briefpersonenemy

[briefpersonenemy]

since Guero wasn’t in the episode this week, let’s at least have some behind the scenes pictures from previous episodes (and the wrap party). 

X -  X - X - X - X

[briefpersonenemy]

Giving Back: Michael 'Riz' Ariza x Reader

Tagging: @anime-weeb-4-life, @danzer8705 @mysoulisasunflower @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @sxmmarie @briefpersonenemy @creativitybeware @genius2050 @mortal--soul @buddinglinguist @oureternalbond

Riz used to get beat a lot when he lived in the orphanage, that was until he learned to hit back. He was five when his mother dropped him off at the shithole in Tijuana. He doesn’t remember the exact event, but he remembers the aftermath. He remembers sitting on the edge of a bed by himself, with a backpack with a book and some of his clothes. He started off as one of the sad kids, but soon he became one of the bad ones. He thinks that’s why he never got adopted.

What they don’t tell you about the orphanages is that you spend a lot of time alone, that quiet you end up sitting in, it gives you a lot of time to think. It makes you wonder why you’re there in the first place, why your mother didn’t want you. You wonder if you’re going to go back, if maybe she’ll change her mind and you cling to that idea month after month, year after year until one day you realise you don’t have that thought anymore, that any hope of that happening has died.

You are the only one who he’s told about his time in that place. Taza and Vicki, they know snippets, but he could never bring himself to tell them the rest. The care system in Mexico is much more unregulated than in the US, anything could happen to a child and there would be no one to give a shit. He knows that stuff like that is still happening now and the knowledge of that cuts deeper than he cares to admit.

His memories of his mother are fleeting. The stroke of her hand over his brow as he fell asleep, an old lullaby he barely remembers the words to. He learned when he’d sought out Vicki, that she had died a couple of years after he’d been left at the orphanage.

His life had started so devoid of love and now it seems so full. He has an aunt that cares for him as if he were her own son, friends who are more like brothers and a woman he loves more than life itself. He knows he’s one of the lucky ones, he didn’t end up an alcoholic or a junkie, he’s not buried in some unmarked grave somewhere, he alive and he is living the life his mother had hoped for when she deposited him that day.

Now he sits in his sparse little garden, nursing a glass of tequila on the patio that took both him and Creeper two days to lay down, because neither of them had a fucking clue how to do it, and had to revert to watching Youtube videos. Angel’s girl had helped him pick a variation of plants that could withstand the climate and would thrive with as little human interaction as possible. The space now has a combination of agave and Cactis. He loves the greenery in his yard, but he’s shit with plants and you’re no better. The two of you are alike in that way, your heads too full of music, you forget about the other stuff. You spend hours of time creating, sometimes you don’t come up for air for days because when a song gets in your head, you have to chase the notes, refining the work over and over and over again until it sounds exactly the way you want it.

“You look deep in thought.” You say, placing a kiss on the top of his head before you take a seat in the patio chair across from him.

He’s been too lost in his memories; he hadn’t even heard you pull up or enter the house. Your perfume lingers on the breeze, the sweet scent of rose with that earthy honeylike undertone. He inhales deeply and finds that it grounds him. It reminds him that he’s back in the present with a woman who loves him, one that would never abandon him.

“Yea.” He says quietly, his dark eyebrows furrowing as he searches for the words to describe what’s happening in his head. He thinks about the orphanage more and more these days, about what he went through, about what other kids went through. His experience isn’t uncommon, it’s not a rare event.

It’s a cycle that feeds into every single country. He thinks it says a lot about the state of humanity at the moment. He sees it every day, especially in this town in the aftermath of the Agra Park’s failure. He can feel the life blood of Santa Padre bleeding out into the depths of the earth, and he knows that his city is dying.

“I don’t want kids.” He says suddenly and you look at him with an expression of surprise because his words aren’t new to you. He’s told you about his vasectomy, about how him and Bishop are ‘ball buddies’ as Coco nicknamed them, and he knows kids aren’t on the cards for you either. Your imploded your marriage because your husband intentionally got you pregnant and you decided to have an abortion. You are steadfast in your belief that the life of a mother just wasn’t the right path for you and he supports that.

“I know.” You say softly, bringing your chair a little closer to his.

There’s a vulnerability in him right now and you sense he needs you close. He’s been lost over the last few days, it started when that kid ran out in front of the car, a child no more than six, in ragged clothes darting from one alley to the next. You think he saw himself in that kid, a glimpse of a past that has left him with a wound that just won’t heal.

“But I want to help, I want to give back.” He tells you resolutely. “The kids in this town are suffering and I don’t want them to go through what I went through, to doubt there’s someone who cares but I don’t know how to help, I don’t…” He breaks off and curses in Spanish because he can’t find the words to describe what he wants; he isn’t even sure himself.

All he knows it that he can’t stand the idea of another child, suffering alone, scared and terrified as they try to make sense of the world around them. There’s an ache in his chest and it feels like something is breaking deep down inside. He’s sad, he’s angry, he's hurt… He wants to be proactive, but he just isn’t sure how.

You take his hands in yours and press them to your lips. The sensation it anchors him, he can feel some of the tension slipping from his shoulders as you meet his rich, whiskey coloured gaze.

“I have a friend who runs the community centre here.” You tell him, pressing the back his hand to your cheek. “She’s just got funding to open up one of those mentor programs, it’s like the Big Brother, Big Sister program but a little different. Your records virtually clean, you only have a couple of misdemeanours. I’m sure they’d love to have you.”

Felonies are the problem when it comes to programs like this. It’s sad because someone like EZ would make a wonderful mentor but the fact he’s been in prison for felony murder ruins that opportunity for him. When you think about it even that sentence sounds wrong to your ears.

“Yea?” Riz questions you. “You think we could speak to her about it?”

“We can drop by tomorrow.” You tell him, releasing his hands so that you can pick up your cell phone and text your friend to ensure she has some time for the two of you.  

“Thank you.” Riz says earnestly when you put your phone back down on the patio table. “It’s hard to explain why I need to do something like this…” He trails off because he knows that he’s not just doing it for these kids, he’s doing it for himself as well.

“You have such a big heart.” You tell him, raising from your seat before setting yourself in his lap. His arms wrap around you, drawing you close against his body as he cuddles you close. He needs the proximity right now, needs to know that there’s someone who loves him and understands him. “And I know you want to do everything in your power to give these children a fighting chance.”

“I love how much you get me.” He tells you, his lips brushing over your jawline. “I don’t know what I would do without you in my life.”

“Don’t worry pretty boy.” You reassure him, your fingers threading through his silky hair as his mouth grazes over that delicious little spot at just under the hinge of your jaw. “You won’t ever have to find out.”

Love Riz? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[briefpersonenemy]

Wherever You Go: Michael 'Riz' Ariza x Reader

Tagging: @anime-weeb-4-life, @danzer8705 @mysoulisasunflower @vannabanana1995 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @sxmmarie @camelia35 @queeniesdiary @briefpersonenemy @creativitybeware @genius2050 @buddinglinguist @mortal--soul 

It’s entirely by chance that Riz spots the fiddle in one of the pawn shops him and Creeper are investigating. It’s on the outskirts of Santo Padre, near EZ’s girl’s bar and the perfect place for someone to fence some stolen merch. The entire MC is running around the county, chasing down leads in an attempt to find out who broke into Hank’s mother’s house and stole her jewellery. It’s not worth much Hank tells them, but there’s a sentimentality attached to some of the pieces.

It killed Riz to see how shaken Mrs Loza looked in the aftermath of the burglary, seated at her kitchen table with her hands wrapped around a mug that proclaims she’s the world’s best mom. Hank’s hands enclosed over hers, Taza speaking to her in reassuring tones. Gilly had already boarded up the window where the intruder broke in, Bishop had been on the phone snarling at the glass company, demanding they fix it ASAP. Coco was in the lounge with Angel trying to straighten up the place because the asshole that did it had left a fucking mess. Riz could hear EZ outside sweeping up the glass that had fallen onto the garden path.

Each of them had a fondness for Mrs Loza. When one of them is sick or injured, she’s the one cooking up a storm to make sure they’re eating good, home cooked food to bolster their recovery. If there’s someone in need, she’s activating her phone tree to get them the resources that they require. She’s active in the local area, a trustee at the community centre where she was playing bingo the night the burglary happened. Riz is thankful for that because it could have gone a lot worse if she had been home.

The best he can do is try to track down the asshole who did it and get back what he can. Him and Creeper have a few connections in the area, between the two of them he reckons they can scare the shit out of the fences that aren’t as forthcoming as others.

Hedgewick’s place is a bust but he comes out with the fiddle case clasped in his hand as Creeper waits in the van, his sunglasses on and his fingertips tapping out the rhythm of the music he’s listening to on the side panel.

You’ve been taking fiddle lessons for a while now, longer than Riz has known you. It was only a couple of nights ago, the two of you were in his living room, him strumming away on his guitar while you studied a piece of music. He remembers how weird it looked at first to see you close your eyes and mimic the melody on an invisible instrument. He gets it though when you explain it. You can visualise the sounds, the plucking of the strings, the softness of the wood. You have an affinity for it, the teacher has told you. A natural gift and to you it feels like spending time with an old friend. You pour a piece of your soul into the music and hear it sing. He’d almost be jealous of that connectivity if you didn’t play so beautifully.

When he sees the fiddle in Hedgewick’s he can’t resist. You're barely making ends meet as it is, between your hours at the record shop, the lessons you teach in guitar and piano and then the gigs you do in the evenings you just about break even. Happiness doesn’t come from money you tell him, when you’re discussing it one night, it comes from feeding the soul. That’s what he thinks about when he buys the instrument.

“You adding a new string to your bow, pretty boy?” Creeper teases when Riz gets in the van and sets the fiddle case down in the footwell.

“Nah, it’s for my girl.” Riz tells him as he busies himself with the seatbelt.

There’s a moment of silence between them because this is the first time that Riz has mentioned he has a girl, although Creeper’s suspected for a while. He’s noticed the changes in behaviour, he’s not at the clubhouse as much and when he is, he’s more interested in playing pool or cards than the scantily clad women who try to make themselves available to him. Riz has always been a ladies man, they flock to him. Creeper has always thought it was something to do with the hair but lately he doesn’t recall seeing a girl on his knee, even at Vicki’s.

“Must be something special if you’re giving up all the extra pussy.” Creeper says as he removes the handbrake. “You in love or something?”

Riz puts his elbow on the window ledge of the passenger side, his hand coming to rest near his mouth as he stares out of the windshield ahead of them.

“Yea.” He tells Creeper. “It was love at first sight.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s later than you intended when you get to Riz’s that night. One of the kids you tutor needed some extra help for a recital they had coming up, so you had extended the session in help them build some confidence in the song they were undertaking. It’s a beautiful, complex piece with some intricate finger work but you have no doubt in your mind that Jana is up to the task.

You’re working on your plan for the next lesson with her at Riz’s kitchen table, when he disappears into the bedroom and returns with the fiddle. He sets the gift down on the table in front of you. The case is a little battered, well loved is how you think of it. You run your hands over the top as your thumbs stray to the latches.

“Can I?” You ask him, tilting your head up towards him.

“It’s yours.” He tells you and you feel the air rush out of the room as a well of emotion builds in your chest. You don’t speak when you flick open the clasps to take a look at the instrument. The truth is you can’t. You’re overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness, nobody has ever gifted you with something so precious. Your fingertips trace over the curve of the wood, it’s rose wood, a shiny darkwood that gleams in the warm glow from the light above. Your breath catches in your chest because the instrument is stunning and already you feel that thrum of connection.

“Is it ok?” he asks you.

You can hear the anxiety in his voice, the unsureity and it makes you fall in love with him even more.

“It’s wonderful.” You tell him before snatching your fingers away and meeting his gaze. “Riz, it’s too much…”

He shakes his head.

“Riz…”

He crouches down alongside of your chair, his knees hitting the floor as he takes your hand in his and looks into your eyes. There’s an earnestness in them as he leans in close. The scent of bergamot and leather clings to his skin as he brings your palm up to rest upon the space where his heart resides. You can feel it beating underneath your fingertips.

“It’s a gift.” He tells you. “An investment in you and your music. I believe in you Songbird, and I believe you are going to make some beautiful music with this.”

“How can I ever repay you?” You ask him as your fingertips chase along the line of his jaw, smoothing over the stubble of his cheek.

“Play me a song.” He requests. “That’s all I ask.”

“That’s hardly a fair exchange.” You try to reason.

“Trust me it is.” He whispers, his lips brushing over yours chastely.

He’s heard you play before, through the open window of your teacher’s house while he’s waited for you outside. It’s been a while since he’s picked you up from there. He knows you prefer bluegrass to classics.

When he sits at that kitchen table, a cigarette between his fingers as he watches you tune the fiddle by ear, he thinks this is perfect. He’s never allowed himself to envision a future, not with any of the women that have crossed his path but with you it’s the only thing he thinks about. He watches as you stand in his house, in a blue sundress with pretty white flowers stitched into it and no shoes on. You close your eyes when you play, he knows your picturing the notes, seeing them in a transition of colours, your hips begin to sway just a little as you pick up the tune and you part your lips to sing.

'Cause you taught me a lesson the hard way one time

Told me you loved me, but then changed your mind

I never told no one how I hurt down inside until now

He recognises the song, it’s Alison Krauss, Sleep On, he thinks.

It’s heart wrenching, it steals away his breath and twists him up deep inside. It makes him so fucking emotional, his eyes start to sting. There’s a beauty in the agony, he knows you feel it too, it’s in your expression, in the movement of your body. Some musicians, they channel the entity of a song, they capture it’s soul and bring it to life. They feel the whole fucking thing, he thinks that’s what you do when you have a fiddle in your hands, when you chase a melody, when you sing a song. It’s a form of magic he thinks, to be able to reach out and touch your audience with the sound of your voice.

You’re destined to go places, he realises as he sits and listens to you play, and he hopes that wherever you go you’ll take him along for the ride.

Love Riz? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[briefpersonenemy]

52. you can't sleep alone in a strange place

Songbird and Riz. 😁

Riz tells you over the line as you stand in a phone box on the corner of some shit hole of a town you've just played in. The motel you'd booked into was over capacity and as the last one checking in...

On top of that your phone had died during the gig so you literally had to dig through your pockets to find the last couple of coins you had jingling in your pockets. And the battery on your car... Riz had been telling you to get it sorted out for weeks.

"I'll be fine, there's gotten be somewhere else." You tell him, pressing your forehead to the glass, your guitar case bumping against your elbow.

"I'm coming to get you." He tells you.

"Riz, I'm fine. I've been in shittier situations than this." You tell him.

"Is there a diner or someplace close where you can wait?" He asks you. "I hate the idea of you sitting on the sidewalk alone."

You look past the motel and spot a truck stop further down the road with a 24 hour diner. You stomach rumbles. You haven't eaten in a couple of hours. You think about the money in your purse. About 100 bucks you were saving for your hotel room, nowhere near enough to get you back home.

"Yea." You tell him, eyes focusing in that bright lights in the distance.

"Wait there for me." He says firmly. "I'll be as quick as I can."

[briefpersonenemy]

Reblog if you’re over 20 and still read/write fan fiction.

I’m curious!

[briefpersonenemy]

I'm almost positive my ex-mother-in-law is the embodiment of Gemma Teller without the killing and maiming of people of course. The only problem is, am I her Wendy or Tara? Lol

[briefpersonenemy]

A request for your FLASH FIC EVENT!

Prompt: “If you didn’t want things to change, you shouldn’t have kissed me.”

With Jax Teller please!!

Okay, so this went WAY darker than I intended when I set out. Hope you enjoy it anyways!

REMINDER: This is a writing exercise to get words down as fast as possible. It is being posted without being edited or reread.

The door slams so hard behind you that you’re surprised it doesn’t splinter.  The dorm is not your first choice of hideout, but it’ll have to do for the time being as you pace the small room like a caged tiger, trying to out run your anger.  You and Jax had known each other since you were kids and never once has he ever spoken to you like that, demanding that you bend to his will, that what is said is what’s best for you.

In all actuality, he’s right.  You should stay here.  You were planning on staying here, with the shit going down with the niners, you didn’t want to be caught dead strolling around Charming without protection.  What you didn’t want was a prospect combing through your underwear drawer when you were perfectly capable of packing your own bag.  The thought that, at this very moment, the prospect was on the way to your house with your house keys to do that very thing flames your waning anger until your foot makes contact with the bathroom door.

“Ow, ow, ow,” you  spit, hopping on one foot until you fall onto the bed.  Before you can pull your boot off to inspect the damage, you hear a light knock on the door.  “Drop dead,” you shout, knowing that it was probably heard out in the clubhouse.  Good, you think.

You wished you’d thought to turn the lock on the door the same time the knob twists, Jax slipping inside, softly shutting it behind him.  The gentleness of his movements betray the flame in his eyes.  You can see the rage burning within him, recognize that he’s working extremely hard to control his ire and not become as explosive as you have.

He doesn’t say anything to you, using that eye blue stare to pin you to the bed, demanding your submission.  

You refuse to give to him.

Just as you always have.

“I don’t know in what universe you thought that was okay, Teller,” you growl, your injured foot completely forgotten as you push from the bed to meet his stare.

“All I asked was that you stay here and let me send the prospect to get your things for you.”  His voice is clear and measured, only a slight wobble giving away the fact that he is anything but calm.

You can’t help but scoff.  “If there had been a request in anything you had said to me out there, we wouldn’t be in here.”  Jax hadn’t asked you anything, when you’d tried to grab your keys to leave, he snagged them first, tossing them to the prospect while giving him orders to go pack your bag for you.  When you said you could do it yourself, Jax turned on you, using the opportunity as an outlet for his current frustration and anger, seeing something he could control.

How wrong he was.

“If you want to be an old lady, then fucking act like it,” he’d snarled.  “Do what you’re told.”

The shame that curled through your body at the dressing down in front of the club, the men you’d fought to earn the respect of, the ones you called brothers, all refusing to meet your eyes hurt almost as much as what Jax said.  The way Jax blew the door off of what had happened between you, that you were both still trying to come to terms with before telling anyone now out in the open, more than one trust betrayed in the heated moment.

Finally, you watch as the tension leaves his shoulders, his hand coming up to wipe at his mouth.  Whether its the realization that what he said was completely fucked up or the fact that now you’re behind closed doors, but you can see his walls dropping again, see your Jax shining in his eyes.  “I’m sorry, darlin’.”  You expected the apology, but you didn’t expect the way tears pooled in his eyes.  Before one can fall, you toss your anger aside, closing the distance between you to throw yourself against his chest.  “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” he says, the words rumbling against your cheek on his chest.

You reach up, fingers running over the President patch, far newer and whiter than anything on his kutte.   “We have a lot of history, Jackson,” you start, taking a deep breath.  “You know me better than to try to use your presidential power over me.  I’m not one of your soldiers.”

His stills against you.  “I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

“And we’ve managed to do that for how many years now without you going ‘Clay’ on me before now.”

“If you didn’t want things to change, you shouldn’t have kissed me.”

You pull back from his chest, looking into his eyes, not recognizing the man you see.  Taking a step back away from him, you wrap your arms around yourself, if only to stop you from reaching out to him again.   “If I’d known that kissing you would change me into a piece of your property, I wouldn’t have done it.”

His lips quirk, his eyes narrowing and for the first time since you’ve met you, you’re scared of him.

He steps forward quickly, you try to back away but your legs hit the bed and he’s got his hand around the back of your neck.  “You’re mine now, baby, and you’re not going anywhere,” he says before smashing his lips against yours, a hollow replica of the kiss you’d shared the day before, before turning on his heel and leaving you behind, fear skittering up and down your spine.

Growing up in Charming, you’d heard the tales of how the gavel corrupts.

You just didn’t think it’d be this fast.

[briefpersonenemy]

Reblog if you think fanfiction is a legitimate form of creative writing.

[briefpersonenemy]

[briefpersonenemy]

I feel like there are not a lot of Johnny Coco Cruz fanfics around and I want to write one or two but... of course. I know I'm not as good as these other writers here

🫠☹️

[briefpersonenemy]

Coco lives in my head and my heart rent free