them. Dundee glanced over at her, as though waiting for her to do something, but when she flipped on the tv, he plopped his head back down on the nest of blankets. “Nope, it’s just me.” This place had been Erin’s home for a bit too, but the memory of their last encounter came back to her mind-- No. Smiling wider, she pushed the thought away. Now wasn’t the time to think about that. Erin wasn’t coming back here. “Mhm, that’s… That sounds hard.” Skylar had never lived with Shiloh, hadn’t even really reached the stage where she spent much time at the other woman’s home. But, she felt for Rio. Being in a place where there was just the constant presence of someone who he’d cared about, who was so very much not here? She dealt with that some since Nic had left, the little knick knacks and knives tucked around the house hammering home the fact that he was gone. “Sounds good. Let me just get Netflix up.” She said, scrolling through the lists with a slightly clumsy hand. She skipped around until the familiar ice-skating anime popped up. “I’m so excited for you to watch this, I think you’ll really enjoy it.”

Orion stretched across the couch as much as he could to scratch on Dundee’s head before returning to his original position. Skylar was navigating the tv to find the show and Rio studied her as she did so. Outwardly, she seemed fine with living alone. Nothing in her initial statement indicated that she hated the idea of living alone. The place did seem pretty sweet, especially considering it had the pool for private sessions when she needed to change. On paper, he probably seemed perfect. But speaking from his own experiences, Rio knew that a place like this would be incredibly lonely. He wondered what Skylar thought of it. Right now, he wasn’t sure if it would be rude to ask. “I’m so excited” Rio clapped his hands together and leaned back on the couch to settle in when Skylar pressed play.

The rest of the night passed without anything weird or out of the ordinary happening-- a rarity that Skylar honestly hadn’t expected. It was nice, to watch anime and pretend like there was nothing wrong. They could pretend like this town wasn’t awful, like this place wasn’t terrible. As Yuri took a victory lap around the ice rink, Skylar let out a sigh, stretching. The motion sent a slight twinge of pain down her back, but she ignored it. She could handle a little pain, just for now. She had wanted to be present for this, to spend time with Rio. And, once he was gone, she would be able to slip back down into the haze of Bliss. “Such a good show. Did you like it?” She asked as Dundee padded across the couch and leaned against her, his head resting against her leg. “I’m glad you were able to come over for this, I missed having anime nights.” Skylar said, a little surprised that it was true.

They had truly binged out with this one. In what was probably their first fully successful attempt at an anime night the two both watched the show in relative quiet. Every now and again one would speak up or they would both laugh at something. But other than that, the two had seemed perfectly content with simply being in each other’s company. The show was exactly the sort of feel good emotion that Orion so desperately needed. Watching their relationship slowly grow into what it became by the end of the show was enough to bring a tear to Rio’s eyes. By the time the last episode finished, there was a stream of tears running down his face. “No. It was awful.” Rio lied, a single laugh bursting through his tears. Even then, Rio crossed his arms and grumbled grumpily, “The show had no right ending like that. I hated it.” A small smile split across his face though, and he eventually conceded, “Nah. I’m kidding. That was amazing and I’m so glad we started it back up. I miss them too.” Even for the drama they had once been. “We should definitely get back into the habit of doing them.”

Looking over at Rio, Skylar blinked in surprise-- she hadn’t realized he’d cried. She must have missed that, must… not have noticed. She swallowed, pushing the thought side and smiled back at him. “Good! I’m glad that you did, it’s such a great show. The characters are all so good and you really kinda root for all of them by the end of it.” She said with a nod. Running a hand through her choppy hair, Skylar looked over at the television, the screen darkened. She could see the two of them reflected, sitting back on the couch. Two lonely people, just a little less alone for the time being. Biting the inside of her cheek, Skylar thought to the spare key that was tucked away in her room. She trusted Rio. It had taken time, but she knew that he was sorry for what he’d done, he’d promised to never pry into her things after their disastrous first anime night. And… it was lonely. “Hey, Rio.” She said tentatively, not really sure how to broach the subject, “I know that things at… Ricky’s must be weird. Things here are weird too, with all of Nic’s stuff being here, but him being gone. And, like I said, I can’t really imagine what it’s like to have to deal with, everything else on top of it.” She said, skirting around the words “break up” as best as she could manage. “But, if you wanted, you could stay here?” Skylar asked, looking hopefully over at him. Maybe having someone around would help. Someone who understood, at least a little, what it was like to not fit into the role that the world wanted her to be.

The question had taken Orion by surprise. He paused for a long moment as he tried to understand exactly what Skylar had meant by ‘stay here’. At first he had just meant for the night, which Rio was ready to thank her for the offer but also assure that he didn’t live too far away. It wasn’t like he had been drinking or anything. But she had mentioned Nic’s things, just as Rio had talked about Winston’s items that were left behind. But he had never said any of those things in an attempt to guilt Skylar into asking him to move in. Even with the awkwardness, Rio hadn’t considered moving out of the house. “Are you… serious?” Rio finally asked, his voice soft and curious. “I don’t want to like… put you in a weird place. Where you feel like you have to offer.”

Was she serious? Skylar wasn’t entirely sure, but, the idea of not being totally alone, of having someone around-- at least part of the day-- was tempting. And she liked Rio. She trusted Rio. He was good and he knew about that side of her, which meant she wouldn’t need to hide it from him. Not that she’d ever needed to with Nic, but, having one less secret from her roommate would be nice. And just, having a roommate, maybe that would make things better. Maybe it would lessen the ache inside her. Nodding, Skylar gestured to the space around them. “I know I don’t need to offer. But, I never really wanted to live on my own. And, I trust you.” She said with a small smile. “In a town like this, that’s… hard to find. You don’t need to say yes, and you can definitely think about it. But, the offer’s here.”

The offer was tempting. The more Orion thought about it, the more he realized how lonely his house felt now. With Ricky constantly working and Winston gone it felt like he lived in an abandoned home. Too big for him. He missed Winston, but he had no chance of taking his mind off of them when he walked past their bedroom door every day and was constantly reminded of all the memories they had there. But Rio wasn’t truly convinced until Skylar told him that she trusted him. It had been a rocky road up to this point. Rio had lied and invaded her privacy. He hadn’t deserved her friendship at all, let alone her trust. But somehow, here they were. “Yes.” Rio nodded quickly. “I mean, I don’t need to think about it. If you’re one hundred percent sure then the answer is yes” Rio laughed in relief, a pressure that had been in his chest all week finally beginning to lift. He hadn’t even realized that it had been there in the first place. “I- Thank you so much. I seriously can’t describe what that means to me.”

The way that Rio laughed, the genuine sound of relief-- before tonight, when was the last time Skylar had heard that sound? Since before Nic had left? The memory came back to her, fuzzy around the edges in the way that most of her memories were now. It was one of the nights when they’d both shared a meal, idly talking about their day and then, out of nowhere, Dundee had hopped up onto the table and stolen a steak right off her plate. The two had sat in startled silence for a minute as the little dog scarfed down the piece of meat, T-bone and all, before bursting into laughter. And tonight, she and Rio had been able to laugh and talk and make this house feel a little less lonesome. It felt a little more like the home that she had hoped for. But, Skylar shifted on the couch, the sharp rush of pain pushing just a little bit harder. “One ground rule, though?” She said, a small smile on her face as she stuck out her hand, “No more poking around in my room.”

#p: dywbmr #p: orion quinn #chatzy #wickedswriting #drug use mentions #chronic illness mentions #addiction tw #//pls note the title is set to the tune of *do you wanna build a snowman*

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