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#it looks worse than it is. i’m honestly not sure it even broke skin or just tore hair out
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I'm so stressed about the future and growing older. I'm worried about how I'll be able to stay a twink, I already need to shave everyday and it's getting harder to stay thin. Got anything that can help me face my fears of becoming a big old hairy bear?
Honestly if you’re having to shave every day. I’m jealous. It just means the curse is becoming stronger. And it’s only to get worse from here on out. You wake up and look down and yell I horror. You shaved your body. Before you went to bed the night before and looking down now you see that you’re covered in a dense rug once again. What’s worse is it seems like the hair is getting thicker.
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This has to be some sick joke you think to yourself. It just has to be ! You’re supposed to be a twink! Not some hairy bear !! But this is happening all too fast now and you’re running out of razors! You scramble to the bathroom and you find your last razor. Thank god. Relieved you turned your buzzers on and shaved down the fluff once again. When it’s buzzed you take the razor and shave down. Looking in the mirror you’re relieved to see that you’re once again hairless. But for how long. How long is this going to last. Just last night you did this same thing. And that’s when you see it. In the mirror. On your face. You get up close to the mirror. Are you seeing things!! You can see the hair pushing its way out of your chin!! Backing away slowly you can see the 5 o clock shadow forming. You get dressed quickly and find that your clothes are tighter than before. You have to run to the sore down the street and get some more razors! This is going to make you go broke for sure!
But the time you check out. Get back to your apartment. Strip down you are shocked. Not only are you costed in hair. But your slim frame. It’s. Fading.
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Yours abs see no longer there to be seen hidden under a layer of day and hair. And the hair only seems to be getting thicker. You try to shave it down again but this time your buzzer can’t get through the tangled mess. You scream as your body is so itchy now and you just seem to be getting hairier. “Please no! I’m a twink!!” You scream not wanting any of this to happen. When you asked for something to help you face your fears you didn’t mean this !
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Your stomach lurches forward as its mats itself in more hair. Hair continues to wrap itself around your shoulders and down your arms. All the bay down to your toes that seem to be getting fatter. “Please make this stop!!” Your back begins to widen and you done even realize that you back is getting coated in hair just as thick as the front of your body.
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Hair begins to spill from the waistband of your shorts as more hair is forming on your hairy body. Hair that youlll never be able to shave off ever again. And you’re starting to sweat. It rolls down your back and into the crack of butt making it sweaty and swampy. Your Bo kicks into high gear and now everyone will be able to tell you are around. No longer smelling like a round twink but thah of an old hairy bear. One that reeks of masculinity and sweat.
But that can’t be all that happens. You specially mentioned that you wanted to face your fears of being old. Well I already made you a bear. I made a big bear of a man. Now your body will get large. Muscle growing harder. Your gut sticking out more and you’re being hard as a rock and your hard will fall out. Your body hair thicker as your feet begin to stretch. Your body begins to ache as new pains of old age set in. Your back hurts from having to hold a keg up all the time. Your knees hurts from the weight they carry and so does your swollen ankles. That thick beard you aren’t able to shave turns white as your skins ages and sags. Soon your spitting image of a 58 year old man. A large hairy bear of a man. Holding mirror you scream but you can to anything to stop it. You have been forced to become your worst fear. And your twink life is all but long forgotten now.
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hotchfiles · 3 months
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stiles + 14 for some angst?? <3
send me one of my boys + a prompt by @dumplingsjinson
stiles + reader ⋆ “hi. i know I’m calling at an inconvenient time but— i’m sitting on the roof of my car, staring up at the sky, thinking about you; about how you used to sit next to me on top of this very car, staring up at the sky with me, and telling me how you were so excited to become my forever. and I keep wondering… what happened to change that?”
you once heard that after 2am you should go home, nothing good happens after 2am. you were home, but you forgot the last part of the advice and answered the call, even though you knew very well who it was, curiosity getting the best of you. you can't help but smile fondly at the memory, the countless memories, in fact, that you two made sitting up on the roof of his beat up jeep. "sti... how would i ever be your forever if i wasn't even really part of your life?" that's probably the first time you say it so honestly, you were too tired and frustrated when you two broke up, so you didn't even try to explain it in detail your reasons, knowing he would just argue and try to make you give up on your already made decision. "what do you mean!? of course you were part of my life, you were the biggest part, you were my whole life—i tried so hard to protect you." "protect me from what, stiles?" so much about protecting you and keeping you safe and away from danger, always in the vaguest way possible, never actually explaining to you what he meant. "you were always doing something with scott, or lydia, or malia, or derek. something big, something important. we barely saw each other..." for a few moments you can only hear his heavy breathing and you think about finishing the call, but you can bring yourself to, "i... i did that because i love... i loved you, because i didn't want to lose you." the soft chuckle you hear from the other end of the line gets you picturing him perfectly, the sad little grin, the hand behind his head as he looked up. you wished, you so wished to be by his side tracing his skin with your finger until he stopped you because it tickled him. "it surely didn't feel like that, stilinski." his heart shatters even more, to think at some point you stopped feeling like he loved you was even worse than what he was expecting this conversation to go, and by your tone he also knew there was nothing else to talk, the conversation was over. as was your relationship.
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jeanslilslut · 2 years
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4.20AM
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! ! ! MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI ! ! !
#︙pairings: stoner!eren x reader
#︙cw: smut, car sex, drug use, getting high, alcohol, breeding, weed, fingering, driving under the influence, blowjob, fem!bodied, slight overstimulation, dirty talk
#︙word count: 7k, ik wtf is that
☻ reblogs are appreciated ☻
in which stoner!eren takes you on a late night drive to celebrate 4 / 20.
i wrote this for the lovely @sweetforlevi 4/20 collab and honestly i loved this idea. me and this fic have a love hate relationship and at one point i was convinced it was never gonna get written but here we are <3 a big thank you to peach for letting me join her collab and a big thank you to @bokutosdove for supporting me and helping me out with this fic. luv you 5ever bitch <3
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smut under the cut, enjoy my lovelies ;)
This has become quite a regular thing; Eren picks you up at an ungodly hour and he drives you both to the beach, always parking where the best view is so you two can light up, share blunts, and get high as you watch the sunrise. It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s these nights that you look forward to the most.
It’s one of those nights tonight.
You’re in bed, the fan blaring above you. The month of April has brought along a heat wave and you couldn’t feel more uncomfortable. You’re tossing and turning against the thin sheets that stick to your skin, fighting your inability to sleep. These warm days always end in hot sticky nights; they’re always the worst. You can feel the sheen of sweat that covers you, making you feel icky, the fan doing little to ease your heated skin.
For what feels like the hundredth time, you glance at the alarm clock next to you and watch as it turns from 1:43 to 1:44. Thank fuck it’s Friday; you’re not in the mood to get up in the next 4 hours and get ready for college, running on an hour or two of sleep. Your sleep schedule is already fucked as it is and you’re planning to use this weekend to catch up. And that’s when you hear the ping from your phone — it lights up with Eren’s text, illuminating the small corner of your room.
Happy 4/20, you gonna celebrate with me?
What a stupid question.
Did he really think you’d be awake? Of course he knows you are. He’s the one who has fucked up your sleep schedule by taking you on these late night spliff sessions.
You’re almost grateful for Eren’s invitation. Truthfully, you’re willing to make any excuse to escape this uncomfortable and stuffy room. Your reply comes out fast, and you hope it doesn’t look desperate.
I’m down, you picking me up?
It takes him a little longer to reply; he’s probably getting his shit ready, stuffing his pockets full of wraps and little weed baggies. You wouldn’t be surprised if he forgets to bring a lighter. You could count on both hands all the times Eren invited you to one of these sessions but forgot to bring one. The last time the both of you were about to light up, his lighter broke and he didn’t bring a spare. You better remind him, because he’s definitely smoked a blunt already, and his memory is not the best when he’s high.
Make sure you bring two lighters. Don’t want one to run out now, do we? That would just be embarrassing.
And you can’t help the small pang of excitement when you see the little bubble of dots that let you know he’s typing.
Haha fuck you. I’ll let you know when I’m here.
You smirk at his response. Dumbass would have totally forgotten.
So you start to get ready, taking off your pyjamas and putting on a pair of shorts and a hoodie, stopping to look at yourself in the mirror.
You take in your appearance. If someone couldn’t already tell by the dark circles around your eyes, your messy hair definitely gives away your struggle to fall asleep. You think about taking a quick shower to freshen up a bit before you head out, but then again, it’s only Eren. He’s seen you worse than this.
Your fingers run over your outfit: an old hoodie that has a few holes in it and a pair of shorts that you can’t even remember buying. It is still warm outside and you think about swapping your hoodie for a t-shirt, but you’re usually out for a couple hours and that’s when it starts to cool down and become a little chilly. Before you can even decide, you hear Eren’s car pull up outside.
The honk sends you flying down the stairs and you almost trip over yourself. You can’t stop how giddy you feel, and you know there’s a big stupid grin on your face. Still, you can’t find it in yourself to care.
Just before you open the door, you check yourself over one more time — keys, wallet, phone, lighter. Just in case. With your shoes barely on, you lock the door behind you and rush down the front yard. The cool air of the evening feels wonderful, and you welcome it as it hits your flushed skin. You feel it wash over you and you’re suddenly glad you decided on the hoodie, because you can already feel the goosebumps spreading across your bare legs.
You can see the outline of Eren's profile through the driver's window and you almost gasp. His hair is pulled haphazardly to the back of his head, the loose strands of hair too short to frame his dark face. The light from street lights does a good job at illuminating his strong jaw, and you wonder if it really is just the cold air causing the goosebumps.
You hope the redness in your cheeks disappears before you get in the car. Eren would definitely make fun of you if he noticed.
“Hey.”
He leans forward and grabs the coat that lays across the passenger seat, throwing it into the back before you hop in. “Hey. Merry 4/20 or whatever. You ready to celebrate my favourite holiday of the year?”
His speech comes out a little slurred; if you couldn’t already tell by the overwhelming sweet smell in the car, he’s already high, or at least on the verge. You wonder what your parents would think if they saw you now, in the passenger seat of the campus stoner's car on the way to smoke blunts and drink cheap alcohol. What they don’t know won’t kill them, right?
“It’s not a holiday, Eren. Stop looking for an excuse to smoke.”
You’ve known Eren for quite some time now. You were in the same biology class in high school and now you're both going to the same college. He had come up to you in the library when you were sitting behind your laptop, a pile of textbooks scattered on the desk as you studied for a chemistry paper. It was nothing too major, but you always get stressed and frantic two weeks before any exam. Eren must have noticed this, because he offered some friendly advice — a coping mechanism, if you will.
One thing led to another, and then suddenly you were in his dorm room, a bong in one hand and a lighter in the other. You started visiting him more and more, staying for longer and longer, to the point where you’d have to put your clothes through the washer twice just to get rid of the obvious scent of weed. Yeah, you failed that chem exam two weeks later. But we mustn’t dwell on these things. Life goes on.
“Hey, I’m being good. I decided I’m only gonna smoke on holidays.” What a liar. You would bet everything in your bank account that he wouldn’t last long.
“Eren, if you only smoked on holidays, then that’s means every fucking day is a holiday.” He reaches in between the two of you and turns up the music.
“Yeah, and if I was president, I’d make every day a fucking holiday.” You could only imagine the state America would be in if he was president. At least weed would be legal; that would be his first order of business no doubt.
“Well it’s good you’re not president then, isn’t it?”
He chuckles next to you, taking one hand off the wheel to pass you a little box, nudging it into your shoulder.
“Shut up and open your gift.”
With a confused look on your face, you take it. It’s long but small, and wrapped up in a ribbon which he’s tied into a little bow on the top.
“What is this?” He’s smiling like a toddler.
“If I was gonna tell you then I wouldn’t of fucking wrapped it up now would I? Open it.”
And so you pull at the little bow, the ribbon easily sliding off the box. You lift the lid and inside is a messily rolled up blunt laying nicely on a mini velvet cushion. You roll your eyes.
“Did you really just gift wrap a blunt?”
He looks at you, eyes flitting between you and the box. “Wow, not even a thank you? If you’re that ungrateful then I’ll have it back.” He reaches over to the passenger seat to swipe the blunt from your fingers, but you’re quicker.
“Gotta be quicker than that, loser.” He feigns hurt before returning his attention back to the road.
“I blame it on the weed, makes my reactions a little slow.”
“Don’t tell me that when you’re driving a fucking car,” you exclaimed.
“Hey, out of all the times I’ve driven high, I have never crashed.” Well that’s just a lie. Did he forget that you were in the car with him when he crashed into the back of the car in front of you? Your mom wasn't too happy about that, but you're an adult now; she can’t exactly stop you from seeing him.
“Oh really? What about that time you literally drove into the back of some dude's car who then wanted to beat the shit outta you? Or did you burn that incident out of your memory?” You remind him.
“Hey, that one doesn’t count. He was break-checking me and that asshole had it coming. He’s fucking lucky I wasn’t in the mood to fight. Prick didn’t know what he was getting himself into.”
“Wasn’t in the mood to fight? More like too scared.” You tease Eren all the time about it but to be honest, you always feel safe when he’s driving. Okay, yeah, he drives when he’s high — but he’s smoked so much weed throughout his life that he seems 100% more capable than when he’s sober. You’d trust him with your life, much to your mother’s disgust.
“Did you see him?! He looked 6”4 and was built like a brick-shit house! I never start a fight that I know I’m going to lose. Work smarter not harder, that’s how I’ve survived this long.”
You chuckled a smile spreading across your lips “Well let’s keep it that way. Eyes on the road, buckaroo.”
••••••••••••
Half a blunt, three beers each and a half hour car ride later, you arrive at the beach. It’s just past 3am and the horizon is slightly tinged a light blue, a hint that the sun will soon bring a new day. The salty air is refreshing as it fills your lungs and you can feel your muscles ease as the high kicks in. The heat seems to have left and the cold is now settling in, making you contemplate winding up your window. Eren must’ve noticed the way you shiver because he winds it up for you from the controls on his side.
“Thanks. You looking out for me?”
“Always.” It’s true, he always has.
It must be late, because the last time you heard the presenter on the radio must have been at least five songs ago. Now the faint sounds of 90s classics seep out of the speakers one after the other. Perfect background noise for a spliff session. You lean your head back against the seat and close your eyes, enjoying the feeling of your muscles becoming light and airy.
“It’s almost 4:20am, how are we gonna celebrate?” Eren questions over the sound of the radio.
“I dunno, like we always do? Smoke weed, drink beers, talk shit and then get a happy meal on the way home.” You turn your head towards him. “What could be better than that?”
Fucking you in the back seat of his car while smoking a fat joint. That would definitely top a McDonald’s happy meal anyday.
“Sounds fucking phenomenal. Nothing I’d rather do more.” Apart from being balls deep inside of that pretty cunt with one of your tits sucked into his mouth.
He passes you the blunt he’s smoked halfway down and watches you lick your lips before slipping it between them and taking a deep breath in.
Eren always thought you looked your best when high. The weed seemed to plump your skin, creating a certain rose tinted look about you. Your eyes always looked brighter too, dewy and a little glazed. He imagined that’s exactly what you’d look like when you’re horny, and he’s not wrong.
Ever since you first started smoking weed, you’ve noticed it’s made you a little hornier than usual. You don’t know what happens to you; it’s like it flicks a switch inside of you and your senses become heightened. You get a little needy and a little touchy, and you definitely become a little wetter than when you’re sober. Oh boy… when you’re with Eren and smoking? You can barely contain yourself. Just two blunts in and all that man had to do was look at you and you’d be like a bitch in heat.
You had a feeling Eren might feel the same way, but in all this time you’ve been doing this with him, he’s never once made a move. You’re starting to think that maybe he doesn’t feel the same after all, or is he just waiting for you to make the first move?
Well, you’re only half a bunt and three beers in. Maybe you’ll start to become a little bolder after another one and a half blunts and two more beers.
••••••••••••
Time seems to fly. Eren’s telling you a story about some girl he sells weed to on the college campus and how she offered to suck his dick to pay for it. He then told her that he's not being ungrateful, but he actually needs the money to pay for beers for a party he was going to. A blowjob would be great and all, he had explained, but it’s not what he was looking for.
Somewhere in between him mentioning a blowjob, and something about being slapped in the face by the pre-mentioned girl, you stopped listening. The beer and weed has truly kicked in, but is mixed with something more dangerous. You can’t help the way your eyes flit towards his lips, red and plump, watching them form words you’re not listening to and wondering how soft they’d feel on yours. Your gaze then starts to travel lower and you’re only just now noticing that he’s wearing grey sweatpants; you can definitely see the faint outline of his dick from your position in the passenger seat, making your thoughts go racing.
“Hey, you still there?” Eren must’ve noticed that you’ve stopped paying attention.
You don’t know why you say it, but there was no stopping the question falling from your lips.
“Can I suck your dick?” You only realise what you have said when you look back up at Eren. His eyes are wide and he looks like a deer caught in headlights. Fuck.
He kind of just sits there, mouth slightly open as he processes what you’ve just said to him. Did he hear you right? No, must’ve just been the weed messing with him. Still, he’s hopeful and presses on.
“What?”
Oh shit, you really just did say that. You think about ways to recover from this — and fuck, there’s no way your fuzzy brain will be able to come up with something that makes sense. You’re feeling bold, so you decide to roll with it.
“You heard me. So you gonna let me suck it or not?”
You’re staring right at Eren and this must be real. You really did ask to suck his dick, didn’t you? From the look in your eyes, you were deadly serious, and fuck, he loves how forward you are with it. His dick twitches in his sweatpants, although he wants to toy with you first, make you panic a little.
“That’s pretty forward if you, isn’t it?” A smirk spreads across Eren’s face and you feel the boldness fly out of you for nerves to take its place. Somehow you persist. There’s no going back now, so it's time to go big or go home.
“The offer won’t stand for much longer.” A lump starts to form in your throat and your mouth goes dry.
Eren pushes his seat back and lets his red rimmed eyes drink you in, tongue swiping his bottom lip as they work their way up your body before landing on your eyes. You think he doesn’t notice the way your thighs clench together when the hem of his hoodie rises up just a little, but he does, and this motherfucker enjoys the way you’re squirming next to him. He wonders if your wetness is already pooling and if it’s starting to smear all over his passenger seat below.
He wonders how long you’ve been wanting to ask him that question. Was it since he parked at the beach, or while en route? Maybe even before that. Could it have started when he texted you? Or perhaps you’ve had this feeling for a long time now, back when you’d hang together in his dorm sharing blunts and playing board games. Maybe, just maybe.
While Eren thinks it over, he is definitely enjoying seeing you panic. He makes sure you're watching as he brings the blunt to his lips, wetting them before he takes a hit. He breathes in deep, letting the smoke fill his lungs. In the dim light of his car, you can see the end of the blunt glow, burning a deep amber.
When Eren puffs out, he’s veiled in the smoke; he looks a little intimidating, eyes never leaving yours, and you can tell he’s thinking about saying something.
“Alright.”
Alright? That’s all he’s gonna say? He’s not going to question it? Fuck it. Two can play at that game.
Without taking your eyes off of him, your cold fingers dip underneath the waistband of his sweatpants and he hisses through his teeth at the sudden contact. Of course he’s not wearing underwear. Fucking typical.
You pull his dick out from his sweatpants and it’s already hard, twitching ever so slightly at your cool touch. You almost gasp at the sight of it and your thighs clench — it’s fucking pretty. It’s long but girthy and it’s a pretty tanned shade with a blushed pink tip. There’s a prominent vein along the underside of it and you feel it bulge under your fingertips. However, your favourite thing has to be his balls. They are big and plump and full, and you can’t wait to fuck them cupped inside your hand.
With delicate fingers, you wrap them around his shaft and bring it towards your mouth, tongue ghosting over his tip and letting your warm breath fan over him. You’re a fucking tease and he tries his absolute hardest not to buck up towards your tongue, keeping his eyes on yours. He’s not letting you win.
You feel your composure start to falter when you see Eren’s leaking tip, and you can’t help but kitten lick at his head. He sucks in a breath through his teeth when you do so, and when you look up, he's staring right back at you, urging you on with his eyes.
When you taste Eren on your tongue, you can’t help but suck it into your mouth ever so slightly. He tastes a little tangy and a little sweet, no doubt from the weed that’s running through his veins. Before long, you give in quite easily, so eager to feel his dick fill your throat.
You sink your mouth onto him slowly, hollowing out your cheeks. You can feel the swell of saliva fill your mouth and coat his dick in a thick sheen. He moans at the sensation and his head tilts back, hands balling into fists at his side. His moans encourage you to move, and soon, you’re bobbing up and down on his dick at a nice rhythm.
Eren is thick and long, his tip hitting the back of your throat every now and then. Before long, pull him out of your mouth and catch your breath. A string of saliva hangs from your mouth to his dick and he grunts at the sight, fingers working their way into your hair and guiding your mouth back to his dick.
“Fuck. Don’t stop baby girl, keep going. You’re doing so well for me.”
Your knees tremble at his words and you take him back inside your mouth, one hand coming up to cup his balls.
The noises coming from you are obscene and dirty and Eren can’t quite believe this is fucking happening right now — can’t quite believe that you’re sucking the life out of him in the driver’s seat of his car. He almost thinks he’s dreaming.
Eren’s hips start to buck up into you and he moans at the way you choke around him, his fingers gripping your hair tighter and starting to push down on your head. Your saliva collects at the base of his dick, and the way you massage his balls almost sends him into overdrive; he has to pull you off.
“Ah shit – you need to stop. I’m gonna cum if you don’t.”
You try to catch your breath and you probably look like a mess, hair stuck to your saliva covered face, skin flushed and tears pricking your eyelashes. But he still looks at you like you’ve hung the moon and the stars.
“C’mere.”
Before your brain has time to catch up, Eren is leaning forward and pulling you onto him, arms circling around the small of your back as he pulls you impossibly closer, chest to chest. His mouth is on yours in an instant, tongue swiping at your lips and dipping into your mouth. You can feel the flex of his jaw against your palms.
He’s intoxicating; you can taste the sweet tang of weed that laces his tongue and it leaves you wanting more. It’s just not enough.
As if reading your mind, you feel the faint touch of Eren’s fingers as they toy with the hem of your hoodie. His fingers have always been cold and you hiss at the sudden feeling, moaning into his mouth as lithe fingers work their way up and under the hem running over the warm skin of your torso. His touch causes a shiver of goosebumps to ripple across your skin.
Fuck, you feel like a giddy school girl. You’ve done this before, but never with Eren. The butterflies are soaring around your stomach at the way he touches you, and there’s something about the way he talks to you that fills you with nerves.
You are pulled back from your thoughts when his calloused fingers cup the soft flesh of your breasts. You feel Eren’s breath hitch — and that’s when you remember that you’re not wearing a bra.
Below you, Eren chuckles to himself at his little discovery. His thumbs run over your hardened nipples and, fuck, were you braless this whole time? Sitting next to him, bare breasts rubbing against the material of your hoodie? He wonders if your pretty little cunt is just as bare and his heart races at the thought. His weed filled brain just can’t take it, and he starts to buck up into you to find out.
“No bra?” Eren whispers against your neck, you can feel the curl of his lips on your flesh, a devious smirk spreading across his face. “Was that for me?”
Eren chuckles into your skin when your thighs clench around him at his words. Of course it was for him. Everything you do is.
He briefly removes his mouth from yours to pull your hoodie up and over your head, throwing it behind him where it’ll get lost somewhere in the back seat. Then he pauses and leans further back in his seat taking you all in. His hoodie is pulled up slightly to reveal his toned stomach underneath, and you can’t help but lean closer, placing your hands onto him. You hope it looks like you're just trying to steady yourself and not feel him up — you don’t want to look too eager, like you’ve been desperate to touch him like this. But of course it doesn’t work. Eren is always so observant.
You watch as his eyes, red rimmed and glazed, fall onto your hands as they splay themselves across his flesh, fingers digging into his skin ever so slightly. He definitely notices the goosebumps when your hands meet his hard stomach and if his ego wasn’t big enough already, it definitely is now. You’ve wanted him just as much as he’s wanted you, huh?
Eren meets your eyes then, bringing the half-smoked blunt to his chapped lips and taking a long drag, holding it in as it burns down his throat and into his lungs. You wish you could see his thoughts right now; you’d kill to know what was going on in that clouded brain of his.
After what feels like an eternity, he finally releases the smoke and blows it over your half naked form, veiling you in a soft glow, eyes still on yours as if waiting for your next move.
Eren’s silence makes you anxious. You can’t tell if he’s enjoying the view or thinking about changing his mind. The mix of the weed running through your veins and the nerves that Eren’s gaze creates has you feeling a little dizzy and nervous, so you ask him.
“Shotgun me?” You have a coy smile spread across your face, a mischievous glint in your eyes as your hand wanders a little further down. How could he possibly say no?
With a smirk of his own, Eren’s words come out slow and a little slurred as they rasp past his lips. You’ve always loved how gravely and hoarse his voice gets when he’s high. It never fails to make your pussy gush.
“Fuck yes.” His hands tighten their hold on your thighs before he brings the joint back to his lips.
He remembers the first time he ever shot-gunned you. He never expected you to say yes but he was so, so glad you did.
It was back when you were quite the light weight. You were both in his dorm, your mind hazy with the high just after a few shotguns from him. It was adorable how giddy you’d get, giggling at anything he’d say or do and making shitty dad jokes that you’d find absolutely hilarious. But you’d start to get bold, hands grabbing at his jaw pulling him in to ask for another. Your lips would inch closer until they were just ghosting his own, practically begging to be kissed; he’d never do it though, not if you weren’t ready. But fuck, you made it hard for him.
You’d get so touchy, so needy as the night went on. You’d grab at Eren’s neck to pull him closer and whisper something in his ear. He could feel your hot breath against his skin, lips pressing into the shell of his ear ever so slightly. Eren bets they’d taste delicious, your cherry chapstick mixed with the sweet tang of weed. It’d be hard for him to stop, so he’d never start, instead waiting for you to make the first move.
Soon your hands would start wandering into Eren’s hair asking if you could braid it, and being the secret softy he is, of course he’d let you. You’d be on top of his bed, feet dangling either side of him as he’d sit in between them, fingers drawing little circles into your calves as you work your fingers into his tendrils of hair.
Eren would never admit it, but he loved it when you played with his hair. His whole body would tingle as your nails would scratch against his scalp, and he’d have to stop himself from moaning at your touch, the delicate scratch of your nails sending him into absolute euphoria.
You had to know what you were doing to him when you’d pull a little harder at his strands, the sting almost causing him to moan out, head tilting further back into your touch and brushing against your inner thighs. It’d take every last ounce of his restraint to not turn his head and press a wet open-mouthed kiss into your flesh, to pull your joggers down and dip his tongue into your sweet folds and make you writhe above him just like he is below you right now.
But over time, you’d come round to his dorm more often, and soon you weren’t so much of a lightweight. You stopped being giddy and needy as you grew into your tolerance, even able to handle a full blunt all by yourself. Eren was almost proud at how far you’d come, but it meant no more shotgun kisses and no more hair braiding. He'd be lying if he said he didn’t miss it.
So you could only imagine how excited he is right now as you straddle him, clothed pussy rubbing into his bare, throbbing dick and making a mess of your shorts.
Eren’s fingers wrap around your jaw to hold you in place, thumb swiping across your lips and coaxing them open. He just has to dip the tip of his thumb inside and watch as you suck it into your mouth, tongue swirling around the digit. He reels you a little closer, just enough to keep you wanting more as he blows out, basking you in a cloud of his smoke.
You breathe it in and it goes straight to your head, swirling around and making you feel as light as air. Fuck, you’ve missed this. You can’t help the way your hips grind down into him as he does it again, tongue dipping into your mouth this time.
“Look at you. So desperate to have me inside of you, huh?” God, Eren loves it when you’re dying for him, and nothing can ease your hunger except his dick stuffing you full. You’re becoming impatient, but before you can take matters into your own hands, you feel Eren’s wandering fingers dancing over your clothed slit. The fabric of your shorts and underwear act as a barricade, and you feel the ever growing need to feel those fingers deep inside of you. It becomes unbearable, as if you just might combust.
Callused fingers carefully rub circles into the fabric and you can feel your excitement as it dampens your underwear under his fingertips.
“I need you. Fuck, Eren, I need your fingers inside of me.” He smirks at how desperate you are and he loves that he can do this to you, make you a begging, pleading mess.
“You're not gonna say please?” Eren can be such a dick sometimes, but you’re in no mind to come back with something smart, your brain is a muddled mess and all you can think about is Eren and his fingers and his dick and how much you need him, all of him. So you just give in, not even trying to be just a little bit subtle about it.
“Ugh, fuck. Please, pl-please. Fuck me with your fingers, god please.” You moan out, writhing under Eren's touch that’s just not quite enough.
“Okay baby girl, pull your shorts down for me.”
Being ever so obedient, you’re quick to remove your shorts, wishing the stupid piece of material was discarded long ago. The man below you groans at the sight that greets him.
You’re wearing a pair of grey lace underwear, the colour of the material making your wetness visible to Eren, and he can’t help but run his index finger along your clothed slit and up to your clit. The action elicits a delicious moan from you and he has to tear his eyes away from your pussy to look at you.
You’re watching Eren’s every move, watching his finger as it circles your clit, your underwear becoming darker as the wetness grows. Your hips start to buck up, desperate to feel that pressure you desire. If Eren had a clear mind and wasn’t higher than the Empire State, he’d make you beg for it, wait till you're on the verge of tears before he gives you what you want. But Eren is just as desperate as you and his composure is on thin ice.
So with one hand, he pushes your underwear to the side and a guttural moan escapes you when you feel Eren’s rough fingertips slide against the delicate flesh of your pussy. They spread your wetness to your clit, and just as promised, Eren dips them between your folds. You gasp as they push past your ring of muscle, curling up into your spongy walls, and you let go of a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
“Fuck, you’re soaking baby. All this for me?” Yes, yes it was. Everything was for him. It always has been and it always will be.
Your cunt sucks Eren in deep; he feels you pulse around his knuckles, sending a pang of desire straight to his twitching dick. He couldn’t even fathom that his dick would soon replace his fingers, deep inside your warm wet walls, pulling him in and milking him dry. The thought has his knees shaking and chest caving in.
His middle finger joins his ring finger inside of you and he moves his wrist positioning it better so that he can pound into you at a quicker pace and finger fuck you from below. He sets a soul-shattering pace and you have to splay your hands across the window to keep you upright. With every thrust, his fingertips hit that sweet spot inside of you — and just when you think it’s too much, his other hand comes up and his fingers start to rub at your clit relentlessly.
You feel the familiar fireworks start to spark in your core, and before you know it, you’re gushing all over him, a moaning, shaking mess as his fingers continue with the same speed.
“Fuck, Eren! It’s too much, I-I can’t take it!” You whimper.
“That’s it baby, I’ve got you, you’re doing such a good job. Fuck, look at you, squirting all over me.”
Eren feels the way you pulse around his fingers after you cum and he collects your juices before pulling out and sucking them into his mouth, moaning at the taste of you.
“Fuck. I can’t wait any longer, baby. I’ve got to be inside of you.”
Before you have time to come down from your climax, he’s pushing your underwear to the side and lining his dick up with your entrance. Slowly, you sink down onto him.
You both moan together as you slowly take him into your warmth inch by inch. You can feel that prominent vein as it bulges against your gummy walls and your pussy quivers at the feeling.
Once Eren is fully sheathed inside the channel of your cunt, your body starts to move of its own accord, desperate to feel the sweet stretch of his dick. You start to grind down into his, but he grips at your hips to stop your movements, keeping you still on top of him. His face is grimaced, eyes screwed shut and he looks like he’s trying to concentrate.
“Ah shit – don’t move. I’ll cum if you do, just let me focus,” Eren hisses through gritted teeth. His confession sends a bolt of electricity straight to your pussy and you clench around him.
“Fuck, don’t do that. Not now, it’s too much.” His grip on you tightens.
“Eren please, I don’t know how much longer I can wait wanna feel you drag inside of me.” Your tiny pleas do little to help his focus. The weed isn’t helping either; it makes him extra sensitive to your warm, wet walls, and he can feel every pulse of your cunt.
You sit above him, cock deep inside of you, cockwarming Eren for what feels like forever. You’re growing a little impatient and almost start moving until you hear him below you.
“Okay baby, ride me.” And that’s all the permission you need as you start to drag your hips across his, the tip of his dick nudging your walls. You moan out when he starts to thrust up into you ever so slightly. He thinks this is the perfect time to reach for his blunt.
One hand is on your hip, swaying back and forth with your movements, while the other holds a blunt between his fingers, offering it to you after he takes a hit every so often and blows it over your body, veiling it in a mist of smoke. Meanwhile, the orange light from the street lights outside basks you in a heavenly glow, softening your skin. Eren catches himself swipe at his bottom lip, pulling the kiss-drunk skin into his mouth ever so slightly. Fuck, you look ethereal. He will forever remember this image; he’ll burn it into the backs of his eyelids and replay it whenever he pleases.
The way your body moves above him has Eren staring in awe. He swears you are a fucking angel sent down to earth just for him. You seem to be basked in a light and it surrounds him and makes his skin hot to the touch. He still can’t believe this is really happening.
Part of Eren wants to flip you over and drive into you from above. He wants to lift your leg over his shoulder and reach just that little bit deeper, tip dragging against that sweet spot inside of you… but why would he when you’re doing a perfectly good job yourself? And he does have the most perfect view from below you; he can see everything from your gushing pussy, from the strings of your cum collecting at the base of his cock which smears all over his thighs, to your perfect tits bouncing so perfectly in front of him. Don’t get him started on that pretty face of yours. If you could personify euphoria, you would be it, eyebrows knitted together, eyes closed and mouth hanging open, all your senses focusing on everything that is him.
Eren can’t help but run his mouth when you look like this above him. Maybe it’s the weed talking, or maybe it’s just his sober thoughts — but fuck, he can’t keep his mouth shut and it makes you go feral.
“What would your mom say if she saw you right now, huh? Her perfect little daughter smoking my weed and fucking me like the dirty slut she is? She’d just about have a heart attack now, wouldn't she?” Eren’s eyes are dark, and they make you feel like you’re doing something you shouldn’t. It gives you butterflies and you feel a wave of desire go straight to your aching cunt.
Eren becomes so talkative when he’s high and he’s definitely had one too many blunts, so there’s no stopping the shit that tumbles out of his mouth. But god, does he sound so fucking good saying it: it’s raspy and whiney and delicious as he praises you, telling you what a good fucking job you’re doing, how you’re taking his dick so well and riding him like a fucking goddess. All the while, his tip throbs and twitches and hits so deep from this angle. It’s almost unbearable.
It’s raw and dirty and so fucking good. It’s everything you could ever imagine and you know you're on the verge of cumming all over him. Not a coherent thought runs through your mind and you can’t seem to form words, yet Eren understands. He can tell by the way your movements have become jerky, hips stuttering with every thrust and your breathing turning fast and shallow. He reaches between where you both connect and presses against your swollen bud, the pressure almost making your knees buckle below you.
“That’s it, baby girl. Cum for me. You’re doing such a good job.” His words of praise, thick with desire and laced with sweetness, are what tips you over the edge. You’ve had many orgasms in your lifetime but not like this, not when you’re high and above Eren-fucking-Jaeger. It feels blissful, so toe curly and so fucking warm. The orgasm starts from your core, spreading to every inch of you from the inside out. You feel weightless and it’s like you're floating.
Eren is not far behind; in fact, the pulsing of your walls has him spilling everything he’s got into you. When he’s high, Eren’s pull out game is non-existent. You could say it was the weed that makes him this way, that it dulls his senses and makes his muscles feel heavy. In reality? It’s not that at all. He’s just too caught up in the moment to stop himself, to pull out and spurt all over your stomach. And why would he when you’re on the pill and feel this good? He’d be a mad man if he didn’t cum inside you.
When Eren does cum, it’s a lot. He always finds his load when he’s high to be double, if not triple the amount than when he’s sober. It comes in thick ropes that paint your walls white and spill into your womb. Guttural, whiny moans push past his lips with every white rope that spurts from his balls. He has to grip onto your hips, hang on for dear life as his orgasm seems to pull him up into the sky and melt all over him.
When Eren comes crashing back down to earth, it’s like he’s been wrapped up in a warm, cosy blanket. His eyes finally flutter open, and he swears he’s met with a literal angel. He truly believes he has died and gone to heaven.
•••••••••••
It’s now 5:17am and you’re both in your clothes again, lying in the back seat of his car. The sun is slowly peeking over the horizon, and Eren is just now sensing his sobriety creep up on him. He feels the heavy weight of your head on his chest, your eyelashes and shallow breath tickling his skin.
He can’t help but look around and reminisce. Hand prints scatter the windows, and no, he won’t wash them. Instead, he’s chosen to keep them where they are, a gentle reminder of what happened here in the early hours of April 20th. A small smile sneaks its way onto his lips as he remembers, faint memories filling his mind.
Your shallow snores are peaceful and Eren feels his eyelids become heavy. He takes one last look down at you, nestled closely to him, a slight glow to your skin, and he can help but hope this won’t be the last time.
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georgiapeach30513 · 2 years
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Losing Hand, Part 9
Summary: the past. That first kiss
Pairings: Curtis Everett X Snowdrop
Rating: 🫠🫠
Warnings:  some blood, teasing, adorable, 18+ ONLY
Word Count: 1K
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“Let me walk you to the border,” Curtis tells you, but you quickly shake your head no. Already embarrassed that you broke his nose, and having to see him a bit bandaged up makes it worse.
“I’m fine.”
“Oh come on,” he slightly whines grabbing at your hand. “It’s the least you could do. You broke my nose, and made me bleed. The future King of Diamonds,” he scrunches his face up saying that last part when he sees your face fall.
“I’m sorry.”
“Fine you can walk me to the border. And no further.”
The two of you walk mostly in silence. It’s awkward to say the least. And you can hear him opening his mouth to speak, but closing it quickly. With a quick grab to your shoulder you flinch. Smacking him in the nose.
“Son of a bitch,” his voice screams, his body dropping to the ground, and you apologize but a giggle comes out. “You think this is funny. Great.”
“Why would you grab my shoulder?”
“Why are you acting like everyone is out to get you, damn?” he pulls his hand back to see the small amount of blood, and looks up at you. “Great. You know there’s only one thing that will make me feel better now.”
“Well what’s that? I’ll do anything, honestly I am sorry,” you sit down on the ground with him, trying to figure out if should you reach out towards him or not.
“A kiss.”
You are unbelieving of this. Should have known that a Diamond will always try to trick you. “Why would I do that?”
“A kiss always makes the pain better? Did your mom kiss your boo boos when you were little?” you shake your head no. “Oh…”
There’s a quick moment of silence, and thankfully he doesn’t question you anymore about your mother. And thankfully he changes the subject back to what he really wants to know.
“I could always make you kiss me. I have a higher ranking than you.”
“Yeah, but I’m not a Diamond. I’m Heart, remember?”
“I could change that status for you,” you blink at him several times. Unsure whether you should believe him or not.
“You could shut your mouth.”
“If you put your tongue in there, that should do the trick.”
He’s unbelievable. Ridiculous even. You shake your head laughing, before he pulls up your hand. Playing with your fingers and he meets your eyes. “I’m not delicate you know.”
“Yeah, but your nose is. Some Heart broke it.”
“Wouldn’t you know it,” Curtis attempts to laugh, and only snorts, holding at his nose. “Ow.”
You stop your own laughing, scrunching up your nose, and apologize once more. “Prove to me you’re sorry. Kiss me.”
“You’re sure?” nodding his head, you get on your knees bringing him yourself closer to him.
Lifting his hand up, he cups your cheek, his thumb slowly grazes over your lips, and both of your eyes roll up to meet each other, and he pulls you in.
Just a slow peck at first, until both of you become needy for the other. Moving from your knees to settle down on his lap, and Curtis’ arms pull you closer to him. With his first sigh of discomfort you try to pull away, “Curtis…”
But he just holds you tighter, “I’m fine, the kisses are making it better.”
His hands roam around your back, kneading your soft skin, before he hisses, and you push him back off of you.
Curtis just looks up at you with a satisfied smirk, and you watch as a little trickle of blood drifts from his nostril.
“Now that’s about enough of that,” you grouse, ripping off a piece of your shirt for him to hold against his nose.
“I didn’t feel a thing.”
“Tell that to your mouth.”
“Snowdrop,” Curtis fake whines, holding you even tighter when you try to get up. “You’re making me weak over here.”
“Good get better, and we’ll try again,” that smirk comes back to his face, and he rubs over your back gently.
“How about,” he starts, but when you try to protest, he puts his hand over your mouth. “You give me something to remember this moment. And then…”
Pulling at his hand you start shaking your head no, “No. Get. Better,” you answer, kissing his scruffy cheek with each word.
“Fine, I guess I’ll have to teach you something besides punching. Let’s go to the range. Or throw an axe.”
“Axe? Your Diamond is showing,” with a little giggle, he pulls your hands into his.
“And what do Hearts throw, hotshot?”
“I could tell you. But then I’d have to kill you.”
“Hearts don’t kill do they?”
“Hearts break,” your response has your hand caressing his cheek. Curtis begins tilting forward to bring himself closer, and you know you’re in trouble. You don’t want to leave him without a kiss. And that’s the last thing you should want from a Diamond.
“You wouldn’t dare break mine would you?” Curtis so close, his speech pushes his lips up against your own. Allowing him one more peck, before you push him off of you.
He only clings tighter to your hips, pushing you down further, so you can feel the swelling in his jeans. “Curtis,” you whimper out.
“Next time, Snowdrop,” he gives you one last peck, before he’s pushing you back off of him. Chuckling when he sees your pouting and angry face. “Now, let me watch to make sure you fully get into Heart territory,” standing up quickly, before he pulls you up with him.
“I can make it the three steps on my own,” you respond rolling your eyes.
Immediately stopping your attitude when Curtis pulls you close to him, “Just humor me, okay, delicate little Snowdrop.”
“Who’s the one with the broke nose, delicate little Snowflake.”
“I can promise you, I’m not little.”
“Goodbye, Curtis.”
“Tomorrow? Can I meet you here tomorrow?” you can’t help but get the biggest smile, nodding out a yes. “And maybe no fighting until I’ve healed.”
“Got it. Nothing physical until you’ve healed.”
“That is not what I said! Snowdrop, don’t be a tease!”
You finally turn back around to walk back into your territory, knowing you’ve left him there long after you left him. But you couldn’t wait until tomorrow.
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kadavernagh · 2 years
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Sad, Sweaty Man || Regan & Emilio
TIMING: Current LOCATION: Regan’s cabin PARTIES: Emilio and Regan SUMMARY: Emilio’s strength and abilities were sapped out of him as a consequence for breaking his deal with Regan. Now Regan wants to see if she can help. Sometimes it’s all in the wording.
Every battle felt like an empty one now. Like no matter how many fights he won, he’d still wind up losing. Regan released him from the promise he’d made her, but it was too late to stop him from facing the consequences of breaking it. Marina cut him loose from Levi, but it only found another way to hurt him. Now, Regan was offering to help him regain what he’d lost in any way she could… but what else would he lose in the process? What would this victory steal from him?
Emilio told himself it didn’t matter. He’d need his abilities if he was going to protect the people he loved, and he did intend on protecting the people he loved. He was good at doing what needed to be done. He wasn’t much good at anything else.
The trek to the cabin was a familiar one, even with exhaustion weighing heavy on his bones. When was the last time he slept for more than an hour or two? He honestly wasn’t sure. Certainly not since Levi delivered its news. Maybe not since before that. The bags under his eyes and the way his hands trembled as his knuckles rapped against the cabin’s door told a story all their own, and he scrubbed a hand across his face as it swung open. “Don’t really need you to invite me in,” he said, “but I’m not gonna barge inside, either.”
Regan hadn’t come back to the cabin since the procedure. The coyotectomy was still fresh in her mind, and her gaze kept drifting toward the spot on the floor where the skull of the coyote had been burned right in front of her. The cabin felt bare. Maybe it was always like this, or maybe it was the empty spaces on the shelves that once held other bones, or the way she could hear her thoughts more clearly since the animal eviction. In any case, she didn’t like it. And neither, it seemed, did Emilio. The sad, sweaty hunter stood outside her door, and it occurred to Regan that maybe she shouldn’t tell him that she came here specifically to meet him – and her preference would have just been her apartment. 
“Unusually polite of you. Come in.” Regan eyed him further. He always seemed about one good bar fight away from another bar fight. There were always scratches on his skin and a smell emanating from his clothes, and she was pretty sure he looked worse now than he had during his time bound to her. And yet, she owed him terribly, and guilt sank like a grave within her stomach. “I’m –” She licked her lips, wondering if this would even be appreciated by a man like him, fearful of emotions in a different way she was. “Emilio, I am sorry. I’m sorry this happened, that a deal was made, and for how I treated you. I’m sorry there are consequences even now.” The tension was so thick she needed to clear her throat. “So, um – you said – what is your presenting complaint? I’m familiar with the unusual muscle tone of… people like you. Am I understanding correctly that you feel weaker now?” She figured he would appreciate her being straight to the point now. She motioned to a chair, inviting him to sit, and thought about how to wash it after he left. 
“Don’t know why people always say that. I’m polite.” His tone was dry, but not quite as empty as he was expecting it to be. Maybe it was because Marina had no expectations. For the last few months, she’d made that pretty clear. It had been annoying then, but… It was almost a comfort now. Like a relaxing break in routine instead of an infuriating irritation. He never thought he’d see the damn day.
He stepped into the cabin with a sigh, doing a quick, instinctive glance around. That was the corner where Metzli broke the damn bones that Regan had been so pressed about. In retrospect, Emilio probably shouldn’t have tried to stop them. Hindsight was always 20/20. He glanced up as Regan spoke, pulled from the memory by the sound of her voice and furrowing his brow as the apology sunk in. “It wasn’t you,” he offered with a small shrug. “That’s what everyone says.” Kaden, Metzli, even Ari. They’d all been adamant that Regan wasn’t herself, and how could Emilio blame her for that? How could he hold it against her? He’d been plenty pissed when it was happening, but he’d meant it when he’d told her she was the least of his problems, for a while there. 
She motioned to the chair and, naturally, part of him wanted to deny the offer and remain standing. Exhaustion won out over stubborn pride in the end, though, and he practically collapsed onto it. “Not just the strength,” he replied, slumping a little. “My senses are shot. Usually, I can hear better than a normal person. See in the dark. Feel when something… dangerous is nearby.” He carefully shifted the word undead to one she’d be more comfortable with, considering her strange aversion to supernatural occurrences. “Got less energy, too. Used to be able to go a few days without sleeping and be fine. Now I feel like I’m about to fall over.”
It wasn’t you. It was more complicated than that, in Regan’s eyes, but she wasn’t going to argue with Emilio. They had already done so much of that. “Yes, well, either way, I’m– I was me enough that I should have known better than to listen to a neuro-coyote. I should have doubted it more, convincing though it was. I am sorry for what I, or it, put you through.” Her eyes drifted away from Emilio’s and landed on the sweat leaching into the fabric of the chair. Ignore it. He was at least forthcoming with what he was currently experiencing. Regan looked down at him from where she stood, before remembering some of the bedside manner basics. She nodded in confirmation that she was listening, and knelt down on the floor to be more level. “I don’t have a previous baseline for you. Can you describe it for me? Your usual strength and hearing. What you usually feel.” With a soft sigh, she wondered if a physical examination would even be of any help here. Another stab of guilt. “And… you think this is connected to the verbal exchange we made?”
A neuro-coyote. Emilio had never understood how Regan explained the things she went through while denying the supernatural nature of them, and this was a good sign that he probably never would. If she couldn’t accept the truth of the supernatural after being possessed by a coyote spirit for months, then… Well, it was probably a good sign that she’d never accept it entirely. And maybe that was all right. Maybe everyone coped with this fucked up shit in the way they coped with it. Emilio didn’t think he was in much of a position to give anyone any kind of advice there. He shifted as he sat down on the chair, stretching his leg out absentmindedly. “Yeah,” he agreed, “all right. Uh… I guess my strength was two or three times what it is now. Used to be able to hear things from a few miles, if I focused it. The feeling was… Like a prickle on the back of the neck. Maybe something like what you feel around dead bodies. Hard to say, since I don’t know your baseline, either.” He swallowed, closing his eyes for a moment. “Yeah. I do. You… I said I’d protect you and the bones.” Because he’d been the one to make the promise. He couldn’t blame Regan entirely — he’d made a choice in the graveyard that night he met her. She hadn’t forced him. “And, you know… I didn’t keep it. So now, I lost the thing that lets me protect people. That’s how those… verbal exchanges work, isn’t it? You lose something equal to what you broke.”
A strange discomfort filled Regan’s stomach as Emilio described his baseline. It sounded so normal to him. All the quirks of Kaden’s body had become familiar to Regan over time, but thinking there were others that shared them… and she never had found the source of Kaden’s peculiarities, either. There was nothing to probe at, nothing to remove or heal. She hated that her instinct was right – a physical would not be of help. The solution lay in the thing she feared. She stood up and sat in the other chair, which she hoped Emilio wouldn’t take as a sign of resignation. “I doubt I’ll find anything but ordinary injuries if I were to examine you.” she explained with another sigh. She wasn’t going to answer his question that wasn’t a question. Her baseline was not something she knew well enough to share. 
Regan’s lips pressed into a thin line as she instead considered the wording of their prior exchange. “Protect me and the bones…” That was it. She remembered that confusing night. “I’m surprised your bones aren’t broken,” Regan said, “if it works the way you say, I mean. Which I am not convinced is the case.” The only person who said as much to her was Lydia, and how could Regan trust that now? “That is to say… I don’t know enough on the topic to answer you with any certainty.” Some help she was. Some use this was. Still, she couldn’t give up. Maybe if she understood more about the circumstances that broke the promise. “At what point did you notice this, um, consequence? When do you think you broke it? The… exchange.”
It should have come as a relief, the way she seemed to accept that what was happening wasn’t medical. There was nothing a physical could do, she was right about that; if she conducted one, the only thing she would find would be old injuries that had healed too fast and new ones that weren’t healing fast enough. But there was something hopeless about the confession all the same. Something medical, Regan might be able to fix. Something fae? Emilio wasn’t so sure. He had no doubt in her skills as a doctor, not with how passionate she was about it. But she didn’t seem to know as much about being a banshee. If what Kaden and Regan said was true, she’d barely accepted that she was one at all. It would definitely make any hope of him getting out of this deal a lot slimmer than he’d like.
A surprised laugh escaped from between his lips in a quiet huff of air because Christ, she was blunt. “Yeah, gotta say, I’m glad not to have broken bones on top of all this shit. Those heal slow enough even at my pace.” And they didn’t always heal right, either. His knee twinged as if to provide an unnecessary reminder of that fact. “I’m not going to try to convince you.” It’d be a waste of his time, he knew. Regan was, among many other things, damn stubborn. “But from what I know… That is how it works. And it makes sense, given what I’m experiencing. Punishment matching the crime or… whatever.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. His unkempt curls caught on his fingers, and he made a face as he pulled them away. “Uh… Just after the coyotes disappeared. So when the exor…” He trailed off. What had she called it again? He couldn’t remember. “When the thing in the cabin finished.”
“Good,” Regan said simply, “you can’t convince me. I ought to th– I appreciate you not even trying.” But what Emilio said raised more questions than it answered. The coyotectomy? Why– that didn’t make any sense. She might not have known what was going on, not really, and asking more questions might not net any more clarity, but it couldn’t hurt. Something here was off. What did the coyotectomy have to do with protecting or failing to protect her? She met Emilio’s eyes, her own narrowed in scrutiny. “Emilio,” she started, failing to hide her confusion, “This started after the procedure? Why? I mean, do you… is it possible you consider that breaking the terms of our agreement? What happened here?”
He raised a brow at the near slip, but didn’t comment on it. He was… reasonably certain he would have released her, though in all honesty, he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t released Marina, after all, was still holding on to that thanks she’d given him in spite of the way it sat uncomfortably in his chest. Glancing up as Regan spoke again, Emilio furrowed his brow at the clear confusion etched into her features. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “I was… trying to get here. To help. But I got caught up in the woods.” Kaden insisted that that was for the best and, though Emilio would never admit to as much aloud, he knew it was probably true. It had been the best solution for everyone but Emilio. That was the part that sucked. “I wasn’t here. And the thing you didn’t want to happen happened. Seems like a broken agreement to me.”
To help. Regan opened her mouth to comment on that, but it sat in her head a bit longer. How did these agreements work? Were they open to interpretation from both parties? She held her tongue, not wanting to interrupt Emilio as he provided information he might not share twice. Regan needed to confirm. If it really was as simple as– but it couldn’t be, right? No, there had to be more to it, something Emilio knew but she didn’t. That frequently seemed to be the case. She nodded, piecing together what he said. “You were trying to get here to help?” She asked him, eyes wide in what was shaping into a realization. “You agreed to protect me. What were you planning on doing once you got here to help?” She tilted her head, wondering again if it could be that simple. Did he realize it now, too? 
What would he have done if he’d gotten to that cabin in time? It was a question Kaden had asked, too. Emilio wasn’t sure of the answer. Fighting Kaden, Metzli, and Jude was one thing, but would he have been able to allow himself to fight Lil? Or Ari? Even with a promise bind driving him, he would have put up resistance. And he’d told both Ari and Lil, at one point or another, how to take him down in a fight if they needed to. He would have ended up in the same situation he was now. Logically, he knew that. But… “I would have done a lot more than I did out in those damn woods, at least. Maybe me being there would have been enough to satisfy the thing.” Probably not, given that he still would have failed. But Emilio was a stubborn ass when he wanted to be… and he always wanted to be. “It probably wouldn’t have meant anything either way.”
Okay, so Regan probably should have realized by now that hunters seemed to share a certain… density. As endearing as she found it in Kaden. “That doesn’t answer my question,” Regan said with a frown, “I mean, what would you do? Would you have tried to interrupt the procedure? Would you have helped the procedure along? What were you attempting?” She let the questions hang, having more of them herself. “It may matter. I’m not so sure you broke our agreement at all, Emilio. What does it mean to you to protect someone?” And if Emilio were anything like Kaden – which Regan thought he might be, in spite of their conflicts – that would not be a simple question to answer, but an important one. She looked down, studying the arms of her chair, only because they were easier than looking at Emilio in this moment. “This isn’t a trick, if you’re wondering. We may have different definitions. Or perhaps only perspectives.”
“I… would have tried to stop it?” He wasn’t sure where this was going, wasn’t sure if he was answering the question correctly or not. He’d never been particularly good at critical thinking. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been particularly good at any kind of thinking. Regan said this mattered, but Emilio was struggling to understand how. Her next question was just as confusing, largely because it wasn’t one he’d ever put much thought into. “To, uh… Keep them safe. Make sure they’re not hurt. Make sure nothing happens to them. Right?” How could there be a definition other than that one? Though different perspectives… he supposed that made sense. What he didn’t know was whether or not it would change anything.
Emilio’s answer was along the lines of what Regan suspected, yet she still couldn’t help but give him a blank stare. He would have tried to stop the procedure. Yet, his aim was to keep her safe and unharmed. See that nothing happened to her. Weren’t those two things irreconcilable? “Emilio,” she said slowly, sighing and meeting his eyes once again. He seemed confused and defeated, like he didn’t see the point of what she was asking. Her proposal was so strange, so not based in medical science, that it moved her to rise from her chair and pace lightly across the room. Perhaps it was some psychosomatic guilt response; that was rational enough. She looked at him again. “If you had managed to stop the procedure, that would not have been keeping me safe.” Regan turned. Paced in the other direction. She just needed to approach this logically and without too much emotion. “Don’t you think I’m better off like this? I don’t blame the coyote. I won’t. But I’ve returned to my senses. So tell me, why do you think you’ve failed?”
It was hard for Emilio, who was stubborn on his best day and downright unreasonable on his worst, to admit it, but Regan made a good point. Stopping the… procedure, as she called it, wouldn’t have been protecting her if the thing the exorcism was fixing was making her someone else. She was better off the way she was now — in full control, without the damaged spirit of some abused animal pulling the strings. So why did it feel like he’d ruined something? Why did it feel like he’d managed to fuck up his life a little more for failing to prevent this? Was he so desperate to hate himself that he was looking for excuses to do so, just like everyone said? “If I did what I was supposed to do, then why — Why does it feel like this? Why are my powers shot?”
—-
Regan watched Emilio’s thoughts work their way through the muscles in his face, the way his eyes widened and his jaw twitched. He seemed to almost be straining himself, connecting dots that didn’t occur to him. She stayed silent, letting him come to the conclusion without further prompting. Finally, he did. And Regan stopped pacing. There was a strange, desperate underscore to his voice that made more guilt worm around inside of her. She couldn’t answer him, really. She didn’t know why he seemed to be ill, despite keeping to what he promised. “I don’t know.” She said honestly, her voice softer than usual. “But I also think I’m better off like this. And I think your failure to make it here and disrupt anything was keeping me safe. In, um, an uneventful kind of way.” She considered. “I still think you likely helped in some way, at some point. Surely you were in contact with someone involved, shared some key information at some point. But that may not matter. None of this may matter. I don’t know the etiology behind your syndrome.” She didn’t want to say this. She wasn’t supposed to say this. But if Emilio was currently a patient, and it had the potential to help her patient, well… she had to, right? Regan cleared her throat. “I’m grateful to you, and I think your actions allowed me to be relatively unharmed, and certainly myself. That sounds like protection to me. But what do I know? I’m just a doctor.”
—-
The more she spoke, the more sense she made. She was who she wanted to be now, was back to being herself after months of being someone else. And Emilio had, in a way, helped that to happen. When he hadn’t stopped Metzli from smashing those bones, when he’d stayed back with the intention of fighting the coyotes instead of running to the cabin when he’d had an opening, when he’d tried, in his own subtle way, to get Regan to question what was happening in her head by bringing up Kaden after seeing how she reacted to him when they retrieved the bones he’d taken. It hadn’t always been through his own will, but Emilio had played a part in freeing Regan from her possession. And she’d wanted that. She was telling him she’d wanted that. She was thanking him for it. 
A wave of dizziness washed over him, a moment of disorientation as her words sunk in and his mind detangled itself from the ever-present confusion that reared its head when he was forced to think in depth on anything he didn’t understand well. If Regan was okay, if she was better now, then Emilio had done what he’d promised to do. And if he’d done what he’d promised to do… 
The dizzy spell passed and, as it faded, everything else eased itself in. The familiar sounds that had been deafened before — Regan’s heartbeat, something scurrying in the woods, the power surging through the lights and the water in the pipes. His vision sharpened, shadows melting from the darkened corners of the room as his night vision came back. He was still tired, of course — not sleeping for as long as he had was the kind of thing that could only be solved with rest he refused to partake in — but the rest of it seemed to slot back into place. “Okay,” he said softly. “Okay. I don’t — I don’t know what you did. I don’t know how that worked. But I’m… I feel like I should again. Like me.”
Would this even work? Regan wasn’t optimistic, but whether Emilio’s symptoms were due to her own words that bound him, or were psychosomatic in nature, it was possible this could only be fixed with more words. So she watched as his face continued to tangle with emotion and cognitive function that he clearly rarely afforded himself. And there it was: a look came over him as though he was stunned. Maybe it was the realization of what she was saying being correct, or maybe something more. “Are you–” she started, but whatever it was seemed to have passed. “I gave you a lot to think about, I know. But I–” Wait. Was he saying… “It worked? What do you mean what I did? All I did was– I mean, I thought your guilt might be–” Did it matter right now? Satisfaction shone on her face. One of the few emotions Deirdre did encourage her to bask in. Satisfaction, pride, superiority. It was nice. But she was glad for Emilio, too. Whatever weight he was carrying had become too much even for his strength, and now it seemed to have lifted. 
Perhaps she missed her calling in psychiatry. Al would have found nothing funnier.
Regan took a cautious approach toward him. “Good. That’s good. Are you certain? And do you need– I mean, how do you feel? Physically. How do you feel physically? Do you need help?”
The relief was palpable. There were still things hanging heavy over the slayer’s head — when weren’t there? — but, if nothing else, he felt more capable of resolving them now. Solving one problem among many may have been a drop in an ever-growing bucket, but it was a big enough drop to make Emilio feel just a little better about his chances of overcoming all the bullshit. “It worked,” he confirmed, closing his eyes for a moment. The return of his senses was just as overwhelming as the absence of them had been, but in a much more positive sort of way. It was like coming up from air after staying underwater so long his lungs had been close to bursting. It felt good just to breathe. 
Glancing up to Regan, he took note of the satisfied look on her face. There was something strangely surprising about the realization that she actually had wanted to help him, even after everything. It hadn’t been her putting on a show or trying to quell any leftover anger he might have in order to save her own skin. She’d cared about the outcome here. It was difficult for Emilio to understand why, given how their relationship had been up to now, but… He supposed Metzli and Kaden were right. He’d never known the real Regan at all. Not until this moment. “I feel fine. Better.” Physically, at least, he felt better than he had since before that day in the woods with the damn scream and the ghost coyotes. “No, I… You’ve done enough for me already. I appreciate it. The help.”
 —
Regan’s eyes drifted over Emilio, head to toe, and she determined that he looked more or less physically fine. It was strange, though – the way he looked back at her. She decided it wasn’t worth reading into. “I’m surprised talking worked,” she admitted, “but I’m glad it did. Kaden would have felt strange and incomplete if it were him. I imagine you were similar.” And fine, part of her just wanted to verbally compare him to Kaden to needle at him a tiny bit more before he went. There was a small amount of amusement to be found in it, even though bringing Kaden up still made some part of her ache. 
Regan’s arms dropped to her sides, like she could finally rest after a 4 hour autopsy. “It doesn’t sound as though you want another apology from me. And I certainly don’t need one from you.” So… what? She looked at Emilio, then toward the door. Considered saying we have concluded and you may take your leave. But there was an emptiness to that after everything she put him through. The option that felt more appropriate was the one that also felt more alien to her. Regan held out her hand and tilted her head. She wouldn’t say anything and risk this turning into a deal sealed by a handshake. But the gesture, or at least offering it, felt right.
Emilio made a face at the comparison, but it was pretty spot on. He had felt strange and incomplete without his abilities. He imagined most hunters would. The majority of them defined themselves by the abilities that came with hunting, tied their value intrinsically with them. And that wasn’t even getting into how much a large number of them — including Emilio himself — came to rely on those abilities. Being without them was dangerous in more ways than one. Having them back was something better than he could ever hope to explain.
“No,” he agreed, “I think we’re both done with apologies.” She wasn’t very subtle; in a way, Emilio appreciated it. He preferred people who were to the point about things. Glancing down at her outstretched hand, he huffed out a quiet laugh and took it, the cold shock of her skin sending a jolt through him. Christ. If nothing else, he figured, it sure as hell woke him up. He gave her hand a stretch and a nod, and he thought it was probably the closest two people could come to saying thank you when the phrase itself was decidedly off limits. “Be seeing you, Regan.” 
Oddly enough, he didn’t dread the way it might be true.
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mnm-inc-miles · 3 months
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1/8/2024
Tim was anxious about this responsibility he was tasked with, but it was important to him, and he spent some time trying to focus but couldn’t seem to quiet his mind. His anxiety was racing, worse than normal, and he was trying to meditate off and on. Finding ways or excuses to distract himself.
Check in with Cudi, walk the dog, see who won AGT, wonder if Asa is winning his campaign, but any time he reached out it was brief and he was back to focusing on himself and his connection to his brother. Come 9pm he had finally calmed down and had spent enough time focusing his brain that it was quieter, and meditating was starting to work.
Shifting into wolf form and closing his eyes, Tim felt himself drifting. At some point during meditation he’d fallen asleep. And a dream began. It narrowed in on some woods. A very large man towing a myriad of weapons on his back, and holding a large chandelier like it was a torch. He was walking away from Tim’s point of view. And the perspective Tim had felt like he was being yanked along behind him. It was cold, snow covered the ground, and Tim could feel pain growing throughout his body.
Everything went black. Then when the images came back, he was in a room, dark damp and cold, and the most terrifying face loomed over him. The man with the weapons struck him hard, everything went black.
Tim shot awake. Mount Whitney. He didn’t entirely know how he knew, but that was where Jake was, and he looked at the clock. 4am. He needed to hurry. He shifted back to human and texted Joey, who didn’t answer immediately. He texted Newt, who responded quickly and appeared in his room only a few minutes later.
“I still can’t get ahold of Joey…” Tim chewed his cheek anxiously.
“I’ve already stopped by his place. He will meet us at the base of the mountain.”
They left together and when they arrived in the mountains of California, Joey was waiting, looking a bit tired but determined.
“Are you okay?” Tim asked him, concerned.
“Yes, what information do you have?” He was nursing a very mild hangover but he’d fought through worse, and on less sleep.
“I uh…I’m not sure, I can just sense it…” he inhaled deeply, closed his eyes and focused on changing back into a wolf, and he shifted quickly. “This way,” he barked as he ran up the hill and into the woods of the mountains. Newt and Joey followed, wand and sword at the ready respectively.
They approached the area where the cabin was and Tim slowed down, “We’re close…but there was a guard…I just, I don’t see him.”
“Was it a vampire or someone else?” He looked around and didn’t even see a cabin. “Are you sure this is right Tim?”
“Yes, it feels right but I don’t…see anything…and I’m honestly not sure…I don’t think he was a vampire, but he was deformed and huge and nothing but muscle…”
“Revelio” Newt spoke and suddenly the cabin materialized. Joey looked around and saw tracks leading to and from the cabin, both old and fresh. “I’ll stand guard, you and Newt go in and get him…” and Joey put his hand on his sword and gave a nod.
Newt hurried inside with Tim following. It was a very small cabin, basically a large room. There on the ground, skin and bone, bloodied and dirty, was the wolf, his brother. “Oh…no, is he…is he alive?” The room smelled like death.
Kneeling beside the wolf, Newt touched his chest and nodded, “He’s alive, but barely.” He pulled out the wand and broke the chains and lifted the dog into his suitcase and then came back out and followed Tim back outside.
“This feels too easy…” Tim spoke nervously.
“Yeah…”Joey narrowed his eyes. “But there’s no one here, they must not be expecting us to find this place…we should hurry.”
“Joey…he’s in bad shape.” Newt spoke. “I’m going in to help him, take my suitcase. We can go back to your place if you’d like.” And Joey nodded and Newt disappeared back inside the case as Joey and Tim made their way back down the mountain.
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bionicdogs · 3 years
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sound up to hear booker bash his head on the underside of the camper and not drop any speed
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gaysimpsstuff · 3 years
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Could I get a Hawks in his rut headcanon?
No problem, Anon! I’m sorry this took so long, I wanted it to be perfect since I really like thinking about Hawks’ avian traits, and I know people really like it too. I hope it’s good! 
Hawks Rut Headcannons
Genre: fluff, smut
Type: headcannons (so... many... headcannons)
Warnings: animal traits, Keigo being possessive af, the commission being assholes, sickness, food, breeding kink, lots of horny times
Other: most of this is based off of real research, but some of it also comes from personal preference. @keilemlucent and their fic Best Nest very much inspired many other headcannons, check them outI They’re one of my favorite creators, and the linked fanfic is one of my favorites! Hope it’s okay I tagged you here lmao
NSFW Taglist: @smolchildfangirl @combat-wombatus @mandalorian-baby-bird @waffleareniceandfluffy (Lemme know if you wanna be added to or removed from the Taglist)
Remember to check if requests are open before sending in a request. This was made while requests were still open.
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Pre-Rut Behaviors
Grooming and Preening
Before his rut, Keigo starts to feel dirty. He just seems to accumulate more dust and dirt during hero work than usual. He’ll come back home grumbling about blood in his hair and little bits of concrete in/on his skin.
He will insist you clean him off. So you get to brush his hair, put creams on his face, and wash him off in the shower.
Finally, there’s the preening. If he lets you preen his wings, then you know he’s in it for life. He loves and trusts you with everything he has. 
Expect him to press his nose against yours a lot.
Possessiveness and Protection
You’ll notice he gets more clingy, more possessive of you. He gets really controlling in the days leading up to his rut, so you’ll be annoyed a  l o t.
Just text all your friends and family that you’ve been swamped at work, it’d be a little weird to say “hey guys, sorry I can’t hang out, my boyfriend’s horomones are crazy right now and he gets really insecure if I so much as exist near anyone but him.”
You would come home from work and he’s already on you, sniffing your body to see who you’ve been around, and to see if any of them were attracted to you at all.
If he had any kind of sneaking suspicion that anyone posed a threat, he’s literally laying on you and rolling on top of you to try and get his scent on you. Even if no one will smell it except him, he’s gonna do it.
He’s so protective of you, and if something tiny hurts you or makes you upset...
He.
Is.
Angry.
Someone was rude to you? He’s screaming at them.
Someone tries to hurt or touch you? You’ve got to hold him back to stop him from ripping that person apart limb from limb.
All that x100 when he’s approaching his rut.
One person accidentally bumps into you? He takes it as passive aggressiveness even if they’re very apologetic about it.
You stub your toe on a table? He’s smashed the table and burnt it then thrown the ashes in the ocean. 
If you’re sad about something he can’t beat up, he feels horrible. He’s not the best at comforting people, so he’s just grabbing onto you and not letting go, telling you how much he loves and cares for you, and just how amazing you make his life feel.
If you don’t give him enough attention, he gets really huffy, and it gets worse leading up to his rut. 
You lifted your hands from his head to reach for your buzzing phone? He’s already whining and pouting and begging you to give him more head-pats again.
Nesting
He’ll leave hints asking for you to make a nest, usually saying things like “Our bed needs some changing, don’t you think?” “Don’t you wish our space was more personalized?” 
If you don’t get the hint, he’ll be very sad, and he thinks you’re rejecting him. So you’d better be good at reading into things and realizing he’s approaching mating season and wants you to build a nest.
He comes home one day and sees you piled blankets, pillows, and dirty clothes in the living room, sprayed with his cologne and you’re cologne and/or perfume. He pulls you into his arms and spins around with you, giggling and laughing.
He’s so happy you made a nest for the two of you. 
He starts putting pretty shiny things he likes around the nest. Your toothbrush went missing and you found it in the mountain that was your nest.
Once, you were in desperate need of a clean shirt, and the only clean shirt you could find was in the nest. So you picked it up to put it on, and two seconds later, Keigo was in front of you, hands in your shirt, staring at you with such a fierce intensity, you felt almost like a villain.
He was very mad at you for taking things from your shared nest.
He leaves feathers all around the penthouse, but they’re all piled mostly around the nest, they’re for your protection so don’t try and throw them away.
Noises
He also gets really noisy, so he’ll be ‘singing’ and squawking and cooing constantly. He feels really bad about it so he might get you some noise-blocking headphones for when he’s screeching into the sky in the dead of night about how “THIS IS MY FUCKING TERRITORY Y’ALL MOTHERFUCKERS STAY AWAYYYY!”
You really think bird’s springtime songs are about love? Nah he’s mostly screaming about how he’s gonna fuck his partner and how the neighborhood  practically belongs to him.
Someone called the police once, tired of all the shouting, but the officers backed off when they saw who was doing all the shouting. Most of your neighbors are used to the screaming during early spring.
Rut End-game
On the third and second to last day before his rut, he gets a sudden burst of energy and an increased appetite. He refuses to eat anything unless you’ve made it though, so let’s best hope you can cook at least a little.
When he was younger, his hungry times before his rut were spent either eating anything and everything he can get his hands on. The commission broke that behavior very quickly though, so he’d starve himself before his rut, which would result in him getting very sick from a lack of energy and sustenance. That plus the extreme arousal was a recipe for pain and suffering.
So when you noticed he suddenly stopped eating, you insisted on making food for him, telling him that you wouldn’t let him go hungry ever. That was the first rut in years that didn’t feel like torture.
You’re cooking almost all the time, and he’s constantly eating everything you give him, running around from room to room while he waits for his next meal. He’s basically a hobbit.
In the last day or two before his rut, he suddenly has no energy, and starts getting hot and cold flashes. He’s sniffling, curled up in your shared nest, dirty tissues surrounding him. He comes in and out of consciosness, and when he’s awake, he’s whining and complaining about exhaustion and aches.
Physical Changes
Most of these happen in the last few days leading up to his rut, so it’ll be very sudden. These physical changes is what causes the extreme hunger and sickness.
His feathers darken several shades, and they become super sensitive. They also seem to grow in size, so when you cuddle, you’re smothered by them more than usual.
He also gains an extra couple inches in height, so expect some teasing now that he’s just that little bit taller. His hair also gets thicker and stronger, that’s so you can pull on it when he fucks you.
His nails get longer and darker, and they’re impossible to file or cut. So when he holds you and touches you, he often scratches you on accident. He’s really apologetic about it, but honestly you could totally paint his nails and pretend they’re acrylics if you’re into that.
His teeth get sharper, and he starts biting you just for fun. Bites your finger, hand, wrist, neck, even your nose. He underestimated just how strong his teeth are, and he made you bleed first time he bit you.
His whole body is very sensitive, so head-pats, back rubs, wings, and even his touching his feet can get him to the verge of cumming.
his tongue is longer, and it’s a whole lot stronger. He could probably carry a full plastic water bottle with his tongue (which isn’t a lot, but for a tongue it’s very much a lot).
His voice drops a whole octave and a half- mans is sounding almost like Corpse now. Maybe Markiplier? Anyways, if you’ve got a voice kink, you’re in luck
His dick changes too, it gets bigger, and he grows a lump at the base of it, between his shaft and balls. His balls get smaller until they’re barely noticable beneath what he calls him ‘knot.’
His eyes become sharper too, so don’t try and hide anything from him. 
Rut (MAJOR NSFW)
Everyone already knows Keigo has a breeding kink, but he hasn’t brought it up with you until now. It just kind of- happens. As he’s drilling into you, he suddenly starts blabbering about fucking a kid into you, and how hot you’d look all round with his kids. Might be a little weird for those of you who physically cannot give birth to children (my lovely AMABS and infertile AFABS). 
He can’t control it, so it’s especially weird if you don’t even want kids. If you can get pregnant, you’d better double check that you’re taking your birth control. And get to know some good clinics just in case.
However, if you do want kids, if you want to start a biological family woth Keigo, fuck. You will not be able to handle his happiness and horniness in that moment when you beg him to get you pregnant.
He is going to mark you up. Hickies, bruises, hand prints, bite marks, plus his scent. He needs everyone to know that you are his. He wants to claim you, make sure you know you belong to him. No one else can have you but him.
Halfway through your fuckfest, he starts making animalistic noises. He’s growling, roaring, whining, chirping, etc. This is around the time when he stops thinking about you, so he’ll really rough you up during this phase.
This man was a virgin before you, so this is also the first rut he’s ever going to have with another person, so he’ll hold himself back a lot. He needs you to reassure him at every step, tell him how good you feel, how you want him to fuck you, how not only are you okay with him going all out, you want him too.
Did he just cum? You think you’re finished? HA! No way in fucking hell is he finished after one, two, five, ten... so many rounds. He just keeps going and going and going and how the fuck is he still hard? He cums so fucking quickly, so much, and then keeps going.
When he finally does go soft, his whole personality changes. it’s like he didn’t just fuck you stupid. He immediately goes into ‘protect’ mode, which includes cuddles, him spoon-feeding you, petting you like a dog, and singing to you.
He puts the nest near a window so he can keep an eye out for possible threats. Just like “gotta keep mate safe. Is that the mailman? NO FUCK NO GET OUT OF HEREEEE!” 
One moment, he’s fucking you, and the next he’s leaning halfway out the window, screaming at some poor dude walking his dog. Remember, he’s still naked. You learned your lesson after that and kept the windows locked, and warned the neighbors to stay out of sight of the window, at least for the time being.
You’re going to feel very dirty, because he does not want you cleaning off the sweat, cum, and tears from your body. He likes that you smell like him, and you washing it off makes him feel rejected. 
He’s going to break a lot of things, so move pictures and vases into another room and lock the fuck out of that room. Or else he will break all of it.
He thinks any clothes you’re wearing are mocking him, so wear clothes you hate when his rut starts, then get used to being naked for a couple days. 
Oh yeah, his whole rut lasts one to five days. He’s fucking you for about three days on average.
He fucks you until you faint, and then keeps going until he’s out of ‘fuck’ mode and into ‘protect’ mode. A few times, he fucked you unconscious in the middle of the afternoon and then kept fucking you until the sun rose. 
Yeah, he’s got that much energy.
Don’t worry, during the whole time, he lets out pheromones with a strong vanilla-chocolaty scent that keeps your body and mind relaxed. 
There’ve been times when he’s just fucking into you and your water bottle is just out of reach.
During his rut, he has no shame. Let’s hope your walls are soundproofed, or else your neighbors will all know how he fucks you. 
He will not restrain you or hurt you in any way during his rut. So no degredation, no collars or chains, the only thing keeping you in the nest is his weight on top of you.
He gets upset if you try to touch yourself, things it’s you trying to tell him that he’s not satisfying you enough. 
He wants you to cum as many times as him, which is difficult because of his increased sensitivity, so he’s using every skill he knows to get you cumming again and again and again.
Most of the time, he’s going hard, rough, and spilling absolute filth from his cock and mouth, but in the last few hours of his rut, he suddenly gets emotional.
He’s rocking up against you, holding you close to his body and blabbering about you
How much he loves you
How good you make him feel
How he wouldn’t want anyone else by his side for his rut
How you’re his mate for life
How he’ll protect you and keep you safe.
Please be gentle with him, he’s very vulnerable near the end of his rut, and he’ll cry very easily.
When he’s nearing his last load, he makes out with you sloppily, trying to talk as he shoves his tongue down your throat.
He finishes off by  pushing his knot all the way inside you, and stays there for an hour.
This is the softest moment, and he’s covering your body in kisses. 
His knot pushes these small eggs inside you, and you have the lovely job of pushing them all out the next day. 
Post Rut
When his knot deflates, he finally pulls out and starts cleaning you off. 
He’ll carry you around and finally gives you a bath, constantly making sure you’re okay.
He’ll give you lots of massages and he’ll cook for you. He’s constantly thanking you for helping him, telling you he didn’t deserve it.
Just kiss him on the cheek, tell him you had fun, and that you love him so very very much.
He needs the most reassurance now than ever before.
He’s also very tired, so you’ll be taking care of each other.
Then his ‘post-rut’ resets, and he sleeps for hours.
Then he gets super hungry, and the two of you make huge meals and just kinda binge eat for a day or two.
Then his physical changes go back to normal, and you have a happy lil bird boy who simps for you so hard
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littlefreya · 3 years
Text
Vanilla Milkshake
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Summer: Henry and a long time friend hangout at their usual spot when things turn chaotic because of an innocent misunderstanding...
Prompted by:  
 Oooh Freyaaaa I just *need* some scene featuring Henry and ofc drinking milkshake. 
Pairing: Henry Cavill x Unamed OFC (no description of ethnicity or body type).
Word count: 1.7K
Warnings: RPF, major fluff, friends to lovers, sexual innuendo, mild seduction, sex talk, an unwanted boner, Henry being a boomer, Henry having a meltdown. 
*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own.*
A/N: So, first thing first, thanks @agniavateira for quickly beta’ing my work! And of course thanks @the-soot-sprite for bouncing ideas with me and being an emotional support. Decided to go with friends for lovers because I live for that stuff. Also, I am aware that “Milkshake” can be interpreted in several ways but for the sake of the story I went with that particular reference. Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics
Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed.  🖤
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Title: Vanilla Milkshake
“I swear, this diner looks like Barbie had an orgasm all over the place.” A whimsical grin sliced between Henry’s marble cheeks. Eyeing the pastel-esque surroundings, he huffed scornfully and adjusted the cap over his nest of unruly curls. 
“Remind me again why we always meet here, young lady?”
Staring at the beastly man who barely managed to squeeze into the plastic-pink faux leather booth, she couldn’t help but chuckle. Henry carried himself with something that was both eloquent yet unmistakably feral, reminding her of a burly forest creature. Sturdy tree trunks stood for limbs, torso, and shoulders—the widths of icy mountains and a blanket of thick fur coated the entirety of his body, deeming him a dangerous bear. 
No wonder he preferred himself clean-shaven. The sharpened edge of a razor kept him a cut away from becoming ‘Henry the Barbarian’. 
Seeing him surrounded by pastel and sparkly fairy dust brought far more joy than she could ever imagine. The utter look of contempt gleamed on the surface of his shifty eyes. 
Oh, by God, how much he hated glitter!
“And what would you know about Barbie’s orgasms?” she teased with a crooked eyebrow and a comical suspicious glare. 
Readjusting his cap over the messy mane of chocolate curls, Henry offered a terrible wink and shrugged, “a gentleman never tells.”
Her fingers rapped on her thigh while she contemplated whether to allow this naughty joke slide, but then the urge to provoke him was far too great. After briefly chewing on the inside of her cheek, she broke into a wicked grin.
“Is that… like a role play you have with the missus? She’s Barbie, and you’re G.I.Joe? Because I kinda don’t want to hear about it, but then I kinda do.”
Henry’s smile gradually faded along with the playful glee in his eyes, his melancholic gaze dropping to the sparkly table. He slumped into a heavy sigh, “If by missus, you mean ‘Miss Hand’, then no… not really.”
Dumbfounded, she frowned at Henry with confusion when then it struck her; a sense of incredible embarrassment drained the blood from her head to her gut.
“Oh…”
“Yep.” Henry blurted and grabbed the menu, pretending to be incredibly interested in the kids’ meal options. 
Just in time to rescue them from a prolonged awkward silence, the waitress arrived with their order, serving Henry a hot cup of double espresso while she received a tall glass of a luscious vanilla milkshake. 
“Enjoy your drinks, guys!” the waitress smiled sweetly and kept her eyes glued to Henry as she walked away. But the gloss of the waitress’ flirtatious excitement was lost on him; drenched with greed, Henry’s blue sapphires were fixated on the generous scoops of ice cream and the dark chocolate swirls that decorated his companion’s dessert. 
“Henry, my eyes are up here!” she provoked and grabbed the straw between two fingers while throwing an amused glance at his simple cup of coffee. Henry followed her gaze and scoffed before raising the cup to his mouth and blowing to cool his drink.
The way his lips pursed together and his finger stroked the ceramic surface did not escape her observation. A sudden tingle swam down the length of her spine once it resonated in her mind that kind, charming, and beastly Henry was now single. Here they were, long time buddies, but now sitting together felt less comfortable than before. Her limbs felt like pins and needles while staring directly at his eyes was as risky as staring at the sun.  
“Cheers,” Henry mumbled and took a sip from his cup. 
Almost jolting in her seat, she stiffened and then grabbed her straw.
“Cheers.”
Giggles came from the other side of the diner. Among the retro gumball machines and rounded plastic bar stools, the waitress and a colleague leaned against the counter and stared at Henry, who turned his head for a brief moment and tipped his head.
Their giggles turned even louder.
She frowned. 
“So, have you been single for a while?” she heard herself asking with a rather urgent tone. Right away, a look of contrition crept on her face as she regretted her verbal onslaught and lack of sensitivity. 
Henry directed his gaze back to her and watched as she slowly sipped from the milkshake and then suckled the cream off her mouth. 
Absentmindedly, he licked his lips. “Since May. How about you, weren’t you with…?”
“No, ended, dodged a bullet.” she spat and pumped the straw up and down the thick beverage. “My milkshake brings all the boys… except it doesn't.” she sighed.
Henry frowned and shook his head with confusion. “What? You never told me you make your own milkshake. How come I never had some?” 
Her face abruptly froze, her eyes rounded with surprise before she snorted so loudly the waitresses stopped their whispering.
“Umm… Hen?” she called out, trying to hold herself from bursting into chuckles as her friend accidentally asked for a very sexual favour, “you honestly don’t know what ‘milkshake’ is slang for...?”
“Uh…”
“Omg, you’re such a boomer.” 
“No, I was born in ‘83! I’m a millennial. But please, indulge me.” he begged and crossed his arms together.
Clearing her throat loudly, she did her best to fight the wicked grin that stretched on her already painful cheeks and wrapped her fist around the straw. “So you know... how… certain male bodily fluids are sometimes white and creamy...? And when you perform a certain motion it’s like you’re shaking it…?”
Henry blinked and became silent. An unbidden rush of blood pooled at his groin as he watched her thumb graze over the tip of the straw and her fist pumping it into the smooth liquid in a slow, gentle motion. Wickedness glazed her eyes, but he tried to dismiss it as nothing but their usual playful banter; yet his adam’s apple bobbed up and down while his shoulder tensed at the oddly arousing sight of her performing a sinful act on a milkshake. 
There was an unmistakable stir in his cock and for once, he was thankful for narrow spaces as it hid his predicament.
Leaning forward, she opened her mouth and swirled her tongue around the straw. She went deliberately slow, making him watch while she playfully licked and suckled the tip until finally wrapping her lips around it and taking a generous sip.
Henry gawked utterly smitten, unaware that his jaw was nearly at the floor.
And to make things worse, she moaned—not too loud—but definitely enough to make his shaft harden more.
She wasn’t sure what stirred this whimsical boost of confidence, only that seeing the large, handsome man pale at her provocations made her feel like the most powerful woman on earth. She also gathered she’d regret it forever and a day once they’ll part ways, but it was too late for that now.
Gingerly she pulled back, though not before allowing a single drop of cream to trickle down the corner of her lips.
“Oops,” she smirked casually, wiping the cream with her fingertip and sucking it clean. 
“Please stop…” 
It was then when she noticed that Henry’s playful mien was all but gone. Far from amused, he glowered with a clenched jaw. “If you’re going to keep doing that, I’ll have to leave,” he stated matter-of-factly. 
A rush of panic made her freeze in her spot, the same needles that pricked her skin were now setting jolts of electric bursts. “I’m so sorry, I crossed the line,” she said and covered her mouth with shame, “did I offend you? Do you want me to leave?”
“What? No, no, not at all.” Henry’s voice softened right away, and he reached a hand in the air, as if trying to stop her from leaving. The last thing he wanted now is for her to think he is angry with her. If anything, he wished they could spend more time together, not because of his obvious arousal, but because for the first time in a long while, he was having fun.
Still, she looked at him so utterly distraught.  
“Then…?” 
Henry scanned the diner as if trying to make sure no one was staring or taking any photo and then shifted in his seat uncomfortably. His eyes altered between his spread thighs and her several times, trying to signal toward his… trouble.
“Oh...” she gaped. 
An odd sense of pride began to permeate her chest, battling over the burning embarrassment that flamed up her neck and cheeks. At this point, she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to feel, only that it was definitely the most awkward hangout they had to date. 
Problem was, she never knew when to shut up. 
“Is little Henry hungry?”
Hearing those words, his brows dropped to an irritated sulk. “There is nothing little about it.”
“Ha! Prove it!”
It was as if the entire diner and perhaps the world fell into silence. Had the clatter of the dishes being washed in the back kitchen not rung their ears, she would have thought she grew suddenly deaf. 
“I didn’t mean it… sorry, I’ll stop,” she mumbled slowly and pressed her fingers to her mouth while shaking her head at her stupid behaviour. That was it, this was to be the last afternoon she would ever hang out with Henry and right now, she couldn’t even bring herself to look at him.
Henry chewed onto the inside of his cheeks, trying to stop the words that came faster than his thoughts.
“You didn’t?... Because I’ll definitely be up for proving...”
She blinked at his words and tilted her head, hoping that he won’t notice the wild tremors that shook her limbs, “What was that?” 
“I... yes? No?...I… fuck!” 
Henry lowered his head and slapped his palms across his face, rubbing back and forth with an utter meltdown while mumbling, “Forgive me,” a couple of times. He couldn’t care less of what the waitresses or whoever was watching would think of him; all he cared about was to make her feel comfortable around him again and maybe… even make her like him?
“Henry?”
Soft and warm her voice called to him, slowly pulling him from his anguish like a sailor being rescued from a sunken ship. His blue sapphires shone, an ocean of confusion and anxiety still pooling within while he peered back at her face that was now smiling at him a mixture of comfort and exhilaration. 
“Would you like some of my milkshake?”
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wolfeyedwitch · 2 years
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With Bloody Outstretched Hands, Part 3
I managed to name a few of the characters! Villain is now Bailey, they/them. Hero is Zera, they/them. (@hopepetal thanks for letting me use your name!) Medic is Maeve, she/her.
CW for blood, injury, broken bones, swearing, begging, panic attacks, misunderstandings, and painful healing. As always, let me know if I missed anything, or if you want to be added or removed from the taglist.
Masterlist
---------------
Bailey felt oddly detached as they were half-dragged, half-carried to the medbay. Time felt like it was going at the wrong speed, too fast and too slow all at once. The pain felt oddly distant, now… They had made it to the heroes. Surely that meant it was alright to rest…
This plan was rudely interrupted by another coughing fit. With their arms in the grip of the heroes escorting/carrying them, they couldn’t cover their mouth. A frothy pink spray came out, landing on themself and their escorts.
“I’m sorry, I’m—” they broke off with a gasp of pain and another set of coughs.
“Don’t worry about it,” one said.
Fortunately, they reached the medbay before Bailey could make things even worse. There was someone already there; probably their medic, based on the tray of instruments they had prepared.
Don’t think about it, don’t think about it…
The heroes sat them on a bed, the hospital kind that tilts with the touch of a button. One left, while the other, the one they’d fought most often, stayed. They must be there to ensure Bailey didn’t act up, and to punish them if they did.
The medic came towards them. Bailey tensed, trying desperately to keep themself still. Any wrong move they made would be interpreted as an attack; they couldn’t fuck this up.
“Okay,” the medic said. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
--------
Zera watched as Maeve began looking over their nemesis. Out of all the heroes, they were the one who fought this villain the most. That’s why they had volunteered to bring them to the medbay.
They looked so different now than the last time Zera had seen them. They had fought… a couple weeks ago? It was a longer time between fights than usual, but nothing to worry about.
Except for how it apparently was, because they looked like shit.
“Definite concussion,” Maeve said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you any pain medications yet. It can mess with the symptoms, and make it harder for me to heal you if needed.”
They nodded, a tiny gesture. They were so tense that Zera was surprised they weren’t shaking with the effort.
“Okay. Where does it hurt?” Maeve asked.
The injured villain gave them a baffled, confused look, as if to say, Where does it not hurt? Out loud, they said, “My leg, chest, and back. And my head.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Zera muttered. One leg was definitely at an angle that human anatomy wasn’t meant to achieve, and their shirt was plastered to their skin with blood. Honestly they were rather surprised that their nemesis was still conscious.
Maeve just nodded, taking the information in stride. “I’m going to do an exam, and then we’ll decide what to do from there. Okay?”
They blinked at her, and Zera really hoped it was the concussion causing them to look so surprised by Maeve’s bedside manner, because the other options weren’t pretty.
“Okay,” they said hesitantly.
Maeve didn’t bother trying to undress the villain; instead, she just cut their clothes off.
Each inch of skin revealed was another sentence in an ugly story. Their bruises were suspiciously hand- and boot-shaped. Zera would bet good money that someone had stomped on their leg to break it.
Their torso was a horror story in its own right. Hardly any clean skin showed, between the bruises and the blood of varying freshness. Their chest wasn’t moving right. A section of their ribcage was moving out of sync with the rest of their chest, almost to the point of being backwards from what it should be. And their back. It was absolutely covered with cuts. If Zera didn’t know better, they would say it looked like the aftermath of a whipping.
“What the fuck,” Zera said, quiet but emphatic.
The villain flinched at their words, then flinched again at the pain their movement must have caused.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can treat most of it myself, I know I’m not worthy of your time, but please, my chest, I don’t know what to do,” they said in one continuous stream of words. “Please, I’ll- I’ll make it up to you somehow, I’ll repay you, whatever it takes, just- please.”
Maeve approached with her hands outstretched in the universal non-powered people sign for “take it easy”. Unfortunately, they weren’t non-powered people. When you threw any kind of powers into the mix, outstretched hands quickly went from a sign of surrender to a possible threat.
The patient was well aware of this, and flinched hard enough that their back—and all the open wounds on it, fuck—hit the wall. They let out a stifled gasp.
Maeve made her way to their side, crouching down beside them so she didn’t seem as intimidating. She made sure not to reach out for them this time as she murmured soft words of encouragement and sympathy.
Zera stood there feeling awkward and useless. They hated seeing people in pain; that was part of why they became a hero in the first place, and why they had as much experience assisting Maeve in the medbay as they did. But this? This was their nemesis; they fought against them on a regular basis. Even if they tried to comfort them, why would the injured villain believe a word they said?
Eventually Maeve’s words got through to her patient. They stopped panicking and started… Zera didn’t want to say groveling, but that was the best word they had for it. They kept up a litany of please and sorry, the rest of the words practically unintelligible.
“Sh,” Maeve said. “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I’m- I’m taking up your time,” they managed. “I, I came here, and—” They broke off into another round of pained coughing.
“Your ribs are badly broken,” Maeve said, tone leaving no room for argument. “They punctured one of your lungs. That’s your biggest problem at the moment. Everything else we can take care of later, but this needs to be addressed now.
“You have two options. We can fix this surgically, which will take a good bit of time to do and longer to recover from, but we can put you under for the procedure and make sure you have medication to help with the pain. Or…”
Maeve looked hesitant, but continued. “Your other option is that I heal you. I would focus on the most dangerous injuries—your ribs, your lung, your concussion—and I could get all of that in one go. I can go back for the rest of it later, particularly your broken leg, as that’s going to need a fair bit of work as well, given that both your tibia and fibula are broken in multiple places. However. The downside to this option is that you can’t be on any pain medication while I do it, and it’s going to hurt.”
Zera winced at the thought. They’d been healed before, and it definitely wasn’t an experience they were keen to repeat. It was fast, and made for a cleaner recovery than the natural method, but the healing hurt at least as much as the wounds did.
With as much as the villain was injured? Healing that would be… yikes.
But they just nodded to Maeve. “I would prefer that you heal me, as long as you’re willing,” they said.
Maeve looked at them for a moment, then nodded. “Okay then.” To Zera she added, “Come here and hold them in place.”
They protested that they could stay in place on their own, but Maeve was firm. “If you struggle, that will make it harder for me to get this done, and it’s going to hurt too much for you to stay still.”
Reluctantly, they agreed, and the three took their places. Zera held their shoulders, one of the few places that weren’t too badly injured, and Maeve raised her hands. They gave off a soft, warm glow, and she placed one on their head and the other on their ribs.
Immediately, Zera prepared for the villain to thrash around, trying to get away from the source of the pain. Shockingly, they didn’t. They held still, muscles rigid as steel cables under their skin as they kept themself locked in place. They didn’t scream, either. They set their jaw, and nothing escaped from their lips except a high, thin whine.
Zera could see Maeve’s power working. Bruises faded from purple to green to yellow; bones popped back into place. The villain’s chest started moving as one unit again, no longer having one section out of sync.
Finally, Maeve let go. Healer and patient both crumpled, panting: Maeve from exertion, the villain from pain.
The villain sucked in a trembling breath and, formally, like it was a ritual they had to perform, said, “Thank you for your kindness. Thank you for healing my wounds.”
---------
@heathenville @nonbinary-disaster @kim-poce @whump-world @dolls-circus @pickleking8 @appleejuice @cupcakes-and-pain @badluck990 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @temporary-whump-sideblog @whumpwillow @multiple-characters1-acct @sunflower1000 @fleur-des-lore @equestrianwritingstuff @scp-1296 @livingforthewhump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @suspicious-whumping-egg @kaiwewi
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angelictrl · 3 years
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Hi! Can I request some hcs for the brothers + undateables taking care of a gn!MC while they're in hospital? (I'll leave the reason they're in hospital up to you) Thanks!!
DEMON BROS TAKING CARE OF AN MC IN THE HOSPITAL.
ofc !! i'm going to write the undateable ver. and link it here later since this got longer than i thought it would if you don't mind <3
LUCIFER
tries to be there for you but can't stop himself from drowning in his work.
don't get me wrong - he most certainly is attentive to your needs and visits you often - but he still puts all the blame on himself no matter the cause for you being put in the hospital.
this is because it reminds him of when he and his brothers fell.
not only did he have to get accustomed to the devildom, but he had to suffer the loss of his sister, deal with his new demonic form, and raise satan all while being diavolo's righthand man.
so naturally, being the eldest and also the one who started the great celestial war, he always felt at fault for how things turned out; although he'd rather die than say it aloud.
you being put in the hospital makes him feel like he failed you, he failed to save you, failed to protect you, even if he hides it with a poker face and instead drowns in his work.
please - this is one of the only times you'll see a vulnerable luci.
cupping his face tenderly with your hands as he sits by your bedside late at night, he refuses to cry, but definently has a gloomy expression.
he can't lose you too. he cant fail you.
as soon as you're discharged though, he makes sure to keep you by his side more often.
late night office dates, anyone?
he'll hold you close and try to be slightly more affectionate in public.
this whole scenario has reminded him just how mortal you are, and he hates that someone who's just as angelic as you is trapped inside of a fragile and weak body.
MAMMON
clingy asf
probably the first one to find out mc's in the hospital.
he's downright upset at first. normally he's attached to your hip, so the one time he leaves you alone, ya wind up in the hospital? he knew you were too much of a fragile human to be left alone!
he refuses to let anyone near you as you recover - besides the doctors and nurses, of course, but even then he eyeballs them to make sure they're being gentle with you.
he goes on a rant/lecture about how you're just some weak human who needs him by your side and how you shouldn't have gone off on your own, but as soon as you frown or pout while averting your gaze, his whole demeanor flips.
he's just really worried about you.
he's a big tsundere, yes, but he cares so much about you and he's not sure how to convey his emotions as he's never felt this way about anyone before.
"h-hey, i'm not mad at ya. just... i'm your first. no, i don't care if i'm in the middle of a scheme, i'll always make time for ya... so don't go off alone, okay?!"
buys you tons of gifts before and after you've left the hospital
definitely won't leave you alone for the first few weeks of being discharged
really, he's clinging onto you like you have more value than goldie
and truly, he wouldn't admit it, but you do.
LEVIATHAN
probably gets told by one of his brothers since he's hiding out in his room as per usual.
first, he almost summons lotan in anger to get revenge for mc if they got hurt by someone, but whether that is or isn't the case, he soon calms down once he recognizes something.
this is just like the 78th episode of TSL he was watching when the lord of shadows returns the favor to henry for helping him through his familial problems by taking care of him!!
well then. now levi's been inspired to be the best lord of shadows he can for his henry.
oh, and i guess he'll do it anyways because he cares about mc's wellbeing to begin with or wtv... /s
nonetheless, snek boi brings a bunch of games, movies, and mangas to mc as he camps out in their hospital room with them.
you better be prepared to binge watch all of TSL and fall asleep to whatever sounds are coming from his game beside your bed - not that you have much of a choice, anyways.
his brothers probably try to pull him away from you as he's clingy boy #2 and staying up having gaming marathons can't be good for your recovery, so you can bet your little human butt you're going to find yourself staying in levi's room for a couple of days after you've left the hospital.
definently places ruri-chan or any other anime-related stickers on your casts (if you have any) or cheeks to cheer you up.
bonus: he totally tries to sneak in henry 2.0 to keep you company when he can't be there and if he succeeds, he relies on henry to give him reports of your health.
SATAN
pissed if someone else landed you in the hospital. nearly goes on a rampage and his brothers just barely manage to stop him.
probably one of the best people to keep you company once he calms down, though.
definitely visits you at the same hour everyday to bring you books he suggests you read.
if you're not up for reading any, he'll suggest reading them to you, or suggest something else entirely different.
stays overnight a couple times with an audiobook playing in the background or with an open book on his chest.
doesn't mind falling asleep in weird positions anyways considering the way his room is set up.
watches detective dramas late at night when you're asleep like a dork lol
definitely watches cute cat compilations with you if you're feeling down for any particular reason and will stroke your hair to calm you down.
10/10, soft satan is best satan <3
ASMODEUS
probably screams tbh
that can't be good for your skin!! all that stress on top of being sick/hurt is going to make you break out!!
practically dashes to visit you with skin care & beauty products although you're advised not to use them by your doctors atm
asmodeus has never been so salty.
though, he is concerned about your overrall being.
it honestly scares him how much he cares about you. especially in this state because he's never cared so much for anyone else other than his brothers or himself in a long time.
most likely to cry (besides mammon) if you cry since he already has tears stinging his eyes.
he starts neglecting his own nightly routines to stay overnight with you.
if you start to point it out or ask him why he's doing this, he'll just sit there in astonishment processing your words.
you matter so much to him? like, duh, of course he's going to be here, why wouldn't he? he doesn't care about anything else other than you and your recovery right now and-
oh.
you matter... more than him... to him...?
...ya broke him.
when you're asleep, he watches you silently for a change, caressing your cheek delicately with soft eyes focused on your relaxed features.
he gets a strange feeling in his chest - and not like the ones he gets from excitement over his quick hookups - no, no, this one is a foreign feeling. it's, dare he say, euphoric.
BEELZEBUB
just like lucifer, he feels guilty.
he already lost lilith. he can't lose you too.
he probably needs more reassuring that you're going to be okay than you do, honestly.
he plops down onto the couch in your room and intensely stares at your sleeping form as he stress eats.
on a funnier note, he has the nurses doing laps around the hospital bringing him food and he says "it's for mc" to them, but we all know who it's really for.
he's the softest he's ever been with you.
you thought he was a teddy bear before? he's practically made of stuffing by now.
when you're sad, he wants to reassure you, but you look so sickly and frail that he holds you like your glass.
please reassure this behemoth of a man that you're going to be okay, he really loves you and wouldn't forgive himself if he made things worse.
most definitely takes you out to a restaurant to treat you once you've fully recovered.
BELPHEGOR
he already beats himself up over the attic thing, so if anyone had hurt you enough to put you into the hospital, his anger would probably rival the avatar of wrath and they'd go missing.
squeezes himself onto your bed to cuddle you while being mindful of your iv.
if that doesn't work, well, then he just drapes himself over your legs. he's gonna find a way to be with you, and you can't stop him (y'know, unless you flat out tell him or look like you're uncomfortable).
if all else fails, he settles for mushing his cheek against one arm propped against your bedside as his other hand is occupied holding yours.
he's pretty much like one of those therapy cats LMAO
lots n lots of sleepy cuddling. after all, rest is essential for your recovery, right?
when you two can't sleep, you have movie nights bingewatching the worst rated movies and shows in the devildom and the two of you go cinema sins on them.
v clingy after you get discharged and holds you noticeably tighter to his chest.
"stop doing stupid things that could kill you, you idiot."
obey me masterlist. | undateables version.
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rae-gar-targaryen · 3 years
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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.
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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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yeojaa · 3 years
Text
( NEVER LET YOU GO. )
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You do things without thought, making impulse decisions that’d make Freud proud.  Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t.
(or:  Jeon Jungkook’s just as impulsive as you.)
pairing.  tattoo artist!jjk x f!reader.
genre + rating.  slice of life fluff, light smut.  explicit (but only at the end). 
tags / warnings.  mentions of heavily tattooed!JK, casual drinking, tender lovemakin’, JK with the bad jokes, honestly just him being funny and chill like that one guy you never get over...
wc.  7.6k.
beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​, @papillonsgf​, and @yeoldontknow​​ 💛 ty for always indulging me and most importantly, supporting me when i begin to spiral. 🤠
author note.  i got this idea into my head one evening in the shower and now... it is this.  it’s not your usual bad boy tattoooist!JK fic but i hope you enjoy regardless.  as always, feedback means a lot! 
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You and forethought aren’t close friends.  You really aren’t even distant cousins, or part of the same family tree.  You consider it a stranger, wave loftily as it passes you by, squinting like you can’t properly make out what it is.  Careful consideration?  Thoughtful patience?  None of that exists for you.  At least, not when you really, really want something. 
It’s what has you here now, bumbling your way into the tattoo shop like a newborn baby bird.  
You wonder how it must look, whether the shop assistant is used to this.  Random girl shows up on a Sunday afternoon looking like a fish out of water, eager yet afraid.  By how she greets you - with a curious stare and not quite a smile - you’re sure she is.  
“Do you take walk-ins?”
You’d meant to make an appointment.  Had sat for hours on the shop’s Instagram page, combing through the residents’ portfolios, trying to decide who to reach out to.  When you’d finally decided, you’d realised books were a thing and most of them were closed.  (Just your luck.)
Still, it never hurt to try, right? 
“Everyone’s fully booked.”  The girl sounds bored, apathetic yet genial.  (You don’t blame her.)  By the way her stare swings over you, it feels like a dismissal.  You’re ready to admit defeat - head half-bowed, words draped over your tongue.  “But our apprentice might be able to squeeze you in.”
An apprentice?  Well— that’s not exactly what you’d been hoping for, but this shop is reputable.  Well-known.  Considered one of the best in the city.  Surely their apprentice would be fine.  Just less seasoned, not as experienced. 
You all but snap your neck nodding along, gratitude tumbling out in the form of awkward laughter.  “That’d be great!”
The girl passes you off with a nod of her head, gesturing down the hall.  “Last room on the left.  His name’s Jungkook.  His schedule says he’s all clear, but maybe knock before you go in.”  It’s not the sunniest smile you’ve ever received, but the small thing she offers helps with the nerves.  Stills them beneath your skin as you do as you’re told. 
“Jungkook?”  There’s not really anywhere to knock, every wall neatly frosted glass and no doors in sight.  (You had passed a few folding screens but otherwise, it’s open concept, each room offering a glimpse into the artist who works inside.)  It feels too disruptive to tap your knuckles on one glass pane, lest it interrupt someone else. 
(His studio is minimally decorated but inviting:  one big cabinet; two of those typical IKEA shelves in the 4x4 grid that every new homeowner and their mother have; and a shop table, upon which a black backpack sits.  Various plants dress the room - both hanging from the ceiling and along the window - and Polaroids string over walls, held aloft by twine.  A Roomba sits by itself in a corner and the tattoo bed dominates most of the space, positioned closer to the dividing wall;  one teeny tiny rolling chair sits beside it.  There’s a bench on your left, with a pair of Birkenstocks tucked beneath.  All in all, very homey.  Reminiscent of your own apartment.) 
Hidden behind the bed, crouched low to the ground beside the cabinet, is a head of dark hair that speaks, drawing your attention from studying the cozy space.  “Oh?”
You’re not expecting the face that turns to you, all big doe eyes and the sweetest dimples. 
For a moment, you forget what you’re here for.  Why you’re standing in the empty door frame, staring down at the guy like you’ve spent your entire life secluded and have no idea how to speak.  
The longer you’re quiet, the more his concern seems to grow, single brow disappearing into his inky fringe.  It hangs in his vision at certain angles, shields the brightness of his stare with each turn of his chin.  “Are you okay?”  He’s even risen - stopped what he was doing - so he can see you more clearly, without any obstruction in the way.  Good for him, but worse for you. 
He’s so cute.  Were you prepared to look like an uncertain idiot in front of this… angel?
“Y-yeah.”  You manage after what feels like forever, sweeping your nerves under the rug that sits on the floor, separates the sole of his sneakers from hard concrete.  “Um— I was told you might have some time?  For, uh, a walk-in?”
(Why’re you stuttering?  You’re never shy.  Or rather, you’re not this nervous mess.  People have always called you an extrovert, outgoing as hell, a social butterfly.)
(You aren’t those things but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.)
“Oh!”  Realisation dawns across his features, throws his kind smile into greater relief, and you have to actively tell yourself not to stare, tearing your gaze away to focus on the wall of stencils past his shoulder.  He moves into motion then, stepping around the bed to meet you still rooted in the doorway.  “Yeah, I’ve got time.  Come in.”  Up close like this - there’s only maybe two feet between you - you can make out the little scar on his cheek;  the tiny beauty mark below his bottom lip;  each individual lash that frames his Bambi eyes and flutters when he blinks.  “I probably can’t draw you anything new right now but I’ve got some flash, if you’re interested?”
Even if you weren’t interested, you don’t think you’d say no.  You were always a sucker for a cute boy and this Jungkook?  He was that.  In spades. 
“Sure.”
“Are you looking for anything in particular?”  He’s retreating back into the room, moving to grab his iPad off the far table.  It’s balanced on his arm when he swivels to you, prominent front teeth on full display.  “I’ve got a pretty big selection.” 
When he drops onto the bench - a wayward vine above his head tickling his cheek - he gestures to the spot beside him.  This time, you don’t stare for a stupid amount of time, instead taking up the seat without hesitation. 
“So—”  He’s swiping through the photo library with his Apple Pen.  You’re sure there are pretty sketches on the screen - you just can’t focus on them, too preoccupied by the artwork that crawls across his hand and into the sleeve of his oversized, well-worn shirt.  It’s an intricate chrysanthemum, impossibly well-shaded with bold colours that demand attention and stand out over his fair complexion;  it creeps halfway up the back of his hand to tickle over his knuckles.  He notes your attention with a quiet chuckle, fingers wiggling.  The ink moves, flows, ripples with the motion, before his hand relaxes, knuckles unravelling as he offers the limb to you and your curiosity.  “Do you like it?”
“It’s incredible.”  It really is.  You’ve never seen anything like it, as if a painting has been done across his skin, laid in watercolour rather than tattoo ink.  “Did it hurt?”
(You almost want to hit yourself for the stupid question.  Of course it did.  It’s a hand tattoo.)
Jungkook only laughs again, doesn’t hold it against you despite the verbal barrage you’re faced with internally.  “Like crazy, but it was worth it.  This was my first tattoo and all the rest have just sort of been—”  He shrugs, fabric of his shirt bunching around his collar.  
“A piece of cake?”  You can only imagine.
“Exactly.”
You nod thoughtfully, as if that means anything to you.  (It doesn’t.  You’re bare as a baby’s bottom, blemish free save for the occasional hellish pimple and the scar you have from surgery on your hand when you broke parts of it in sixth grade.)
If he can tell you’re talking out of your ass, he says nothing, redirecting your attention back to the iPad propped on his lap.  “Do any of these interest you?”  He’s resumed scrolling, swiping carefully through pages of flash.  There are assorted floral pieces (plum stems, lily stalks, fully bloomed mums) and various skeletons (what looks like a deer, a dragon, a wolf).  They’re mostly blackwork with fine lines and heavy contrast, so wonderfully detailed you spend too much time studying one piece before he’s flipping to the next.
“That one.”  It catches your eye more than the others have.  Likely because it’s one of the few pieces in colour, soft hues spilling over neat lines.  A pretty little cat with a braided collar, big golden bell centered beneath its head, unravelling petals sweeping around it.
“You like cats?”
You do.  “She looks like mine.”
“It’s settled.”  He beams then, rising so quickly you’re startled;  you watch as he moves around the space with decisive steps, putting your plan into motion.  A paper is pulled seemingly out of nowhere, laid on a wooden clipboard and offered with a blue ballpoint pen.  “If you can fill all of this out, I can get the stencil ready.”
Well, that was easy.  Somehow, you’d thought it’d be more complicated, a ton of back and forth and yes and no.  You can’t deny you’re nervous, staring down at the consent form.  
(It doesn’t mean you read it any more than you normally would, though.  You gloss over all the points, making note of what you’re agreeing to without really considering any of it.  You’ve wanted a tattoo for most of your life.  There’s really no going back now.)
(You just hope it turns out like you want - that you’re not just being blindsided by a sudden superficial crush and a lack of critical thought.)
“I think I’m done,”  you mumble, slashing the date into the paper with gusto.  
“Do you have your ID?”  You’ve got it ready for him when he returns to take both it and the form.  “I’m just going to make copies and then we can discuss more.”
He’s gone with that same smile, disappearing back the way you’d come. 
Alone, the nerves set in.  You’re actually doing this.  Getting a tattoo.  Putting something permanent on your body.  It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, shaking your hands in your lap.  Maybe you should’ve eaten more before you’d come.  (You’d woken up late - had only shoved two pieces of raisin pinwheel bread into your mouth before you’d made up your mind about this.) 
(But had you really made up your mind?  Was this going to be it?  It feels mostly like yes, though the repetitive thud of your toe against concrete seems to indicate otherwise.  It’s as if you’re tapping out something in morse, telling yourself—)
“Okay!”  Jungkook’s back before you know it, driver’s license returned to you along with an unsealed envelope.  You eye it curiously.  “A copy of your form and an aftercare sheet.”  
He’s really thought of everything.  Or the shop has.  Either way, you appreciate that when you’re not so sure, caught somewhere between giddily excited and vaguely worried, as if someone’s pulled a weight off your shoulders, taken on some of the burden of this spontaneous choice.
“So, where do you want it?”  It’s like he has a one track mind, utterly focused on the task at hand.  (Probably a good thing, given you’re about to voluntarily let him needle your poor skin.) 
You hadn’t thought about that.  You’d always liked the idea of a back of the arm tattoo, positioned somewhere along your tricep so it could be seen while turned away.  “My arm?”
“Upper?  Forearm?”  There’s not an ounce of annoyance or exasperation or anything else negative.  He’s just genuinely curious, peering over his shoulder at you. 
“Tricep area, I think?  Would that look good?”
“If you like it, it will.”  Then he grins - beams so bright you half expect the sun to come zooming out of his mouth - and laughs, a funny little cackle that makes you do the same.  “I’m kidding.  That was cheesy.  But I’m sure it’ll look fine.  We can try laying it down first, so you get an idea?” 
“That sounds good.”  A lot better than endless years of regret for poor placement. 
“You’ll, uh— need to take your shirt off though.”
It’s then you realise your mistake:  wearing a turtleneck.  “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
A beat of silence passes, then another, and he smiles so kindly you wonder what your expression must look like.  Sour, like you’d sucked fresh lemon?  Awkward, as if you’d never worn anything less than double layers before (a proud Never Nude)? 
“If you’re uncomfortable, we can reschedule.  Or I can put a divider up so you don’t have to worry about being seen from outside.  Whatever you’d prefer.” 
The longer you stay quiet - a seemingly common occurrence today - the closer his brows furrow, preparations coming to a standstill.  You can tell he’s not trying to rush you, politely waiting for an answer with transfer paper in one hand and scissors in the other.  
(If only he could peek into your brain, see the whole reason you’re hesitating is because you can’t quite remember which bra you’re wearing, whether it’s the slinky black one that offers absolutely zero support or the lacy blue one with the cute detailing and practically see-through cups.)
(Did it really matter either way?  He was probably desensitized.)  
“It’s fine.”  You find the confidence somehow, nodding firmly.  Jungkook’s still studying you carefully, though.  Waiting as you strip your purse off your shoulder and reach for the hem of your sweater.  It feels funny in your fingers, more like steel wool than sheep’s.
One breath.  Two. 
You fold your turtleneck neatly, laying it beside your bag and turning back to face him.  “All right.  Let’s do this.” 
“So, which arm?”  He’s close now - crossed to you in two strides of his long legs - and holds up the stencil.  
Your right rises, fingers wiggling as if to say hello. 
He lays the design down, pats it into place with deft fingers.  You don’t realise the breath you’re holding until he pulls the sticky paper away, leaving neat line work in its wake.
“Oh.”  It slips out of its own accord, almost a whisper as you stare at the design in the mirror.  “It’s so pretty.” 
There’s pride in his eyes as he stares with you, bounces his gaze between it and your face.  “Thanks.”  He lets you linger, peering thoughtfully at your reflection before speaking, casually hopeful.  “What do you think?”
“This is it.  Right here.”
Maybe he’d fist pump, if he were any less cool.  As it stands, he simply nods, cheeks round like fresh baked bread, nose scrunched with glee. 
“All right.  We’ll shave you down and get started.  You like the colours, right?”  Once again, he’s buzzing around the room, gathering up all his materials and snapping black gloves on once everything is laid out upon his cart.  It’s heavily stickered, covered in video game vinyls and anime mattes.  (You recognise a handful of them, make a note to ask him where he got them from.)  He pats the tissue papered bed top when you make no movement toward him.  “Hop on up.  Face down, if that’s okay.”
You do as he says, climbing atop with minimal grace.  It takes you a bit of adjusting to get comfortable, folding your left arm under your head and allowing your right to simply dangle, uncertain of where it should be.  
“You’re sparkly.”
“What?”  You’d misheard that, right? 
“Your skin.  You’re sparkling.”  He sounds a little in awe, surprised as wetness spills across your arm, the edge of a razor following closely thereafter.  
“Oh.”  Heat creeps over your cheeks, slinks all the way up into your roots and has you chuckling awkwardly.  “It’s my soap.” 
“Sparkle soap?”  Whether he’s just making conversation or genuinely curious, you’re not sure.  He does seem delighted by the fact, though, as if he’s never seen a girl covered in glitter before.  (Which, fair.) 
“It’s this specialty holiday soap.  It has pigment in it.” 
“That’s cool.”  He’s laying the stencil down again, smoothing it over your now-hairless arm.  “It smells nice.”
Obviously, you agree.  It’s honey and citrus, brightly fragrant but not overpowering, lingering on your clothes like the subtle golden glitter does.  Still, you flush, heat crossing from a casual day under the sun to burning-on-the-stove hot.  “Thanks.” 
“Was that weird?  I hope not.”
“No, you’re fine.” 
He hums a tiny noise, something that sounds like understanding and appreciation all at once.  
Then the buzzing starts - a steady, inescapable brrrrrrrrr - and he’s gripping your arm, steady yet gentle.  “Ready?” 
Honestly, you’re not sure.  Hearing the noise makes it seem scary, has your entire body tensing up like Pavlov’s dog.  Your honesty can’t be helped, a nervous giggle chased off your tongue.  “I think so.” 
“I think so too.”
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By the time you’re done - a good almost five hours later, your arm stinging so bad you wonder why you’d ever sat down in the first place - you’d fallen asleep twice, started drooling on your other arm once, and really, really have to pee. 
“All right—”“  The incessant buzzing stops.  Liquid spills where the pain centres, followed by rougher paper towel.  “You are finished.”
(You might be imagining it, but he sounds about as relieved as you.  Maybe because you’d been sitting for hours on hours, turning down his offer for a break because you just wanted to get it done and therefore forcing him to do the same.) 
“Can I see?”  You don’t want to leap to your feet - feel a bit too lightheaded for that - but you’re bouncing with excitement, the thrumming in your arm intensified when you shift to catch a better look at Jungkook’s face. 
“Yeah, go ahead.  Just be careful - you might be a bit—”
He’s right.  You nearly topple over the moment you stand, none-too-gently rolling off the edge of the bed and barely landing safely on your feet.  It’s only his close proximity that prevents you from falling to your knees, one degloved hand darting out to steady you. 
“Careful!”  It’s politely reproachful, coloured soft with worry.  
“Sorry, sorry.”  You seize the edge of the bed, gripping tight as you wait for everything to settle, the lightheadedness to recede.  Everything straightens out quickly enough.  “Got up too quickly.”
“Do you need a snack?”  He’s already up, moving faster than you, rummaging through the cabinet against the far wall.  “I’ve got seaweed and Choco Boys and shrimp chips and—”
You can’t help but laugh, hobbling to the mirror to inspect your new piece of art.  “I’m fine.”  That, and you’re too occupied with the ink that now sits embedded beneath your skin, a flurry of lovely colour and impressive line work.
“Choco Boys it is then.”  The familiar yellow package is thrust toward you, a pack of his own already ripped open.  Mushroom-shaped treats are tossed into his open mouth, lips curling around chocolate and his next words,  “it’ll help with your sugar levels.”
A thank you comes, fingers curling around the snacks, but you’re still in deep, so focused on the lovely hue that bleeds over your skin, marks up previously unblemished flesh and holds your attention.  It’s better than you could’ve possibly imagined, a piece of artwork forever yours.  It makes you giddy as you stare at it - almost reach for it, but stop when you catch the alarmed widening of Jungkook’s eyes.  
“You like?”  
“I love.”  You’d stare at it for hours, if you could.  Likely will, once you get home, sitting in front of the mirror like a zombie.  “Thank you so, so much.”
The brunet beams as he polishes off the last of his Choco Boys, tossing his dark hair back with a flick of his head.  Triumph rolls off him in palpable waves, sitting pretty in the lines by his eyes, the scrunching around his nose.  Seeing how it blooms in his stare is like a straight endorphin shot, as if you’ve done more than just be the canvas he’s laid all his hard work into.  “It was a pleasure.”
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It’s a whole month later - enough time for the piece to heal - before you decide you want another one.  It’s not as spontaneous as the first time, instead led with an Instagram direct message to @jeonink.  (You half expect him not to answer;  you’re utterly delighted when he responds not five minutes later.) 
Maybe it’s fate or maybe it’s luck that has him with availability the same day you reach out, bringing you back to the studio three hours after you’ve messaged him.
He’s just as cute as before, black baseball cap pulled low over his ears, silver-lined ears twinkling beneath the shop lights.  
“So, what’re you thinking?”  
Truthfully, you hadn’t done much thinking.  Just like before, you’d decided you wanted a tattoo and, well, the rest had been history.  You figured you’d let him have free reign, given how happy you were with your first piece.  “A sleeve?”
That surprises him.  His whole face lights up, eyes wide, mouth rounding curiously.  “Like, a full sleeve?”  It’s not necessarily a no - more of an are you sure? he hides between the syllables.
“I think so.”
He nods slowly, knowingly, arms folded over his chest, expression suddenly unreadable.  “You caught the itch.”
Your own features twist, brows shooting high.  “The what?”
“The tattoo itch,”  he clarifies with a laugh, the sound sweeping your concern away like the sea.  “People say once you get one, you get addicted to the feeling.”  He’s extending both arms to you now, hands palm up.  For a moment, you’re note sure what he’s doing.  (In actuality, you’re distracted by the fact that he’s in a tee, muscle cording his limbs, undulating as he turns his arms over.)  “I got bit by it when I lived in Japan.  It’s actually what got me into tattooing myself.”
You remember what he’d said last time - how he’d spent a handful of years overseas, working in restaurants after having followed his last partner there.  He’d shared lots about his life, giving you the Sparknotes version while you’d ground enamel to fine dust.  
“I guess I have the itch then.”
“Guess you do.”  
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Your dream comes to life in four excruciating sessions.  It’s some of the worst pain you’ve ever endured (you’re never going to get an elbow tattoo ever again) but you’d do it all again in a heartbeat, utterly in love with the mural that now lives on your skin.  A peony caps your shoulder while one runs halfway up your bicep.  Another takes up the entirety of your forearm.  There’s a darling little bird and delicately inked koi.  It’s breathtaking, greater than anything you could have dreamt up.  
You’ve been staring at it for at least three minutes now, tracing over the freshly laid colour with a tender touch.  You’re grateful for the SecondSkin, the clear bandage that wraps everything up and keeps it safe from your over eager hands.
“You did it.”  Jungkook’s grinning at you, feet kicked up where he sits, his usual bag of Choco Boys balanced in his lap.  “Big girl.”
From anyone else, it might sound condescending - might rub you the wrong way and have you glaring daggers.  Instead, you take it in stride, beaming at him from your seat.  He’s been there with you every step of the way, been there for every hour (seventeen over three months, to be exact) you’ve dedicated to finishing this beauty up.  Tease you as he might, you know he really is proud of you.  
“You mean we did it,”  you return, giddy like a child.  
“Ah, right.”  The chocolate-covered snack he’s devouring goes crunch crunch crunch before he speaks, mouth still full, eyes crinkled.  “I guess I did do all the work.”
“Hey!  Screw you!”  You’re glowering at him, middle finger raised in defiance.  
(How curious that your relationship has grown like this, turned from tattoo artist and client to what feels like more.  It probably makes sense, given the long hours you’ve spent together, the support he’s had to offer each time the pain has gotten this side of too much, chattering your teeth and dizzying your head.  Solidarity in pain and all that.)
(You really had tapped out once, when he’d crept his gun into the ditch of your elbow.  You’d asked him whether it’d hurt beforehand and he’d only laughed, shrugged off the question and continued with the careful shading to your inner arm.  That in itself had hurt like a biiitch;  you hadn’t thought it could get worse.)
(You’d been mistaken.)
“Am I wrong?”  He drawls, full of laughter and that big dumb smile of his you’ve grown accustomed to.  It eats up his cheeks and disappears his eyes, makes it hard to be mad at him when he looks so sweet.  
“Yes, you are.”  You’ve got absolutely nothing to back it up, but who cares.  This is the sort of banter the two of you have developed, like two old friends forced to spend too much time together.  (Not that you’d complain.  You’ve loved hearing his stories, all the tales he regales you with whenever you’re in his chair.)
A snort is his answer, the full roll of his eyes over-exaggerated and playful.  “You’re lucky we’re all finished or I’d sneak in an ugly fish somewhere on your arm.”
You think he’s kidding - know he takes too much pride in his work to do that.
Still, you stick your tongue out, hopping down from the bed with your freshly inked arm, hands clapping together in celebration.  “You wouldn’t dare.”  You’re confident, crossing to the bench to tug your flannel on, careful of the dull pain that throbs beneath the thin medical dressing.  
“Wouldn’t I?  I’m leaving anyway.”
You’re ready to call him out for it, insist he would never ruin the sanctity of his profession in such a way, when you realise the words he’s spoken, the casual tidbit he’s just dropped like it’s nothing.
“Leaving?”  
(Is it you or do you sound disappointed?  You can’t dwell on it for long, worried you’ll miss his explanation.  Had he mentioned it previously?  Slipped it in when you’d been delirious from pain?  No, you would’ve remembered that.  You swear you would’ve.)
“I’m moving to Tokyo.”  How he’s so casual, you have absolutely no idea.  You suppose it’s not a big deal for him - he’s not from here anyway.  Home is back in Korea, the place he’d spent most of his life before moving to Japan and then here, just two years ago.  (God, your memory is good.  If only you’d retained knowledge like this when you were in school.)  “My flight’s next weekend.”
Your face must be hilarious because Jungkook’s laughing, cackling like the evil villain in an anime.  
“Gonna miss me?”  
Would it be inappropriate to say yes?  Because you will, you realise the moment he’s posed the question.  You’ve grown to consider him a friend, someone who you send random memes to on Instagram (usually pertaining to #tattooartistproblems or one of your shared hobbies, like video games and finding the best noodle soup restaurant in the city).  
You go for the safe bet, answering with a question of your own.  “Are you gonna miss me?”
“I’ll miss your restaurant recs,”  he answers, offering honesty to your reticence.  “You can still send me funny photos though.”  
You can’t help your laugh, the tiny quirk of your mouth into a smile.  “I guess you’re right.  Will you still be tattooing?”  It’s an innocent enough question - you really do want to know.  You can’t imagine going to anyone else, even if it means you’ll be shelling out an absurd amount of money for a plane ticket.
“Yep, new shop.”  Something twinkles in his stare, has him giddy as he rises to his feet, tossing his empty packet of snacks into the trash bin.  “Actually, where I got most of mine done.”  You understand it then - that it’s a move of faith.  He’s finally come full circle.  You’re unbelievably happy for him, brimming with delight to mirror his pride.  
But you’re still going to give him a little bit of a hard time because you have to.  It wouldn’t feel right otherwise.  “Whoa, big shot.”
“I am actually,”  he sniffs, raking an ink-strewn hand through his hair.  It’s longer now than it was when you met him, curling over the tops of his ears, hanging in his eyes at every turn.  “You’ll be lucky if I remember you when I’m famous.”
“Famously lame, maybe,”  you tease, slipping your bag over your shoulder.  You busy yourself pulling your keys from the interior pocket, checking your phone as if you’re ready to go.  It’s only when you’re standing in the hallway - you have no real intention of departing like this and he knows that, considering you haven’t paid yet - when you level him with a half-formed smirk.  “But I guess I should take you for a drink?”  
His hoodie is on before you know it, yanked over his head and tugged into place as he joins you.  It’s become your regular routine - leaving together after your sessions, a perk of always booking the last slot he has available.  (Not that you relied on that, but simply because your work schedule didn’t really allow for anything else.)  “Obviously.”
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Jeon Jungkook is a talented artist, a dedicated snacker, a lover of the colour black.  You discover, sitting on the patio of the nearby bar, that he’s also really, really good at holding his liquor.  
(Not that he’d ever indicated otherwise.)
“Do you think you’ll get anything else done?”  He’s on his sixth pint, casually leaned back in his chair as he picks at the fries you’d ordered but that he seems perfectly happy to help himself to.  (Payback for all the times he’s forced snacks on you maybe?)  “Like, a face tattoo?”
You scoff at the question as if greatly offended.  “You think I’d get a face tattoo?”  
While a little glazed in the eyes, you can tell he’s altogether coherent, grinning across the table at you.  “Hey, I don’t judge.  You like making surprise decisions, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Okay, so he’s got you there.  Used your own impulsive history against you.  “I would never.”  
“If you change your mind, do I get first dibs?”
“Dibs on what?  Tattooing me?”
He nods as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.  “Duh.”
You can only roll your eyes, tossing a wayward burnt fry end at him.  “Yes, Kook, you get first dibs on ruining my face.”
His expression twists, mouth shaping around words he’s keeping caged behind his teeth.  There’s something he isn’t saying, a comeback he’s chosen to lock up.  You wonder what it is.
“Hey - nothing wrong with face tattoos.”  
“Really?”  You’re leaning forward, a clear challenge written across your face.  “Then why don’t you have one?”  He has a million others as it is:  a hand, nearly the entirety of both arms, his chest, his shoulders, one of his legs.  (You haven’t seen them all in person but you have seen them online, memorialised on his Instagram feed.)  
“And hide all this?”  One inked hand is gesturing toward his own face, gesticulating wildly as if that’ll drive his point further home.  “I would never.”
“That’s what I said!”
It doesn’t matter to him, not when he’s fully sober and most certainly not now, when he’s slightly buzzed, eyes glossier than usual.  “But I’m cuter.  It’d be a shame if it were me.  You…”  The way he trails off is suggestive, indicative of something mocking and mean.  (Except it’s never cruel - far too friendly and soft to ever hurt your feelings.)  “—not so much.”
Another fry hits him right between the eyes and then another disappears into the hood of his sweater, lost to the black fabric that bunches up around his neck and hides the flush he’s been battling since you two got to the bar an hour ago.
“Don’t be rude!”  
He beams at you then, so unnecessarily endearing you can only throw one more piece at him. 
“I’m kidding.”  You knew that already but pretend to ignore the pseudo-apology, choosing instead to polish off the last of your now-cold fries.  A bad choice, you realise when he continues, surprising you with the words that come out of his liquor-laden mouth so much so that you almost choke.  “You’re actually pretty cute.”
(So what if you’ve sort of maybe been waiting to hear them?  Wondering if the tiny crush you’d developed was in some way reciprocated?)
(Not that this meant it was.  Only that you perhaps weren’t alone in thinking he was the most lovable - and somehow simultaneously hot - person you’d ever met.  It’s almost rewarding to know the long hours together hadn’t left him unscathed.)
“You all good?”  The look on his face is worse than that smile he usually offers, instead a devilish smirk that makes him look like Satan himself.  
Were you?  You’re not sure.
“I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Really?  You can’t?”  You’re not sure what that means, whether you’re simply reading too far into it.  But then he’s dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, head cocked curiously.  It’s a bait, you realise—and one you’ll gladly take.
“Should I have expected it?”
Shoulders hike, rising up around his ears.  “I thought I made it sort of obvious.”  
Had he?  Thinking back on it, you can’t really recall.  Of course, he’d always been friendly, indulging you in your pursuit of body art, sketching up the loveliest things you’d never even think to dream of;  accepting your distracting Instagram messages without complaint, always tossing you a like or some sort of acknowledgement no matter what you’d send (and you’d send some random, random stuff).  Chatting with him daily had just become the norm, conversation flowing freely whenever you’d pop in for your next session.
But that was just because he was a nice guy - or so you’d thought.  You realise now how wrong you’d been, too occupied with your own crush to notice his (if it could be called that).
“You like me,”  you hum, surprisingly nonchalant despite the little pitter patter in your chest, the flutter of your heart within your ribcage.  
“I think you’re cute,”  he retorts, though there’s no real weight to his rebuff.  The two statements are really one and the same and you’re giddy with the knowledge, absolutely tickled pink.
Except for the fact that he’s leaving, fully prepared to start a new life in another city in just one week.  The irony isn’t lost on you, like fate’s laughing even as she offers you this little crumb.  (You feel like Oliver Twist, frankly.)
“Same difference.”
He huffs - you’re reminded of how adorable he is when he does that - and downs the lukewarm remainder of his beer.  “I take it back.”
“No, you don’t.”  Where the confidence comes from, who knows.  You grip it tight with both hands though, hold it snugly as you level him with a stare that has his own unwavering.  It’s almost as if you’re caught in a staring match, a battle of unspoken wits. 
It drags on longer than it should, just the two of you locked to each other with nowhere to go. 
Then he does the last thing you expect:  shoves his chair aside and leans across the table, stealing a kiss and returning to his seat, all in the span of time it takes you to blink.  
(His lips are so soft.  A little chapped, a tiny bit dry, but soft - deceptively delicate.  Bitter, touched with sea salt and something else distinctly him.  French fries and beer and his Chapstick.) 
(For the briefest moment, you wonder whether you’d just imagined it - if your imagination had truly gotten the best of you and you’ve absolutely lost your mind.) 
“You just kissed me.”  It seems like you’ve found your new favourite hobby of just repeating things, giving live play-by-plays like an awkward narrator in a romcom.  
“Yeah, so?”
“You’re leaving.”  Speaking the words into existence feels bad;  you see the way his eyes tighten, the subtle sobering of his expression even while he tries to keep his cool.  
“I am.”  At least he’s realistic.  It saves you from any uncertainty, keeping the what-ifs at bay. 
You suppose it means you have nothing to lose. 
“Do it again.”
And Jungkook does - over and over, sinking the taste of him almost as deeply as ink, offering a piece of himself you want to keep for just as long.  
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It takes you longer to add to your collection of art, nearly four whole years before you decide what you want next.  (It’s a back piece this time - a full body suit from your shoulders down past your ass.  Another cat, dressed in traditional Japanese clothing and surrounded by flowers.  An ode to your first tattoo, to the one that had started it all.)
(You’re not sure you’re ready for the pain, though.)
“Lay down,”  the artist instructs, back turned to you, busy preparing his materials.  You’d stripped down while he was occupied, discarded all your clothes to the allocated basket and stood quietly in anticipation. 
You do as he says, dropping atop the tattoo bed with a quiet oof.  The stencil has already been laid, the entire outline ready to be inked into your skin.  You can’t deny you’re more than a little nervous.  It’s been years since you’d last gotten anything done, uninterested in finding a new artist since Jungkook had left. 
(Which he had, exactly as he’d intended, gone on a 6 AM flight that you’d driven him to, teary-eyed and embarrassed.  He’d laughed at you standing outside of the departure gate, his suitcase at his side, arms wrapped around your shoulders.  You’d refused to show your face, burying it instead into the warmth of his neck, into the familiar scent of him that was going away for who knows how long.
“Stop being a baby,”  he’d said, smothering you in kisses, the full weight of his laughter palpable through your close proximity.  It'd rumbled out of his chest all the way into yours, finding a home behind your ribcage, right alongside where your heart fluttered, shaded blue and sad.
“Stop being mean,”  you’d countered, petulant like a child.
It couldn’t be helped.  You’d had only one week with him - one glorious, chaotic week filled with eating too much junk, rewatching your favourite animes, and generally making up for all the lost time you’d never even known there was.  As amazing as it’d been, it still hadn’t prepared you for the goodbye.
That was your fault, though.  You’d wrongly entertained the idea that maybe things would work out, that he’d change his mind or ask to take it - whatever you had, that is - with him, keep it going somehow.  He hadn’t.)
“Do you have a preference where I start?”  You’re unbothered, hair loosely knotted over your shoulder.  Ready for the session to start - ready to feel the familiar sting again.  (You’re proud of that.  It might have taken you years and years but here you were, tackling something huge.)
“Nope.”  
“Sounds good.”
The buzzing begins and pressure lands upon the small of your back, a gloved hand laid over the centre of your spine.  You remind yourself to breathe in, out, focus on something other than the pain that fizzles over your skin and then ebbs into tenderness.  Where he’s started - just above the fattiest part of your butt - isn’t too bad.  Tolerable and yielding.
You can do this.
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Your back aches in a different way than you’d anticipated, soreness buzzing beneath inflamed skin and making it uncomfortable to move around.  It’s not any worse than your arm had been - the lines along your spine had felt comparable to that of your elbow - but it’s fresh, not dulled by years like your sleeve now was.
The artist is stripping his gloves off, your back neatly covered and the bed stripped of its original tissue paper.  He’s leaned against the sink, onigiri held in his now-free hands, nibbling at the edge of the rice ball as you turn this way and that in the mirror.  “You did good.”
You’re still undressed, admiring the linework from different angles, shimmying closer to your reflection to catch the lighter inking that makes up the undefined edges of the various florals.  Something tells you that you should be shy - eager to redress after spending nearly five hours naked in the secluded studio - but you don’t care.  Your back is quickly becoming a masterpiece, something that might as well be hung in the halls of the Louvre.  You’re in love with it.
“Thanks.”
You mean thank you for his compliment but also for all his hard work, the long hours he’s put into bringing this beauty to life.  It means so much - like progressing to the next level.  
Which, you suppose it is.  This is a fresh start for you.  A new beginning in a new city.  
“Proud of you,”  he hums, suddenly close, broad palms searing heat over your hips.  He’s careful to avoid the edge of the bandage that wraps your back and holds you delicately, like fine china or the most precious jewel in the world, lips sweet against your temple.  
You meet his eyes in the mirror - the same sweet doe-eyed stare from five years ago.  A little darker now, aged by the hand of time but endlessly kind, shining beneath the overhead lights.
“Proud of you,”  you chirp, identical smiles spreading over your faces.  
Jungkook’s having none of it though, bratty as usual.  “Proud of us.”
You suppose you can settle for that.  You really are proud of the two of you - for how far you’ve made it and all the obstacles you’ve overcome.  From the first few weeks of sadness, all the melancholy that’d set in when he’d left, to exactly one month after, when he’d called you in the middle of the night, drunk and stumbling home.  
(It’d been infuriating at the time - incoherent and foolish as he was - but it’d bloomed something between you, something neither of you could ignore.)
Four years of miserable long distance had become this:  a love that's brought you back to his side, to a city you’re unfamiliar with but that he calls home; to a city that never sleeps, loud with pachinko machines and some of the best food you’ve ever had;  to the place you’ve been missing every minute you were apart.  
You’d never thought you would move for someone, uproot your entire life for a relationship, but he’d changed that.  Made it worth it in ways you had never considered.  Convinced you more and more with each trip you’d taken, two visits twice a year, for a measly two weeks at a time.
“Should we head home?”  He means your physical home - the apartment the two of you had decided on in Roppongi, the one you haven’t seen yet, that he’s had to move into all by himself.  It’s not quite as nice as the home in his arms.  
You say yes anyway.
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“I’m so talented.”  The words come entirely too whole for your liking, loud somewhere above your head.
“Are you serious?”  You’re levelling your boyfriend with the most incredulous look, whole face scrunched up, hands fisted into his dark sheets.  It’s uncomfortable at this angle - kinking your neck as you look over your shoulder - but you really can’t believe he’s just said that.  He’s knelt between your legs, knees spread wide around his own, his hand halfway up your back and tracking heat over your spine.  
Somehow, he has the audacity to look surprised.  “What?”
“You’re really patting yourself on the back right now?”  Now, when he should be pounding you into oblivion, working that big fat cock of his through your fluttering walls, making you moan his name into his pillows like it’s his only job? 
(It truthfully could be.  You’d rank his skills in the bedroom on par with his skills in the studio.)
“Oh.”  All at once, he’s the devil - sin personified. Or would be, if he didn’t somehow still look infuriatingly cute.
The gentle touch turns bruising, heel of his palm pressed hard into the tender notches of your spine.  “You don’t like when I admire my own work?”  Asked as he shifts behind you, length dragging out of your dripping cunt to gently tap against your aching clit.  The head of it glides through your folds, mercilessly teasing but never slipping back in, never filling you whole like you need.  (Because you really do need it.  You haven’t seen him in six months, left to your own devices - literally.)  It feels like heaven and hell, too good and not nearly enough all at once. 
“Kook,”  you snap. Try to, anyway, his name far too whiny and breathless to hold any real weight.
“I’m just admiring you, sweetheart.”  He’s dragging the hand over your back, tracing all the lines he’s embedded into your skin.  They make up his favourite piece, inked permanently into his favourite canvas.  A testament to his hard work, his dedication, his love.
Any other time, you might not care.  Here and now, after not having felt his touch in what feels like forever, you’re burning from the inside out, a million volts of electricity tripping your circuits.  When you speak, it’s more a plea than a reprimand, uttered so sweetly you know he can’t deny you. “Admire me later.”  
“I’ve missed you” is his only answer, punctuated by a fluid roll of his hips, the heavy press of his cock back into your dripping cunt.  “I’ve missed this,”  he breathes out, sinking all the way in, so slow you can feel every ridge and vein as he fills you.  
“Missed you too,”  you parrot back, a little delirious now that you’ve gotten what you want.  
Now that he’s right where he should be - with you.
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tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice​​​ @youwannabelostandnotbefound​​​ @snackhobi​​​​ @codeinebelle​ @xjoonchildx​
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Text
Day 125: Accidental Bonding (Part One)
When Harry woke up, his head was pounding and his heart was racing, he thought he might vomit. He staggered over to the floo to firecall in to work.
Robards answered, "Junior Auror Potter, good morning."
"Hello, sir," he said before his stomach heaved and he had to turn away and take a few deep breaths to steady himself. "I need to call in sick, sir. I think I've got a virus."
"What are your symptoms?" he asked curiously.
"Really bad headache, it feels like my eyes are going to pop out of my head; elevated pulse; and nausea."
His brow furrowed, "Who was your training partner yesterday?"
"Malfoy, sir," he said, his gut twisting uncomfortably.
"Where did you go?"
"Excuse me-" he broke off and held up a hand, turning away from the fireplace to try to get his bearings as his stomach tried to eject itself through his esophagus. After a moment he turned back, "We were sent to that old antique shop, sir," he said as quickly as he could manage.
"You're going to need to go to St. Mungo's."
"I don't-"
"That's not a request, Potter. Go there now and I'll be sending Junior Auror Malfoy right along."
"But-" Harry started.
"No buts, Malfoy called in with the same symptoms and I'm not taking any chances," and without another word he ended their connection.
With a sigh and one more longing look at his bed, Harry headed to St. Mungos.
(Read more below the cut)
They ended up putting Malfoy in the same room as him since they were there at the Ministry's behest and with the same symptoms. Harry tried not to look at him, imagining that getting irritated would only worsen his ever growing headache. Malfoy must have felt the same because he was less annoying that usual.
Healer Kenner, a stern looking woman who reminded Harry very much of Professor McGonagall, ran diagnostic test after diagnostic test and then finally said, "Well, you're bonded."
"What?" Harry yelped.
Malfoy groaned, "You've got to be fucking kidding me."
"Language, Auror Malfoy," she tsked.
"Apologies."
With a short nod, she continued, "The good news is that most of your discomfort can be alleviate by simple physical contact."
"And the bad news?" Harry asked wryly.
"There's nothing we can do to break the bond."
"What?" Malfoy spat.
"Surely, there's something-" Harry started.
She shook her head, "I'm afraid not. But it's not permanent," Healer Kenner added. "It'll only last a month."
"A month?!" Harry asked incredulously.
"Well it's certainly better than forever," Malfoy snarked, rubbing his hands over his face.
Harry wondered if Malfoy's head hurt as much as his did. He certainly hoped so.
But before he could say anything, Healer Kenner raised her wand and cast a spell the dragged their beds across the floor to the other. "Hold hands," she instructed.
He crossed his arms over his chest and Malfoy let out a pitiful groan.
"The sooner you do it, the sooner you'll start to feel better," she chided. "Just be glad that this particular bond only wants prolonged physical contact."
Harry shuddered, he'd heard the stories about some of the more archaic bonds.
"Oh, for Circe's sake," Malfoy grumbled as he reached across the space between them and clasped Harry's forearm in his hand.
A sense of relief hit immediately, Harry groaned as a weight lifted off his chest and the headache started receding.
"It will be faster if you both actively participate."
At this point, as the waves of relief were rolling through him, Harry was willing to do anything. He flipped over his hand, offering it to Malfoy.
The other man slid his hand down Harry's arm, as though he was afraid to break contact with him, and clasped Harry's hand in his.
She was right, his world seemed to right itself as they sat there holding hands and he let his head drop back against the bed as he took full, deep breaths for what felt like the first time in ages.
"How long do we have before it starts to feel like that again?" Malfoy asked, which Harry could admit was a good question.
She hummed, "I'd say two hours maximum before the discomfort starts affecting the way you function." After a short pause, Healer Kenner added, "You're going to probably want to spend nights together."
"Can't we just see each other in the morning?" Malfoy asked.
And Harry couldn't help but agree, "This wasn't that bad," he added. "And now that we know-"
She shook her head, "Now that your bodies are acknowledging the bond, the effects will set in quicker."
"Great," Harry grumbled. "Just bloody fantastic."
This day just kept going from bad to worse. He had no idea how he was going to tell everyone that he had an accidental bonding with Draco sodding Malfoy.
----------------
They argued about whose house to stay in overnight and finally decided to flip a coin for it. Draco won.
And that was how Harry found himself standing with a duffel bag outside of a surprisingly cute little house, knocking and waiting to be let in.
"Potter," Malfoy greeted as he opened the door to let him in.
And Harry wondered if he was feeling the bond tugging at his skin, too, if the bond was making his gut clench and making him feel irritable and like there was something crawling under his skin. "Can I-?" he started through gritted teeth, reaching a hand toward Malfoy but stopping a few inches away.
Malfoy nodded and closed the distance between them.
The moment he touched the other man his body sagged with relief, swaying back against the doorway.
After a moment, Malfoy released his hand and gestured toward the rest of his house, "Come in," he said. "It's nothing fancy," Malfoy said, "But it's home and it's not something that my family owned."
Harry wasn't quite sure what to make of that statement, so he just focused on looking around the house as Malfoy gave him the tour. Malfoy was right, it wasn't anything fancy but it was surprisingly cozy. It was nothing like Harry had expected; he'd imagined black leather and green decor, dark and broody. But the house was the opposite, the closest anything got to Slytherin green was the sea form green accents in the bathroom. "You have a nice house," Harry said.
"You needn't sound surprised," Malfoy said with a sniff, "I have excellent taste," he added as he opened the door to the bedroom.
The bedroom had pale blue walls and cream bedding, the dresser and wardrobe were both a dark wood that Harry couldn't identify. All in all, it was a nice room, very relaxing.
"You can use this drawer," Malfoy said, flicking his wand at the second drawer to open it, "And I cleared a space for you in the closet."
"Err, thanks," Harry said.
He rolled his eyes, "Don't mention it. I know it's hard for you to believe but I can actually be considerate when the mood strikes."
Before Harry could reply, Malfoy left the room, calling over his shoulder, "I'm making salmon and rice for dinner. If you don't like it you can make something for yourself."
This wasn't quite what he'd expected, Malfoy wasn't quite what he expected, he thought as he put his clothes away. Maybe Malfoy wasn't who Harry thought he was.
------------
Nope. Malfoy was precisely who Harry thought he was. The two of them had spent the entire night arguing about literally everything: about using coasters (when they were wizards and removing water stains was no big deal), about which clothes Harry should have hung or left folded, about the proper way to do the dishes, about their friends and the kind of people they were, and dozens of other things that made Harry want to tear his hair out.
They were still bickering when they went to bed because Malfoy had the nerve to critique the way Harry brushed his teeth and to demand that Harry wash his face before he get into bed.
"I'm not letting the oil in your skin damage my pillowcases!"
"My skin doesn't damage pillowcases," Harry snapped. "I have pillowcases too, you know, and none of them have oil stains."
"Potter wash your fucking face or I am covering your pillow with a paper bag," Malfoy threatened. "It's not a fucking hard request. It will take you literally two minutes."
"Fine!" Harry shouted, throwing his hands in the air and returning to the bathroom.
When he came out, Malfoy was already on the left side of the bed, sitting with his back against the headboard, reading a book. "Was that so hard?" he drawled.
"Oh fuck off," Harry grumbled as took off his glasses and he threw himself down on the right side of the bed, punching a pillow for the sheer pleasure of punching something.
"You're such a bloody neanderthal," Malfoy grumbled without looking up at Harry.
"Shut up!" Harry finally erupted. "For Merlin's sake just shut up and I will, too."
Malfoy glanced over at him, looking unperturbed which honestly made Harry even more frustrated.
"It's going to take me ages to fall asleep because I'm so fucking irritated."
After a moment, Malfoy reached over and put his hand on Harry's shoulder. "It's the bond," he said quietly. "We're not touching often enough and it's making us lash out."
"I don't think we need any help in that department," Harry grumbled but he could admit that he was feeling better already.
Malfoy chuckled, "You're right about that, I suppose."
He shook his head and reached up to cover Malfoy's hand with his own and expedite the process. "This does help though," he said with a yawn.
The other man hummed, "I think we should agree now that whenever either of us wakes up over night that we'll reach out and touch the other so we can get as much sleep as possible."
Through a yawn Harry murmured, "Sounds reasonable." He closed his eyes, surprised at how tired he was feeling all of the sudden. "Merlin, I'm knackered."
"Do you mind if I leave the light on to read for a while?" Malfoy asked.
He opened one eye to look at Malfoy's blurry face, "That's nice of you to ask," he said. "I don't mind."
"Are you certain?"
He nodded. "Night."
"Good night," Malfoy replied, going back to his book but leaving his hand on Harry's shoulder.
Harry drifted off, asleep in minutes.
------------
When Harry woke up again, the sun was peaking in through the curtains and he felt fantastic. He blinked open his eyes and realized that at some point during the night he and Malfoy had shifted, drifting until Harry's front was pressed tight against Malfoy's back, his body curled around the other man's.
He really ought to move.
But he was just so comfortable and his body was warm and loose and he just couldn't bring himself to move away.
It wasn't long before Malfoy started to shift, waking up slowly and Harry panicked. He did the only thing that he could think of and feigned sleep.
Malfoy arched and stretched, pressing his body back against Harry's for a long, delicious moment before he jumped, seeming to realize what he was doing. Then he held very still like he was waiting for something and Harry wondered if he was waiting for him to say something. When Harry didn't move and continued pretending to sleep Malfoy carefully withdrew himself and climbed out of bed to head to the loo.
Harry laid there for a long moment, missing the warmth of the other man's body, missing the way they'd seemed to fit together already.
Just the bond, he assured himself. This was all just the bond.
Right?
-----------------
Ahhh friends, I'm sorry. I hate to leave you like this but this one's going to need a part two. This girl is exhausted and this fic(let) is taking way longer than anticipated to write. I'll get part two written and posted tomorrow. <3 Lots of love, C
Part 2
Day 124: Joke | Day 126: Arranged Marriage
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arcadejohn127-9 · 3 years
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Okay so I have a personal head cannon that demon hunters are a thing in the Obey Me World. So I wondering if you could do the brother and undatables finding out that a bunch on demon hunters kidnapped MC while they were in human world because they found out of MCs packs. Your writing is so good, honestly this is one of my favorite Obry Me accounts.
Thank you! It gives me pride for being one your favourites!
I love expanding the world of obey me and idea of hunters is one that seems realistic in a world of demons and angels and just in general, really interesting. Before I joined writing on Tumblr I was actually a Wattpad author and one my books was about a monster hunter who got in a love square with Frankenstein's monster, Dr Jekyll and Mr hyde
Never finished it but it was fun concept so any type of supernatural hunter already just wins in my department
Do I have a thing for making the demons violent and showing off a more aggressive and bloody side to them? Yes, I really do
Warning: kidnapping, gore-ish, violence, religious themes, angst, guns, mentions of torture, long
Your breathing grew heavier as the crushing feeling on your chest continued to grow, your heart slamming against your ribcage. Begging to be released from its suffocating prison. If it weren't for the lump in your throat you were sure your heart would of leapt out of it. 
your feet pounded against the street beneath you; you were running faster than you’ve ever ran before. How did it get to this situation? well, you didn't have time to reminisce but to make a long story short - a group of demon hunters revealed themselves to you and are now chasing you down as you refused to cooperate. they wanted to use you for your pact and you didn’t want to be involved, especially seeing as they were literal demon hunters! they were going to kill your friends! 
but sadly, fate was not on your side. your ankle twisted to the side, pain shooting up from your ankle all the way to your knee. rope surrounded you, you thrashed against the net as your body slammed to the floor. The last thing you saw was the hunter tower above you, the butt of their gun coming down on your head. 
when you finally woke up you already had a gun back in your face, you tried to escape but you were forced backwards. chains rattling behind you. you looked behind you to see you were chained to a cross, both your wrists and ankles were bound.
Your situation only grew worse when the hunter Infront of you snarled down at you. Demanding you used your pacts, spitting on your face. You thrusted forward, matching their snarl as you bared your teeth at them. Demon mannerisms have rubbed off on you but it wasn't doing you any good. The gun clicked, unlocking off safety mode.
Your heart sunk immediately.
"Use your pact or else."
You could only hear the blood rushing through your ears. Trembling as their finger slowly pressed on the trigger. You knew they were going to kill the brother's if you did but you were terrified that were going kill you. You shook your head, letting it hang low as fat tears rolled down your cheeks.
You kept refusing to use your pact and summon the seven demons. Every time you refused they'd hurt you; kicking you, slamming the guns butt down on your head, throwing your head back on the cross. You could barely hear what they said, they just kept screaming at you. Calling you filth and a traitor to mankind.
Despite all the pain you were grateful they weren't killing you. You just had to keep pushing your luck. You couldn't summon them no matter how scared you were. You refused. You couldn't do it.
But fortunately, Magic doesn't always act the way you want it to. Your soul - your entire being BEGGED to be saved. You wanted to save yourself, you desperately tried to spark at the chains and remember any spells but your mind was at a blur. nothing was processing.
You cried out when you saw the large magic circle appear on the floor. You tried desperately to close the summoning circle, cursing to yourself. You demanded your magic to listen to you but it wouldn't work. The brothers symbols appearing in each part and soon enough, they appeared in full demon form.
"FIRE-!"
Lucifer:
his wings blocked at the rapid bullets going their way
His whip quick to come out and wrap around a hunters wrists, he twisted his hand around it and pulled the poor hunter towards him
"This isn't very welcoming, now is it? How bold."
the hunter went flying, the brothers dodging in time
Mammon:
He smirked, a bullet between his teeth and more between his fingers
Steam was drifting off them but he just crushed the metal bullets with no other thought
"How nice of ya to give me a gift~! You really know how to make a demon happy."
He spat out the last bullet and it went flying, hitting a hunters eye
Levithan:
The ground shook beneath you, many hunters missing their shot at his brothers
A crab like beast bursted out of the ground, sewer sludge splattering on the floor
It swiped and grabbed at the hunters, screams filling the space, bodies snipped in half in seconds
"You're all worse than Normies! You took the wrong human from the wrong demons!"
he back hand slapped a hunter that approached him, growling
Satan:
He leapt off the crab, grabbing the nearest hunter to him by the head
Their neck snapped to an odd angle and they immediately dropped
"This isn't how I expected to spend my evening but you took my reading partner....you won't receive my mercy."
He shoved his clawed hands through their chests and spines, ripping out the first organ or bone he could grab
He didn't lie, he didn't show an ounce of mercy
Asmodeus:
His wings flapped behind him, he dragged his claws along the backs of the hunters he flew past
Giggling as they screamed in pain
"Aww I'm just flirting, was it really that bad?"
He pouted before swiping at their faces
Shoving another hunter towards his more violent brother
Whilst he had no issue letting himself get wild, he saw how scared you looked
He didn't want to get too dirty or else how could he comfort you?
Beezlebub:
Beel could be ruthless if TRUELY provoked
And hearing your whimpers when he arrived stirred furious anger within him
When he finally saw your beaten state it made him snap
Hungry for blood
Hunters head being crushing with ikr hand
"You don't even look appealing to eat, you're worst than Solomon's cooking."
He took a chunk out of one hunter when they aimed at one of his brother's
Refusing to let his family get hurt
Belphegor:
We all know he's cold blooded
So it was no surprise blood was gushing everywhere
His dream dust filling his area and nightmares surrounded the hunters
"They're mine....and yet you stole them and hurt them, you're disgusting."
hunters would disappear into the mist and not come back out alive
Bodies littering the floor as he swooped through
As soon as things got gory your eyes were sealed shut, trying to shut out the sound of flesh tearing and screams of agony. Whimpering as you thought about the brothers smiling faces, how gentle and soft they usually were. Chanting in your head that they were here to save you, you were safe, they're still them.
You screamed as your body was lifted off the platform you were on, the cross rising. You were now fully crucified; feet slipping as you struggled against the cross. The chains were barely supporting your weight so you just dangled, fear rising in you.
Mammon charged towards you, his brothers continuing to fight against the hunters. He ripped the chains out of the cross, you fell right into his arms, your heart thumping against your chest.
"look at what they did to you....I shouldn't of protected ya, I hope you'll learn to forgive me - they busted you up real bad."
He caressed your cheek; eyes glaring at your busted lip and the many bruises forming on your face. You winced when his hand touched the side of your head, he recoiled feeling something warm on his palm. It was blood. YOUR blood.
He almost broke down right there and then, looking at how hurt you were - he couldn't handle it.
"thanks...that makes me feel so much better." You let out a pained laugh, hoping to make him feel better.
He only frowned more, softly rubbing his thumb on your cheek. It was obvious he was struggling to keep himself calm. You held his hand, showing off your best smile.
"i don't blame any of you, the hunters did this, okay? You didn't do anything wrong."
Your sweet moment was ruined when the 6 brothers backed all bumped into the two of you. Forming a protective ring as the hunters surrounded them; it seemed like there was no end.
You raised your shaky hands, magic swirling around your wrists and to your fingertips. You barely had enough strength to put on a little light show but you weren't going to just let the demons defend you without even trying to help.
It your lucky day as suddenly, the hunters hideout doors bursted open. You could barely make out the outside but there was blood coating every wall, steam coming off dead bodies. Soon enough four figures emerged and your heart almost leapt out of your throat.
Lucifer growled as he strangled a hunter, turning his attention to the new comers.
"I'm surprised you came so late, espically with the company with you, my lord."
Diavolo laughed, his hands coming together as his magic flared brightly. Barbatos had his arms behind his back, smiling to all of you.
"Forgive our tardy timing, these hunters are determined."
"don't forget us, though I may of caused us to take our time, it's been so long since I've fought this many people."
Solomon adjusted his sleeves, his many pacts glowing against his skin. Simeon, unlike the others, looked completely untouched by the chaos. Smiling as he kept his hands together.
"I beg for your forgiveness (Y/N), It appears we've angered Lucifer more than the hunters have."
UNDATEABLES↓
Diavolo:
Time slowed down within the room, only the hunters going still
Their movements frustratingly slow
"I think it's best to clean up this situation whilst you take (Y/N) back, they've seen enough."
He looked at Lucifer, both men nodding
The prince moved freely through the frozen room, eyeing the amount of hunters
Barbatos:
He bowed to the brothers, offering you a comforting smile
"I must agree with my lord, things will get rather unpleasant."
He slowly slipped off his gloves
He approached you, gently handing you his gloves and patted your shaky hands
A silent request to keep them safe for him
Solomon:
The wizard blew the steam off his wand
Smirking as he pointed it towards the magic still present around your wrists
"Isn't it good I came along? You're going to fall sleep if you keep using your powers, little apprentice, let me open a portal for you."
Just as he finished talking he summoned a portal to the devildom
He gave you a small salute
Simeon:
He hastily rushed towards you all
Checking on each brother for any serious harm, thankful they were okay
He turned his attention to you, doing the same
"all is going to be okay, I promise, I'll bring over some desserts when we get back - tell Luke I won't be long, I know he's anxious about your safety."
He walked you to the portal, caressing your hands
You got a gentle push towards the portal
Once you were all through the portal, you completely shattered. Crumbling to the floor as you broke down sobbing. The brothers tried to approach you again but your nostrils flared, face scrunching up in disgust. They reeked of blood and guts.
Beels mouth was covered in blood, flesh between his fangs. Levithans hands trembling from adrenaline red and stained with blood. Belphegor was showered in the red liquid, a feral look still in his eye. Mammon was the most clean out of all of them but he had blood dripping down him. Asmodeus had flesh on his nails and blood on his cheek. Satan looked just as drenched as belphegor, his shoulders shaking with anger. And finally, Lucifer was the second cleanist but he still was no better than the others.
"i need time to- time to calm down....just.... please just wash."
They all accepted your wishes, hesitant but they understood your predicament.
You laid on the floor, chains still on your wrists and ankles. They felt so tight on your limbs, you whimpered as they scratched at your skin. It took one small burst of magic to make them drop; you were finally free.
You continued to just lay on the floor, shakily grabbing a nearby pillow. Inhaling the sweet comforting scent, letting it fill your scenes. Everytime you even smelled a faint swift of the gore-ish scene from before you just took in another deep inhale.
You laid there for what felt like hours. Silently crying as you hugged the pillow.
You grounding yourself. Reminding yourself you were safe and back in your room. The brothers were safe and they weren't mindless beasts.
You rolled on your side, something poking your hip. It was your phone. You pulled it out from your pocket and began to type, messaging Luke that Simeon was okay aswell as you, apologizing for not seeing him in person. You sent him a quick selfie of you smuggled into your pillow and tried to look somewhat happy. Hoping it'll comfort him.
It wasn't a moment later until you heard a knock at your door. You questioned who it was.
"we're all clean now, meet us in the living room if you want....I made your favourite drink~" Asmo's voice was soft, gentle on your ringing ears.
A small smile appeared on your face. Shuffling out of your room still hugging your pillow, trailing after the lustful demon. Soon enough, you were both entering the living room.
The room was dim, the fireplace being it's only lighting and warming the room up nicely. There must of been something with the wood as it smelled so comforting. The brothers all sat along the sofa, Some on the floor. Everyone had their own drink, blankets and pillows surrounding them.
You curled up in the middle of the sofa, letting yourself be engulfed in multiple hugs. Everyone touching you in some way and you all just sat there. In peaceful silence as you just hugged.
You really needed this....
"thank you for saving me."
"We'll always save you"
"you can always count on us-!"
"I won't let this happen to you again, I promise to protect you better."
"no one is allowed to touch you like that, I won't let them."
"You don't need to thank us, darling."
"I will always make sure you're safe, no Matter what."
"I won't fail you again."
you all hugged each other even tighter, embracing each others comfort and warmth. Tears falling and soothing words shared, each brother did their best to be strong. But even they couldn't stop themselves from shedding tears when the adrenaline died.
They almost lost you. You were kidnapped and hurt because of your connection to them. They were never going to let you get harmed again, no matter the cost.
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keilemlucent · 3 years
Text
prey and promises
 (NSFW)
hawks | takami keigo x reader 
word count: ~2.1k
keigo is a people pleaser at heart, and you’re his person. you want to try some new things in the bedroom. you do the math.
warnings: light restraints, light predator/prey (ish), praise kink, service dom keigo
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a/n: people pleasing keigo is my kink, service dom keigo is my kink, here’s some pwp. this was originally my drabble for the exchange, but it got a wee bit long so it’s its own bastard now. enjoy some h word and happy valentine’s day loves!!!! 💗💗💗
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“That too tight, dove?”
No, and honestly? Not tight enough.
The rope binding on your wrists was a bit too loose, a bit unpracticed, but a good effort despite all of that. Keigo really tried his best for you, and you could tell.
The bedroom was dim, for the sake of romance, suspense, or both. Only the flicker of a few perfectly placed jar and pillar candles lit the room, allowing Keigo’s wings to cast large, beautiful shadows across the room.
You watched, mesmerized by just his shadow.
That wasn’t mentioning the man who was straddling your hips, chest level with your face as he futzed with your bound wrists.
He worried to himself, nervously speaking just above breathing.
Who would’ve fucking thought, that number two, pro hero ‘Hawks’ was a goddamn sweetheart in bed?
He was a notorious playboy (wrong, but tabloids work harder than sinners on their knees), and unabashed flirt (true, but before you, he’d always been shit at the follow-through). Yet, he’d been worrying about the state of your bound arms for what had to be at least ten minutes.
As much as you appreciated the care, you were practically dripping onto the bed from all of the teasings he’d led up with (kissing, sucking, torturing your poor nipples until they were hard, flushed, and bitten.) It had been too long since you’d had the proper time to spoil each other, and Keigo was exploiting the opportunity for all it was worth.
Some time ago, he must’ve had the rope shipped to your shared apartment without you knowing. It wasn’t too thick, not too rough, just perfectly oiled and deep scarlet. It was worn by the time he’d brought it out to you that night, a surprise for you, but not him. He’d obviously been practicing knots in the little spare time he had.
It showed how much he cared, truly.
You’d mentioned, offhand, a month or two ago over a shared bottle of wine that you’d like to ‘spice things up’ in the bedroom when you had the chance to. Keigo had been intrigued, dug in a little more, and got you blushing and revealing a good handful of kinks.
And he delivered, the best he could anyway, with the experience and research he’d been able to put together.
“Not too tight at all,” You tug on the restraints, wiggling a bit below him, antsy and needy already. “Now get down here, or I’m gonna leave hickeys in some very visible places.”
Keigo ‘ooo’ed and flopped to rest his chest against yours, the chill of the barbels through his nipples making you shiver. He gives you a pleased smile, eyes sharp and half-lidded all at the same time, “Is that a threat or a promise?”
“Both, if you keep talking and not touching,” You really tried to keep your tone from getting whiney. Keigo was content, always content, to be a tease, and without your hands, it was even easier to fall to mush beneath him.
“Needy,” Keigo clicked his tongue, snapping the elastic of the garter over your thighs. With his weight over your hips, and your arms high and held to the headboard, there wasn’t much you could do other than writhe a bit and plead with your eyes.
“If you were in my position, you’d be the same way,” you hissed.
“Maybe,” He mussed, lips trailing over the skin of your throat.
Keigo stole any retort and the breath from your lungs as he chomped down on your neck (really, he bit down) and suck at the skin. The bruise he was leaving began to ache almost immediately, teeth kneading away even as you arched and gasped beneath him.
You bucked your hips, begging silently for just a bit more—
And Keigo growled against your pulse. His hands gripping the fat above your waist and pressing you into the mattress with his body weight.
His wings puffed up and outstretched before your eyes as your breaths became more labored with each moment.
He’s really fucking turned on.
Keigo pulled back to sit over your hips, pupils wide and having eaten the amber of his eyes long again.
You tried to grind up into him, desperate for just something—
And Keigo pressed you to the bed again, wings widening to cover the two of you as a low rumble broke from his throat. You swallowed dry and your lips fell open as you watched Keigo, somewhat in awe and very horny.
“Here’s how tonight’s gonna work,” Keigo sounded way too pleased that you’d finally stilled. “You’re gonna be the good girl I know you are and let me decide how and when you get to feel good. You can do that, can’t you?”
You didn’t have a lot of fight left in you, not with the way he was looking at you, not with the way his hands were stretching and squeezing over your curves.
The small part of your brain that was still functioning recalled your tipsy conversation from months before—
...
“I dunno,” You giggled, leaning on Keigo’s side. “I just think I’d be nice to feel a little bit smaller, and weaker. In like a hot way.”
“... Small and weak is hot to you?” Keigo’s word only slurred slightly.
“Nah, not like that!” You pushed against his shoulder, hiding your bashful grin in his bicep. “Like... Use me a bit, you know? However you want to fuck me up, fuck me up.”
...
Apparently, Keigo had taken your request to heart. Did some serious ruminating. And was planning on delivering.  
“I said,” His wings half-flapped (oh, you were fucked)— “‘You can do that, can’t you?’”
He ran the tips of his nails (talons) over your ribs, the fucking bastard.
The nail in the coffin was the way how he dragged them up and up. Over the curves of your sides, your tits, heaving chest, and collar bones to plant either hand on the side of your head.
And Keigo leaned over you, naked and leaking, wings extended high with a fucking delicious and terrifying gleam filling his eye.
The sharp talon on his thumb ran over your cheek, and your stomach dropped. You felt your cunt clench around nothing as you pulled at the restraints.
“Yes, y-yes, yes!” You sputtered, lost in the pitch of Keigo’s pupils. “I can do that, it, whatever you want, please.”
Keigo visibly shuddered when you begged, but you hardly noticed. You were far more focused on how he shifted a knee between your parted legs, nudging his own flush with your bare cunt.
“Then fuck yourself on my thigh.”
Your hips moved without thought, the muscles and flesh on your tummy flexing to get just a morsel of him.
“Oh, I think I like this,” His breath felt so fucking hot against your ear, you swore you were scalded. “You’re just so fucking gorgeous when you doing just what I want you to.”
A strained, little sound dribbles from your lips as you nod, ‘yes, yes, I’m sure I look nice but I need more’, turning your head to drag your lips over his cheekbone.
His feathers ruffled, wings fluttering and flexing, the primaries scraping the ceiling but neither of you had a mind to care. Keigo had never really had this energy before, and you were a fucking glutton for it. You needed more, more of him and whatever he was willing to give.
You were begging for it without even thinking about it.
Keigo sat back on his heels, chest and cheeks flushed enough to match his wings.
He was so fucking pretty.
You took him all in, lips parting and just a bit of drool spilling from the corner of your mouth. Just a little bit.
All the while, you kept grinding on his thigh, soaking Keigo in slick that he oh so fucking sinfully gathered up on two fingers that he then sucked clean.
Bastard, bastard—
And impatient bastard.
“Such a good little dove,” Keigo purred, palming his cock with his saliva-soaked hand. “My good little dove. I’m sure you want something to fill you up, don’t you? Tell me. Use that mouth of yours.”
And you spewed.
You slurred about how hot Keigo was like this, how much you needed his cock, because, I don’t know, for fuck’s sake, without it you might as well die. You licked your chapped lips as he grinned above you, more smug than you’d ever seen him.
And thank fucking god, he threw your legs over his shoulders and fucked into you clean with one, single motion.
You shrieked, stretched and stuffed without a moment to adjust but you didn’t fucking care. The burn was grounding, the heat spreading from your cunt to the tips of your toes and fingers as you tugged at the restraints, begging for more until your voice went hoarse.
And, as... predatory as Keigo was presenting himself, large and sharp and intimidating, he was ultimately still your dutiful lover who wanted nothing more than to have you ruined for anyone else on his thick, pretty cock.  
“FUCK!” Your voice broke high as you took Keigo’s cock, eyes rolling white as he moved, so fast— “K-Keigo!”
The tempo he set was something worse than brutal. It tore the breath from your lung with each slam of his hips. Each slap of skin on skin had a high moan ripping from your throat in time with the creek of the headboard. The way his cock hit everything so perfectly was overwhelming, but all the same you wanted to drown in it, take it between your ribs and absorb and it and be—
“Whose are you?”
His, Keigo’s, his, his, HIS—
“Y-Yours, yours, YOURS!”
Your vision sparked on the edges as you came, spin curling off the bed, back blown to high hell but you didn’t fucking care. All you could focus on was the pleasure of it all and the way Keigo didn’t slow—
The bastard sped up.
You sputtered something, a weak ‘too much!’, but with no safeword (no need to use it, you felt more alive on his cock than you had in a long time), Keigo kept up his pace, sweat pouring down his temples and feathers twitching blurrily in your vision.
A hand slipped between your bodies, “Y-You’re so perfect, baby, best f-fucking girl in the world for me.”
“Y-you’re best girl?” Your voice broke into a whine as pummeled that knot of nerves, your gut overheating in the best way—
“Yes, fuck, my best girl,” Keigo took only a moment of pause, catching his breath before continuing at a pace and depth you didn’t think you could take but you were— “My b-best, perfect, girl. You’re fucked for me, aren’t you?”
You nodded dumbly, watching Keigo’s bow forward with the curve of his spine.
“Good, good,” Keigo’s voice was just as rough as yours, weak for you and your spent, perfect body and self. “You take me so well, gonna take all of me so, so—”
The finger rolling your clit sped up, and heat shot through you, cunt clenching and sending the two of your tumbling with each other.
“GOOD!”
Keigo’s hips finally stuttered, slamming into yours once, twice, and third time before he spills into you, stuffing you so full you swear you can feel it in your tummy.
You were cresting at the same time, swimming in the sensation of him, slick soaking your thighs as Keigo gave a few shallow thrusts, stuffing you.
And you came down together.
You were only half lucid as Keigo pulled out, laying thick praise on you with words and little kisses to your undoubtedly sore legs. A feather or two loosened the ties around your wrists, so your arms could drop limply to your sides. The rope left the prettiest indentations that you made a not to ogle at when you were more present. 
Keigo flopped beside you in the sheets, greedy hands pulling you close to mingle in sweat, sound and breath.
“So, how was I?” Keigo asked.
Someone less practiced in knowing him would assume his tone sounded over-confident, the lazy smirk he was wearing only adding to his incredible acting.
But you could tell from the tension still bound up in his wings, and the little crinkles between his brows, and the thick swallow he gives you, that he is indeed asking you, genuinely, ‘how did I do?’.
You replied with a deep breath, fumbling a bit to grab his hips, fingers dancing up his spin to rest the roots of his wings between your spread fingers.
“You did so good, Kei’, please fuck me like that again sometime—” It would probably be smart to let your very blown out back heal, but—
Keigo kissed you, hard and hot with a hand pulling your jaw just right.
“‘Sometime’?” Keigo murmured, nibbling your bottom lip, the fucking whore. “Why not now?”
You had no reason to refuse, so why not?
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