#i did almost cry when i tried to sketch his hands but maybe that was the red wine talking..

[drewsephrry]

memories

harry styles x reader

inspired by: Memories-Conan Gray

warnings: alcohol consumption, yelling, crying (idk if it counts as a warning) cuss words

words: 2.7k

It was a rainy autumn night. She had a random movie playing in the background just to comfort her. She hated rain with passion. She hated that she was all alone and the only thing she could do to distract herself from it was look at old pictures.

Pictures from her childhood that were much too nostalgic for her, trying really hard to remember the name of the girl braiding her hair. Pictures from her vacation with her best friends from the previous summer, matching flower crowns and seashell necklaces on display. Pictures with her previous lover, that if she saw just two months ago she would cry her heart out but instead she smiled and reminisced about the tattoo he had let her draw on his skin shown in the photo.

It was a random Thursday night, the couple was chilling with their friends when Zayn told them that he had just acquired a tattoo gun. Harry was thrilled with the idea of putting more ink on his skin and even more so when Niall suggested that he let Y/N draw one on him.

Y/N had almost immediately shook her head in denial but Harry begged and begged until she sighed, defeated.

“Harry, you do know you're going to be stuck with it forever?” She warned.

“Yes, my love. Stop worrying about everything.” He tries to reassure her once more.

“But H, what if I mess it up? Or-or even worse we break up and you have it on your skin for the rest of your life?” She started asking with shakily hands, stuttering and failing to breathe properly.

“Y/N, honey, breathe. You'll be fine. Okay and what if you mess it up? That would just make it even more special to me. I love you and I completely trust you.” He puts his hands on her shoulders, trying to calm her down. “I'm not planning on breaking up with you anytime soon, maybe even ever. Unless you do and you're trying to let me down slowly, I don't see anything wrong with you tatting me.” He reassures her once again and she sighs, nodding. Harry smiles widely and pecks her lips, before pulling his long hair up in a bun.

After sterilizing the equipment and Zayn showing her how the gun works, she was ready. She didn't feel like it, but Harry squeezed her hand three times, their way of expressing their love to each other without actually saying anything.

She asked him multiple times, as the tattoo gun hit his skin if he was in any pain and if he needed anything, but Harry told her repeatedly he was fine and was praising her for her light touch.

After just a few minutes, the sketch, she had done on a random notebook Zayn had in his apartment, was brought to life.

A palm tree on the backside on his upper arm was delicately outlined and filled by her. She grabbed the handheld mirror that Zayn gave her and held it so Harry could see the work she did.

“Do you like it? If you don't, we can find something to cover it up with and I'll pay for it.” She suggested immediately, worried because he hadn't spoken yet. But the truth was he was mesmerized by it.

“I love it. It's so simple but yet done so beautifully. Thank you, my love. Thank you so so much.” He said kissing her lips. She smiled and sighed once again.

“Thank you for trusting me with this.”

“Well, you know what they say. Tat for tit!” He exclaimed jokingly, trying to lift her shirt when Y/N pushed his hand away giggling.

“You're such an idiot!”

Suddenly, she heard a knock on her door. She stopped gazing at her phone and another knock was heard. She got up from her couch cautiously. It was really late and it was pouring outside. Who could it be?

She grabbed the pepper spray from her handbag, as another knock was heard. She clutched her phone, close to her chest, ready to call the police.

She looked through the peephole and saw the one person she didn't expect to.

Harry was standing there, his hair sticking on his forehead and his clothes soaked.

She quickly unlocked the door and gasped.

“Harry, what are you doing here?” She asked, worried and confused.

“Need to talk with you, angel.” He slurred, an obvious sign he was drunk. He was pouting and his glossy, his green eyes were bloodshot telling her he was crying. His cologne was overcome by the smell of tequila. Y/N couldn't do anything else than open the door wider and gestured for him to come in.

She closed the door behind her and walked to her kitchen to pour some water for him, in hopes that he would sober up a little. He followed her like a wet and lost puppy that she couldn't turn away.

He takes a gulp of the water she hands him and smiles at her. She looked so cute and tiny compared to him, her hair was a little longer and her skin was still tanned from summer.

“I love you so much Y/N/N. I never wanted to hurt you.” He slurred again.

“But you did, H.” She couldn't tolerate standing there and listening to him pour his heart out when he broke her own a few months ago.

Y/N had started getting better. Getting over him. She was considering starting dating again. But seeing him like this made it so hard for her to think. Think about how fucked what he did and said was.

“Please, my baby, my love, listen to me. I made a huge mistake.” He was pulling his hair and trying to balance on his own two feet. He stumbled and fell to the floor, Y/N immediately reaching for him to make sure he was alright.

“I have missed you. I can't sleep without you. I barely eat anymore. I-I…don’t know what to do without you.” He confessed, tearing up. He pulled his knees up to his chest as he sat with his back on one of the kitchen cabinets.

Y/N was nodding, feeling upset and guilty she made him feel like this.

“H-Harry…I don't know what to say. Please, don't cry. You can stay with me tonight. We'll be fine.” She bent down to be eye level with him, comforting him and hugging him tightly. Neither one of them could deny how safe they felt in that moment, in each other's arms.

Y/N knew she was making a huge mistake, something her therapist won't be able to help with, something her friends cannot support and mostly she cannot expect any one of them to be there to pick up her pieces when everything would break down again.

Harry was led to her bedroom and she helped him lay down, removing his articles of clothing that he claimed felt like lava on his skin.

“Why were you all alone? Don't you still hate the rain?” He asked, getting under the covers of her bed, his eyes slightly closed. Y/N nodded and walked towards her side of the bed.

Y/N laid beside him, wrapping her arms around his back and to his front. He squeezed them three times, before quiet snores were the only thing heard.

How could she say goodbye to him again, when he just spent an entire night with her?

That morning Y/N woke up to an empty bed. She walked out to her living room, to see that she was all alone.

He had left her.

She walked to the kitchen with an ache in her chest and saw a plate with a stack of pancakes with maple syrup on her kitchen counter for her to indulge in.

She ended up spending her whole day crying and watching ‘The notebook’.

The next day, when Y/N's therapy appointment was scheduled, she told her about the night she spent with Harry, how she felt safe and for once, after a few months, slept like a baby and through the whole night.

Her therapist scolded her about her poor choices and talked to her about stepping forward.

A few days passed since Y/N's and Harry's last encounter. Y/N was getting ready for her best friend's birthday party when a knock was heard on her door. She yelled that she'll be right there, thinking it was the delivery guy with her food.

She grabbed her wallet and ran to the door with a wide smile on her face. Although when she opened the door, it was wiped away quickly. She swallowed and looked at Harry's green eyes.

“I missed holding you.” He slurred. Y/N was already running late to help her best friend with the party preparations. She was planning on getting there first out of everyone, to blow balloons and hang the garlands she had bought. But her meal hadn't arrived in time and now, this was happening.

She opened the door wide and he entered, he walked and sat down on her couch with a thump. He giggled at the sound he made and got quickly distracted by the show on her TV.

Y/N groaned and tried to keep in her mind what her therapist, mom and best friend told her.

“It's hard to find an end to something that you keep beginning, over and over again.”

“Hey, come look at this! Monica got stung by a jellyfish!” He giggled, getting comfortable on her couch.

She cursed under her breath, thinking how he would fuck up her progress in getting over him. Now twice. She grabbed her phone from the coffee table and walked in her bedroom to call her best friend.

“I'm really sorry, but I won't make it tonight.” She lied.

“What? Y/N, it's my birthday! You can't miss it.” Her best friend had furrowed her eyebrows, even if Y/N couldn't see it.

“I love you so much, I'll explain everything another time. And I am really and truly sorry.” She apologized again.

“Don't tell me he's there again.” Her best friend groaned and Y/N sighed.

“Y/N/N, he's no good for you. He's going to hurt you again. He's going to keep coming back since you're not turning him away. This is a never ending cycle, babe. Think about all the trauma he put you through. You need to put him in the past and move on.”

Y/N sighed defeated. Her best friend was right.

“Again, I'm really sorry.” She apologized one last time, before hanging up the phone. She walked back to the living room, where he was laying on the couch watching as Ross yelled ‘We were on a break!’. Harry chuckles at that and looks up to find you standing a few feet away from him.

“Care to join me, my beautiful girl?” he asked, making space for her and she smiled sadly as she nodded.

“Let me take my heels off really quick and I'll be right there.” She assured him, going inside her bedroom again, untying the straps from her heels and sitting down on her bed to catch her breath. She felt like throwing up. She felt her chest heating and that she was unable to breathe.

One, two.

One, two.

In, out.

In, out.

She was calm again.

The doorbell was heard, so she got up and out of her bedroom to find Harry already at the door.

“Stay the fuck away from her!” His slurred British accent alarming you. You ran quickly at the door and pushed Harry away from it.

“I'm really sorry about him, he's not feeling well. Thank you for your service!” Y/N tipped the now scared delivery guy, grabbing the bag of food from his hand and closing the door quickly. She pressed her back on it and sighed loudly.

“Don't be upset with me. He just wanted to get in your pants. I was trying to protect you. I always will.” Harry's eyes filled with tears once again. A laugh track was heard and she sighed again.

“It's okay, H. I'm fine. We're fine. Let's go eat!” She grabbed his hand and he smiled, wiping his eyes.

They spent the rest of the night cuddling on her couch.

The next day, he was gone again. She opened her phone to see multiple texts and calls from her best friend, telling her not to worry and that she would forgive her for bailing on her.

Y/N ignored all of them, including her therapist's email to confirm their weekly appointment. She knew that she would be disappointed to hear that she's taking more and more steps back.

A week later, she still hadn't heard a word from Harry and she waited for his appearance on her doorstep.

And there he was, a loud knock on the door startling her from the cookies she decided to bake as a stress reliever.

She ran to the door and opened it to find him there. He looked a little bit better than the last times he visited her, although he still reeked of tequila.

“Hello, my love.” He said, approaching her to kiss her lips. But she pulled away and shook her head. She opened the door wider for him to enter. He did and walked to the couch, sitting down and removing his shoes, already getting comfortable. Y/N couldn't take it anymore.

“We need to talk. I don't care if you're sober or drunk as fuck, but this has got to stop.” She said upset.

“What's bothering you baby? I can kiss it better.” He giggled and made grabby hands at her.

“Harry, I am serious. You can't keep doing this. There's no good reason to believe that we could ever exist again. I cannot be your friend. I definitely cannot be your lover. And I cannot be the reason we hold back each other from actually falling in love with someone else.” Y/N felt lighter after telling him exactly how she felt.

Harry felt a lump growing on his throat, his eyeline was gathering tears and he felt his chest tightening. Suddenly his head was clearer and he wasn't under the influence of alcohol completely.

“I just…you can't keep showing up, especially drunk, ruining everything. Expecting me that I would just take you back. You fucking traumatized me Harry. You broke my heart. And I'm trying so hard to forget you, to put you in the past and you're not letting me do that. You're just too busy playing the victim and acting like you are the one who's hurt, like you're the one that has a specialist taking care of you and your feelings. Can you just for once listen to me and stay the fuck away from me? Just…stay in my memories.”

She felt tears rolling down her cheeks, she didn't even notice she was crying. Harry looked down on the floor, sniffling. Y/N wiped her tears and sat down beside him.

“Since you came all the way over here, I'll let you stay. You can stay as long as it takes, but this is the last time. When you're going to leave, you're taking all of your books that you have left, your coat that’s still in my closet and that good cologne that you have left in my bathroom and it haunts me. It's still on my clothes and pretty much everything that I own and it makes me…feel like dying. I mean, I'm barely surviving as it is.”

Harry was feeling like his heart was being stabbed over and over again. He hadn't realized how much damage he had done to Y/N. He didn't want her to feel that way anymore.

He got off from her couch and walked to her bedroom grabbing his coat, the cologne from the bathroom and gathered the books from her bookcase, putting them inside a tote bag, which was also his.

“I'm not gonna bother you anymore. I-I am really sorry for the damage I did. I never meant to hurt you. I love you way too much and…I know what I'm saying is not gonna change anything but I needed to get it off my chest. I wish you only the best, my lo-Y/N. And I'll always be there for you, if you ever need me. But I'll just stay in your memories.”

He kissed her lips once. Twice. Three times.

When he pulled away both of them had tears rolling down their cheeks, their eyes were red and their lips swollen from the kisses they shared.

“I guess this is goodbye.” Harry whispers. “For now.” He smiled and Y/N nodded.

“Goodbye H. Take care.”

A/N: just a lil valentines day gift lol, this was heartwrenching to write, hope you all enjoyed and cried with me

#harry styles #one direction #harry styles story #harry styles fic #harry edward styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x reader #harry styles angst #harry styles au #harry styles imagine

[beansprean]

Queening the Pawn Part 7

End of Act I

Part 1-2 Part 3 Part 4-5 Part 6 Part 7

Act 2

When sketching, I got to this page fully expecting a huge blowout, but... Turns out Guillermo was tired of yelling. :( Let him cry for a bit. Act II is a ways off but coming with new revelations, lies, truths, and, of course, homosexuals having an argument lmao

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. Guillermo stands with his back to the viewer, adjusting his glasses on his face while the stake in his opposite hand teeters in his grip. Nandor's last words echo around his head over and over: "like you always do." The background is almost fully black, stained with red blood. Nandor continues talking from offscreen, "Maybe I did not drink enough from you, or too much, or we waited too long before you drank mine. Or perhaps turnings just do not work on Sundays, or-" Guillermo interrupts, "Or..." 1b. Close up on Guillermo as he turns around to face Nandor, a bitter shaky smile struggling to life on his face as tears slip down from his filling eyes. "...Or maybe I just can't be turned." 1c. Close up on Nandor, looking torn and unsure how to respond, eyes large and shaky. There is a clatter offscreen as Guillermo drops the stake, and he repeats shakily, "I can't..." 1d. Reverse shot of Guillermo as he removes his glasses to rub his wrist against his weeping eyes, a frown twisting his wobbly mouth as he tries to get himself together. The blood pattern has disappeared from the background. Nandor speaks up from off-panel, "...I am...sorry. I am so sorry, Guillermo."

2a. Guillermo, left hand clutching his folded glasses to his chest and the right lifted to cover his eyes, begins to turn and says urgently, “I-I have to go-“ Nandor’s shoulder startles in the corner. 2b. Close up action panel as Nandor’s right hand snaps out to grab Guillermo’s left wrist, shouting, “Wait, don’t!” 2c. Guillermo stops, but continues hiding his face and sniffling softly. We see him from above at Nandor’s height, looking surprisingly small with his shoulders hunched protectively and Nandor’s large hand circling his wrist. Behind him, there is a faint vision of 10-years-ago Guillermo smiling as he unbuttons his collar and promises forever. 2d. Reverse shot of Nandor from below at Guillermo’s height, looking struck by thought as he gazes down at his friend with worry. Behind him, there is a faint vision of 10-years-ago Nandor smiling brightly in response, the word forever surrounding him in bright colors. Shakily, Guillermo prompts, “What.”

3a. Wide shot as Nandor falls to his knees in front of Guillermo, expression painted and desperate with one hand resting hesitantly on Guillermo's waist and the other hovering as it releases his wrist, which is still clutching his glasses to his chest. Guillermo’s other hand is still rubbing furiously at his face. The stake rolls, abandoned, on the ground. Nandor pleads, "Please do not cry..." Guillermo snaps back in a shaky voice, "Don't tell me what to do, I'm still so angry at you." The background is now fully in detail, revealing the open door of Nandor's crypt, a settee stuffed with pillows and furs, a lone chair, and an old painting of Viceroy Nandor. 3b. Nandor puts his arms fully around Guillermo and pulls him in, tucking his head to rest against the human’s chest. Guillermo appears to fall into him, shaking legs buckling slightly as he throws his arms around Nandor's neck and sobs. Nandor says, "Ok. You may cry for now and do the yelling later. Right now, I am afraid. So you must stay. My dear Guillermo..." /end ID

#WWDITS #nandermo #mlm #nandor the relentless #guillermo de la cruz #what we do in the shadows fx #what we do in the shadows #queening the pawn #my art #fanart #image described #nandor b like first we mansplain…then we manipulate…then we…malewife?? 😳

[notebooknonbinary]

Byler Week, Day 6: Pre-Volume 2 Vibes

:)

-

He eyes the two sketches. They both would be a bit like putting his heart on the canvas. But which one would be more damning?

And which one would make Mike the happiest to get?

…

Still undecided, he pads out into the living room. Thankfully, Mom is between calls. She looks up and gives him a weary smile.

Evens, the DnD picture, odds, the swingset. “Hey, can you pick a number between one and ten?

“Hmmm, seven.”

“Okay…Thank you…”

Will goes back to his room, closes the door, and forces down the roiling anxiety making his throat tight. Swingset painting it is, then.

Mechanically, he finishes setting out his painting supplies. He sets the drawing in easy view of the easel.

If the painting is too much…If he finishes painting out this pivottable moment from their childhood (“It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”), and the love he has for Mike comes across too clearly…Well, he can just give Mike the drawing of the DnD scene. It’s a good drawing anyway. One he’ll probably want to paint out at some point anyway.

He takes a few deep breaths, and focuses on the canvas.

-

Will hates to see Mike so down on himself.

Perhaps it’s not the best time. Maybe he should be a good friend and brother, focusing on trying to fix whatever it is that’s broken Mike and El apart so badly. But Will’s heart is hurting that Mike is hurting and he just wants to see him smile.

“Can I show you something?”

Heart in his throat, he hands the painting over. Jonathan and Argyle in the front of the van seem miles away. All Will can focus on is Mike’s face, as he unrolls the painting.

And…

A smile spreads across Mike’s face, and it’s the most beautiful thing in the world to Will.

Mike looks up to beam at him.

“This is amazing,” he says genuinely. “Did you paint this?”

“Yeah…I…I mean…” Will looks away, feeling flustered at the genuine awe and happiness that’s taken over Mike’s face. He picks at a loose thread on his pants.

“These past few months, I’ve been so…lost without you.” He curls his fingers into the fists. “It’s just…I’m so different from other people.” His eyes suddenly burn from the tears he’s been swallowing back all week. “And when you’re…different, sometimes you can feel like a mistake.” He forces himself to face Mike, needing him to understand. “But you don’t make me feel like a mistake. You make me feel like being different is good. I think I’ve been kind of mean and distant lately, but that’s just because I’m so scared of losing you.” He bites his lip, feeling like maybe he’s said a bit too much. He refocuses on the painting.

“A couple years ago you said…asking to be my friend was the best thing you’ve ever done…” Will swallows and looks up, watches Mike’s face go pink. His eyes are wide and almost sparkling. Pretty. It gives Will the courage to finish speaking. “Well, I guess this was me saying that telling you yes was the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Mike tears up, and it’s so sudden and startling (Mike hardly ever cries), that Will feels himself tearing up again in response.

And then Mike grabs him into a hug, tight and warm and oh so familiar. “Thank you Will. This is the best thing I’ve ever gotten.”

For a moment they sit, hugging and crying a little, and for the first time all week things feel brighter.

“I tried to call,” Mike mumbles into Will’s shoulder. “But the line was always blocked with your Mom’s job. I’ve been scared of losing you too, because it keeps happening.”

Oh.

Part of Will immediately wants to burst out into apologies, allow the nudging guilt at the back of his brain to take the forefront. But that can wait until later.

Right now, Will just wants to hug his best friend. Everything else fades into the background. This moment is theirs.

-

In the front of the van, unheard by the younger teens, Argyle whispers. “Dude, was that a confession? Does baby bro have a boyfriend now?”

Jonathan nudges him. “If they are, they’ll say so when they’re ready.” He bites his lip. Either way, I should make sure Will knows I’m here for him.

#bylerweek2023 #Day 6: Pre-Volume 2 #byler #stranger things #will byers #mike wheeler #I love being cliche:D and bro all y’all who have drawn or painted that DnD scene I am So impressed by you bc that shit was Difficult— #—and that’s w/o me putting any details in. #any dialogue you recognize is from the show #this is the ‘comic’ I was talking about when I was like I drew Will and Mike in completely different styles lmao

[bimbo-superstar]

Darkness is my lover

Yandere Vincent Sinclair x plus size reader 

WARNING DARK THEMES INCLUDE: Dub-con, captivity, forced breeding, dark topics overall, Vinny is sweet in some of the points but controlling and possessive in others.

Please proceed with caution, not intended for younger audiences. 

▬ι═ﺤ ▬ι═ﺤ ▬ι═ﺤ ▬ι═ﺤ ▬ι═ﺤ ▬ι═ﺤ ▬ι═ﺤ ▬ι═ﺤ ▬ι═ﺤ ▬ι═ﺤ ▬ι═ﺤ ▬ι═ﺤ ▬ι═ﺤ 

♡Vincent became infatuated with you the minute Bo dragged you down to the basement unconscious, you just look so beautiful the full cheeks, your plump lips, those thighs you had, he just had to keep you, but he knew Bo would not allow that to happen, so he hid you.

♡The first month you had attempted to escape multiple times, you almost succeeded the last time which is why you ended up strapped to Vincent's chair, he couldn't believe why you were being ungrateful maybe if he started to treat you like how Bo treats his victims, you'll learn your lesson so that's what he did.

♡You are chained to Vincent's worktable, he put a mattress and some pillows and blankets down, so you won't bump and cut up your delicate body cause vin doesn't want to see his darling hurt unless He’s the one doing the hurting you are his muse after all

♡To Vincent you're like his little doll that he can dress up, feed, wash and use, he needs affection too and with you resisting and resenting him sometimes he can get rough and force you to cuddle up to him or if he’s sexually frustrated, he will take it out on you whether you want it or not 

♡ He loves when you cry and just lay there staring into space, it gives him the perfect opportunity to sketch you how the tears roll down your cheek and hit the dirty basement floor it's like art to him.

♡ His nicknames for you are: My darling, My muse, My babydoll these are usually with passive aggressiveness to the tone and a hint of possessiveness to them also cause Vincent is very insecure and he believe you are his property and he can do whatever he wants to do to you and if someone tries to help you or stop him he has no problem with adding them to his endless collection of wax figures, this includes you if you want to misbehave and continue to act like a selfish bitch he would make you into a figure a special one of course with accessible holes for him to use 

♡Once you succumb to Stockholm syndrome Vinny will allow for you to roam the house and sleep in the room with him, he even allows for you to cook for him, Bo, and Lester you're also allowed to walk Jonesy with Lester 

♡Vincent allows for you to take up some hobbies so you don't think about leaving him again, he buys paint sets, yarn so you can make bracelets to distract you, over the months of you being there you start to crave his affection and attention which is what he wants in a darling he does not want you to disobey or try to leave him, watching him make figures makes you want to try it out so he allows you to sit in his lap while his big hands engulf yours and guides them

♡Vincent loves the thought of forcing himself inside of you if you don't comply with having children with him, he does not mind pushing you down and pounding into you and Cumming bucket loads inside of you, the thought of you being pregnant with his babies makes him go crazy it creates more possessiveness from you 

♡He would fuck you in areas he knows where Bo will pop up at, to Vincent Bo is the more attractive twin but knowing that he can fuck you and Bo cant makes his head spin and the blood rush to his cock, the way you scream and moan with him inside of you and the way you drool with your eyes rolled back while Bo watches from the shadows is what makes Vincent fuck into you harder and faster. He wants his brother to know that he owns you and he can never have you.

DAYUM I HOPE I DID GOOD FOR YOU MY LOVES 

should i make this into a little fic or something LET ME KNOWW 

I LOVE YALLL 

#vincent sinclair x reader #slasher fandom #house of wax 2005 #yandere Vincent Sinclair x reader #plus size reader

[aeferkssr]

dumb conversations, we lose track of time. - playlist

CHARACTERS. the vigilant yaksha, the balladeer, the chalk prince

WARNINGS. emotional neglect (x), fake dating (s), scaramouche is a dick

SYPNOSIS. they tried their best to show you that they cared, that they did love you. but you wanted more

NOTES. "cianna ely comeback collab🤔🤔" "YESSS" omg yall its the long awaited collab with @elychee !!! this collab is basically a lyric prompt thing hut we stiched our specialties (mine being tooth-rotting fluff and theirs being angst)

XIAO

if you'd ask me, i would say that dating - or even falking in love - with xiao was a bad idea. he looks so emotionally distant, c9nstantly in hisbown head and just not ready to be in an intimate relationship.

however, what i didn't know is that xiao felt the same way about you that you did of him. he longed for your prescence, and even went out of his way to watch you as you went home in the days. to "protect" you from any dangers he says, but you know why

and if he loved you so much, if he was so enamoured with you, why is he so distant? you barely see him in the days and almost never in the nights. he comes to you as a form of consolation, but is that all you are to him?

youre truly flattered at the fact that he trusts you enough to be vulnurable, but thats all he seeks you out for. as his lover, you wanted more. since you were the one always comforting, you didn't know what it was like to be conforted in this relationship.

and you wouldnt dare to bring up your concerns while xiao's karmatic debt is consuming him whole, that would be insensitive.

when you had have enough of his emotional neglect and broke off the relationship, xiao was comsumed with extreme guilt. he started to blame himself, how dare he not notice that you were feeling this way.

as you were leaving, he stretched his hand out towards you but no words came out, you didnt even know that he tried to call out to you. the farther you walked, and the weaker your prescence got, the more overwhelming his karmic debt got.

the only thing he could do was whisper your name before falling unconcious, hoping that the wind would carry his cry along with it.

ALBEDO

the alchemist sighs as he subconciusly fills his notebook with more sketches. the sketches were differnet angles of you doing different things: smiling, laughing and even eating. brushstroke by brushstroke he captures your beauty on paper and wishes you were there to comment on it.

you never really saw thw multitude of sketches he has done for you during your time togther so he desnt really know jow you'd react to it.

maybe you would havw stars in your eyes as you vocally praised him for being such an amazing and talented artist. littering kisses all over his face as a thank you.

or maybe you were on the shyer type when receiving compliments, hiding behind your hair or hands while your face flushes with a bright pink.

now that he thinks more on this, he never really complimented you, or avknowledge your prescence in the first place. the most he would do is to nod his head into acknowledgement of what you were saying.

he could guess that you thought he wasn't listening but you were wrong, he listened. he listenend to every word that came out of that pretty littlw mouth of yours. even the words that ended what you two had, a relationship. a relationship that has been broken down into hundreds of thousands of particles.

he snaps out of his day dream as he looks at all the sketches of you he had done. signing, he tears the page out of his notebook into the trash. relationships were quite troublesome anyways.

SCARAMOUCHE

of all the harbringers who would be in a relationship, scaramouche was universally agreed to be the least likely.

just look at him, constantly shouting at his colleagues, subordinated and even cussing off the tsaritsa herself when hes not in shneznaya. what makes you think he would be fit for a romantic relationship?

scaramouche heard this and decided to prove them all wrong. and who better to date than one of his underlings subbordinates. you have always been a little too eager to follow his orders and you had this dumb smile on your face whenever you would walk into his office.

when he summoned you into his office and proposed the idea, he could see your eyes light up at the idea of dating. fake dating he stresses, but you defend yourawlf by explaining how fake dating is dating nonetheless.

not even a month into the relationship and this has to be the lowest you've ever been in your life. everyday was a new headache, either it was the constajt shouting at you for doing thw slightest thing wrong or from dehydration of you crying so hard.

the feelings you once harboured for his went away as soon as they came. you knew he was mean, but you didn't realize he started to harbour feelings of his own.

when he thinks about the fact on how or even when he started to feel this way he can't pinpoint the exact time but he would always comment on how pretty you looked when you cried.

but scaramouche would rather die than compliment you, so he made you cry even more. degrading comment after degrading comment and eveeytimw yoyr eyes started to gloss he would have a small smile on his face, admiring you.

with the month gone, so were you. within the same week of "breaking up", you also resigned from the fatui. saying you needed rime to collect yourself after a personal incident.

scaramouche can now see you in the frozen parks of shneznaya smiling with your supposedly new lover, holding a cup of hot chocolate as yoy slowly sip the beverage. he walks by you two and overhears your lover's words: "you're so beautiful when you smile"

this remark made scaramouche scoff, you clearly looked prettier when your eyes were swollen and nose red from the harsh rubbing. to scaramouche, you looked your happiest when you were sad. and if being with him made you sad, then thats what makes you the happiest person ever.

#idolteyvat #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact headcannons #genshin headcanons #genshin impact angst #genshin angst #xiao #xiao x reader #xiao x you #xiao x y/n #xiao x reader angst #scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x you #scaramouche x y/n #scaramouche angst #albedo kreideprinz #albedo #albedo x reader #albedo x you #albedo x y/n #albedo angst #cianna ely collab real

[miguel-ohara-wifey]

I’ll find you

Chapter 3: This love is mine all mine

Miguel O’Hara x Reader

Rating: 18+

Prompt: You go to collect the blood your husband owes you, but now your future is in question

Word count: 4K

Your old marital home now stands as a decaying monument to a dead family, and soon. The tomb of a man whose the source of its rot.

Alongside Miguel, him and you made cover behind the line between grassy hills and the thickly crowded woods beyond your old home. A reddish pink murals the sky above, foretelling the night to come in an hour or two. Your horses hitches tied to stumps as you push your back against a tree. Miguel leans against another casing the area, he was finished reporting how many guards there are.

“I’ll ask a dumb question, you gotta plan?” Miguel inquires, looking down expressionless. You chuckle almost coyly “Of course, kill Thomas, and anyone who tries to stop us.” Miguel shrugged, “fair enough….” The shared silence between you two was sewn in by the gentle beckoning of nearby birds. And the buzzing choir of nearby grasshoppers. It’s the common song you’d hear as dusk began to paint itself along the sky. What you’d look out your window to hear as your day finished.

Now you sit far beyond that same windowsill, gun in hand with a man you barely know. Off to kill the very man you’d slept next to for over ten years. Life brought you strange places. And, without filter or thought to Miguel standing right beside you. You confessed as if just to yourself alone.

“It wasn’t always like this….”

Miguel looked down, he placed his gun on the floor. As she planted himself on the dirt beside you, eye to eye. “What do you mean?” He asked, only to let you know he was listening.

“When I first meet my husband I saw him giving candy to a kid outside a library. Where he’d work on his sketches and his art. He was sweet, full of life. He’d call me darling, make portraits of me and things I liked, fantasized all day and every day of who our child would be….there were good times…not good enough to stop me from doing what I came here to do. But enough for me to be sad about it. I wish I could just kill him and the good memories we have together. So it’ll be easier, but I know I can’t.” Miguel’s eyes trailed along the image you painted before him. Your tone and the words flew through his own memories, his own life. He had nothing but familiarity with what you were feeling.

He’s been there before many times, and, even if unconsciously. Knows he’s here because he doesn’t wish someone exactly like him to face that road alone. Even if he can’t alter where it ends, and what that path entails. He’ll still be here. He will comfort you with the words he wished he heard long ago.

“I understand, it’s not easy…what’s necessary for your heart isn’t always what’s right. But it has to be done….”

His logic alluded you, “What does that mean?” You asked, sounding more confrontational than you intended to be.

“It means Thomas isn’t going to leave this place alive, and not anyone else who decides to protect him. But part of you will never stop lovin him, maybe you need to kill him now. To protect who he once was along ago….” He read you like a book, and it pisses you off.

As much as you despise Thomas for the abuse, the neglect, and being a piece of shit in general. You know a part of his soul can be good, and is good. He’s capable of more he just chooses, this instead. What hurts worse is he decided you weren’t worth being good for. You don’t know when or how, but he did. That’s why you’re here, and why Mona is dead.

Miguel hit head the nail on the head, you swallowed your knee jerk insect to cry nodding, “yeah, yeah…” Miguel hopes he helped.

~~A couple hours later~~

Once Miguel had finished watching over you as you napped, he shook your shoulder tenderly. A wordless exchange happened as you both locked eyes. You make sure your gun was loaded and ready. While you two dashed down the hills under the cover of darkness.

Hiding behind a pair of overgrown bushes in the neglected garden of your former home. Miguel whispered instructively, “I can see in the darkness…and there’s a silencer in my bag. I can take out the snipers on the roof and the upper level guards. So we can storm in without upper fire.” Based on his red eyes you took his word for it he could see perfectly.

Miguel swallowed, somewhat awkwardly, describing “And I can hear from long distances, I can hear your husbands breathing. He’s in his office now…” now that startled you. How the hell can he hear another human breath from the outside of a three story room several yards away? Your blood began to shake, an instinctive fear of Miguel kicked into your muscles. Straightening your body out of tension, but that doesn’t matter now. Thomas needs to die, and you have the best ally to kill him. So you smothered those anxieties in the cradle, for now.

Planning as you go along, “Good, I know the place by heart. Once you cause a stir out here and clear the top floors. I can sneak in, get him before he can run.” Miguel hums in agreement. A half of a moment after you dig your feet in to silently dash towards a better position in the yellowed garden. Your skin tingles in response to a tender circle of fingers wrapping around your wrist. Miguel stopping you dead in your tracks.

The weak outskirts of the guards’ lights revealed Miguel’s face to you, weighted by concern and something else you don’t quite recognize “Be safe.” He whispered, you smiled, knowing he sees it “No promises.” You playfully peck at his cheek before sneaking off. A ghost of the heat on his face quietly burns on your lips, you love it.

Once you have successfully hidden yourself behind the largest tree in the yard. Miguel sees you nod in his direction. Without fail, you hear a gentle plunder of glass breaking. Not enough to stir the guards attention, however the collapse of a fully grown man did alert them. Inquiring amongst themselves “what was that?”, in the haze of confusion you don’t need a light.

Youve walked these dying gardens, snuck onto this very porch, and moved undetected in these halls for longer than any guard job they’ve had. You knew the second step from the ground to the porch was loose. Making a squeak if you pressed your foot against it, you jumped right over it. Grasping the exact angle of the door that would noisily rub it’s screws in it’s sockets. You simply opted to brush into the space of the opened door from the frame.

Being sure not to trip on the dead guards, hearing more and more men drop to the ground as you made your way up the stairs. The gas lights adorning the walls evenly in space and precise in copied design.

A face you haven’t seen in days passes by you by it’s light, it makes you stop. You look back to study what is Mona’s face. A photo Thomas told you he threw away, perhaps he did. Several crumbled lines split the image, but it’s been carefully undone to a flattened state. And framed, along with what you can now see is a disparate collage of photos of your daughter. You know for a fact these baby blue wrapped walls were empty of any such photos before you were taken.

Seeing her smiling face back at you for the first time in a week, her brown eyes and black hair adorning such a gorgeous grin. It makes your eyes heavy in tears, you took the first photo of her you saw. Frame and all, pocketing it in your bag. Then continued on your mission. It’s not stealing if it was stolen from you first.

And like a rodent in your own home you’re sure to be quick as you are quiet. Using only your toes to cautiously scamper about unnoticed. Peeking around the corner before rushing down the hallway, the commotion Miguel is causing starts to draw more and more attention. So you run faster. Up the last flight of stairs to the floor containing your husbands office.

With a few fresh corpses lining up the balcony on the left wall, you spot your husbands door. A thick mahogany door craved meticulously with images of rosebuds and waterfalls. A design done by none other than Thomas himself. Without thinking you broke down the door’s lock with a shift kick.

Your knee will be sore after bracing against such a weight, but you didn’t care. And you stared down Thomas for the first time in days. Behind his messily organized desk top. His face gets whiter than a ghost, his smoke slips him his shocked expression. Undoubtedly burning the purple rug with its light. Not to mention Mona’s blood cleaned well off his face.

“Wai-wait!” Needless to say you didn’t listen, before he could be done squealing a fake apology. You brush the trigger of your gun back as hard as you could, landing a bullet square in his left shoulder. He goes down like a ton of bricks behind his desk. Trying to latch onto his chair mid-fall, as the furniture in it’s collapse onto his legs bruises him in his failed attempt. He groans in pain, you shift to the left side of his desk. Standing over five feet above the groveling, bleeding man on the floor of his own home.

Before he could even devise a way to run, you rotate your rifle to the wooden butt. And violently crash it into his right ankle. Hearing a snap on impact, he shrieks “FUCK WHAT THE FUCK-“ you then forcefully turn him around to face you. His trademark blue with gold accented suit beamed up to you. Snatching his collar, and just as fast land a punch across his nose.

“St-stop! I’ll give you whatever you want….” You didn’t merit his pleading with a response. You just kept punching, not even bothering to aim. All that mattered was making your knuckles raw with his face. Bloodening your brown and black farm clothes, and your eyes intimate with the sight of his struggle.

This man who took your freedom, your soul, your life, and your child from you. Is reduced to what you know he is; a pathetic wretch of a man. Who saw everyone else as disposable background characters in his life. Even his own wife and child.

But that didn’t matter under the incessant crushing of your left fist. You stopped noticing how little he struggled, the volume of his heavy breath. Eventually he didn’t move at all; you don’t know how long it took.

But eventually; his caved in skull was a bowl for the mushy red soup you made of his face. Everything above his chin was fractured skull or a pool of his own facial features. You couldn’t feel your left hand anymore once you stopped punching him. Your lower body sore from crouching for so long so uncomfortably. You just throw your back to the wall behind his desk. Your legs arching over his own, the purple carpet surrounding you two was choked out by the hue of his insides.

It was over. By the punchline of this cruel joke that’s happened to you, you laugh. Laugh like you hadn’t in years. You could feel snot pouring from your nose, mixing with your husbands blood in a truly gross mess of your face. As the insides of your chest vibrate to accommodate how fucking hilarious the situation is.

For years you spent cowering in this office, squirming in your skin at his presence. And killing him was so easy. Killing everyone who screwed you over all those years with him demanded some help but. Who knew this good guy was in the woods this whole fucking time? So willing to endanger himself again and again and again just to help you. For no ulterior motive whatsoever.

It was so simple, what felt like an labyrinth was really a drive way. And not even understanding why, tears washing away the blood and flush of heat on your checks. The cold, salty water escaping from your eyes cuts through the savagery of your face. Suddenly forgetting how to breath, heaving breath in and out by loads and in short intervals.

Miguel then rushes to your side, perfectly, as his habit of when to arrive is. The hot and silken skin of his hands brush aside your tears with precision, not minding the snot and blood dotted about your face. He palms both of your checks, without a word. Looks you in the eyes and shows you how to breath again. You follow his lead, in with your nose. Count to three, and on three you release out your mouth.

After the rattling of your ribcage in anxiety ceased since Miguel had arrived. He assured “Nobody’s going to hurt you anymore…”

You sob in his arms, you never failed to notice how strong yet soft they appeared. Now you know for certain, he doesn’t care you’re using his clothes as a snot rag to boot. Miguel despite having returned from killing every other person within the property. Is indescribably gentle.

His flesh barely traces your own when he touches you, and touched you only when to clean you up or allowing you to hold onto him. His skins embrace is always soft as snow and barely noticed when it does press onto you. And like the aura of a dying fire is sustaining in its own way.

Your sniffing and sobbing was stifled by Miguel’s clothes, he moved your hair out from where it began to stick on your face. Taking a bandana and wiping off the blood and fluids from under your eyes. Your gazes lock, quieting your own cries for a solid moment. As he wraps his fingers around yours. Guiding you to find the strength back into your step, to pull you up on your feet instructing.

“Come on, let’s go.”

~~back at the homestead~~

Miguel had just finished taking your bloodied clothes to the washing bin. He’s not soft when it comes to human parts by any means. But he couldn’t stop a shiver from entering and exiting spine. When he accidentally touched a piece of your ex husbands brain on the fabric.

You were finishing up washing your face, your eyes dropped down to the bowl of water. Now dirtied by dirt, snot, blood, and your own numb knuckles submerged in it. You bent your head down before mirror that stood above you. As if praying to the very deed you committed hours ago. Yet you could still feel the brush of his office carpet, the scent of his cologne in the air. Your body was in Miguel’s guest room, but your mind was still in his office.

You feel guilty for not having visited your daughters room. It hadn’t even crossed your mind. In fact, only when your husband died has Mona entered your thoughts since when you took that shot from the attic. A precise yet mobile ache swims in your head, your hands are sore, callouses dress your palms, and your very bones by how much you’ve worked your body have been whittled down to twigs.

Its been hours since you resolved to kill Thomas, but your bodies withering tells you it’s been centuries. When you’re done cleaning yourself up, you just sit down on the bed. Everything inside your ribcage is heavy, your gut painfully swirls in on itself above your hips. All you can hear is your daughters laugh, your mothers goodbye, your entire life flash before you.

This is what it’s all lead to; battered and dirtied in a strangers guest room with no where else in the world to go to. All that keeps you going is the seemingly infinite kindness of a handsome stranger Miguel.

But, like a glimmer of a spark against metal; a burn erupts in your chest. It’s heat is send to your brain, and the following revelation is born.

Your whole life you’ve lived off of guilt. You married Thomas out of shame of what you’d done to his father for the life and luxuries you were afforded. You stayed out of regret for the father you gave Mona and had to stay by her side to endure it with her. And every day for over ten years you’ve not walked a step without the weight of it all almost breaking your shoulders.

Even now as Thomas’s blood pollutes the water bowl before you. His death isn’t what you truly desired either; just the release of anger the killing would bring you. What, who you truly want. Is washing dishes now downstairs; you hair the water flush into the tub as he scraps away anxiously at what’s left on the plates. You’re going to take a shot in the dark; for once in your life you will just be who you want to be.

You break your feet into the steps leading down into the kitchen with utmost care. Not concealing your presence but absentmindedly seeking to not make a racket. As you stroll into the scene of Miguel’s towering frame over the kitchen counter.

You can’t deny your attraction to him, not just physically. He’s gentle, kind, full of wisdom and a humorless awkwardness to him you can’t help but find endearing. He reminded you of Thomas in a lot of ways, and that’s what scares you now.

The trembling in your chest is pattern recognition kicking in, was a dashing and kind man comes into your life. Gives you everything you want and need for seemingly no ulterior motive. But now you’re here because Thomas changed, or maybe he wasn’t who you thought he was from the beginning. Little evidence suggests this will be any different. But you’re tired of living in the past. You will start again as many times as it takes to leave it.

By now you’ve crossed the entirety of the room, you stand right beside this six foot finely sculpted man. Lost in his own thoughts it takes him a moment to realize how close you are. He isn’t startled and just looks down at you, now washed up from before. This is the most socially receptive he’s witnessed from you from the past few hours. Understandably so of course, his gaze softens as he peers down asking.

“Getting hungry-“ he washes off his hands with a cloth and goes on “I can hunt us some fowl quickly and…” before he allows himself to finish his own sentence. Your fingers softly blanket themselves over his own; he dwarfs you even when it comes to hands. He’s puzzled and waits for what you’ll do next.

“I want you.” A heartbeat of Miguel’s passes so he could be certain what he heard was right. He’s startled, and tries to ask a question he already knows the answer to “….what are you talking about?” He’s lack of pulling away or resisting your touch. Lends you to lean in closer, to push your body over his own.

You’re so much shorter than him your chest makes it just at the half way point of his own chest. You can feel his heart racing against your skins. Meanwhile your fingers sew tighter together as you explain. “I’ve wanted you since the moment we’ve meet, and every hour after. I’m tired of mourning what was, I want something more…if you’d have me-“before anxiety of the leap you took pulls you away from him.

His hand arcs against your face, to ensure you look at him right. “You don’t have to want this, you can say no. I won’t throw you out onto the street, I didn’t do all of this so you’d sleep with me.” He’s such a gentleman. You decide to ease his anxieties and breath out inches from his face, as you stand on your toes.

“And that’s the kind of man I want….please take me Miguel-“ one subdued gasp from him later and his mouth was all over yours. His large fingers creep from below your shirt grasping at your trapped skin. He instinctively picks you off your feet. By his large muscles you’re not surprised he did such so effortlessly.

You two left a trial of discarded clothes from the kitchen to the quest bedroom.

#spiderverse #18+ #miguel ohara #miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara x fem!reader #I’ll find you #cowboy Miguel #cowboy!Miguel #AU #au #spiderverse au

[convexicalcrow]

There was something to be said about the way Cub was staring at the ground. Not in a bad way, or in a curious way. Sort of like... Almost staring at his feet, but also gazing at nothing in particular. He was in a strange mood, if he was honest. Too much going on as usual.

The city was quiet, which was unusual for the time of day, but the rain was probably keeping a lot of people inside. Except Cub, of course. The pavement was wet and glistening, the rain falling softly around him. He walked slowly, lost in thought.

He'd forever claim he had too many thoughts, but it was a lie. There was only ever one thought: Scar. And not in any kind of bad way either. Cub was just forever thinking about Scar. How his day was going, what he was up to, whether he'd arrive back in time for dinner, whether he'd booked another amazing date for them, the usual. Scar just occupied his thoughts. He was a man obsessed, and he was more than happy to admit it.

He smiled as he saw the park approaching. It was bright lush green today, in spite of the damp, and perhaps he fancied a walk through there today when the park would be far less busy. He crossed the street, umbrella at hand, and headed in through the gates.

It was a different place here. It was like the walls of the park insulated him from the world outside. Cub didn't mind. He felt it's what he needed. There were a couple of very committed dog walkers that he passed, but he mostly had the park to himself.

It was strange to see it empty, as if some apocalypse had happened while he was at work this morning, and now everyone had gone except for him. He stopped under trees, paused near park benches, wandered through the paths with a peaceful heart. All it needed was Scar, and his day would be perfect.

If only, though. Scar worked across town. There was no way he'd get here in time before Cub had to head back to the office. Still, Cub liked to dream. Maybe he'd bring him here on the weekend. The weather was supposed to be warming up by then. Maybe they'd take a picnic and a rug, and a thermos of coffee, and enjoy their time together. It had been a while since they'd just spend a morning together.

Cub stopped by the lake, watching all the ducks swimming by. He followed a small path over to the gazebo in the middle, where he could sit in the dry. He shook his umbrella out and sat down. He slipped out a small notebook and pen, and opened it to a new page.

Words circled through his head. That did tend to happen in a place like this. All the poetry in the world seemed to find him here. He sketched, wrote out words, tried out different phrases. The birds sung their encouragement. Every now and then, he tapped out a beat with his foot.

He took out his phone, called Scar. "Hey, Scar, can you hum a little tune for me? Something to get me inspired?"

"Oh, sure, I can do that. What kind of- oh I know where you are. Here, try this," Scar said as he began to hum.

Cub smiled. Scar always knew what he needed. The tune was bright, but cosy, reminding Cub of their ski trip last year. Not the skiing itself, but of the lodge they stayed at that was forever the warmest place they'd ever found. Big rooms, big roaring fire, and big mugs of hot cocoa. Maybe next year they'd go back again.

Cub made more sketches. Drafted more lines. Somehow, he felt it getting closer. He could see it forming in his mind. A distant roar of thunder rumbled across the sky.

"I sang a song, the thunderer roared, and all went back to hide. I sang a song below the sky, and it becan to cry." Cub paused, quietly reading the words again. "Hmm. I like the rhythm, but not the words."

He put his pen and notebook away and grabbed his umbrella. He needed to look at the flowers. That would help him find his muse.

The beds were large and well-planted with many different kinds of flowers. Not all reminded him of Scar, but some did. Really, he was looking for the right flower, and the right scent, that would give his thoughts form.

There was a beautiful rhododendron, and a big bright spray of chrysanthemums. Cub liked these. He liked how they looked in the rain, too. Maybe he took a couple of photos to share with Scar when he got home. He always loved seeing pictures of the flowers.

"I see thee in thy brightness, I see thee in thy sorrow, my friends, my flowers, shining bright, against a dark grey sky," Cub said, half-singing the words that came to mind as he saw them.

He wandered over to the roses. Traditional, of course. But his eyes were drawn to some sunflowers, whose yellow faces shone more brightly than anything else. Cub went over to them and softly brushed the petals. That was Scar right there. His sunshine. His sunflower.

"One day you'll see, that the light you shine, that you shine just for me, burns brighter and hotter than a thousand stars, giving life to all you touch. Laugh, cry, turn your face to the sun, for all that you are is beautiful," Cub murmured.

#hermitshipping #fanfic #convex #cubscar #cubfan135 #gtwscar #a little soft convex for the soul #bc i was in a Mood tonight when I sat down to do my words #and this is what i came up with

[madstwd]

Day 12 - Daryl Dixon x F!Reader x Rick Grimes

"It's all part of the journey, including the ending"

Words: 1k

Season: 5/6

Warnings: none

Hope you enjoy this one!

Masterlist

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

They couldn't look at you, they refused. Maybe if they didn't look it wasn't really happening, maybe you wouldn't be in Alexandria on the bed, a large gash over your torso. You should be dead was the words Denise spoke to them when they came back from the run. “What did we do wrong? How did this happen?” Rick murmured under his breath, rocking in his chair as he held your cold hand. You were dying, or you could be. You lost so much blood they don't know if you'll make it through the night. Daryl stared out the window, or looked at the bandages that wrapped around your whole body, they didn't want to lose you. They had already gone through so much. “She'll be alright, she's a fighter” Rick tried to comfort the both of them. Daryl breathed deeply shaking his head, “dunno, might have been too late” he whispered, his voice struggling to even get the words out. Rick sighed deeply, refusing to think like that, refusing to accept that his love, his heart was dying in front of him. “Maybe if I-” Daryl spoke quietly, “we could've saved her sooner”

“She's not gone-”

“Ya see this cut”

“Yeah I see it Daryl- I can't not see how we failed her. We shouldn't have let her out of our sight, one of us should have been there. Hell! She shouldn't have even gone!” Rick cried, tears beginning to pool in his eyes. Your screams of pain are still haunting him, like an alarm bell ringing his ears.

They ended up taking it in turns as you laid motionless on the bed, one slept in the bed surrounded by your scent as the other sat watching your chest rise and fall. The two avoided each other, Rick throwing himself into work and helping the community as Daryl lingered in the background hunting and providing for everyone in another way. Weeks had past and you had shown no sign of improvement. To get the boys some rest/ actually talk to each other Maggie and Glenn took to watching you tonight promising the boys they would get them if anything changed. Daryl shifted through your pack, the bag still filled and covered with blood. It sat on the porch waiting to be sorted so Carol could clean it, neither of them having the gut to sort through it. His fingers brushed against a notebook, the one he gave you at the prison. One that he would often see you leaving against Rick writing in. The cover tattered and folded. The pages were wrinkled and dirty, just an example of how much you had gone through them. He saw charcoal drawings of him and Rick, small poems or thoughts. Sketches of the prison, Merle's bike. The sketchbook was full of things you had learnt, the pain or happy moments you felt the need to write down. The sun was setting as Rick left the house, he spotted Daryl sat on the swing seat. He sat next to him. Daryl didn't say anything to him, but passed him the notebook, looking at the man.

Rick flicked through amazed at how you documented your life's small notes about your love between the two men. He finished the book, his eyes staring at the last page.

'It's all part of the journey, including the end

Love Y/n’

Rick let out a choked sob the days of worrying catching up to him. Daryl was already silently crying. The two men sat wanting their half the person that made him whole finally. “I'm sorry- for not talking to you. Not being there for you”

“Me too”

The two men smiled, surprised their greatest weekends not only pulled them apart but held them together. Gave them purpose to wake up, to get up and try harder when they failed.

“RICK, DARYL. SHES AWAKE”

The boys stood up, running instantly with their shoes thudding on the streets of Alexandria. The book still clutched in Rick's hand as he sprinted. They were met with your laughter, weak but still there as you spoke to Maggie. “Shit- the guy cut me badly didn't he” you laughed lightly. “You almost died, you should have seen Rick and Daryl. Like lost puppies”

“I wish I did, god I could hear them and I wished I could just help them”

Maggie smiled, the group was confused when you fell in love with both of them. But it became normal, special. Watching a family form so closely warmed them, helped them continue on. “Hey boys” you smiled as they entered the room. They didn't speak, just stared at you like you were the last thing on earth. “What do I have on my face”

Maggie stood and left, leaving the three of you alone. Once she left they slowly approached, smiling as they got closer. Their eyes are still raw and red from moments ago. “You're okay?”

“I'm okay”

“We found ya book”

You smiled, nodding. “It was so I had a memory of everything, so if I lost you or anyone I could still see their faces. Hoping one day we had a place like this so we could decorate the house with them.” you said. The boys nodded, you scooted to the middle of the bed, allowing them to lay with you as you flicked through the book.

“We thought you were gonna die” Rick said, his lips kissing the top of your head.

“I might have, but you would still have this”

“I'd prefer to keep you” Daryl muttered, a kiss falling on your temple. The two of them finally resting, holding you close. When Maggie came by to check on you she found you looking through your book with a small smile on your face as you looked at all the memories you captured. She watched as the two boys held you close, protectively as you sat there. A sight comforting for many.

#the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead x reader #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl x reader #daryl imagines #daryl dixon #rick grimes imagine #rick grimes x you #rick grimes x reader #twd daryl #rick grimes

[savebatsfromscratch]

No.26. “You Look Awful,” “Don’t we all??”

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51140125

Words: 1,640

Cws: Near failure, almost giving up, overworked, minor swearing if you’re a Catholic like me

Notes: I really wish I hadn’t rushed this one, because this sort of thing makes me absolutely rabid, but it’s still pretty good as is. :) A LITTLE Better Powers AU because I am insane about them. (Powers of these five listed at the end.)

Prompt: No. 26: “Sometimes I get so tired; I don’t even know myself.” Seeing Double | Working To Exhaustion | “You look awful.”

The door slammed open, and Blue looked up as Red pushed his way into the room. Blue raised an eyebrow. Red’s hair was full of leaves, his face was covered in scrapes and bruises, and his hat was on sideways for some reason.

“You look awful,” Blue commented, watching as Red slid into the chair next to him.

“Don’t we all?” Red asked him, laughing tiredly as he rolled his eyes at Blue.

Blue shrugged, even though he knew it was true. Red was by no means the only trainer in their group with dark circles under his eyes and hair filled with sticks and leaves. (Blue hoped that his own hair, at least, looked a little bit more put together, but he knew that he was just as scraped up as Red was, that was beyond hope.) Just because Red had bandages replacing his fingerless gloves on one of his hands didn't mean that he was the only one who looked awful among them.

Yellow, for example, had clearly been crying before she'd walked in. She was trying to put on a brave face as she walked through the door, but Blue knew her far too well to ever buy it. When Green followed her, she was missing all of her usual snarky glow, and Blue noticed that part of her hair was a little shorter and more tangled than the rest. (If her text earlier that day had been true, she had run into a probable ex Rocket owned Scyther and got a little unlucky.) Ash... Well, Ash looked about as good as he usually did, but he always looked a little beat up, so that wasn't really a good sign to Blue.

And Blue knew that he himself looked tired as hell. (Or, if he somehow didn't, he must've learned how to put on some hell of an act in the free time he knew that he didn't have.)

Seeing that no one was starting the meeting, and it was clear there would be no more small talk, Blue sighed. “We're all here now, right?” Blue asked, tapping a stack of papers on the desk in front of him to organize them more cleanly, then, when everyone had nodded those tired nods of theirs, he continued, ”I guess I’ll start,“

Ash sighed loudly, as if he had been hoping for something a bit more entertaining, but Blue ignored him and continued to speak. “I suppose I'll start with my week's notes, and then we can go around the table,” once again, the others nodded, but it was somehow even weaker this time, as if the reminder of what had gone on in the previous week had been nothing but discouraging for them (if that was true, Blue actually had something to agree with them on, shocking). “I tried looking for a hidden base,” he continued, pulling out a sketched map of the region and gesturing to several red Xs he had drawn on it, “but I wasn't able to accurately trace any grunts back to one place, I kept getting called to help with other things,”

“They're getting better at hiding their movements,” Green agreed, opening a notebook of her own and pointing at some cursive scribbles that Blue couldn't read from his distance away from her. She pointed at a couple and Red raised his eyebrows like it was shocking. He whispered something, and Green made a face as he reminded her of a detail, and her earrings clicked against themselves when she moved her head. ”I swear they're catching onto me, specifically, it's like they're disappearing the second they run from a battle,“

“Maybe your gears’ outta date,” Ash muttered, crossing his arms a little tighter to his chest, clearly thinking about the friendships he had made with various Rocket Grunts in the past, “I still think we should be actually trying to talk to them,”

“Bad mood today eh,” Blue muttered, but Red was already glaring at Ash, so clearly the youngest of their region wasn’t the only one having a bad day.

“Yeah, like you ever try to talk-,” Red started, cutting himself off when Green gave him a look. He gave her one right back, “I only meant-” he said indignantly, now actually getting cut off when Green interrupted him as she continued to speak.

“I’m worried they’ve got more researchers on their side,” she said, ignoring Red and Ash’s muttering as she closed her notebook again. She looked to Blue earnestly, and he had to suppress a yawn as the room’s attention was directed towards him once more. “Do you think you can ask Daisy or Gary if they can snoop around in the researcher world a bit? We absolutely cannot lose the technical advantage again,”

Blue nodded distantly, and he jotted that down in his notes for the next day. “Yeah. I think so,” there was a pause as he wrote, and then he nodded to Yellow, who had been sitting rather quietly at his side, “Do you have any major news for us?”

Yellow fidgeted with her hair for a moment before answering, and then nodded, flipping through her sketchbook before slamming it down on the table. “I don’t know if it has to do with the Rockets,” she admitted, and Blue tilted his head to see a sketch of a very upset looking Beedrill, “not for sure anyway, but if they have really good researchers again then they’re definitely experimenting on Pokemon, this Beedrill evolved directly from a Weedle I rescued the other day,”

Red inhaled sharply through his teeth, and Green made a face. That wasn’t natural at all, and it couldn’t be at all healthy for the poor little Pokemon. Even Blue, who normally found the focus on Pokemon a bit inappropriate when human lives were at stake, found himself cringing. That was way beyond anything they’d done to Pokemon close to Giovanni before, were they getting bolder?

“The Beedrills’ fine now,” Yellow hurried, trying to correct the worry in the room as if it was her fault and not Team Rocket’s, “I gave her some rare candies to try and catch her up and she’s doing much better now, but…” she trailed off, and it was clear that she had heard a lot more from that Pokemon’s memories than she was letting on, “I don’t want it to happen to any more Pokemon than it already has,”

“I should hope not!” Red interrupted, looking almost offended on behalf of the bug type, no matter how much dislike he had for that particular species, “Forcing evolution like that is evil!” 

For a very stupid, very impulsive moment, Blue almost wanted to bring Ve and Red’s evolution stones into the argument, but he held his tongue. There was no time for that here. They were already defeated enough without going at each other’s throats. (At least, not this early in the meeting anyway. Arceus only knew how, but they always seemed to dissolve into fighting as these things went on.)

Green looked entirely taken aback by Yellow’s story, but she finally managed to find words as she put her hand on Yellow’s shoulder. “Do you want me to try and devolve the Beedrill?” she asked quietly, and Blue cringed at the mention of her special power. This all had gotten worse when that had happened, and they all knew it.

“No thank you,” Yellow seemed to be forcing a smile, but she held Green’s hand to her shoulder with one of her own, much smaller, hands. “She’s doing alright now, I would have messaged you if she really needed it,”

Green nodded and leaned back in her chair, pulling her hand away from Yellow. Yellow’s hand stuttered in the air for just a little bit longer than it should have at the absence of Green’s, and then she hurriedly tucked it back into her lap again.

She stared down at her desk, and there was a moment’s pause before Ash cleared his throat to speak. “I’ve just been fighting,” he said, and for the first time in the meeting Blue realized that his feet weren’t up on the table today (this stretch of time really was taking the fight out of all of them), “I don’t have anything especially important to add,”

He nodded to Red, and Blue couldn’t even force himself to probe more at those words for better information. The tiny spark of fire that Ash had had at the beginning of the meeting was totally gone, and he seemed almost defeated as he slumped back down in his chair. (Had it been the confirmation that Team Rocket was getting stronger again that had broken him?) Red seemed to notice this too, and he sighed heavily before he spoke.

“I don’t know how much longer we can keep doing this, Blue,” his eyes connected with Blue’s, but Blue looked away. No matter how strong his powers had made him, Blue knew that Red could still break, “I- I hate to say it, but we would need a miracle at this point if we wanna win,”

To Blue’s horror, even Ash nodded at that. 

Blue took a shaky breath in. Whatever he said, he knew they had to believe him.

“Then, believe me, we’ll get that miracle,”

The awful feeling of Ash’s power stopped pulling on his soul.

Before this, before all of this, Blue had never been the positive one. Deep down, he knew it wasn’t right for him to be that way. He was a trainer, a teacher. He was supposed to tell truths that those who looked up to him needed to hear.

But these weren’t people who looked up to him.

These were his friends.

And if they needed him to lie to believe it, that’s what they were going to get.

#whumptober2023 #no.26 #Working To Exhaustion | “You look awful.” #fanfic #near failure #almost giving up #overworked #pokespe #pokeani #pokemon adventures #pokemon special #Better Powers AU #my art #actual post #my writing #whumptober #trainer blue #trainer red #trainer ash #trainer yellow #trainer green

[blue-haired-grace]

“I just want to be alone right now” - Sketch :)

Thank you so much for the prompt, Terra! I didn't find a place to insert Sketch into my last prompt, so I'm so happy to have gotten this one!

From this ask game. Also, guys, writing this angst is so much fun, so please feel free to send in more.

Warnings: child abuse (physical, verbal, and emotional).

Sketch huffed out another angry noise as he stormed into the Guard barracks behind Pillow, Ghost, and Morale. There was no way he would've let them get back behind him, not after what had just happened.

The four of them had been excited to go to 79's for the first time. When they had still been on Kamino, sometimes older brothers from the frontlines would talk about Coruscant and 79's. Sketch knew Pillow and Morale had been exceptionally excited, though Ghost looked like he could've taken it or left it.

Now off Kamino - finally, Sketch couldn't help from thinking with a chill - and in the Coruscant Guard, they had just gotten their armour painted and dried when they decided they would go to the bar. Morale had informed their Sergeant, Karma, who had seemed nervous about it. Mere minutes after meeting her, Sketch hadn't thought he would ever see her nervous. She had tried to talk them out of it but, realizing how stubborn they were, had asked some of the older vode to go with them.

Sketch had been offended at the thought of Sergeant Karma not trusting him to take care of his squad. He should've listened to her and found something else to do while off shift.

He looked up from the ground when he heard Pillow hiss in pain. Morale was trying to gently examine his right eye, which Sketch could see from where he was standing, was definitely swollen. He wondered if his left eye looked any better, as it was currently throbbing.

"Maybe we should take you both to the medbay," Morale fretted, gaze going back and forth between Sketch and Pillow.

"It'll be a black eye, at worst, Mor'ika. Don't worry about it," Pillow assured him. "Besides," he scoffed, only to flinch a bit, "he barely got me."

Morale bit his lip. "If you say so..."

Ghost sighed, annoyance clear. "Did you have to punch him, Pillow?"

Pillow glared at him. "He deserved it; he was gonna make Morale cry!"

Morale had been so happy for the first half hour at 79's, along with Pillow. Sketch had decided it would be best not to stay too long, as Ghost had been looking overwhelmed and annoyed by the noise. Still, Morale had been excitedly talking about how much he liked being in the Guard, both because of the new vode he'd met and just being off Kamino. Then, a brother in blue armour, likely drunk from how he'd been walking, had come over to their table, only to start hurling insults at Morale himself, the others at the table, and the Coruscant Guard in general. Their youngest had looked ready to cry, Pillow jumping up to throw a punch and Sketch had frozen at the insults - Can you not even protect your squad, pathetic little clone? - and hadn't snapped back until the vod in blue had been aiming another punch at Pillow. Sketch had jumped between them and gotten punched.

At least Sketch was finally doing something to protect his brothers, and a pang in his chest went out to Duke and Trick, who he had continuously failed.

"Sketch?" The oldest of Spark Squad was broken from his thoughts by Morale, whose voice was soft and eyes were wide with worry for him.

Sketch didn't deserve it.

He jerked away when Morale laid a hand on his shoulder. "Go away, Morale."

"Ori'vod-"

"Leave me alone! I just want to be alone right now!” Sketch yelled.

The other three just stared at him, shocked. Sketch almost never lost his cool. He groaned, rising to his feet when the others made no move to leave. He left the barracks, ignoring them calling for him to come back. They would be safe in the Guard headquarters.

He made his way through the headquarters to what he'd heard older troopers call the breakdown closet. Despite his anger and sadness, Sketch wasn't stupid enough to leave the barracks after what happened at 79's.

Ignoring the noise form the training room, Sketch knocked on the closet door. When there was no noise beyond it, he opened it and went inside, barricading the door so no one could disturb him.

Sketch sat down, put his arms on his knees and his head in his hands. Why was he such a fucking failure? He'd had insults hurled at him and his brothers his entire life, why was it only now that he froze like that?

Then, both he and Pillow had gone and gotten into a fight. Fighting wasn't allowed. What was going to happen to them? What punishment would they have to undergo? Sketch inhaled. He didn't want Pillow to go through any pain; Sketch was familiar with the pain that came with punishment, he could handle it. He knew how to take it, but Pillow didn't.

The smack that echoed through the room did nothing to hide the sound of Sketch crying out as the cold, hard instrument struck his arm.

"CT-6759," The trainer intoned, grabbing the young boy's chin to force eye contact. "You are your squad leader; any failure is your fault. You will keep your squad under control. There shall be no more defectiveness."

They had already grabbed Duke, dragging him away kicking and screaming. Sketch knew he would never see him again. He wouldn't let that happen to Pillow, Ghost, or Morale. "Yes sir."

Sketch lost track of how long he was in the closet. Eventually, he unbarricaded the door and opened it. To his surprise, right across from him, was the rest of Spark Squad, fast asleep on the floor. Pillow was leaning against the wall, head tilted back in a way that couldn't be comfortable. Ghost had his head on Pillow's shoulder. Morale was laying with his head on Pillow's lap.

His gaze softened at the sight of them.

I'm so sorry. I'll protect you, I promise.

#oc sketch #oc pillow/throwpillow #oc morale #oc ghost #oc duke (mentioned) #oc 43/trick (mentioned) #you can learn more about trick in the prompt i did for hadiya #coruscant guard oc #79's #coruscant guard #ask game #fanfiction prompts #tcw #sw tcw #child abuse #spark squad #my writing

[justaweirdoperson]

I’m not a mama’s girl

I’ve never been a mama’s girl, despite what everyone else might think. I’ve always been with her but we were never all that close. Mainly because we were so different. She was a perfectionist, always organized, almost cold, dismissive. I was a crybaby, I wasn’t organized and overly sensitive. Me and my dad are alike. He always said he was like me when he was younger. Anxious about every little thing. He also had panic attacks. A lot. Just like me. But he was never all that present when I was a kid. Not because he didn’t want to. He hated the fact he missed seeing us because of his job. We could go weeks without seeing him. But when he came back it was like he never left. Nowadays I feel like he sees himself in me. Stressed, sad, anxious. Maybe that’s why he was so disappointed when he found out I was vaping. Before he met my mother and had me, he used to smoke. He sees me walking the same path he did and that scares him. I live in my apartment on my own now because of college. When my parents come see me we always end up bickering. Especially with my mother. I just say something the “wrong” way or she doesn’t like my tone of voice, she starts pestering me about how I should be more respectful because they pay half of my rent. I know that. In my first week of starting college, I almost killed myself. I was so stressed. I cried every night. I called my best friend and she saved me. I’m better now. When my mom came to visit the week after that with my sister, I brought it up. I told her I almost killed myself the week before. She just sighed and asked me what was bothering me this time with an exasperated tone. She said that she also had a burnout and that she got through it anyway. I’m not having a burnout. I’m just tired to live. She asked me if I would really had the guts to do it, cutting open my wrists, because it hirt like hell. I told her I knew that. That’s why I took my two vapes at the same time before grabbing the cutters. My head was heavy and I couldn’t feel my body anymore. She then lectured me for 15 minutes. Or was it 20? I don’t know, I zoned out. My sister was there. I told her about my attempt the week I did it. She just sat there as my mother lectured me, awkwardly looking at her hands and her phone. When my mother was done lecturing me, she changed the subject. I desperately wanted to forget about it so I went along with it. We talked and laughed for the next hour or so and then they left. Like nothing happened. I’ve seen my dad since then but no one ever brought it up. I’m almost thankful for it but at the same time I hate it. My mental health was always a delicate subject for my parents. It feels like they’re walking on eggshells when we talk about it. Now when I cry, I either call my best friend so we can drive around and take my mind off of what’s bothering me or I cry in my bed, crying out for my dad. I cried this thursday at school. In my drawing class. I forgot about the homework and I felt targeted by the teacher. The class was silent so everyone could hear her. I hugged my sketch book close to me, hoping to calm myself down. I went back to my desk and tried to breathe. My day was already bad and it was getting worse. The teacher came back and sat beside me and showed me what I did wrong. Tears escaped from my eyes and went down my face. I tried to wipe them away but they kept coming back. The teacher whisper to me, asking if I wanted to step out really quick. I said no. I was just going to draw more attention to myself. The break was a saving grace for me. I speedwalked to the bathroom and cried silently, hyperventilating. I texted my best friend but she was in her class. I calmed down a bit, fixed my makeup so it wouldn’t show too much that I cried and went back to class. That teacher reached out to me through messages, asked me if I was ok and if I needed to talk. I said I was fine and that my anxiety was high that day and that if I needed to talk I would reach out to her. I cried reading her message. I didn’t think she would worry that much. So no, I’m not a mama’s girl. I’m a daddy’s girl.

#vent #tw vent #vent post #parent issues

[morbidellifranco]

Championship Leader Robin Frijns

#:)))) #robin frijns #fe #formula e #if you look at it from afar and squint your eyes it looks fine #i did almost cry when i tried to sketch his hands but maybe that was the red wine talking.. #my art

[cloudsmooch]

when your pet dies

m!LIs / gn!PC

I’m writing this to cope with shit I’m dealing with IRL

High Love Avery will instinctively want to offer to replace your pet but refrains because that would be tacky and rude. but it really is just his instinct to use his money to try and fill the void of whatever it is that was lost. I think he’d still eventually offer, but would wait until an appropriate amount of time has passed. he probably sees it as more of an inconvenience than anything, something that’ll distract you from being his perfect little date and having a good time with him. he’d allow a little bit of moping - he’ll let you cuddle him and pat your back when you’re back at the hotel and a few tears slip out, but even at high love I think he’d expect you to put the loss of your pet out of your mind when you’re out on dates with him. he is paying you after all. but it does break his heart to see his favorite darling so blue… if he gets a little too impatient, hoping to speed up the grieving process and get you back to your usual sweet and endearing self, you can probably expect him to surprise you with a box filled with a new pet, with a perfect little bow on its head.

High Love Eden is out of his element. does not understand anything about this experience, at all. animals die all the time! it’s a part of life! you don’t cry every time he brings home a fresh kill after hunting all day, so what’s the deal? you’ll have to explain it to him. I like to think that he eventually is able to relate back to a similar experience he had. maybe he got used to a certain squirrel coming up to his window every morning, or a certain bird’s nest in a nearby tree in the clearing, until one day the squirrel didn’t show up, or the nest was empty. he wasn’t sad necessarily, but he did feel the loss of it. at high love I think he’d maybe let you have a late morning in, where you can lay on him and have a good cry… not bothering to try and comfort you with words because he knows he’d be shit at it, but just his presence is enough. he’s another one I think would want to replace your pet, but not for selfish reasons. he wants to see you smile again.

Kylar would be pretty distraught himself. don’t cry!!! what can kylar do??? tell him what to do and he’ll do it!!! you wanna go to the pet store right now? give him half an hour and he’ll snatch a stray off the street for you. or maybe he'll just tranquilize that guy across the street who’s walking his dog??? he’s absolutely crying with you. he loved your pet as if it was his own… he’d never admit this to you, but he often referred to you guys as its parents. totally saw it as a practice run for when you had real children, and the loss is equally devastating to him as it is to you. your feelings come first though. wanna skip school and lay in bed all day? want him to rub your back? want to alternate sobbing into your pillow and napping? kylar can do that. when some time has gone by and the pain isn’t as fresh, he’ll hand you a beautiful sketch of your pet that perfectly captures their cuteness and personality.

Robin will also do everything in his power to comfort you but I think he’d be more realistic than kylar. he’d make sure you eat, and convince you to get up out of bed to get some fresh air, maybe sit out back in the garden if you don’t feel like taking a walk. the sun always does people good when they’re sad. he’d try to get you to talk so your feelings don’t swallow you whole - he’d start by telling you his favorite memory of your pet, then asking you yours… tries to make you laugh. remember the time bailey almost noticed your pet before you put the laundry hamper on top of it? or the time your pet got loose in the orphanage, that was super stressful but still a fun adventure, right? he’ll help you pick a spot in the garden to use as a grave and will say a few words during the makeshift funeral, if you can’t. robin knows how much light your pet brought into your life. that’s what you do for him. so he’s going to do everything he can to help you through this.

sydney would be so good at this, and the perfect person to come to when dealing with grief. syd is SO sure that your pet is up in pet heaven, happy and pain free, that you can’t help but believe him. he would be very philosophical about it. every insecurity you had about your pet, like whether or not you did right by it or if you gave it a good life, would be squashed. you tried your hardest and loved that animal with all your being, and that’s what’s important! intentions do matter. his unwavering faith would help you gain some perspective and not feel as weighed down by the loss. I think he’d offer to pray for you, and even if you aren’t religious it would still touch you in a way you weren’t expecting. grief can be SO disorienting that you sometimes feel like you’re permanently changed by it. and in some ways you are, but sydney’s there to believe all the things you can’t right now and remind you that the pain doesn’t last forever.

whitney isn't included because even at high love he wouldn't really know what to do and would mostly let you deal with it on your own. He'd just be a little less rough with you, in ways only you could notice.

#degrees of lewdity #avery the businessperson #eden the hunter #kylar the loner #robin the orphan #sydney the faithful #whitney the bully #dol #dol scenarios #dol blurbs #dol headcanons #mine

[rezzyromance]

Could I request Heisenberg with a female s/o who's negatively pent up from anxiety and depression and feeling like they're not good enough for Karl but they always put on a brave face to not look weak? They just want to make him happy and proud maybe maybe when they're either fucking or just working, maybe he says an offhand comment that hits home, idk being called useless is a good one to feel like being stabbed. They love him but they've been hiding all their mental struggles and bottling it up be a use they always focused on him first? Mental health feels neglected rn and could use the hurt/comfort if you're okay with this! Up to you if you want to add smut or not, with or without is great

Of course, baby. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the story. (CW: Hurt/Comfort, mentions of anxiety and depression. Sexual scenarios: Fingering, face riding, praising, general NSFW)

Living with Karl is a task that can be mentally taxing on anyone. For you, this wasn't an exception. There was no doubt in your mind that you loved him, but that dragged along a few issues with it. You loved him so much, that you constantly felt an unbearable pressure that pushed you to attempt to impress him out of fear that he may view you as inferior to him. Karl is without a doubt strong, insanely intelligent, passionate, and all around tremendously powerful. Often times you wondered why he even keeps you around.

You had grown very close with him over time. He never put a real title on your relationship, but you both knew that he loved you. He loved you enough to let you help out on his work. He assigned little tasks for you to do such as organizing his blueprints, creating blueprints, and organizing his tools. Each time you did something, he would reward you with praise. Sometimes the praise would be heart to heart while other times it may be skin to skin. While the praise he provided felt rewarding, you began to worry what may happen if your work wasn't good enough. What if you weren't good enough? What if he stopped finding you useful or attractive? These troubling thoughts had been torturing you recently. But, you kept it all bottled up, worried that he may view you as weak if he knew you were so afraid of failure. Whenever you would work on something, you would sit there for hours on end. Nothing could stop you until you were finished. You did this as a way to imitate Karl and his tireless work. Though, Karl does have powers that help keep his body from shutting down the way yours does. That didn't stop you from constantly pushing yourself overboard, though.

A knot grew larger and larger in your throat as you attempted to sketch out a new blueprint, slouching while sitting on your bed. He had asked you to work on it that morning and it was nearly midnight now. The lines were uneven, your hand writing was messy, and it was easy to see where you had erased and redrawn a lot of little details all over the paper. A single tear fell from your eye and onto the paper, causing a wet spot where the ink began to smear. You ignore your body and minds cry for help by quickly wiping your eyes and acting as if it didn't happen. Your hands were shaking as you applied more details, not being close to finish. Your eyes were twitching, fed up with staring down so harshly at the paper for so long. Suddenly, the door to the room opens.

You jump and face the door, realizing how cramped your neck was from your poor posture. Karl entered the room, obviously tired from a long days work. His eyes looked heavy and he was running his hands through his hair. "Still working on that blueprint, buttercup?", he asks as he walks towards you. You look back at the paper and realize how low quality it was, along with unfinished. You quickly hold the paper to your chest, attempting to block it from him. 'Um it's almost finished I swear! I just n-need to add a few more little details.", you assure him. He holds his hand out. "Let me see.", he raises an eyebrow and begins to wiggle his fingers. You attempt to swallow the knot in your throat as you shakily hand it over.

Your hands clutch each other tightly, digging what's left of your bitten nails into your skin. His eyes scan each inch of the paper and his eyebrows begin to furrow. "What.. is this?", he looks over to you. "What?", you're voice is shaky and cracking, but you attempt to cover it up by clearing your throat. "(Y/N)... you've been in here all day and THIS is all you could do? What have you been doing all day?", his voice began to grow into a semi-shout. It felt like thunder as it shook your body. You take a deep breath, attempting to toughen up to his words. "I really did try! I did exactly what you told me an-" he cuts you off before you can finish. "Really? You did exactly as I told you?! You said you could have this done by tonight and i trusted your judgement. But (Y/N) this shit is useless!"

He continues to fuss, but it was all silent to you. All you could hear was the echo of his voice saying that word. "Useless." The one thing you feared of becoming. The one thing you feared of creating. Your balled fists begin to shake. Your lip begins to quiver and your eyes grow cloudy.

"I'M SORRY!", you cry out before looking down at the floor, failing to control your tears as they fell to the floor. Suddenly, your eyes began to flood. Your stomach and heart felt like they were twisting and turning with guilt. He froze, unsure of how to handle this sudden outburst. "Was I too harsh?", he thought. "I'VE TRIED SO HARD TO BE GOOD ENOUGH. GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU! I'VE TRIED TO PERFECT YOUR WORK. I'VE TRIED TO LOOK MY BEST EVERY DAY! FOR YOU! I'VE DONE EVERYTHING YOU'VE TOLD ME TO!", your whole body shakes as you break down. "I never told you that you had to do any of that! What the hell have you been pushing yourself so hard for?", his tone was still stern, but he wasn't angry. He was very concerned, but had no idea how to express it. "I WANTED TO MAKE YOU PROUD!", you continue to cry.

The room was silent other than your quiet sobbing. He didn't know what to say. He had no clue that you had put so much pressure on yourself to impress him. He had no idea on why it mattered so much to you. And in that moment, something in him began to ache. He remembered being like that once. So dead set on making others proud of him no matter what it took. He had no clue what to say due to no one ever being there for him in his time of struggle, so instead he goes for a more physical approach.

He grabs you by the arm and pulls you to his body, holding you close. You bury your face in his chest to try and muffle your cries. He runs his hand through your hair, still confused as to why you pushed yourself so hard for him. "I just..", you sniffle. "I just wanted to be good enough.. for you...", you say as you try to stop crying. He lifted you up, carrying you bridal style to the bed. He crawled up and sat his back against a pillow, continuing to hold you close as you buried your face in his neck.

"Look at me.", he held your chin in between his thumb and pointer finger and waited for you to face him. You sniffle and pull your head up to meet him eye to eye. There was a new look in his eyes. Something unfamiliar to the both of you. Tenderness. "You are good enough. And I am so proud of you. Everyday you make me proud. Every time I look at you I'm proud.", he begins to wipe the tears from your face, struggling to find the right words to say. "Look. You don't need to overwork yourself. The fact that you stick around with me to begin with is enough for me." A small smile begins to grow on your face. The sight warms him and helps reassure him that he didn't say anything dumb.

Once you've seemed to calm down, he pulls you in for a kiss. It was warmer than usual. Softer than usual. And Karl isn't a man known for being soft or gentle. But this kiss was far from rough, but just as passionate. It was reassuring and safe. He pulls away and smiles at the sight of your now blushing face. "There's my pretty girl. Now, if you feel like it... since we're already on the bed.. I think I know a thing or two you can do if you still wanna feel useful.", he offers with a sly grin. You giggle and begin to straddle his lap. "Sounds good to me." you say as his hands start to wander around your hips.

"But, we're gonna be doing something different.", he says as his eyes scan every inch of your body. "What's that?", you go to unbuckle his belt but he grabs your wrist before you can continue. "Tonight's all about you. I wanna make you feel good.", he says. During every sexual situation you've had, you had focused on pleasing him first, not thinking about yourself and your own wants and desires. You don't object, so he moves his hands back to your hips and pulls you off of his body, effortlessly tossing you onto your back on the bed.

He then pins himself above you, towering over you. Your heart races at the new experience and your face glows more and more pink. His eyes meet yours and the sight alone is enough to start making your panties grow wet. He lowers his face down to your neck where he begins to place little kisses. Chills run through your body like ocean waves and you let out a quiet gasp as a kiss turns into a nibble. A hickey begins to form and he lets go, moving his mouth to your ear. "I want you to tell me what you want, buttercup." he whispers in your ear as one of his hands begins to wander across your body. It starts up near your breast where he fondles it gently, earning a lip bite from you. Then, he goes lower to your stomach where he scratches lightly at your skin. You squirm beneath his hand. He smiles and begins to kiss you once more before going even further, slipping his hands into your pants and cupping your vagina through your soaking panties. You gasp while your lips are still connected and he gently tugs on your bottom lip with his teeth, pleased at the reaction he's gotten from you.

"Is this what you want?", he slips two of his fingers into your panties and finds your clit, rubbing it slowly. "Mhm", you whine and press yourself into him. "Goodgirl.", he moves from where he was and makes his way down to your pants. He unbottons them and begins to pull them off. He throws the pants across the room and crawls back towards you on the bed. He removes your shirt and your bra underneath, throwing them in the same direction of the pants. He lowers his head down to one of your hard nipples and wraps his mouth around it, caressing it with his tongue. This causes you to moan quietly and grip the sheets beneath you. Your nipple was already so tender, so the feeling of his tongue was powerful enough to make you squirm. He lowers his hand back into your panties, rubbing your clit with his thumb. Your knees bend inward, trapping his hand between your legs. He chuckles with your nipple gently between his teeth. "Looks like you like this, huh?" You moan in response.

It didn't take long for you to feel a climax building inside you, coming closer and closer to exploding with each touch he inflicted onto your throbbing clit. Moans of all volumes filled the room as you got closer and closer. Then, right when you were about to cum, he stops. You groan in disappointment and look over at him. "I was just warming you up.", he smirks and lays on his back. "Come here.", he commands and pats on his chest, signaling for you to sit there. You do as he says and sit upon his chest. The second you sit down, His strong hands grip onto your hips and he begins to pull your body towards his face. He places you on top of his mouth. The next thing you know, your soaked pussy is being attacked by his tongue. You can't help but let a moan slip out between your lips as he closes is eyes, fully focused on bringing you maximum pleasure. He places each hand on each thigh, gripping them slightly all while his tongue swirls around your clit. You use one hand to grip the headboard of the bed and the other one to grip his hair, tangling your fingers in the grey strands. You grip harder as he sucks on your clit, causing you to throw your head back in pleasure. He let loose a few muffled moans and groans, causing vibrations on your pulsing clit. "Oh fuck Karl!", you feel your body weight sink lower and lower as you melt into the pleasure of his tongue. You begin to grind your hips back and forth, riding out your orgasm. He doesn't mind at all and begins to work harder to finally push you to your limit. With a loud moan, you cum into his mouth.

As you catch your breath and shake on top of him, he grabs you once again and pushes you over onto the bed. His beard was shiny around his lips due to a mixture of your sweat and cum. He looks down at your flustered and flushed face, pleased with what he'd done. You noticed a large bulge protruding from his pants. "I want you.", you pant as you reach over, massaging the hard lump. He responds by stripping, too breathless to verbally respond. Once he's fully naked, he makes his way onto the bed. You take him by the shoulder and pull his face into yours, initiating a passionate make out session. Your tongues caressing one another as you both toss and turn, ending up with you straddling him.

You rub his already throbbing dick, preparing for its entry. It was quite large and veiny. The hair that led from his lower stomach to his pubic area glistened with precum. You position yourself and begin to sit on his dick, letting it slowly fit inside you. Your extra wetness helped lube it. Once it was completely in, Karl groaned, grabbing your ass in his calloused hands. "Fuck.. you're so good.", he encourages. You begin to slowly rise and fall, letting your pussy stretch to comfortably fit his girth. You both moaned quietly. Once you feel comfortable, you wrap your arms around his neck and begin to bounce on it, feeling each thick vein add texture. 'What a good girl..." Every time you made your way back down, you could feel the tip of his dick reach your special spot, making your knees feel weak. As overwhelming as it felt, you couldn't stop. You continued to bounce up and down on his dick as his fingers grip your ass for dear life. "You're doing so good.", he praises you and you thank him by clashing your lips together, sharing sloppy kisses as you both moan with each up and down motion. "Such a good girl.", he begins to squeeze your breast, causing you to squeal and pick up the pace. It felt amazing, but your legs grew weaker and weaker with each motion, and he could tell. You were panting as you fucked yourself senseless on his dick.

"Wait a sec.", he gently pats your ass to get you to stop. You stop and rest your sweaty forehead to his, legs shaking beneath you. You didn't want to stop, but you weren't sure how much longer you could continue. Your legs felt like they were on fire. 'Let me help you.", his hands glide up to your waist where he clutches your sides and begins to bounce you up and down, continuing the motion you could no longer do yourself. You kiss him and whine into his lips as he slams your body up and down, grunting harder each time. "Such a pretty girl.." he pants. "Riding my cock so good..", he begins to slam his hips into you, reaching a point inside you that he's never reached before. You throw your head back and moan, tears of pleasure and bliss begin to form in your eyes. You're both exhausted and so close to finishing. You're whole body felt like it was numb and on fire at the same time as your climax creeped closer and closer.

And with a few more strong pumps into you, you both cum. He lets loose of your sides and wraps his arms around your back, drenching in sweat. You collapse on top of him, unable to move any of your body. Karl places a few more sloppy kisses across your face, his facial hair tickling your skin. "Don't you ever.. ever believe you're not good enough. Got it?", he pressures. You're too exhausted to form words, so you simply nod your head, laying down on his chest. His heart beat was rapid but soothing. Soon enough, it lulled you to sleep. He soon followed, keeping his arms wrapped tight around you the entire time.

#re8 #resident evil 8 #karl heisenberg x you #karl heisenberg headcanon #karl heisenberg headcanons #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x reader #karl heisenburg x reader #karl heisenberg angst #karl heisenberg fanfic #karl heisenburg #karl heisenberg smut

[eremiie]

study session, sex songs

❥ armin x reader | nsfw | 2.3k words

❥ content: semi public sex, vaginal fingering, a sex tape

❥ a/n; an ask i got that i took an ss of and then tumblr deleted my asks, but i HAD to do this🙄!!!

you were bored.

you were so bored that the sound of the rain drops hitting the window next to you was almost a form of entertainment, or maybe the shuffling of people trading books on the shelf.

at this point anything was better than the piece of paper and book in front of you. you had been staring at the words so long that they were all the same. you were rereading the same sentence over and over again, and aimlessly sketching small drawings on the paper in front of you.

studying wasn't your strong pursuit, especially with your boyfriend next to you, who seemed to love it. at the thought of him, your eyes glanced over— a sight for sore eyes when you had been staring at chemistry notes for the past half hour.

a pencil was dancing on paper in between his slender fingers, jumping with every lift of his hand and coming back down to the white sheet like a figure skater on ice. he wore glasses to study, large frames sitting on the bridge of his nose, his hair so close to touching them. those same blonde locks almost hid the earphones that were snug in both ears, and you wondered if whatever he was listening to is what helped him study so diligently. his tongue stuck out just a little bit in concentration, while his eyes flit back and forth between the paper in front of him and the book above it.

he must've been watching you watch him, his attention turning towards you and the mechanical pencil coming to a quick halt mid sentence. he set it down to the table gently, and you lifted yourself off of the surface to balance your head on the palm of your hand. "armin." a whine of his name, clear discontent laced in your voice.

"yeah?" his reply was so simple, so innocent. as if he didn't drag you to the library with him, practically pleading for you to just sit down and study with you knowing you hated studying, especially in the atmosphere of a library. there were too many distractions and you weren't comfortable. not to mention the fact that you were clad in a skirt.

"i can't study, can we just go?" his expression didn't change at the sound of your complaints, eyes still calm and lips still together in a line. you didn't want to come in the first place, he should at least give you the liberty of leaving when you asked— especially considering how long you had been in the quiet library.

"do you think listening to something will help?" armin's eyebrows came together as his hand came to point at the earphones in his ear. you really didn't want to stay, but when you thought about the focus your boyfriend was in that you broke you did feel a little bad.

your legs shifted from under the table and you sat back in your seat, crossing your arms in your lap and letting out a sigh, eyes traveling around the vast library. when they landed back on armin the earbud was already sitting pretty between his fingertips. it was glaring at you and you were glaring at it, but nevertheless you leaned forward and plucked it from armin's fingers, his lips upturning when you did.

he slipped his hands in his pockets to fumble with his phone and you picked up the pencil in front of you to try and get back to studying, checking to see what page armin was on while you waited for the music to play in your ears. what music was armin into anyways? the last thing you could remember him listening to being a spotify playlist full of lo-fi beats.

only... it wasn't lo-fi beats that began to play.

or music.

your body went rigid, pencil in your hand beginning to feel heavy, leaving you to wonder how it hasn't clattered to the table yet. a chill ran down your spine because what you were listening to was all too familiar— from the wet sounds that happily made its way into your ear, to a moan of armin's name that sounded much too like your own voice.

it was your voice, because when you heard another moan it was armin's cry of your name.

it took you a minute to turn your head towards armin, his eyebrows raising over his eyes in question of what you could possibly want now. he hummed a small "hm?" to figure it out, as if it wasn't obvious. that look of innocence was played by him again, blue eyes twirling with curiosity as if there was anything to be curious about. as if your sex tape wasn't a reason for you to look at him funny— eyes blown and mouth agape.

when you didn't respond— only still staring at him dumbfounded, he shrugged his shoulders and continued to scribble on his stupidly neat paper.

were you hearing things right?

your eyes flashed, brows knit as you shoved armin's shoulder, his pencil flying off the paper and messing up the "e" he was in the midst of writing. "you messed up my paper." he grumbled, and oh, was he a little too good at this game he was playing with you.

"what is this?" you questioned, disregarding the flimsy sheet of paper he was writing on because that was clearly the least of his issues.

armin used his pencil to point to your book, confusion taking over the once curious look he had just moments ago. "...a study session i would assume." he wasn't letting up, and your lip twitched at his response.

"no— i mean what am i listening to?"

"well, out of everybody you should know." your body stiffened again, a slow blink at his response that came out almost too smoothly, words sliding off his tongue like silk. you had to pull your gaze away from him as he only did just what he did earlier, going right back to studying like there wasn't anything off about the moment you were sharing.

if he wanted to play with you, you'd just have to join in his game.

so with a huff of breath, and the lewd noises that were still playing in your ear you turned your body back towards your notes in front of you and tried to read them over again. your name was the only thing comprehendible on the sheet, every word below it a jumbled mess.

"light wave... light waves, diffraction pattern..." you spoke slowly, reading as if you were back in the first grade.

your hands moved down from the textbook and to the paper in front of you, nimble fingers forming words on the paper that you could only hope would make sense when you'd read them back.

diffraction pattern - occurs only

"only who?"

"only you fuck me like this, armin, please!"

the tail of your y went a little too low, and your legs turned to jello, squeezing together when you heard your voice swim through your ears. blood was rushing to your cheeks, and you leaned closer to your book, burying your nose in it despite not actually reading what was on the pages— at least well. with a suck of breath you continued to write,

diffraction pattern - occurs only you fu

your eyes shot open mid sentence, and you scrambled to spin the pencil around until the eraser met the paper, erasing what you had written furiously, and you swore you heard a small chuckle leave armin's lips, you biting your own and scrunching your nose up at your pitiful mistake.

your hands came up to rub at your temple, the sound of a moan armin drawled from you a couple nights ago was what you heard next, and it might’ve sounded nice those nights ago, but now it was embarrassing.

you squeezed your eyes shut, much like your legs and as flustered as you were you couldn’t help but feel... aroused.

it was something about hearing armin fuck into you so nice. the way that even though there was no visual for you to look at, you could visualize the moment so clearly— so vividly, because the more you listened the more you could remember making the tape, remembering what happened during the tape.

armin’s hands had slid up your back, a handful of your hair being grasped by his hand, a sinful arch being created by your back, and you let out a choked whimper, that you didn’t even realize you reciprocated in real life.

armin’s head slowly turned to you and his lips were forming a sick grin, and you would’ve been mad if you didn’t want him so bad, if you didn’t want every moment you could hear to stop being the past and become the present, the very moment that was playing in your ear to play out in front of you.

a whine, a pleading look on your face; eyebrows turned upwards and your hips grinding down into the chair below you.

armin could’ve almost laughed if he wanted to, and he almost did when your hand slid into his lap to grab his and pull it to the hem of your skirt, the fabric brushing lightly against his fingertips, but he didn’t push forward.

“armin,” his name never sounded so nice on your tongue, never sounded so desperate. your grip on his wrist tightened and urged him forward, and so he let them slip under the soft fabric of your skirt, and even past the band of your underwear, and the closer he inched towards your aching cunt the wider your legs spread for him.

his finger felt cold against your clit when he touched it, rubbing small circles right away, and your face looked like it was melting at his touch, your body was melting at his touch.

and he was being kinder than expected— letting his fingers dip down further until your slick allowed for him to enter into you, your body shivering at his touch, at the stretch.

your head fell forward onto the table with a louder than expected bang, and it caused both you and armin to jolt, the people around you stirring a bit.

you didn’t care too much, but armin did, his fingers stilling and his eyes going back to his textbook, eyes darting back and forth between the words as if he was really reading them, and you wanted to give him a prize for best actor right then and there.

“shh.” he said without looking your way, but his fingers began to move again, and you tried your best to not let out a moan. “gotta be quiet if you want me to fuck you with my fingers... this is what you want right?”

the sound in your ears were practically drowned out by your thoughts, by the squelches of your juices being moved around by armin’s middle finger, by the sounds that only you could hear— and maybe armin if he listened enough.

“yeah... i want it.” the small pants that were leaving your parted lips, and they only increased when armin inserted a second finger, his hand making itself comfortable in your underwear, fabric harshly rubbing against his pale hand with every thrust of his digits into your pussy. “want it so bad.”

you looked like a dog, a puppy in its heat, pushing your hips forward to get him deeper into you, but it just wasn’t enough.

you were needy and needed more, so your own hand smoothed down to your clit and you began to rub circles, whimpering at the sensation, the pleasure flooding through your lower half, almost making you dizzy.

hell, you were dizzy— drunk even; drunk on the lust that was twirling in your pretty head, and drunk on armin’s fingers— it was like the way his hand moved when he wrote notes, moving precisely and ease.

his fingers fucked up into you, curling when they were deep enough, and making your body lurch forward. “again.” you needed to feel that again. the fingers on your clit went a little faster, because you knew you were close. “again.”

and he did it again, hitting that spot that made you clench around him, and he kept doing it, and your fingers kept moving, you were progressively getting louder, but it didn’t matter as you were getting closer to coming as well.

and you did, body tensing up and every nerve in your body pinching, mouth dropped open and eyes rolling to the back of your head as your hand came to hover just over your mouth just in case any sound left you.

you slumped over onto the table, pulsing around armin’s fingers but your own slipping out of your skirt and onto the space of the chair your legs made.

armin finally let out a stupid small laugh, his soaked fingers finally leaving your sloppy cunt and entering his mouth, tongue twirling around your release. it was a shame you weren’t looking.

you could hear it though, the obnoxiously loud slurping sounds he made and the hum of content he made before popping his fingers out his mouth. what you couldn’t hear was the tape. it must’ve stopped in the middle of armin fingering you.

and you also heard the slide of armin’s chair against the floor of the library, the sound of a book cover meeting it’s back, and the shoving of books into a bag.

armin looked over his shoulder with a bored expression, one that was eerily similar to the look you had given him just earlier when you were bored of studying.

your eyes met his; eyes still calm and lips in a line once more... “i can’t study anymore. let’s just go.”

#armin arlert x reader #armin x reader smut #armin x reader #armin arlert x reader smut #armin aot #armin arlert #shingeki no kyoujin x reader #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #attack on titan x reader #armin arlert x you #armin x you #armin arlert x y/n #armin x y/n

[rae-gar-targaryen]

loved you once, part two [angel reyes x fem!reader]

A/N: Muahahahaha. IT’S HERE!I know, it’s been over a month. And I’m really sorry for that. But HOLY SHIT, the traction “loved you once’ got was way more than anything I could ever have imagined or expected. I am just so grateful to everyone for reading. For the people I’ve met and gotten to know since engaging in the Mayans fandom and posting fic. Honestly, this wouldn’t exist without you.

For this part, as before I invented a tattoo and an ex-girlfriend for Angel, and I fudged the timeline a bit and added some elements from season three in here. You’ll know them when you see them. Also, if you can tell me where Frida’s date comes from, you win a cookie, and maybe a hug from me.

Part one was based on "Loved You Once" by Clara Mae, this part was definitely moreso based on "You Broke Me First" by Tate McRae. And "After Hours" by the Weeknd. Honestly, the playlist for this fic is a sad, horny mess. You wanna cry, but feel confusedly turned on by it? I may drop the link.

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 (aka Frida -- as always, the appearance is ambiguous, but the reader is described as having female pronouns/parts. I do imagine a latinx reader, but I hope I’ve written this so you can imagine yourself with no restriction.); also slight Frida x other, and slight Coco x Frida.

Word Count: 23.4K (I KNOW, OKAY?) of ANGST! Half-baked simile and overbaked metaphor. Heartbreak swathed in honey-sweetness, and biting frustration. But maybe, ultimately, the balm of peace?

Warnings: ANGST, non-explicit references to infidelity, sexual references and sexual content, descriptions of sex, fingering, oral (female receiving) so 18+ ONLY, please! Canon-typical douchebaggery, references to a past relationship, song references and poetry. (It is me, so yeah, poetry). This honestly feels just like a compendium of heartbreak.

Summary: You and Angel have been broken up for a while. After the ill-fated run-in at the patch party, will you continue on as you have? Or is it the push you both needed to reconnect? Angel loved you once; will you love him again?

Read part one here.

---

It doesn't snow in Santo Padre.

It's not that you enjoyed being cold, or particularly wanted snow. But a part of you had always romanticized the concept of a “classic” winter -- the feeling of crystalline fluff tumbling from the heavens to dust your cheeks and lashes, bathing your surroundings in an ocean of chilly silver-white. Of retreating from the exterior world's glacial crispness and  into the warmth of your home, bathed in an orange-golden glow, the cinnamon-y scent of something baking. 

Of falling into the arms of your beloved, someone who would seep the chill from your bones with his warm embrace, kissing the tip of your cold nose. Who would admire the snowflakes caught in your lashes before they melted away as he presses his lips to yours. Cherishing you and cradling your cheeks as he does so, like you're the snowflake he's afraid will melt away.

But it doesn't snow in Santo Padre. Your idyllic winter fantasy is not to be. No snowflakes, no cinnamon; even the man of your reality is, in truth, much harsher than that of any winter chill you could’ve dreamt up on your own. 

In the real world, your romance with Angel bloomed, despite the dying light of mid-January. And nearly a year later, it felt like the true harshness of winter had come to your doorstep when you were, quite literally, left out in the cold. Not exactly the stuff of dreams. You know what they say, be careful what you wish for. This frigid winter was inhospitable, and worse than you could have ever imagined. 

The stinging numbness of Angel’s harsh treatment of you and subsequent departure left you with frostbitten limbs and an icy heart. 

The chill had subsided, had melted away from your bones some in the passing months... 

Until a few weeks ago. At that damned patch party that you were foolish enough to attend, despite knowing full well who would be in attendance. 

That had gone famously. 

Aneesa had come by the next day to drop off your gear, your books, and a wad of cash you’d tried to push off, but that she’d insisted was from Bishop for the night’s work. 

“So you are alive,” she’d snipped, her annoyed expression melting into one of sympathy when she’d taken in the shadowed look in your eyes, the sunken nature of your shoulders. How you’d shed your party clothes for one of Angel’s old t-shirts he’d left at your place and never come by to reclaim, something you hadn’t done in a while. And if you were honest with yourself (something you were a little afraid to be in this moment of weakness), you knew it was wildly unhealthy to still have it-- let alone to take comfort in wearing it. To want to take comfort in anything to do with Angel.

Though Aneesa hadn’t been in the room when it had all gone down, otherwise occupied with Gilly, she’d heard more than enough from Coco and EZ, Gaby standing to the side with an empathetic expression as EZ recounted how Angel had basically run you off the property in his insistence to speak to you. How you’d looked ready to burst.

You’d apologized, of course, for not responding to her texts and calls. For worrying her. She’d waved the apologies away, opting to scoop you into her signature warm embrace. But it wasn’t just Aneesa. 

The texts from that night went unanswered, despite the near-constant buzzing of your phone. 

It had nothing on the buzzing of the thoughts in your own head, replaying just what-the-fuck had happened at that party. 

“I care, Frida.”

“... and if I wanted you back?”

“Please, querida.”

Frida, this. Querida, that. Honestly, it was too much. 

You were smart to get out of there. You were right to get out of there. You’d said what you’d needed to say in that moment, even if it didn’t scratch the surface of everything you’d wanted to say to Angel since he tossed your shit in a box all those months ago.

You’d almost thought you were back in mid-winter, with the chill that had resided in your bones after you’d gone home, hands shaking and clammy with the nerves from confronting Angel. Your skin felt like it was vibrating on a different frequency. Nauseous. And as you’d slid into bed that night, all you could feel was the cavernously empty side of your bed, threatening to swallow you whole. And not for the first time did you wish it would snow. It would be warmer than the perpetual bleak chill you felt everywhere since Angel had left you.

Now, in the sweltering heat of late summer, the season’s defiant final push before it shunts away into cooler autumn, you find yourself back in your shop. Ever-grateful for central air as you watch the waxy sunshine and passersby through the glass door. 

You were  leaned over the counter, idly sketching, when the telltale ding signalled the shop’s door opening.

As you looked up and saw just who was making his way in, ever-present gentle thunk and squeak of his boots meeting the linoleum, you were struck with visions of your life a year and a half ago, when this very sight had been what started it all. 

A sight that should have been a welcome one -- your man walking into your workplace to greet you on a break with a kiss on the cheek; or, at the very least, what should have been a cherished memory -- the ineluctable meeting with the person you’d thought you’d spend the rest of your life with … all of it was tainted now by the actual sight of him walking to the counter for the first time in a long time (but not nearly long enough, given everything), hands stuffed in his pockets. His eyes were fixed on his feet as he put them one in front of the other on his way to where you stood. 

There was no easy lean on the counter. No self-confident rapping of his ringed knuckles against the hardwood. No smirking grin. 

The Angel before you was a sulking shell of the man who had blown into your life a year and a half ago with his practiced flirtation and his warm, ochre eyes. Maybe 'Clara Forever' should have been more of a red flag than you'd originally lent it. But you weren't reading between the lines then, content with perusing the beauty of the surface poetry that was the man you'd met. 

The man now? Between the lines was all you were reading. How could you trust the surface? After everything. This man was mussed hair and tired eyes, overgrown scruff and rumpled jeans you were sure he’d rolled out of bed in. Despite his disheveled appearance, your guard was still up. You knew how easily Angel slipped beneath your skin, like pin-pricking bolts of easy silk gliding seamlessly into your bloodstream, taking you over before you even knew he was wrapping you up, away, and into himself.  

To say you were grateful for the buffer the counter provided between the two of you would be a massive understatement. It may as well be Everest, because there was no damned way you were going to let him scale it and press his way even further into your day, let alone back into your life.

You were silent as you watched Angel unstuff his large hands from the pockets of his kutte and shift a little from foot to foot. You crossed your arms over your chest, flexing in your impatience, and waited for him to speak.

He looked up at you, sullen eyes meeting your shrewd ones for the first time since that night on the clubhouse porch. 

Oh. And Angel’s eyes had always held so much emotion. You knew you’d said it before, thought it before -- Angel’s feelings were his worst-kept secret, ever bubbling beneath the surface but inevitably bursting through like greenery through the cracks of stone. Spilling molten lava.

Bleeding hearts on a very crisp sleeve.

Today, they were glistening; but not with rage or definitive humor. You saw shame. You saw remorse. You had half a mind to tell Angel just where he could shove those feelings, and then he spoke, cracking the brittle, tense silence between the two of you with the gravelly timbre of his voice 

“You, uhhhh, got any space for me today?” You had to hand it to him, Angel’s question was unexpected; his eyes left yours to take in the  empty chairs at the back of the shop. 

You shuddered a little with your exhaling sigh, internally bemoaning the fact that you were alone to face this as you chewed over just how you could answer. Olí had gone to the bakery a few blocks down to procure some late-morning cafecito. You immediately thought of texting him, begging him to come back and save you from the inherent awkwardness of this situation. But you knew he was likely caught in the line of the belated rush. And eager to flirt with the barista.

On your own again, then. Left to battle with your own emotions, and to face the minefield that were Angel’s. To face the consequences your admittedly-childish and flippant exit the night of the party had wrought. And if you were honest with yourself, you were not ready for this. Not quite ready to face the music (music that, to you, sounded like every clichéd, sad song you’d played ad nauseum since Angel had pushed you aside, causing you to unintentionally meet the quotient of every breakup truism). 

What was it they said? Clichés are clichés for a reason? 

You pulled yourself from the mire of your own thoughts with the sluggish carefulness of a child unsticking their boots from thick mud, hating the way Angel’s eyes shone now with hopefulness as he awaited your answer. 

Was he fucking serious? 

You uncrossed your arms, sighing loudly now before you answered him.

"My books are full," you said simply, shrugging. “Sorry.” Though you clearly weren’t, your clipped words plinking through the tense air like chips of ice.

Angel looked around the empty shop, eyebrows lifting as he took in the underlying meaning to your statement. 

“You got no one in here,” he responded, trying to keep his instant and rushing frustration at the situation at bay. He’d come here to try to talk to you. To hopefully appease your mood by coming to your turf to do so. Make something easy for you. Couldn’t you see that?

You stood unmoving, studying him keenly, almost like you were wagering with yourself on just how long it would take his frustrations to boil over. 

You weren’t about to cave so easily.

“Dunno what to tell you, Angel,” he’d quirked up at the way you said his name, almost like a little puppy, and you tried not to let yet another icy shard wedge its way into your heart at his behest, slightly disgusted with yourself for how you defaulted to the desire to smooth the wrinkle from his brow, to cup his cheeks and kiss away the worry you saw behind his eyes. Even after everything, your first instinct -- your first desire -- was to nurture him. But you told yourself since the patch party that you would be resolute. 

Even if on the inside your heart was frozen, but your resolve was melting.

“My books are full,” you repeated, holding up the datebook where you kept your schedule and making a show of flipping through the obviously-sparsely scheduled pages. “No room for you here.”

The line across Angel’s quizzical brow deepend, ochre eyes hardening into a slate frown. His upper lip curled slightly in annoyance, and as he caught his breath on the inhale, you could see him physically resist the urge to snap at you. 

“A lotta white on those pages, querida,” he bit out, starting to lean forward in the direction of the counter, weight on the balls of his feet. 

You closed the pages to your datebook primly, placing it on the counter and folding your hands over where the book rested. 

“No sé a qué te refieres.” I don’t know what you mean. You gestured at the empty chair behind you. “Business is booming. Now, if you want something done, Olí has openings next week. Or I can have him call you if he has a cancellation. Other than that, I surely can’t help you,” you shrugged, refusing to meet his eyes. 

You may have sounded tough -- cold and distant to your own ears, even. Angel may have been convinced. But you knew that if you looked him in the eye now, he would see the cracks in the already thin veneer that was your display of disinterest. Better to keep your head down, so to speak. Lest he see just how false your sense of bravado truly was.  

“Frida …” Angel slowly reached across the counter, holding out an arm to touch yours. 

You took a deliberate step back, just out of his arm’s reach, your eyes blazing now as he curled his fingers back and dropped his hand once more to his side. You shook your head. 

“Am I speaking something you don’t? I already said I can’t help you." You pointed to the door, “That’s your cue to go. I have a client waiting.” 

You'd had to hand it to yourself. Despite the depression-gymnastics your insides were doing, you were putting up a good front.

With that, you jabbed the finger pointing at the door, now over your shoulder at your empty chair. 

You were nothing if not adamant. Angel supposed he’d deserved that. At the very least, he’d deserved that.

Angel exhaled, rolling his eyes a little at your unwillingness to engage with him, before holding his hands up in surrender, retreating. 

Your heart was pounding in time with his steps to the exit. Were you really going to let him walk away -- keep walking away -- from you? Was he really going to say nothing else?

Angel gave you one last look before turning on his heel and making his way toward the exit of the shop. 

You don’t know what possessed you to say it. Maybe your inner masochist wasn’t done playing “Operation” with your feelings -- perhaps it was the gnarling, twisting fear you felt at seeing him walk away again, and maybe this time for good. But, as Angel reached the door, you called out,

“If you want an appointment, you’d better call first. You know what they say about walk-ins. Always risky.” 

Fuck. And you were doing so well. 

Angel glanced over his shoulder at you, full brows raised in mild surprise at your flimsy olive branch, wrapped in reference to your first meeting. He nodded mildly to acknowledge he’d heard what you’d said, his shoulders shifting beneath his kutte as he pushed the door open and walked back out into the hazy heat. 

Huh. Guess you had more to say to him, after all.  

----

"¿Flores, Angelito? ¿Para mi?" You asked in mild surprise, a little giggle bubbling from your lips as you took in the man before you with his short-sleeved flannel beneath the kutte, his thick, ringed fingers clutched around the bunched stems of an impressive-looking bouquet. 

The few dates you had been on with Angel at this point were all sweet. You’d never had much of a sweet tooth, but … there was a first time for everything. And Angel Reyes made you want to indulge. 

He had texted you the night before, asking if you'd like to meet him at the park the next day for some coffee, and maybe a walk. 

 "A walk?" You'd teased. "So old-fashioned, Angelito. Will we be supervised on this walk?" You drummed your nails against your thigh while you awaited his response, the bubbles in the corner of your screen popping up to indicate Angel was answering.

"Not the first time I've been told I needed adult supervision. But I think you're up to the task," he'd answered. Followed by a "winking" emoji.

Before you could type a similarly-cheeky response, he was typing again. A double-text.

"No need to involve anyone else in our business."

You chuckled at that. You'd give Angel Reyes that one. He certainly was charming. 

He'd met you as planned the next morning, proffering you the cluster of blooms. An unexpected gift. 

"¡Que bonita!" You accepted the bouquet, admiring the starshine sprigs of queen Anne's lace that were nestled between the soft pink pastel peonies and crisp swaths of greenery. You stood, rocking up to your tiptoes to press a kiss to Angel's cheek. "Gracias, guapo."

As you dropped back onto your feet, you took in the mildly flustered expression on Angel's face, rewarding him with another light giggle.

"Yeah, well…" Angel scrubbed his hand along the back of his neck. He had a habit of that, you noted. Was he nervous? "Seemed right, right? Since I've got flowers from you, and all.." he trailed. 

"I love them, Angel," you assured. "You didn't have to get me anything. I was just happy to have coffee with you."

On that note, you turned to the bench you had been waiting on, two cups of still-piping coffee in the little corrugated to-go carrier. You plucked one from its nest and handed it to Angel, popping the little plastic flip-top on the lip of the cup, blowing on it a tad to cool it, before handing it to Angel. 

You’d done it so seamlessly, he wondered if you truly realized what you had done, a cute little gesture of caring that -- the more he thought about in hindsight, the more he realized -- were the kind of gestures that exemplified and embodied you. He couldn’t help but stare down from his height in admiration of you.

“I assume you take it black?” you chirped. “If not, I grabbed packets,” you gestured at the little four-cup carrier, packets of cream and sweetener stuffed into one of the empty holders. 

He chuckled a bit at that, taking a small moment to admire you the moment you turned back toward the bench, your beauty in the late-morning sun as it streaked solar beams making your hair shine like a resplendent halo, the aura of it soft and reflective against the apples of your cheeks, ethereal. 

He appreciatively noted your own tattoos, streaks of ink awash against your skin and flashing beneath the ridden-up sleeves of your hoodie as you reached forward to grab your own cup from the carrier. 

You deposited the empty holder and packets into the trash, bringing your own cup to your lips and turning back toward Angel,

“Shall we?” You tilted your head toward the path encircling the park.

Angel took deep sips of his coffee, seemingly immune to the heat, and savoring the rich flavor as you walked by his side. 

Asbestos mouth, you thought, amused with yourself and your thought at Angel’s ability to slug the piping hot liquid without even flinching. 

For his part, Angel appreciated that you didn’t feel the need to compulsively fill the silence-- content to sip your respective “wake-up” cups, walking side-by-side and enjoying the sun’s tender, teasing warmth while basking in the other’s company. 

Angel didn’t know what made him say it, but in this moment, with you looking so perfect as you did, it felt like the moment to share a little piece of himself, 

“My mom used to bring me here when I was a kid, ya know?” 

You looked up at him from beneath your lashes, not breaking your stride, “That’s sweet,” you acknowledged. “I can just imagine you and Ezekiel running her ragged while you play. Do you and she ever come back here together?" 

Angel balked at your question. It struck him in moments like these, just how truly new you were to the self-contained corner of the universe that was Santo Padre, a vacuous and arid black hole that the rest of space and time forgot. It didn’t occur to him that there was anyone in town who didn’t know what had happened to Marisol Reyes. 

He stopped walking, unsure how to answer your question. You caught on to the change in pace, turning to meet him where he stood. 

“She, uh… she’s dead,” he said, softly and simply. He couldn’t deny the truth, and certainly didn’t see the point in being dishonest about it. 

“Oh,” you breathed. “Shit, Angel, I-- I’m so sorry,” you quickly wrapped your arms around him, mindful not to spill your coffee on him as you brought your hands around his waist. “I didn’t -- I didn’t mean to ask … I didn’t know.”

At first, Angel’s body had stiffened when you made contact with his torso. But he quickly relaxed into the hug, tilting his chin down to rest atop your head, bringing one arm around to gently pat your back, to reassure you that your innocent question hadn’t done any harm.

“S'okay, querida, it happened a while ago. Like you said, you didn’t know.” 

The two of you gently parted from your embrace, you leaning forward to run a reassuring hand over his bicep, genuine empathy emanating in the gesture.

“Well, this isn’t heavy at all,” as you withdrew from Angel, you hunched your shoulders at the mild discomfort you felt having brought up something painful for him. “Nothing like some light conversation on a casual coffee date,” you chuckled nervously. 

Angel had the good grace to smile at that, his easy expression a gesture of mercy on your flip-flopping conscience. 

“I mean,” you carried on, “I know you don’t know me all that well, but… if you ever want to talk, ever need anything, I’m here. I didn’t mean to dig at any old wounds,” you murmured, sincerely, but sheepishly.

“Really, querida, it’s OK,” he reassured. “I didn’t bring it up to be … depressing, or nothing... I have nothing but good memories with her here,” Angel took a long sip of his coffee, nodding at you slightly and resuming his previous pace. 

He pointed over to the swings on the other side of the large lawn, “She used to push me and EZ. Would cheer for us when we got higher. And ... if Pop was working late, and we wanted to play, she’d grab his glove and bring it to play catch with us, even if the damn thing was too big for her hands,” Angel smiled as he looked over at the lawn. “She woulda liked you, you know?” 

He nodded to himself in assurance at his own words, confident in his assessment of your character through the lens of his mother’s memory. 

Your breath caught at that, taken with the compliment. You smiled gently when Angel turned to face you again.

“It would have been an honor to know her,” you said, sincerely. “Sounds like she was a wonderful woman.”  

“She was,” Angel agreed, easily slipping his hand into yours as the two of you continued to walk, his thumb tracing the back of your hand. “I just hope I never lose that. Never forget her.”

Angel’s words gave you pause, struck with your default instinct to nurture. You were no stranger to loss. Who was, really? Not wishing that pain upon anybody, you imparted wisdom that had, in turn, been impressed upon you in your own similarly-sad moments: 

“You won’t,” you assured, taking your hand from his, trailing your fingers up his wrist and to his forearm, tracing your thumb over the sprig of rosemary you had etched into his skin a few weeks prior. “¿Por recuerdo, sí? For remembrance? You remember her in moments like these, where you share her with others. That’s not something you’ll lose, Angelito. Because she lives on in you. And your brother.” 

Angel was silent for a moment. 

Worried you had somehow overstepped -- when weren’t you feeling that way with Angel? Could you ever just mind your own business without spilling clichés like some kind of poetic dimestore vending machine, or a stale-ass fortune cookie? He hadn’t asked for you to  --

But Angel hadn’t said anything to put you down. As a matter of fact, he was just standing there… looking at you with that face again. What did that face mean?

Angel regarded you with a peachy-hued gaze of adoration, your words stirring something in him. But when weren’t they? Would everything you said always make him feel this way?  He had learned from the day you’d met, and your first date, that you were thoughtful. Generous with your thoughts and your empathy. Willing to give to others, but reserved with your own heart. 

And as he held your gaze, he was lightning-struck with the desire to make you feel safe enough to share your everything with him; wanted to kiss your pretty mouth and share every story from his life with you. Wanted to leech any pain from your pretty bones and replace it with the security of his affection. 

The thought might have scared him, if he had given them a second longer in that moment. Never before had he truly desired to share these things with another. 

You were dangerous that way, Angel decided. A real sleeper hit.

He tilted his head down, bringing his free hand to gently graze the high part of your waist with his fingertips, pressing his lips softly to yours. 

Every kiss with Angel was a novel experience, a lesson buried in a newly-cracked book you couldn't wait to turn every page of. He kissed fully, sweetly. At times, he kissed like the languid, steady pour of warm, thick syrup over waffles, overwhelming your every pore. Other times, he kissed like a bonfire -- passionate, smoky, hazy and stuttering in its fervor to reach the height of its burn. 

Now, he kissed you like honey, spliced with a crisp zing of orange zest, all sweetness and light. His hand on your waist a grounding reminder of your place on this earth beside him. But the longer you tasted it -- the heavier it became, filling you with a rush of sugary affectations, awash with your desire. 

You break the kiss to cut the cloying taste, just as much as you'd needed air.

Angel’s gaze upon you as you broke apart was heavy-lidded and weighted with some emotion you couldn’t (or wouldn’t dare, just yet) to name… his full lips dragged into a low, lazy smirk, watching as you giggled lightly, nervously. 

“So …” you trailed, making a vague gesture toward your stomach. “The butterflies. Not just a first date thing with you. Good to know,” you nodded, more to yourself than to him. 

A genuine little barking laugh escaped Angel’s lips at that, his amusement and rush of adoration for you compelling him to bend down once more and press a soft kiss to the side of your head. 

“You are something, Frida.” 

The two of you resumed your walk, you teasingly bumped your hips into Angel’s as you spoke again, 

“Since we’re sharing about when we were kids -- I always wanted to be a dancer, you know? My dad used to take me to classes. But I was… fucking awful,” you giggled. “I was better with my hands than on my feet.”

"I'm sure you are," Angel snickered, quicker than you were...

Your eyes widened when you realized what you’d said,

“I -- not like that. You know damn well what I mean,” you made a vague gesture in the air like you were holding a pen and sketching.  "You know I'm good with my hands. I freehanded that, didn't I?"

You nodded toward Angel’s arm once more.  

“Sí, sí, you’re Frida, after all,” Angel decided not to make a joke at your accidental double-entendre. “It's your hand, but it's also your eye. Your spirit.” 

And if Angel was more honest with himself -- and with you -- in that moment, he could have gone on -- “And in your heart, something inscrutable.” Not that he was one for too much, too soon with any woman.

"--But I'm sure you can dance Frida," Angel continued, gently knocking your shoulder with his own as the two of you continued to walk. 

"And how would you know that?" You teased. "I'm only left feet." As if to demonstrate your own self-deprecating point, you swung one foot behind yourself in a reverse-kick as you walked, an attempt to softly, jokingly kick Angel’s behind. But you’d woefully miscalculated the height differential between the two of you, your leg not extending high enough to reach its target, causing you to stumble and pitch off-balance. 

Angel scooped you in one arm before you could even begin to fall.

“Already tryna kick my ass? Damn, mama, I try to compliment you and this is what I get?”

Angel’s arm was warm around your waist, the result of his successful rescue to keep you from falling. Maybe you were glad with the stunt you’d pulled, if it resulted in him scooping you into his arms like something out of an old movie. 

“Yeah, well I may not be able to kick your ass now. But give me time,” your voice had taken on a breathy quality, overwhelmed by Angel’s proximity to you. “But I did tell you I couldn't dance.”

“Whatever that was aside,” Angel shrugged before replying, as simply and matter-of-factly as though he was telling you the sky was blue, “I know you’d be a hell of a dancer.” He gazed down at where you were held against him before continuing, 

"How could something about you not be beautiful?"

---

Now, you were squirming in your seat as you sat in one of your favorite restaurants in town, the familiar ambience not enough to assuage your nerves. Not only were you unused to the feeling  of the summer dress and heeled wedges you had donned for the first time in your post-Angel months, you were similarly unused to the company. 

Even if the man across from you had been the perfect gentleman thus far.

Christopher was suave, sleek in his black button-up and expensive-looking dress pants, tattoo peeking from the buttoned collar of his shirt, adorning his throat in a way you found regal. He was far too overdressed for this mid-level, casual dining. But you figured that on the first few dates, you should keep it light. A cup of coffee here, a quick lunch at a food truck there. 

The two of you had met when you were perusing your options, mulling over your selection of the perfect avocado at the supermarket. You didn’t see the man on the other side of the display, reaching for the same fruit as you, and you brushed hands. The two of you chuckled and made light conversation, and then went on your merry errand-running ways. Perhaps it would have ended there if you didn’t see him two days later at the bookstore. 

At that point, you had to say something. You took note of the novel in his hands, and by the end of the encounter, he had smoothly asked you to coffee on your next day off. You had liked his firm handshake when he had introduced himself, and the warmth behind his eyes. His smooth voice that sounded like a crime, too suave and beautiful to be legal. 

Had the whole thing been a little rom-com for your taste? Sure. 

Were you a little afraid to get out there again after the absolute shitshow the last few months had been? No shit, Sherlock. 

Were you keenly aware of the way Christopher’s dark eyes danced with mischief the same way Angel’s did? That he had the same keeled, low-pitch to his voice?

Fuck that. You weren’t going to shoot yourself (and someone else) in the foot because you were too busy lugging around heavy, distinctly Angel-shaped baggage. You resolved to give Chistopher an actual chance. 

And this was the first time you had sat down indoors together for a prolonged period. The first date-date. 

To say Aneesa was ecstatic when you told her about your plans with Christopher would be an understatement. 

“Girl, you know he’s gonna treat you. That man is smooth as hell, darling,” she called from the depths of your closet, mocking Christopher’s deep voice that you had relayed to her in your recap of the encounter, while she tossed out dress after dress in her mission to dress you in what she dubbed “the date ‘fit to end all date ‘fits.” 

She had outdone herself. You felt gorgeous.

And while there were no homemade sandwiches, and your favorite worn jeans were tucked away at home, you had to admit that Christopher was doing one hell of a job at making you feel wooed. And maybe Aneesa was right when she said that maybe “new” was a good thing.

You and Christopher had laughed your way through dinner. He didn’t talk much about his work, but was very interested in hearing about your job, and seeing photos of finished pieces from your ‘gram.

“Damn, mama, you drew that?” He asked appreciatively. “You got an eye for the beautiful things.” 

You felt heat rush through your cheeks and down across your collarbones at his words, preening beneath his smoky praises. 

"Well, I'm out with you, aren't I?" You flirted back gently, smiling into your glass of wine.

The easy smirk Christopher rewarded you with was swoon-worthy to say the least.

Who was she? You were impressed with yourself. Gone was the fumbling girl rife with awkward, unintentional double entendre that you were with Angel. This Frida was a smooth motherfucker, making a man like Chris smile.

He, in turn, showed you photos of his son, beaming with pride while he talked about his son’s winning science fair project. 

He had confided in you that, normally, talk of a kid on the first date could be a deal-breaker. 

“But you seem like the kinda woman who ain’t afraid of an up-front man,” he had said. 

If he only knew. 

As the date was winding down, Christopher gave you a kiss on the cheek as he departed the table to use the restroom while awaiting the check. 

You smiled to yourself, using the moment alone to glance down at your phone, basking in the champagne-warm, fizzy feeling of a date gone well. Of mutual attraction and reciprocal attention. When you looked up and out of the glass doors of the restaurant you saw him. The champagne feeling gone, dousing you like ice-water; as quickly and sharply as it had come, it was gone. 

And he saw you, too.

Oh fuck. 

Through the glass, Angel appraised your sundress, your makeup, your styled hair. You saw the decision on his face the moment it was made.

He fucking wouldn’t. 

Oh, but he fucking would. Ever one to place his heart before his own head, Angel reached for the handle, entering the restaurant and making a beeline for you, past the hostess stand. Until his biker boots carried him to your table, where he noted the napkin tossed on Christopher’s side of the table, the companion chair slightly pulled back.

He glanced at the empty plates on the table before raking his eyes up your crossed legs beneath the table, and up to yours, taking in the blaze resonant in your gaze. 

Fuck, you were hot when you were mad.  

Not giving him a chance to speak, you piped up first, voice hard and laced with boxcutter edges and vinegar,

“You need to leave, Angel,” you seethed. 

It was apparent to Angel, even in his slightly-tipsy haze (you hadn’t caught onto his mild impairment, thank God) just what you were trying to get him away from. You were on a date. And it wasn’t beneath Angel, he would admit, to make you sweat a little. Especially after you had brushed him off a few days ago in the tattoo parlour. Petty as fuck, and he knew it. Coco would certainly have told him so.

He pulled Christopher’s chair back even further from the table, lowering himself and spreading his legs out comfortably, leaning back in his chair, head tilted back obnoxiously to appraise you further. 

“You look good, dulce. What’s got you so dressed up and out and about on a Friday night?” He lilted his voice in a crudely teasing way, like he was mocking you for making yourself feel pretty. 

You would not let him have this one, too. Not after the shitshow of a patch party. Isn’t it funny how you could barely bring yourselves to look the other in the eyes then? Too afraid to broach feelings, content to instead skate around them with all the grace of Bambi on ice. But  this town was too small for you to hide from him for the rest of your life. And you were well-past sheepish aches and pains and trying to spare Angel's feelings; no, you were on the road to well and truly pissed.

The pulse and magnetism between you and Angel was always strong, a source of perpetual warmth for you. But it was you he had left behind, in the whispering grip of a ghost. And you? You refused to be that girl on the clubhouse porch forever. 

Now, your blazing eyes met his slightly-glazed, blasé ones.

Was he … drunk? 

Fuck this. 

“I’m not gonna tell you again, Angel,” you warned. “That isn’t your chair. You can go.”

“‘You can go,'" Angel mimicked your words, echoing what you had said to him just now, and of when he dropped by your shop. He giggled. “Bit of a broken record, Frida. Maybe I’m just here to get dinner?” 

You crossed your arms over your chest, tired of Angel’s games, and thinking that Christopher was likely due to return at any moment. 

“Then get your food. If that’s what you're here for, it has nothing to do with me. No reason for you to sit here.” 

Your usually patient nature was fading fast, the ice Angel had bestowed you with in his departure hardening your demeanor into someone he barely recognized. If he had been more himself, maybe that would have been cause for distress. But he was in petty, childish, drunk-Angel mode. The Angel his brother had often chastised him for being. The Angel his brother had laid into him for being after his behavior at the patch party, leaving you to the proverbial wolves while Andres had insulted you. The Angel who was hurt. Who tended to lash out.

That Angel ever-so-delicately chose to ignore your just-left-of-polite plea for him to leave. 

“So, you dressin’ up for dinner with Aneesa? Or … wait… is this a date, amor? You dating? Maybe I’m just tryna to talk to you?” 

A cool hand met your shoulder, a protective arm sweeping over you from behind where you sat. Christopher had reappeared, standing protectively over the back of your chair. 

“And if it is?” Christopher’s voice was smooth, even and deadly-cool in a way that made you shudder a little. 

This was all getting a little “West Side Story” for you. And you had to break it up before something worse could happen. You would not let Angel ruin the first date you had been on since him. Let alone the first decent date. 

“It’s OK, Christopher. Angel was just leaving,” you nodded at him in what you’d hoped was a reassuring manner. For his part, Christopher didn’t flinch at Angel’s antics, and didn’t remove his arm from the back of your chair. 

“C’mon, Frida. I told you, I just wanted to talk. You can’t give me a few minutes?” Angel’s voice had lost its teasing demeanor, bald and glaring. 

You glanced between Angel and Christopher, now thoroughly uncomfortable with the trajectory this night had taken. If Aneesa ever asked, this would be one of the top reasons you’d choose not to date in a small town. Who's dick didn't you step on when you left your house?

You opened your mouth to answer, to politely brush Angel off and resume your date with Christopher, when Christopher surprised you by speaking first. 

“Do you want to talk to him, mama?” Christopher’s arm was still resting reassuringly on your shoulder. You glanced between the two again, unsure of what to say. 

Your pause seemed to be enough for Christopher, taking in the raw emotion behind your eyes as you looked at the slick, kutte-wearing man that was in his seat. Your hesitation and apparent emotion filling in the gaps about just who this person must be to you. 

“Tell you what, darling,” Christopher said, sharp eyes never leaving Angel’s as he spoke to you, “I gotta take a quick call,” Christopher gestured to the sidewalk beyond the glass doors. “I’ll be right out there, give you a few minutes. But if he doesn't leave when you want him to,” he looked directly in Angel’s eyes now, “I’ll be back. I owe you dessert, anyway.” 

You swallowed heavily at Christopher’s words, a kind of sick relief washing over you as you nodded. Was he just that understanding? The demeanour around him had an air of what you would describe as … deadly. While his words were a balm to you, they were clearly a threat to Angel. But maybe that was just you being too dramatic. He was a smooth-talker, is all. 

Christopher took your nod as acquiescence to his compromise, pecking a quick, light kiss to your cheek and striding casually toward the door. The absence of his warm arm now rendering you unpleasantly naked beneath Angel’s gaze. 

“Weeeeeell,” Angel drawled, turning to look over his shoulder, eyes following Christopher as he strode just to the other side of the glass. “That’s who you’re going out with? He. Seems. Nice. Cheerful, too. You sure know how to pick ‘em, querida.”

“Is that really a joke you wanna be making, Angelito?” You sneered. “What the fuck do you want?” 

“I told you,” Angel said lightly. “To talk.” 

You sighed, rubbing your temples, carelessly dropping the napkin that had been resting on your lap on the table, a not-so-subtle white flag. You looked pointedly at Angel, urging him to continue. 

“I meant what I said at the party,” Angel started.

Strike one, Angelito. Mentioning the party was not the way to go. 

“Which part did you mean?” You asked, voice taking on a tinge of faux-sweetness. “The part where your hand practically up some girl’s ass the entire night? Or the part where you let that guy shit-talk my work? Or maybe it was the part where after all that, you cornered me with nobody around to tell me you loved me?”

Angel flinched. 

“I deserve that,” he said. 

Strike two. Too little, too late. 

“You deserve more than that, Angel,” you chastised. “And now you’re still trying to take from me. Date-crashing? You tryna fuck this up for me, too? Haven’t you done enough fucking? So, what is it about me that says you can walk all over me? Why can't you just leave me the fuck alone?” 

Shit. You’d said it at the party, and you were telling yourself again now -- you would not cry in front of Angel. So, why were there hot little slivers poking the corners of your eyes? Your heart felt heavy, sick. It was getting to be a familiar sensation -- like a friend who showed up to crash at the worst possible time. 

The appearance of your tears was sobering to Angel. He reached toward your side of the table in an attempt to brush your hand, to offer you some kind of comfort, even though he was the one you wanted to be comforted from. 

“No, Angel,” you wiped your cheeks and placed your hands in your lap, out of his reach.  “Why aren’t you listening to me? You tell me. How much more could you possibly take from me? There's nothing left,” you shuddered, sucking uneven air between your teeth before gesturing at his state. “I don’t care if you’re drunk, I don’t care if you’re broken. You can’t just walk in here like nothing, trying to tell me the same shit that didn’t land the first time. To what?  To give you my heart back when y-you broke it -- broke me -- first? Is that what you wanted to talk about?” 

Angel was stunned. But, as is the default, Angel deflected. His genuine remorse at your words buried beneath his childish need to lash out, like a child buries toys in a sandbox to spite the friend he won’t share with. 

“That's why you're out with that … What was his name? Chad? Tim? Awfully shiny duds that dude had on,” Angel continued, “He's so… not me."

Strike. Fucking. Three. 

"Possibly one of his best qualities," you snipped, venomously. “But this isn’t about him, and don’t act like it is. You keep trying this thing where you just want me to hear your broken record bullshit about how you want me back, how you wanna talk. But then you don’t say any shit of substance  And you certainly don’t hear a goddamn word I say back to you. That tells me you aren’t really ready to talk. And you don’t give a shit if I’m ready, either,” you bit. “I tried, Angel. To tell you a little bit of what I’m feeling? You don’t wanna hear it. You just want me to hear you -- even if you say nothing.”  

A little flurry of movement caught the corner of your eye, turning your head to see the waiter hovering awkwardly, clearly confused that the man sitting across from you was not the man he had seen you with all evening. 

You pushed back from your seat, standing and beckoning for the waiter to come over. 

"He's got the check," you gestured at Angel. 

You patted Angel’s leather-clad shoulder as you walked past him, toward the door. “Thanks, amor. Real classy of you, paying for a girl’s date, and all.”

Ice cold. 

You walked out of the restaurant as Christopher hung up his phone, turning to see the door swinging shut behind you, and you walking toward him. His sharp brow arched questioningly at your sudden appearance, opening his mouth to ask about the bill. 

“It’s taken care of,” you breezed before he could ask, “Let’s go. You said something about ice cream?” You looped your arm through his as the two of you made your way down the block. 

Inside the restaurant, Angel’s phone buzzed with a text from Coco asking him where the fuck he was, and what the fuck he was doing. 

But his mind was swimming. The verbal truths you’d laid into him wriggling beneath his skin to take residence in the part of his brain that kept him up at night. 

He looked down at his texts again. He honestly didn’t know how to answer. 

---

Then, after a bad night, there was nothing more you wanted than to see Angel, his presence always a balm to your frazzled nerves. His easy, (at times) childlike demeanor was refreshing, and brought a light into your day that you now realized had been long missing before you had moved down here. 

You were sitting on the couch in your living room, feet up on your coffee table, wearing your favorite joggers and oversized tee, the epitome of comfort. 

You had a crappy reality TV show on in the background while you tilted your head back, sheetmask on, the cooling gel seeping into your pores. Cleansing your face and your soul.  

You had texted Angel to come over. After this shit-show of a day, you could use the company. You understood it was late. You understood he may not be able to come over right away -- club shit. And wasn’t there always?

“Hasta pronto, Frida,” his last text had read. See you soon. 

That was over 45 minutes ago. You were antsy. You’d had a long day. Some dude at a consultation had rubbed you the wrong way -- the two of you not communicating your respective ideas together well. The idea that your artist’s brain couldn’t match his vision to deliver something itched at you, wrinkled your brain. You’d had no choice but to refer him to Oli. On top of that, he’d been leery with you. 

Your hands were tired, the fine bones in your fingers aching. And you sure as shit didn’t want to answer any more emails or DMs. You just wanted to lie here, sheetmask on. Unbothered. Your boyfriend’s presence would be a bonus, but he was late.  

Somewhere between your next episode of “90 Day Fiancee” and your umpteenth sigh, you heard it -- the telltale rumble of Angel’s bike making its way down your otherwise quiet street. 

At the gentle rap on your door, you solidified your puddle of comfortable bones long enough to slip off of your couch and make your way down the hall, unlatching it and opening the door, only to be greeted with the rapidly-horrified face of your boyfriend.

“Jesus fuck!” Angel yelped. 

Your body jolted at the shock of his shout, hand coming to your chest. 

“Sorry, Frida, didn’t mean to scare you, but…” he gestured at your face. “What the fuck is that?”

Oh. 

You brought your hand up to where the silvery-grey sheetmask was still resting atop your skin. You sighed, peeling the mask from your face slowly, revealing your dewy skin beneath. 

“Sorry about that,” you chuckled, your heartbeat returning to normal.

You turned and made your way back down the hall, beckoning for Angel to follow, which he did, shutting the door of your place behind him. 

“Sorry about that,” you called over your shoulder as you tossed the mask in the trash beneath your sink. “I kinda forgot it was there.”

“Not for nothing, Frida, but that’s a hell of a home defense system.”

At the question in your eyes, Angel continued, kicking his boots off and shuffling his way into your living room. 

“If any serial killer ever shows up to fuck with you? All you gotta do is answer the door like that. He’ll think another murderer is already here,” at that he sucked air thorugh his teeth like Hannibal Lecter. “Hellooooo, Clarice,” he mimicked, laughing at his own joke and popping the button on his jeans to make himself comfortable as he slouched on the couch. 

“Bien,” you agreed, between a flurry of giggles. “Too many cooks in the kitchen, and all that. Brilliant, Angelito.” 

You popped open your freezer to grab your jade roller, subsequently grabbing Angel a beer from the fridge. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Angel called from the other room. “Club shit ran long. Plus, you sounded kinda down when you messaged me. So I had to make a stop.” 

You peeked into the living room in time to see Angel pull a crinkling plastic bag of mini peanut butter cups from the deep pocket of his kutte, plopping the bag onto the coffee table. “I come bearing gifts.” 

You smiled to yourself in the kitchen, pleased as punch with Angel’s thoughtful gesture. You popped the cap on Angel’s beer, turning to bring the drink to him, simultaneously rolling the jade over your face in your other hand. 

“Gracias, amor,” he accepted the beer from you. “What’s this now?” He beckoned at the roller in your hands.

“It’s to help rub the product from the mask into my skin, plus it’s nice and cold -- keeps my face from getting puffy,” you explained. 

“I don’t understand why you females think you need alla that shit,” he said, taking a sip of your beer, turning his attention to your TV. Not that he would ever admit it, but he was following along the trainwreck of season six of “90 Day Fiancee” with you. Had his own couples he loved to hate. 

“We females,” you emphasized, “just aren’t afraid to prioritize self care, unlike you big, bad bikers. Seriously, Angelito, when was the last time you washed your face with something other than hand soap, or --” you gave an exaggerated shudder to drive home your point, “that shitty 16-in-one body wash/engine oil I know you keep in your shower.” 

Angel gave your shoulder a teasing little shove, ”Man, shut up. I bring you chocolate, and this is how you treat me?” 

Flirtation and sexual chemistry come easy to Angel. He was always blessed with an easy social grace, and women seemed to eat up the flirtatious attention. But anything more serious, and he becomes a blushing little boy, all shuffling feet, nervous smiles and awkward stuttering. There was some of that with you, he wouldn’t lie. But with you? Everything had a way of feeling so natural. 

“Oh, gracias, beautiful, generous, benevolent Angelito, god among men,” your voice was dramatic, teasing, you mocked bowing to him. 

“Okay, that’s enough outta you,” you grabbed your wrist, tugging you into his lap, tracing tickling fingers up your sides, causing you to writhe, shrieking through chiming laughter.  

Angel’s beer long-abandoned on the coffee table, your jade roller now dropped somewhere on the floor, you gazed into Angel’s face from your place reclining across his lap, chest heaving with the exertion of being tickled and laughing too much. 

For his part, Angel was looking down at you, brow softened in fondness for the woman before him, lightly trailing his hand along your cheeks. 

No one was laughing now, and the noise of the TV became an unimportant, staticky hum somewhere in the background to the moment you and Angel found yourselves in. 

You don’t know how you ended up beneath Angel on your couch. You were even less certain just when the two of you had absconded with your clothes. 

All you knew was that the heavy drag of him inside of you was resplendent, beyond words. Was it always like this with him?

And you? You were a brazen little thing, all gasping moans and dragging fingernails, urging Angel on with pleas and fluttering lashes. Your dedication to marking Angel’s back was admirable, and it’s not like he could honestly say he minded. He’d bear the battlescars of a night with you for eternity, if he could. 

As Angel thrust into you, all you could think about -- beyond the heated urgency of the way he was making you feel, was that he was perfect. 

The two of you basked in the after, awash in the blue-white glow of the TV screen still playing before you, skin now slightly sweaty and glistening in its own right, catching your breath together. The synchronicity of it all … music to you. 

You were both unfocused in your respective gaze’s on the television, just content to lie next to one another. Angel was stretched out on the couch behind you, unwrapping peanut butter cups, handing them to you piece by piece. This last one, he had pressed directly to your lips, which you had wrapped around the tips of his fingers, tongue following, as you accepted the candy. 

“Don’t start, Frida. I don’t know that I have the strength,” Angel said, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.

“Just once more, Angelito? You know I’ve had a hard day,” you hmm’d. 

“Evil woman,” he chuckled, reaching for you again. 

“You love it,” you gasped at the feeling of his fingers making their way once more to your center. 

“Yeah,” he rasped, eyes trained on your face as he played your body. “I fuckin’ do.”

Somewhere between rounds two and three, you had managed to talk Angel into wearing a face mask of his own, promising that he would “feel so much better for it.” 

He had acquiesced, of course, never able to tell you no. But made you promise under pain of death that you would never reveal that he had done something so girly to any one of his brothers.

You had agreed, but taken out your phone to snap a quick pic. Angel shirtless, tattoos illuminated against his skin in the ambient lighting of your living room, with a sheet mask on his face was too good not to capture.

“I swear, Frida,” he began, mock-threateningly, “If that ends up on the ‘gram…”

You shook your head. 

“Don’t worry, Angelito. This one’s just for me. And… maybe for Coco, if I’ve had enough tequila.” 

So, the butterflies… Always gonna be there with you, huh?

---

A few days after your date, Coco had texted you. 

“Leti needs a ride to work on Tuesday, and I have a yard shift. I hate to ask, but can you take her?”

“Sure,” you’d agreed. Following up with another message, “Do I pick her up from your place?” 

“She’s coming with me to the yard. She likes to hang in the office with Chucky,” he’d responded. 

Well, shit. 

If you’d known that this favor had come with the condition that you return to the yard -- to anywhere within the vicinity of that god-forsaken clubhouse, you probably would have refused. But you knew Coco was struggling to balance his club life with his relationship with his daughter. And you liked Leti. 

“You got it,” you responded. Cringing to yourself at just how you were going to pull this off and get out of there without anyone else talking to you. But texting Coco back to ask who else was on the yard shift with him would be too obvious. And kinda rude. He knew who you were hoping to avoid. 

Not much got past Johnny “Coco” Cruz.

So, Tuesday afternoon found you rolling over to the yard, hoping to swoop Leti and make a quick getaway. 

Luck, like time, was a bitch of a woman. And never seemed to be on your side in the keen moments you’d hoped she would be. Because as you pulled your car into the dusty lot abutting the scrapyard, who do you see?

Coco, in his snapback and yard uniform, was laboring with a large piece of metal. Ezekiel appeared to be fluttering in and out of the clubhouse, the clinking of glasses from inside reaching your ears when the door opened. 

Angel and … of fucking course … Andres were across the yard from Coco, standing over a junker and exchanging words. 

You sighed, rolling your shoulders and steeling yourself for whatever this was about to be as you got out of your car. 

The sound of your door opening and shutting was enough to draw nearly every eye in the yard to you, Angel freezing in his spot from the other side of the lot

As you began to stride over to where Coco was standing, EZ bound down from the clubhouse steps, intercepting you and greeting you with a warm hug. You smiled easily at the younger Reyes brother, holding your hand up to your eyes to shade your face as you looked up at his smiling face, him already talking to you a mile-a-minute.

From across the yard, Angel observed the interaction. After you’d met the club initially, and met EZ, Angel was content to say that he could appreciate how well you got along with everyone. How well-liked you were by each of the men, especially his brother. 

You two discussed literature, art, and liked to talk shit to each other, friendship in its purest form. Somewhere between Faust and the floodgates, Angel had watched on as you spilled over in your excitement speaking to EZ. Faust and Proust. Did Angel know what -- or was it who?? -- the fuck a "Faust" was? No. But he'd drown himself in literary references that already made him feel over his head if it meant he got to sit back and just take in how well you'd gelled with his family, with Ezekiel. In another life he supposed he'd be jealous that you had so much in common with his brother. But you didn't look at Ezekiel the way you looked at him. 

Even Angel could see it. And if he couldn’t, Coco was quick to remind him. 

“She only got eyes for you, mano,” Coco had told him, quietly, resolutely. 

EZ had left you now, gone back to the clubhouse for something. As you made your way to Coco, hugging him in spite of his obvious hesitance. 

Angel heard him protest against your attentions -- “I’m covered in grease, ma.” 

You’d hugged him anyway. He’d melted into your embrace, smiling softly. Angel had confided to Coco that he had seen you a few days ago on a date. Coco’s eyes had clouded over with something as Angel spoke, but passed through his features quickly, like a summer storm, before clearing. Resuming listening to Angel. The conversation… hadn’t gone well. 

“Back again, huh?” Andres had said from Angel’s side, gesturing lightly to where you stood with Coco. He nudged Angel’s side. “You taking another crack at that?” 

Angel ignored his question. 

“I think she’s here to pick up Coco’s kid,” he said simply, turning his attention back to the junker. Choosing to stay out of the situation, as Andres had left the car and was now striding across the lot to you.

“No hug for me, jaina?” 

You’d frozen in place at the voice behind you, Coco’s quicksilver eyes darting to over your shoulder, where Andres now stood, narrowing at the man’s question. 

You recovered quickly.

“Sorry,” you breezed, turning to face Andres. Noting the way his panther tattoo peeked out from the tank the man was wearing. You would never say you hated any piece you did, per se. But you weren’t about to post this one, wanting no association with it, or the man who bore it. Even if it was perfectly fine work. “Coco really was covered in grease. It’s pretty gross. I think I’m good,” you diverted, nudging Coco’s ribs and smiling to ease the tension. 

Andres shrugged, the blow to his pride obvious in the way his face twisted and his eyes narrowed at how closely you stood to the lithe ex-military man next to you. 

Coco eased through the conversation, patting your arm comfortingly, his eyes finding yours as he spoke, “I’mma go get Leti, OK? I’ll be right back.” 

You were a little distraught at the idea that Coco would leave you with this man, knowing how he had spoken to you before. But you supposed if he could hurry this interaction along and go get his daughter, it might not be so bad. 

“So,” you turned, schooling your facial features into a mask of cool indifference as you faced Andres, who was now addressing you. “We didn’t get to finish what we started the other night,” was all he said.

“Didn’t we?” You asked, tilting your head, nodding toward Andres’s tattoo. “I think we finished. It healed nicely.”

Andres rolled his eyes a little at you, as though you were slow. 

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” He took a step toward you. 

Was this guy for real? Was he not getting it, or did he just not care?

You took a step in kind back from Andres, your anger flaring. “So what did you mean?” you asked. “You mean the bit before I gave you free ink, where you insulted my work? Or the bit after I gave you free ink, where you just insulted me?”

You could see the faint twitch in Andres’s face as you called him out. His patience clearly wearing thin. A man not used to hearing no when it was told to him. 

“That’s what I always liked about you,” he gritted out, smiling fakely, “you got that reaaaal fiery attitude. Not just any guy would put up with it,” he said, as though he was trying to give you advice.

“I dunno what you mean by ‘always,’” you said, politely, your own fake smile screwed into place. “If you excuse me, I’m gonna go find Leti.” 

As you made to leave, Andres lunged forward, gripping your wrist. 

"You really don't remember me?" Andres pressed, "C'mon, chiquita, don't be like that."

"I really don't," you snipped, whipping your wrist out of his grip. You were a little shorter with him than you usually were with people, even in your more frustrated moments. But he really was pissing you off. "Sorry if that's a blow to the ego, or whatever, but I didn't really make it a habit of looking at other guys when I was with someone else."

Andres snorted, tone no longer teasing, eyes dark and flat. You turned to face him again at the undignified sound he had made, noting his cool, angry features. 

"If only that 'someone else' had shown you the same courtesy," he snarled, swatting at your wrist now instead of reaching for it. 

"Hey, man, leave her the fuck alone." You turned to see EZ and Coco striding across the yard with Leti in tow, making their way toward you. Out of the corner of your eye, Angel was also making his way over, shoulders tense. 

EZ turned to you, taking in your crestfallen expression and the way you were suddenly very interested in your shoes. 

"You okay, hermanita?" EZ asked, large hand gentle on your shoulder. 

You nodded, sheepishly. Hating the way you seemed so small in that moment. This man was nothing, to you, or otherwise. And he’d managed to make you feel like you were nothing, too. 

You tried to find your voice again as you spoke, quiet at first, “Andres was just apologizing to me for the way he was rude at the patch party,” you turned to look at him, your eyes blazing now, “weren’t you?” 

Coco snorted. 

Andres narrowed his eyes, glaring at Coco, who held up his hands as if to say, “what can ya do?” 

“Best apologize,” Coco rasped, now pulling on a cigarette that seemed to have materialized from nowhere. “One does not fuck with Frida,” Coco exhaled. “Unwise, mano.” He gestured to you, “She’s got that scary tia energy.” 

EZ’s hand was still resting protectively on your shoulder as you crossed your arms over your chest, waiting for Andres’s apology, now that you’d put him on the spot in front of his brother. Angel watched the entire exchange like a snake coiled to strike.

He knew he had fucked up by not saying shit as Andres dug at you at the patch party. It had been roiling beneath his skin, his blood bubbling and waiting to burst forth. Waiting for a chance to put the fucker in his place.  

“Yeah,” Andres gritted through his teeth, fake smile ready to crack at any moment. “Sorry about that. Too much to drink, and all.” His voice was flat. Devoid of any real remorse, as you knew it would be. 

“It’s alright,” you shrugged. “I hope you enjoy the ink. It’s the last you’ll be getting from me.”

Andres’s eye twitched before the dam broke on his childish rage, “Why you gotta be such a fuckin’ bitch? No wonder Angel fucked around on you -- that smart-ass mouth is gonna get you slapped.” 

He made to step toward you again, EZ and Coco stood before you, protectively, blocking you from Andres’s approach.

But Andres could reach you, Angel had gripped his shoulder, turning him around and landing a punch square to his jaw.

“Man, what the fuck,” Andres swore, spitting a wad of blood at the toe of Angel’s boot. “What the fuck did you hit me for?” 

Angel cracked his knuckles, shaking his wrist and his hand out from the impact of his hit to Andres’s face, readying himself to strike again if he needed to.

“You don’t fuckin’ talk about her like that,” he squared up, shoving Andres in the shoulder. “Listen to me, new patch. I’ll explain the rules -- you don’t look at her. You don’t talk about her. You don’t even think about her.” 

Angel’s shoulders were heaving as he worked himself up more, stalking toward Andres, like a jungle cat, coiled muscle beneath his skin ready to unleash. 

“Nod so I know you understand,” he bellowed in Andres’s direction, pointing a thick finger accusingly into his face, rewarded with Andres's curt nod.

EZ gently removed himself from your side, coming to grab Angel and whisper into his ear, calming him.

“Hey, man,” EZ reasoned, “Now’s not the time. You guys can settle this later. Cage.” 

Angel nodded, breathing heavily through his nostrils and willing himself to calm down as he turned to you, locking eyes with you again, only to be met with an imperceptible look on your face. Had he fucked this up even further now? You had never looked at him like that.

You shook your head, breaking the moment and stepping from behind Coco to go meet Leti where she was standing a comfortable distance away from the whole scene. 

“We gotta go,” you said, hurriedly grabbing Leti’s hand and marching off toward your car with the girl in tow. 

You buckled yourselves in and drove away from the lot in a cloud of dust. Hoping you could just leave it all behind. The further you got from the gates, the easier you could breathe. You drove in silence, as Leti watched you, assessing. Before she broke the silence. 

"We all miss you, you know," Leti said, softly, from her place in the passenger seat. "Just because Angel let you go doesn't mean we wanted to lose you, too. And fuck Andres. He’s a fuckin’ clown."

Leti's words were a wave of molten-hot guilt washing over you, burning your synapses and hardening over any residual anger and sadness you'd felt over the confrontation that had just happened. You knew some of what Leti had been through. How she, so like yourself, was reticent to form bonds with new people. How she'd routinely felt abandoned by those she let herself care about -- and you felt you'd now done the same.

"I'm so sorry, Leti," you implored, looking into the girl’s doe eyes, flecked with amber-gold and layered with wisdom and emotion. Her gaze heavy and so like her father’s. Nothing slipped past them. "I never meant to hurt you, to leave you."

"I-it's just … I miss you, is all," she murmured, twisting her long hair around her finger. "I know EZ misses you. He talks about you all the time. And … and my dad, too. Coco doesn't talk about it alot, but I think that says more than if he tried to put it in words. I know for a fact he misses you. Was pretty pissy with Angel for a while after everything went down." 

You smiled gently, leaning forward across the console to give Leti a soft hug.

“I really am sorry, Leti. I promise I’ll be around more,” you broke the hug, rubbing her arm as you pulled away. “You and Coco are welcome to come over for dinner anytime. I’ll cook for you. Just tell Coco no smoking in the house, cierto? And don’t tell Coco I said so, but you can come hang with me in the shop, if you want. Been slow lately. You can come do homework someplace quiet..” 

She chuckled lightly, nodding and promising to text you about coffee plans as she got out of the car.

You mulled over Leti’s words as you drove away. Maybe cutting everyone other than Aneesa out flatly wasn't the way to go. It's possible you had made a mistake there, though it's not like Leti hadn't confirmed that she understood why you did what you did. And it's not like other people wouldn't have done the same in your shoes. Even still, perhaps re-cracking open the "Angel" chapter of your life had its benefits, if only to once more let in the friends you had made along the way. 

Your departing words to Leti ringing in your ears long after you’d parked at home,

"I'll reach out to the guys more, too," you confirmed. "I didn't mean to leave everyone hanging."

I know you, you're like this. When shit don't go your way, you needed me to fix it.

And like me, I did, but I ran out of every reason.

---

The cracks of the next morning’s light streaming through the slats on his window were barely perceptible to Angel in his haze. The kind of stupor that comes when you’ve effectively straddled the line between two worlds -- Angel reluctantly bids farewell to the gentle caress of sleep, even if it was imperfect and restless; and begrudgingly greets the world of the waking, frowning beneath a heavily-furrowed brow at the grey-orange sun. 

Through the warming beams of light that streamed in isolated splashes across his skin and the bedspread, he could still imagine, half in dreams, that the warmth was you curled beside him, all soft curves, your thigh slotted between his, your sleep-mussed hair, his shirt riding up your form just so as you snoozed, and oh, your sweet, half-awake smiles. But the alternating cool spots of shade from the slats were the chilly reminder of your absence, of the ghost of your touch long gone cold. And as Angel shook himself more evermore awake and into the latter world, he wished he could return to the amorphous and hazy, staticky embrace of his dreams. 

Where life was a little more kind. Where there was a little more you. You were haunting him. Did memories, both experienced in your past together and the hypothetical potential “memories” of an unmet future, plague you, as well? Never to be? Did you dream of him? Or was he your nightmare? He supposed he’d never know, and knew had given up the right to ask. 

Put myself to sleep, just so I can get closer to you inside my dreams ...

It was a truth that was bitter, acrid, and hard to swallow. Or was that just his morning breath? Angel licked his lips, tasting the post-sleep stale dryness on his tongue, pushing himself out his side of the bed and toward the door -- for coffee or his toothbrush, he hadn’t decided. But the need to make a decision was cut short with an unexpected event-- 

A pounding at his door. Three raps from a heavy fist on the other side of his shitty apartment’s excuse for a door.

“Angel!” The shout through the wooden barrier that followed the persistent banging was unmistakably his obnoxious younger brother, come to pester him about what had gone down yesterday. Likely with a peace offering of some sort, as was EZ’s way. 

Angel sighed, rolling his neck to both sides until he was satisfied with the resulting crack, not bothering to tug on a shirt or socks as he padded his way through the cool, empty apartment. 

He fixed his signature scowling look of annoyance that EZ was so accustomed to to his face before swinging open the door. 

One of EZ’s bearpaw-like fists was still raised, fixed to rap against the door again if necessary. The other clutched a carrier with two to-go cups of coffee from EZ’s favorite shop. The one down the street from yours. The one with the cute barista. 

EZ, for his part, looked a little sheepish at the exaggeratedly grumpy look on his older brother’s face, his gilded, mossy eyes widening in a show of good-natured surprise. He recovered quickly, shouldering his way into Angel’s apartment, placing the to-go carrier with Angel’s coffee on his coffee table and flopping on one end of Angel’s couch, the leather giving a groan beneath his weight.

“By all means, bro, make yourself at fuckin’ home,” Angel groused, smacking his lips and turning to swipe the cup of coffee off of the table. 

“You’re welcome,” EZ smarted, eyebrows raised at Angel guzzling the fresh coffee like the heat was nothing. What was it you had called it?

Ah, asbestos mouth. EZ had heard the moniker pass through your lips on more than one occasion and found it to be apt as applied to his taciturn older brother. 

“So,” Angel said between sips of nuclear caffeine. “What? Any particular reason you’re banging on my door at ...” Angel trailed off, clearly unsure what time it actually was. 

“At 11:00 a.m.?” EZ supplied, sarcastically, “You’re right, Angel. It’s practically dawn.” 

“Man, shut up,” Angel groused, “What do you want?” 

“Who says I want anything,” EZ asked?

“This coffee’s got a string attached to it,” Angel shrugged, shuffling over to the couch and sitting a respectable distance from his annoying younger brother.

“We gotta talk about yesterday,” EZ supplied, finishing his sentence over Angel’s exaggerated groan and eye-rolling. 

“Wasn’t the point of yesterday that it’s done, little brother?” 

“Between you and Andres, maybe,” EZ said. “But not between you and me. After that shit you pulled at brunch with Gaby a few days ago, and now this, with Frida...” 

Angel took another sip of his coffee, his annoyance doubling at the increasingly lighter weight of the cup in his hands and at his brother’s pestering. 

“So, what? You wanna try and beat the shit outta me, too?” Angel asked. “Didn’t work out so well for Andres, did it?” 

“Look, Angel, I’m not trying to say I understand why you did what you did, fucking with Frida and Adelita. Because I don’t. And I gotta be honest -- after how yesterday went down, I understand it even less. And Coco agrees with me --”

“Oh, great,” Angel rolled his eyes, cutting his brother off. “You gotta stop going to the Church of Coco, man. What’d he tell you this time?” 

“That you’re fucking your way through your pain,” EZ parroted, mimicking Coco’s signature throaty breeze, “and you won’t stop until you feel something,” he shrugged, resuming his normal voice as he continued. “I don’t know about alla that, but --”

"It was too … domestic," Angel cut EZ off, shaking his head, more at himself than his brother. "Can you really see me with all that shit? Drinking coffee in bed together on a Sunday morning until we're old? Nah, bro … that ain't me. Adelita, the chaos. That's me." 

"It could be you, Angel," EZ protested. "The only person saying you can't have the Sunday coffee life is you."

“I'd just… I'd just fuck it up,” Angel sighed, dropping his forehead into his palm, his elbow on his knee. 

EZ continued drinking his coffee, pausing before delivering the blow. 

“I got news for you, bro,” he said between his prim little sips. “You did fuck it up.” 

Angel tch’d in annoyance at his brother, carding his hands through his hair and smoothing the thick strand that seemed to always threaten to fall over his eyes. For good measure, he tossed EZ that wicked side-eye only that only Angel and his mother had ever been able to truly perfect. 

“You think I don’t know that? You’re supposed to be the smart one.”

Angel takes another pull of his coffee, now just the overly-concentrated dregs at the bottom of the cup, lightly grimacing at the beverage’s bitterness. EZ knew Angel took his coffee black, of course it would be the kind of thing his little brother would remember. But, in truth, given the way this conversation was turning, the literal sensation of bitterness on his tongue was almost too much for Angel to bear. He’d almost preferred it if EZ had forgotten his order -- watered the drink down with cream and (dare he say it?) sugar, and called it a day. Because at least it would be easier to swallow than the harsh truths and bile that were currently stewing inside of Angel, waiting to be given a voice. And it didn’t seem that EZ was in any kind of charitable mood when it came to pulling punches, either. 

Angel took in his brother’s profile from his perched place at the end of the couch: EZ’s legs were spread in a show of comfort, but shoulders tensed, like he was waiting to fight Angel every step of the way, no matter where this conversation was headed. Angel supposed he’d deserved that. 

For as fiercely protective as little Ezekiel was of his big brother, he was -- annoyingly so -- protective of the woman he’d dubbed his hermanita. A soft spot for you, the artsy girl with ink-stained fingers who would press lent books into his baby brother’s hands insistently, all the books you could bear to part with. Always there for Ezekiel with a patient ear and arms that would do their best to wrap around his broad shoulders. 

 Angel was struck again with the heavy weight-- the sinking stone in his gut that -- in theory-- should pull him to the bottom of the river he found himself awash in. Drowning is a sort of grounding, yes? But no… he just drifted further and further down the bank, carried in the foaming rapids by the pressing weight of his choices. In addition to that weight, his guilt prickled. Once again with the realization that his decisions had affected not only his love with you, but your relationship with Ezekiel, as well. How incredibly short-sighted he'd been with it all, playing fast and loose with the lives of everyone he'd loved.

Angel sighed before he spoke again, 

“No one ever tells you, do they?” EZ perked up at that, looking at his brother with his brows furrowed in puppylike-confusion. 

“No one ever tells you just how insecure it all makes you feel,” Angel supplied. “Love. They write a million songs about how perfect it all is -- how it’s supposed to be some kind of divine answer. Birds singing, an’ shit. Or they talk about how it rips your fuckin’ heart out, but they…” Angel pauses to chuckle, “They never tell you how when you’ve got it, you feel both so… happy it’s yours. But terrified at the same time that it never. Really. Belongs to you.” 

He shook his head, meeting his brother’s eyes again, his own swimming with the glimmer of emotion long-kept down. EZ leaned across the couch, placing a warm hand on his brother’s shoulder, nodding at him in acquiescence, encouragement to keep going. 

“I-I know what I did, and I know everyone wants an answer… Why did I do it? Why-why did I let it all go down like that? But what answer would ever be good enough? I hurt her, and that’s the end of it. I was fuckin’ stupid, all because I was scared. I had her, and I knew I shouldn’t have had her at all. And I’m just so fuckin’ … sorry.” 

He sighed, breath shuddering. Opting to fill the now-still air in his apartment with another bitter slug of shitty coffee while EZ pondered what to say in response. 

EZ shifted on the couch, leather creaking beneath him as he weighed what to tell his brother. 

“I- I don’t know what the answer here is, Angel,” EZ finally admitted. “I get that it’s scary. Fuck yeah, it is. But that’s no excuse --”

“I know that,” Angel snapped. 

EZ held his hands up in surrender, placating the red dragon-heat that was his brother’s quick temper before it could rise. 

“I know you do,” EZ spoke softly, “I know, man. But it’s not that simple. You should probably tell her, ya know? What you just told me. But even if you did, she’d be within her right not to hear it. Or not to want to fix shit with you, or take your apology. And you? Gotta accept it.” 

EZ brushed imaginary dirt from the thigh of his jeans before speaking again, 

“Sucks,” he sighed through his nose. “I dunno if I’d be madder at her for taking you back or for not taking you back. But, uh, even if she doesn’t, that doesn’t mean you won’t find it again, Angel. You just gotta decide whether you wanna try here -- and accept the outcome no matter what she decides. You owe her that. But one thing’s for sure … you should actually try talkin’ to her.”

Angel had the faraway look in his eye of a man either deep in thought, or someone not listening entirely, staring through the far wall as EZ had spoken to him. Maybe he didn’t look it, but he’d heard every word, turning them over again in his mind before swallowing them somewhere deep in his gut, internalizing wisdom from someone who was younger than him, but who’d undoubtedly lived through more than most people. EZ was good for that kind of bereft wisdom -- disconnected in its logic coming from someone like EZ, but completely sensical when you understood the depth of the boy’s character and empathy. Not for the first time in his life, Angel was grateful for Ezekiel. 

He smiled weakly at his little brother, acceptance cracking through the little cracked crescent grin, “Mom would’ve liked her, huh?” 

EZ smiled at his brother in return, facile and genuine, as only Ezekiel’s grins could be.

---

I swear, for a while I would stare at my phone just to see your name, but now that it's there, I don't really know what to say…

Across town, EZ had left Angel’s, and the latter, now alone in his apartment and buzzing with EZ's words, was typing a text to you. And here you are … looking down at your phone between gathering your laundry and stacking clean dishes. You saw Angel’s name pop up next to the little text bubble on your homescreen, causing you to pause in your chores.

Huh. Unexpected  Should you open it? 

After everything that had gone down yesterday at the scrapyard, and the shitty attempt a few days prior to fuck up your date-- were you ready now to have the conversation you knew you and Angel were dancing around for the better part of several months? Ready to breach the seemingly impenetrable wall of silence? Feelings like the ones you held for Angel had a way of not being able to stay buried for too long. And you knew you could never truly move on, never would be able to give the icy shards wedged between your ribs and into your heart a chance to heal. Not unless you and Angel got it all out into the open.

And with the circumstances the way they were, with everything that had gone down -- how many women in your position could say they'd had the same opportunity?

How did the old saying go? What three things cannot long be hidden? The sun. The moon. And the truth. 

The truth was, to you, the sun and moon rose and set on Angel. 

The truth was, you had bitten off a few barbs and spat them at Angel in the few moments you’d shared with him since he tossed you from his apartment all those months ago. You weren't a perfect person. But it’s damn well what he deserved, after what he did. You weren’t wrong about that. The fact that everyone, and Angel’s father, were angry at him for the way things had gone down told you that you were not the one in the wrong.

The truth was, Angel had fucked up. Not only with his infidelity and the way he had tipped you from his life, with blunt hands tearing haphazardly at the roots… but he had insulted you, your work, and stood idly by and allowed others to do the same. 

He knew it, and you knew it. And you had both been petty.

But now that the wound was open, and the skin around it raw and heated, pulsing with its own heartbeat -- how could you ever give it a chance to heal if you didn't try to close it?

There was nothing saying that if you read Angel’s message, if you heard him out, and you got the chance to say your own piece, that you had to forgive him. And if it meant moving on? Maybe it was the step you needed to take. 

Like burning a candle to the end. Or, yes, wrapping a wound. Or perhaps like covering an old tattoo. Clara Forever? 

You unlocked your phone, sliding open your texts, taking a deep breath as you did so.

“I just wanted you to know I heard what you said,” Angel’s text read. “I do wanna talk to you, Frida. But only when you’re ready to talk to me. If you ever are. I just want to hear you out. Even if I know you never have to accept my apology.” 

Well. 

You looked down at your phone. You read Angel's text. Re-read it.

You'd be lying to yourself if you didn't acknowledge that everything that had gone down hadn't been building to this. 

 You brought your thumbs to the glass, beginning to type,

"I'm off tomorrow at six. You can come by after."

There. Short, sweet, and to the point.

Your phone pinged in your hand. Glancing down at it, you saw two words in response,

"Gracias, Frida."

"Don't thank me yet."

You put your phone down flat on the counter. 

The truth was, you still loved Angel Reyes. And you weren't sure whether your rage outweighed your ardor. And this scared the shit out of you.

When Angel rolled up the next day at ten after six, you were slightly annoyed. In the beginning of your relationship, he had been incredibly punctual, likely borne out of eagerness to see you. As time wore on, Angel's timeliness waned. At the time, you had assumed it had everything to do with his commitments to the club, and had remained understanding. With the benefit of hindsight, however, you now knew that it likely wasn't always the club. 

You didn't know anything about Adelita, save for her relationship to Angel. And you intended to keep it that way. But a nastier part of your brain was intensely curious. 

Did she make Angel laugh? Was she smarter than you? Prettier than you? She had to be beautiful, just like Angel was beautiful. The thought made your heart ache. 

When she kissed Angel, did she taste your lips on his? Did she know about you now? Did she hold more of Angel's heart than you had? 

If you were more like her, would Angel have chosen you?

You knew you wouldn't ask Angel any of these questions -- what did they always say? Don't ask something you don't really want the answers to? 

You slept easier at night keeping the idea of Adelita just that -- an amorphous, question mark-shaped idea. Knowing Angel's part in it all was more than enough.

Easier. You said you slept easier. Not well. You dreamt of Angel far too often to say you slept well. You dreamt of the feel of his hair between your fingers, both in a gentle and comforting pass, and in the harsh tugging borne of passion. You dreamt of the feel of his warm skin against yours. You dreamt of days spent swimming in the ocean, him lifting you up to twirl you through the water, like a sea sprite, a deity meant to be worshipped. Perhaps most cruelly, you sometimes dreamt of a future. Your memories blended with your dreams at the cruel, twisting hands of hazy sleep. Never to be.

And when Angel arrived at your place shortly after you had returned home from closing the shop, your gut, your brain, and your heart were all writhing in their own respective dances, never in sync with one another, and rendering your nerves completely fried. 

You opened the door, beckoning Angel in. You stopped yourself from moving to help remove the kutte from his shoulders and hanging it by the door, freezing your hands in the middle of raising to do just that, dropping them awkwardly by your sides again.

If Angel noticed, he hadn't said anything.

He shuffled into your place, likely surveying what had changed since he had last been there. To his surprise? Not much. You still had candles everywhere, casting everything in a warm glow. Your overstuffed chairs were still draped in cozy blankets and piled with brightly-patterned throw pillows. The bookcase in the corner of your living room was still packed to the edges, stacks of additional books on the floor at the foot. Your potted green plants made the room look simultaneously larger and smaller. Your dedication to maximalism was admirable. 

You loved what you loved, even if you didn't have the space. In your heart, or otherwise.

Angel breathed in the familiar cinnamon-orange scent that was your place, its permanent residence in his mind sending a zip through his heart. 

You shuffled past Angel, into your living room and making your way toward the kitchen, offering Angel a drink, which he declined.

You shrugged. "Suit yourself."

You made your way into the kitchen, opening a cabinet that Angel knew contained a precarious tower of stacked coffee mugs. Like a personal game of Jenga only you could win, you plucked your desired mug, and closed the cabinet before the dangerous clinking of the remaining mugs could turn disastrous. 

You prepared a cup of tea while Angel stood at the carpeted edge of your living room, unsure of just how comfortable he was allowed to make himself in this space that -- while just as chaotically orderly and distinctly you as he remembered it -- seemed to be purged of any remembrance of him.

Stirring honey into your mug of tea and blowing on it, you watched Angel over the rim of your mug. Watched him observe your space, and waited for him to speak. 

You tilted your head toward the open door of your bedroom, breaking the silence first,

“I, uhhh, I’ve been working all day. I’m just gonna change real fast.” You shuffled your feet into the carpet, padding softly into your room and pushing the door softly shut. 

You slipped out of your jeans and into soft sweats and an oversized tee. Maybe if you felt more comfortable, you could stave off some of the awkwardness. Maybe letting Angel back into your space wasn’t the best idea. 

After changing, you took a moment -- sat on your bed, elbows balanced on your knees and head in your hands … you took a few deep breaths, lit a candle. Your palms felt clammier by the second, knowing that Angel was out there waiting for your re-emergence.

You don’t know how long you were sitting on the edge of your bed, just breathing. Preparing yourself. 

A soft knock on your bedroom door broke your dazed thoughts. You looked up, seeing Angel through the widening crack in the door, fist raised, his knuckle rapping softly on your bedroom door. 

You locked eyes for moment before Angel chuckled sheepishly to himself, shuffling his feet in your doorway,

“I, uh, thought you might’ve jumped out the window,” he chuckled lightly. 

Leave it to Angel to find a way to lighten the heavy mood that had descended upon your space. You managed to crack a small smile, corner of your mouth tilting up just-so in that way he had always found endearing. 

“The thought had crossed my mind,” you shrugged, patting the space next to you, acquiescing to allow Angel to sit. 

He crossed your room, exhaling heavily as he took a seat next to you on the bed. 

Now that you were seated so closely to Angel in the low light of your bedroom, you looked at his face, taking him in. Really looking at him for the first time in months. Trying to ignore the pricking feelings of trauma that were doing their best to bubble beneath the surface and consume you --- had Angel not broken your heart in a manner so like this? Seated next to one another on the end of his bed while he told you, in no uncertain terms, that he was done with you? The thought made a sick wave of nausea wash through you. You wiped your perpetually-sweaty hands along the thighs of your sweats. 

You had survived the last encounter like this, hadn't you? Honestly, what more could he do to you? 

For his part, Angel was silent next to you, surveying the space of your room as he had in your living room. The familiar clutter greeted him -- a stack of books and a coffee mug on your bedside. A sketchbook never too far from reach. The comforter beneath him as pillowy as he remembered. He shuddered a sigh. 

You decided to take conversational mercy on him, 

"Go ahead,” you beckoned. “Say what you have to. But just know I meant what I said at the party. I don't need shit from you. You telling me what you want to say is for you. And when it's done, you're going to give me what I deserve and listen to me. We need to put this behind us. I’m not going to be looking over my shoulder for you for the rest of my life, Angel.” What had started as a murmur grew fiercer with each word.

"That's fair, querida," was all he offered. Your words to him each time you had spoken since the party were evermore forceful. He was used to gentle Frida. It wasn't often that the turn of your tide was leveled against him. Not often he was forced to bear the brunt of your storm when you were upset.

He could see what Coco meant. It was unwise to make you angry 

He turned his body slightly to face yours, looking down at your hands as though he was contemplating attempting to hold one. His fingers twitched where his hands rested along his thighs. Better just to crack the ice, become submerged in frozen water. Take the shock out of it now, even if he wasn't sure where to begin, now that he faced you.

“I”m not really sure what I can tell you that’ll make it better,” he admitted.

You sighed. 

“I’m not looking for you to make it better, Angel. There is no more better. Whatever you want to say, you say it,” you pressed. “We’re past better. We’re not together. you were clear about that. You don’t have to spare my feelings, I’m not your girl.”

Angel flinched, almost imperceptibly, at your last statement.  He knew you weren’t together, knew you weren’t his. Hell, he’d been busy in the months since you’d been broken up. Busy chasing Adelita. Busy with other women when it didn’t work out with Adelita. Busy acting like a jackass with Andres. Busy with club nonsense. But hearing you say that you weren’t his girl? 

It made Angel’s heart ache in a way he wasn’t expecting. 

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he said. At your scoff, he shook his head. “Really. After Adelita told me she was pregnant … I thought it was easier just to let you go. I needed to be there for her, for the kid. Even if it meant -- even if it meant losing you.” 

“Easier for who? For you?” Your voice was soft. You hated that, once again, you felt like the crystalline girl Angel’s heartbreak had rendered you. Worried that the slightest thing would shatter you once more. 

Angel chucked again, but there was no humor behind it. His eyes looked flat, as though he wasn’t really focusing on anything. 

“For both of us, I guess. It’s stupid. I thought if I just -- cut you out … we would both be better. But … that ain’t what happened. I just made us both miserable. I made you hate me. And now ...  She's gone. And so are you,” Angel’s voice was low, cracked. 

The weight of his words, coupled with the gravelly pitch of his voice was making you feel restless, itchy. Grit like pebbly grains of sand you would roll between your fingers on days at the beach, palpable and pronounced.

“A-and,” you interjected, “how did you meet her? When did you meet her?” 

Angel’s eyes darted to meet yours again, finding a swimming emotion he was getting better at putting his finger on. You only looked like that when you were getting lost in negative thoughts, awash in a sad song. Or when he was breaking your heart. He hated that look on your face. Hate that it marred your beautiful features into baleful melancholy. 

“Club shit,” was all he’d said. “We were mixed up in some shit with the rebels. We were helping each other. W-we connected. It just … happened.” 

You whipped your head at that last bit, eyes hardening. Angel’s hands came up, defensively.

“I know. Everyone says that, don’t they? It’s true… and I -- I really didn’t mean to hurt you. When I found out she was pregnant, I thought I was doing the right thing. By her. And by you,” he sucked air in through his teeth before releasing the breath in a huff of air. “I was wrong, Frida. I made every wrong choice, and I’m sorry.”

Angel carded his hands through his hair, tugging the ends lightly in his frustration. “I-- I just been going through some shit lately. And then ... Ezekiel tried to serve us brunch, and I was an asshole.” 

He looked at you, only to meet your puzzled gaze.

“Brunch?” You queried, wrinkling your nose lightly. “Since when are you a brunch kinda guy, Angelito?” 

“I really ain’t,” he said. “And you?”

“I like brunch just fine,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

“That’s not what I mean, Frida, and you know it,” he said. “But we can get back to that later.” He took in your loose sweats, the way you had been picking your nails, the bags beneath your eyes. You had looked so beautiful, so perfect and untouchable,  at the patch party the other night. And now -- in your room, all pretense stripped away, Angel could see the real you … behind the professional and put-together front. The tired girl with a broken heart. And he felt the residual ache in his chest that had taken residence left of his heart ever since the day he had put your stuff in a box and left it outside of his door. 

“I know you have something you want to say to me, too, Frida. Your turn. How are you feeling?”

You laughed hollowly, your eyes fixed on the doorway to your room, half expecting Angel to get up and go.

“I’ve been better, Angel,” you deadpanned, swiveling to look at him, and finding him still seated next to you. “Ya know? It’s been a tough couple of days? Between that disaster of a party and whatever the hell went down the other day… but this town is too small for us to just try to ignore each other, and I do like it here.” You rubbed your eyes, the air between the two of you filling with silence that never used to be so awkward.  

“That can’t be all you gotta say,” Angel pressed. “C’mon, Frida. Tell me how you’re feeling. I was… I was awful to you.”

The candle in the corner of the room sputtered, causing momentary, flickering shadows to dance along the walls of your room. Your safe, homey space felt full of shadows and ghosts, words unspoken between the two of you threatening to burst forth, your closet brimming with proverbial skeletons. 

And you were just so tired. And now Angel was pressing you? You weren’t sure if the heat was from your sweats, the proximity of the man next to you, that you had turned up the thermostat too high. Or the fact that you were still so fucking angry. 

“You want to know how I’m feeling, Angel?” You tugged on the ends of your hair, running your hands down the thighs of your sweats once more. Were you always so sweaty? “I appreciate you telling me the truth. Finally. And for apologizing, I guess.”

Tears were pricking at your eyes, the heat blazing in your cheeks matching the heat in the room.  

"But you made me look stupid. Like someone in need of pity," you sucked air in through your teeth. "I fucking hate pity, Angel. It's just misplaced empathy. A useless emotion. And you’d think I’d just wear that mess? For everyone to see? At the party. At the yard. Everyone just feeling sorry for me. For months. Because of you.”

The ache in Angel’s chest intensified. Awash in a wave of hot shame. Was it always so hot in this room? You were right. And weren’t you always? You never were that girl, and he had sent you down the river like you meant nothing, your artist’s hands crushed beneath the washed stones of his choices. He opened his mouth to respond, but you weren’t done, apparently --

“And after everything? The way it went down? You made me feel like … I don’t know … Like you were punishing me,” your voice cracked, sobs and tears imminent through the dam you had erected. “Like I loved you more than you loved me, and you knew it… like you wanted to make me pay for that.” 

“Frida …” Angel turned his body toward yours fully now, closing the space between the two fo you and cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the silvery hot tears that were slipping down your face, sick that he had caused them. Sick that he had even made you think that what you were saying was true. “It wasn’t like that,” he assured. 

“And the shittiest part is,” you hiccuped around your words, “you can’t even tell me give me the comfort of a cliche -- you can’t honestly tell me ‘it meant nothing,’ or that it was a ‘one-time thing,’ because none of that is true, is it? You care about her -- you had a child with her. You love her. And here I thought I could take what you did, take you, fold you up and tuck you away, like a note you pass in school. And I can’t. I just can’t.”

You tilted your face downward now as your tears fell, allowing your face to be fully cupped by Angel’s warm, calloused hands. Even now, you were still amazed at how tender his touch was, despite his rough exterior. All he wanted now was to comfort you, to touch you and bring your eyes to his again. To remind you of his love for you. Once. Now. Always?

“Frida, it wasn’t like that. They were my selfish, stupid choices. Mine. And I was scared. Scared of how much I wanted … everything with you. And it wasn’t right. I told you -- I … been going through some shit.” 

“Scared,” you murmured. Turning your face in Angel’s hands, causing your lips to brush over his fingers. You leaned back, effectively releasing your face from the trace of his touch. 

“Isn’t it remarkable how secure and insecure you can simultaneously feel when you’ve found someone worth loving? I felt it, too. With you  it's now I knew you were the one,” You said. Angel straightened in shock, at how, though you weren’t present for his conversation yesterday with Ezekiel, you parroted his feelings he had confided in his brother back to him. Always on the same page. His full lips pursed as you continued. 

“We can’t keep using what happened to hurt each other. I’m done with that,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m sorry you felt the way you did. I’m sorry you felt like you needed to look elsewhere. And I hope you find what you're looking for,” you hated how soft your voice sounded to your own ears. Hadn't you meant to be forceful, angry? You sniffled. “Because, despite everything that’s happened...  You are someone worth loving, Angelito.” 

"No, Frida," he shook his head softly before looking at you again, eyes glittering. "You are. Someone deserving of more.”

Your breath caught in your chest at his words, taking this moment to look into his ochre eyes once more. You wanted to commit to your memory just how they swirl like melting chocolate and promises in low candlelight.

And, oh. Angel was made to be seen like this, you’d thought. The dim candlelight giving everything in your room a pleasant glow and slightly-blurry edges. He looked like his namesake. And how ironic was that, really? Considering the context of your conversation. 

It's easy these days, you thought, for you to get carried away by your own feelings... While you searched desperately in the emotional rubble for your muse, Angel, the truth of it tore you to shreds with blunt fingernails -- knowing he was  out in the world -- running freely and carelessly. Running away with your imagination. With your hope. With the pieces of your heart that had survived the blitzing storm he had put you through. With the pieces of your heart that had belonged to him. That you feared may always belong to him.  

Looking at Angel now, in the low-lit steadfast luminescence of your room, shadows flickering agreeably across his angular cheekbones. He was sculpted. Made to be admired in perpetuity. Artist that you were, it ached. It stung. The knowledge that your hands were not the ones that had molded him into the man sat beside you. A man molded, instead, by his own choices. 

All you could do was watch as those wrong decisions drifted lazily down the river, only to become a torrent, Angel caught in the current. The waves lapped loudly, sloppily against riverbanks of better judgment, but Angel is never quite washed ashore. No, as you watched, he slipped down the river, out of your fingertips and toward something you're too fearful to quantify. Away from you. 

You want the river to carry him back to you. To home. But you know it never will. 

Angel has two choices now: To drown under the weight of his path this river has wrought; or to swim. 

As you sit beside him in the growing heat of your room, you hope he chooses to swim. Even if it’s not to where you stand. 

"So, is that what’s next?” You asked, wiping your eyes. 

At Angel’s puzzled look, you carried on,

"You're asking for it back," you whispered. “Or you’re going to. My heart? You may not have said it like that, exactly, but it's what you want. Like you don't know how bad it all hurt me, even if you say you know, I don't think you ever will. And even if I wanted to give it to you, I don't know if there's enough of it left."

You wrung your hands together, awaiting Angel’s response. You looked up at him through your lashes, clumped together with the tears that had escaped during your confessional. 

His molten eyes were soft on your form, swallowing before he spoke again. 

“I was such an asshole… to you. And at that stupid brunch … to Gaby. But it was all just … too much. I mean, she was wearing mom’s apron…” Angel shook his head. “And all I could think of … Even with Adelita out there, with her and my boy gone, outta my life… all I could think of was how it should be you wearing the stupid apron. It should be me giving you my mother’s ring. And I was so angry at Ezekiel for having all of that. For having what I wanted … wanted with you.” 

If there was any air left in the room, it was certainly all gone now. All that was left was heat, no air or space between the two of you. Just stagnant air and the weight of words, both said and unsaid. And if Angel had said these words to you more than a year ago? Maybe they would sound different to your ears. Melodious, even. 

Now, all you could think to do was comfort. Ever the nurturer. What else could you do, really, after he'd said that? You shook your head gently, lacing your fingers through Angel’s and squeezing. 

“It’s not that he has something you don’t, or that you can’t have, Angel… What EZ and Gabriela have is what they have. It’s theirs. You’ll have yours. Someday.”

Silence descended upon the room once more. The warm scent of orange-cinnamon from your candle permeated the room, the ever-present heat between you and Angel banishing all thoughts of romantic winter from your mind. 

“I just wanna say, again, Frida… how sorry I am for what happened at the party. For what happened with Andres. It was fucked up of me,” Angel’s tongue passed over his lips. “Did I answer all of your burning questions?” 

You reached over, trailing your fingers over the tattoo you had given Angel what felt like a lifetime ago.  His eyes followed the trajectory of your fingers, his nerves alight at the feeling of your starlit, feathery touch on his skin once more.

"Just one left.” Your eyes locked with his, unwavering. “Who am I to you, really?" You ask, the edge your silken voice had taken on slides beneath Angel's skin clumsily, like crumbling shards of glass. "What did I mean?"

Angel tries not to look at you now. Tries, but fails. His dark eyes meet your downcast ones once more, hates that they are once more glimmering with unshed tears waiting to fall. Hating that once again, he's the cause of the dreary blue tinge shading what should have been your sunny, hopeful worldview. Awash with the sunsets he would take you to see. 

And if there was any time for blossoming truth, for a sprig of rosemary remembrance of sacred feeling, it was now. 

"You're the love of my life," he finally admits, exhaling heavily. "That's just it, ain't it? Always you. And not that I have any right to ask you now -- But I need to know, Frida. Am I yours?"

Any air left was sucked from the room in one fell swoop, leaving you with the stuffy and sticky discomfort of Angel's question and the weight of his heated gaze on you, waiting for something, anything to fall from your pretty lips.

And what a question it was. 

You knew the answer, of course. You reach up to brush your thumb tenderly across Angel’s sculpted cheek, as though you could be the one molding it, nodding before verbalizing your answer,

"You've always been the love of my life. Had my heart. I'm yours, But, I think I know now… that  you were never truly mine. Even if you say it now. You have a heart that's not so easily won, Angelito. That's something I wish I'd learned sooner, wish I could've taken from you… from all of this." 

All Angel could do was shake his head, the crease in his brow deepening at your words. 

"Ever the poet, Frida."

"I thought I was a 'shit' poet?" You teased gently, recalling his words to you when he’d texted you to ask you out for the first time. 

Angel chuckled, the grit and honey in his voice washing over you, a wave of silken heat, his eyes are fixed upon yours intently, leaning forward and bringing his hands to trace along your neck, your jaw, dragging his thumb over the full, pillowy part of your bottom lip. 

“You did win it, Frida,” was all he said. 

The rush of warm, fluttery feeling swam through your body, prickling you like sparkling, popping champagne. Angel’s eyes tracked yours, down to where his thumb was dragging across your lip. Your eyes slipped shut, lashes fluttering. 

You could feel it rushing back. Everything Angel had ever made you feel -- the ardor, the frustration, the crushing weight of the river wild. Heat bloomed across your cheeks and down your chest, between your thighs and through the fingertips that you had brought to grip Angel’s biceps. 

His declaration of love, of melted marshmallow and warm cocoa -- made you crave him in a way you had long thought gone. 

You pressed your lips to kiss the tip of Angel’s thumb. You were rewarded with a reciprocal, sucking in of air on Angel’s part. 

He held his breath momentarily before surging forward and capturing your lips with his full ones. 

You were awash in the memory of every kiss shared with Angel. Of how he’d made you feel in your full-hearted moments together. Rich and full, like morning coffee. Hazy and sweet, like cherry smoke.

Angel’s kiss makes you feel dizzy, fizzing and dissolving simultaneously, like a Mento in a glass of Coke. Volatile and thrumming, both erupting and disappearing so fast, you were afraid you’d never have the chance to process exactly what it made you feel. 

It might be okay, you reasoned to yourself -- if you could hold Angel just for one more night, feel his body pressed against yours. It felt like a good idea in this moment, just to hold him for one  night only. 

Your lips pressed against one another, his hand cupping your jaw trailing back to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging it -- causing your kiss to break. Angel trailed his lips from yours, down and along your jaw. 

Angel’s grip firmed, turning your head further as he continued his attention down your neck, giving you a view of the chair next to your closet where you had haphazardly thrown Angel’s t-shirt when you had worn it last, a symbol of comfort now worn-out. 

You laid back, Angel following, surging over you and pressing you into your cloudlike comforter. His hips rolled into yours, his teeth now scraping gently along the slope of your neck. 

At the gasp you emitted, Angel felt himself harden in his jeans. He'd thought he'd never hear that sound from you again. And replaying the memory of it in his head? Not enough. He rolled his hips into yours again, again, as you dragged your thighs up Angel’s sides, locking your legs around his hips. He trailed warm hand down to caress your breast through your soft t-shirt, leaving a heated trail in its wake. 

“Oh, Angel,” you gasped, rolling your hips to meet his. 

“Can I kiss you like this, amor?” Angel rasped, “I’ll make you feel good.” 

He took in the heat behind your eyes, the kiss-swollen state of your lips when he broke from them. The creeping heat he felt from beneath your collar in his position atop you, and the way your breasts heaved beneath your shirt. 

The thread of resolve you were hanging by seemed to dissolve, leaving you unraveled and threadbare, naked before the man you swore would be your forever. The ache you felt between your legs burned crimson, cloudy and acrid. You tasted Angel’s kiss, tasted him, on your tongue.

You were never more aware of the dimensions of your body than when Angel had his hands on you, tracing and gripping every curve, the touch of places you don't think to touch yourself, strange but pleasurable as you relished in the trace of his rough fingertips against your smooth skin. He slid his hands down your waist, hips and into the loose waistband of your sweats, sliding them down your legs as he went. 

Angel played your body with temerity, a confidence, and before you knew it, your lower half was bare before him. He pushed the soft, loose fabric of your t-shirt up and over your chest, trailing his lips over your now-exposed skin, bringing his other hand to cup your breast, circling the pad of his thumb over your nipple. 

You gasped and groaned beneath Angel’s attention. Gripping at the hem of his shirt, you tugged it up and over his head, trailing your hands down his firm, thick torso. 

Angel was reticent to deprive himself of your touch after not having had it for so long. The touch of your nimble, artist’s fingers trailing over the lines of his body made Angel feel like an instrument being plucked to a tune that made both his and your body sing. He thought he would never feel it again.

 But this moment? This was about you. 

 Angel gripped your wrists, firmly planting your hands next to your head, following the trajectory and leaning over you with his full body. Releasing your wrists, Angel firmly pressed his lips to yours again, his tongue swiping past your lips and invading your mouth. Hot, needy, dirty. 

Ange tore his mouth from yours, his lips trailing lower and lower down your body, kissing your hips, nipping at your hipbone, causing you to yelp and buck your hips.

The action drew Angel’s attention, lifting his lips from your body, his eyes meeting yours. 

“I missed you, baby. Did you miss me? Sweet girl...” His voice was lower than you think you’d ever heard it, dangerously so. 

Bringing his hand down to cup your mound, he traced his fingers through your slick folds.

“Ah-Angel,” you gasped, tilting your head back at the blissful feel of Angel’s touch. As quickly as his touch had come, he withdrew it, causing your eyes to snap open, fixed on him and full of fire. 

“You know how this works, querida. I won’t touch you unless you answer me,” he taunted, the tips of his fingers trailing lightly over where you’d wanted him most, staunch in his refusal to commit to the touch. 

“God, Angel, yes,” You gasped. “P-please.”

Angel rewarded you, prising apart your legs and sliding down your body, tracing a teasing lick of his tongue through your folds, increasing in pace and intensity at the noises passing through your lips.

"I d-do miss you,” you sighed, starting to roll your hips against Angel’s tongue. “I miss the way you touch me… the way you fuck me.”

God. It was hot, the way you talked, the way you gave yourself over to him. 

Stars and firecrackers popped behind your eyes at Angel’s attention, cinnamon heat seeping through your bones, writhing and twisting at the way Angel strung his way through your body. Unable to justify the concept of being left alone, you tugged up at Angel’s jaw, forcing him to look up at you. Met with your wanton gaze, Angel licks his lips at the sight of you and slides back up your body with a grace that defies his size. 

Now level with you once more, he gripped your jaw, turning your head to the side and attacked your neck, your breasts with renewed vigor, grinding his denim-clad hardness against your naked core, the painful drag of the fabric turning pleasurable. 

With your gaze turned toward the wall, you were once again greeted with the sight of Angel’s rumpled t-shirt on the chair by your closet. An object of comfort, threads and strings tying you to a past life.   

What were you doing? Taking comfort in something that you couldn’t, in good conscience, call your own?

The rumpled shirt seemed to be mocking you, taunting you. Reminding you that, once again, you were seeking clinging to something you shouldn't. Seeking solace in things -- people -- that you shouldn't. 

Apart from Christopher's warm, sly, sensational goodnight kiss the other day, Angel's was the first touch you'd experienced like this since, well, Angel… How easy it was to slip back into your feelings for him, get caught up in him.

I'd give it all just to hold you close, sorry that I broke your heart... You shouldn’t be doing this. 

“Angel,” you prised his lips from your body. “St-stop.” 

Angel’s eyes were wild, hair mussed and lips swollen.

“What, querida?” 

“Angel,” you sighed again, sliding your shirt down and coming to sit up. “We can’t be doing this.”

Angel slouched next to you with a huff, trailing his fingers down your arm.

“Why not?”

You sighed. After all this time, the feeling of Angel so close to you was everything you thought you wanted. But everything that had been said? The water beneath your respective bridges? Angel was still awash, had not come to rest on any bank. And you were still waiting on the shore -- now certain that all you would mold from the riverbank clay were memories and half-baked dreams. 

“We’re not together,” you breathed, leaning over the bed to pick up your sweats and tug them back on. “And that’s not what this is. We're too old for platitudes, and happy endings are for children's stories. Whether you want to acknowledge it or not, you know this is wrong.”

“Querida -- I want…" Angel started, before turning away, leaning over his thighs and tugging his hands through his hair… his distress with how he had let himself get so out of control with you was mounting. He sighed heavily, shaking his head.

“What? Angel,” you touched your hand to his still-bare shoulder. “What do you want?”

"A second chance…?" Angel's normally smooth voice trailed at the end, transforming his desire into a question, fading into the silence of the room. He shifted his shoulders, turning his body to once more face yours, but not quite meeting your eyes. 

You let his words hang in silence for a moment, weighing how you wanted to respond.

“Say something, Frida.” 

"I knew you'd say that," you chuckled drily. "I know you, you're like this. But second chances become third, fourth, fifth. I can't trust you. What did you expect me to say?"

Angel opened his mouth to answer before catching sight of the expression on your face, twisted into proverbial knots. Even now, you were being far more gracious than he had any right to expect. He closed his mouth again, sighing.

"I don't know, dulce."

"I do,” you shook your head. “You expected me to say 'yes,' " you reached across the bed to one more lace your fingers through his. "I know you. But what does it say about me that I want to? It would be so like me, wouldn't it?"

You squeezed Angel's fingers tenderly in your grip, awarding him a flickering, wan smile. 

Angel's voice cracked when he spoke again, "Then say yes, Frida. Let me prove it to you. Prove that we’re meant to be together."

"And would you? Would you take me back if I did that to you? If I had someone else's child? While we were together?" 

Angel was silent at that, not having considered the reversal of roles. In truth, though you knew him, he knew you, too. It would be so wildly out of character, how would he have been expected to consider it?

"You think you might, because you love me. But, see, Angelito, I don't think you would. So how can you sit there and say we're two people who are meant to be when we don't even love each other the same? Love doesn't come in pieces, amor. You held my heart in your hands. And you crushed it. Let it crumble into nothing, like sand. Like I meant nothing."

“But this--” Angel gestured between the two of you, eyes lingering on the skin of your neck where his mouth had been, tracing his fingers over your kiss-swollen lips. 

“--Can’t happen.” Tears were rising to your eyes again. 

Goddamnit. Couldn’t you get through one conversation with him without crying?

“Maybe we are meant to be. And maybe we'll find our way back to one another. But right now? I -- I don't think I can. But more importantly, I don't think we should. And please hear me when I tell you how much it breaks my heart to say that."

Your heart was burning, but your skin was ice. Dream, they call desire. And he could hear the heartbreak in your voice. Always stupidly genuine.

Angel was stock-still, and as you took in his prone form, eyes tracing to his face -- you saw a lone tear slip down his cheek, shaking his head. 

"I miss you, you know?" He chuckled, no humor in his soft, velvet voice. 

"I know."

You were in a fugue state, the rumble of Angel’s bike retreating down the street barely registering as you were processing as you retreated to your bed, the room and your sheets noticeably cooler in Angel’s absence. The room feeling too large without him in it.

As you settled into bed, you noticed it -- Angel’s old shirt, still on your chair. 

You hadn’t thought to return it.

---

The following week found you back in the shop, preparing for your mid-afternoon appointment. You had wiped down the table, changed the wrapping, and were now idly jotting as you waited. Thoughts on one person in particular. 

The bell above the shop door dinged, causing you to look up from the poem you were penning on the lime-green sticky you kept a stack of near your work station. 

Your one o'clock was right on time.

And you were greeted with the sight of Angel striding in with two cups of caffeine, offering one two you as he rested his ringed hand on the counter.

“If you want an appointment, you’d better call first. You know what they say about walk-ins. Always risky.” 

Since Angel had departed your place in the middle of the night a week ago, the words between the two of you having had time to simmer and settle, allowing you to process the weight of it all. 

For his part, Angel had given you space. Hadn’t said anything past texting you to tell you he had made it home safely. 

 In the days that had followed, you had cautiously cracked the ice between the two of you, hoping to assuage any awkwardness and rebuild some kind of friendly connection removed from the physical. It was probably better that way. Messaging him idly to ask about his day. Not that you had shared with Angel, but you were also texting Christopher. 

Angel had called the shop, asking if you were available to help him with something he’d wanted to do. Something special, he’d said.

“Something for Ezekiel,” Angel told you. “He’s been through alot lately, with Gaby and the club and everything … been through alot with me lately. Now feels like the right time”

You had, of course, readily agreed. Eager and honored to help Angel with a tribute to his brother. The texts between the two of you changed to exchanges of ideas, you sending him screenshots of your sketches before the two of you had decided on a design that fit. 

You accepted the cup of coffee from Angel gratefully and with a gentle smile, beckoning him behind the counter. Coffee truly was a love language. 

“You can sit in the chair and lean forward, or you can lie on the table. Both are clean. Dealer’s choice,” you said between sips. 

Angel nodded, slugging the last of his coffee and placing the cup down before slipping his shirt over his torso, baring his back to you as he sat in the chair, leaning forward and twisting his abdomen to bare his shoulder blade to you. 

The tawny patch of skin on his shoulder, above the large Mayans tribute that covered the expanse of his back, seemed like the perfect place for something for EZ, the angel (ha ha) on his shoulder and guiding influence in one another’s lives. 

You cleaned and bic’d the area, stenciling your design into the space and getting your kit ready to begin.

Angel watched what he could of you from the corner of his eye, a resonant ache blooming through his chest at the familiarity of this scene. Of you, all business, touching his skin, preparing to impart a piece of yourself that he would wear on his body for the rest of his days. 

You queued up your playlist, the sounds of motown flowing through the shop as you hummed along idly. 

In this moment, Angel knew … he was still in love with you. Likely always would be. You had been far too gracious with him, as you always were -- in the way you had treated him the other night. No mention of your “almost” encounter, for which he was grateful. And he knew he was correct in his assessment of you when you had first started dating -- it was in your nature.

“You mind?” Angel broke the comfortable silence between the two of you, gesturing at the journal-like sketchbook you had left near your station. 

You shook your head in acquiescence, “No. But it’s kind of a mess in there lately,” you acknowledged. “Shit poet, and all.” 

“You’re never gonna let that go, are you?” Angel barked a laugh. “I didn’t insult your poetry, Frida, you did.” 

“Ever the self-deprecating, starving artist,” you sighed dramatically. 

Angel took that as his cue, flipping through the pages of your book. One page felt particularly heavy beneath his fingers. He flipped to it, to be met with dried, pressed flowers that had been delicately glued to the pages, the page covered in a plastic slipsheet -- the dried, dusky pink of peony petals were affixed to the page next to a swath of a white, lacy-looking bloom. 

Around the flowers were sketches of hands that looked suspiciously like Angel’s own, down to the tattoos, and idle lines of poetry. 

Angel furrowed his brows as he glanced at the flowers again.

“You got those flowers for me,” you acknowledged, looking over his shoulder to see the page of your book he had settled on. “One of our first dates, when we went to the park. I’m not sure if you remember.”

Angel’s throat caught in a way that both annoyed and unsettled him. How were you always doing this to him?

“Recuerdo, Frida,” he breathed. “Lo recuerdo todo.” 

You patted his arm gently, resuming your work. 

“I like pressing flowers. It takes a while, but the end result is worth it.” 

You pinched your brows in concentration as you drew along the stenciled lines you’d previously etched into Angel’s shoulder blade, gun buzzing. You began to fill in the minimalist rising sun that was now filling the shoulder blade, stippling the interior as you went, the effect giving the sun an almost stucco-like finish that looked breathtaking against Angel’s golden skin. 

Angel allowed you to continue you work in silence, the weight of the past few days with you settling into his bones. He had pleaded with you, endeared himself to you so much that he had lost his voice. His bones filling with the words he wished he could verbalize. 

He was slowly arriving at that place of acceptance -- Santo Padre was a small town. He would see you. And it appeared that you could now stomach his presence, but he wouldn’t push his luck. Seeing you alone. Hell, even seeing you with someone else, was better than not seeing you at all. 

But once thing was clear -- you were someone who would always be in his life, his memories, his heart.

Angel was lost in his thoughts; you were focused on your work. The only thing that gave any indication as to the passage of time in the room where you two found yourselves was the evolution of your playlist passing through tracks.

Isn’t that how it always was with Angel? Time stood still. 

As you finished his tattoo, you snapped a quick pic for your work Insta -- and maybe, selfishly, for yourself, to admire, too. It’s true, what you had felt all those months ago, and again a week ago -- Angel Reyes was your muse. 

Made to be admired in perpetuity. 

You cleaned and wrapped it, pushing back wordlessly from your seat and making your way to the front as Angel gingerly tugged his shirt back over his head. Quoting the rate over your shoulder, you put Angel's aftercare bag together. But not before slipping the lime sticky in.

“Is that it?” Angel asked, arriving at the front counter, kutte once again in place..

“C’mon, Angelito, you know you get the friends-and-family rate,” you shrugged.

"And is that what we are, querida? Friends?” Angel's voice had none of the bravado it held when he had first spoken these words to you the day you'd met. Now it was cotton soft and carefully tinged with hope. He leaned over the counter.

You shrugged again.

"I guess we'll see, won't we?" You tilted the corner of your lips in a gentle, wan half-smile. 

"One day with you, and already friends again?” Angel breezed. You shrugged lightly in response, as he continued, “Or maybe the day after that? A man can hope, Frida."

“You know what they say, Angelito,” your voice was soft, but he’d recognize the teasing lilt anywhere. He’d heard it so often at the breaking dawn of your relationship. Kindness, with a hint of subtle flirtation. It was just how you were. “Hope springs eternal.”

Angel nodded, tossing a few bills on the counter and gently rapping his ringed-knuckles against the counter, a he was wont to do. He smiled gently at you, all glimmering white teeth and high cheeks. 

As Angel walked away, head down and focused on his phone now as he headed out the door and toward his bike, you watched him leave. Your elbow on the counter and head propped in your hand. 

You wondered when Angel would discover the sticky, recalling the words you had written on it. 

my stark moments of clarity between hazy and woebegone memory (thanks to spilled red wine) -- are still marked by the firm hand of your bruising ardor.

Your phone buzzed, breaking you from your reverie as you looked down at the name flashing on the screen, an easy grin blooming across your features.

“Well, hey,” you greeted. Unable to keep the happy chirp from your voice at hearing from him again so soon.

“Hey, mama,” he greeted in that smooth, throaty rasp of his you adored. “You busy later?”   

---

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#loved you once #it's here #loved you once part two #and it's SO LONG #i'm SO SORRY #angel reyes x reader #angel reyes x you #angel reyes x frida #angel x frida #angel reyes x oc #angel reyes x fem!reader #angel reyes agnst #angel reyes smut #mayans mc fic #mayans fic #mayans mc #mayans #angel reyes #clayton cardenas #my writing #rachel reynolds #angel reyes headcanon