#I even had some sketches ready to go but may was a bad month

[wigglebox]

🌊

[hardboiledleggs]

You Looking at Me Looking at You ~ Steddie Week Day 6 @steddie-week

Acrid smoke belched from beneath the hood of his dingy van. Eddie sighed as he slammed his fists against the steering wheel and snatched his bag from the passenger’s seat with a groan. Just his luck.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled across the parking lot, eyes squinted against a bitter wind that was howling across the campus. This was the third time this month that the van had quit on him on his way to class, and he was fresh out of extra cash to pay for even a bus ticket, let alone a tow truck.

Eddie had just finished weighing the merits of walking home versus calling his Uncle Wayne, who lived in a trailer an hour away from campus, when he reached the squat building housing his favorite class, Intermediate Painting. He swung the door wide, breathing in the smell of canvas and turpentine, and stepped around the many easels scattered across the floor until he reached his favorite corner. Robin was already there, fiddling with her supplies, and her face broke into a toothy grin when she saw Eddie.

“Hiya, Munson! I was wondering if you were ever gonna get here. You’re usually so early, is something wrong?” she chirped as she busied herself with arranging her brushes.

Eddie flopped onto his stool with a huff. “It’s my stupid van. Fuckin’ blew another gasket or some shit. I thought it was gonna explode before I made it into the parking lot.”

She winced in sympathy. “That’s too bad, Eds. You can’t ask Wayne for any extra cash to maybe replace the engine or something?”

“No, no, I-I mean, I don’t want to bother him with something like this. He’s got a lot on his plate, and I’m an adult. I’m supposed to be figuring this stuff out on my own.”

“If you’re sure. Hey, you can always crash at my dorm tonight if you can figure out a way to sneak past Wheeler. She’s been taking her RA duties veeery seriously lately,” Robin rolled her eyes as she said this. “Apparently, Carol from 306 got busted when she went home for Thanksgiving. They went into her room for maintenance and it turns out she had snuck her boyfriend in and he was living there. Wheeler was pissed it happened under her nose.”

Eddie snorted. “Carol Perkins? From our English 101 class first semester? That doesn’t surprise me at all. Remember when she came in late for the exam covered in hickeys? She clearly doesn’t know how to be subtle.”

He grinned and began to sort through his own supplies as Robin cackled. Today was supposed to be a live model study, and he had been struggling with the assignments set to them regarding the human form so far. Eddie had been practicing sketching strangers in the park and at coffee shops, but Professor Bauman had insisted that he had yet to “capture the innate sexuality of the bare human form,” whatever that meant. He was determined to get it right today.

At that moment, Professor Bauman swept into the room, wearing a bright pink smock smattered with paint. He clapped his hands together, silencing the muted chatter in the room.

“Children, children! We have precious little time today for our artistry, so PLEASE let’s get started. I want you to focus on the proportions of your sketch today, making sure that we’re being as accurate as possible before any paint blesses the surface of your canvas.” He leveled a pointed look at Robin, who flushed and picked at a hole in the knee of her jeans. “If everyone is ready, I’ll go and grab our model for today.”

Eddie stuck his tongue out at Robin. “Eat it, Birdie. You aren’t the favorite anymore.”

“Oh, please. You know he lets me call him Murray during office hours.”

“Ask him to boost my grade next time you’re in there, will you? Make yourself useful for once.”

Their squabbling was cut short as Bauman’s office door swung open and out stepped Adonis. Okay, it wasn’t really Adonis, but to Eddie, the model may as well have been the stunning Grecian figure. He was stark naked, of course, which allowed Eddie to see the moles that dotted his gleaming skin like dark constellations. His bronze hair was swept artfully off his forehead, almost gravity-defying in its levity. He was toned, but not overly muscular, and his chest was covered in a dense thicket of hair that Eddie wanted to press his face against. Eddie desperately worked to keep his eyes level with the model’s collarbone and not stray any farther down.

“Hi, everyone, I’m Steve. I’m just going to be doing one pose today, so I’ll be taking quick breaks to stretch every 30 minutes or so.” Steve had a nice voice, calm and alluring. “Feel free to come closer if you need a more detailed look at anything for your sketch, it doesn’t make me uncomfortable at all.”

He smiled at the class, showing off a row of even white teeth. Professor Bauman shook Steve’s hand firmly and waved him toward the low table in the center of the room.

“Remember, let your hands be your brushes. Let the colors move through you and allow them to direct your movements. You have two hours. Begin, please!”

At that moment, Robin elbowed Eddie sharply in the ribs, forcing a hacking cough from his lungs as he took his first breath in what felt like hours.

“Jesus, Munson. Subtlety isn’t your strong suit either,” she muttered from the corner of her mouth.

Eddie spared her a glance of disdain before watching Steve lower himself onto the table, folding his arms underneath his head and bending one leg so his knee pointed skyward in a pose that showed off just how muscular his thighs were. Shaking himself, Eddie sorted through his pencils with a shaking hand until he found one light enough to begin his sketch with.

The next half hour was torturous. Eddie really did try for professionalism, carefully outlining Steve’s frame and sketching out the proportions for his hands, but every time the model shifted to grab a drink of water or stretch out his limbs, Eddie’s eyes drifted downward and he became so flustered his pencil would slip and mar his careful marks.

At the hour mark, Professor Bauman began to walk around the room to begin his critiques. He had this way of leaning into his students’ space and artfully picking apart their work that was equal parts impressive and unnerving. At Robin’s canvas, he paused for about a minute before remarking “Don’t be afraid to get up close and give the appropriate detail to the more intimate parts of our friend Steve,” which made Robin blush.

His gaze slide to Eddie’s work, and he broke into a pleased smile.

“Yes, Munson! This is what I have been looking for from you! Do you see how you’ve used the light in the room to bring the focus of your sketch to his face? And his expression, my God, so simultaneously haunting and sensual! Excellent work, keep it up!”

Bauman swept away in a dramatic fashion, leaving Eddie to bury his face in his hands. The word ‘sensual’ echoed around his skull. He wondered if Steve had been listening to that particular bit of the professor’s speech and internally debated whether it would be more embarrassing to leave now or possibly be stuck walking to the parking lot at the same time as the model.

Robin snorted, catching Eddie’s eye and wiggling her eyebrows suggestively as he glowered at her. Leave it to Buckley to revel in his extreme embarrassment.

The class continued to sketch silently, save for the shuffling of supplies or a muffled curse when someone smudged their careful pencil lines. Eddie had almost completed his initial portrait when he got to the hands and frowned. Hands had never been his strong suit; they were always proportioned differently on each person, and there were too many knuckles and creases to ever look natural.

Sighing, he gathered some scrap paper and a pencil and shoved his stool back from his easel. He shuffled into the center of the room to Steve’s side, trying and failing to keep his eyes on the more appropriate parts of the model. Steve’s eyes flitted to his own, and he grinned up at Eddie, though he kept his body completely still.

“Need to see anything specific?” he asked quietly.

Eddie flushed beet-red. “Uh, your hands?” he asked, cringing internally at his indecisive tone.

Steve lifted one hand and placed it in Eddie’s palm. “Do your worst, Munson,” he said with a wink. “That is your name, right?”

His fingers were warm and solid against Eddie’s, and each nail was painted a different color, though most of the paint was chipping. Up this close, Eddie could smell a faint hint of something floral: Steve’s shampoo, maybe? He clutched Steve’s fingers and sat on the small stool next to the table, searching for his usual confidence.

“That’s my name, feel free to wear it out.”

A hastily-stifled laugh shook Steve’s chest, and he glared at Eddie in mock anger as Eddie’s ego preened under the positive attention.

“I really need this paycheck, dude, don’t screw this up for me. I can’t go back to scooping ice cream at the mall,” he whined.

Eddie smiled as he held Steve’s hand up, carefully bending and straightening each knuckle as he sketched.

“Sorry, big boy. I can’t just turn off my irresistible charm all willy-nilly. What if a handsome man walks in here and starts flirting with me? I have to be prepared for every possibility.”

“I thought a handsome man was already flirting with you,” Steve shot back, a glint in his warm brown eyes.

Eddie’s heart skipped a beat, but he recovered quickly, glancing around the room in exaggerated confusion.

“Really? Where is he?”

Steve yanked his hand away, still grinning. “You wound me, Munson. I thought I had a sensual form? Maybe I’ll just take my talents elsewhere.”

Eddie finished his sketch with a flourish and stood, shrugging at the model still lying flat on the table in front of him.

“I suppose you can do that, but good luck finding another cute guy to flirt with in here,” he drawled.

“There’s always Professor Bauman,” Steve snarked, and Eddie snorted as he backed toward his easel.

As soon as he had flopped back into his seat and his face was hidden from Steve, Eddie spun to face Robin. She was already looking at him with a knowing expression on her face, one eyebrow lifted in an unspoken question.

“He’s so hot, Birdie. And funny. I’m going to die!” Eddie hissed at her, and she rolled her eyes at him fondly as she took in the panicked expression on his face.

“Just so you know, Mr. Hot-and-Funny watched your ass the entire walk back to your seat. Good thing you wore your tight jeans today,” Robin smirked.

Eddie flipped her off and schooled his face into a neutral expression. He refused to give her the satisfaction of flustering him.

When the professor told them to pack up for the day, Steve stretched languidly like a cat and loped into Bauman’s office. Eddie gazed after him dazedly, watching as his muscular thighs flexed and his ass bounced with every step. He would’ve been more embarrassed if there weren’t at least five other students doing the exact same thing.

Robin stood and sighed. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she tugged at a lock of Eddie’s hair.

“You sure you’ll be able to get home okay? I bet we could sneak you past Wheeler if we tried.” The genuine concern in her voice almost melted his resolve, but he shook his head.

“Don’t worry about me, Buckley. I have enough duct tape to hold the old gal together for another few miles at least.” Her frown deepened, and he hastily added, “Besides, I don’t think Tammy likes me very much. The last time I was over I broke one of her mugs and she called me an ‘inbred hick’ or something charming like that. I still can’t believe you ever had a thing for her.”

Robin shook her head ruefully. “Alright, asshat. I’ll see you next week then. Call me when you get home so I know you lived.”

She left, barely catching the toe of her sneaker on the doorjamb and stumbling into the hall as she went. Eddie listened to her muffled curses as she tripped down the hall on the walk back to her dorm and grinned to himself.

He packed up his supplies carefully. This professional shit hadn’t been cheap, and he definitely couldn’t afford to replace his oil pencils if he ruined them. As he was stacking his canvas carefully in the back with the others, the door to the professor’s office opened and Steve stepped out, dressed now in simple blue jeans and a bright yellow sweater. He was frowning slightly and fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt, but he straightened up and his face brightened when he spotted Eddie still lingering in the classroom.

“Hey, Munson! I was hoping I could catch you before you left,” he called as he hurried to Eddie’s side. “How did your piece turn out?”

“Not bad,” Eddie smiled. “Helped that the subject was cute, you know. I do my best work when I’m staring at hot people.”

Steve threw his head back in a genuine laugh as they began the walk through campus. His strides were much longer than Eddie’s, despite their similar heights, and Eddie found himself rushing a bit to keep up.

“So, are you majoring in Art?” Steve asked, his casual tone at odds with the searching intensity in his eyes.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I am. I want to do tattoos for a living like my mom, so… art degree! College isn’t really my thing but I knew my uncle would get a real kick out of raising a college grad. I used to, you know, deal in high school, so he just about explodes with pride whenever he can tell somebody I’m a sophomore in college.” Eddie grinned ruefully at Steve. “Of course, the dealing is what made it possible to pay for these first couple of years, but there’s a mutual understanding to ignore that part of our finances.”

That drew out another laugh from Steve. Eddie felt the laugh settle somewhere in his chest, warming him from the inside despite the biting wind.

“So, what do you usually get up to after class?” Steve questioned. He was still picking at the loose threads on the ends of his sleeves like he was nervous, although he seemed perfectly comfortable walking with Eddie.

“Well, today I will be begging my uncle to come up and drive me home, probably. My van quit on me again this morning,” Eddie sighed as he scuffed his shoe along the edge of the sidewalk. He knew Wayne wouldn’t mind, but he felt horrible for interrupting his uncle’s sleep schedule because he couldn’t take care of his own vehicle.

“Damn. If only there was a cute guy around who would definitely drive you home if you asked nicely.” Steve snapped his fingers in an ‘aw shucks’ motion and sighed. “If only he had a really nice car and absolutely nothing to do tonight and is desperately trying to figure out a way to spend more time with you.”

Eddie’s heart leaped into his throat. Blush saturated his cheeks, staining them with pink, and he turned to look Steve in the eye.

“You better not be fucking with me, okay? You’re fun and I like you, so if you drive me home, it better not be the last time I see you.”

Steve gave him a long and searching look before grabbing Eddie’s hand and looping their fingers together.

“Well I, for one, am excited to see your place,” he said softly.

Eddie grinned and allowed himself to be tugged toward the parking lot a little faster than his legs could carry him.

~~~

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[thatonecrookedsmile]

It's been a little over a month since I read FTB and I wanted to do (and say, I think) a few things related to it. So here, take this. FTB stuff I was wanting to share.

Including some drawings/my designs for some characters (the ones above), some separate sketches, and giving some long thoughts on the book. (This post is looong so I'm going to put everything under the curtain. Enjoy!)

Starting: Rose, Evan and Archie. They are the ones that, I admit, are what I wanted to draw/design most while/after I read the book. Now, at least, if I want to make something involving one of these three one day, I have designs ready to go! Hooray! Evan is the only one of the three that I actually had to design from scratch. With Rose I had made a sketch 1 year ago conceptualizing the idea for her design, and it was only recently that I came back to this idea to finally solidify it. And I had already done Archie's design last year while I was doing my designs for the human cast of BATDR, so I was already prepared without even knowing it.

Also,Ink!Archie!! The poor guy got screwed pretty badly. First two designs in the first image are based on the events in the book. The one on the left is him seen mostly in the book (alive) and the one on the right is when he is in the Ink Realm, post-death. The design in the second image was supposed to be a stylization/variation of his Cycle design. I tried drawing him with a visible mouth/teeth similar to what I did with Sammy in a recent drawing and in some sketches that I didn't post here. I'm not sure about the beard tho. I think I exaggerated it. Next time, remember to draw less beard in this design. (And maybe, for the design that is more "close to canon", don't draw the ends of the hair and beard in the Cycle design)

Any other character in the book, either I don't have a design and I don't plan on making a design for them now, or I do but it will take a while to show them. (I promise I'll show Dot one day)

I also have some additional sketches. So if you want to take a look at that too, here it is:

Ollie Sorenson. This wasn't quite the way I had imagined him when I was reading the book but 1. the hair I tried to draw for him before didn't work out well, so I went another route and 2. Ollie isn't particularly a character in this book that I'm going to I think a lot in comparison to the others (he's still cool, tho) and I doubt I'll make another design for him, so let's go with this one. Not a bad design,so,eh.

Rose. Sketch on the left was made last year. I'm almost certain it was done after the book synopsis was revealed by Kress. The sketch on the right was made last month when I was reading the book. I took the idea from the sketch on the left and tried to solidify her design better.

Evan. Some other sketches made when I read the book. I had just completed his design and wanted to test it a little more to, you know, see if I can actually draw him. Verdict? I think I can.

And now uhhhhhh what I thought of the book! I previously considered doing a separate text post with these thoughts only but I don't do text-only posts in general and if I were to make a separate post it would take a while and it would come out more than 1 month/probably 2 months since I read the book and it would be kinda awkward. And I'm already writing this post, so why not put it all here now, right?

(Warning: My thoughts on the book ended up being MUCH LONGER THAN I EXPECTED TO WRITE. You don't need to read them if you want, they are just more additional and optional things. But if you are going to read them, be warned)

(Spoilers: I may have strayed a little off topic when I started talking about Archie. Don't mention how long his paragraph is, tho)

But yeah, Fade To Black. That was something else, I tell you (and I mean that in a positive way). Probably reading this book after all the fuss that happened about the books a while ago wasn't the best idea possible. But even with…all that in mind, I still wanted to read this for a long time, and I'm glad I went ahead with it. I had a lot of fun with the book! And thinking about it a little over a month after finishing it, I think I can say that this book is up there as, like, one of my favorites of the Bendy books that have been released to date. Before this, I would have considered DCTL my favorite of the books, so I'm somewhere between saying that both of these two are my favorite books in this series and that I like them equally, or that FTB has now become my favorite book of the series, surpassing DCTL. (Maybe I'll have a better idea of ​​this later this year when I reread these books once again)

I really liked the story told, its concept had already interested me since its synopsis was revealed last year - the setting in the 50's, the TV show, the whole 3D glasses thing - so it's no surprise that I was very interested in what this book had to tell. And since I already brought that up: I liked the new concepts it brings to the table,specifically,of course,the glasses and the TV. An idea that,I admit,at first is something I thought was a bit different (and dare i say unusual?) from what I usually see in the Bendy universe (although, it's not something so out of the ordinary from what we've seen before in the series) but I have to say that it's something that I thought was cool even so. 3D glasses that end up transporting your mind into the televised cartoons (and,by all accounts,the ink realm). The jokes I saw that Joey created virtual reality in this book weren't so far-fetched after all lol. But still, it's a concept that I admit to having been interested in, and that it might be cool to play around with in fanon stuff. I also considered this could open doors for other, more "wild" ideas to be explored in the books (as long as they still make sense for a >Bendy< book, of course). I also liked the whole segment taking place in the ink realm at the end of the book, and I hope that this can open up possibilities for future novel stories to take place there, either partially (as in this one) or in full (I accept an entire novel taking place in the cycle,ngl). The additional lore for the ink realm is a nice treat and adds more to what we have in the games. I admit that, at the same time, I feel a little thoughtful about a certain part of this additional lore that - assuming the way I understand it is right - leaves me wondering if this "extended origin" of the cycle coupled with what we already know of its lore would make sense in the games, and how these ideias would be acknowledged in future entries. But at the same time, I may be overthinking this, and the stars may still be aligned, and I've gotten the information wrong. Despite everything, I liked what was told about the ink realm in this book, I appreciate this "extended origin" at the end of the day.

I really liked the cast, both the new ones and the old faces. Rose is great, I really liked her as the protagonist. She's already one of my favorite book characters, I hope we hear from her again in the future. Also, it's good to have a protagonist in these books who survives in the end. Okay, sure, she didn't come out of it 100% unharmed, considering what the ending implies, but still. Again. It's good to have a protagonist in these books who came out of this alive at the end. Evan is also very good. Even though I want to slap him on the back of the head, I also hope to hear from him again, especially considering the way he "exited the story" (is that how you say it?). I talked about the possibility of a future novel taking place in the ink realm, I think that would give a good chance of bringing him back, now as an ink creature. I don't have much to say about Ollie, but I also thought he was cool. The scenes between him and Rose are very nice and the scenes related to the "Bendy Visions" caused by the glasses is another concept that I found very interesting (Tense moments, but cool ones nonetheless) Very happy to see Dot again. I like her character, and I always wanted to see what happened to her after the events of DCTL (TLO had already implied that she was still alive, but I wanted to know more, you know). Her participation in this book is very good, and a chapter that I have to highlight is the one where she meets Rose and they talk in the cafe. Their conversation alone is very good, but the specific part that got me was Dot talking about Buddy, what happened to her after the first book, and Buddy's family. That part was like. A slap in the heart, I'm not going to lie. This chapter made me sad, 10/10. Favorite chapter of the book.

Archie Carter was a big surprise (not really, I already knew he would be here before reading the book), and he is another of my favorite aspects of the book. It's good to see one of the characters from BATDR's human cast ending up being used more in a story. Archie in the game, like other characters we saw in the audio logs in DR, is a "One and done" situation where we only hear from him once and that's it, combined with the fact that he is ultimately just another background character who exists mostly to fill the world and give information that is not necessarily integral to the main things that occur in the game and is more to tell about different things, people and events that were also occurring inside the studio and in the outside world ( those of the lost city and Gent Workshop, essentially) pre-game events. (I really don't know how to explain this properly, but I would say that the "thing" of the information given by the new human cast (with the exception of the Archs) is the same thing as the characters who are giving such information: filling the world. I hope you get the gist of what I'm saying) And while I wouldn't say the information on these tapes is really irrelevant (in Archie's case, he provides some of the most interesting), and in my case, I don't mind the addition of the newbies, I don't blame other people for not being interested, don't get attached to or even dislike these new characters who don't do much in the grand scheme of things in DR and in comparison to the BATIM cast (or at least, the majority of the IM cast). So seeing at least 1 of these newcomers being used more deeply in a story and having their characters expanded is good! And I liked what was done with Archie here. You know the guy who worked at Gent as a test subject and who saw bad things happening at the company? Guess what! Same company screwed up his life and now he's a half-human-half-ink creature guy infected with evil ink and his current situation is not good at all! He's going through horrors unfortunately (especially in the cycle), but I really like what Adrienne did with Archie in this book. Again, he is one of the highlights of this book, and I hope that something similar ends up happening with other DR characters in future stories (manifesting the novel that uses Bill Danton and/or Grace Conway in some capacity 🙌) Plus, I also think it's cool that of all the DR characters to be used, it was the one voiced by SuperHorrorBro who ended up being chosen for this book (I like SHB, what can I say)

Joey (like in the other books) is a standout (and considering what we specifically see of him in this book, he's especially a standout here). More of Allison, even though in the end it's just a small one-scene cameo. Finally, I'm being fed the bread crumbs I craved. And I think now I have another version of Henry to talk about. My collection is growing strong, now I have 3 versions of my favorite old man! Among the new ones, and especially the secondary and tertiary ones, Papa D and Gladys are nice, even though they don't have much time in the story. Oh, and Wilson showed up too. He doesn't do much either, he's just there to be creepy. But I will acknowledge him.

I also enjoyed seeing some of the ideias showcased first in BATDR here (which makes sense, this book came out well after the game finally released). I always found it interesting to see more of Gent in the spotlight, and reading and knowing a little more about the things they were doing after JDS closed is nice. (And I think it's good to see more reaffirmation of what BATDR had already implied. That Gent also had eyes on the Ink Machine even when the studio was still open, and when the studio collapsed, they still continued the ink experiments in their own facilities. Again, this was already something that had been shown in DR, but it's good to see more reaffirmation here) The appearance of the Siverlane Express was something that I really appreciated, even if it was something very short. I ealready talk about Archie in one giant paragraph, and again, Wilson is here too.

There isn't really anything I "disliked" about this book, but at most, I only have a few nitpicks. The Ink Demon appears in the story, but compared to DCTL and TLO, I feel FTB is definitely the book where he appears the least. I mean, yeah, the story isn't about him in the end, but it's still something I managed to notice. I also feel that, in my opinion, this is the least "scary" of the 3. Not that it doesn't have "scary" elements but still, compared to moments in the other books like Buddy in the infirmary, or the TLO trio in the old factory, I don't know if this book would be the most "scary" of the trilogy. However,FTB still has several suspenseful scenes (the Bendy visions, some scenes with Ollie, Archie's pre-introduction, Wilson in the library), which I also like anyway. And I'll admit. While this idea isn't that far out there - and in the context of the story, it makes sense - I kind of raised an eyebrow a little at the whole "using your mind/imagination to get out of the ink realm" thing. It is not bad! And again, with what we saw in the book, this idea actually fits with what we had seen so far in the story. But I can't lie that when we got to this moment I was like "oh, this is something that happened, I guess", you know? But even so, I didn't dislike the idea.

(I once saw someone describe this part of the book as "they canonized no-clipping in Bendy" and you know what? I think that's funny. I think we need to start referring to this idea in the book as that instead of "using the imagination" /hj)

But even so, even with these small "nitpicks", I still had a lot of fun with this book. I really enjoyed reading it, and not only is it now one of my favorite Bendy books so far, I dare say it's one of my favorite things about the franchise in general. Like, if I had to make a top 3 of my favorite things from the Bendy series so far, I'd say it's this book and the first two mainline games. I guess this is to show how much I enjoyed the book!

And with that, my journey with the Bendy books ends. At least, with the books I managed to have access so far. I have no plans to pursue the updated version of the Employee Handbook so far, but from what I've heard and seen so far, I'm not missing anything too important. And the DCTL graphic novel….exists. It's definitely a graphic novel that exists. Dare I say that it is definitely one of the graphic novels of all time, alright. But what have I read so far? It was what I would say, a good journey. I've been interested in the Bendy books for a long time, and it's been a while since I read them, and I'm glad I did, despite recent events. Of course, they have their flaws and problems too, I have things about them that I myself identify as bumps in the road (and that applies to the novel trilogy too btw) But even with them in mind and acknowledging them, I still think that they are worth something. And I hope people still continue to recognize them and give them a chance. Even with its flaws, and with their whole canocity thing that happened a while ago, I still believe that people should check out the books eventually. Give it a chance, you know? If they did, and liked what they read, great! But if they don't like it, that's okay too! In the end, at least they, on both sides, gave it a chance. And that's what I at least want to see. I don't like the idea of ​​discarding these things and pretending they don't exist just because the devs said they aren't canon to the games (because, in my view, just because the books aren't canon doesn't make them without value or that you can't have fun with them after all)

WOW, this is getting long, I think I got carried away. I think that's all I had to say. To conclude everything, here is my list of the Bendy books that I like the most and the ones I like least:

Fade To Black (I've already talked a lot about this book)

Dreams Come To Life (hand in hand with FTB being in first place. It has its flaws, some that may have already been mentioned before, but I still found myself liking it in the end. For a first novel, it worked out fine)

Crack-Up Comics (Really liked the comics. It's good to see more things related to the cartoon characters, and I like some of the characters introduced. Pretty fun stuff)

The Lost Ones (it's not a very "Bendy" focused book compared to the others, and I don't blame those who didn't like this one because of the lack of many Bendy elements, but I confess that I still liked it as much as the other 2, and I loved the protagonists of this one. Even so, of the trilogy, it is the weakest book)

The Illusion of Living (In itself, it's an interesting read. It's really cool to see more of Joey from a deeper angle, and see more of his past. But I confess that it's not my favorite read, and I still prefer the main novels. Not bad, tho)

JDS Employee Handbook (2019) (For the first Bendy book overall, it's not bad, and I like the lore tidbits it has. But compared to the rest, it's actually the weakest)

The TL;DR is: Fade To Black is fun and my favorite, I liked its story and characters. I liked the books. Check them out if you want. If you liked them, cool. If you didn't like them, that's cool too. Read in general.

And if you've read this far: Thank you! And at the same time, I'm sorry! Have a good day/afternoon/night everyone. Peace.

[sawtastic-sideblog]

'Dear Lawrence,

It's been two years, three months, and twenty six days or eight hundred and forty eight days. The guilt is manageable but still eats away at me everyday. I cry to get the emotions out, but only in the shower. I don't want the others to hear me.

John is having us watch a lawyer. I only take the pictures. I never grab the test subjects or help with John's games. Mark and Amanda do that.

Speaking of them I suspect something more going on. I can't prove it but I think they're having hate sex. With as much as they fight it just seems likely. John seems to think so too. He confides in me. It's probably because I still don't talk.

I talk to you sometimes. Only when I'm alone. I whisper into the void and hope my message will get to you. Wherever you may be.

Anyway, back to the game. The guy, Westley Edgar, lives near where you, Alison, and Diana lived. They don't live there anymore. I know where they live, though, and sometimes I'll check in on them. I try to once a month. Diana has grown up so much. She looks like her mother, but she has your eyes. Alison is doing good. She is casually seeing a guy, but I don't think it will go anywhere. Both are still working through losing you. I am too.

I'm still bad at staying on track, but the almost eight hundred and fifty other letters could have told you that.

This Edgar guy gets the bad guys out of the really bad sentences and a few have even go free. John believes it's injustice. It'll be Edgar playing the game with some of the guys he let go or something. I'm not sure.

As I always say, I miss you. I hope you can forgive me. One day. Maybe.

Your friend,

Adam'

Adam closes the journal and hides it in the top of his closet. As he does, a knock sounds from the door. He slightly panics and goes to grab a jacket from a hanger as the door opens.

"You ready? John wants those pictures of Edgar's wife by tomorrow," Mark asks. Adam nods and pulls on the jacket as he walks toward the door, closing it as he walks out. Mark leads the way to the workshop.

"We're off. We'll be back by five in the morning."

"Don't get caught," John says, not looking up from the contraption he's tinkering with. Mark nods and walks out of the door on the far side of the workshop. Adam follows him to the car and they get in.

"You gonna talk tonight?" Mark asks as he parks the car. Adam looks at him with a neutral face. Mark nods before saying, "Thought so. Why don't you talk?"

Adam just shrugs and turns in his seat to grab his camera from the back seat. When he gets situated in the seat with his camera set up, he sends a text to Mark.

'Did you bring food?'

"No, I did not bring food. I plan on walking down to the convenience store later. Just to have something to do. Unless you need something now?"

Adam shakes his head and holds up a water bottle. Adam pulls up the Netflix app on his phone and turns on the show he and Mark had been watching together. Some kind of glass blowing competition. It seems to shut Mark up and Adam finds it interesting that such beautiful pieces can be made from sand.

The night goes on without a hitch. Mark went and got them food around midnight and Adam got enough photos for John to use. As the pair pull up to the workshop, they notice another car.

"Whose car is that?" Mark asks. Adam shrugs and gets out of the car. With arms full of equipment and left over snacks, Mark and Adam walk into the workshop. "I don't need help. Thanks though."

"Didn't ask. Don't care," Amanda says from where she sits, sketching what looks to be some kind of head cage.

"Not even about Adam?"

"Especially Adam," Amanda quips before standing and glaring at the men. "I don't get why he gets special treatment. Because he won't talk? Because we have to treat him like Lassie? What is it boy? What is it? Little Timmy fall in the well again?"

As Amanda speaks, she pats her legs and pitches her voice higher to taunt Adam.

"Amanda," John's voice echoes around the large space. Amanda turns on her heel.

"What? You treat him differently than me," Amanda's arms are wide.

"I do not and don't argue. Mark and Adam have had a long night, I'm sure. So, why don't we let them go rest and you can start on the plan to get the subjects here."

Adam goes to the red room that John had set up for him and sets the camera equipment down.

"Whose car is that?" Mark asks as Adam makes his way across the workshop floor.

"An old friend," is John's only reply before he walks off toward Amanda. Adam grabs himself a glass of water and downs the whole thing before walking down the hallway to his room.

As he nears the door, he notices that it's open. He stills and presses himself against the wall. Carefully, he peeks around his doorframe and his eyes fall upon a cane leaning against the foot of the bed, then a pair of brown shoes, the right leg straightened out and the left slightly tucked beneath the desk chair where a figure sits. Adam's gaze falls upon his journal in the hands of the person in his room. Not just any journal. The first one he started writing in after he got here. The one that bares all his thoughts and feelings of losing Lawrence, waking up in John Kramer's lair, the one where he learns to breathe again.

Adam doesn't look at the person's before he strides into the room and rips the journal from the hands of the intruder and holds it to his chest as he turns away. He takes a deep breath and walks to his closet where he quickly opens the door and shoves the journal on the shelf before closing the door again. He stands there head against the door as he processes the emotions of some random guy reading his most private thoughts.

A hand on his shoulder causes him to jump. He hunches his shoulders and tries to cave in on himself, begging the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

"I've missed you too, Adam," the intruder's voice is familiar. Adam's eyes widen as he turns around to face the man before him.

"Lawrence?"

[alyjojo]

May 😽 2023 Monthly - Taurus

Whole of your energy: The Hermit

You have Hermit, Death, and High Priestess all here this month, you are going through some very intense internal, quiet, and very personal changes. Spiritual awakenings. Possible dark night of the soul. Or you have been already, and this is another month of intense spiritual work. These things don’t happen overnight. Something is going on with your family where you’re spending a lot of time secluded at home, and within your relationships. It’s many of your birthdays this month, so this energy is unusual for Taurus, who often loves an opportunity to get people together. But you’re not doing that, whether by choice or not. You’re in an energy of evaluating your life, your family, your friends, the relationships you’re involved in…everything. Intense stuff 🙏

What’s going on in May:

Page of Swords:

You are talking to someone in particular, possibly your father. Could be a spouse if you’re married, I get more of a father figure for most. A child, for some, with the Page. There is truth and communication with this person. Some of you are needing to set boundaries and ground rules with the people around you, old habits need to end, things need to change, and you’re ready to change with them. It’s not bad or negative, you’ve definitely outgrown a lot of past perceptions, ways of behaving, believing, any number of things. It’s just conscious now. Some of you may have a hard time finding other people that understand what you’re going through. People tend to assume you are the same as how they’ve always known you, especially being a rock solid & reliable Taurus, and that’s just not true. But good luck telling that to other people right? They don’t understand what you mean. People generally only understand their own view of things, Taurus too, even especially, fixed signs tend to have an even harder time seeing outside of their own experience. Mercury is currently retrograde in your own sign, and squaring/opposing all fixed signs, until mid May, and it seems perspective is being enlightened in your case, and maybe theirs too. This Emperor seems to get it, they’re someone that’s supportive & in your corner. This could also be switched and they’re the person telling you about how things have changed with them, but it’s a mutual conversation between you.

6 Cups:

This I believe is still with this Emperor energy, part of what’s being discussed, there is a lot of nostalgia with this person, a lot of history. 9 Cups shows these are memories of happy occasions, celebrations, good times, not bad ones. You’re thinking about how things used to be, in good ways, and letting go of what wasn’t. Probably in order to improve on something you’ve had difficulty with, involving them.

8 Cups rev:

Part of this very deep and spiritual journey is this row right here. You’re returning to memories, situations, I don’t really get “people” because you’re mostly alone, but people are involved, in your memories - that are painful. Or were. You’ve left all of these things behind before. The way you wore hair bows every Sunday until you were 9, or your old skateboard you almost broke a leg on, your best friend from childhood that maybe isn’t around anymore. These things aren’t to cause you pain, I think you’ve already worked through this pain before. It’s inspiring you, reminding you of who you always were and *still* are. Not all of it, because you’ve changed a lot since then. But a lot of it, it’s blowing fresh wind into your sails, making you feel creative and excited TO let go of the old, and still incorporate some of these things into your present life. You didn’t lose your love of hair bows or skateboards, you just forgot, for some of these things. If you once used to sketch anime characters till your hands were screaming in pain, maybe you’ll buy a sketchbook now, and start trying to draw flowers, or whatever it is that applies to you. Maybe this time it’s on a digital platform instead of with a pencil. Out with the old! But…not all of it. The old is being transformed to fit you more comfortably and authentically now.

Death:

This is the core of the energy for you this month, other than The Hermit. Who you are at your very center has changed in a very deep, spiritual, unrecognizable way. Even to you. You’re being very patient with yourself, it’s like you’re meeting yourself all over again in many ways. All of this is 100% internal. I don’t get that people are necessarily avoiding you (though that might be true), nor are you avoiding them (also might). It’s more like you’re just in a very intense period, and even when you’re with other people you kinda feel disconnected from them, because they aren’t aware of what’s going on inside of you. Truth may be advising you to open up a bit. People can’t support you if they have no idea, to them you’re just acting funny & what’s the deal? And people who have not even begun any spiritual work will not get it 💯 It’s too deep for surface level kind of interactions. You don’t seem to mind being alone.

10 Cups:

This is your happy family. If you’re married, this could be the family inside of your home, or if you live with parents, roommates, friends, cats, whatever 10 Cups is to you. I do get that it is happy & stable. For some, you could feel others are avoiding or ignoring you around this time when they shouldn’t be, or it’s out of character…if so, you’re taking this to heart. What IS a happy family if it’s full of people you can’t rely on? Blood?🩸 That’s not for everyone but it’s valid for whoever it’s here for. For some, it’s you avoiding them, because for some reason there are battles and conflicts with these people, and you’re not interested in drama. You’re not going to defend your position about everything, and some of you feel like you have to. So you just don’t show up. For the majority, I do see family being around you, and what you’re avoiding is opening up about this massive change inside of you, or anything authentic and genuine. Spiritual or deep. You don’t want to go there with others, because you’re not interested in defending yourself, period. Or you feel they aren’t on that level of thinking/feeling. This is how it is and you know what’s right for you kind of mentality. Your color cards can help you with that situation 💛🧡

Signs you may be dealing with:

Scorpio, Pisces, Capricorn, Aries & Aquarius

Oracles: ✨

21 - Truth

An honest desire to know and speak the truth produces beneficial results.

31 Omens 🐦

Hawks are messengers. This majestic bird flies high and reaches the realms of the spirit. They bring back messages from both the seem and unseen. Drawing this card speaks of focus and intuition. Pay attention to the coincidences in your life right now. Focus on where you want to go - how high do you want to fly? When you see a hawk, someone is trying to get your attention. Pay attention to serendipity in your life. Be glad, for this is a reminder that you are living in the flow of energy. Things will soon shift for you.

We enter into May as:

Bernie Banana and All Things Yellow 🍌

“How can I choose?”

Have you recently faced a major truth about yourself and are trying to figure out where you do belong? Or are you facing some other kind of dilemma? Is your thinking cloudy because you think someone or something is cheating you out of your just desserts? Bernie has come to you to let you know you are not alone. You are being advised to approach your particular situation with an open eye and closed mouth. Do not say or reveal too much, your “knowledge” may prove to work against you, or you may be in the midst of a volatile situation. You are being told to play the neutral position, it will prove important later that you have not chosen any “sides”. Do not ignore your beliefs, simply do not publicize them, weigh your situation carefully. You’re in the winning position by being the observer. Answers will come by allowing a dilemma to exist, the situation is out of your hands. Something else requires your attention, leave well enough alone.

What is to be learned in May:

The Carrot Colored Cloak 🥕:

“Don’t quit before the miracle!”

You are being told that changing your direction at this time is not wise. We never know where our miracles lie in the path, often just beyond the boundary of our faith. You may not see it, but it lies ahead. When we do the work that is chosen for us, we are serving a higher order, and if we stop we upset the balance of our lives. Stick with it and have blind faith, an exciting change is coming. You must press on in the direction of your vision, what you’re working for will come to fruition.

Orange may be a lucky color 🧡

🤱 Happy Birthday Taurus!! 🧁

[keefwho]

May 30 - 2024 Thursday

10:36pm

5/10

Last night I recorded a good morning voice message for DS because I felt like it. Doing small little things like that is important for me because usually I'd refrain in case its too silly or something. My prompt yesterday was "let your voice be heard" and I did, literally. Its a very small thing but the intent behind it is large.

This morning I took the dogs out and showered. I made a frozen breakfast sandwich for lunch but I cut up my own onions for it and applied some hot sauce. Usually I'd eat something with it to help it agree with my tummy but I figured I could without because I wanted to eat small meals today since I've been up a couple pounds. My body handled it okay it seems. I had watched a sorta beginner art course video that explained using large areas and then using ovals to define planes easily which is exactly what i've been doing on my own.

To warm up today, I filled in all the little space left on my sketch sheet with rough gestures. Then I finished a YCH edit, did a YCH for 57, and readied a couple commissions for next month.

After work I spent time before lunch contacting people, doing some chores, and tending to my patreon. It was a very productive hour. For lunch I made soup and a grilled cheese. I gave myself ample time to chill and take a break since I actually felt like I earned it. Unfortunately I didn't know what I wanted to chill with so I watched an unsatisfying stream. The guy I like watching lately has starting playing CS:GO and similar games which actually melt my brain to watch. It's soooooo boring.

I finished this Celestia AI redraw I was working on this afternoon and worked on this Zelda drawing I had on the backburner. I asked TK if she wanted to call but she wasn't up for it today so I joined BR's server vc even though it was empty. I really needed to socialize because so few people have been around lately in general. BT joined but he's kinda weird and info dumps about stuff. Also nearly pulled me into the drama he's in surrounding other server members that I know nothing about. I also worked on my pony avatar for an hour.

After work I left the VC to play Cities Skylines. I got a couple new mods that might be crashing the game so I think I'll remove them. Admittedly I barely planned on using them. I asked DS if she wanted to chill and we did. I played Cities for a bit until it crashed, trying to relax and just have fun instead of making it feel like a chore or exercise. I realize I should be opening google earth and looking up locations for inspiration. It usually makes it very fun but feels like "cheating" as stupid as that sounds. Its the kind of mindset I want to let go of for any game I play. Its just a GAME I am PLAYing. Anyways she put on the 4 current episodes of season 2 of Smiling Friends which was a blast. Then we watched highlights of Oneyplays roasting the Nostalgia Critic and I suggested we watch a video of his so I have better context of who he actually is. I've always heard about him but never watched him. Then we did our puzzles before she headed off to bed since she has to wake up extra early tomorrow. I looked back on our evening feeling bad that I was so mellow and uninteresting. Its because I don't have anything on my mind to talk about lately with anyone really. Like I haven't taken in any new information to use. Its also possible I'm not treating myself with enough respect to speak my mind. Maybe I'm just thinking about things I don't think are worth sharing. Or maybe it's okay to have nothing on my mind really so I can just enjoy whatever is happening.

I tried playing some Roblox but my internet was cutting out like 1 out of every 3 minutes. I joined BR's server where they were watching the old ninja turtles movie which they still are as I write this.

My parents got home today so I don't have to tend to the dogs anymore. I did very good work today which I'm proud of, I have no regrets about my work ethic today. I just hope I can get out of this social rut, I don't feel like Im building relationships at all.

[embroideredcursewords]

Chapter One:

The winter months were officially coming to an end. The cold winds had softened to cool breezes that ruffled Peter’s hair as he sketched in the garden. His nose wrinkled in distaste as he thought about what those cool breezes heralded. The summer would be upon them before Peter was ready to say goodbye to those fresh flowers and the blades of grass springing up from the ground, triumphant over the early spring frosts. He decided then, resolutely, to enjoy these spring afternoons before the summer sun beat him back inside with its cruel rays. Ah, but then after the summer was over autumn could blow in. Autumn with its colorful leaves and its refreshing chill, that could be Peter’s favorite. The squash would be ripe then. The nights would be chilly enough to warrant a large fire which Peter could read in front of. Then, once the lovely autumn was over, the winter with its biting cold and bare trees would return. Life came in cycles, Peter surmised. Cycles of good met with cycles of bad. This afternoon, for instance, was a good cycle. Peter was free to read and sketch and eat sweet berries to his heart’s content. But supper would arrive soon enough, and Peter would have to lie to his aunt and uncle’s faces yet again. Peter heaved a deep sigh. He didn’t enjoy lying to them, really he didn’t. His ears got hot and his nose tickled everytime. Unfortunately, he had to. He had to lie or Aunt May and Uncle Ben would be disappointed yet again. Perhaps they already knew. Deciding to leave those worrisome thoughts for later, Peter refocused his attention on his sketch book. He was working on a large, wicked-looking dragon. Its eyes seemed to glare from the page as he added some shadows beneath the powerful wings. The dragon seemed angry at being sketched. Peter worried his lip between his teeth and clutched his sketchbook to his chest as a pair of guards walked by. They nodded their heads in a respectful bow as they passed, one’s eyes lingered on him a moment too long. Peter rolled his own eyes. Just in case that wasn’t clear enough, he added a ‘hmph’ just in case. The guard’s head snapped forward, likely embarrassed at being caught. Content with his reaction, Peter went back to his sketchbook. He’d smudged charcoal on his lovely white shirt.

Soon enough, Peter was called to supper. He’d swiftly changed into something more appropriate for dining before bounding down the great stairs and into the dining hall. He could hear his aunt giggling in response to something his uncle had said. Her hand gently swatted at the other Beta playfully. Peter smiled to himself as his chair was pulled out for him. Uncle Ben cleared his throat, looking pointedly at Peter.

“Did you have a good day, then? Sketching in the garden?” Peter nodded, mouth already full of delicious food. The bread tonight smelled divine. “I am glad to hear it. Have you given any more thought to the proposal?” Peter nearly choked on his soup. “We do need an answer, you know.” His uncle continued.

“The bread tonight smells divine.” Peter obfuscated.

His uncle leveled him with a reproachful look. Aunt May wound a napkin in her lap.

“Peter…” Uncle Ben began one of his famous lectures and Peter prepared himself mentally. Only, this time Uncle Ben fell silent. He sighed deeply, looking almost as if he’d given up. A minute passed in that sad sort of silence before Peter couldn’t take it anymore.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Ben. I just-it’s just that-well, I don’t love him. I don’t love him and I cannot imagine marrying someone if I don’t. I mean, what sort of life would that be? Dreading every meal, every night because I have to be around some bigheaded, idiot Alpha? I just.. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Uncle Ben’s disappointed stare had become crestfallen.

“Peter, you have had more proposals than a bird has feathers. When are you going to find one you like? How do you even know you don’t like this one? Have you spent any time with Alpha Prince Jonathon? According to the guard, you insulted him before being properly introduced! You must give them a chance, Peter. How can they meet these expectations of yours if you don’t give them a chance to even know them?”

Peter stared down at his bowl of soup, ears flaming and nose itching.

“I will, Uncle Ben. I promise I will. He just… he seemed so rude.” Uncle Ben let out a frustrated noise.

“He seemed ‘rude’? ‘Rude’ how?”

“He was… staring at me. He kept staring at my legs and it made me uncomfortable. Then, when he was introduced, he grabbed my hand and laid the nastiest, wettest kiss I have ever received to the back of my hand. I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself! He was grabbing at me before I could even open my mouth! So yes, I admit I insulted him and I am sorry. Sorry to you, but not to that Alpha Prince! I meant it when I called him a great big, knot-headed oaf!”

Aunt May snorted and quickly covered it up with a fake cough into her napkin at Uncle Ben’s side-eyed look.

“Peter you cannot just go around calling Alphas-“ Uncle Ben struggled to say the word, Aunt May (un-)helpfully supplied ‘knot-headed’ “oafs! You cannot! You are an Omega Prince, not a common sailor. That language is highly inappropriate, especially when speaking to foreign royalty. The Alpha Prince was absolutely scandalized and now I must smooth things over with his father who already views your aunt and I as inferior. Do you realize what sort of position you’ve put me in?”

Peter did feel a bit guilty about that. He did try not to bring shame onto the family, he just seemed to stumble into it every turn he took. Aunt May gave him a sort of pitying look.

“Peter, darling, we understand your… trepidation but there really is nothing to worry about. You’ll find a nice Alpha to settle down with and I promise you’ll be perfectly happy!”

Peter’s ears were on fire, his nose twitching uncontrollably as he answered: “I know, Aunt May. I know.”

She looked at him knowingly, but didn’t press the issue. Instead, she allowed them to eat in peace for a few minutes before Uncle Ben laid out a piece of parchment. Aunt May looked anywhere but Peter when he did.

“Do you know what this is, Peter?” When he was given no response, he continued. “These are the bylaws regarding birthright in Yorke. Do you know what these bylaws say regarding the royalty’s birthright?”

Peter said nothing, staring resolutely at his piece of buttered bread.

“They say, Peter, that an unbonded Omega has no right to the throne. The throne cannot be ruled by an Omega alone, there must be an Alpha by his or her side. Peter, if you are not bonded you cannot rule Yorke. End of story. Do you see why we have been pushing you on this?”

“You two rule the kingdom as betas, why should the rules apply to me and not to you?” Peter grumbled, only half meaning it. Uncle Ben somehow heard. Curse him and his inconveniently strong hearing. Uncle Ben’s voice became sharper and louder with each word.

“The rules, Peter, apply to us the same as you. Your aunt and I are not truly ruling Yorke. We are simply placeholders until you are bonded to an Alpha and crowned as king. You will be bonded, do you understand me?”

Peter sucked in a deep breath. He’d known for a long time what was expected of him, but Uncle Ben had never spoken this way with him. He could feel his eyes stinging, at the surprise of being very nearly yelled at, the fear of the looming threat that was bonding, and at his guilt for having disappointed his aunt and uncle for so long. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words could squeeze out past the lump in his throat. Instead, he managed a shaky nod of his head. When he risked a glance upwards at the two of them, Uncle Ben looked guiltily at his own meal. Aunt May was holding in her own tears as she stared out the window.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Ben.” Peter could only manage a whisper.

“No, Peter. I’m sorry. I wish it didn’t have to be this way, I really do. Sometimes, we must make choices and do things that we don’t really like for the betterment of the kingdom.” Uncle Ben raised his head to meet Peter in the eyes. “With great power comes great responsibility, son.”

Peter nodded, his voice completely given up on him. He’d lost his appetite, the bread smelling sour in his nostrils. Without another word, the Omega Prince stood, and walked alone to his bedchambers. Once inside the comforting walls, he released a sob and stumbled towards his desk. There, he found one of his journals, the one detailing his first real piece of information on dragons. He opened to the middle of his journal, reading the first sentence that stood out to him:

And finally, I have found my true purpose. The pursuit of knowledge: for what could give a better chase?

Allowing himself to cry, he thumbed at the page, rubbing out his tears as they fell. It was all he’d ever wanted: to learn more about these incredible beasts who once ruled the earth with deadly power. Yet even that, he was not allowed. Dragons had been considered extinct for years, and now the very knowledge of them was well on its way to extinction. Now, they were no more than a fairytale used to frighten children into obedience. Literature regarding dragons was outlawed throughout the kingdoms, bardsong detailing them was as well. Peter had fought for every scrap of information he had gained. Through the years he had gained very little, but what he had he cherished. With each piece, however small, of information he had felt that much closer to his parents. He stared out the window as he pictured them as they had been painted in their portrait. Peter imagined them searching high and low for any sort of sign, any inkling that a way could be found… a way to defeat the dragons and protect their home. A sentimental part of him supplied: to protect their only son. They had left when he was young, young enough to still need a wetmaid. His aunt and uncle told him that they sought information, that they were people of science. Yes, they had gone to find a way to defeat the dragons, but they had never returned. Peter was left to grow up without them. He’d never been alone, no he’d had Aunt May and Uncle Ben. They were the best parents a person could wish for, but still Peter longed to speak with his mother and father. Just once would be enough, he told himself. Just once to know if they had understood the sacrifice they had made. But, no. Peter had wonderful parents and if it hadn’t been for his wetmaid Madeline, he’d have never met her daughter Mary Jane who had become his best friend in the whole world. She was an Omega, like him. Often, Peter felt like no one else could truly understand him. Now, he longed for the comfort in her arms, her soft trilling, but he was also loath for her to see him like this. He could imagine what she would say:

“Silly, young Omega. All upset over your birthright. Don’t you know that most people would kill for your position? Bonding or not, you hold a kingdom in your hand.”

She would be right. She was always right. Gwen would agree with her, surely. The Alpha was never afraid to chastise him when he really needed it. And Harry… oh, he didn’t even want to think about what Harry would say! Instead Peter stripped himself down, pulled on his nightclothes without letting go of his journal, and settled himself in bed. The book’s hard edges dug into him as he closed his eyes, but still he refused to let it go. He repeated those words over and over to himself as he drifted off:

And finally, I have found my true purpose. The pursuit of knowledge: for what could give a better chase?

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! The rest can be found on Archive of Our Own under the username EmbroideredCurseWords, or by the link in the original post.

Dragonflight

Peter Parker/Wade Wilson

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics. Scarred Wade. Dragonshifter!Wade. DragonRider!Peter. Dragons. Fantasy AU. Medieval AU. Dragon AU. Alternate Universe. No Powers somewhat. Power changes definitely. Magic. Alpha Wade Wilson. Omega Peter Parker. Aunt May is a delight and I adore her. Adult Peter Parker (of course). Power dynamics. Rough sex. Possessive Wade Wilson. He is an alpha after all. Possessive sex. Breeding kink. Size difference. Size queen Peter Parker. I will list trigger warnings as always. Please let me know if I miss any. Violence. Period-typical sexism. Language. Sex. Anal sex. Top Wade Wilson/Bottom Peter Parker. Peter being a power bottom sometimes. Slow burn. NOT Tom’s Spider-Man but I included Happy because I love him. Probably some OOC. I changed a lot. Mostly origin stories. Had to fit the AU somehow lol.

Summary: Dragons have all but disappeared, let alone the famed Dragon-Riders, and with it has disappeared most information concerning them. Peter Parker has always been a curious Omega, and one of these days it is bound to get him in trouble.

Wade Wilson is one of the last Dragon-Shifters, and as such he isn’t too keen on humans. They slaughtered his friends and family, only he and a few others remain. They have gone into hiding, but perhaps the time for cowering has come to an end.

What happens when two very different people from two very different backgrounds collide? Will chaos ensue with the renewed knowledge of dragons? Almost certainly.

//Trigger Warnings: Language. Violence. Alcohol. Sex. Rough sex. Possessive sex. Gratuitous Smut. Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics. Breeding. Size difference. Power Dynamics. Period-typical and AU-typical sexism.\\

Highly inspired by One Reason Why and other A/B/O works by NotEvenCloseToStraight. I absolutely adore the writing style and the dynamics that they incorporate, so they very much deserve a shoutout! Check out their writing if you haven’t already :)

[rae-gar-targaryen]

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​

[donutloverxo]

Sometimes I just put on some sappy romance music and think about being Steve Rogers' perfect wife ✋😔

Please note that my stories are not to be stolen or reposted on any other site. Reblogs are welcome. This blog and this story is 18+. Do not read, follow or interact if you are not 18+.

I'm thinking about being his wife 24/7🥺 Warnings - daddy kink, slight consesual nonconsent, spanking.

Being Steve's wife means waking up to the smell of delicious breakfast. He's a morning person, so he has already had his morning jog with Sam, trained recruits, showered and gotten ready for work, made breakfast by the time you're up.

You better be ready to ditch your phone. He doesn't want you looking at your phone when you're together. There will be no TV while eating either. You both either talk or share comfortable silence. He may read the newspaper sometimes like the old man that he is.

He makes like healthy breakfast which is hit or miss because he isn't that good at cooking. Ya know? Like pancakes made of oats. Or like oatmeal. Sugar free orange juice and lots of fresh fruits.

You give him a nice big kiss goodbye. Hugging his huge body too. "I don't want you to leave, daddy." He just kisses the top of your head, "I don't want to leave either. But I gotta go fight bad guys. So I can keep my princess safe."

He expects a kiss when he gets home. You run to the door when he hear the keys jiggling like a needy little puppy. Throwing yourself in his arms because you just missed him so much🥺

His welcome home kiss is a lot more passionate and needy. He wants to feel like your Steve after a long hard day. He turns his Captain mode off when he's just lounging on the couch with you. Catching up on a show on Netflix.

One time you were talking to your old friend on the phone. You only have him a smile. He pouted the whole evening! But you made up for it by giving him lots of kisses later. And by sucking his cock. He could never stay mad at you for long anyway.

People ask him what he does to unwind. Sure he sketches and runs and ruins gym equipment (and our panties😏) but most of all he just chills with you. No matter how bad a day was he knows it'll get better as soon as you cuddle close to him, look upto him with your doe eyes, "Love me, please," you'd ask.

Loving can mean anything. Nonsexual but still intimate squeezes to your breasts or ass, playing with your hair, giving you kisses and tight hugs. Or ruining your pussy on the couch while the TV still plays Gordon Ramsay or something.

You always wear 1940s style nightgowns at home. They seem more domestic than they do sexual but you just know that they drive Steve crazy.

Said nightgown sometimes rides up your thigh exposing your soft skin to Steve. He can't believe he has a sweet little wife like you. Who is so loving and amazing.

He loves teasing you. Foreplay with Steve begins way before you even get to bed. Touching your thighs, whispering dirty nothings in your ear.

You sometimes like to play pretend. That you may be don't want it (how could anyone not omg) "Not now, daddy, lemme watch my soaps," you'd whine.

He can tell when you're in the mood for pretending just by the sound of your voice. You absolutely love it when he overpowers you, you're so small and weak before him. He could literally do anything he wants to you but he only ever uses that leverage for good.

He loves buying you jewelry. If you don't like jewelry he'll buy something else that's expensive and feminine and thoughtful. Like a day at the spa, makeup or a nice dress.

You still ask for more sometimes. Even though you have more diamonds than you'd ever need. "I want this one, daddy," Showing him a pic of the newest design from Tiffanys.

"I don't know, princess. I got you those diamond studs just last month."

"But wouldn't I look so pretty in these? I wanna look pretty for my hubby. So he doesn't get bored of me."

He sees right through that pathetic attempt at manipulating him, "You'd look pretty in a trashbag, puppy. But you have to wait till Christmas for those."

Daddy husband Steve will spoil his wife but he's also a disciplinarian so don't expect to get away with everything. If you're too bratty he'll spank you real good. He's extremely traditional in that way.

Speaking of traditional, forget about touching your wallet ever again. Better yet you don't even need to carry it anymore as long as he's with you. You don't even remember the last time you opened a door for yourself.

Steve likes to be the one planning the dates. If you wanna go somewhere new or try something new all you have to do is tell him and he'll make it happen.

He gets a smoll boner everytime someone calls you Mrs Rogers. You literally completely belong to him now. He made sure to put a huge rock on your finger so you'd never forget either.

You like to ask Steve to help do your nails and toes when you don't have time to go to the salon. He's good with brushes. But he has one condition - you let him pick out the color and the design. He likes pink and red on you the most.

Most of the times you pick out Steve's outfit for him. Along with accompanying him to boring events he has to attend because he's Captain America. You're proud of your husband and feel your heart swell when people say amazing things about him. Steve's humble so he doesn't like it and turns completely red.

[independentmusicpromotions]

"We're doing fine over at Patrick Ames St., where our feet always know the song that's playing."

Composer and writer Patrick Ames continues to evolve his lyrically potent signature cocktail of junkyard blues on the new LP, "The Virtualistics." due for release June 16th. The album contains 8 songs written during the pandemic by the Napa Valley-based artist, each one hopeful and resilient in its own distinct way. The album title was inspired by the nature of the recording style; although Patrick Ames writes the music and lyrics, much of his collaborations with producer Jon Ireson and backup singers Chana Matthews and Mikaela Matthews, have been virtual. From the pandemic-inspired post-punk of "Second Wave" and "Essential Workers" to the funked up gospel rock of "Help People Up" and "Reawakened 2020" to the spacious, philosophical "Great Bunch of Molecules" and the bluesy, fun energy of "Rubber and Glue", "Songwriter's Block" and "You Make Me Scream", Patrick Ames and The Virtualistics display a tenacious spirit throughout. About "The Virtualistics": The Virtualistics. The band that never met. Remote collaboration is common but we never met during a difficult pandemic year. The four of us never practiced together. We didn't sing together nor did we pre-plan the final sound. We were virtual entities, duly recording our tracks on various home devices and sending them in for assembly. Those famous photographs of The Virtualistics, studious musicians playing on stage, hard working in the studio, those tired looks of a fifth take, none of that happened. We never sang or played together. Amazingly, it sounds like we were together, unvirutally, I guess is the word. It sounds like a 9-piece band that is funkin' up the place even though we were half-depressed and struggled with work, virus, and bad politics. Half of the songs were released as singles mostly because I didn't want to be depressed and fed upon that new release excitement every few months. It's been a year of virtual studio sessions that require large leaps of faith when you're contributing to a song that isn't finished yet and sounded like a sketch. It's like that group game where everyone adds one line to the preexisting story going around in a circle and by the time everyone speaks the story is unbelieveably creative and interesting. Start with a few lyrics, add a riff or two, start weaving in counter melodies, add some phat beats – each song went around the Virtualistics circle a few times. All these songs were recorded during the pandemic by The Virtualistics. - Patrick Ames Jon Ireson, Producer, says: Patrick Ames and the Virtualistics I mixed Patrick's last album (Liveness) at the beginning of 2020 and by May he had more new material ready to be molded. Although the lyrical themes all come from Patrick, it definitely helps that we are on the same page politically/philosophically. As the tumultuous events of 2020 unfolded, the songs he was sending me about racial and social justice, trust in science, and the hard work of affecting positive transformation in the public square were echoing my own thoughts in real time. When the world goes haywire, music is there to make sense of it. Album opener and lead single "Help People Up" will have an official music video release on June 16. The video was created by Blue Cafe Music. Watch "Help People Up" on Youtube. Stream "The Virtualistics": Order on Bandcamp: https://patrickames.bandcamp.com

[whatanoof]

Of Angels and Promises

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Boba Fett x Reader

Word Count: ~12.2k

Warnings: fluff, smut, violence, swearing, sexual tension, rough sex, daddy boba is a warning all on his own, implied throne fucking

Summary: Promises are bad. They imply attachment and accountability, both  very hard to come by in the maker-forsaken deserts of Tatooine. Falling in love inspires promises that one isn’t able to keep, and you let your guard down with him.

You saw the ship. It soared through the sky, slicing through the air like an arrow. It was the same one that he had drawn for you on the rough sketching paper in your mechanic’s workshop, and it was even more beautiful in person. It was a cloudless day, and the green paint contrasted the sky perfectly. You could track every movement across the blue expanse and expected to watch the ship set down directly by your hut. But it didn’t. It continued, stretching farther away in the direction of the palace with every passing second that you stood, frozen in space and time. 

So you do what every other abandoned lover would. You ignore it and tell yourself that you were mistaken. It’s easy to pretend you’d imagined it. Because if Boba ever came back, he would come back to you, right?

A gentle knock on the doorframe rouses you from the depths of overthinking, and you accidentally slam your head on the shelf in surprise. “Shit! Motherkriffing, dank fucking farri-”

Your first name echoes through the building and cuts through your vicious curses like a bell, and you stop in shock. No one out here calls anyone by name. Your hand drops to your workbench and grasps a heavy wrench. You slowly approach the door and slide to one side of the frame to prepare an ambush. The voice calls your name again, and this time you register that it’s female, low-pitched and soothing. An arm appears through the doorway, and you swing the wrench with all of your might.

You expect at the very least to graze the limb appearing through the doorway of your workshop, but you’re sorely disappointed when you miss entirely. You stumble forward, off-balance from the misplaced strike. A hand seizes your wrist, torquing it violently to one side and forcing you to drop the makeshift weapon. Before you can blink, you’re pinned against the wall with your arm twisted behind your back.

“Let me go!” You struggle against the grip, but it’s too strong, and you grunt at the strain in your joints. “Please, I have water, maybe a handful of credits in the house.”

She doesn’t release you and your name is muttered sharply again. “Is that you?”

“You found me. If you’re going to kill me,” You turn your head enough to spit on the ground, “Tell Bib that I’ll come back to haunt him and shove it where the suns don’t shine.”

“I don’t come on Fortuna’s orders.” She spits the Twi'lek name like a curse. Now you’ve pissed her off. If you weren’t going to die before, you would now. “I come on Boba Fett’s.”

You stop struggling immediately, “What?”

“Boba Fett sent me to bring you to him.” You inhale sharply at the confirmation. 

Betrayal flashes through you like lightning. “Let me go.” The words are an angry hiss, reminiscent of a desert serpent ready to spit venom.

She does so and you turn, rubbing your shoulder. The woman is deceptively small, with dark hair in a long braid down her back. A form fitting leather tunic and coat accents her slim waist and fit body.  She’s wearing a helmet, though you can see dark eyes through the visor, and a long rifle rides on her back.

“Who are you? Are you a bounty hunter?” 

“I am.” You wait for her to reach for her rifle, “But that is not why I am here.” She disengages her helmet lock and pulls it off. She’s too pretty to be a hunter. You wish that wasn’t your first thought, because now you can’t help but stare. You’re vaguely aware that you probably look stupid, but you’re too busy gaping at her smooth skin and fine features. The only indicator of her profession is the stern set of her mouth and perfectly shaped eyebrows, okay you need to stop.

Because you weren’t mistaken earlier. Boba is back on Tatooine, and you’re not sure how to handle that after so much time.

---

“Come on, don’t do this to me right now. No, no no no no n--” A puff of smoke drifts from the comm unit, and you drop the screwdriver with a defeated sigh. Kriffing hell. Weeks of searching for the right parts, the blazing hope within you that you might be able to finally get off this ball of sand when you saw the Imperial signal boosting unit, all ending in a smoking and sparking mess in your hands. Anger flashes hot through your veins, and your hand flies up and whacks the communicator hard, hard enough that the stinging impact chases away the anger momentarily. Then the fury returns, doubling in intensity, and the sheer injustice almost makes your vision white out. 

The distant grinding of the sandcrawler shakes you out of your fervor, and you haul yourself to your feet with a sigh. Trading days always... intensify you. But you can’t afford to get hung up on one comm unit. It has been years of fried comm units. Even if you managed to patch together a working one on your limited knowledge, who would you call? A single name flits across your mind, but you veto it instantly. Even if he was in range, he wouldn’t come to get you.

So, back to the original plan. The long plan, the one that has stranded you on this planet for solar cycles. You busy yourself with the various scavenged parts that you’d collected over the past month, polishing and dusting the pieces until they glint like gems in the late afternoon suns. Every small scratch garners another twelve minutes of debate over whether the rebuilt astromech viewport would be worth the trade for the polished transparisteel, or the additional inhibitor units.

The first thing that’s off is the Jawas themselves. They seem… tense. No, that’s underselling it. They’re always high strung, running around and worrying about different bargains and barters. But today, they’re absolutely freaked out. Dual sun-stroked. High on their anxiety. Which is good for you; they’ll be distracted and maybe they won’t try to barter for your spare vapor consolidator again this time.

So you naturally pay it no mind while setting up your line of wares. You had a good haul this week, enough to make the water taxes this month.

The Jawas crowd out of the sandcrawler deck, and you greet them as you recognize them. A flurry of Jawaese flies around your head as they run about, laying out the wares for you to examine.  One scurries to your offerings this week: random parts and a series of old mouse droids that you had reprogrammed. They examine the small droids while speaking to each other too quickly for you to follow. Finally, they come back with two of the small droids, nodding to each other as they present the desired pieces to you.

“Got any working EC processors lying around in there to trade?”

They look at each other, and one says a single phrase that you translate roughly to, ‘Bring him out.’

“Bring what out?” But you’re too late and the Jawas are already inside, hauling a mass covered in sackcloth down the ramp. “Is that a patch-in droid? Where the hell did you scavenge a whole one fr…”

The second thing that’s off is the human body. They rip the sackcloth off of the form, and you trail off. “What in the kriffing hell is that?” After further examination you confirm that it is probably a he. His eyes are closed, and he’s lying in the sun too limply to be healthy. There are bruises and cuts on the skin that you can see, but he’s draped in dark clothing that has to be sweltering hot in the Tatooine suns. A Tusken gaffi stick lies pinned underneath his body. 

The Jawas erupt in a storm of chattering, waving their arms around their heads as you try to keep up your limited Jawaese. You crouch by the man. He’s breathing shallowly, and you don’t see any visible injuries, but dammit, you don’t know much about first aid. “Slow down, please!”

They don’t slow down, and you’re left scrambling trying to remember the difference between preterite verb forms while continuing to try to check on the man’s health. “He broke into the sandcrawler, killed your warriors, and took a nap?”

More unpleased Jawaese flies around your head, “He broke in, killed your warriors, and didn’t try to escape, just sat down and tried to interrogate you. And then you knocked him out and broke his legs.” The Jawas cheer gleefully in affirmation, and you sigh. A second glance at the man reveals the sunken skin around his eyes and the unnaturally pale color of his skin. There are white scars over his face that look like acid burns. “Maker, how long has he been in there?” The Jawas keep talking, but you’re not paying attention. He won’t last another day without attention, and that is coming from an inexperienced mechanic. You may not know medicine, but you can’t leave him in good conscience.

“I’ll take him off of your hands. Keep the mouse droids.” 

It’s a kriffing miracle that you manage to get him back inside your hut and onto the cot without pulling a muscle. You don’t even know if he’s going to wake up. He just lies there, and the weight of the situation slams down on you in a single crushing moment. “What the hell did I just do?” You rake your fingers through your hair, “Take in a dying stranger, why don’t you? Sign away half of your supplies, half of your food, half of your water, half of the credits meant to get you out of this damned place? Dumbass.”

He groans, and you start. He’s awake. With a heavy sigh, you face the newest burden in your life. “Here, drink some water.” You grab the half-empty jug from the table and kneel beside the cot. “You’re lucky that the Jawas decided to meet me today. If they had gone to Tokonu’s farm, you might not have lived through the next few hours.” You reach to prop his head up.

In retrospect, you shouldn’t have tried to touch him. There’s an explosion of movement, and you suddenly find yourself pinned to the ground, arms locked painfully behind your back. Maker, he’s half-dead, and you barely saw him move. “Where am I?” The growl is so deep that you can feel it in your toes, though the roughness of his voice suggests that it hasn’t been used in a while.

You look over your shoulder, and you see dark eyes piercing into you. A shudder runs the length of your spine at the predatory gaze, and you’re feeling less like an unlikely caretaker and more like trapped prey. This is a dangerous man, no matter the state of his health. Then he curses and the weight on your back lifts as he falls to the side and you remember the broken legs.

You shakily roll to the side and sit up, studying the man next to you on the floor, who’s clutching his legs and muttering rude phrases about Jawas and thieves that you’d rather not repeat. He’s older, with creased skin and a dark scowl contorting his features. Scars run the length of his face, adding to the aged appearance. His dark clothing masks most of his body, though you’re sure that the rest of his skin bears similar scars to the ones slicing through his features. 

“You done staring?” The rasping voice makes you jump and look away hurriedly, cheeks flaming red in embarrassment. 

You stand. You have to find a way to splint his legs. “I don’t see many other Terrans out here.” He grunts, and you hurry to your workshop. You need wood, or metal, or something straight. Fuck you’ve never set a broken bone before, but you grab the bacta from the back cabinet. Your gaze lands on the ladder in the corner of the room.

“Hey.” His head lifts when you re-enter the room, lugging the ladder through the door frame. You dump it on the floor in front of him, and he looks up at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Angel, I’m not going to be climbing anywhere anytime soon.”

You ignore the endearment and the sass, “I’ve never set a broken leg before. I need your help if you ever want to walk normally again.”

“You’re going to set my legs?” He asks.

“I’m assuming that you know how to.”

He doesn't confirm your theory, instead tilting his head and looking at you more seriously, “Big assumptions.”

“If you know how to break an arm, you know how to set one.” 

He just leans back and laughs, “You have a tongue on you.” You won’t dignify that with an answer, and his smile only grows. “Break the ladder. I need two straight planks.”

---

The massive palace is dank and cold, the polar opposite of the planet outside. It’s a new world compared to the heatwaves and sand dunes. The silence amplifies your quiet footsteps as Fennec leads you through the hallways. Speaking of which, she is absolutely silent. Her footsteps are nonexistent even on the cold metal floor. She put her helmet back on when you entered the palace, so you can’t even hear her breathing. The only sounds are the ones made by you, and the walls seem to amplify them to the point where you’re sure that wherever you’re going, you will be expected.

You can’t help but feel like you’re walking to an execution, though you haven’t decided if it’s your own yet. It could be. You don’t know if he’s changed. It’s been years. You’ve changed, that’s for sure. Actually, scratch that. You know that he’s changed, because he didn’t come straight to you.

You frown. There’s a piece of the puzzle missing, though you can’t place your finger directly on it just yet. After years of being tied to no one, of being perfectly free and independent, why would he come back to Tatooine?  What is tethering him to this desert of a planet besides his own suffering? 

Out of nowhere, a staircase yawns in front of you, and you hesitate slightly before following after Fennec. The arched ceiling opens into a large room that prominently displays a raised dais, though it all falls away when you see who is seated on the throne. 

It’s been a long time since you’d seen him, and you’d never seen his armor in color, only a sketch. The smooth green and red accents are color combinations that are in short supply on Tatooine, he cuts a menacing figure against the dark throne. He’s splayed out on a throne built for a Hutt thrice his size, legs spread and arms resting on the sides. It might be intimidating if it were a stranger, but you keep telling yourself that he’s not a stranger. It’s easy to imagine that he is, due to the blatant showmanship and armor. It’s been so long since you’ve seen him, but this suit of armor isn’t the Boba that you knew.

---

“What’s that?” You’re sitting at the workbench while he’s in a kitchen chair that was dragged into the workshop so that he could have a place to rest. He’s recently become mobile, though he’s only allowed to move under your sharp eye, making sure that he doesn’t try anything stupid that will leave him bedridden for another month. That would be another seven weeks of extreme food rationing and existing on supplies only meant for one. That being said, he mentioned that he was willing to lend an extra pair of hands in your workshop, and you’re not one to deny free help, so long as he promised to not push himself too hard. Your measurement tools were left on the table, and to your surprise, he picked up the stubby pencil and began sketching with it. The rough parchment now shows evidence of a human-like figure.

“My armor.” 

“What color is it?”

“Green.” Another purposeful sketch on the paper and there’s a prominent blemish in the helmet. “And red.” Stars, it’s like pulling teeth.

“Did you lose it?” Maybe you’re intruding, but you’ve been taking care of him for the past month, so you’ll excuse yourself from this one.

“Yes. These--” He waves a hand around his face, indicating the pale scars, “--are from a Sarlaac. When I fell in, I lost consciousness. Woke up without the armor. I need to find it.”

The Sarlaac pit is an execution site for those who oppose the Tatooine crime syndicate. You’ve never heard of anyone surviving either the wrath of the Hutts or the Sarlaac. “It’s important to you.” “The armor belonged to my father.” It’s hard to imagine the toughened man in front of you ever being dependent upon someone else. Though, you suppose that everyone comes from somewhere. You wonder not for the first time where this man came from. “It’s part of who I am.”

---

“Boba?” The name is a quiet whisper that echoes emptily through the chamber.

He says your name in return, but his deep baritone makes it sound so much more full than his did floating in the air. “Just as beautiful as the last time I saw you.”

“Can’t say that I can make the same observation.” You shift nervously. It’s too empty and cold in here, the absolute antithesis of the world you made your own. You can feel the dampness leeching the energy from the air. 

“That’s fair.” There’s a beat of silence.

“How have you been?” It’s a passive question, nothing more than something to say to break the silence.

“Good. And you?” The conversation is stunted and awkward, though it only used to be stunted. Now, you’re looking at this man and you don’t know him anymore. Even before, he was your friend above all else. Now you’re stuck making basic observations about him.

“You got your armor back.”

The helmet inclines once, barely an acknowledgement of a statement that you feel should receive so much more. “Found it through a friend.”

“Some friend. Am I going to get that story?”

“Later.” It’s infuriating, the distinct lack of personalization. For solar cycles, you had Boba. Then, nothing. Now you have Boba Fett, the bounty hunter.

---

“What’s your name?” You can’t believe it’s taken you this long to ask, though in all fairness, there’s not much need for names when there are only two people around for leagues. You simply speak, and he assumes you’re talking to him. He rarely speaks, so when he does, he’s always talking to you.

He doesn’t answer at first, only continuing to hold the sheet of metal in place so that you can continue welding it shut over the gap in the droid’s body. You don’t mind. If he wants to answer, he’ll answer. Though it would be nice to have a name to place to the stoic face. It would also be nice to have a name to whisper when you touch yourself at night. 

You hadn’t meant for it to end up like this, but you can’t help but admit that you had been setting yourself up to fail. Living with a man, especially one so tall, strong, so… kriffing dominant in how he carries himself? You’re just surprised that it took the dreams half a solar cycle to start up. But now you can’t stop thinking about how it would feel for him to back you up against a wall and pin you to the rough stone with just one of those wonderfully strong hands. 

“Watch it angel--”

You snap back to the present just in time to see your torch drifting dangerously close to your hand. You yank it away, but the damage is done and your glove is burning. He curses, bare hands immediately flying to the thick cloth and yanking your arm forward. A few rough pats later, and your glove is smoldering. Shit. That had been your last good pair. You sigh, pulling the glove off and getting up to find another. You snag a mismatched glove from the bottom compartment of your storage unit and settle back down to finish the job.

You’re two inches into the welding line when he speaks. “If I had known you’d be so distracted by silence I would have spoken.” The tone is dry and sardonic, and your gaze darts up to meet his deadpan one before flicking back down to your work in time to keep the welder from drifting again.

“No you wouldn’t have.” It’s the truth, based on how he doesn’t seem to have a snappy answer.

Finally, he sighs,  “My name is tied to my past. I’ve done some bad things.” This time, you know better than to look away from your work. 

You raise an eyebrow at the sheet metal, “I know.” You finish and click off your torch, settling it carefully down on the work station beside you. “No one ends up in a Sarlaac pit by following the law.” Air puffs out of him a little more forcefully than normal, and you squint. Was that a laugh?

“I wasn’t the one getting executed.”

“Didn’t take you for a clumsy person.” He doesn’t dignify the jab with a response, and you suppose that you deserve that. You examine the weld before pulling the torch back out. It’s a little sloppy. “Do you regret those things?”

“No. The sum of a person’s lifetime is found in his actions. Regrets or none, they are who I am.” That… is shockingly poetic considering that you’d only asked for a name. 

“You’ve killed people.” It’s not a question, there is no doubt in your mind of the answer, but you want to hear it from him.

“Yes.” A beat of silence. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“Depends.” You inhale slowly, trying to figure out how to phrase this, “I… understand that you don’t have an easy past.” He snorts at that, and you glower at him before continuing. “Tatooine doesn’t need more war.”

“You’re scared.” It’s a pointed statement, blunt and uncaring about the blatant assumption.

“No.” No, a million times no. You had not cowered in fear during the Clone Wars, you had picked yourself up and survived. But ever since Bib Fortuna took over the syndicate, violence had been minimal. You do not need more. “As long as you live here, I do not want you to be the one who brings it back.” You’re on shaky ground here, considering that you really don’t have much control over him or his choices. But this is the only request you have made of him so far.

He grunts in response, a thoughtful silence settling over the workshop. “You really care for this planet?”

“No. I fucking hate deserts. I’m blowing this joint as soon as I can.” You yank the glove off with more force than perhaps you needed. Whatever, it got the job done. You squint down at your calloused hands, “I just don’t want to be the reason that more innocent people get hurt around here. Bib does enough on his own.”

Bib Fortuna. The Twi-lek that currently commands the most powerful force planet-side on Tatooine: the crime syndicate that was left leaderless after Jabba the Hutt died in mysterious circumstances involving a Jedi and a Sarlaac execution. Wait a minute...

 “No violence?”

You shake your head, chasing away the puzzle pieces that just began to slot together. “Only self-defense.” You’re not unreasonable, Tatooine may be more peaceful than during the war, but lowlifes still exist. “And if you get a chance to get off-world, take me with you.”

“Steep price.”

You raise an eyebrow, “I saved your life. You may as well return the favor.”

“Fair enough. You have my word as a…” He slaps a hand over his chest, but trails off before finishing the sentence, as if only realizing then that his armor is not there. He amends, “You have my word as a man.”

An awkward silence settles over the shop again, though there is no logical reason why it should be awkward, giving you the moment to remember the seed of the conversation. “A man with a name?” It’s a fumbling and clumsy attempt to turn the conversation back towards your objective, and you can tell that he picked up on it. 

He looks at you with amusement, “Persistent.” There’s a half-beat of silence as he considers you. “You may recognize my name.”

“I live in the middle of nowhere.” You counter. “Who would I tell?”

“That’s not why I don’t want to tell you.” 

Oh. You can’t really think of a response to that, so you stand and begin cleaning your station. Rusty bits of scrap go into that bin, useful parts go into that one over there so you can tinker late at night when you can’t sleep. 

“I don’t know your name either.”

You turn a prop a hand on your hip, dramatically lowering your voice, “My name is tied to my past. I’ve done some bad things.” There! Another huff of breath, and a halfway crooked smirk from the usually grim-faced and unreadable man. You smile back, “Trade?”

He considers it briefly, “First names only.”

You grin. That’ll do nicely. “Deal.”

“Boba.”

You introduce yourself, “Nice to meet you, Boba.”

---

“Why are you back?”

“Are you not happy to see me?” He sounds amused.

“I am.” You shift back and forth on your feet. “Why am I here? Why are you here?”

“Because I wanted to see you. To know that you’re alive and healthy.” He’s avoiding answering. 

“That’s only half of my question.” Your voice becomes small, “Why didn’t you come home?”

“If I had come to the farm, Bib would have sent hunters out again. You know how that ended last time. You have to cut the krayt’s head off, or it will just keep coming.” You don’t miss how he’s avoiding calling the farm his home. 

“You don’t have to pretend, Boba. You have your armor and your ship, you don’t need me anymore. If you came back to take over the syndicate, I won’t be angry.” Even if it means that he’s throwing you away and not looking back. Your heart would heal.

“I--” He hesitates to finish the sentence, and your stomach drops as you expect him to confirm your suspicions. “I didn’t only come back for the throne. I still wanted to see you.”

 “If that were true, you would have come yourself.”

“Ang--”

“Stop making excuses.” Your gaze narrows onto the visor blade, meeting his cloaked eyes, “If you really wanted to see me, you would have come to the farm, not sent your lackey.  You have your armor and your ship. Why are you back?”

---

It’s all he talks about anymore. And it’s not like he talked that much before, so now ninety-nine percent of the conversations that you have with him are about the nearest pawn stalls, or the Jawa trading route, or the ship scrap yards scattered around the planet. He’s been moving about independently for the past two months, each day venturing out further into the sand hills in search of his armor. 

The jug of water is disgustingly lukewarm, but refreshing all the same. You swipe a hand over your forehead as you pace around, propping open all of the windows and shoving the door open. You don’t want to work anymore, it’s too hot for this shit. Late afternoon is the worst, hanging the promise of sunset overhead while continually beating the world into submission with the heat that makes it feel like you’re dragging fire into your lungs. With nothing better to do, you slowly sweep the floor of the house, brushing sand outside just as it continues to blow inward.

The moisture vaporator is functioning passably, your supplies were restocked two days ago, and you made decent headway in your workshop. Nothing is urgent enough to spur you into action. All there is to do is wait for Boba to come home. That’s the brightest point of your day; seeing his figure appear in the shimmering heat waves as he treks through the sand towards you.

He still doesn’t talk much. Neither do you, but there is a comfortable sense of companionship every night when you set the meal down and eat together. If conversation is needed, then it’s needed. But until then, you’re content to sit with him. He’s my friend. The stark realization nearly makes you stop in your tracks. You’re friends with the gruff man who you took in with two broken legs and who leaves you alone for the better part of the day. The man who you imagine on the rough nights when you long for a body beside you.

Finally, finally it’s sunset. You climb to the top of a nearby dune. He’s there in the distance, he always is. You watch the suns sink beneath the horizon and turn to head inside. 

You don’t hear him come in, though to be fair, you never do. You expect him to sit at the table. Instead he appears at your elbow, silent as a wraith but as large and solid as any human. You nearly jump out of your skin, “Stars, Boba, you kriffing scared m--” You turn, but are stopped short because he’s right there, crowding you against the counter and there’s something feral in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

He’s breathing heavily through his nose, face hovering an inch away from yours and gaze fixed on your lips. Your eyes are glued to his almost black ones. His flick up to meet yours. You can smell him, something spicy and musky that’s drawing you in. Stars, you want to fuck him. 

Your eyes flicker down to his lips and the tension shatters. He shoves past you, planting his hands on the counter. He hasn’t changed out of his gear, and the gaffi stick sways threateningly on his back. The tip is darkened and shines in the dim light of the lantern. 

Dread pokes your heart. “Boba, are you hurt?” You try to look over the rest of his body for hints of injury, but his baggy clothing masks his body. He seems to be moving fine.

There’s a strained silence before he rips himself away from the counter and stalks away with a terse, “I need to change.” He halfway out of the door when he stops, and you watch him carefully as his head turns back halfway. “Meet me in the bedroom.” The ‘fresher door bangs in the distance, and you nearly collapse against the counter. 

You’re not sure how you make it to the room. You’re a trembling ball of nerves, anxious and fidgeting as you stare at the corner of the room. He killed someone. Someone is dead, because of him, and he doesn’t seem to be torn up about it. Only… tense. Like he’s more concerned about the consequences on you than him. You remember his promise.

He’s standing there now, dressed in clean clothes and looking at you like you’re the most complex problem in the room. He seems calmer, though he’s in this mode that you can’t describe with a single word, though you had witnessed it before when you first brought him into your home. There’s a feral intensity about him, almost primal. You don’t know what to say, so you keep your mouth shut.

Finally, he speaks, “I would never hurt you, angel.”

You nod. There’s a shared understanding of this, though it had never been verbalized. He has your back, and you have his. A mutual survival and benefit exists between you two. 

“Will you come here?” There’s an underlying question to read in the rasped question. Will you go to him? There’s also a warning. He’s not a safe man, but you’re willing to ignore your fears about that if it means you'll have him. You stand and walk towards him purposefully, each step sealing your choice. You stand in front of him, barely allowing yourself to breath as he scrutinizes you. A hand comes up and tilts your chin upwards carefully.

And then he’s kissing you, more like absolutely devouring you with how far his tongue is down your throat. It’s sensory overload, because all at once he’s so close and so there right in front of you, pressing against your front so closely that you can feel him hardening against your thigh. His hand comes up to tangle in your hair, and you gasp as he yanks your head back. 

“I don’t know if I can be gentle, angel.” His pupils are blown, dark eyes even blacker with desire and boring into yours. You can see the restrained lust in his eyes, and you shiver at the silent promise in them.

You grin, only barely aware that it’s slightly feral, “No one asked you to be.”

His own responding smile is nothing short of primal. “Maker, you’re fucking perfect.” His hand roughly smooths over your hair, and you melt into his touch. “Now strip.”

You can’t yank your shirt off quickly enough, but he stops you as soon as the offending fabric flutters to the ground. A hand traces over your collarbone, the rough calluses scraping over the crisp outline of the ink. “What’s this?”

You hesitate before answering, “It’s, uh, it’s artistic.” He makes his skeptical face at you, and you step in closer to him, pressing your body against his more clothed one, “I saw the design in a shop and liked it.”

The distraction seems to work, because he crushes his mouth to yours again, his hands removing the rest of your clothes so that you stand completely bare before his piercing gaze. You fight the urge to cover yourself. He has this way of making you feel like an open book even when you’re clothed, and now you feel that he can look into your soul without any other barriers.

“Beautiful.” The compliment is growled into the tension filled air. Blood rushes to your face, and you duck your head shyly. A hand tilts your chin back upwards to meet his eyes, “Get on the bed.”

He pushes you backwards gently so that you land on the mattress, bouncing slightly as you watch him remove his coverings. With every delicious inch of skin revealed, you feel another shot of heat between your legs. You hadn’t seen much of his body since that first day, and it’s like watching a gift unwrapped in front of you. When he pulls the last of it off, your eyes unavoidably drift between his legs, and your heart stutters at the sight. Stars he’s thicker than you’d expected. 

You don’t get anymore time to overthink because then Boba is caging you to the mattress with his body. Your breasts heave, nipples brushing against his chest with every inhale. One thick finger slides through your folds, and you almost cry at the contact. Maker, you’ve wanted this for so long. He pushes into your heat and you swear your body seizes at the sensation. 

Boba grunts, “Angel, you’re so tight.” His hips jerk seemingly of their own volition against your leg, his erection sliding over your skin. “Want to be inside of you. But--” He adds another finger, scissoring his fingers to stretch you out more, “--I think I’d break you.” 

The heel of his hand grinds into your clit, “Boba. Please, fuck. Told you not--” He curls his fingers against your g-spot and you gasp, “--not to be gentle.”

He pulls his fingers out with a growl and flips you around to your hands and knees. You shiver in anticipation as you glance over your shoulder while he aligns his hips to yours. He barely gives you any time to prep before he sinks into your heat. 

Oh shit.

He is so much thicker than you expected. The stretch burns so good, and-- you spare another glance over your shoulder as it just keeps coming. Your arms give and you collapse to your elbows with a whine. Your teeth clench as you focus on taking him, and your hand slaps the mattress as you tense. He stops behind you, “Angel, you need to relax.”

You exhale shakily. Fuck, you can’t relax, it’s too much. He’s going to split you in two. You’d told him to be rough, but you hadn’t been prepared for this. So you crouch on the bed, trying to breathe enough to allow yourself to form words. 

“I can stop.” His cock inches marginally out of you, and you panic. 

“No! Fu-- keep--keep going. I can do it.” He’s holding himself back. You can tell in the tiny quiver of his hips as he inches further into you. All you can focus on is the feeling of him rubbing against the inside of your cunt. His fingers rub your clit, and a garbled moan escapes your throat as your hips press backwards into him. The pain mixes with pleasure, a bone-deep one that you feel through your entire body as it arches against the bedsheets.

When his hips finally fit to yours, you let out a breathy moan. But he doesn’t continue. He just rests there, which is ridiculous considering how every nerve ending in that region of your body is firing with pleasure and how is he staying so still when this feels like fucking paradise? You might go insane just lying here with him bottomed out so deep inside of you that you can feel it in the back of your throat. His hand leaves your clit to grasp your waist. He eases out of you, the satisfying fullness retreating until the head of his cock hovers at your entrance, just barely inside of you. He’s teetering on a cliff, all of that potential energy built up behind his body as he hovers there, waiting for something. He’s trembling, Boba is trembling as he waits for something that he never asked you for. There’s molten lust creeping through your veins, you need him to move, to fuck you nine ways to next week. “Move. Please. Need--need it.”

He rolls his hips forward and you swear the world implodes behind your eyelids. He doesn’t stop this time, just yanks you closer on the bed and fucking wrecks you. The pace is unforgiving and rough, and the obscene slapping sound of skin on skin echoes through the small home, making you ever more grateful that there are no neighbors for miles.

A whine escapes your throat before you can help it, and you clap a hand over your mouth. He chuckles as he pushes back into your dripping pussy, “Oh, you like that angel?” His hand seizes your hair and drags your back flush against his body, “Ah ah ah. Take it off your mouth.” You do so, your hand trembling, “I want to hear every.” Thrust. “Beautiful.” Thrust. “Noise.” Thrust. You could almost feel him in the back of your throat with that last one, and a strangled cry is ripped from you. “Understand?”

You whimper and nod at the velvety purr against your throat and he hums in satisfaction. “Good.” He shoves you back down onto the sheets, one hand pinning you to the cot by your neck, the other curling around your waist. Without your hand to muffle the noises, your sounds come without you intending; choppy moans that are only broken by the force of his thrusts. He’s anything but quiet himself, a series of soft grunts and curses coming from the general vicinity of his head as he continues to slam into your body.

Your orgasm peaks without warning, ripping through your body before you can think to prepare yourself for it. The climax ripples outwards from your center, white flashes appearing behind your eyelids as you keen high in the back of your throat. Your floor muscles clamp down on Boba, and his rhythm stutters.

“Angel--” With a curse, he rips himself out of you, painting your ass with his release. You’re in a daze of pleasure as you come down from your high, the sheets smooth beneath your cheek and his cum warm on your back. He pulls the sheet, and you whine in protest as he yanks the comfortable bedding from underneath you. He cleans you up with the cloth, tossing it to the side into a random corner of the room.

It’s dark now. The only light in the room comes from the flickering lamp in the corner. Boba pulls blankets over your cock-dumb body, and you snuggle down into your bed, fully expecting him to leave. He doesn’t sleep much, but when he does, he naps on the floor with a blanket or two. You don’t expect him to climb into bed behind you, arms wrapping firmly around your waist and pulling you close to him. You drift before finally surrendering to peaceful sleep.

You wake when he moves behind you. The sunrise glints through the window, spraying warm light around the room. You’d have to get up soon, but not yet. He doesn’t have to go. You turn and look at him.

Your voice is raspy with sleep, but it cuts decidedly through the silence of early morning. “I trust you. You know that, right?” You don’t wait for an answer, because if you don’t say it now, you probably won’t have the courage to do it later, “It’s not hard to earn my trust. It’s hard to keep it, and even harder to regain it.” He’s quiet, and you can feel his deep, even breaths against your front and how his arms tighten fractionally around your waist.

He rolls over, and you feel the mattress dip as he stands. “I need to cover another sector by tonight.”

You turn on your side so that you can’t see the door. Best not to get attached anyway.

---

“Should I be calling you a title or something?” You’re hesitant to refer to him as anything in your mind. He’s just Boba. Not your boyfriend, or your lover, because you only name things you expect to endure. If you find a super cute loth cat, but you can’t keep it, you don’t name it, that's just a rule of life. Don’t label it if you don’t want to keep it. Don’t get attached to something that will not stay. “Lord Boba? King Boba? Master?”

He snorts, “Not necessary, Angel. Though I wouldn’t mind that last one.” You blink at the old nickname, the familiarity of the endearment stirring up emotions that you’d thought had long since been buried. “I’m still me.”

“Are you?” The question slips out before you can think to restrain yourself, the tone more accusatory than you expected. 

“Do you want me to be?”

Now you’re the one caught off guard. You had thought about it, in the empty silence while he was gone, when the bed was too cold and empty after so much time adjusting to his weight on the other side of the mattress. No decision had been made. But once, in the darkest hours of the morning, right after you’d made yourself cum on your own fingers that couldn’t hope to measure up to him, you’d wished. You had wished that you had labelled it when you had the chance. Because maybe you had wanted the relationship to stay. 

---

“Why do you call me that?” The words are whispered into the darkness of another early morning. He’s curled around you, the heat of his body keeping you warm despite the freezing cold desert night. You need to start thinking about getting up soon. It’s a new day, a fresh start, a time to restart. Chores are waiting, like they always are. But you can’t seem to bring yourself to want to move when he’s at your back.

He shifts, breathing in the scent of your hair, “Call you what?” His arms tighten around your midsection and you wiggle slightly in his grip, your hips pressing back against his half-hard length. “Ohhhh, angel you’re going to start something that you won’t be able to finish.” 

You turn so that you’re facing him in the darkness, his features just a ghost of an outline against the early dawn rays glowing faintly through the doorway. “That. Angel. Why do you call me that?” He grinds against you, and you stifle a whimper at his heavy erection against your thigh. “Stop distracting me.” 

He sighs heavily, but he does stop and allow you to regain your focus,  “I call you angel because of that first day. Do you remember?”

You roll your hips against his, “Hard to forget.”

“Yes.” His teeth sink into the bare flesh of your shoulder, licking and sucking until you’re sure that there’s a mark. “I was in that sandcrawler for days, it’s a haze in my memory. Just blinking in and out, hoping that the sound would stop, that the world would stop moving, that those damn creatures would stop jeering at me for just a few minutes.” Your hand slips down and grasps his erection, and he inhales sharply, “And--and then. They’re grabbing me and dragging me out of that hell. And you’re there, standing above me, framed by the suns. And my first thought was that you--” He grunts as he thrusts up into your fist. His cock is leaking profusely over your hand, and you swipe your thumb over his head, “-- you must be an angel. How could you be anything else? You saved my life.”

“Bold of you to think that I’m from heaven.” With a wicked smile, your other hand drops to fondle his balls, massaging the flesh in your hand as you continue to slowly jerk him off. He snarls quietly, hand anchoring in your hair and tugging your head back so that he has access to the bare flesh of your neck and shoulder. 

“Now, you’ve become more of a devil in my bed, my angel of death.” His teeth sink into the juncture of your shoulder, no doubt leaving a mark. You were prepared for the pain, but you weren’t ready for his hand zeroing in on your sensitive clit, rubbing with the exact amount of pressure that could cause you to come in seconds, and you have other plans. 

You roll on top of him, swinging your leg over his hips and positioning his head at your entrance, “So you try to break the arm of every angel you encounter?”

“That was your fault.” You can hear the smirk in his voice as his hands reach to grasp you around the waist. “For pushing me, like you are doing now.” His hips roll up, and your eyes roll back. The day can wait.

---

The surge of emotions only serves to make you more frustrated, and that’s not going to help matters. You may have a long fuse, but once your anger ignites, it burns hot and long. He knows this, and yet he continues to push you. “I came down here because I owe you one, for saving my ass. So you better talk if you’re going to keep me here.”

“I saved your beautiful ass twice in return.” He’s amused, and that only serves to make you angrier. “So you owe me two, one for coming and one for staying while I explain.”

Hell no, he doesn’t get out of this by throwing in a shabby compliment, though you furiously fight the rising embarrassment all the same, “No, the first one repaid me for dragging your dying carcass out of the sandcrawler. And the welding incident hardly counts, so you’re on thin fucking ice right now.”

“Angel--”

“No, you are going to stop with this pretentious bullshit and tell me what the fuck you think you’re doing.” Your arms are waving in the air, you’re on the verge of hyperventilating, your voice is rising in pitch and you’re vaguely aware that you shouldn’t be working yourself up like this, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to care, because he’s there. And you’re here, at the foot of the throne.

“Why are you so angry, angel?”

A laugh explodes out of you so forcefully that your throat stings, “Your fucking audacity, is pissing me off. You leave without explaining. You come back, and don’t think to come to find me yourself. You send your incredibly attractive, what are you, his sidekick?” Fennec raises her chin in response, though you don’t know if that’s a confirmation or not. “You drag me down here where I find out that you’ve killed Bib Fortuna and become Tatooine’s newest crime lord. And yet, you still haven’t shown the basic decency of telling me why I’m here. Do you have to kill me because of some new fucked up bounty hunter code? Because you know that I won’t go down easy, whether you have me two to one or not.” You’re scarily aware of Fennec’s gaze boring into the back of your neck.

Silence screams into the empty air as Boba freezes on the throne. “You know.”

“That you’re a bounty hunter? I’m not an idiot. It was smart to not give me your last name that first time I asked. As soon as the hunters told me, I knew. Jango Fett was your father.” The name drops a bombshell in the center of the throne room.

“What do you know of Jango Fett?”

“Not much. Only what Hondo told me.” Hondo Ohnaka. The pirate, the outlaw, the man who had morals enough to take in a starving child rather than leaving her to die.

“Hondo Ohnaka.” He leans forward, clearly interested once he recognizes the name. “But you’re not Weequay.”

“Fortunately, the man cared for children. He wouldn’t abandon one in need. He fed me, essentially raised me.” You’d been caught picking his pocket. Instead of killing you, Hondo took you in. You feel the corner of your mouth quirking up at the memory of the old pirate and the small-time smuggling jobs he’d allowed you to help out on, with your small size and quick fingers. “He’d always remind me that he used to be a feared outlaw throughout the galaxy, and that he wouldn’t be as soft the next day.”

“But he kept you anyway.” 

You shrug, “He lived by a code.”

“The pirate code?” There’s skepticism in his voice, and you don’t blame him.

“Hondo… didn’t exist by societies’ laws. He was honorable, but never good. Told me to be the same.” The advice was the best that you’d ever gotten. It allowed you to move on from guilt, to live isolated from the chaos of the galaxy. It taught you to live on your own and to be independent, to not feel for the suffering of the collective galaxy. But it also commanded you by the morals that saved your life. Don’t steal from the poor, but the rich won’t miss a handful of credits. Don’t hurt a sick child who’s just trying to eat. Don’t kill a helpless enemy, even if he hijacked your ship and crashed it onto a desert planet in the middle of nowhere. Leave him to die in the sand instead. 

“I was stranded on Tatooine a few years ago. I had no money, and no ship. I found the abandoned farm, and put together something so that I could save enough to escape one day.” No communicator either, and you’d only just struck out on your own too. Hondo was lightyears away by the time you’d thought to try to comm him, and none of the technology was current enough to reach that far. You’re pretty sure he wouldn’t have come to pick you up anyway. “Whe--” Your voice breaks, and you curse your emotionally sensitive vocal cords. You clear your throat, “When you left--” “You think that I could have taken you with me.”

“You could have!”

“It was dangerous, angel. I hated that I had to leave the way that I did, but--”

“You smeared bacta on me and disappeared. Was I supposed to feel happy?”

---

The day he left started the same as any other. The moisture filter needed replacing, but you didn’t have the credits yet. So you had a date with an ancient filter and your multitool. You look up, flicking hair out of your face when you hear the footsteps behind you. “Hey.”

He doesn’t answer, as per usual, but he nods and rubs your hair with a gloved hand. “I’m scouting towards the flats today. Only a day trip, I’ll be home before dark.”

“Sounds good. See you.” You turn back to your multitool. You’re too focused on tweaking the settings to allow for a greater flow rate to see him smile, a rare one-sided grin before he turns to leave. His path takes him south, so he doesn’t see the three dark shapes in the heat waves approaching from the north.

The vaporator beeps loudly, protesting the absence of the filter and loudly proclaiming that it needs the filter to harvest water from the atmosphere. You tune out the obnoxious sound. After a ten minute struggle, you snap the filter’s frame out of place, exposing the internal wiring. You’re going to need a smaller drill point to reach the last resistor knob. You walk towards the workshop, wiping the sweat out of your eyes, fiddling with the screen as you do so. You’re too distracted by the tech in your hands to notice the figure slipping around the outside wall of your hut.

You grab the smaller bit and unlatch the last knob, absentmindedly walking outside to get better light into the inner workings. Despite the heat, Tatooine’s afternoons were perfect for mechanics, with the twin suns illuminating all but the tiniest crevices. Unfortunately, with your attention elsewhere, it doesn’t reveal the crime syndicate members waiting outside your door. 

The air rushes out of you as something slams into your midsection, effectively knocking you onto your ass on the sand. The filter flies out of your hands, but you’re focused instead on the helmeted figure standing over you, vibroblade levelled at your throat. “Where is he?”

Your hands are shaking as you raise them in the air, attention fixated on the masked figure. Adrenaline surges through your veins, and you almost don’t notice the second one hanging back near the wall. A third, the only unhelmeted one, stands beyond the first, smiling nastily. The blade grazes your throat, and you whimper at the cool metal against your skin. “I said. Where is he?”

“Who? Maker, please, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Fett! Boba Fett!”

Your stomach drops at the surname. The hunter curses viciously, holstering the weapon and grabbing you by the front of your shirt. You’re yanked to your feet, “Intel said that he’s here, so I’m guessing that you’re his little pretty piece on the side.” An arm presses over your throat, and you gasp as your airway is almost cut off. “Where is he?” The question is purred into your ear silkily. 

He must be insane if he thinks that you’re giving him that information. “I don’t know, he said he’s going towards the Dune Sea today. I swear, he’s gone. Left an hour ago.” You inhale sharply as the blade stops against your jaw.

“You’re pretty.” Your stomach turns at the sneer, and you fight the urge to bite him. Better to bide your time. “But an awful liar.” The angle changes so that the point is pressing into your skin and you cringe in anticipation of the cut.

A sharp command rings through the air and your captor stops. You exhale shakily, but don’t allow yourself to feel any hope. Boba’s gone and will be all day. They’re going to kill you, or use you as leverage when he returns. Or both. You’re not getting out of this alive, but you’re not going to lay down and die. Your eyes fix on the knife in front of you, but you’re visualizing where the hunter’s holster is.

Blaster fire explodes behind you, and you duck as sparks shower down onto you and your captor slumps to the ground. You don’t waste a second, ducking to rifle through the hunter’s pockets, snatching the blaster. Boba is there, features contorted in rage. He’s standing over a body, blaster in one hand and his staff in the other. Your eyes lock, and for a moment, you can almost hear him asking if you’re okay. You nod your head almost imperceptibly, but he gets the message.

A laugh rings through the air, and the moment shatters. There is a single hunter left, the one who was hanging by the hut while the other one threatened you. The cocksure swagger tells that this is the one in charge, the one who gave the command to keep you alive. And yet, the favor doesn’t hold any value to you as the helmet tilts up at Boba, “Boba Fett. You’re a hard man to find.” Boba doesn’t answer, instead jerking his head and you move towards him, “Bib Fortuna wants to talk.”

Now Boba responds, “I don’t.”

“150,000 credits to me says that you will.” Another blaster(fucking blasters) points at you, and you stop in your tracks, fighting to keep your breathing steady. He’s only a few meters away, a dead shot if he decides to let his finger slip.“Because he may want you alive, but not her. And she lied to me. Drop the blasters, or I shoot her now.”

You slowly lay the weapon down, eyes fixed on the barrel. Boba does the same, his hands raising placatingly as the shiny metal plops into the sand, “She’s nothing to me.” 

“You can try to tell Bib Fortuna that, but he’ll believe it even less than I do. I’ll cut you a deal. You come with me, I get my credits, she gets to live.” You focus on Boba’s face, trying to steal some of his stony calm. 

Boba smirks, “You’re even stupider than you look.” Then he’s moving, eating up the meters between them faster than you can blink. The staff arcs up, the wicked point glinting in the sun before smashing into the hunter’s helmet, crushing the metal with stunning ease. Your mouth is still hanging open when white-hot pain flares through your shoulder. Fucking blasters. You drop to the sand, curling in on yourself as your entire body seems to throb in agony. There’s no blood on your hand when you pull it away, but the smell of burnt flesh almost makes you vomit. The suns are too bright and you blink rapidly, trying to get rid of the spots dancing in your vision.

A form crouches over you, blocking out the light. Someone is saying your name repeatedly, slapping your face gently as they support your head and neck, “Wake up, stay with me. Gotta get bacta on that shoulder.”

You blink blearily. The world is swimming before your eyes and nothing is focusing correctly. It’s a struggle to stay awake, never mind focusing on what Boba is saying to you. The sand is so warm. Sleep would be nice. You wouldn’t have to stay awake and focus on the implications of what just went down. You wouldn’t need to feel the hole burned in your shoulder. Fuck, Boba had been shot before? How did he bear it?

He turns away, but he’s instantly back, gloved hands ripping apart your shirt at the shoulder. You mutter, “Leave it. Self cauterizes. Best way to get hurt.” The suns blend into twin slurs of light across the sky. ‘Meteors,’ you think, ‘They look like meteors. Or shooting stars.’ People make wishes on those, right?

Boba snorts, “Bantha shit.” He smears the bacta on the wound, and you shudder as the pain lessens marginally. He starts talking as he works, though it’s a struggle to understand anything when you’re so distracted by the world spinning beneath you. “Angel, I have to leave. They’ll be coming for me. I can’t stay here with you. Do you understand? Tell me you understand.” 

Okay. Okay, you tell yourself it’s okay. You’ve been expecting this day for some time. He’s a dangerous man, it was right to assume that he’s wanted by someone, you just didn’t expect the someone to be the resident crime lord of the planet he is kriffing living on. It’s hard to stay in one place for some time, but he did. For you. And now it’s your turn to let him go, to sacrifice for him because he sacrificed for you. But you can’t seem to bring yourself to say it. You have to settle for a shaky breath and a tiny nod. 

He lifts you and carries you inside, arranging you on the bed. He brushes a strand of hair out of your face, a second of tranquility before he turns and begins gathering supplies. You fight against the encroaching sleep, resolving yourself to watch and savor these last moments. He won’t be coming back, not while Bib Fortuna holds the bounty on him, and Bib has a long memory. 

So you commit every detail of him to memory. His grim and stoic face and the deadpan sarcastic humor that you’ve grown to love. His broad shoulders remind you of the first time you met him. It was absolute hell fitting his massive frame through the small doorway of your home, only for him to flatten you to the ground when you moved wrong. His careful and smooth gait that you observed every time he walked out into the dunes and away from you. His lips, which sometimes wear that devastatingly attractive sideways smirk that promises trouble, but more rarely wear a genuine smile that you’ve only seen once or twice. His powerful legs that pinned you to the mattress more than a few times. And you wish on the twin meteors outside that this wouldn’t be your last memory of him.

You try to summon words to your dry throat, but they come out as a raspy cough on your first attempt. “Boba.” 

He’s by your side instantly, so quickly that you would do a double take if you had any strength to do so. “Here.” He offers the water jug to you and you sip, remembering the first day that you met him.

But there’s no time to reminisce, “I know that you have to go. I know that I probably won’t se--” Your voice breaks, but there’s no need to finish the sentence. “But I’ll be here. If you ever come back.”

---

“You broke your promise that last day.” 

“It was self-defense.” A huff of air echoes through the modulator, and he sits back on the throne, “Angel, everytime I kill, I kill for a reason. It’s not senseless.” No, that’s not what you’re talking about.

“You broke your promise when you left Tatooine without me.” You took a chance on him. You trusted him to hold to his word. And he’d betrayed that trust.

“I was trying to protect you. You couldn’t come with me, it would have been too dangerous. You have an entire life ahead of you. Coming with me off-world would have thrown it all away.”

You laugh scornfully, “So what, you just made that promise without ever intending to keep it? Is that all your word as a man is worth?”

“I made the promise intending to keep it.” His voice is stiff, mirroring his posture as he regards you with all of the bearing of a king lording over his subject. You hate it. “But my loyalties changed, angel.” You open your mouth to continue, but he cuts you off, “I couldn’t bring you into my life within good conscience. I promised to save you in any opportunity promised. My way of saving you was leaving you here.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“Angel, if you had come with me, I would have been violating both aspects of the promise. You would have seen killing, pointless and meaningless death. And it would have destroyed you, whatever good hope for the universe you had left.”

You scoff, “I am not a good person. I have flaws, Boba, you just refuse to see them.” You tear your collar open, revealing the tattoo inked into your skin. You’d told him that it was artistic, and it was the most beautiful reminder of your old life that you had. It’s the mark of a thief on your home planet, curling into your skin and reminding you everyday of what you had run from. “I lied and cheated and stole my way through life. I am not too naive to hear the real reasons for you coming back.” Because that’s why he didn’t tell you. He thought you were too pure to know about his job. He thinks you’re too innocent to know why he’s back. Well, you're done with him handling you with kid gloves.

“If you ever cared about me, you’ll explain why you’re here now. Because I won’t stay.” You stare down the emotionless visor, knowing that you can’t hold your ground. Your anger is still burning white hot, but it’s beginning to subside for lack of fuel. You’re exhausted, and you have no power here. You inhale, ready to continue to ream him out except the breath catches in the back of your throat and comes out a strangled half-sob. You continue to stare at him, but all you can manage is a little, “You promised.”

The suit of armor staring back at you holds the power, and he could kick you out in an instant without a backwards look. What’s a few solar cycles compared to a lifetime of independence? But someone is going to have to give ground here, and you’re almost convinced that it’s going to be you when he speaks. 

“Fennec.” Without a single word, she turns and leaves. You watch her retreating back, not knowing if you should feel relieved or trapped. “Do you want to know why I came back today? Or that day?”

A rebellious tear slips down your cheek, and you scrub it away angrily. “Pick one first.”

He’s silent again for several heart breaking moments, and you’re terrified that you’re going to have to leave, “I didn’t break my promise at first. I didn’t leave Tatooine that day.”

“What?” The tears have stopped, and that’s one little victory you won’t have to fight for here.

“The day that I left.” His hand rubs against the visor of his helmet, and you can almost imagine that he’s rubbing the visor of his helmet, right over the bridge of his nose the same way he always used to when he was stressed. “I went to Bib and bargained. A year of my service to leave you alone. I had no choice, it was the only way I could try to protect you after they came after me.”

Your heart drops and rises in your chest simultaneously, making you feel both like you’re plummeting off of a cliff while bound to a torn parachute. Puzzle pieces click into place too quickly, laying out a picture that’s still unfinished, but one that you understand primitively. The next command from Boba is unexpected, slicing through your problem solving.

“Up.” 

You blink, “Excuse me?”

“Come here.” You stand and walk to him. “Give me your hands.” His grip is gentle, guiding your fingertips under the lip of the green painted beskar. His hands stay on your wrists as you carefully lift the helmet, inch by inch, and it’s a good thing that they did because without his support your hands might have been shaking too hard to get the damn thing off. 

He looks the same as when he left all that time ago. Same strong chin, stern mouth, and scarred skin. But you look at his eyes, and you know that he did change in the time away. There’s a soft look in his eye that you had never seen before. 

“What happened to you?” Your hand grazes over his skin, and he leans into your touch.

“I fell into a Sarlaac pit.” The familiar sardonic smirk appears, but you don’t smile along with him. It vanishes, “I--” He breaks eye contact with you, looking down and licking his lips as if he’s trying to gather the words to explain, “I met a man. And a child.” He looks back up, and you almost melt at the muted shine in his eyes, “They reminded me of what is important. I came back.”

You gently set the helmet on the ground and raise your hands to cup his face. “Boba--”

“I came back that last day because I realized that I loved you. I turned around and came back to tell you, and it’s a good thing I did.” His hands come up to cover yours, and there’s the wicked spark of humor in his eye. “I wanted to stay, angel. I wanted to stay so bad, but you were safer if I didn’t.” Your eyes slip closed as you lean down and graze your forehead against his, the way that he taught you. His hand leaves yours to plant on the back of your neck and holds you there. “We couldn't be together until Bib was dead. I was wrong, to come here first and to send Fennec for you. But I needed time to… prepare.”

He had to prepare for the possibility that the bargain didn’t work, or that you had moved on. He hadn’t needed to worry, because you promised that you’d be here. You slip onto his lap, straddling his thigh without moving your head away from his. “I’m here.” 

“Are you still upset?” A hand comes up and ghosts over your hair. You lean into the touch almost subconsciously. 

“I’m working through it.” You pull back and fix him with a stern gaze. “This isn’t resolved.”

“But?”

“We’ll work through it.” He nods, his mouth hanging slightly open in a look of contemplation.

“I won’t stay.” What? You freeze, dread spiking through your chest. He must feel the tension in your body because he rushes to clarify, “I-- uh I, ah shit that was a bad way to put it.” He pulls away and meets your eyes, “I will leave this. I’ll be Boba. Not Boba Fett. Not king of the crime underworld. I’ll be anything for you. We’ll escape off-world together or some shit. We can go find Hondo, if he’s still alive.”

You snort, “That old man is too tough to die.” You tap his nose with your fingertip, “Like one other that I know.”

He snaps his teeth playfully at your finger, and you squeal happily. “My point is--” He looks up at you with such peace in his eyes that you want to curl up against his chest and never leave, “We can do whatever you want. Just the two of us. But I want to stay with you, this time around. That past life is all done. We’ll find something else to do, besides hunting bounties.”

Your eyes track towards the doorway that Fennec disappeared through, and his gaze follows. “Fennec will be fine. I’ll release her from my service. Hell--” He chuckles dryly, “Maybe I’ll leave the throne to her.”

That’s a terrifying thought that you’re not quite ready to consider just yet. “You’d give this all up for me?”

“Angel, that’s what love is. Sacrifice. I just didn’t learn it soon enough.”

You kiss him, a real one this time, melting into his lips, “Love can be compromise. And this is a point I’m willing to give on.” 

“What?”

“I’ll admit,” You tilt your head, a mischievous grin sliding across your face, “Queen of the crime underworld has a nice ring to it after being a moisture farmer for several years.”

He smiles, the real one this time, “I like the title on you.” His hands attach to your hips, holding you down on the hard ridge of his thigh as he grinds the leg up into your cunt. “Makes me wanna act out, Your Majesty.”

You gasp at the surge of wetness between your legs. Stars, it’s been so long that you almost forgot how much you loved the feeling of his body beneath you. “Boba--”

“Ah ah, is that any way to address your king?” So this is how he wants to play? Fine.

“No, Your Royalness.” Wrong answer. One hand comes down hard on your ass, and there’s going to be a mark for sure. “Your Excellency?” Nope, and another spank burns on your butt. “My king?” You brace yourself for another, but the hand stays. 

“Hmmm, I like that one.” His grip tightens, and you know that you’re going to have finger shaped bruises on the pillowy flesh. He captures your lips against his, and you roll your hips downwards onto his thigh. His erection rests heavy against the inside of your thigh, and you purposefully angle your hips to create more friction against it. “Angel, I want nothing more than to take you now, but--” He stands with a grunt, easily hoisting you into the air with his hands supporting your butt. 

“--I’d rather taste you first.”

A/N: Okay wow this took me so long. This project has literally been in the works for months, and I found a way to finish it finally! I’m not sure if the Boba Fett craze has passed yet, but either way here we have Boba. Some throne-fucking for those of you who would care for it. 

Taglist: @alliterative-albatross​

[iam93percentstardust]

Haii so i have a promot for you, it’s stuckony and it’s based around a carrie Underwood song called “ Renegade Runaway “

So basically Steve and Bucky are outlaw, who rob trains, banks, and gamble

Tony is a sharffes and teacher kid, who is also one hell of a gunslinger (like Doc holiday,bat masterson, and Wyatt earp), he’s also a blacksmith

Also happy early birthday! 💙

Thank you for the birthday wishes! This ended up being a lot sadder than I originally intended and I wasn't able to include everything, but I hope it still lives up to expectations!

As always, this fic is also on ao3

~

Tony has his pistol out almost before the door closes behind him. He peers into the darkness of the yard behind the smithy, silently complaining about his eyes taking too long to adjust from the bright fires to the gathering twilight. It puts him at a disadvantage for whoever is waiting out there for him.

“Aw darlin’, is that any way to greet your two favorite outlaws?” someone drawls.

Tony snorts and holsters the pistol again. “Two outlaws, you might be, but my favorites? Far from it,” he snarks.

Bucky Barnes steps into the light spilling out from the window, hand dramatically placed over his heart. “Tony, that cuts me to the quick. Really, the cruelty of your words, they break my heart.”

“Uh-huh,” Tony says, unimpressed. He turns his back on Bucky and locks the smithy door. Peter will leave through the front when he’s finished sweeping and extinguished the lights. Everything else is already stored in the backroom for the night, so there’s no reason he needs to worry about leaving the door unlocked, though he certainly could. Timely isn’t the sort of town that invites trouble, not like some of the lawless towns further west.

When he turns back around, Bucky has moved closer, nearly looming over him. Tony leans back against the door, letting Bucky press against him. Bucky will do it anyway, it’s easier to just give in to him now instead of putting up a fight they both know he doesn’t want.

“You gonna apologize for bein’ so mean?” Bucky breathes into his ear.

“No,” Tony says flatly, crossing his arms. “It’s the honest truth.”

It’s not. Nearly everyone in Timely knows Tony’s sweet on Bucky and his partner, who must be around here somewhere since Bucky mentioned both of them. But it wouldn’t do to be too easy for them. He’s not one of Natasha’s girls after all, giggly and flirtatious and willing to turn their skirts up for a little bit of coin. He likes to make his boys work to get him soft and smiling.

“Now that’s just an outright lie,” someone else says. Tony turns his head to see Steve’s bright blue eyes much closer than he’d expected given that he’d only sensed one of them in the yard earlier. “You love us.”

“Don’t,” Tony denies, turning his head in the other direction so he doesn’t have to see either of them. Steve may be right, Tony isn’t nearly as annoyed by them as he pretends, but loving the two of them makes his life so very hard that it’s easier to pretend he doesn’t have any feelings for them.

“Tony,” Steve murmurs.

Tony stubbornly refuses to look at them. These two outlaws waltz into town all too rarely, typically on the heels of some mess that’ll raise the rewards on their heads yet again, and turn Tony’s life upside down for the brief time they’re in Timely, only to break his heart when they inevitably leave. Sometimes, he wishes he’d never met them.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers eventually, keeping his eyes fixed on the side of the saloon down the street. “The sheriff’s in town tonight. If he catches wind of you—you know Howard wants to be the one to bring you in.”

“Your father’s on a wild goose chase, honey,” Bucky says. “He got word we were hiding out in Howling Canyon.”

“Are you?”

“Do we look like we’re in Howling Canyon?” Steve asks amusedly.

“No. I meant when you’re not—” He stops, biting back the last few words. When they’re not in his bed, he means, but he can’t bring himself to say that. After an awkward pause, he finishes, “When you’re not in town.”

“No,” Steve assures him. “We’re staying—”

“Don’t tell me where,” Tony interrupts, finally turning back to look at them. They both look worried, and he wonders if they know how tired he is of this game they’ve been playing for five years. “You know I’ll have to tell Howard if he asks.”

Not that Howard would. The sheriff is one of the few people who doesn’t know that his son houses the two outlaws when they’re in Timely. He couldn’t even imagine that his son would dare defy him under his nose like that. But both Steve and Bucky know what happens when Tony doesn’t jump to Howard’s every order. They were the ones who took him to Dr. Banner’s after all, after Howard broke his arm for taking too long to finish the horseshoes for Jericho.

Steve’s eyes are stormy at the reminder of Howard’s wrath. Bucky’s mouth is set in a tight line. Neither of them approve of Howard. They’ve told Tony once before that they would take him away from here if only he would let them. But he won’t. There’s too much keeping him in Timely: his mother and Rhodey, even young Peter, who’s only been apprenticed to him for a few months. He can’t just go gallivanting off into the sunset, no matter how badly he wants to. And besides, he knows that the only reason they ask is so that he can get away from Howard. He doesn’t delude himself there. They’d let him go with them just out of range of Howard’s reach and then they’d cut him loose. It’s pity that makes them ask, not—not anything else.

“Just—” He sighs and ducks out from under Bucky’s arm. “Come on. Howard isn’t stupid. He’ll figure out you’re not in Howling Canyon eventually, and I’d like both your cocks at least once before he does.”

~

Tony once had aspirations of being one of the best gunslingers in the west. He had the best aim this side of the Mississippi and he was quick. He’d been planning on making a name for himself, same as his father had.

Bucky’s bullet through his left thigh had put an end to that dream real quick.

He’d been young—hardly even an adult—foolhardy, and unwilling to listen to Jarvis’ warnings that he wasn’t ready to take on Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, who’d been terrorizing the towns in their small territory for the last three years. He’d been so convinced that he would be the one to bring them in and collect on the bounty. He’d studied their movements, known how they thought, and when Timely had gotten word that the two outlaws had robbed a bank in Faircreek, he’d ridden off on his own toward Harshaw instead of Tombstone like all the evidence pointed to.

He’d been right; the trail to Tombstone had been a false one. But he hadn’t had long to rest on his laurels because he’d been noticed. Steve and Bucky hadn’t been as lax in their vigilance as he’d assumed and they’d lain in wait for him, ambushed him, and ultimately shot him.

To this day, he doesn’t know what drove the two outlaws to take him in instead of leaving him out there to die in the desert, but they had. They’d carefully nursed him back to health, taken care of him when his injury had led to fever, and eventually, after nearly two months together, brought him to their bed with sweet words and sweeter kisses. He’d thought he would have done anything for them after that night, but the next morning, they’d sent him back on his way to Timely with nothing more than a promise that they’d be dropping in to check on him. It had been kind, though the damage had already been done. Tony’s injury ensured he’d never be the gunslinger he’d once dreamt of and his heart had been shattered. He’d apprenticed with Happy, taken up blacksmithing as a trade, and moved out of his parents’ home and into a small house not far from the smithy as his bad leg kept him from walking any great distances.

And when Bucky and Steve had kept their promise and stopped by his house to see him, well, his resolve to send them packing had withered. He’d made sure no one had noticed them and welcomed them inside, his poor heart still beating against his ribs in the pattern of their names.

~

They love him, he thinks, or at least they love him as best as they can, which is to say they don’t love him as much as he loves them. They certainly don’t love him enough to take him with them. And he understands—he does, despite what Rhodey thinks. His bad leg is a hindrance to outlaws such as themselves, particularly when it isn’t like they have a home base they could leave him out while they go out to commit whatever crime has struck their fancy. No, they’ve been nomads for as long as Tony has known them, never tied down to any one place, and he’s grateful that they at least love him enough to stay in this area instead of moving on to greener pastures.

He checks that the street is clear and then hurries them into his home. It’s changed slightly since the last time Steve and Bucky were in Timely. Pepper gifted him with a rug to go in front of the fireplace six months ago and Peter’s aunt made him a series of sketches of the view from the top of Howling Canyon that he hung in the kitchen. But other than that, the house is much the same as it’s always been, and he isn’t surprised when neither Steve nor Bucky pay any attention to the changes in favor of following him to the bedroom.

They strip him in silence, hands so gentle he’d call them reverent if he didn’t know any better. But he does know better. They don’t love him enough to be reverent. Reverence is saved for each other, for how Steve looks at Bucky in the early dawn when he thinks they’re both still sleeping, for Bucky saving Steve an extra cup of coffee, for the way they know how to tack each other’s horses just as well as they know their own. Reverence isn’t saved for him.

But he treats themreverently. He’s always treated them that way, since the night they took him to their bed. He’s never known any other way to love. They had been his first, the ones to ruin him for all others, and a small part of him hates them for that even as he kisses them hungrily, savoring these few moments he gets to spend with them.

He goes to his knees for them, worships Bucky’s cock with his mouth while Steve undresses, then lays down for Steve to open him up. He lets them fuck him, moans their names while they whisper praises in his ear, and pretends that this is enough, that he doesn’t want more. He imagines it though, imagines Steve lifting him onto Nomad and following Bucky out of town, never to return.

Bucky falls asleep when they’re done—he always does—so Steve is the one who stands and finds a washcloth from somewhere in the house. He wipes the three of them off and then lays down on his side, facing Tony.

“You’re sad tonight,” he says quietly.

“No,” Tony denies. He doesn’t want them to know that he wants more, that he’d do just about anything to get it. They’ll only feel bad that they can’t give him what he wants, like it’s any fault of theirs.

“You are,” Steve insists. “You try to hide it, but you are.”

“Steve…”

“I won’t ask you.” Steve’s own eyes are sad as he reaches out to run delicate fingers over Tony’s face. “I know you wouldn’t tell me anyway. That’s okay; you’re entitled to your secrets, sweetheart.”

There’s something terribly earnest in Steve’s expression, something that Tony doesn’t think he’s seen before. And he’s so close to blurting it out, begging Steve for something he can’t have. He swallows the words back with difficulty and asks instead, “What did you two do this time?”

Steve shrugs as best as he can. “A train.”

“A—” Tony stills. “You didn’t. Steve, you couldn’t. You’ll bring the Marshals down on your heads.”

“Had to,” Steve says casually. “Was the only way to get enough.”

“Enough what?”

“Gold,” Bucky says from behind him, startling him.

It takes a moment for the word to sink in, but his breath comes faster as he realizes just what they’ve done. “You didn’t,” he repeats, sitting up. He scrambles to the end of the bed, as far away from Steve and Bucky as he can get. The outlaws sit up as well, leaning against the headboard as they watch him warily. “What were the two of you thinking? No, don’t answer that. I know exactly what you were thinking: you weren’t. Because if you were, you would have known better. Forget the Marshals, you’ll bring the whole damn army down on your heads. How could you have been so stupid?”

“We were thinking we’d like to get a house,” Steve says, cutting him off.

“A—a house?”

“Mmhmm,” Bucky agrees. “We found ourselves a little patch of land in California we’d like to settle down in. Needed one last robbery to get us enough money to buy it.”

Tony’s heart stops beating, he swears it does. “California,” he repeats faintly.

“Sure, they’ll never think to look for us in California.”

Bucky sounds so calm, as though he can’t see that Tony’s heart is breaking in front of them. How can he be so cruel? How can he just causally mention that they’re leaving him forever, as though the last five years mean nothing to them?

“When are you leaving?” he manages, and it shocks him how calm he sounds when he feels as though his grief is visible from the stars.

“Tomorrow,” Steve says. There’s something careful in the way he looks at Tony, like he at least might have some idea of what’s going through Tony’s head.

Tony repeats, “Tomorrow.” He nods, blinking furiously to try to clear his eyes of the treacherous tears he can feel welling up. He can’t let them know. They’re leaving tomorrow and he doesn’t want them to go. He knows it would have happened eventually. The lawless west is shrinking more and more each day. It’s only a matter of time before the law catches up to them. Their only option is to leave and go somewhere no one knows them. But does it have to be so soon? He’d thought they would have more time.

“So this is goodbye, then,” he says, twisting the bedcovers in his hands. He can’t look at them, too afraid they’ll know what’s racing through his head if he does.

“…Goodbye?” Steve asks. He sounds puzzled. Tony hates that. What right does he have to be confused? That’s for Tony, seeing as how he’s the one who’s been left out of the loop during all this. God above, how long have they been planning this? It must have been at least a year in the making.

“Yes, goodbye,” he says. “One last fuck to see you off, right?”

“One last… Tony,” Bucky says sharply, “do you think we’re plannin’ on leavin’ you here?”

Tony’s heart stops for the second time in as many minutes. “You’re not?” he asks, daring to peek at them. Steve looks horrified, Bucky thunderous as he leans forward to tug Tony into his arms. Tony doesn’t resist, too tired of pretending, too confused by the twists this conversation has taken to argue. Steve curls up against Bucky’s side, carding gentle fingers through Tony’s hair.

“Sweetheart, did you think we weren’t gone on you?” Steve asks, kissing his forehead. “We’ve been fallin’ for you since you figured out where we were goin’ and chased us down.”

“But you never asked me to come with you.”

“S’pose that’s my fault,” Bucky says gruffly. He gingerly touches the scar on Tony’s leg where Bucky’s bullet had ripped through him. “We saw how much pain you were in an’ we couldn’t bear to make it any worse. An’ that’s just what would have happened if you’d spent every night out there with us. We wanted to keep you safe, thought you’d be happier if you weren’t always in pain.”

“I wanted you,” Tony says, pressing a kiss to the underside of Bucky’s jaw. “I didn’t want to be left behind.”

“Yeah, we, uh, we get that now,” Steve mutters sheepishly. “Tony, say you’ll come with us this time. Don’t make us go off on our own this time. We want you to come, can’t imagine a future that doesn’t have you in it.”

He should argue. He should remind them that in the five years they’ve been riding off and leaving him at home, he’s built a life. He has a business and an apprentice and a little house that he likes. He’s not the wide-eyed child he once was, dreaming of adventure. But then, neither are Steve and Bucky, if they really do mean that they’re going to get to California and settle down.

“Darlin’?”

~

The next morning, Peter arrives at the smithy to find the backdoor locked and the fire cold. He frowns; it’s not like Tony to still be home at this hour. He turns on his heel and heads to Tony’s house. It’s as dark as the smithy is though it doesn’t look like anything is out of place.

Tony is nowhere to be seen. He wonders for an instant if Tony spent the night at Rhodey’s, as he sometimes does when it’s been too long between Steve and Bucky’s visits (though Peter isn’t supposed to know anything about the outlaws). He turns to leave, planning on heading over to Rhodey’s to ask if he’s seen Tony this morning, only to catch a glimpse of something on the kitchen table, glinting in the early morning sunlight pouring in from the door.

Curious, he wanders over to find a single gold coin—and a letter addressed to him. Peter immediately pockets the coin and then opens the letter. It’s written in Tony’s messy scrawl and he reads it eagerly, hoping it’ll tell him where Tony’s gone.

Peter,

I hope you’ve spotted this. The coin is for you. Under the bed, there’s a pouch full of more coins, but those are for Happy. They should be enough to drag Happy out of the quiet life to finish your apprenticeship. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay, but it was time to move on.

If anyone asks where I’ve gone, tell them I’ve run away to California.

Tony

[miraculous-trinity-leo]

Tᕼᗴ ᑕᕼᗩOTIᑕ ᗩᑎᘜᗴᒪ

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6)

Chapter 5: Don't Jinx It!

·•·—–·•†•·–—·•·

Chloé Bourgeois... A girl that can be described in many words

"She's absolutely ridiculous! I can't believe you have to do an art project with her of all people!" - Alix sprawled out on Marinette's balcony

"She can't be that bad, besides we might become friends." - Marinette sketching some designs

"Believe me, even I think she's a bit much... She's snobby, annoying, rude, immature, spoiled, she basically has the “I'm better than thow” attitude to a T."- Kagami sitting next to the flowerbed while reading a literature book

"See? Even Kagami agrees... Just don't talk to her, actually don't even move if you're in her sights. She's like a T-Rex, she can't see you if you don't move." - Alix

… … … … …

"Hello, I'm Marinette, it's nice to meet you." - Marinette reached out her hand as she smiled

*Que Alix facepalming herself while Kagami lets out a sigh*

"Whatever, I'm Chloé, but I'm sure you already knew that." - Chloé

They started their project and most interactions went the same way, Chloé would sit in a chair near the window and paint her nails while Marinette did all the work. The next day Marinette and Chloé were the only ones in the art room.

"Okay, let's get started." - Marinette skipping her way over to the art supplies

"You do that, I'll just sit over here." - Chloé walking to her chair

"... Say, is it fun painting your nails?" - Marinette looking over to Chloé

"Of course, what girl doesn't like nail art?" - Chloé

"Well, painting on a canvas is kind of like nail art, here try painting something." - Marinette handing Chloé a paint brush

"Please, I don't do art." - Chloé refusing the paint brush

"But you ‘Paint’ your nails." - Marinette

"It's different!" - Chloé

"Okay, how about this, if I can do a magic trick for you, will you try painting just a little bit?" - Marinette

"...Fine, impress me." - Chloé giving Marinette her full attention

Marinette pulled a seed she got earlier that day out of her pocket and showed it to Chloé

"A seed?" - Chloé giving an unimpressed look

"I'll turn it into a flower, as you can see I only have this seed, and there's nothing up my sleeves. When I turn back around this seed will be a flower, are you ready?" - Marinette still holding the seed for Chloé to see

"Just do it already." - Chloé

So, Marinette turned around putting her free hand over the seed, and imagined it growing. When Marinette turned back around, all Chloé saw was a fully bloomed Common Rockrose flower, leaving her stunned.

"How did you do that?!" - Chloé walking up to Marinette to get a better look at the flower

"Family secret." - Marinette with a small smirk - "So, you want to try painting now?"

"... Fine." - Chloé pouted her lips and sat down at an empty canvas while Marinette walked to the table beside it, and Marinette may or may not have seen a small smile on Chloé's face while she grabbed some more paint.

After about 30 minutes Alix and Kagami came in and found Chloé and Marinette flinging water paint at the canvas

"Ha!" - Marinette whiped her arm out, watching as the wet paint from the brush splattered onto the canvas

"Ha HA!" - Chloé doing the exact same motion, but with a little more flare

Kagami and Alix just stared in amazed silence... they had created a master piece... It was a magnificent painting showing a meadow with many flowers in an almost hazy dream kind of look,  it had a blue sky and a faint rainbow in the background behind some clouds on the horizon

"It's *sniff* Ridiculously beautiful..." - Chloé

"And you thought painting was boring." - Marinette teasing Chloé

"... Isley-Quinzel, look me in the face and say that again." - Chloé

"And you- ("Boop" - Chloé) -Hey!" - Marinette got booped on her nose by Chloé's paint covered finger

"I admit it was fun... to some extent. Now lets act like this never happened." - Chloé getting ready to leave

"How the hell did you get Chloé to paint?!" - Alix snapping out of her surprise, which caused Chloé to get startled and trip, knocking the paint onto Marinette and herself in the process

"Well... that was a colorful entrance." - Marinette now covered in blue, pink, green and red paint

"Utterly Ridiculous!" - Chloé now covered in yellow, dark green, and blue paint

"Ooops?" - Alix shrugging her shoulders

*facepalms* - Kagami

… … …

Marinette and Chloé had to walk around school covered in paint, definitely getting a few awkward stares from the other kids. About an hour later, each pair of students presented their shared work of art. When Marinette and Chloé went up, both holding their masterpiece while still covered in paint, stunned the other students.(Not because Chloé was 1. covered in paint, 2. actually carrying the painting, and 3. had a smile on her face) Needless to say they got an A+, and for the rest of the day Marinette, Chloé, Alix and Kagami hung out laughing and having fun. Not long after that the other kids started making bets on who Marinette would befriend next, and how long it would take for that someone to be an instant friend.

Chloé ended up spending a lot more time with the GPS and eventually...

The girls sat around in a circle within Marinette's room with all the lights off, only having a single lamp in the center of the room to add an ominous glow

"Are you ready to take the oath?" - Alix

"Yes, but why do we have to make it look like some utterly ridiculous ritual summoning?" - Chloe

"I agree with Chloé, I'm not allowed to summon the unnatural or paranormal." - Kagami

"Well, let's forget the paranormal stuff for now, ehem. Chloé Bourgeois, do you promise to always have our backs..." - Marinette

"Through the good and the bad..." - Alix

"To say the truth and nothing but the truth." - Kagami

"Wrong oath Kagami." - Marinette whispering to Kagami

"...... To always stay on the path that is straight and true..." - Kagami

"To uphold the justice in this crazy world..." - Alix

"And to guide those who have abandoned the light... Are you ready to join the GPS?" - Marinette

"Yes." - Chloé

"Girls, time to eat- ... Marinette, please tell me you aren't summoning the unnatural like Harley did that one time." - Selina just opening the door and seeing basically a ritual gathering

"In mom's defense, she was trying to get rid of the spooky spirit." - Marinette

"That was from a story Ed made up that one time, you wouldn't stop seeing the shadows ‘moving’, and then Harley thought she saw them move, and she ended up doing a ritual to get rid of it, but we ended up with the cursed toaster ghost. And now all bread we toast is burnt back home." - Selina

"... But burnt toast is the best!" - Marinette

"Ivy told you that it would make you grow quicker, which then tricked you into liking burnt toast, which isn't tasty at all." - Selina

"*dramatic gasp* You Take That Back!" - Marinette

"Nope, now come down in 3 so we can eat." - Selina closed the door and walked away

"You girls agree with me right?" - Marinette turning to her friends

"... Marinette, how can you think burnt toast is good?!" - Alix

"It's... burnt." - Kagami

"Ehhh, it's okay." - Chloé

"Thank You!" - Marinette hugging Chloé

"... un-second thought, I retract my ‘yes’ to that oath." - Chloé

"Too late." - Kagami

"You're stuck with us..." - Alix then leaned over and whispered in Chloé's ear - "Foreverrrrr."

……… ……… ………

After they had their food they went back up to Marinette's (ritual free) room and started playing Ultimate Mecha Strike 2.

After a few rounds of Marinette dominating Ultimate Mecha Slaughter Strike 2, they moved on to watching some Jurassic Park

"So... your mom cursed your toaster?" - Chloé

"... maybe." - Marinette

"Honestly though, who in their right mind likes burnt toast?" - Alix

"Apparently Marinette." - Kagami

"It's kinda like thin burnt rice crispy treats, just minus the sugar." - Marinette

"*dramatic gasp* You Take That Back Right Now." - Alix

"You don't even know what rice crispy treats are, do you." - Marinette now looking away from the TV and directly at Alix

"Not a clue." - Alix

"It's an American treat, it's actually really good, not to sweet, and not to crunchy." - Chloé

"This is why you are part of the GPS." - Marinette hugging Chloé - "You understand most red blooded American treats, and for that I give you my thanks." - Marinette now starting to tear up

"What are we, chop liver?" - Kagami pointing to Alix and herself

"Well unlike you two, I have seen the other side... I swear, they're all hillbillies, and they live in the worst weather ever! Sunshine state my ass, more like out door saunas 24/7." - Chloé ended up mumbling her last few words

"... That's Florida, and it's not that bad, it never gets hotter than 115°F, and that's during summer." - Marinette

"... No wonder you like burnt toast... your brains were burnt with it." - Alix

"I didn't live in Florida, I lived in New Jersey, and the weather is better there." - Marinette

"That's what she said." - Kagami stuffing her face with popcorn

……… ……… ………

Over the course of the next few months Marinette taught the GPS all she knew about parkour and self-defense, at first they wondered why she knew so many different techniques of self-defense, until she explained where she grew up had a few unpleasant people. They still think she's meta.

When Winter rolled around she was to head back to Gotham for the next month and a half. She was packed and ready when the GPS burst into her room.

"Don't leave! I need an Ice skating buddie!" - Alix clinging to Marinette

"You have Chloé and Kagami, besides, I'm pretty sure Kagami is better on the ice than I am." - Marinette accepting the fact she won't be getting Alix off her anytime soon

"It's Not The Same!" - Alix becoming a human koala on Marinette's back

"She's going to see her family, show some restraint!" - Chloé detaching Alix from Marinette

"No!" - Alix getting out of Chloé's grip and reattaching herself to Marinette

"There's a new attraction with a big ramp jump for the ice skating rink." - Kagami on her phone

"Really?! Let me see!" - Alix detaching herself to look at Kagami's phone, only to see the normal boring ice skating rink - "You tricked me." - Alix gave Kagami the stink eye

"It got you off of Marinette at least." - Kagami putting her phone away

"I'm gonna miss you girls." - Marinette gave them a big hug

"You better not do anything stupid while you're back home." - Chloé

"I would never." - Marinette thinking of the time she ran from the Bat-Birds

"What city in New Jersey do you live in again?" - Alix

"That's-" - Marinette

"Kitten you all set for Gotham?" - Selina opened the door and saw Marinette in a big hug with the girls - "Oh, you girls are here, hope you said your goodbyes because we're leaving in 10 minutes." - She then closed the door to make sure everything was ready downstairs

"... ... ..." - Chloé/Alix/Kagami - "You live where?"

"Gotham...?" - Marinette slowly backing up to grab her luggage and make her way to the door

"Oh hell No!" - Kagami standing between Marinette and the door

"You're staying!" - Alix clinging to Marinette again

"Gotham's a death trap!!!" - Chloé joining Alix and clinging to Marinette

... ... ...

After some convincing the girls let Marinette go, and she was now on the plane that would take her back home.

"... They really think Gotham's a death trap?" - Selina relaxing in the first class seats she got them.

"It's not that bad is it? I had asked them what they thought could even go wrong." - Marinette

"... Well literally everything can go wrong in Gotham... It's not to late to get off actually." - Selina getting up

"Not you too!" - Marinette grabbing her Aunt's hand

"I'm joking Kitten... you are wearing the bullet proof vest under that coat right?" - Selina

"Of course." - Marinette

"Then we should be fine..." - Selina now sitting back down and looking 10 times more nervous than before

"..." - Marinette put her hands together and mumbled under her breath - "Please don't jinx it. Please don't jinx it. Please don't jinx it. Pleeeeease don't jinx it."

……………… They had an hour delay, had to switch flights and couldn't eat anything because it looked like it would give them food poisoning, and they didn't get a wink of sleep......... but they made it to Gotham in one piece... at 2 in the morning.

"You jinxed it." - Marinette dragging her luggage sleepily

"It can't get any worse now-" - Selina

"No!-" - As Marinette tried to stop her Aunt from finishing her sentence, a truck past by the curb and sent a blanket of powdered snow flying into them - "-say it..."

"...Okay, now it-" - Selina was cut off by Marinette stuffing her mouth with the last secret cookie she had

"Don't anger the jinx gods, please." - Marinette pleading to her Aunt

After Selina finished the secret cookie she called Ivy to pick them up. They waited about 15 minutes before Ivy, along with a sleeping Harley in the back seat, picked them up. As they got in the car Harley jolted awake

"Are we dere yet?" - Harley rubbing her eyes

"Yes, and in our snow covered glory we entered the car." - Marinette giving her mom a hug

"I missed yuh so much, it just hasn't been de same wit'outcha cupcake." - Harley returning the hug

"And what about me, did you miss me?" - Selina getting comfortable in the passenger seat

"Ehhh." - Harley tilted here hand from side to side as she continued to side hug Marinette

"... Have I ever told you how great you are at warm welcomes?" - Selina giving Harley the stink eye

"She didn't mean it, you know she has no filter at this hour." - Ivy pulling up to the stoplight

"In other words her honest opinion of me being back is ‘ehhh’, I'm glad she thinks so highly of me." - Selina resting her head on the window

The ride to their base was peaceful, they arrived and went to their rooms after Marinette gave her moms and aunt a goodnight hug. As Marinette went to sleep in her bed, Bud and Lou jumped onto the bed and curled up next to her, as she stroked their fur, she couldn't help but feel excited to spend time with her family and friends. She soon fell asleep in the calm silence of her room, the last thought she had before drifting off, was that she was happy to be back home.

·•·—–·•★•·–—·•·

Chapter 5 complete, hope you're all having a magnificent day, rockin' all the positive vibes and staying safe !BUG-OUT! 🐞💮🐞

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[liquid-luck-00]

Habits

Bio!Dad Bruce

Day 4: Habits

@biodad-bruce-month

First ~~~ Previous ~~~ Next

~~~~~~~~~~

The bat boys went out of their way to make Marinette feel included into the family. However she seemed to always get lost in the manor. Little did they know that she was using the horse miraculous to travel to and from Paris and still hasn't had enough practice with Kaalki.

Yet when they do happen to find her she seems to always be lost in thought while sketching or designing.

They had noticed early on that they could still hold a conversation with her and she would respond and remember the conversation.

---

Marinette hadn't been at the manor for two days when the first incident occurred.

It was Jason who first caught her completely focused and to say it was a shock was an understatement. He had walked into the living room, trying to find her and Tim to play Mecha strike, so when he saw she was designing and Tim was sitting on the other couch reading.

"Hey Replacement, Bluebell who wants to play UMS III?" Jason asked the room.

"I'll play," Tim responded looking up from his book. Both boys then looked at Mari, who seemingly didn't hear them. Tim got up and walked over to her along with him. While

Marinette seemed to be hyper focused on her design that she didn't respond when Jason asked her again. So Jason decided it would be smart to tap her on the shoulder to get her attention. That was a bad idea. . He had snapped her out of her thoughts, but as he did she glared at them.

"Holy Fuck" Jason screamed as he backed away from her.

"What is wrong with you. You break my concentration and then scream. Like seriously Jason." She was holding her head covering her ears while glaring at him.

That was when Tim seemed to find his voice again. "Well if genetics hadn't proved you were Bruce's daughter, you giving Jason his signature glare would prove it."

"Well I guess that explains a few thing now" she hummed.

"That is all you get out of this?" Jason asks.

"What else was to get out of this?" she asked tilting her head, "so what did you guys want anyways?" she went back to her sunny personality.

---

The second incident occurred later that same day but with only Dick. He had gone to find her for dinner, so he went to her room. He had heard from both Jason and Tim that she could pull out the Bruce 'Batman' Glare so he did the smart choice of first knocking on the door.

"Come in" was her only response.

She was sitting at the desk staring at one of her sketchbooks. Her chin was resting on her arm her nose was scrunched and eyebrows furrowed concentrating on the image in front of her.

It wasn't the Batman Glare but she looked just like Bruce when he was in deep concentration.

"Dinner is almost ready" he answered after entering the room.

"Dick thank goodness" She snapped her head up and looked at him with her full attention. "I can’t decide on a color for this blazer. It would look nice in an emerald or in a sapphire blue. I know I want to use gold as an accent around the main part that is black stitched with holographic music notes but I don't know maybe"

"Mari" he interrupted her. God she even over thinks like Bruce, that was why he had stopped her. "Breathe please. Now is this for a certain person or no one in particular?" He asked breaking her slight panic.

"It is for a commission so a certain person." she answered calming down.

"So would the person's hair or eyes clash with those colors" Thank god Barbara always dragged him shopping and complains how certain colors clashed with her hair.

"Neither would clash necessarily, but the sapphire blue would complement his hair and skin tone better" she finished writing something in on the page.

"Okay now that, that is settled why don't we go down for dinner Little B" Dick gave her a smile.

"Little B?"

"Little Bruce" be elaborated, really be meant little bat, but she doesn't know that yet so he improvised.

"Why?"

"The way you scrunch your nose and eyebrows when concentrating is just like him. That and completely overthinking and over analyzing things is just like him"

"It's a habit I've been trying to break" she answers sheepishly.

"Don't, just ask yourself questions to not get sided tracked, it is one of the best qualities a person can have" he answered honestly. "God only knows Bruce wouldn't come up with half of what makes up WE if he didn't overanalyze every little thing" she seemed to cheer up a bit at this and he is glad he could help his little sister.

---

The third incident happened with Tim to say he was surprised when he saw her awake in the kitchen at 3 in the morning as he came back from patrol was shocking.

Honestly the only people awake at that hour were either the Bats, criminals, or him well him or even Bruce who would still be working. But here she is completely awake making, wait is that.

"Is that coffee?" He ended up asking out loud.

She turned to face him "Yes. Want some?"

"Please!!" he practically begged.

"Fair warning this is my special blend, I haven't found anyone else who could handle it" she warned him, but he took it as a challenge.

"Try me" and she did, she set a cup down in front of him and also poured herself one. After the first sip he realized it was strong, much stronger than his usual, and that usually had an entire cup of espresso. "That is good. You are making this again if you don't give me the recipe" she giggled.

"Let's see if you can handle a cup and make it to breakfast." she countered and she left to her room.

When morning came he was still wired in fact he was practically bouncing in his seat while having breakfast and everyone was staring at him. Granted he was usually a zombie in the morning so this was new, actually functioning properly that is.

"You okay there Timmy" Dick asked him, and that was confusing.

"Yes, why wouldn't I be?" Tim asked.

"Now your beginning to scare us. Wait did you actually sleep, Replacement?" Jason asked him.

"I don't think he did Jason" everyone turned and stared at Marinette. "Half a cup" she said staring at him.

"Care to explain Bluebell." 

"So turns out I'm not the only one awake late. Someone" she stared at Tim, "caught me making coffee last night, drank a single cup and still seems to be wired" she shrugged "so half a cup next time Tim"

"Wait, he is the most awake he has ever been in the, almost six years I've known him, and he hasn't slept." Damian stated bored. "what did you put in the coffee?"

"Nothing much, but if you know how to roast the beans right anything is possible" she rose the mug she was holding. That was when they all noticed the mug in her hand.

Out of concern, he is guessing, Dick and Jason moved to take the mug from her. They turned around to face each other with a smirk and they saw that they were both holding identical mugs to the one in, wait Marinette still has a mug.

"Enjoy the cocoa" she smiled as she took a sip from her cup.

"You really are Bruce's daughter if you can pull that with little to no sleep." Tim replied. Her only response was a head tilt. "I swear not sleeping and still being able to function absurdly well is genetic. You, Damian, and Bruce are alike in that."

---

The fourth incident happened and was witnessed by Damian. He was sure that he would be able to have the gym to himself as everyone was out on patrol but he was mistaken.

There was Marinette a headset on, with her hands wrapped moving between punching a bag and a sequence of movements. He watched her until she seemed to finish her set. She looked up and when she noticed him he walked towards her. She wasn't being her usual bubbly self, in fact it looked to him that she was upset.

"I didn't think anyone else would be in here" he stated."

"Oh, really" she answered lowering her headset ”I won't be a bother and did you want to take the punching bag." she said a slight frown on her lips. Okay he may not be the best at dealing with emotions, but he was extremely good at perceiving them on others.

"Something is bothering you, isn't it?" he was blunt sure but he wasn't expecting her to freeze and look around before taking a breath and schooling her features.

"No, everything is fine"

"It. As if I would believe that"

"Really now why don't..."

"Either you talk or we spar" he cut her off. He was expecting her to speak not take off her headset completely, set it down, and take a stance. The two began to spar and after almost two hours they were both lying on the mat exhausted.

"Thanks Damian, I needed a good spar"

"Any time you need, ask" he got up and began walking back to his room.

If he didn't already know she was a Wayne then that would prove it. Only a Wayne would rather not face their emotions and would rather fight.

His sister was his and he would be damned if he didn't at least help her. Albeit it he wasn't the most mushy of the family but she already was the most bearable of his sibling. Maybe he'll teach her to sword fight, then maybe someone would be an actual challenge for him.

Next

~~~~~~~~~~

Tag list:

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[sturchling]

Salt-Fic September Day 26: Abandoned

Marinette was numb as she realized what had happened. This was horrible. The class had abandoned her in Gotham, alone. To think everything had been going well. The class had been nicer to her, and Lila wasn’t actively trying to ruin her time on the trip. In retrospect, that should have been Marinette’s first clue that something was wrong. She couldn’t believe this, and it had all happened in the course of two days.

The class was trying to come up with a place to go for the end of the year trip. Lila had become the class representative a few months back, when the class had started to believe the worst in Marinette. Lila had turned this into a class discussion in the guise of including the whole class in the decision. In reality, she didn’t have any good ideas and just wanted to steal someone’s idea to avoid the class’ irritation. But no one in the class had any good ideas either. Marinette sat in the back of the room just listening to the chaos of the class’ discussion.

 While she may not be the class rep anymore, she still doesn’t want her friends to be disappointed by the class trip. She had found an amazing opportunity for the class. The Wayne family was sponsoring a trip to Gotham for the class who submitted the best video essay about their collective accomplishments. Marinette spent several weeks on it, but she was able to submit a video to the contest.

 A few weeks passed and Marinette received an email from the contest. Her submission had won the contest! She was thrilled. She was excited to tell everyone, but then she realized that she shouldn’t. With the way the class thought of her now, they would likely immediately reject the idea purely because she suggested it. Instead she sent the information to Mrs. Bustier and asked her not to say who won the contest. Surprisingly, she agreed to her request and didn’t say anything.

 Lila had no idea who won the contest, but she didn’t care. This was perfect. Lila immediately claimed the credit for winning the contest. “It was hard to write the essay through the pain from my sprained wrist, but I did it for you guys.” The class fawned over Lila, thanking her for her dedication. Meanwhile, Marinette just rolled her eyes. The information Mrs. Bustier sent the class specifically said that it was a video essay contest, not a writing contest. How could the class not realize this was a lie? They had the proof right in front of them. But that wasn’t important, at least the class would have a nice trip.

 That was how the class had ended up in Gotham. The trip had been going surprisingly well. Marinette had expected that Lila would hog all the attention and the class would treat her as coldly as they had back in Paris. But instead, Lila was quieter than normal and the class was chatting with her again. Marinette had hoped that meant that they had realized that Lila was a liar and were willing to be her friends again.

 Marinette was having a great time on the trip, when she met him. He had tan skin and dark hair. He was sitting in one of the halls of the Wayne Enterprises building the class was touring. He was sitting on a bench and reading a book. Marinette had been looking for a quiet place to sketch while the class ate lunch and decided to sit next to him. When she sat down, he gave her an incredulous look, as though he couldn’t believe she sat there. Then he just turned back to his book, and ignored her.

 Time went by, and the two just kept reading and sketching in quiet. Eventually though, the boy’s eyes found Marinette’s sketchbook again. He stared at the sketch which appeared to be an outfit based off Robin’s costume. “Your work is exquisite. Very detailed.” Marinette was startled by the sudden noise. “Thank you. That is kind of you to say.” “Is it based on Robin’s costume? Why did you choose that costume?” Marinette went on to discuss her process for this design. The conversations continued until the end of the lunch for the class. When the class gathered outside of the cafeteria, Marinette had to leave. But before she did, the boy, who she now knew was called Damian, asked her, “I apologize if this is too forward, but would you care to have dinner with me tomorrow night?” Marinette agreed eagerly and was looking forward to seeing Damian again.

 Marinette had no idea who exactly Damian was until later that night while speaking with Alya. “Girl, you scored a date with Damian Wayne. So, its tomorrow night? What time?” The girls spent several hours discussing the date. Alya wanted all the details. It felt like old times, before Lila ever appeared. Marinette enjoyed this time with her best friend. Alya even helped her get ready for the date, choosing an outfit and how she should do her hair and makeup. Marinette had no idea what Alya and the rest of the class was really planning.

 The next night was one of the best nights in Marinette’s life. Damian had arrived early and endured some teasing from Alya and the class as Marinette finished getting ready. They left and had a wonderful dinner. Damian even took Marinette for a walk in a nearby park, while his brothers watched from the roof tops to make sure no rouges got any funny ideas. Marinette had a wonderful time. Damian dropped her off back at the hotel, and even walked her to the door to her room. Marinette was in such a happy mood. That was until she opened the door to her room after Damian left. The room was empty. All of Alya’s things were gone. They had been sharing a room. Marinette’s things were still there, but Alya’s things were gone.

 Marinette searched the whole hotel, but didn’t find anyone from class. She went to the front desk and asked about her class. The person working the desk looked at her in shock. “You are still here? Your class already left, said there was some emergency in Paris.” Marinette panicked, expecting a bad akuma and checked for news on her phone. But there wasn’t anything. Instead, there was an unread text.

You shouldn’t have messed with Lila. Maybe this will teach you a lesson. Have a good time getting home.-Alya

Marinette couldn’t believe it. The class had abandoned her in Gotham.

 She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know how to get home. She didn’t have money to get a plane ticket, and the class must have done something to her original ticket. She called her parents and they got her a ticket for the first available flight, which wouldn’t be until tomorrow evening. Marinette spoke with the hotel staff member at the desk, to see about staying in her room one more night. But they told her that someone else had already checked into the room for the night. Her stuff was brought to her from the room and she didn’t know what to do now. She had no where to stay for the night.

 Marinette realized she had only one option. She gathered her stuff and went to the Wayne Manor. When she arrived, she was greeted by an older man who stared at her inquisitively. “Good evening. I was having dinner with Damian earlier tonight. Something has happened and I didn’t know where else to go, may I please speak with him?” The butler looked at her warily, but did let her in the manor. He led her to a parlor and went to fetch Damian.

 A few minutes passed and he returned with Damian following with a confused look on his face. “Marinette? What happened? Why are you here?” Marinette explained everything that had happened since Damian dropped her off. “So, they just abandoned me here. I already have a flight booked for tomorrow night thanks to my parents. But I don’t have anywhere to stay tonight. I’m sorry to impose, but I didn’t have anywhere else to turn.” Damian was furious. How dare the class do this to her?

 Alfred had gone to get Bruce and fill him in on the situation. Bruce came into the parlor as well, to see Damian comforting an upset Marinette. Bruce approached the young couple, “Of course you may stay here tonight Marinette. After all, my family sponsored your class’ trip. That makes you my responsibility until you return to Paris. Make yourself at home. Now, I think I will go call your parents and tell them you are staying here with me.”  Marinette felt at ease, knowing that things were being handled.

 Marinette was returned to Paris in the morning, but she never returned to Francois Dupont. Her parents pulled her out of that school immediately after they learned their daughter had been left behind. She was now enrolled in an arts school that Chloe and Adrien had transferred to before everything in Gotham had happened. She also spent a lot of time in Gotham when she was on a break from school. She had to visit her boyfriend obviously. While Damian wished she had transferred to Gotham, he was happy that Marinette was in a better school. Marinette was happier than she had been in a long time.

  Lila ended up being exposed a few months after the Gotham incident. Marinette never got the details of how it happened, she only found out because the class showed up to try and apologize to her. Marinette stopped them, “I accept your apology, but I can’t fully forgive you. You abandoned me in one of the most dangerous cities in the world. You didn’t care at all what happened to me. I had no where to stay that night and no way home. I could have been really hurt. I’m sorry but we can’t be friends anymore, I can’t be friends with people that would do that to me.” The class didn’t like it, but they accepted it. They knew what they did was unforgiveable.

 While Marinette had been beyond hurt by what the class had done, she wouldn’t have changed anything about the trip. She learned who her true friends were and who wasn’t. She had also met Damian, who she had grown much closer to over the months after the trip. She was the happiest she had ever been and was glad that everything had happened the way it did. She was living an amazing life, with friends and family that cared for her and a boyfriend who truly loved her.

Hope you guys liked it! @maribat-central-official

[keefwho]

May 13 - 2024 Monday

10:36pm

6.5/10

I had a very busy day today. I woke up and immediately took my shower. Then got dressed and had mom drive me to the grocery store for the month's groceries. I ended up getting a LOT, more than usual. I went all out, maybe because I was starving. I don't regret it though, I just bought maybe 1.5-2 months worth of some foods. I nearly needed 3 carts to get it all, but that was due to paper towels and other such taking up volume. At the checkout I let this guy go ahead of me that was in a hurry. The cashiers knew him. He was very thankful, he said it twice. I had to insist that he go ahead of me because he declined the first time. I don't think I came off as weird or awkward like I usually do, I kept telling myself it's all just like VRchat. No one really cares that much, if anything the richness of life comes from all these unpredictable social experiences. I also made a little conversation with the old cashier lady. When it came time to check out, I had a little emergency because it turned out I didn't have my debit card on me even though I tried to make sure I had it before I left. I mistook the feeling of my ID for my card. I realized my dad never gave it back to me after he used it to take out my rent. I ran outside to mom where we tried to scrounge up $450 in cash but we were a hundred short. She let me use my dad's credit card which thankfully went through. On the way home I got a slim jim and played my vaporwave music over the car speakers. At home I put away all my groceries and joined BR and them in a VC while I ate "breakfast" which was a teriyaki ramen bowl.

In stream I warmed up with more torso stuff since I've been struggling with the subject lately. I realized maybe I was being too structured and mathematical about it all so I became looser with how I was capturing the forms. For work I finished the commission I was working on which came out great and I sketched SK's thing and got her payment. Also got GZ's Venus comic ready. I ended 30 minutes early since I had done all my work and needed time to think on an idea for a Venus fallout piece as requested by a Patron.

During lunch BR DMed me and invited me to join in her art server VC where FY was too. This is the first time I can remember her inviting me to anything directly in a long while so I couldn't say no. It was a fun call, she was drawing vore and everyone was just vibin. I got boolied a lot as usual but not in a bad way. For lunch I wasn't too hungry since I ate breakfast late so I just had 1/3 the jar of pizza flavored pringles. I played Roblox horses until it was work time, then I screen shared the request I had to do and the pic I'm working on for DS of her horse. Then I worked about 45 minutes on the world for PZ. The VC had disbanded halfway through that so I put a Minecraft stream on the side to listen to. DS called me near the end so we hung out while I finished and she worked on her fursuit hooves. We watched some furry con content while I played KSP and then a few episodes of Moral Orel. THEN a good episode of She Ra. As is common sometimes, neither of us seemed to have a good idea of what to watch or engage in. Usually I'm down to watch anything and watching is the only option since she's working on stuff. But I get that it can be fun to submit to someone else's suggestions so I want to have some ready. She headed upstairs while I made a chicken strip and fries for dinner. We did puzzlies and I started playing the PC Monster High game for her, we came up with a skeleton girl named Patella and I actually like her a lot.