#Elena Ortega

[aurriearts]

@glitchy-npc suggested this in the patreon server so. naturally i had to draw it

also are you really going to tell the superpowered goat no?

[uncreativeboxdraws]

Drew my auntie.

[starrypawz]

I'm pretty convinced that if Elena Ortega showed up and gave Step their best 'I'm not angry I'm just disappointed' look Step would just give up on being a villain immediately

[side-steped]

Tegan swears with every other breath and is especially liberal with the F-bomb (its his expletive of choice in game) so I think the first time Ortega brought him over to his mom’s, Ortega had a very serious and solemn talk (which spooked Tegan cuz Ortega?? Serious??? That doesn’t track) about not swearing in front of his mom. 

Tegan promised he wouldn’t. And he really really tried. But Tia Elena’s tamales are really fucking good and it just slipped out. 

[pyroclaststan]

For a prompt. No editing, no rereading, I’m 80% I didn’t conjugate things correctly but it was 3am when I wrote it and I am too frustrated with technical complications to try now. POV Ortega, post-HB, just going through it.

Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the effort and exertion, or maybe it’s the creeping frustration that always seems to catch up to you at some point of the day, the weeping wound of remembrance of your world being off axis. With a growl of annoyance you launch the hay off of your shoulder and into the trough with more force than necessary: it feels good to hit something in the few ways you can—to make something else the punching bag for once while you lick your own wounds. A trough is no villain, but you can resent it all the same, which is to say for no real reason at all.

That alone burns you up inside, that there’s no real reason for any of this.

Loud, sharp whistling like a songbird from hell draws your attention to the edge of the pen: mamá stands with a foot up on the fence, frowning pointedly in your direction. The patented Ortega look of disappointment or the street disapproval of a mother, both cutting.

“¿Te pedí que alimentarán a los animales o que los asustaras hasta la mierda?” she reprimands, shaking her head.

It’s no fault of hers that you’re irritated, frustrated, and struggling. You know that. But you can’t help the constant crawling that makes you want to curse and scream and fight the world. You can’t tune out all the ways in which everything demands your attention.

Battered by sensations of the sweat dripping down your spine, the way your denim rubs against your legs, the loose string in your work glove incessantly catching on a broken nail, and the pigs pushing you about you let out a string of rapid-fire curses—everything is too much and too little. Too numb and too sensitive.

So overwhelming without that familiar weight by your side.

Stomping feels like the only way to get anything out of your system, so you step heavily towards the gate to talk with your mother before catching yourself, trying to cool off first in a repeating tread back and forth to calm yourself before you come to your mother in any disrespectful fashion. It’s like you’re a child again, a silly little tantrum that boils in your blood but you can find no other escape for—it’s the only way you can get out whatever’s trying to worm its way in. You’ve got to get it out somehow and this is the only place you can safely do so so you let the pot boil over, the cork pop, the dam break.

You let out another stream of curses, fully aware of the weight of your mother’s gaze on you, prickling your skin further.

Not the right gaze.

“Fucking… FUCK!” you shout so loud it holds you in place and echoes out, the desert around you carrying the sentiment all the way back to Kingsley’s hometown, wherever that was.

Mamá however, just chuckles at your outburst, shaking her head and pulling her cream and turquoise stetson lower. “Fucking fuck? If I’d known Mi Rey had possessed you, I’d have put a pot of coffee on.”

“It’s not funny, none of this—“ you’re interrupted by a feeling like your stomach wants to escape up and out of your throat and mouth, and the mindfulness that you’re talking to your own mother. None of this is how it should be, none of this was how it was supposed to go. You’re washed up and retired and even that would’ve been manageable with a bitter shadow beside you chiding you along the way, but you’ve lost your best friend. All you can do is make more annoyed noises, willing yourself to get your shit together before you kick your own ass, trying to express something you haven’t fully fathomed.

Your mother just looks at you knowingly, ever-patient, ever kind. “Vamos, joder joder, lucky for you I did put a pot on ‘cause I’m always prepared for mi Flora.” Without further word she throws a tea towel at you and turns to walk away, back to the house proper.

There’s a small shake of her head, a tiny rise and fall of her shoulders as she goes: you know Kingsley’s loss had affected her, too, but she had chosen to remain strong for her remaining child—for you.

You use the cloth to mop up the sweat that’s gathered on your face and neck from the day’s chores before moving on to your bare arms and chest on your way back. A proper shower will be required to remove the grime and grit but even that little bit of cleaning has made you feel a bit more human, and pulling off your offending gloves and shoving them into your pocket removes a bit of tension.

Making your way through the well-loved ranch home you breathe deep: the smells of leathers and furs and spices as they sit in the heat, despite the windows being left open to keep a drafting breeze. Or maybe all of that is you, but you’re not willing to give yourself a sniff to find out.

She sits at a table, bathed in sepia sunlight, looking far older than you remember her ever being, or maybe just tired… like you’re tired. Silently, your steaming mug is pushed towards you, telling you where to sit. “I know that feeling well,” she warbles, voice sounding full to the brim with emotion as she gently spins and turns the jewellery on her fingers. “Vamos, sientate.”

You take your seat silently, equally drained and somber, but you can’t touch that cup. That mug that isn’t yours. Someone else’s. Theirs.

Before you, your mother steels herself, and within her you see all of the focus of the woman who was almost an Olympian, the woman who was once a wife, the woman who will always be your mother.

“This is the last thing that any child wants to hear, mi amor, but you’re going to hear it: I know what you’re going through. How you’re feeling. Perder a un ser querido, a un ser cercano, nunca es fácil. Especialmente cuando son parte de nosotros mismos... I went through the same thing when we lost your father—do not make that face, because no matter what he was to you, you must think of what he was to me.” Your heart hurts at how her voice cracks but she’ll say her piece through it, you know.

“So you can be mad, be angry—ser un matón si es necesario—but you must get it out before that, like poison, seeps into your bones.” She pushes the mug towards you roughly, guiding you to look down into black depths. “You need to learn to take what’s bitter, and to accept it and appreciate it for what it is, and for how it reminds you to appreciate the sweet. Es una cosa cursi decirlo, lo sé, pero nunca preparé mucha sabiduría para algo como esto.”

She looks you in the eye, taking a sip of coffee before crossing her arms.

“Este es el comienzo, la resta depende de ti.”

[milkybishop]

"- but with whom can you sit in water?"

and who can hop in the bath with you to make a show of not caring about your tattoos, and how can you not find it hard to hide your disdain at the attempt.

because either this is a trap you have blindly walked into again . . . or he really does love you and could have loved you all this time. and despite all that-

you cannot turn from the path that you are on.

[brightlilith]

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[raurquiz]

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[sidesteppostinghours]

woo fhr sexyman doodle dump

[glitchy-npc]

I don't care who wins the tumblr sexyman tournament so long as Ricardo loses.

[moviestvpolls]

[aurriearts]

thats my emotional support explosion goat

(undescribed, too low on spoons atm)

[locitapurplepink]

Taglist : @bigfrozensix , @sonicnerd , @lucy-shining-star and anyone else who's fan of these series

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[bamfjinxy]

So my mind has been spinning with a possible Elejah daughter face claim.

I don't know why, she just screams at me.

Its probably just me though

[estellesdoll]

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@estellesdoll

[idlenight]

sidestep knows so many languages - including spanish.

river is the type of shithead to keep his mouth shut about that while ortega curses or mumbles things she doesn't want him to hear in spanish. only to introduce himself to tia elena in perfect spanish, to her delight and julia's horror.