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everyhowlmarksthedead · 4 years

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ANGEL REYES x READER ⨟ PROMPT

Anon #1 asked: heyyyy, im so happy to see that you’re back, i missed u a lot❤️ i wanted to request 52 and 71 with angel reyes

@aquamento asked: hey hey miss arizaaaa i could i request prompt random 4 and prompt fluffy 73 with angel reyes?❤️

Anon #3 asked: just saw that you’re taking prompts again !!!!!!!! yaaaaay i wanted to request 58 & 65 with angel thank youuuuuuuuuuuuu💖

Prompts:

71. “Yuw butiful”. “Are you drunk?”

52. “Let me take care of you”.

73. “Want to share an ice cream?”

4. “Where the fuck is my shirt?”

58. “It’s cold, hold me”.

65. “Read for me, I love your voice”.

Word Count: 1.4k

Author comments: This work wasn't re-edited, so I'm sorry if you find grammar mistakes! I hope you all enjoy. Gif credits: @angels-reyes.

Tag list: @starrynite7114 @chibsytelford @dazzledamazon @mara-mpou @sammskellington @gemini0410 @1-800-imagines @briana-mishell24 @sassymox @whyisgmora @aquamento @sadeyesgf @viviansafizada @samcrobae @jade770 @witchy-wish @rebel-without-cause-x @xx--day-dreamer--xx @spiced-reads @tita127 @ifoundmyhappythought @enamouravecleslivresetlechocolat @angelxshiba @destynelseclipsa @sheeshgivemeabreak @abbiesthings @knowles-morgan ✨ (if you wanna be tagged, send me a message!)

Someone starts to hit your door angrily and with some kind of desperation, using the palm of a hand and not the knuckles. Placing the bowl of ice cream on the table, you walk towards the entrance, unlocking the door to open it. Angel is there, staggering and carrying a bottle of tequila in his right hand. He smirks at you, brushing back his hair with the ringed fingers, resting his body against the frame.

“Yuw butiful”.

His voice sounds proud, pointing you with the right forefinger, about to let the bottle fall down but holding it up masterfully before spilling it to your feet.

“Ain't gonna be a cowboy anymo'”.

“You mean… a coward?”

“Ya', that's wha' I said. A cowboy”.

“Are you drunk?”

“Who knus, querrrida?” Angel hiccups, covering his lips with a fist for a second.

“Okay, big guy… Let me take care of you, ain't gonna let you drive back home”.

“Yu ma hom, mami”.

“Sure…” Rolling your eyes, you palm his back as he comes into the house.

After closing the door, you take out of his hands the tequila, leaving it over the auxiliary table in the hall. Then, you proceed to take off the kutte, until he grabs your wrists.

“Wo, mami, tak'it'slowwww… Guv me a kiss fir—first”.

“If you don' let me go, Angel, I'll kick your ass into a cold shower”.

“Da'ya like ma ass?”

“Do you want me to call Bishop?”

“NO, NO, NO, NO. SHHHHH… no”. He places a finger on your lips, pressing them to make you shut up.

“Good. Now, give me the kutte”. You demand pulling away his hand from your face.

He obeys like the good boy he really is. Then, he takes off his boots using his heels and supporting his body against the wall. Angel is drunk. Too drunk that he can't even speak well. And looks so funny and adorable trying to flirt with you. You are finding it too difficult not to tease him, when you watch him walking, stumbling over his own feet, to the sofa before falling down on it with a heavy sigh.

Raising up both eyebrows, containing a loud laugh, you come closer palming his back.

“Hey, make me some space… You're bigger than my sofa”.

“Da'ya wanna know wha mo es' bigge?”

“Fuck, no, Angel”. You can't help but break in laughs finally, sitting in a corner of it when he decides to rest his head on your lap.

“Wha ya wa doen?”

“Watching a movie. Want to share an ice cream?” You ask, taking the bowl with both hands.

“Wa flivo?”

“Pistachio”.

“Foc is tha?”

“Ok, try it”.

You offer him the spoon right to his mouth. He licks it, like a dog, before spitting it over his shirt with a disgusted sob. You laugh again while he complains and curses in a drunk spanish, until your neighbor hits your wall.

“Di ya col Bichop?”

“No, Angel. I didn't call Bishop”. You chuckle putting down the bowl over the floor to get up. “You look like a baby”.

“I can be whatava ya wan, mami”.

“Take off your shirt, before you… stain it all”.

“Ef ya wanna see ma nakid jast tell me”.

“Por Dios, stop talking, Angel”.

“Shot ma ap”.

“Yeah, I wish I could really shoot you right now”.

Having to help him, you undress the old Reyes, throwing down the shirt. And before you can press the play to continue with the movie, he grabs your arms to hug himself with them.

“It's cold, hold me”.

You try to get comfy by lying your body down under Angel's, and resting his back on your stomach. He has his eyes closed, with his callous hands touring your knees and your legs from top to bottom. You know how drunk he is, and you're not going to take any advantage, but you like him too much just to not feel anything right now. Your fingers do their work too, watching the film oblivious on the TV, stroking his bare chest with ephemeral caresses.

Under his warm skin you can feel his heart beating quietly, just like his breath. You're not sure if he's sleeping or if he's resting his mind, but he jumps a little between your arms when your phone dings.

“Wasap? Wha's tha'? Where the fuck is ma shirt?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ…” You're laughing again, bowing on the table to take your phone.

“Who is? Ya bofren? Lemme fack hem up”.

Angel begins to throw up some punches to the air, as if he was boxing, making you frown and wrinkle the nose. Bishop is asking you if Angel is there, because he spent the night telling them that he was going to propose to you. You're blushing so fast that even the drunk man notices it.

“Tall ya bofren to fack hem, am ya bofren now”.

“Is your jefe, asking for you”.

“Read da text. Read fo me, I luv ya voice”.

“No, Angel. You should sleep”.

“Bu here with ya”.

“Angel, you weigh a lot”.

“Da'ya wan—”.

“Fuck, no. Stop”. You laugh again, trying to get up while he clings onto your body like an octopus. “Angel, please… Let me go”.

“No…” He sobs once and again, grabbing you stronger. “I came wolken from da club, don' go, plez”.

“Oh, shit… Let me… lie a little comfy at least”.

And he does. Of course he does, after walking for almost one hour to your house, even if it is no more than ten minutes away. Molding your body to his, you turn off the TV, placing your head over a cushion. You fall asleep sooner than you thought you could do it, with Angel resting peacefully on your stomach.

But when your eyes open up again, he's not there anymore. Not even his boots. Not even his kutte. For a second you think that maybe it was a dream, but your shirt smells like him too much. You sigh heavily putting your gaze on the rooftop. He was so close. So close of asking you out that it hurts a little to know that he probably won't remember what happened.

The doorbell ringing pushes you back to reality, getting up from the sofa and having to stretch your back and arms, before starting to walk towards the hall. Somewhat upset you open it, having a flashback of last night. Angel is there again, holding two cardboard glasses of coffee and a small bag.

“I think I owe you an apology”. He's trying to not sound ashamed, but he looks too adorable to think about it.

“Yeah, maybe…”

“I shouldn't have come… drunk. I just…” He purses his lips wrapped in a bundle of nerves, offering you what seems to be breakfast.

“You just what?” You ask then, holding it and leaving him enough space to come in.

“I like you”.

“Should I say that I didn't notice it?” You're holding a sarcastic laugh in your throat, closing the door and leading your feet to the living room.

Angel shakes his head following you, until he's finally in front of you again.

“Listen… I don't know what I said last night, I don't know what I did. I just… woke up without my shirt and betwe—”.

“You spit my ice cream all over your shirt like a fucking five years old eating… baby food”.

“Oh, shit…”

Now, he's more ashamed. Angel covers his face with both hands, drowning there a growl. And you can't help but break in laughs shaking your head.

“Then you… begin to… punch the air 'cause you thought my boyfriend texted me. I don' know, maybe you were feeling like the fucking Conor McGregor”.

“Oh, shit…” He repeats, looking at you between his fingers. “I'm so fucking sorry, I swear”.

“Was a… curious night. I had so much fun”.

“Fuck, I swear I'm so sorry, (Y/N). I only... remember to tell Bishop that I wanted to propose to you”.

“Yeah, he texted me. I just hope you won't do it”.

“Wh—Wha—Why?”

“Angel, the only night we have spent together, you were drunk. I'm not gonna marry you”.

“Not now, but one day”.

“Ahm… yeah, Angel. Not now”.

“But you want to marry me”.

“Maybe. One day. But we can start for a date”.

#mayans mc x reader #mayans mc #mayans mc imagine #mayans x reader #angel reyes x reader #angel reyes fanfiction #angel reyes imagine #angel reyes

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teacupfulofstarshine · 4 years

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you are my dad (boogie woogie woogie)

summary: five times logan accidentally referred to virgil as his dad, and two times he purposefully referred to virgil as his dad

(OR: a birthday fic for the lovely @lovelylogans set in her STELLAR gilmore girls au!)

a/n: HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANNALISE!!! if y'all haven't read the sideshire files you're missing out, it's so soft and good and wonderful and i promise you will love it

cw: illness, alcohol, drunkenness (but none of these are angsty, it's all fluff)

wordcount: 2819

read it on ao3!

(occasion the first: the nineteenth month of logan’s life)

“You can never tell anyone about this, kid. I’ve never done this in front of anyone and I never will again, you understand me?” Logan, strapped into his portable high chair, stares at Virgil while chewing on his Jupiter teething toy, not saying anything. Virgil assumes that it’s an agreement and slides the hair elastic off of his wrist.

Carefully, he gathers all of his bangs into one hand and slips the elastic around them, twisting and sliding and twisting again until he has a little unicorn-horn ponytail sticking off his head and a clear line of sight. “Alrighty. What do you want for breakfast, Lo, huh?”

Logan slobbers on his teething toy and kicks his little bare feet vigorously. He drops the teething toy on his tray and loudly declares, “BA!”

“Bananas?” Virgil guesses. He’s never been as good at interpreting Logan’s variety of noises as Patton, but Logan waves his little arms and lets out a long string of baby nonsense, so Virgil assumes he must be at least somewhat on the right track. “Okay, kid. You get bananas now, and I’ll make us some chocolate-chip banana pancakes. Deal?”

Logan slaps his tray and picks up his teething toy again. Virgil pulls open the fridge and carefully fills one of Logan’s sippy cups with apple juice, settling it into the cup holder slot. Logan immediately abandons his toy and begins to nom on the spout to get some juice.

Virgil slices up bananas and sets a little plate onto Logan’s tray, along with a small plastic kiddie fork. Logan lowers the fork towards the slices of banana with the fierce determination of a child attempting to win a toy from a claw crane game. Virgil huffs out a soft laugh and returns to the kitchen counter. He moves through the motions of pancake batter, throwing in banana slices and chocolate chips, and he’s completely in the kitchen zone. Logan’s happy chewing noises and babbles become a soothing background noise.

He’s jolted away from his pancake batter abruptly when he hears Logan wail.

Virgil whirls around, whisk dropping on the floor and splattering pancake batter everywhere. Logan is crying, holding one hand out, and his little pointer finger is red. “Oh, you - did you bite your finger?”

Logan sniffles and cries, holding his hand out. “Paaaaaaa!”

Virgil winces. “No, kid, Papa’s not -”

Logan makes grabby hands at Virgil. “Pa! Paaaaa, papapapa, paaaa, paaaa!”

Virgil freezes. “I - you - am I Papa?”

“Paaaaaaaa!”

Virgil carefully takes Logan’s tiny hand, leaning forward and carefully kissing his little red finger in the way he’s seen Patton do millions of times. “There we go, Logan. I - Papa kissed it better, so we’re okay, right?”

Logan sniffles. “Paaa . . .”

Virgil carefully offers him a disk of banana. “You want some more banana?” Logan wipes at his little eyes, leans forward, and carefully takes the banana chunk in his mouth. “There we go. You’re okay. It’s okay, Logan.”

*~*~*~*~*

(occasion the second: logan’s junior year of highschool)

Virgil is really sick of walking into the Sanders house and discovering a sick Sanders (pun very much not intended, thank you, Patton).

He nudges the front door open, arms laden with takeout containers of meal-prep for the week and bags of groceries to re-stock the kitchen and two cardboard drinks trays full of to-go cups. Patton’s not home, off at some kind of business conference, and he’d promised to take care of Logan.

(Take care of our kid, Patton had said, and Virgil had been caught so off-guard by the pronoun our that he’d barely remembered to agree.)

So he has lunches for Logan for every day of the week, groceries so that he can make his own dinners, and a stock of smoothies full of hidden nutrients for study breaks. Virgil kicks the door shut behind him, struggling to not drop any of the things he’s holding.

“Logan, you wanna come help me with your meals and shit?”

There’s no immediate answer, which isn’t worrying in and of itself; it is almost 7:30 AM on a Saturday, and Logan is a teenager. Virgil sets the drinks trays and takeout containers on the kitchen, drops the grocery bags on the floor, and goes to lock the door behind him. He hears footsteps behind him. “Sorry if I woke you, but -”

He turns to face Logan and almost drops the keys. Logan is wrapped up like a burrito in his thick quilt, dragging it along the kitchen floor like a cape. His eyes and nose are red, his cheeks are flushed, and his hair looks like Remus’s after a late night of partying. He sways in the doorway.

“Logan?” Virgil asks, keeping his voice soft.

“Virgil,” Logan rasps. “I . . . believe that I . . . may be ill.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Virgil says. Logan blinks at him, once, uncharacteristically slow.

“Could you please stop the room from spinning? And - and perhaps you could - could do me the favor of - of catching -”

Logan pitches forward, and Virgil lunges to catch him. He feels Logan’s forehead and swears with how hot it is. “Alright, buddy, back into bed with you.”

“Y - you brought me . . . groceries,” Logan manages. “I . . . we have to -”

“You do not have to do anything except get your ass back in bed,” Virgil says. “I’m calling Jean and leaving her in charge for the day, she can handle it. I’m staying here with you.”

“Y - no, you - go t’ work -”

“Over my dead body, kid. Come on, back to bed.” Logan takes a single step and his knees immediately buckle beneath him. Virgil doesn’t think twice before scooping the Logan burrito up into his arms, shifting so that Logan’s head rests in the curve of his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

He maneuvers Logan back into bed, tucking him in and taking his temperature. It reads 101.1 - hot enough to warrant concern, but not so hot that he needs hospitalization. Good; Virgil’s had his fill of seeing Sanders boys in the hospital. He soaks a washcloth in ice-cold water, and Logan hisses when he lays it on his forehead, swiftly transitioning from a hiss of pain to a hiss of relief.

“Stay here, kid. I’ll bring you something to drink in just a second, okay?”

Logan makes a weak, pained noise from his bed. “Papa?”

It takes every ounce of self-control Virgil possesses not to bolt or flinch or scream or otherwise negatively react. He knows this is Logan’s fever-addled brain speaking, he knows it doesn’t mean anything. “Yeah?”

“Papa, I don’ - I don’ feel so good,” Logan whimpers. “Papa, I - I think - I think ‘m sick, Papa.”

“Yeah,” Virgil says, approaching the bed and gently brushing a hand against Logan’s cheek. “Yeah, you are, kid.”

“Don’ like it, Papa.” “I know. It’s gonna be okay, Logan.”

“Papa, not - not gonna leave?” Logan sounds so small and fragile, and Virgil remembers the first time a tiny bundle of baby was placed in his arms and the first time he met those vibrant indigo eyes and the first time he knew that he would give anything in his life for this child and his happiness.

“No, kid. I’m not going anywhere.”

*~*~*~*~*

(occasion the third: logan’s senior year of high school)

“You Sanders men wouldn’t have a proper diet or a proper sleep schedule without me, would you?” Virgil sighs. He’d worked a late shift at the diner today; when Patton had picked up dinner for himself and Logan, Virgil had kissed him quickly and told him not to wait up.

Now, carefully shutting the door behind him, he’s beginning to think that he should have told Patton to pass the message on to his son.

It’s nearly midnight, and Logan is slumped across the kitchen table. The table is covered in a mountain of SAT prep books, all of them annotated in Logan’s cramped, increasingly sloppier handwriting. Logan has blue and black pen marks smeared all over his face, his tie is askew, and he’s creating a small puddle of drool as he breathes in and out.

“Aw, geez,” Virgil sighs. He toes off his shoes and leaves them in the tray, carefully dropping his coat and apron into a heap. Logan makes a soft snuffling noise. “You gotta get sleep, kid. How are you supposed to take an exam if you can barely keep your eyes open, huh?”

He carefully closes all of the books and piles them up neatly on the table, slides the pen from Logan’s hand and fills up his pencil case, piles the post-it notes in place. It takes some maneuvering, but Virgil finally manages to pick up Logan. He stirs in Virgil’s arms. “Whhmmmm?”

“Hey, kid,” Virgil murmurs. “We’re getting you to bed, okay?”

“Need t’study, Papa . . .”

Virgil’s heart clenches as he carries Logan to his room. “You need to sleep. You won’t pass the exam if you fall asleep in the middle of it, will you?”

“No, Papa . . .”

“Don’t burn yourself out. Take breaks, let your body recover. Isn’t it you who told me that the brain stores and processes information when you sleep?”

“Ye, Papa . . .”

Virgil carefully settles Logan on his bed, pulling off his tie and belt and shoes and glasses. “Sorry, Papa,” Logan yawns, eyes still closed. Virgil pulls the folded blanket from the foot of Logan’s bed and tucks it around him.

“Don’t apologize. Just sleep, okay?”

Logan is asleep again before Virgil’s even left the room.

*~*~*~*~*

(occasion the fourth: the aftermath of logan’s twenty-first birthday)

“Who knew my boyfriend was a lightweight?” Roman laughs. His second beer of the night is half-finished in his hand, and there’s a barely-buzzed but very-drunk Logan curled in his lap and lazily kissing his face. Virgil, the designated driver and therefore sober, would be slightly offended that his basically-son is making out with his boyfriend in front of him, but it is Logan’s twenty-first birthday, and they’re all chaste kisses along Roman’s jawline.

“I wasn’t expecting it, based on the stories Patton’s told me.”

“Do tell!” Roman says, wiggling his eyebrows.

“I will not,” Virgil says. “You need good healthy role models in your life, and if I tell you stories about shenanigans you’ll never take Patton seriously again.”

He finally manages to pile two giggly drunk teenagers into the back of his car and pull away from the remnants of Logan’s party. They’re whispering conspiratorially in the back seat. Virgil turns on his music on a low volume and keeps his eyes on the road.

It takes Roman approximately seven minutes to finally kiss Logan goodbye and stumble down the driveway to his house. (Logan does not make his job easier by clinging like a starfish and begging for “jus’ one more kiss, please?”) Virgil nods at Isadora when she opens the door, and she offers him a nod in return as she ushers Roman inside.

“I - I love him,” Logan slurs, yawning and leaning forward so that his head bonks against the driver’s seat.

“I know.”

“No, you - I - I love him, Daddy. I love him.”

Virgil adjusts his rearview mirror and laughs softly. “I know, Logan. I think all of Sideshire knows you love him.”

“They do?” Logan hums. “Do - d’you think Roman knows I love him, Daddy?”

“I’m sure Roman knows,” Virgil says.

“I should tell ‘im more, Daddy.”

“You can tell him everything you want tomorrow. Right now, we’re going home, and you’re drinking a bottle of water before you go to bed.”

“The - the human body is seventy-five percent water, Daddy. Ex - except Roman’s body. His is just made of muscle and pretty.”

Virgil barely manages to contain the laughter bubbling in his throat.

*~*~*~*~*

(occasion the fifth: logan’s sophomore year of college)

You have: three new voicemail messages!

First message: Saturday at 1:17 AM

“Daddy - Daddy, ‘s me, ‘s Logan, an’ I think I’m jus’ a tiiiiiiiny bit drunk? I wanna make a - a - a snack , but not like Roman, cause he’s a snack but I don’t - uuuuuuuum . . . what . . . was I askin’ you? Dunno . . .”

Second message: Saturday at 1:27 AM

“Daddy, ‘m sorry, got distracted cause - cause Roman is jus’ - jus’ so pretty - but I hada . . . a . . . question! Yeah, that’s the word. I wanna make those muffins you make, the ones with th’jam in the middle, an’ - but I don’ remember the recipe - how - how d’you put the jam in the muffins without cuttin’ ‘em in half? I don’ understand . . . I’ . . . call m’back, kay?”

Third message: Saturday at 2:48 AM

“Uh . . . Daddy . . . how d’you get batter stains outta y’r clothes . . .”

(“Virge? You okay?”

“Logan leaves the weirdest drunk voicemails.”)

*~*~*~*~*

(plus one: the aftermath of logan’s graduation from chilton)

“You really did that, huh, kid?” Virgil asks. Logan looks at him, mortar slightly askew, eyes bright and happy. He’s holding his diploma, and Virgil reaches over to ruffle his hair. He gently pulls Logan into a hug, and Logan holds on perhaps slightly tighter than normal. Virgil isn’t judging; he’s holding on tightly as well.

“Did what?” Logan asks. “Graduated? Were you expecting me not to?”

“No, of course I knew you’d do that.” Virgil feels the lump creeping up his throat. “I - I just - aw, hell, Logan -”

“Are you crying?!” Logan asks incredulously.

“No, shut the fuck up,” Virgil hisses reflexively. Logan laughs, and he sounds watery too, so Virgil lets it go. “I just - you - I -” Logan waits patiently while he takes a deep breath and collects his thoughts. “Good speech,” he finally settles on.

“Oh,” Logan says, voice small. “That.”

“You - you called me Dad.”

“That I did.”

“Was that on purpose?” Virgil asks. He holds his breath a little, not sure what he’ll do if Logan says no. He’s not sure what he’ll do if Logan says -

“Yes,” Logan says. “Of course it was. You may not have contributed to my genetic makeup, but - but you are my dad, Virgil. In every way that truly matters. You and Dad raised me, you kept me fed and healthy, the diner is my second home. You’re my - you’re my dad.”

Virgil hugs Logan tightly, one hand gently gripping the back of Logan’s hair and the other squeezing around his waist. “You are my son,” he whispers into Logan’s hair. “In every way that matters, you are my son.”

Logan takes a deep breath, and then, so quietly Virgil almost misses it, he whispers, “Eight, dad.”

Virgil inhales, shakily, and exhales, “Sixteen, kid.”

*~*~*~*~*

(plus two: the aftermath of virgil asking logan’s permission to propose)

Virgil curls his hands into fists on his jeans, staring very intensely at Logan’s sneakers. “I promise,” he says lowly, “that I’m not trying to intrude on your life. I know how important Patton is to you, I know how important you are to him. And I know it’s archaic and kind of sexist to ask for someone’s hand in marriage as if I’m asking permission for someone’s property, but - but I - you’ve put up with so much instability in your life, with your shitbag of a sperm donor -”

Logan snorts at the reference to Christopher, and Virgil lets the corner of his lip quirk up into a smile before settling back into Serious Mode. “- and I would never want to make you feel like you have to accept me. I’m not trying to marry Patton because I think I have to, or because I think I deserve to marry him, or - or because he owes me something. I want to marry him because - because I’ve spent so long loving him, and so long being loved by him, and we’ve made a home together and a life together and - hell, we’ve raised a kid together - and i just -”

“I’m sure this is all just one big insurance scam,” Logan jokes. Virgil wheezes, and Logan reaches out to take his hand.

“Virgil.” He pauses, and then, “Dad.”

Virgil’s head jerks up, and Logan smiles softly at him. “I know that you would never propose if you weren’t completely serious. I appreciate you coming to make sure that I would be alright with this marriage, because I know someone asking you this question if you were in my shoes would help to ease your anxiety about the transition.”

“That was . . . very emotionally astute.”

Logan smirks. “I know.”

“Brat,” Virgil laughs. He blinks, and suddenly his face is wet.

“I appreciate this,” Logan repeats, “but Roman and I have literally been planning your marriage since we met. You do not need to worry about my opinion in this matter. If it will ease your mind, though, yes, Dad, you have my blessing to propose to Papa.”

“You haven’t called him Papa in years,” Virgil says.

“I haven’t had another parent to call ‘Dad’ in years, either.”

Virgil couldn’t stop himself from hugging Logan if he tried. “Eight,” he says, and Logan hugs him tightly.

“Sixteen, Dad.”

#starshinewrites #annalise's birthday fic!#annalise tag!#platonic analogical #cw alcohol #cw illness

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everlarkchristmasgifts · 5 years

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Rated T for mild language

A/N: Part Four to the Christmas Drabbles followup of Pasty White Raisin for @everlarkchristmasgifts

Nine Days to Christmas - Christmas Tree

The tree for the inside of the brewery’s restaurant had gone up promptly the Friday after Thanksgiving. It was a beautiful, if fake, eight-foot thing with white fairy lights, paper-craft snowflakes, and garlands made of kettle corn that mysteriously lost kernels whenever patrons had to wait for seating. The rustic look was all Annie’s doing.

The real presents under the tree, were Katniss’.

Peeta routinely donated unsold baked goods to the local Salvation Army and youth center. Back in the summer, when they’d still been together, Katniss had often tagged along on his post-closing deliveries to them, and gotten to know some of the staff and regular patrons. With Annie’s blessing, she’d offered up the Tribute Brewery’s tree to double as a charity tree come Christmastime. And so, along with the other decoration, gift-wish tags from kids hung on the branches, and fulfilled requests were already starting to pile up under the tree.

It set the atmosphere, made the already cozy grill feel more like a place for family.

Sung its own carol of home.

Katniss felt a deep pang as she walked past it, pushing through the doors to the outside.

There, at least for the moment, others were feeling their own Christmas tree pain as well: The big spruce outside was only half done.

“I’m not Gumby, for crying out loud! Get me closer!”

The box at the top of the man-lift swayed precariously, jerking Finnick around like Raggedy Andy while Thresh operated the controls from the ground.

“Sorry,” Thresh called up, not sounding sorry.

“Next year, it’s you up here,” Finnick shot back. “And this year I actually mean it!”

“Nah uh, you like the thrill too much!”

On cue, the box jerked again, making Finnick grip the railing to keep from getting bucked out.

The owners of the brewery had been using the machine to decorate the tree for Christmas since long before any of them had come to work at Tribute. And every year was discussion and theorizing about how old the rickety thing was. Based on the peeling paint, rust, and tendency to produce grinding noises, general consensus among staff was was that it was probably at least as old as Christopher Reeves’ stint as Superman. The controls up in the box had long-since stopped working, and for the last several years, what should have been a two-man job, had required at least six staff:

One to operate the box from the controls at the unit’s base (Thresh), one to fetch whatever forgotten items needed fetching in terms of decoration (Katniss), one to risk life and limb going up high (Finnick), at least three to watch with oohs, ahhs, and wisecracks, and make bets about whether Finnick “really might die this time” (Johanna, plus two), and one to direct the placement of the decorations (Annie).

It was supposed to have been decorated for Christmas the day after Thanksgiving, like the tree inside, but between staff sick calls, a super busy season, and Finnick having seemed mysteriously distracted, it’d been put off.

“No, further to the right,” Finnick shouted down.

The box, with Finnick in it, jolted again, wobbling excessively.

“I swear, Finnick’s actually going to fall out of that thing one of these times,” Katniss said as she handed Annie a box of outdoor decorations she’d been sent for from one of the storerooms.

“He’s got a thick skull; he’d survive,” Annie smirked, right before a look of sudden horror crossed her face. “No, Finn baby, loop it on the next branch over! Yeah… No… Yeah, that one right there. Perfect!”

“Of course I am,” he called down.

Katniss snorted, then left them to it.

“What the hell is that?”

Haymitch muted the t.v. then tilted the neck of his beer bottle to the thing Katniss was dragging in with her through the front door. She wrestled it inside far enough to kick the door shut.

“It’s called— wait for it— ‘a Christmas tree.’”

“And what exactly do you do with one,” he smartassed back.

“You erect it and decorate it.”

“What, sort of like a—”

“STOP!” Katniss glared at him as severely as she could, anticipating the joke, and growling when she almost tripped while dragging her haul towards the living room. “Come on, just help me.”

“Just help me,” he aped back in a little girl’s voice. Nevertheless, he dutifully set his beer on the coffee table and helped her pull it over next to the t.v. It wasn’t a large tree, but it was still larger than her, and she had to body hug it to keep it upright. “I don’t have the stand anymore, you know,” he said.

“Under my arm,” Katniss butted him with her elbow as best she could, to signal where.

She and the tree almost went over for it.

“Stay,” he said to both, once he’d helped them back to satisfactorily vertical. He ferreted the base free and knelt down to work on setting the tree in it. “Scraggly damn thing,” he complained, once it was up and the netting cut away. He felt bad enough for it he actually tried to help the branches spread apart a little. “Where the hell’d you get it, Boyscout clearance aisle?”

“The youth center sells them.”

He eyed her.

“How come you didn’t just stop by the hardware store and get one of those fake ones that don’t shed damn pine needles all over my floor?”

“Our floor,” she grumbled, stripping herself out of her jacket like she’d been having a fight with it all day. “I live here, too, remember? And anyway, it’s a fir, not a pine.”

“Whatever.” He snatched his beer bottle back up dramatically, but instead of drinking, he eyed her again. “The center’s way outside your normal route home. That was a you and the boy place. Why’d you do that to yourself?”

“I had to go see them about a Christmas Eve thing. The brewery’s working along with their gift tree program this year.”

“Is it now.” Haymitch looked at her like he suspected she wasn’t telling the whole truth, but he didn’t press. Instead, he took a sip of his beer. “You do remember I don’t have ornaments, right? I got rid of all that stuff after you and Prim left.”

Katniss rolled her eyes, went to her room and came back with a small stack of boxes, putting them on the coffee table, opening each to reveal ornaments, lights, and other decorating fare.

“I’m the one who took them when I moved out, remember? Exactly because I knew you’d never set up a tree.”

“I had a tree last year.”

“It was ten inches tall and its lights were powered by a USB cord. Not exactly big enough to put presents under.”

“Which is another draw back to having a real tree: Now I have to populate it with presents. This coming back home thing of yours is getting expensive.”

“Uh uh. Like I haven’t already seen the top shelf in your bedroom closet.”

“And why exactly were you in my bedroom closet?”

“It’s where you always keep the presents.”

“When you were a kid.”

“I was never a kid,” she came back, and then kissed him on the cheek. “But you loved me anyway.”

“Yeah,” he said, after flashing her a look of faked irritation. “I guess you kinda grew on me. A bit like a weed. But, anyway, that’s a pretty ballsy assumption. Who’s to say those presents are for you?”

“I’m pretty sure the thing wrapped up to look exactly like a compound bow isn’t a regifted ugly sweater for that lady friend of yours.”

Haymitch humphed.

“Yeah well, haven’t decided whether to give it to you yet.”

“Because I might shoot you with it.”

“Exactly.”

Katniss started picking through the boxes, and pulled out a glass pickle ornament. It was one Prim had begged Haymitch into buying the first Christmas after their parents had died.

Haymitch noticed Katniss drawing her fingers over it.

“Did you call her back yet?”

Katniss tucked her braid back behind her ear with a quiet, “No.”

“You should take her up on the offer. You haven’t seen her in almost a year.”

“What, and spend Christmas as an outsider with my sister’s boyfriend’s family?” She shook her head. “Not my idea of fun.”

“It’s a hell of a lot better than hanging out here with your Uncle Grinch while pretending you’re not hurt about the boy. It might distract you. Throw on a bikini and you might even meet one of those muscled surfer types, too.”

She frowned at his attempt to cheer her up.

“I have plans here.”

“Come on, a little California would do you some good. Watching streaming video with your uncle over beer isn’t exactly Christmas, sweetheart.”

A thought made her snort. “It is if we watch the Hallmark Channel.”

“Like hell!”

She grinned. “Yeah, agreed.”

Haymitch took the pickle and placed it front and center on the tree, despite her complaints about it needing to go on last. Then, he unmuted the television and they decorated to the background noise of Storage Wars until Katniss caught a glimpse of her watch twenty minutes later.

“Here,” she handed him a strand of tinsel and got up.

“I hate tinsel.”

“Then wrap it in the loving arms of our tree creature.”

She disappeared to her room, then reemerged carrying a wrapped present. She slipped into her sneakers and jacket.

“And where are you going?”

“To deliver a present.”

“To who?”

“Don’t forget to water the tree,” she said as she left.

“Another reason to have a fake tree,” he grumbled once he was alone. He shook the dregs from his beer into the base, then gave the tree his best stink eye, “You start dripping resin onto my carpet, son, and it’s to the fireplace with you.”

#everlarkchristmasgifts #day five: christmas tree #by dandeliononfire #part 4 #fan fic #2018 #submission

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douxreviews · 5 years

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Outlander - ‘Man of Worth’ Review

"You dinna ken how worthy you are."

If I'm very very quiet, I swear I can hear the collective Outlander fandom starting to panic as droughtlander sets in.

I'm not mad at this finale. Not one bit. It may not have been as epic in scale as some others but it tied some things up and set some things up and delivered some exceptionally beautiful moments. I cant really imagine a better end for the season we got. Plus I now know exactly how I feel about Roger. Wins all around.

I haven't gone into it yet because I'm not sure how historically accurate it is but who ever was in charge of set design for the Mohawk village should get a raise just based on how beautiful it is. Everytime we're there I am taken aback by both the details and scale. Too bad we probably won't be seeing it for a while, if ever again.

How sad for Otter Tooth that he traveled all the way back in time to deliever a warning that he thought would save a people and a culture and they didn't even believe him. I mean, I'm not saying that running around inciting war dances and shoving scalps in peoples faces was the tact he should have taken but man. He and Geillis should start a a club in the afterlife. Maybe they already have.

The raid was an outright disaster and from what we know of people shunned by their tribes, the Native American woman that helped them isn't going to have a very happy life. I felt like Claire and Jamie should've offered for her to come back to the ridge. Or at least let her have the stone she was so desperate for. But hey, maybe they looked for her off camera and she was too good at hide and seek to be found.

The fight to get back to the river was exciting. It had me on the edge of my seat while Jamie's skill as a warrior and fighter kicked in Claire took down whoever got in her path (all while practically carrying Roger's useless body, but whatever). But it was for naught. They were severely outnumbered and surrounded and out of options. I find it hard to swallow that the Mohawk would hold on to Roger so stubbornly since he spent so much time disappointing them but can we give that Chief some kind of award for the amazing deal he struck for himself. He traded an injured fourth string nobody for an all-star that got through the spirit tunnel on his first try. Wow. Bargain master of the year.

I've stayed pretty on the fence with Ian. I liked him, I laughed at how naive and adorable he was. I even like his dog. But he was expendable as far as I was concerned. Then he traded himself to save Roger so that his uncle wouldn't have to. He even refused to run away and begged Jamie not to make him a liar. He stayed determined to honor his word and got himself expended and suddenly I miss him. Jamie is right. He really is a man worth very much. I suppose it would be silly to expect anything less. Ian has spent most of his life looking up to and emulating one of the most honorable people to exist. Of course he would have it coming out of his ears and his admiration for Native Americans has been set up from the jump. Out of everyone he could make a place for himself here. He found his clan. The whole goodbye amalgation ripped my guts out, Claire. Ian and Claire, Ian and Jamie. Even the fakeout Claire and Jamie goodbye was well done even though I was pretty sure what Ian was going to do from the second he decided it. You could feel that patented Jamie and Claire fire between them. It was beautiful and romantic and full of anguish and thankfully short lived. The emotional strikes just kept coming. Very well done all around. But that look of elation when Ian was accepted as a mohawk was worth the price of admission. He was so so happy. So I'm happy for him. It's as close to a happy ending as any other character has gotten.

Bye, Ian. I'll miss you more than I thought. Come visit soon.

And the there's Roger. I'm happy for Bree and all but I feel like she could do better. Way better. It's like when your friend gets together with their ex for the 300th time... Fine, I accept this. I knew it was coming but it's still very dumb. It's not that he's a bad person or that he hasn't been through a terrible ordeal. And hey, he did show up fir her at that the end. He's just such a whiner. He didn't even seem particularly grateful to be saved. Just slumped over and rolling his eyes and helping not at all during the attempted escape to the river but then had buckets of energy to throw into his fists at Jamie. And during his tantrum, he took no responsibility for leaving Bree alone in the freaking 18th century and only seemed to show emotion about it when he realized he couldn't cart her back through the stones to yell at her some more. Give it a rest, Rog everyone has been through terrible things. Hell, as far as Roger knows Ian just put his life in the hands of men that will be kicking the crap out of him for no reason for the rest of his life. He couldn't even mutter a 'thanks, bro'??

Bree was attacked by Bonnet? OMG, he totally forced me to sail up the coast with him. Guys a monster!!

I did very much like all the character beats sprinkled throughout that confrontation in the woods. Jamie took everything that Roger dished out because he was wrong for beating him in the first place but he wasn't so sorry that he could hide his anger that Roger didn't stick around to protect his daughter from Bonnet. It was written all over Claire's face that she was desperate for him to be the kind of husband for her daughter that Jamie is but was trying very hard to be understanding and calm.

While Ian was busy becoming a man and Roger was busy deciding what kind of man he wants to be, Murtagh and Jocasta had a slumber party. Possibly manh. The writers have been pandering to an eventual coupling since these two got on screen together and I am here for it. They did the whole thing so well, too. Even though I been waiting for them to get together i was still somehow taken by surprise when it happened. I love love love them together so much. Both opinionated and stubborn and crotchety and passionate. I loved every second of it. I loved that neither one would back down even though their words were obviously hitting nerves left and right. And the whole thing was bookended by food. At the start, they were sharing dinner and the next thing I know, hes asking her to skip breakfast. It felt like a glimpse of a domesticated life that Murtagh could've had. Or maybe symbolic of the life that Jocasta is putting in jeopardy. Or maybe they were just meals and I am seriously over reaching. It wouldn't be a finale review if I didn't make at least one mountain out of a molehill.

As Outlander finales go, this was tame as a kitten. Sure Jamie's been put in charge of getting rid of his godfather but investing in even the idea that anything could ever truly come between them is laughable. Their loyalty has been tested worse than this. It just wouldn't be believable to me for that bond to fall apart now. And now that Aunt Jocasta is on board (I think?) the rest should be cake.

It hit the beats I needed it to. There have been stronger finales to be sure but I don't how this particular season could've been tied up better.

3.5 out of 4 ominous stone necklaces.

Bits and pieces

Jamie's instincts are still so keen that he can feel the presence of other people in the woods. Once an outlaw...

Do we understand why Otter Tooth helped Claire find Jamie after that storm earlier in the season? Are they cosmically connected?

I felt a pang of sadness for the time. Ian keeps racking up people that he will probably never see again or ever get to say goodbye to. His parents, siblings, Fergus, Murtagh, Bree. It's practically never ending. He did get to say goodbye to Jamie and Claire though.

Where did Ian get the Mohawk version of Rosetta Stone??

I wonder if I will view Ian differently when I inevitable rewatch these past seasons he was in given my new found respect and love for the character.

I wonder if Father Alexander participated in the spirit tunnel??

All Roger and Bree do is flirt and argue and somehow I hate them for it. So far Murtagh and Jocasta have followed their example but somehow I'm fully on board. What gives??

Oh, and Bree had her baby. I wonder who his godfather will be. Who is Germain's for that matter??

Murtagh certainly has a type. As far as we know hes only been serious about two people in his life. Sisters that heavily favor each other. Interesting.

I was bumming a little that we didn't get to see Jamie's relief and reaction to the knowledge that Bree forgave him. But it kind of all read in the reunion. There was an ease to the family dynamic even though crap news was getting delivered.

No Fergus. No Marsali. Did they make it to the ridge? Is the pig still alive? Is Fergus a wanted man?

Murtagh: "Thank you for the roast. It's been a long time since I had a meal this fine. " Jocasta: "I imagine it's better than whatever they were serving in the jail at Wilmington." Murtagh: "News travels fast." HA.

Jamie: "I will come back to you Sassenach."

Ian: "You once said you wished me to become a man of worth." Jamie: "You dinna ken how worthy you are." I'm not crying, you're crying.

Jocasta: "How does it taste?" Murtagh: "Like home." Jocasta: "Whiskeys hard to come by in the new world." Murtagh: "Aye and I canna drink that horse phish they call rum." Hahahaha.

Jocasta: "I'm an old woman now, my wars are behind me and you should put yours behind you as well."

Roger: "Having me beaten almost to death and sold into slavery seemed a trifle extreme even for a woman with her temper."

Jamie: "You cost me a lad that I love and my daughter doesn't need a coward. I'd rather her hate me than for you to break her heart again. So make up your mind." Roger: "I need some time." Claire: "If you need time you should take it because this is our daughter so you better be sure." Would you rather face Jamie and Claire or a tribe of angry Mohawk Native Americans???

Laure Mack

#Outlander #Claire Beauchamp #Claire Fraser #Jamie Fraser #Outlander Reviews #Doux Reviews #TV Reviews

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