#clichés are good for the heart body mind and soul

[indras-wife]

Hiyaaaa, I absolutely love your work! It's written so well 😊😊

Call it cliché butttt

I was wondering if you could make a hc or a one-shot, or whatever your comfortable with, about Izuna having feelings for a Senju? And this is totally optional but he does the hanky panky with her and he's kind of stuck with having to hide his halfbreed child.

HIIII ANONNN! OMG THANK YOUUUU!! This will be the first Izuna oneshot in my small blog, hopefully more in the future hehe! Thank you for this request cutie! And in this blog every cliche request is welcome, especially when they are about not-so-famous characters like Izuna. Hope you enjoy reading this sweetie~ Don't be shy to request more Izuna content<3<3<3 P.S ANDDDD as always I got carried away and wrote a lot....I feel this might require part 2 (please let me know if you want it anon!)

Fuck, Fuck, Fuck...!!

Izuna was walking in his room, his mind full of endless questions to himself regarding the recent situation he found himself in. A situation he could have avoided if he was more careful with his carnal desires.

“What am I going to do now ...? Aniki will kill me if he knows!!” he whispered to himself, still pacing in his room. The man found himself more stressed the more he thought about his future actions. 

How can he let his brother know that he not only fell in love with a Senju woman, but also got her pregnant...

“Kuso!!” he hit the wall, sharingan glowing from anger and  helplessness. Izuna knew his big brother better than anyone else and he knew that he absolutely HATES their rival, the Senju clan. After all, both clans have been sworn enemies for decades, with both clans killing each other’s members for a long time. Izuna and his brother were not inferior to this information, considering their other 3 siblings had been killed years ago by the Senju.

He should have known better, he should have been more careful and cold-hearted, but he could not help himself...She was a gorgeous and strong woman, the kind Izuna is attracted to. Upon their first clash of swords, Izuna felt a spark in his body that he never did before...And he was sure she did too, seeing how her eyes widened and found their way to his gorgeous face. Starting from that moment, fate tied their souls together, and after few secret meetings here and there, it developed into a full forbidden romance.

It definitely was exciting for both of them, as they were defying fate and the traditions which were established centuries ago by their ancestors.

"My family will kill me if they know I am meeting with a cold-hearted Uchiha~" his lover mentioned, while they were both cuddled, catching their breathes after a very passionate love making in the forest. It was already a common practice for both of them, a way to show each other how much they love and care for each other.

"Tell me about it...My aniki will for sure lose his mind if he knows I am in love with a Senju~" Izuna added laughing.

Little did they know, fate would play a cynical game on them.

Izuna's strings of thoughts were cut by a knock on his door.

Not now...he thought. He let out a sigh and walked to his door, opening it and seeing one of the council members.

"'Izuna-sama, Madara-sama is requesting your presence in the meeting hall" the man spoke, looking at him.

He could not escape always and Izuna knew it. He took a deep breath and walked out of his room, heading to the meeting hall as instructed. Izuna was good at hiding his emotions under his charming smile, however he could not trick his older brother. Madara was noticing everything, even if Izuna had his bright smile all over his face, he could still not make Madara believe in his lies. He was only praying his brother won't ask questions about his condition.

As Izuna and the other council member entered the room, they were greeted by the looks of everyone in that room. All of them bowed as Izuna walked past them and stood next to Madara.

"The meeting started half an hour ago Izuna. I mentioned this is a serious one so your presence is needed" Madara looked at him, talking with a little stern voice that made everyone else flinch.

Everyone but Izuna.

He had other things going in his mind. Things that bothered him more than being late from a meeting.

"Sorry Aniki..." he mumbled. "Let's get to this meeting shall we?"

Madara was quite taken back by his brother's response and action. Usually Izuna was NEVER late to the meetings. In fact he would be the first one in the room, waiting for everyone else to gather. He also noticed Izuna's dismissive tone and it did not sit right with him. As much as it bothered him, he could not raise his questions about Izuna’s behaviour in front of the clan members. Instead he waited the meeting to end.

Throughout the meeting, Izuna was not able to concentrate on anything that was being discussed. He was blankly staring at the map in front of him, not bothering to talk or add anything to his brother’s words. This, of course, did not go unnoticed by Madara.

As everyone were leaving the room, Izuna was going to follow the council members too. He planned to meet with his lover, to discuss what they will have to do. He realised it was a dangerous gamble, but he had no other choice. They both were guilty for getting carried away during the numerous passionate love making sessions, so they both had to take responsibility and find a way to solve their problem.

“You not going out Izuna. Stay here NOW” Madara’s voice echoed in the empty meeting room.

"What is going on with you? You seem distant, uninterested and most of all evading my gaze. What happened?" Madara asked, looking at him.

Izuna wanted to tell him what has been troubling him for the past couple of days, but he could not bring himself to speak about it. How could he? Izuna was more than sure that his big brother would be too angry if he reveals that he got a Senju woman pregnant, but he also realized that he cannot keep it in him forever. Especially when he does not know what to do.

"Aniki...I am fine. Literally. I just have troubles sleeping at nights that's why I seem disoriented and unfocused" he spoke, a soft smile on his face.

"Then why you keep avoiding my gaze? Did you do something that you cannot bring yourself to tell me Izuna?" Izuna's heart dropped as soon as he heard Madara's words.

Does he already know of the woman and their affair?

Does he know that Izuna got that woman pregnant?

Every worst possible thought was dancing in his mind, messing with his rational thinking more and more. Izuna could not lie to his brother, but he is in such a situation he cannot tell the truth as well. He is absolutely torn between wanting to reveal his circumstances, and between keeping the secret and trying to deal with it himself.

“Brother….what do you mean? We have no secrets from one another…! I am hiding no secrets from you I promise! I really am just tired and a good night sleep will help me get back to my self” Madara was not convinced by this words but he also did not want to press Izuna into revealing something he isn't comfortable with. After all, their bond has always been strong and they both are very considerate of each other's feelings.

"Okay...Just know if you need anything I am here to help you" Madara said, turning to go out of the room. Izuna felt guilter but he could not reveal his secret, at least not now. He made his way out of the meeting room, preparing for the night meeting with his lover.

-After few hours-

It was late night and the whole compound was in deep slumber. Everyone except Izuna, who was getting ready to leave. Him and his lover agreed to meet at their usual location in the forest, a place where it all started.

Izuna grabbed his cloak, concealed his chakra and jumped out of the window. He started running towards the woods, unaware of the trail that was following him.

After some time, Izuna finally reached the agreed meeting place and after a second later a figure appeared next to him.

"Izuna..." a soft feminine voice grabbed Izuna's attention and he turned to see his lover, Himeko standing right there. She took the hood of the cloak from her head, revealing her face to him. As the moonlight was falling on her face, Izuna stared at her, unable to form any sentence from her beauty. She was looking more beautiful than ever...was it her pregnancy hormones? Or maybe the moonlight that made her hair shine?

Whatever it was, Izuna was happy to witness it. A reminder as to why he chose her out of hundred other women.

"Himeko..." he finally spoke her name, moving close to her and hugging her. Himeko, in response, hugged him hard and hid her face in his chest. Izuna was her escape from her life, a sweet escape as she calls it. They both were soulmates, divided by the cruel fate but reunited because of it as well.

"Oh Hime...I missed your hands around me...Heavens I missed your smell...I missed YOU...!" Izuna spoke, raising her head and kissing her softly. Himeko followed him, kissing him back with tenderness and love only he can experience.

"Izu..I thought..our contact together would come to an end...Kami-sama..I was so scared! You did not respond to any of my letters...I thought...I-I" Himeko's eyes teared up, her breath hitches as she tried to let her lover know of her fears. Izuna, understanding her worry, hugged her more.

"I am sorry love...These past couple of days were...hectic. My elder brother is suspicious of me. He thinks I am hiding something from him....Well technically I am, but...I just cant let him know it...."

Himeko looked at him with more worry in her heart.

"My family also noticed it from my side. I try hiding my morning sickness, but I am sure they would figure out my situation sooner or later...Izuna...What shall we do..?D-Do you plan on telling your elder brother about this..matter?" she asked, holding his hands tightly.

"No...Gods no way. I can't bring myself to tell aniki that I got...you pregnant...He will kill me!!" he declared loudly, unaware that his older brother was already listening their conversation.

"Then...what shall...we do?"Himeko asked. She was scared that she won't be able to find solution before it was too late. Unfortunately, their choices were already limited, but they had to decide something very fast.

Izuna sighed, rubbing her back.

"I don't know...I really don't know..."

"I know..." A deep voice was heard from behind Izuna, one that made Izuna freeze.

It....couldn't be him....Right?

Izuna hugged Himeko to his chest protectively as he slowly turned around, his eyes widening as he saw his older brother standing behind them.

Was he always here? Did he hear what Himeko and I were talking about...?

"I knew I had to follow you...To find out what you are hiding...I expected everything..but THIS.." Madara spoke, casting a glance at Himeko, who was clinging to Izuna's cloak, as if her life depended on it.

"Brother I-I...This is not what you expect..! I...I w-we...I can explain..!" Izuna tried to sound persuasive, but he was failing miserably. He knew that NOW, he can hide nothing from his older brother. Part of him was glad he found out his secret, the other part was ashamed that his older brother had to find him in this situation.

"Izuna, I heard everything loud and clear. You got this....woman, who happens to be a Senju, pregnant...And now, both of you don't know what to do...right?" Madara said, walking to them slowly.

Himeko looked at Madara, wondering what he will do. She knew that the man hated Senjus with all his heart, and she hated Uchihas as well...

Everyone except Izuna. The man who made her feel the only woman in the whole world.

The couple stayed silent, unable to answer the seemingly easy question the elder Uchiha asked. Madara looked at them both and shook his head.

His little brother was caught in the web of adulterous affairs, a web too enticing to ignore. It was also difficult to get out of it, but he can't judge his little brother now, can he?

Instead he has to help them however he can. The scolding can come later.

[flowers-shouldnt-die]

Tochter aus Elysium - Vol. 2

Chapter 1

Pairing: Vilgefortz of Roggeveen/Tissaia de Vries

Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Relationships: Vilgefortz of Roggeveen/Tissaia de Vries, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Sabrina Glevissig/Triss Merigold

Characters: Tissaia de Vries, Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Triss Merigold, Sabrina Glevissig, Philippa Eilhart, Margarita Laux-Antille, Stregobor (The Witcher), Artorius Vigo, i could just tag the whole cast individually

Additional Tags: Unplanned Pregnancy, Hurt/Comfort, One Big Happy Family, Happy Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Happy, hands down my fav tag, Vilgefortz isnt evil in this bc Tissaia deserves happiness and a good dick, okay he starts an evil but like i couldnt care less

Series: Part 3 of Is This Happiness?

Summary: My contribution to the teeny tiny Tissaia bang this year. It's a full circle now, guys.

Original shitsow: The only thing worse than being betrayed by the man you loved is realizing you are carrying his child and almost losing it because of the pain he caused.

Okay, so forget that. She is still pregnant, but this is the totally, i swear to God, not au ooc happy family version:)

In another life, Tissaia had a dream. Such an unbelievable, heartbreaking dream. She turned in her bed and curled up to Vilgefortz. He had returned after she had fallen asleep. She heard in the back of her mind what was whispered in her dream. She had no idea why, but she made her decision. She planned to wait until all the craziness calmed down, but now she knew, felt it in her bones what she had to do.

In the morning, after he woke, he was greeted with a radiant smile from her. She kissed him, and he wondered what got her into such a mood. He would have never guessed what Tissaia said next.

“Vilgefortz… I’m pregnant.”

-

In countless years, centuries even, time loses its meaning. She let them fly by, and not even the changing of the Continent made it feel real. Until she came. Now, every day felt like it was going too fast, and she couldn't get enough of every single second. Life used to be banal; one way or another, everything was the same: the kings fought, people died, politics were played behind the shadows, and she knew how it would end before it even began. 

She did have her bright spots in life, however passing and painful. As their mentor and friend, she cherished her memories with them, with her especially, but sooner or later they were all gone. Gone with the wind, if they were lucky. She refused to get too attached, or at the very least, refused to show it. That was until everything crumbled, the world as she knew it burned, and from the ashes of the past came a future so bright she feared it might blind her.

Life became a drug, and she was addicted. She had a lust to live, to experience it, and not just watch it from her Ivory Tower. It was so cliché. She never wanted this; she went out of her way to prevent it for all of her girls for a reason. She has heard the saying that her heart would beat outside of her body from the first time she held the life she made in her arms. No one could ever accuse her of being sentimental, and yet she felt the slow and steady shift in her soul. When she looked back at what was and who she had been, it felt like watching a stranger with her face and voice. All the pain that led her to this point was a necessary evil, and for the first time since she was a girl, she chose to be happy.

-

As shock was overthrown by panic and panic was overthrown by something he never felt before, he smiled, let out a shaky breath, and kissed her. This would definitely change things. So many things he couldn't even begin to imagine. But Tissaia was still looking at him with a shy smile and uncertainty in her eyes.

Vilgefortz murmured softly, “This-this is wonderful. Are you certain?” 

Tissaia nodded and let her fears surface. “What are we going to do? If the council finds out-” He cut her off and shook his head.

“We’ll worry later,” caressing her face, he pressed his forehead against hers. “This is a happy moment. The happiest moment of my life.”

And it really was. He felt something he never thought he was capable of. It scared him but cleared his mind. He decided to do as he said and hugged his beloved, caressing her back gently and kissing her hair. The worries could come after they got out of bed, or even after that. Right that moment, only they existed. He would make the appropriate changes to his plans. He refused to lose Tissaia now and refused to lose their child. Even he wasn’t sure why, just the previous night he was ready to let it all go. How a small thing changes everything. Or maybe this wasn’t small; maybe this was bigger than they could ever comprehend.

-

Elysia blew the sand from her hand and it turned into tiny butterflies in the wind. Their wings carried them higher and higher, until they disappeared between the trees. The young girl laughed in that special way only children could. Her voice still had the innocence and wonder people lost while growing up. She was still full of life and curiosity, her uncontainable energy clear as day as she ran around in the forest, yet mindful of never getting out of her mother’s sight. She was barely five years old and already just like…

“Just like you.” Tissaia turned to face Yennefer, her eyebrows arched instead of voicing her question. She didn’t notice when the young sorceress arrived and she had no idea how long she had been watching them. “She scolded the birds for being too loud. Already a little control freak.” She smirked, then added, “Although a sweet one.”

“In her defense, they were loud.” The brunette turned back to her daughter and let out a shaky breath. Yen followed her gaze, and smiled softly as she saw the little firecracker trying to reach for a mushroom that grew on a tree. It was just out of her reach and when even jumping couldn’t help, she called for her mother to help her. Tissaia picked her up and let her examine it but didn’t let her get it off of the tree’s trunk. The little girl made a disappointed face that was so much like her mother’s, Yennefer found it almost uncanny. So many things about them were uncanny, if she was honest with herself. But over the years, seeing the two of them so happy together made her forget about all the uneasy feelings she had, most of the time.

Even when her father came back with the druids and the little girl ran into his arms. Vilgefortz picked her up and threw her high up in the air. Elysia was laughing, and Tissaia scolded him to be careful. Yen had a hard time getting over everything, and she figured the ex Rectoress had an even harder one. Maybe time does heal all wounds; maybe she shouldn't let it get to her so much, maybe-. She didn’t know and just huffed. 

How could Tissaia just act like this? The girl was fine; she got over that, but Vilgefortz… She put up with him for the sake of her mother, and to be fair, Tissaia never asked her for anything more. She had Ciri and Geralt so she understood to a degree even though so many lines were crossed, the purple-eyed sorceress wondered if they were even there in the first place.

She watched as the druids knelt down and touched Elysia’s hand. The girl definitely were odd, Yen could relate to that. They both stood out for reasons beyond their control. Her little sister - it was still strange to call her that - clearly was born with a magic that was similar to the druids. No one had a real idea where that came from, but considering that Vilgefortz’s bloodline was mostly a mistery, Ely might have gotten it from him. He was raised by druids after all.

Nature or nurture - Yen wondered. She didn’t think Ely would become like her father was before she was born. But then again, who would have thought that young little Vilg would become that.

“Yenny, look,” she ran and gave her a small brach with cherry blossom on it. “Pretty, pretty flowers.”

She thanked her and ruffled her hair. The girl made flowers bloom from a dead tree branch.

-

The day she decided to enter the world was a blur of pain and blood. In the late morning hours she felt the first sensation of pain in her lower abdomen. She paid it no mind, it wasn’t unusual for her to feel uncomfortable during the late stages of her pregnancy. However, by noon she needed help to get back to her room. Tissaia never imagined her birthing experience would be witnessed by so many, but then again, she never imagined having one at all. All of her friends, who have truly become her family in the last few months, were there, supporting her. Despite the looks he got, Vilgefortz stood next to her, holding her hand. Tissaia and he had a talk, and while agreeing that the possibility of another unplanned pregnancy was real, they decided to have only one baby. It was one more than they planned anyway, so he refused to not witness the birth of his only child. 

When her water broke, it surprised her that it’s not only the water that comes out. Blood also poured from her and if it weren’t for her friends reassurance, she probably would have panicked. He helped her get into any and every comfortable position she requested, whispering encouragements and telling her she was doing so great. Minutes turned into hours and her baby refused to show its face to the world. Tissaia was screaming in the end as sweat glistened on her body. Her face was flushed and breathing became difficult amidst the jolts of pain. The sun disappeared a long time ago and she wondered if their baby and him were playing tricks on her. Their child was already as stubborn as he was and it terrified her.

The moment she felt her baby leave her body was a relief but despite the end of her torment, she felt oddly empty.

“It’s a girl!” Yennefer beamed with joy. It was a rare sight and Tissaia couldn’t take her eyes off of them, as she walked up to her with the baby safely wrapped in a blanket in her arms. When she finally held her daughter she couldn’t help the tears that escaped her eyes. The little girl had a shock of black hair and when she opened her eyes for a moment Tissaia’s breath got caught in her throat. The same eyes she had fallen for in every sense of the word looked back at her. Her sweet little baby girl had her father’s eyes and she felt this was his final act of capturing her heart. “She looks just like you!” Yen continued smiling like she never did before. Tissaia slowly shook her head but her raven haired friend insisted. “She has your face, your nose, her mimics already… she looks like you, Tissaia.”

Vilgefortz agreed, despite the baby’s soft tan, dark hair, and deep eyes. “She truly looks like you, my love.” He sat next to them on the bed and kissed her, then gently caressed the newborn’s face with his fingers. He embraced Tissaia as she was holding their baby, and she leaned back onto him.

She looked down at her daughter once more, and she had to admit, she saw some resemblance between them. The baby made a soft sound and she couldn’t help but smile. Her fear evaporated the longer she looked at the tiny bundle. She kissed the top of her newborn’s head and gently caressed her face. The love she felt for her while pregnant multiplied and in that moment, Tissaia de Vries never felt more at peace, more at home.

This one for my sweet lil sis @mtg-is-life-frf

[inklessletter]

Moon, roses and secrets

Then again, thank you very much to @steddie-week for this!

Day 3 - First kiss

It feels like a cheap trick, like the worst excuse. 

The summer night sky is clear, but they can’t see many stars, there’s too much light there. The air is slightly cool, but it feels nice against their skin that is covered by the thinnest layer of sweat. They came out from the hotel where the wedding was taking place, and it was hot in there, among all the bodies dancing, and the alcohol, and the laughing, and the hugging. They both still can hear the party echoing in the air coming from the beautiful garden, near the blue colored illuminated stone fountain.

It feels weird, ten years into their friendship that he’s nervous and small and so human when they’re alone.

It feels oddly appropriate that since a while ago, when it’s only the two of them Steve never knows what to say. Like that moment, they could only hear the water fountain and watch a clear, starless firmament. 

And he wants to touch him, Steve does. He looks at him, and the sight is gorgeous. His skin glows, his curls move freely, frames his face, his soft smile starting to form the cute dimples Steve loves so much. And he’s so perfect like that, in his own mind, in a black suit.

And Steve—Steve can only reach out, touches his hand just slightly, and that earns a slow look from Eddie. And he wordlessly turns toward him, and Steve wishes he’s not reading into things when the gleam of Eddie’s dark eyes looks brighter when he gazes at his lips. 

He wishes the roses and the moon never tell the secrets they’re not sharing with words.

It feels childish, how Steve takes a step forward, and puts a hand on Eddie's waist as he takes his hand softly, and pulls him closer. And Eddie lets himself be guided by Steve’s movements, and rests his head on Steve’s forehead fondly, as he lets out the imprisoned air held in his lungs for maybe too long.

Their noses brush, and Steve’s drunk on Eddie, on his sight, on his touch, his scent, his breathing. The can feel his own heart trying to leave his body and he’s panicking, so he starts moving.

Eddie smiles at the realization.

“Are we slow dancing?” he asks low and incredulous.

It feels like a cheap trick.

“Yeah,” it’s all Steve can say, mirroring his smile, feeling dumb, stupid, childish, and not very much like the twenty-seven-year-old he is.

“To what music?” Eddie keeps asking as he adjusts his body closer.

And it’s idiotic that Steve can only hum a song whose name he doesn’t even remember, but it’s on the radio all the time. 

He expects Eddie to laugh, to mock him, it would be only fair, this is pathetic. That he wants his closeness and he’s too afraid to confront his own feelings.

And he’s not trying to pull a move on him, he’s just genuinely too much of a chicken for that. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

He keeps humming, and hears after a few seconds Eddie humming that silly love song with him.

It feels like an excuse.

It feels surreal and the biggest cliché when they look into one another’s eyes after a while, and Eddie closes his eyes. 

And Steve is scared, and he’s panicking.

He leans in, their lips make contact but neither dares to dive in fully. Steve understands that maybe they can’t see stars in the sky because they are all stored behind their eyelids, and they wait, giving the other the chance to stop.

They don’t walk away.

And it feels like a cheap trick, like an excuse, like a cliché, and fake, and that he has no control over his body anymore.

“I am in love with you,” Steve says against Eddie’s lips, and against his own good judgment. 

They haven’t even kissed yet.

They are still dancing.

When Eddie molds his mouth against Steve he feels like dying and coming back to life. It feels like Eddie feels the same way. Steve is quick to respond to that kiss, letting him in, letting him live inside his soul, his body, his heart.

Everything Steve has, everything Steve is, have always been his, anyway.

He wishes the roses and the moon never tell the secrets they’re sharing lip to lip.

---

@mentallyundone

[the-chosen-half-of-one]

I also have BtVS inscribed on the inside of my very soul, and have had so for over half of my life by now (I started watching when I was 11). What's your favorite season, and are there any rants you'd like to unleash?

Yesss, Buffy is peak soul inscribing media. I couldn't imagine it hitting me the same at 11, but everyone is different, so I started watching it when I was 15 (despite being recommended it at 12-13 and me balking at it, but I wouldn't have it any other way because I don't think it would have resonated the same with me had I started earlier) and then I finished it when I was 18, (I may have drawn it out indefinitely for a while because I never wanted it to end), so in a way it kind of felt like I was growing up along with the characters, when they were 16, I was 16, when they were graduating, I was graduating, and when they were feeling out of place after high school, I was in the same boat, and etc. etc. and it just, it became such an integral part of me. Load bearing media.

Oh my you may have just unsealed the hellmouth with those questions. I think I'll put a readmore for this because I will ramble forever if left unchecked:

My favourite season is a tossup between 3 and 5 because I think they both exhibit peak Buffy in every way, such a good balance of humour, emotional drama and just overall storytelling and character growth, especially in their finales because their finales were like real finales, you know? They had the sense of being an ending you could find closure in. Season 3 of course has some of my favourite happier scenes of the whole show, I'm going to be cliché and point out the class protector award and Angel showing up at prom, and everyone joining in at the battle against the mayor, it is so beautifully cheesy in so many aspects. And I'm going to sound cheesy as well by saying that class protector award scene specifically, is legitimately the first time I understood tears of joy. Buffy literally unlocked in me a range of emotions I hadn't even experienced before. And her speech to Angel in Amends, I think about that every other day. It really holds a special place in my heart to the point where I even quoted the mayor's graduation speech in my own graduation speech, the way it aligned with events in my own life, it just sticks out to me. Not to mention the fact I'm a huge sucker for Oz's character, but hey.

Season 5 then of course, Ben is Glory is priceless, the villain arc is definitely one of the strongest of the show to me, though maybe I'm biased as it's sandwiched between season 4's and season 6's villains, but I don't know. Then Buffy's final words to Dawn in The Gift is just another one of those constantly on my mind quotes that makes me lose it. I can't really articulate very well why I think season 5 is one of the best, but you know, it just is?? It really brings together all the strongest and most classic aspects of the previous seasons and delivers the cleanest/tightest/most organized arc of the series. Should I even bring up The Body?? While I don't consider it one of my favourite episodes, I do consider it one of the best portrayals of grief I have ever seen in any piece of media ever, I was crying the ENTIRE episode, and Anya's speech about fruit punch and all, it haunts me, truly haunts me in how real it is. So while I usually tend to name season 3 my tentative favourite based solely on choice memories, I think season 5 is technically probably the better season?

I'd also give a shoutout to season 2, Passion especially due to the fact it also made me cry for about half an episode, like legitimate sobbing cries, not just misty eyed here. And the whole Angelus storyline in general, devastating. Not to mention this season had the introduction of both Oz and Spike, and Dru, there's such iconic setups in this season, such iconic lines and scenes, though can I truly in good conscience name any season with Ted and Bad Eggs in it as my favourite? Just kidding. On rewatch, I actually found a startling amount of interesting possible foreshadowing in both those episodes just by the way, but anyway. Uh, I think season 2 is also one of Buffy's best, but I still felt really young when watching it, so certain main plot points relying heavily on sex and sexual metaphors were still a little out of my personal wheelhouse. It also feels a little disjointed in quality at times. But strong overall, and the season I try to tempt people with when failing to win them over to watch the show.

Then just a couple comments about the other seasons: Season 1, I do find it dates itself, and hasn't found its groove yet. Upon first watching the opening episodes, I was skeptical about the show and kind of looked at my sister like, really, you watched this whole thing? But then about midway through, I was saying the opening spiel and tearing through it on my Christmas break, but I also find it so hard to get any one else into the show based off season 1 because I'm like I gotta, I gotta warn you about the mantis, but I swear it gets better, I swear it'll make you cry, why did they put the mantis there, why so early, why did they want to scare my friends away from this show. Anyway.

Season 4 let's jump to, I find it suffers from following season 3, a consequence of its finale like ending making it hard to pick up again with the new beginning in college for Buffy. The broken class protector award is kind of symbolic of them breaking what they built in those 1st 3 seasons, she's back to no one knowing what she does for her classmates as the slayer, back to being on the bottom and having to find herself again, which honestly is accurate to life out of high school, which is probably why it's also riding the scale of... not all that fun to watch as it hits close to home. But season 4 is also riddled with a very flimsy villain arc, unused potential in the Initiative, and just a generally unstructured feeling that also doesn't help. Though it does give us such gems as Hush and Restless (I wear the cheese), it's just a very underwhelming/unmemorable season overall.

Meanwhile, I find 6 has similar issues with the unstructured story and villain arcs being shared, and the following of a finale that was extremely strong and.... final, leaving it a chore to try to pick back up again. And so I am in the category of referring to it as season sucks or season sex as I've seen online. Because I personally find it's too gritty, too real, it tears the characters down and rips away all that made them so interesting in seasons 3 and 5, tears away the closure we were given and reopens what once was a healing wound before rubbing salt in it by taking away the delicate balance between humour and drama and opting for just straight drama, which is not what Buffy really is... In s6, the big bad is life and while previous seasons had this fact layered in monsters and metaphors, six strips a lot of that away and shows you that open wound. I think while this can be seen as a deliberate move and a strength to the story it was trying to get across, with the consequences of Buffy dealing with the depression of returning from the dead and being ripped away from Heaven, from an audience standpoint, it was not fun to watch as a whole. It made me tear up but not in a "damn that's good storytelling" way or "this tragedy will imprint itself on my brain forever" way, just in a hollow, "wow, that was depressing" way. Though 6 also has some of the best episodes of the show, me being cliché again here by saying Once More With Feeling is possibly the best episode of the series and the only successful full musical episode of any show I've seen to date with catchy original songs, that I unironically listen to casually and bought the CD for now even years later, that fit the characters so perfectly in style and that each are relevant to the plot and over arching storyline, literally no one is doing it like the Buffy musical episode does it. It's not just a one off shoehorned in concept, it is integral in itself and moves their stories forward. I just, I have a lot of feelings about Once More With Feeling. I also have feelings about the yellow crayon speech, but season 6 mainly just makes me sad and angry, which I think was the intent, but I can not like the intent as well.

At last, 7, I don't have all that much to say about 7 surprisingly. I categorize it the same way I do 4 and 6 really, in that it has a lot more "real" and kind of just generally hollow/sad feeling episodes with cynical and character retcon-y ideas that make it somewhat less enjoyable. Along with annoying new characters and old characters acting antagonistic towards Buffy not doing it any favours. While I remember liking it more than 6 vaguely, I can't actually tell you an episode in this season that stuck out very much to me, though I can tell you Spike's blue sweater and messy hair is a look™. And let's go cliché and state my appreciation for the cookie dough speech and the "I am the thing that monsters have nightmares about" line. I do think The First is an interesting villain however, I liked their first appearance in s3.

I will spare you any major rants on other things or we'd be here for literal ages, but I will leave you with some random other comments on different things, the first being Riley. I actually don't mind him as a character until they start with the storyline of the jealousy and him going to the vampire drinking places, I think he was a decent boyfriend for Buffy, who just suffered from following Angel as the love interest, which is understandable, I mean Angel was Angel and I still miss him, but I don't think Riley deserves all the hate. Same goes for Dawn, I've seen Dawn labelled the most annoying Buffyverse character like a million times, and yeah she can get on your nerves sometimes, but considering the circumstances of how she came to be, of what she is, I think people should cut her some slack. I mean, 1st, she's 14, but 2nd, she's not, she is a ball of mystical energy made into the shape of the fabricated memories of a 14 year old and she has just found out her entire life is a lie, made up memories for a made up being who didn't exist mere months before, her world is crashing around her, how does one cope with the realization and knowledge that they are not a "real person?" I think she's entitled to a *little* acting out, even if I don't care that much for her character, she is, again like Riley, not nearly as bad as everyone says. (If we're talking real most annoying Buffyverse characters, don't even get me started on Connor.)

Another rant topic would be me being annoyed when people reduce the show down to a hollow shipping war of Bangel or Spuffy or just the romantic aspects when there is so much more to explore of the themes in this series that I wouldn't be able to shut up for months. Nothing against shipping, of course, or having fun with it, I have my preferences in that department as well, but while Buffy's relationships are an important aspect to the series, defining her by *just* those relationships does a grave disservice to what the series is about in general. I won't go into much detail on that though now because I've held you hostage long enough.

Uuuhhh, I highly doubt anyone is still reading my rambles by this point, if you got this far, congrats, gold star. I haven't said much of substance for my rants, but believe me if given a day or week or so to collect my thoughts, you'd be getting essay length analyses of half the episodes and themes and everything in this series, starting with its impeccable understanding of psychology and especially its understanding of grief in the way no other show I've seen has ever accomplished, as well as the above forementioned balance of humour/drama/action/heart that I have yet to see successfully replicated anywhere else as well, though have seen cheap imitations fall short of.

Oh oh on that note I would also love to rant some day about how I think no other media that has compared itself to Buffy has an actual understanding of what made Buffy so good in the first place, they think they can just slap a coat of cheap humour on a female protagonist who fights monsters and call it a day, but THEY DON'T GET IT. They don't get the emotion, the depth. Everything I've seen that has deigned to call itself similar to Buffy has been hollow and empty, ripping off superficial aspects and ignoring the true heart of it all and it just it makes me want to scream and give the writers a whole lecture and crash course in Buffyverse.

In conclusion. I am physically restraining myself from rambling more. How about you, what's your favourite season? Do you have any rants??

[crossingthedreams]

back when I was living for the hope of it all

At sixteen, we always think we know better. I sure did. Amidst my parents divorce, the emerging sexual life, the final year of high school. I thought to myself “this is all there is to life and that’s fine”. Of course, “this” at the time was parties, strangers and alcohol.

Out of all the strangers I encountered, a few still burn in the back of my mind every now and then. I wonder how delusional was I at the time to ever believe, for even a fraction of a second, that those people were good ideas.

Laura was my first love.

Not in a cliché, teenager kind of way. She was, undeniably, the first person I truly loved. And, probably, the one person I’ll always love, regardless of all the terrible thins that happened and the distance that we put between ourselves.

She had red, voluminous hair and the most adorable laugh. Talking to her was easy, if a little tricky sometimes. Touching her was even easier. Having only been with men up until her, I didn’t really realize how soft us, women, are. And Laura’s body felt amazing to touch — I remember being in her lap and touching her arms, making up and down motions, feeling how smooth and soft she was. She was shorter, skinnier than me, and yet she always made me feel smaller than her, but in a good way. I felt safe near her.

There are a million little things that I could say about Laura off the top of my head. If I search my brain for the memories, probably even more. I remember the details more than I remember the big picture. I remember her hands — the way they touched me, the way they played the piano or held a pencil as she drew some flowers, the way they would go up to her glasses to fix them when she was ever so slightly nervous —, but I don’t remember most of our fights. I don’t really remember the last time I saw her. I don’t know exactly her dreams and aspirations in life, at least not anymore.

The funny thing about social media is that I see her life as if I was peeping through a window. I don’t see her adjusting her glasses, but I see her graduation. I don’t listen to the piano anymore, but I still see it in the back of some pictures she posts in her home.

I know it’s long gone. I know she’s fine, and so am I. However, I can't help but wonder, on nights when everything is just a little too quiet, or days when work is a little too boring.

I still have the scars. The metaphorical and the literal scars. The one on the small of my back, from when she decided to show me what BDSM truly was. The one on my heart from our very first fight. The one on my right hand, when I went to pick up her phone I had just thrown on the floor amidst an argument and the glass from the screen cut me. The one on my soul, from the time we called it all off, for real.

I think the thing about your first is you never move on, not really. That’s why I thought of her listening to Valerie a few months ago. That’s why my mom asked about her a couple of years ago, and I couldn’t bring myself to say we weren’t talking anymore — and most likely never would again. That’s why I’m here, years and years later, writing about her yet again.

[dementophilia]

What it's like to be an alcoholic:

The morning after a blackout is the worst imaginable. There is nothing that can describe that moment, nothing that could parallel. Unless you’ve experienced the throes of addiction, you can’t imagine such fear and shame. You wake up, cold and alone in a bed made for two. His scent lingers around you and for a moment you truly believe that everything is right. That everything is as it should be. You smile and roll over, hand raised to caress his stubbly cheek. Your hand falls upon nothing but cold sheets. A night of unknown horror flashes before you.

Still only half awake, you sit up. You’re alone. That’s not good.

(What did you do this time, you fuck?)

You’re afraid to move, yet every molecule in your body is drawn toward him. Like a child’s magnet miraculously overpowering gravity, you follow his - (aura? That’s not the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind) - to his brother’s old room.

He’s asleep, curled up in a fetal position.

You know that you may have done something truly horrible this time, something irreparable. So you seize what may be your final moment to see him content.

Slowly, you climb into bed with him. You cuddle behind him, taking the roll of the big spoon, and hesitantly kiss his back.

He rolls over, taking a full ten seconds to register his return to conscious. The minute his lucid eyes meet yours, he breaks into tears.

(You REALLY fucked up this time. Like seriously, earth-shatteringly fucked up.)

You ask what happened. You say you don’t remember. He’s crying too hard to tell you. You reach out to hug him. He shrinks out of your reach.

(Your world is collapsing and you deserve it. You know you deserve it, you monster.)

You finally coax the truth out of him. A truth that, over three years later, is still unspeakable, or rather unwritable I suppose.

The next thing you remember is the car ride to the airport. His father glances at you in the rear view mirror as often as he safely can. His mother glances at you sitting behind her in the side view mirror whenever she feels you won’t notice. They were both witnesses to the horror, to grade four hurricane Rebecca. The storm that, to this day, is unmentionable.

Broken property, broken boyfriend, broken family, broken body, broken soul.

You try to lay in his lap, try to convince yourself that it was all a horrible nightmare. Once again, he shrinks away from you. Reality hits you like - excuse the cliché - a ton of bricks. This is real.

(You actually ruined your life this time. You knew this was coming and you kept drinking. You deserve this you stupid bitch.)

The fissure in your world explodes, the pieces of you crumble to the floor. You pull up your knees and wrap your arms around them. It’s all you can do to keep your innards from flooding the car.

(Your fault. You did this. Your fault. You monster. You horrific, horrible monster.)

A blur of a goodbye. A blur of an apology so deeply felt it sounds phony. His grey eyes, the ones that are the very roots holding you to this earth, won’t meet yours. He turns his back and walks away. You watch him for too long, hoping he’ll turn around and look back. He doesn’t.

(You lost him for good. The only good thing that’s ever happened to you. Your soulmate, your best friend, the man of your dreams, is heartbroken. He’s in agony and it’s your fault. It’s all your fault. You deserve every ounce of pain you feel and more. Your core is truly evil. There is nothing good in that soul. You do nothing but suck the happiness out of everyone you love. You slash throats and pierce hearts with pointed words of utter hatred. You deserve this. You deserve more than this. You deserve all the pain the world could ever throw at you. You stupid fucking bitch, you alcoholic cunt, you - )

It becomes too much. You fade out.

Edit: I wrote this 12 years ago and it has lived in my drafts ever since. I still think it’s worth posting.

[dzicor]

🌙 S𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬.

1. What does your muse smell like?

there’s a swirling gloom around him and it stinks of death - not in the rotting corpse sense, but the way a body reclaimed by nature would look like. there’s a clear scent of wet, something like before it rains, that heavy ozone scent. behind that is that fresh woodsy note of freshly chopped firewood; a strong cedar resin, but not overpoweringly so. moss and ivy come to mind, the way they choke up on a body and sprout from split ribs. add a hint of char for the way his soul has been burnt from him and you’ve got it on the nose.                 base:  cedarwood (himalayan) and bergamot     heart:  petrichor and ozone     head: burnt vanilla            

2. What do your muse’s hands feel like?

there’s a disturbing softness to them. this is because with his immortality comes the body free of marks of age or distress. a curse, and a blessing. his hands remember the blood on them, but they don’t show the work of years.  they’re nothing particularly special, they seem as if to be normal hands - that of a twenty-something boy whose taken good care of himself. truth, however, he has not; he’s put these hands through hell in a thousand ways for a hundred years. but even the memories he wishes they’d keep, they’ve forgotten. ( you’ll catch him running a thumb over the lower left palm on his left hand where his hand caught on a fence and his mother dressed it softly. one of his fonder memories of her. )

3. What does your muse usually eat in a day?

most days he doesn’t, because he doesn’t have to. sometimes he’ll find himself with phantom pains from a stomach that once knew fullness, but these days he doesn’t bother. nothing happens when he doesn’t eat, so what’s the point other than reminding his tongue that nothing tastes like it used to. 

4. Does your muse have a good singing voice?

one of his matters of pride, in fact, is that he likes to sing. his mother often sang to him, and quickly music became a bit of an obsession. one of the things that keeps him feeling alive is music. playing his guitar, sitting on the hood of a car, or on the edge of a roof is where you’ll see him at his happiest. the emotion is often fleeting and with music he somehow feels it all again - the closest thing to humanity he can muster. so whether or not you think he ( SINGS WELL ), he loves to do it and fancies himself a bit of a star. 

5. Does your muse have any bad habits or nervous ticks?

bad habits by the dozen from chewing the edges of his fingers; the bits of skin along the sides of his nails are constantly being nibbled off. he’s got a slurry of ‘ticks’ that stem from a seasoned life of misery that seem to have carried over into his afterlife of sorts. picking at his wrists where his thumbs connect, chewing the inside of his right cheek. raking his nails along his skin. habits, or reminders of life - unsure. 

6. What does your muse usually look like / wear?

a  grungy little sewer rat. he looks like he lives in the new york city sewer system genuinely. ripped clothing, messy hair, looking like he hasn’t slept since 1602.  clothing of choice: ripped black jeans, whatever socks he can find, military style combat boots, a white or striped t-shirt and a jacket or some sorts be it leather or jean material. he’s usually layering something like a scarf, a vest, a hoodie as well.

7. Is your muse affectionate?  How much?  How so?

not particularly, but the last time he was affectionate toward someone it ended extremely poorly for him so he’s a classic mess of not showing his emotions because he’s secretly terrified of hurting/losing/etc/whatever cliché he fits into there. that being said, he’s a hopeless romantic who doesn’t believe he’ll ever find that hopelessness again. 

8. What position does your muse sleep in?

he wishes he could. he wishes he needed to. he wishes that he felt tired in ways other than emotional exhaustion. he wishes desperately that sleep would take him for a minute, for a week, for a year - forever. whenever he closes his eyes for too long he can’t help but picture the faces of those he’s fed to the house so... he doesn’t if he can help it. 

9. Could you hear your muse in the hallway from another room?

only if he wanted you to.

✨ TAGGED BY: @lapinecide​

✨ TAGGING: everyone​

[jungshookz]

y/n is smitten with jungkook and it’s really, truly driving her crazy

➺ pairing; jeon jungkook x reader 

➺ genre; university!au!! hello newbie bff!kook!! woohoo this is part one of a brand new mini-series!! honk honk humour!! boo hoo angst!! jungkook and y/n are bestie goals!! y/n feeds jungkook at one point which is pretty cute too 

➺ wordcount; 5.3k

➺ summary; y/n finally decides to tell jungkook about her feelings for him and she doesn’t know if she’s ever been this nervous about anything before. 

➺ what to expect; “when you like someone... do you think that you should tell them that you like them?” 

                                       »»————-　🖤　————-««

“i have special feelings for you.”

your face screws up in disgust as soon as the sentence comes out of your mouth and you shudder before shaking your head 

‘special feelings’?!

you’re definitely scratching that one off the list 

special feelings

way to sound like a creep 

“c’mon, y/n,” you grumble, pushing yourself up from the sink before reaching up to knock against your forehead, “think, think, think...” 

you’ve been in the washroom for the last half an hour just talking to yourself in the mirror and it’s safe to say that it hasn’t been a very productive half an hour because you’ve basically been spitting the same sentence out in increasingly cringeworthy ways 

“...i think i like you?”

see, now why did you word that one like a question?

do you think you like him or do you actually like him?? 

where’s the confidence??

where’s the oomph factor?! 

“no, wait, i mean-” you wince and quickly shake your head, “what i meant to say was that i think that i know that i like y- no, no, listen to me, i actually like you-”

well, if there’s one thing that can be said for sure, it’s that this is going absolutely nowhere 

the past two months of your life has been consumed with you debating with yourself in your head about whether or not you should tell jungkook that you like him or if you should just bottle it up and keep your feelings shoved deep, deep inside your soul for the rest of your life and even the entirety of your afterlife

it was approximately a week ago that you finally decided it would be best to just put your big girl pants on and tell jungkook about your feelings for him because you know yourself and you feel like you might really go crazy if you don’t do anything about it 

of course, you wouldn’t have come to that decision if it wasn’t for something he’d said during a library study session 

"should you tell someone that you like them?”

“-!” you immediately choke on your water and quickly twist the cap back on the bottle before patting your chest lightly and looking up towards jungkook, “what?” 

“when you like someone... do you think that you should tell them that you like them?” he asks, continuing to type away at his laptop as if he didn’t just ask you what seems to be a pretty loaded question, “or should you just keep it to yourself? to not accidentally make things weird, you know?” 

why would he suddenly bring something like this up? 

“i, um...” you clear your throat before offering him a halfhearted shrug, “well, i- i mean, if you- i think that if you have serious feelings for a person- like, if you know that it isn’t just a silly little crush-” you pause for a second to collect your thoughts so you can string them into a coherent sentence before going on, “okay, let me put it this way: if you know that your feelings for this person are genuine and that you really do want to pursue a romantic relationship with them, then, yeah. yeah, i think you should tell the person that you like them. because if you don’t, you’ll live the rest of your life wondering what would’ve happened if you did tell them, you know? if you do tell them about your feelings, then you don’t have to wonder ‘what if’ for the rest of your life.” 

“huh.” jungkook looks up at you from his laptop before giving you a nod and a hum, “i guess you’re right... yeah, that makes sense. but what would you do if they didn’t feel the same way?”

you can’t help but narrow your eyes suspiciously at his question and the little voice in the back of your head warns you to stay cool and definitely don’t get your hopes up 

he can’t possibly be talking about you and him, can he?

...but if he’s not talking about you and him, then why would he bring the topic up in the first place? 

oh my god. does jungkook like me too? 

“well, i-” you can’t hide the soft smile on your face from the thought of jungkook having feelings for you but you quickly remind yourself that he hasn’t said anything like that at all and has really just asked you a simple question, “i don’t think you have anything to worry about, kook. you’re, like- you know, you’re super nice and funny and- yeah, i- i think if you told someone that you liked them, there would be a 100% chance of them liking you back.” 

“do you really think so?” jungkook’s gaze softens and you feel your heart skip a beat at the sight 

oh, god

you are so whipped for him, aren’t you?

“of course! i know so. is there- is there a reason why you asked?” you ask quickly as you lean forward, wanting to take advantage of the conversation before he loses interest in the topic

“well, i just wanted your opinion on it, because i feel like you always have something logical to say.” jungkook smiles, gently nudging your leg with his foot underneath the table, “i trust you.”  

i trust you.

“i... i like you... and...” you frown at the piece of paper in your hands before looking back up at yourself in the mirror 

perhaps it would be better to not follow your script word for word 

this message should come from your heart, right? it shouldn’t come from a crumpled up piece of notebook paper that’s been living at the bottom of your backpack for the past week 

you nod to yourself as you fold the sheet of paper in half before tucking it into your back pocket 

“okay, i have something that i’ve been wanting to talk to you about,” you breathe out, shutting your eyes for a second to imagine his face in front of you before opening them again, “before you freak out, it’s really not that big of a deal. we are... we’ve been friends for- we are friends, and friends are honest with each other, so this is me being honest with you. i like you. i like you, as in, i have feelings for you. and to be completely honest, i’ve liked you for nearly a year now, which, i know is a pretty long time to have kept it a secret, but- i’ve tried multiple times to force myself to not like you but at this point it’s become clear that my feelings aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. i guess it doesn’t help that we basically spend every day together, right? anyways, if you don’t feel the same way, that’s completely fine. i promise i won’t let it ruin our friendship because i really do cherish you as a friend and the last thing i want is to make things weird, so... you don’t have to worry about hurting my feelings, you know? i just want you to be honest with me, too. ...yeah.” you finish your little monologue with a smile as you give yourself a quick pat on the back 

okay, not half bad! 

it’s short, it’s sweet, you get straight to the point, you have a safety net to fall back on- 

you jolt in surprise at the sound of a splash and a whoosh of a toilet flushing from one of the stalls behind you and you press your lips together tightly and look down when someone steps out 

wonderful

you just gave someone a free show! 

she doesn’t say a word as she steps up to the sink next to you, her bracelets clinking together as she scrubs her hands under the running water 

she twists the tap off with a creak before leaning down to look underneath the mirror for the paper tissue dispenser 

she stands back up before pointing towards the one under your mirror, “could you pass me some paper tissues?”

“uh, yeah, for sure-” you quickly reach under and yank a couple of paper tissues out of the dispenser before handing them over to her with a sheepish smile, “by the way, i was just- i was just practicing a monologue, so...” you clear your throat quietly and she gives you a stiff smile and a nod before turning to head towards the door 

you mouth a silent ‘oh my god’ and reach up to bite your fist as soon as she turns away, your entire face now red from getting caught basically confessing your feelings to yourself in a dimly-lit restroom like a total weirdo 

“hey-” the stranger turns to look at you from the door, “good luck with your- um, your monologue.” she smiles softly, a knowing glint in her eyes, “i hope it works out for you.”

“oh!” you return a smile while reaching up to scratch the back of your neck, “uh, thank you. so do i.” 

the door shuts with a slow creak and you exhale slowly before turning to face yourself in the mirror again before chuckling lightly, “god, so do i.” 

                                      »»————-　🖤　————-««

before you freak out, it’s really not that big of a deal...

you adjust the strap of your backpack as you push the door open and step out of the bathroom, a blast of cool air from the library immediately making the hairs on your arms prickle to life 

we’re friends, and friends are honest with each other, so this is me being honest with you...

you reach down to press your palm flat over your tummy when you feel it rumble

i like you, as in, i have feelings for you...

you and jungkook are supposed to meet for lunch today and that’s when you decided you were going to tell him, but now you’re starting to wonder if maybe you can push it to tomorrow or something because you’re starting to get really, really nervous 

i’ve liked you for nearly a year now, which, i know is a pretty long time to have kept it a secret. i’ve tried multiple times to force myself to not like you but at this point it’s become clear that my feelings aren’t going anywhere anytime soon...

the smell of freshly-baked pizza suddenly tickles at your nose and you look up to see that muscle memory has already brought you to the building that you’re meeting jungkook at 

if you don’t feel the same way, that’s completely fine. i promise i won’t let it ruin our friendship because i really do cherish you as a friend and the last thing i want is to make things weird...

“okay, y/n. you’ve got this.” you mutter, looking at the doors of the building as you straighten your back, “everything is going to be-”

“hey, there you are!” 

you grunt in surprise when you’re suddenly being tackled from behind, strong arms wrapping themselves around you and lifting you up for a split second before you’re being set back down on the ground again 

“jesus, kook-” you immediately spin around and grab onto jungkook’s forearms to keep yourself steady as you wait for your eyeballs to stop rolling around in your skull, “someone’s certainly in a good mood today!” 

“i’ve been thinking about pizza ever since i woke up!” he chirps, turning you back around before pushing you towards the doors eagerly, “let’s go, let’s go, let’s go-”

“alright, alright-” you laugh lightly, smiling as jungkook brushes past you to hold the door open for you, “how did your midterm go?”

“actually, it went a lot better than i expected!” jungkook nods enthusiastically as the two of you join the queue of hungry students

he turns to glance at you for a second before raising his head slightly so he can take a look at the menu up front, “i think the mock quiz you made for me really helped.”

“hey, that’s good! that’s good.” you nod slowly, pausing for a second before clearing your throat, “hey, by the way- there was something that i wanted to talk to you about.” 

“ooh, i actually have something that i want to talk to you about, too.” jungkook grins before leaning over to nudge your side with his elbow, “i think you’re going to like what i have to say.” 

“i- i am?” you raise an eyebrow, “well, what do you want to talk ab-”

“yeah, four slices of pepperoni, please.” 

“to go or for here?”

you don’t get a chance to say anything else because the two of you are already up at the front and you shut up before hurrying to grab your wallet 

“for here, please. and... hold on, gimme a sec-” jungkook pulls his student card out of his wallet before handing it to the cashier, “and an order of cheesy garlic knots too. oh, and also, two little cup-thingys of garlic aioli. what do you want to drink?” he turns to look at you and you blink owlishly before realizing that he’s paying for all of the food

“oh, you don’t have to-” you raise your own student card, “i can pay for the knots-”

“relax, you can just get it next time.” jungkook snorts before nodding towards the drinks in the back, “what do you wanna drink?” 

“oh, okay, i-” you narrow your eyes to look at the drinks before nodding, “can i get a lemon iced tea, please?”

“i’ll just get a coke.” 

you stay quiet as jungkook pays for the meal, the cashier handing him the receipt a second later 

“do you wanna find a table for us before it gets too crowded?” jungkook turns back to look at you before taking his bag off his shoulder, “here- put my bag on the seat so no one will take it.”  

“’mkay, got it.” 

it seems that lady luck is on your side today when you end up spotting two empty stools facing the windows and you hurry your way over before anyone else grabs the seats 

you carefully weave your way around the tables, being careful not to knock into anyone’s chairs or the back of anyone’s head (it happened to you once and it was not a pleasant feeling.)

you grin in success as you set jungkook’s bag down on the first one before settling yourself down on the second one 

everything is working out wonderfully today! 

“oop-” you feel a little crunch in your back pocket when you sit down and you lift yourself up for a second to quickly reach behind and- “oh-” your eyes widen in panic when you realize that you just pulled out what’s basically your love letter to jungkook and you hurry to take your backpack off so you can quickly put it away

“y/n, the nice girl gave me a brownie on the house!” 

you feel your anxiety skyrocket through the roof when you hear jungkook’s voice coming up behind you and all the alarms begin to blare at the sight of the note that’s still in your hand

“we can share it!” jungkook chirps, now standing right behind you with a tray full of food, “can you lift my bag for a second?”

“uh, yes! yes, i-” you grab jungkook’s bag off the chair with a grunt and plop it down on your lap next to your own backpack before turning to look at kook with a smile, “free brownie again? that was nice of her.” you blindly feel for an opening on your bag before shoving the note into it right as jungkook gets settled next to you 

pheW 

crisis averted 

“i know, right? i think she might like me- or maybe she likes you, i don’t know-”

“i’m pretty sure you’re the one she’s batting her lashes at, kook,” you snort, turning to glance back towards the front counter to see one of the girls staring in your guys’ direction with a dreamy smile on her face, “i feel like she’d behead me if i touched your brownie.” 

“it’s okay, we can still share it- oh my god, everything smells so good.” jungkook slides the box of garlic knots with a little cup of aioli sitting on top of it over to you, “let me get a couple of bites in before i start talking- you want a bite of pizza?”

“mm-mm, i’m fine with my garlic knots.” you smile, popping the flimsy paper box open and immediately being hit in the face with the rich scent of butter and garlic, “wanna try?” you ask, tearing a chunk off one of them before dipping it into the sauce

 “mm, gimme.” jungkook leans over before opening his mouth eagerly and chomping at the air and you can’t help but giggle before feeding him the bite

a minute or so ticks by where the two of you sit in comfortable silence and you chew thoughtfully as you stare out the window  

you feel good!

you feel good about this 

you feel like all the lights are green and all you have to do is rev the engine and slam down on the gas 

you know what to say, you know exactly how to say it, and you’ve planned out all possible routes of how this conversation with jungkook might go 

a) the 'oh my god, this is really happening’ scenario: you tell him you like him, he tells you he likes you back = you’ll enjoy each other’s company for the rest of lunch and maybe he’ll hold your hand when he walks you to your next class afterwards

b) the 'you’re a really good friend, but no’ scenario: you tell him you like him, he tells you that he doesn’t feel the same way and that he just wants to be friends = you tell him that it’s completely fine and that you’ll get over it, you’ll enjoy each other’s company for the rest of lunch and afterwards he will definitely not hold your hand when he walks you to your next class which is fine because friends don’t hold hands with friends 

c) the ‘yikes, this is awkward’ scenario: you tell him you like him, he reacts with discomfort and mild disgust = you’re slightly offended but you still tell him that you understand anD that you’re willing to give him as much time and space as he needs, and you’ll walk to class alone 

...you really, really hope it’s not the last scenario that unfolds. 

“-said yes!” jungkook slaps a hand down on the sticky metal counter before letting out a laugh, “can you believe it?”

oh god

you’ve been so in your head this whole time that you completely missed the exciting news that jungkook was waiting all day to tell you about 

do you want to ask him to repeat himself or do you want to pretend like you were listening to him the whole time? 

“that’s... i’m so... happy for you...?” you trail off sheepishly, jungkook turning to look at you before snorting 

“you weren’t listening to me, were you?” 

“i was!” you argue before gesturing out the window, “i totally was, i was just- i was just a little distracted because of the pigeons outside-” 

“okay, well, let me just tell you again-” jungkook wipes his greasy fingers on a napkin before turning to face you slightly, his knees knocking against the side of your legs, “i finally did it. i finally grew a pair and i finally asked ji-eun out and she said YES!” 

“hey, look at you go! that’s so-” you immediately clam up when his words finally settle into the deepest depths of your brain and you feel your heart plummet to your stomach 

oh 

...

oh. 

well, it looks like you weren’t as prepared as you thought you were 

d) the ‘i just asked someone out so i clearly don’t have feelings for you’ scenario: you don’t get a chance to tell jungkook about your feelings for him, jungkook tells you that he likes someone else, and you... 

what do you do? 

“hey, what’s the matter?” jungkook frowns, tilting his head before reaching over to give your shoulder a shake, “you haven’t said anything in, like, a minute.”

you didn’t even know he was interested in someone else 

the name ji-eun sounds a little familiar to you — now that you think about it, you’re fairly sure jungkook’s brought her up before (something something i sit next to this girl something something she’s nice and she let me borrow a pen something something along those lines) 

she’s in his sociology class, you think?

“-great!” you blurt out, forcing a bright smile on your face as you look over at him, “sorry, i just- i was just processing your great news so i guess my brain just shut off for a second- that’s so... great, kook. super great.” 

“isn’t it?!” jungkook clasps his hands together before taking his bottom lip in between his teeth, his eyes all wide and twinkly, “i mean, i was actually surprised she said yes, you know? i practiced what i was going to say to her all week- i stumbled over my words a couple of times but if anything i think she found it endearing...” 

jungkook’s voice starts to fade out in the background as you turn to look back out the window

the chunk of bread in your mouth feels like it’s getting bigger and bigger as you continue to chew 

suddenly you’ve lost your appetite 

okay

well 

this is... this is fine. 

this is fine, right? 

if anything, this is great news! 

at least now you know that jungkook definitely doesn’t feel the same way, which is... fine! 

it’s fine

and it’s a good thing that he started babbling first because you can’t even imagine what would’ve happened if you’d spewed your news out first

once again: crisis averted! 

you let out a little sigh as your shoulders droop slightly

you had prepared yourself for what to do if jungkook didn’t feel the same way about you... so why does it feel like you’re flailing around in the middle of the ocean trying desperately to keep your head above the water? 

“to be honest, i probably wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t for what you said to me in the library last week,” jungkook hums, “you know, about how you should go for it otherwise you’ll be left wondering ‘what if’ for the rest of your li-”

“yeah, yeah, i remember.” you interrupt him a little more crassly than intended before reminding yourself to loosen up, “i- yeah. i remember. i’m glad i could help.” 

“oh, and you have to help me plan the date- everything has to be perfect.” jungkook reaches over to poke a finger into your arm, “you know i’m no good at all the mushy romance stuff, but you certainly are.” 

“well, i-” you let out a nervous chuckle before shrugging, “i mean, everyone’s different, you know? i, um... i don’t know if it’s a good idea that i help you plan out the date and stuff because- you know, i... i don’t know anything about ji-eun! you know more than i do, so i probably won’t be able to-”

“i feel like dinner and a movie would be super boring.” jungkook sighs as he folds his grease-stained paper plate in half before pushing it away, “i mean, i definitely still wanna take her out for food and stuff, but-”

“i would argue that a dinner and a movie is a good first date,” you shake your head, “you know, you get to talk and get to know each other during the dinner, and then during the movie, you don’t have to talk to each other for like, an hour and forty minutes so you get a bit of break.” 

“i mean, i guess, but... oh, shit, i’m sorry.” jungkook winces, suddenly perking up a little, “you said you wanted to talk to me about something, right? tell me about your thing first before we plan my date.”

“my thing?” your lashes flutter and you feel your ears starting to get hot at the reminder of what exactly your thing is, “oh, god, i- it’s nothing, now that i think about it. it was something... it was something silly, so- like, i don’t even remember what i wanted to- it’s stupid. it was stupid, it’s nothing.” you chuckle uncomfortably as you rub at the back of your neck, “let’s just keep- let’s just keep planning your date! i wanna keep planning your date.” 

“okay, well- if you change your mind at any point, i’m all ears.” 

“mhm.” you nod as you swirl the chunk of bread around in the aioli absentmindedly before letting go of it, “got it.”

“ooh, i’ve got it!” your eyes widen when jungkook suddenly reaches over and takes your hands in his, forcing your stool to swivel around so that you’re face-to-face with him, “imagine that i asked you out on a date.”

“u-us? on a date?” you swallow thickly, “that- that’s so dumb, kook-”

“no, listen, listen-” he chuckles, giving your hands a squeeze, “if i asked you out on a date, what would we do together?” 

“well, i...” you look down at your hands in his (and for a second you can’t help but feel as though your hands just fit together perfectly) as you think of what to say, “we... we like pizza, right? i think, like- we could order a pizza and a box of garlic knots and maybe have some kind of a picnic on the rooftop of your apartment building. i mean- you’d probably have to decorate the rooftop first with a bunch of little twinkly lights and you’d have to lay out a blanket and some pillows to make it comfortable, otherwise we’d just be sitting in the dark on the cold, hard ground, but- yeah. i... i think that would be really nice. because it’s an intimate setting and it gives us the chance to talk in private, and we could literally stay up there all night if we wanted to and... you know, watch the sun rise and stuff. so... if we went out on a date, that’s what we would do together.” 

the little voice in the back of your head suddenly reminds you (quite cruelly) that you, in fact, were not asked out by jungkook and you won’t be having a romantic rooftop picnic with him and you immediately pull your hands away from his before laughing nervously, “but you know, that’s just an idea, so you don’t have to take it.” 

your face feels hot as you turn away from jungkook and you look down at your cold garlic knots before reaching over to shut the lid and push it away 

“mm... no, i actually like that!” jungkook nods eagerly, “i like that a lot- i mean, a rooftop picnic is a little cheesy, but i think ji-eun will think it’s cute!” 

“great!” you clear your throat, “as long as ji-eun thinks it’s cute, i think it’s great-”

“will you help me set it up?” 

great. 

he’s really rubbing salt into your wound, isn’t he?

“i... of course! i would love to.” you smile stiffly before lifting the sleeve of your hoodie to check the time on your watch, “so, i'm gonna head out, i think- i need to get to my next class early if i wanna get a good spot-”

“mm, okay-” jungkook slurps up the rest of his coke before shaking the empty paper cup, “i can walk you there! i’m done for the day so i think i’m just going to go hang out in the library- ooh, i can plan out my date while i wait for you-” 

“oh, you don’t have to walk me to class, it’s fine.” you dismiss him with a flick of your wrist as you pull your backpack on, wanting desperately to just end the conversation so you can get the hell out of here, “i can just meet you in the library after i’m done.” 

“are you sure?” he frowns, reaching over to pick up your box, “hey, you didn’t finish your garlic knots-”

“i know, i just- i guess i wasn’t super hungry.” you shrug, “you can take them if you want! you paid for them, so...” 

“okay, in that case, i’m just gonna hang out here and finish up these knots and then i’ll go to the library.” jungkook plops back down on his seat before reaching over to punch your arm gently, “text me when you’re done, bud!” 

                                     »»————-　🖤　————-««

“-now, for this next portion, i just want you to take some notes down on your computers or your notebooks or whatever you have- think about any thematic concerns in the poem that stand out to you...” 

you draw circles on the blank page of your notebook in disinterest as the sound of your professor’s voice drones on and on in the background and your mind immediately takes you back to what just went down with jungkook

your hand freezes on the page and you let out a quiet little huff 

damnit!

you said that you weren’t going to be all mopey if things didn’t work out, but here you are, all sad and droopy and very much radiating woe-is-me energy 

all you know now is that you’re going to take your feelings out on a big ol’ pint of ice cream tonight 

by the way, you should probably throw out your little love letter because you certainly don’t need any embarrassing reminders of what you were going to say to jungkook 

you don’t even want to think about what could’ve happened if you told him you liked him before he told you that he’d just asked someone out 

you set your pen down before leaning down to unzip your backpack, reaching in and blindly rummaging around for a crumpled up piece of paper 

...

hm 

you frown, leaning down further to get your arm deeper into your bag

your fingers bump up against your planner, your wallet, your water bottle and your pencil case, but... 

that’s odd 

you roll your eyes in frustration as you pull your backpack up off the ground and plop it down on your lap with a fwump!, unzipping it all the way and opening it up so you can get a better look inside 

you pull everything out and set your belongings down on the small table one by one, being careful not to make too much noise as to distract the professor 

you’re more than confused as you stare into your empty bag after taking all the contents out of it 

what? 

where the hell is it? 

you reach into the side pockets and you’re disappointed when you end up pulling out old tissues and empty gum wrappers 

it’s not in the front pocket either — just your key, a pack of bubblegum, and a small bottle of hand sanitizer 

your brows knit together in deep thought as you settle back against your seat, your eyes flickering to the side as you- 

you immediately pale 

oh my god.

you’re positive that your heart stops beating for three whole seconds the moment you realize where exactly the note is — because no, you idiot, you didn’t shove it into your own bag earlier-

the note is in jungkook’s bag. 

🎙️help me help you make your wishes come true (send me a request!)

✨why don’t you explore the rest of the library while you’re here? (full fics!)

💫or perhaps you want something shorter to read? (drabbles/mini series like this one!)

🌟or something even shorter? (teeny tidbits!)

[ririglow]

.·:*¨¨*:·. needy

Joe Burrow x Reader

Warnings: Fluff(i guess? i kinda suck at it lol), language

Word count: 1.3k

Request : hi! can you please write a joe burrow fluff imagine where he is his usual confident self on the field and in the media but starts getting very overwhelmed so he becomes very clingy with the reader. she’s his comfort person so he needs her to bring him back down

Request: Can you please write an imagine with reader crushing on a tv show character and joe's not liking it? thank you!

A/N: Hope you don't mind me blending the two! also I didn't proof read this so, sorry for any mistakes :)

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Joe was in an internal crisis.

After beating the Kansas City Chiefs, a tight competition that the majority wanted to see fall, and successfully doing so he had a surge of media coverage, and the general public holding him in high regard. Whether it's his sense of style or cool and confident demeanor, everyone seems to notice his every move. However as the days came closer to the big event, the Bengals facing off the Rams one of the most important events of the year, his mind started to submerge into a great deal of pressure. Fearing if he would not live up to the expectations due to his new gain of popularity.

By all means, Joe had his moments of concerns and tensity. Majority of the time he would prevail, by keeping his stress in perspective and assuming a good solution. and it worked all the time.

All because of you.

The one that keeps him together, his mirror soul, you changed his entire world ever since he met you in college, your soft touches before a big game that never fails to leave chills up his spine, and erases any doubt he had in mind. As cliché as it sounds, you make everything that's shit, turn into gold.

Which is why he's currently koala cuddling you in your shared bed, as you were busy talking on the phone with one hand as your other ran through his hair.

You would always constantly tease him about him being so smitten with you, but he didn't care, never was the one to shy away from it because he knew you were just as well in love with him.

It seemed all the pressure and stress he had been feeling disappeared as soon as your eyes landed on him welcoming him in your embrace.

He was right where he wanted to be, him laying his head on your breast legs tangled together, as he listened to your steady heartbeat enjoy the comfort of your hand massaging his scalp.

That's until you made the motion of getting up.

He open his eyes while tightening his grip, cause you to grunt,

"Hold on a second-" You said to the other person on the phone putting yourself on mute, before looking down at Joe. "Hey babe, let go I need to get up."

Joe mentally groaned in no circumstances he wanted to leave your side, instead of complying he settled for acting like he didn't hear you letting out steady breaths as if he were in a nice deep sleep. It was silent for a few seconds, and for a moment he thought his little plan worked until your body stirred again, and again up till you eventually managed to pry him off you.

"Yeah sorry bout that, what you were saying?" You spoke into the phone, while making your way out of the bedroom oblivious to Joe opening his eyes watching you walk out.

Now he was alone with the warmth your body had left in the sheets, this isn't where he wanted to be, fuck no.

He yanked the sheets from his waist and stood up trailing behind you like a lost puppy, seeking your attention.

You were busy grabbing the pitcher of water from the fridge to notice him come up behind you snaking his arm around your midsection.

"What the-I'll call you later." You said to your friend, after your heart almost felt like it was going to burst out.

"you scared the hell outta me, I thought you were asleep?!" You exclaimed after getting off the phone.

"I was awake the entire time, why did you leave?" He mumbled into your neck, his warm breath sent shivers throughout your body.

"Because I was thirsty." You told him, trying to ignore his peppering little kisses on your shoulder and neck. Lately you notice him to be more touchy and clingy than he already is, you had no problem with it of course however you do know that whenever he is clingy it's more likely he's either ready to go to pound town with you or that he could very well be feeling stressed. You guess the latter since just last night he was destroying your guts....

"Hm." Was all he said, following you around the kitchen as you finished up your glass of water.

"Shouldn't you be getting ready for that one on one interview at five?" You said after placing the empty clean glass in the sink, before heading towards the living room, you didn't even have to look back to see if Joe was tagging along as well.

"Don't remind me." Joe groaned, pulling you into his lap by your waist, as you flicked on the TV. "Besides I'd rather be here with you"

You furrow your eyebrows, feeling him lay his head on your shoulder blade.

"As much as I like the sound of that, I thought you were excited about the interview?" You said deciding to binge watch "Good Girls" on Netflix, hearing Joe groaning at the choice of show, not because he thought it was bad but because of the character "Rio" is the real reason you watch it, even though you'd never admit it.

"I am, just everything seems to be overwhelming and I feel like my mind is everywhere right now." He paused, taking a deep breath, you could practically feel the stress coming off him.

"Anything that I can do to help?" You asked sincerely, bringing his hand that was wrapped around your waist to your face, pecking his knuckles.

"You being right here is enough." He said laying you down on the couch, comfortably getting situated behind you. "And are we seriously going to watch this?"

He watched as the beginning of the episode started with becky? no, bethany? he really couldn't put her name into place, running into Rio at the car dealer. Joe took a quick glance at you, narrowing his eyes when you chuckled at what the devilishly handsome character said.

"What's wrong with good girls?" You asked, keeping your eyes on the screen, while joe gently rubbed your tummy, a habit he grew whenever he felt the need to be close to you.

"It's not the girls I have the problem with." He grumbled childishly,

"You don't like rio?" You peeled your eyes away from the screen, to take a glance at him.

"That makes one of us...." He replied slyly,

"What's that supposed to mean?" You grinned already knowing what he was implying, and yes you have to admit you did have a teeny tiny crush on the fictional character.

He gave you a "really" look before replying.

"Aw, c'mon you eye this guy like a piece of candy every time you watch this."

"I do not, he's just a really good actor, arguably the best one on the show." You defended,

He nodded thoughtfully.

"So the best looking character just so happens to be the best actor on the show? okay got it!" He said sarcastically, while rolling his eyes.

"Hey! I didn't call him the best looking character you did." You chuckled as you were met with silence, titling your head up only to be met with his small pout.

"Aw, c'mere gimme a kiss." You teased, watching him fight back a smile as you climb on top of him peppering the kiss in the crook of his neck.

"Nope go kiss Rio." He said halfheartedly pushing you away, not really wanting you to get away from him. In fact he's relishing in your kisses, feeling like a little boy with his crush as his stomach flutters at the feeling of your soft lips.

You paused your kisses and sent him a tongue in-cheek smile. "Maybe I will." You pretended to get up off of him, but his arms were quick to wrap around your waist, pulling you underneath him.

"You're not going anywhere." He said as he listened to your comical laugh, not wanting to sound sappy but he's worries and hassle were long gone just for spending this amount of time with you.

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A/N: sorry for the crappy ending I finish this right after the super bowl (WHAT A BUMMER!!!!!)

[mercy-burning]

Affection

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: Spencer and Y/N decidedly hate each other. But when a near-death experience puts one of them in a coma, their mutual hatred might have to take a backseat— Or will it? Category: Angst / Happy Ending! + Humor and a lil bit of Fluff Content: Strong language, Reader is in a coma, mentions of injury, kissing Word Count: 2.6k

MASTERLIST

NOTE: This one’s for Pom’s ( @imagining-in-the-margins ) September Writing Challenge, Enemies To Lovers! I have another one coming up as well, but this idea wouldn’t get out of my head ever since I watched The Abyss with my dad and I had to get it out 😅 I hope you like it!!

———

I swear to fucking God, if this motherfucker really thinks he—

That was the last thing Y/N thought before she was knocked out cold.

With her line of work, it was natural to assume that she was thinking about the unsub, but unfortunately the criminal she and her team were tracking down was the farthest thing on her mind. Spencer would have chastised her for it— letting something else cloud her thoughts while she was in a dark alley, alone, and with a serial killer on the loose.

"You should be smarter than that!" she could hear him say in that high pitch he always carried when he was upset— especially with her. "If you don't get yourself killed one of these days, then it'll be the rest of us!"

Thinking about it made her blood boil.

"It's your fault," she wanted to tell him. "I had to blow off some steam because you were pissing me off!"

The only thing was... She couldn't tell him.

Well... She could.

He just couldn't hear her, because no one could.

It was like some stupid, cliché movie, where you found yourself standing over your dying body and having to choose whether to live or not. It seemed like the obvious choice, to fucking live, but... Y/N found herself wandering around her hospital room, yelling into the void and attempting to jump back into her own body.

Nothing was working.

And when Spencer showed up, his face red and his hair and clothes all messed up, she wanted to scream at him.

"Hey!"

Nothing. He was practically lifeless as he drifted to the chair next to her bed and sat down. It was nearly impossible to read from his expression and body language how he was feeling, and that alone was enough to make her angry again. (Not that the anger had really gone away since waking up next to her comatose body, of course.)

"Hey! Dumbass!"

Still nothing.

As Spencer just blankly stared down at Y/N's bed, she decided she'd had enough.

"SPENCER FUCKING REID, IF YOU DON'T HELP ME RIGHT NOW I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL HAUNT YOUR ASS UNTIL THE END OF ETERNITY, AND I'M GONNA LAY FAT, STINKIN' GHOST SHITS IN YOUR SHOES, DO YOU HEAR ME? AND—"

"I hate you."

It was a bold enough statement to stop Y/N in her tracks, no matter how quietly he'd mumbled it. She knew for sure that he didn't like her, after years of constant bickering and dirty glares and whatever else, but... The word 'hate' was like a knife that sliced through her joking rage and stopped the whole world around her.

If she wasn't already out of her own body, she just knew she would have felt her soul leave.

Spencer didn't hate anyone. Not that she was aware of, anyway. He found nearly everyone delightful, and vice versa... But for some reason, he hated Y/N.

She scoffed, crossing her arms. "Yeah, well... Feeling's mutual, I guess..."

"You're stupid, and reckless, and you don't think. And you're a goddamn nightmare to work with... You know what— You're a stone-cold bitch."

His words made her physically step backwards, and it felt like if she were a cartoon, there might have been steam coming out of her ears.

"Yeah, well jokes on you, you make it easy," she seethed. "Fuck you!"

"How... How dare you..." he continued, anger reddening his face.

Y/N watched as he balled his fists and leaned in a little closer to her body, his voice tight and strained. "How dare you walk into my life and boss me around and make it impossible to breathe... From the moment I met you, you've brought out this... this fire in me that I can't put out no matter how hard I try, and it's insufferable—You're insufferable, and I hate you, how dare—"

Whatever he was going to say next was cut off by a shortness of breath. Spencer breathed in, loud and choked, and the next breath he let out was nothing short of a sob. His eyes squeezed shut, tears rolling down them and his hands clutched the bedsheets with a vigor and rage that Y/N had never seen from him, even in all the years she'd spent visibly getting on his last nerves.

"N—No," she choked out, feeling her throat tighten. "Don't... Don't turn into a sappy mess on me now, do you hear me, Reid? You hate me, don't... Don't..."

"I don't hate you," he whispered, wiping his eyes and reaching out to grab her lifeless hand. "I hate that you make me feel this way, but... I could never hate you..."

She wanted nothing more than to be able to squeeze his hand back, to tell him, not even necessarily with words but with a simple gesture, that she was right there and wasn't going to go anywhere.

She just... had to figure out how to make that true.

Still, Spencer kept going, a small laugh bubbling up through tears and phlegm. "But I will hate you if you die, because I just know you're gonna come back and haunt me for eternity... Probably... shit in my shoes or something."

Y/N barked a laugh that was true and pure... Happy, even.

The genius may have acted like he hated her, but it turns out he knew her pretty well, perhaps even fondly in one way or another.

To think— All those years she spent seeing him sneer at her, feeling his glare burn into her soul, the amount of times she caught him making faces or inappropriate gestures behind her back, all of it... And the whole time, he was probably doing it with a little flicker of fondness deep within the confines of his heart, which he swore to fill with nothing but hatred for her.

The thought made the little flicker in her own heart burn brighter.

As she wandered closer to her bed, beside Spencer and in front of her own body, she reached her hand out to see if she could touch his face, to give him something...

Even though she had no luck, something shifted when he spoke.

"Just... Come back to me, please? I know I'm not good at apologizing, but if it means I get you back... I swear that I will make up every horrible thing I've ever done or said to you. Just... Please don't leave me."

He laid his head down in his hands and tried not to cry again, every said horrible thing replaying on a loop in his brain like some kind of taunt. He wished more than anything for a chance to make it up to Y/N, and now he might not ever be able to.

"You think I'd leave this mortal earth without getting the chance to kick your ass?"

Everything was so fuzzy and light and brimming with these high emotions that Y/N almost didn't realize she was saying these words and Spencer was hearing them. She almost didn't feel the warmth of her bloodstream beneath layers of skin, the beat of her heart slowly coming back to life at the sounds and smells of the hospital room.

She almost didn't realize that Spencer was grabbing her now, his warm hands covering her cold ones and bringing them back to life as well.

"Screw you," he breathed with absolutely no malice to be detected in his voice.

They shared a smile so bright, no one would have been able to guess that they never got along.

TWO WEEKS LATER

Not only was she stuck at home doing nothing while on suspension (Yes, it turns out that storming off into an alley and not paying attention while on the job, just because a co-worker pissed you off, can get you suspended by Chief Strauss), but Y/N was also being visited by a daily rotation of her co-workers and friends and family, and her house was nearly covered in flower bouquets and baked goods.

It was a nightmare.

The sentiment was nice, sure, but if she had to move one more vase, she was going to start throwing them.

God, maybe Spencer was right, I am a stone-cold bitch...

Thinking of him also put a little damper on her mood.

He hadn't been to visit her once... And she figured that after their nice little moment at the hospital, he'd at least stop by with flowers or an "I'm glad you're not dead!" call, but there was nothing on his end. Not even a text message or a letter.

But for all she knew, their small moment of kindness could have been a figment of her concussed imagination.

Please, she thought, if I brought it up to him he'd probably just laugh in my face.

Rather than a laugh, Y/N heard the bright sound of her doorbell, which normally would have meant a fun unexpected visit or a date she was getting ready for, but by now it only meant another vase of flowers or a pie from a neighbor she still didn't remember the last name to.

Either way, she answered the door with as polite a smile as she could muster, and instead of finding a vaguely familiar neighbor or acquaintance, she found Spencer.

Though, to be fair, he was holding a bouquet of flowers.

"Well, this is a surprise," Y/N drawled, crossing her arms. "I don't even think you've ever been to my house."

She was surprised to see him nervous around her, rather than irritated. And she would have found it endearing had they not been practically mortal enemies from the moment they met... She was suspicious.

"O—Oh, yeah... I know, I just thought... I wanted to come see how you were doing... These are for you."

He held out the flowers, which were truthfully the pretties set she'd received, and it irked her. Because of course he of all people would be the one to tell which kinds of flowers she'd prefer.

"Thanks," she said, taking them from him and allowing him the space to come inside. "Watch out, it's a maze in here..."

While she looked for somewhere to put the flowers on display, she could feel Spencer looking around her space, probably profiling what he could behind a sea of flowers.

"Hm."

Y/N sighed. "What?"

"Nothing. I'm just... I'm surprised this many people actually like you."

Despite the nature of his observation, she found it comforting. That level of playful contempt was what she was used to, and it brought a sparkle to her eye as she turned to face him. "Ha... I'm not a complete bitch, you know."

"Sure."

Between the growing grin on his face and the smirk forming on her own, Spencer and Y/N found themselves falling back into a familiar rhythm. And yet, something about it was still... different.

So much so that Y/N felt honest-to-God butterflies in her stomach when he approached, hands retreating from his pockets and head tilting off to the side. His expression held that look he got when he was trying to figure someone out, usually an unsub. She hated to admit it to herself, but a little part of her always found that side of him extremely attractive.

And now that it was right in front of her?

She didn't know what to make of it.

"What?" she snapped, looking for an excuse to hide any and all attraction she was feeling.

Spencer stepped back a little, breaking away from whatever trance he'd just been in. "God, why do you always have to do that?"

"Do what?"

"You push away every single show of affection! Any time I'm trying to be nice, you just act like it's some big inconvenience to you!"

Y/N laughed. "Ha! That's what that was? Just now? When you insulted me, and then started stalking towards me with that look you get when you're interrogating an unsub? That's what you call affection?"

"That's not... That's not what that was!"

"Oh really? Then what was it?"

"It was part of the routine! Banter! Y—You know, that's our thing! We insult each other, and we act like we hate each other but we... We don't, really..."

The longer he went on, the faster her heart raced. This was the moment in the movie where he inevitably blurted out that he loved her, and in turn she would either kiss him or slap him, or slap him and then kiss him...

But Y/N was still feeling rather playful despite the swarm of butterflies in her stomach begging for some relief.

"Oh?" she prompted, taking a slow step closer to him. "We don't?"

Spencer seemed to get red immediately, and he avoided her eyes. "U—Uh... Well I... I thought... Maybe I read it all wrong, a—and I'm sorry if I did..."

She'd been getting closer meanwhile, and now they were practically toe-to-toe. He did his best to ignore her, taking a few steps back until she cornered him against the front door. And with the way he wasn't doing anything to get out of his predicament, she took that as his acceptance and took another leap.

"What..." she cooed, crawling her fingers up the front of his chest like a spider. "You like me? Hmm?"

When he finally looked down at her, she allowed herself to smile, albeit slowly and with calculation.

In a flash Spencer went from nervous to fed-up, weight seeming to visibly lift from his chest as he sank against the door. "You're messing with me..."

"It's so fun."

"You know what, screw you."

"Is that a promise?"

"Maybe it is. What are you gonna do ab—"

She didn't let him finish.

In an instant, Y/N lunged forward and pulled him down for a kiss.

Even though she thought he might have tried to take control of the situation, he ended up surprising her with a wanton moan as his hands clutched at her sides, holding on for dear life. Their bodies and tongues collided in a mess of years worth of pent-up tension, chaotic and wild and fiercely beautiful in a way that put even the greatest first kisses to shame.

And of course, Spencer had to go and ruin it.

He pushed her away and looked almost panicked. "W—Wait, are you even cleared to do this?"

Y/N rolled her eyes, reaching out for him again. "I'm fine."

"Y/N, you were in the hospital! I thought... I thought you were..."

She appreciated the sentiment, but with her entire body on fire from his touch, she decided she needed more of it. "Yeah, but I'm not... I'm very much alive, and you know what?"

He blinked back at her, watching carefully as she leaned in close to him and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"It's because of you. You make me feel... more alive than I've ever been."

"And... You're not messing with me this time?"

With a laugh,  Y/N shook her head and leaned up to brush her nose with his. "Nuh-uh... But if you'd like to, I'd love to mess with you in a more fun way. And maybe I'll even let you do it back..."

Spencer hummed, feeling himself gravitate towards her more with every passing second. "Deal."

He barely got the word out all the way before she was dragging him through the maze of flora and contained food and into her bedroom, where piece by piece, their hatred and fondness for one another combined to create the most exquisite of nights.

———

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[animeyanderelover]

What would happen if the Yanderes! Diabolik Lovers (your preference) if they fell in love with a reader being a werewolf?

I could cry because my holidays are almost over...

Tw: Yandere themes, unhealthy mindset, unhealthy relationship, possessiveness, obsessiveness, manipulation, gaslighting, paranoia, delusions, stalking

Werewolf s/o

Yui Komori

💎Yui tends to trust her s/o really easily since they’re basically her everything, her safe home where she knows she can cry and run too when she needs comfort. So she won’t have too much of a problem with her darling being a werewolf. The girl is a very understanding and gentle soul and she knows that her s/o has a soft spot as well, otherwise she wouldn’t be as much in love as she is right know. Specifically her past with the Mukami’s and Sakamaki’s has shaped her quite a bit which is why she wouldn’t be able to live someone who wouldn’t be a caring person. She’s instead far more terrified that you might get in risky situations because you’re a werewolf and get hurt, seeing you in pain or possibly losing you is the scariest thing in the world, nothing could possibly compare to this pain. She kind of stays back because she’s just very bashful and because she is unsure how to bring that topic up to you that she knows. She’ll eventually find a way though.

Ruki Mukami

📘You could compare Ruki maybe just a little bit to Reiji since both have a somewhat stricter schedule in mind for their s/o, though Ruki is still by far more subtle than the pureblooded vampire is. Finding out that he has fallen for someone who is a werewolf is something Ruki actually minds a bit, there is a slight problem he finds himself having with this. It’s probably less because he has to wonder how much your strength is equal to him since he’s a little bit of a control freak, it’s more about the fact that it’s a typical cliché that werewolves and vampire don’t get along that well. He’s worried for the safety of his brothers and since he does not know how savage and aggressive his s/o can get in their transformed body, he’s careful, warily and still slightly irritated with the fact that he loves a werewolf. Sadly having to fear that the old stories of your kind not liking his applies to you as well awakens his paranoia here and there.

Kou Mukami

🎤His reaction to finding out that his darling isn’t a human and instead a werewolf is rather surprise and a little shock, but he won’t really feel any sort of regret over it nor will he be a small drop outraged like his older brother. Sure, Kou needs a little bit time to digest this information, but after that is done he simply continues loving them. There is a reason why he started being so infatuated in the first place and that reason doesn’t change because you’re a supernatural species. Most importantly, your heart is still the same despite being a creature of another world. Kou can see right through you with his magical eye, you know? He can tell the difference between a bad person and a good person and his darling belongs in the latter. Kou isn’t going to just stay back though, he tries something that he can’t do exactly easily, he attempts to bond with his s/o through talking with them and getting to know them better. He’d get impatient though if he realizes his darling avoids or finds him distasteful for being a vampire.

Yuma Mukami

🌱Yuma undergoes the process of an inner conflict just as much as Ruki does since both initially somehow struggle with the knowledge that they have a rather unhealthy crush for a werewolf. Yuma’s in general not someone who likes admitting that he has fallen in love with anyone, especially since he is far from being delusional. He just isn’t able to comprehend why from all people in this world a werewolf had to be the one he has gotten himself obsessed with and even if he does avoid you at the beginning a lot, at the same time he tries in vain to find the reason to why that is so. He acts rude somewhat visibly, not like Ruki with his cold demeanor. It’s a seldom situation where he has felt so conflicted and he’d like to pretend that he doesn’t care at all, but maybe he knows somewhere deep down that this statement is far from the truth. That’s why he reacts kind of sensitive if he discovers that you don’t like him for being a vampire.

Azusa Mukami

🔪I don’t see Azusa minding at all which really just puts him in the same category as Yui. This impure vampire really only cares about his darling and is the needy kind so it doesn’t matter if his darling is a vampire, a human or a werewolf, he’s smitten badly in either way. Some of his brothers probably react a bit more negatively than Azusa himself, but the green-haired man has already fallen into the black rabbit hole of obsession and there is no way out so they will just have to live with it. Listen, he would really love to talk for once with you, but various factors always hold him back. For once he already gets so incredibly flustered when darling walks past him so that talking seems like too much. Second of all he doesn’t feel deserving enough and third of all he as well shies away out of fear that you might like him exactly because of the race he belongs to, even if he isn’t pureblooded. The end is most likely the same, he ends up silently suffering.

[godlessandwrecked]

you all over me | r. lupin

It’s been a year. A year of letting his tea go cold and sleeping in until late. He can still smell her perfume in the air and feel her hand on his, but it’s nothing but an illusion. All he has left assuring him he’s still alive is the pain he feels for the heart he broke.

part 1 part 3

WORD COUNT: 5,8k

PAIRING: remus lupin x female reader (sirius’ sister, no physical descriptors)

CONTENTS: more heartbreak and very depressing, self-loathing thoughts / remus being a mess I’m so sorry / mentions of a toxic arranged marriage and divorce / mentions of food / bittersweet ending

A/N: (this is a repost, the original is an oc version) I explored both their povs on this one, as well as some flashbacks for more context into their relationship. still trying to figure out the third and final part. hope you love it x

“Don’t move.”

“I’m not moving,” he insists again.

“Yes, you are. Your head’s gonna end up all wonky.”

“Don’t make me look ugly, Black.”

“I couldn’t even if I tried,” she winks at him, his heart skipping a beat.

He knows she’s only joking, but he can’t help the childish flutter in his stomach at her words. 

The air is washed up with the golden hue of early May, a tender breeze blowing. The trees are thick with new leaves, all different shades of vibrant green; the grass growing tall and equally as bright, splattered with wildflowers in all different shades.

The birds are chirping animatedly and summer is heavy in the air. Students are running up and down the hills of the grounds of the castle, cheering happily, some even jumping into the lake due to the unusually hot temperatures. The summer holidays are close, and it’s evident by the excitement in the castle. 

Remus has discarded his sweater, leaving him only in his white dress shirt and black pants, and he’s laying down on the soft grass under the willow overlooking the Black Lake, a book in his hand as he tries to sit as still as he can so she can draw his portrait. He looks happy and relaxed, his cheeks tinted pink by the sun.

Meanwhile, she has chosen to change out of her more restricting robes after finishing their classes for the day, opting for a sheer flowy blouse adorned with flowers the same colour as her eyes and a pair of navy blue linen shorts. Her hair is pulled back with an ornate antique pin that’s surely a family heirloom, some strands of hair falling on her face that she keeps blowing away when they get into her eyes. A sketchbook rests on her crossed legs as she draws on it, and when she’s not reprimanding Remus for moving or trying to sneak glances at the parchment, she’s biting her lip in silent concentration as she works. 

She works smoothly and intentionally, moving the pencil over the parchment in quick, sporadic strokes, sketching silently. You can tell she’s had training and knows what she’s doing, what every stroke of her hand is meant to do, but her work is much more chaotic than what she’s been taught—more soulful and carefree. She keeps switching her glance between Remus and her work, intently and carefully observing every crevice of him and depicting it onto the paper. 

She’s asked Remus to just relax and lay as he normally would, to keep on minding his business and reading as if she weren’t sketching him, but it proves to be difficult under her gaze. She makes his stomach flutter in the most novel-worthy, cliché way, and it makes him nervous, but inevitably excited too. 

“Okay, I think this is good,” she says, placing the pencil down and studying her finished product. “Here,” she hands him the sketchbook and he picks it up with gentle fingers, inspecting her work with curious eyes.

He’s laying down sideways, his body propped up on his forearm and knee bent in a relaxed position. Everything is there: his messy streaks of sandy hair that are shining under the sun, falling down his face; his defined jawline and the faint scar across the bridge of his nose; his long eyelashes resting at the top of his cheekbones as he gazes down into the book he’s reading, long fingers spread out over the roughed up hardback cover… Every little detail.

And as if for the first time, Remus is seeing himself in a different light. From her own perspective, he almost thinks he looks beautiful. He’s not sure if this is truly what he looks like, but he realizes it is how she actually sees him, and even if for a moment he doesn’t believe it, the next second he just wants to kiss her and never let her go. 

“What? You don’t like it?” she chuckles after a few long seconds pass of Remus silently staring at the drawing.

“I love it,” he says, reaching for her hand and interlocking their fingers.

He’s a bubbly, giddy mess. There’s a silly, lovesick smile plastered on his face, and he can’t even hide it. He just wants to kiss her, hold her. He wants to get lost in her intoxicating presence and flowery perfume, and he wants to listen to her talk forever; stare at her as she banters on and on about the things she loves. He wants everything with her. He wants her. 

Their eyes meet.

She’s smiling softly, staring at him like she’s waiting for him to do something. Anything. He notices her breath catches, and his does too.

They’re sitting so close from each other that he can see the pure color of her irises; the parting of her lips as she takes in a raggedy breath; the soft flutter of her lashes. He’s leaning in, swallowing hard, and he’s so close to finally kissing her, so close…

• • •

“Moony,”

The sound of the blinds being harshly pulled up hits him before the bright sunlight does, startling him from his restless sleep and sending his head spinning, the sun burning through his closed eyelids.

“Get up, come on, mate.” 

He barely opens one of his eyes at the voice, squinting with the other, and sees the broad shoulders and dark head of hair of his best friend. 

“It’s 2:00 pm, I’m not letting you sleep in any longer.”

Sirius harshly pulls at Remus’ pillow, making his head fall onto the mattress limply. He groans angrily and pulls the covers over his head, cocooning himself in his duvet and sheltering himself from his friend’s attack.

“Remus, get,” Sirius hits his head with the pillow. “Up!” he hits him again.

“Leave me alone,” Remus mumbles into the mattress.

He’s sweaty and he’s sure he stinks, but he doesn’t dare get out from under the covers or peel the sheets off his body, feeling like the longer he stays hidden under his duvet, the longer he can go on without having to face the real world. 

“Get up, come on. I have a date and you have to help me iron my shirt.”

“Do it yourself,” Remus groans exasperatedly.

“Hey, no, come on, Moony. You know it always looks like shit when I do it,” Sirius complains.

He contemplates telling him to go fuck himself, but he holds back. He’s been enough of an asshole as of late. It’s probably best if he gets up and tries to fill his head with something else that has nothing to do with her.

He tries to shake off the dream he’s been abruptly awakened from. It was more a memory than a dream, really—a memory of a simpler and happier time. When he’d been foolish enough to think everything would be alright. He’d been so sure of it while being by her side. 

He reluctantly gets up, slowly, like his own existence is weighing heavy on him, and terribly pissed off that his friend is only making him get up for his shirt ironing skills. He strolls to the kitchen, dragging his feet over the hardwood, and sits down on one of the stools facing the counter.

He has felt hungover without even having a sip of alcohol for months now, and today is no different. His stomach feels hollow, his mouth dry and his eyes heavy; there’s a slight pound in his head that seems to be everlasting now, and every muscle in his body is sore. He knows he can’t go on like this for much longer, but he doesn’t really care about what or how he feels anymore, so he just goes on. 

Because he can’t escape her. Even if he tries, even if he really wants to—which, to be fair, he truly doesn’t. She’s his best friend’s twin sister, and not only can he see her every time he looks him in the eyes, but Sirius is very close to her and goes to see her at least once a week, so Remus gets constant news about her life. 

Thankfully, Sirius has learned to not talk about her too much when he’s around Remus, although that proves to be difficult considering they live together in a small flat in London.

Remus tries to act like he doesn’t care, hoping he can fool himself into believing he doesn’t love her anymore, but it’s not really working. It never does. It only manages to piss him off terribly, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth for the rest of the day. A sting that lingers until he goes back to sleep and sees her once more in his dreams, only to be woken up to hurt and disappointment, bound to an endless cycle that he can’t escape. 

He takes a small bite out of the toast Sirius has made him. Every day he wonders why he sticks around and takes care of him even after he has hurt his sister so bad.

All of his friends have stuck with him the whole time, even when he’s acting like an asshole to them. Lily comes by often, baring gifts of chocolate and new books she thinks he might like; James with her, cracking jokes that normally would‘ve had him dying laughing on the floor. Their attempts at lifting up his spirits never really work. He just sits there impassively, zoning out and feeling numb as the world moves on around him in hazy shades of monotone grey.

He hasn’t dared to see her since he left her in that cold courtyard, and it’s already been a year. A year of letting his tea go cold; of making up excuses just so he doesn’t have to see her, because her friends are the same as his; a year of laying awake thinking of her, and dreaming of her, and sleeping in until late so he doesn’t have to keep thinking about her. The days are long and the nights even longer.

He can’t forget about a girl he has never had in the first place. How pathetic? She’s never been truly his, but he can’t move on. He can’t and he doesn’t want to.

The burn of her absence is a constant reminder that he is still alive and breathing. The hole she has left in him is eating him alive. And the guilt. The worse part of it all is the guilt. It’s his fault that he has lost her. It’s him who had left her standing there in the dark. He’s the one who had walked away, not her. And he makes sure to remind himself of it every single day.

He walks to the bathroom and discards his clothes, jumping into the shower and receiving the first shock of cold water gratefully. It leaves his mind blank and soothes the ache in his muscles, washing away the numbness, but still, he can’t stop his mind from wandering.

He finds himself constantly wondering if he had truly done the right thing that August night. If severing the ties with her completely had paid off.

Deep down, he knows it hasn’t. He had broken her heart, and for what? He thinks about her almost all the time. She takes up all space in his mind constantly, haunting him endlessly even in dreams.

She’s still all over him, like a bruise that isn’t quite fading. He sees her eyes when he closes his. He can still smell her perfume in the air, hear the sweet melodies of her voice dripping off her lips like honey, feel her hand on his, but she’s not really there. It’s all nothing but an illusion. A ghost of what things used to be like.

Most of all he wonders if she’s happy. Or at least content. Going to tea parties with other housewives, tending to her new home and shopping for expensive things her husband pays for—not doing all the things she has always wanted to do.

Remus knows she’s not. It’s not what she’s ever wanted for her life, but he’s better off believing that she’s learned to enjoy it. At least so he doesn’t drown in a pool of self loathing. He could have been the one to pull her out of the hole they’d dug for her. She had begged him to do so, begged him to run away with her, to make her happy. And he’d rejected her. 

She had sent him a wedding invitation, so obnoxiously decadent with peacock feathers and gold leaves, and he was sure he could have thrown up at its sight if it wasn’t for the pang of pain he had felt in his heart. But he hadn’t attended her wedding, he hadn’t dared.

Sirius had left him a photo of her in the stupid white dress, thinking he would want to see it. And he did. He did want to see her, but not in a wedding dress when she was marrying someone else and against her will.

He’d stared at it for hours. Her hair was in a half-updo, falling down her exposed back, wild flowers decorating it; her dress stark white with long, sheer sleeves, adorned with small crystals that twinkled in the light. She looked beautiful, and he was sure the choice in her dress had been hers and hers only.

At least she had gotten to choose that.

He’d kept the picture in the drawer of his night table, not daring to throw it away nor look at it for any longer. 

He steps out of the shower, quickly dries himself and puts on clean clothes, not feeling much better than before. He walks back to the living room to sit on his usual spot on the couch by the window and turns the television on.

He just sits there, like every other day. Water droplets drip down from his still wet hair and pool onto the floor, but he doesn’t even notice, too lost in thought as he stares past them. The soft humming of the tv drones in the background. He doesn’t really watch it. Some time in between, Sirius leaves, and he murmurs a goodbye. The hours go by, the pool on the floor dries, leaving a faint stain on the wood. 

A hurried knock on the door breaks him out of his daydream.

He stares at it from his seat on the couch and reluctantly gets up, walking towards it in slow steps. He thinks it’s probably the lady who lives right across from them, again, coming to see if he’ll be a good dear and help her find her cat, again.

He’s opening the door uninterestedly, ready to tell her it’s not a good time so he can run back to the couch and keep wallowing in self pity, but nothing could have quite prepared him for what he sees on the other side.

For a moment he thinks he has finally gone completely nuts and he’s now starting to see visions of her. And the next second, he’s thinking she’s actually died and her ghost is coming to haunt his ass for being a douchebag, like Sirius said she would if he didn’t get it together. 

“Y/N.”

•••

Remus is laying on the hospital bed after another rough night. The full moon has hit him extra hard this month and by the damage he’s done to himself, he can only guess he’d been more aggressive and ruthless than usual. Thankfully, his friends had come out unharmed, but the thought of what could have happened still weighs heavy on him.

His mood in the mornings after is always the same: gloomy, grumpy, self-loathing. The only thing that always manages to lift up his mood is her. Always her. 

This morning is no different. As soon as Madam Pomfrey had opened the doors of the hospital wing for visits, she had barged in, sporting a warm and comforting smile, her hands bursting with the unmistakable Honeydukes bags full of sweets and chocolate she’d picked up for him. He’d made his usual joke about her being his saving grace, putting on a playful voice and throwing his hands up, just to see her smile and tell him it’s not that big of a deal. He always truly means it.

“I got your favorite chocolate, as always,” she says, handing it to him. “And chocolate frogs, and toffees. Oh, and pumpkin pasties and fudge flies,” she pulls each one out of the light pink colored bags, laying them on his lap and stacking them on top of each other, a mountain of sweets slowly forming on the bed as she pulls out more and more treats. 

“You mean you got everything?” he laughs.

“Well, yeah. I couldn’t decide,” she laughs with him, suddenly very aware she has, in fact, gotten pretty much everything available in the shop. “Anything for my Moony.” 

“You didn’t have to.”

It has always impressed him how okay she is with the fact that he is a werewolf, how it didn’t seem to change her opinion of him. If anything, finding out had only made her even more supporting and protective of him. He doesn’t quite get it. 

“I wanted to,” she says casually, reaching for his hand. She intertwines her fingers with his, giving him a reassuring squeeze and a warm smile when she notices his mind slipping away into the gnashing teeth of self-doubt. “Anyway, I’m sorry you missed it,” she says as she chews on the head of a chocolate frog, referring to their visit to Hogsmeade the day before. He’d had to stay behind due to the full moon. “We can go together next Saturday.” 

“I’d like that,” he says as he pops a piece of chocolate into his mouth.

Stuffing yourself with sweets this early in the morning is probably not the best idea, but it’s their thing and he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

He’s in pain, every muscle in his body aches and the ointment applied to the new scratches he’s caused himself burns, but her company makes for the best medicine.

When she had first found out about his condition, he was terrified of letting her see him like this. He felt ashamed and he didn’t want her to pity him, but if there’s one thing she has always been when it comes to him, is stubborn. She hadn’t stopped until she’d been let in. Now she comes to see him every time and he receives her with open arms and a feeble, exhausted smile.

The feelings he had started to feel for her had been inevitable. At first, when he was still just a kid, it had been nothing but a silly crush on his best friend’s sister. He barely knew her and in his eyes she was this perfect, untouchable thing that he was fine with admiring from afar. Years had gone by and he’d gotten to know her better, they’d become close. He’d trusted her with his deepest, darkest thoughts, and so had she. She’d become his biggest confidant and support. 

“We’ll go to The Three Broomsticks and drink all the warm butterbeer, and then we’ll go to Honeydukes and get more of that new treacle fudge they’ve just got in. Or we can even borrow a sleigh and…” she banters animatedly with excited eyes. 

Their friendship had slowly evolved through the years, and now, whatever had blossomed between them hangs around them like this delicate, unspoken thing that they both know about but are too afraid to speak of—a sheer electricity suspended in the air that’s almost palpable. They are both too scared of making the first move, but he’s okay with things being left unsaid for the moment, as long as he can be by her side. 

•••

She hesitated a few times before knocking on the dark wooden door, but seeing him standing there now, all doe green eyes and disheveled sandy hair, she knows she’s made the right choice. 

“Hi,” is all she manages to say.

Her voice is frail and trembling and she’s looking at him longingly, as taken aback by his sight as he is by hers. And she’s suddenly transported back to that summer night.

She’d rehearsed what she would say to him once she saw him over and over again as she walked to his place, but she has completely forgotten now. 

There’s a few seconds of silence and then, “Sirius is not here,” he chokes out.

Ouch. 

She knows he’s not.

Be there at five p.m. on the dot, he’d been very clear. I told him I was going on a date, so he’ll be home alone. 

“I know. I wanted to see you.”

She feels bad about ambushing him like this when he doesn’t want to see her, but she had to do it. It doesn’t hurt anymore that he has avoided her for months, it has just become annoying, because even after everything that has happened between them, he’s still her friend and she damn right wants to see him, even if he doesn’t seem to share the sentiment. 

He doesn’t reply. He just stares at her, mouth slightly agape. He looks like he’s about to burst into tears.

I’ve been dying a little bit for a year for every single day I didn’t get to see you. Please, say something, Remus. Please.

But he doesn’t. And a few more seconds pass. 

“I shouldn’t have come,” she shakes her head rapidly, looking down at the floor in disappointment. “I know you don’t want to see me. I should go, I’m sorry.”

And she’s leaving, turning her back to him and walking back down the stairs.

She hopes he realizes he’s being an idiot and he’s letting her go again. She really hopes, closing her eyes and holding her breath as she steps away from the door, the seconds elongating as she awaits for something. Anything. 

Please, not again. Just say something, Remus.

“Wait,”

Thank Godric.

She exhales. She almost wants to jump around in excitement, a spark of hope burning in her chest, but she swallows it down, turning back around to face him. His expression is softer now, and for a moment she thinks he’s looking at her like he used to before. When everything was okay.

“Come in, please.”

He guides her into the apartment, trailing behind her, still silent. They walk past a tiny red tailed kitchen towards the living room, where a brown leather couch sits, a coffee table in front of it and a tv soundlessly playing some program she doesn’t recognize. The small flat is tidier than she had expected, knowing her brother.

Remus gestures for her to sit on the couch, and he sits down beside her, fiddling with his hands and biting the inside of his cheek nervously out of habit. 

“D’you want something to drink? Tea? Water?”

She almost snorts.

She shakes her head and declines his offer politely, a faint smile on her lips. “Of course that’s the first thing you say to me after a year. I really missed you.”

His expression is so sad, dark rims around his glassy grass green eyes, and she notices he’s a little paler and lankier than the last time she saw him, the sweater hanging off his shoulders a little looser. She knows he’s not been treating himself very well by the things Sirius has told her, and she just wishes things had been different. 

She can’t wait any longer.

She pulls him to her in a comforting hug, and he instantly wraps his arms around her tightly, like he’s been waiting for this too for a long time and he’s afraid she’s going to slip away from his fingers.

She hears him starting to cry silently on her shoulder, and once he starts he can’t stop. He cries for all the months he hasn’t, for all the months he’s held it in. He sobs into the crook of her neck, mumbling apologies, and she strokes his back, assuring him it’s okay and that it doesn’t matter. They sit like that for a few minutes, heart to heart, in each other’s embrace.

Funnily enough, she’s the one comforting him, and not the other way around, but she’s not so sure everything that has happened really matters anymore, if anything, it has helped her see things in a different light.

She doesn’t hold any resentment for him, at least not anymore. She knows why he did it, knows it took everything in him to leave that courtyard that night—to leave her. His insecurities had gotten the best of him, and she couldn’t blame him. He broke her to pieces, left her on her own when she needed him the most, but she’s forgiven him long ago. She misses him too much to be mad at him anymore, and as he clings to her with tears running down his face, everything is forgotten, and forgiven.

She’s done months and months of thinking, of replaying that night in her head, of analyzing their whole relationship through the years. Had she asked too much of him? She’d asked him to run away with her and blindly trust her by leaving it all behind. They were only eighteen, and though she’s always been so sure of her feelings for him and she well knows they were reciprocated, she had come to the conclusion that he had been right.

They were just two kids, with nothing to their name but their love. Had she been as important to him as he had been to her? She knows she had, and for all she cares, that’s all that matters. 

“I’m so sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry,” he manages to say in between sobs, burying his head in the crook of her neck.

She holds him a little tighter, like he’ll be taken away from her again at any moment. He feels like home, and for the first time in a year, she feels completely safe again, in his arms.

“Remus,” she cradles his face, making him look at her as she brushes the tears away from his blotchy, wet cheeks. “Remus, it’s okay. It doesn’t matter now. It’s fine.”

“It’s not okay. Everything’s my fault. I’m so sorry.”

What is he even sorry for? Breaking her heart? Rejecting her? Lying to her and himself by denying their feelings for each other? Not helping her out of the mess someone else had pulled her into? Being insecure and believing he wasn’t good enough for her? There is nothing to be sorry for. 

“It’s not your fault, Remus,” she assures him, holding his hand resting on his kneecap. “I wasn’t fair to you either. What I was asking of you… it wasn’t fair. I see that now, and I owe you an apology too.” 

“You don’t owe me anything, darling. I dug my own grave. I wasn’t there when you needed me. I left you. I left you and I’m so sorry. I let my insecurities get the best of me even after I promised you they wouldn’t. I thought I was doing the right thing. And now you must hate me. I hate me.”

It breaks her heart to hear him say those words. I hate me. Knowing how miserable he’s been the whole time they’ve been apart, how he hasn’t managed to pull himself up despite their friends’ best efforts, how he’s avoided her at all costs in fear he’d cause her more pain—it’s more painful than anything he’d said to her that night. 

“Do you honestly think I’d be here if I hated you?” Her eyes are pricking with tears now. “You’re my best friend, Remus. I love you despite everything and I can’t let you go on like this. It’s hurting me more than anything.”

He gifts her a faint smile and a nod. What to say after such a long time?

He looks down, his gaze flickers to her hand and he tries to hide the slight furrow that for a moment sets on his brow. He has realized she’s not wearing her wedding ring, but he doesn’t say anything, even if curiosity is killing him. She’s sure he’s thinking she doesn’t owe him anything, again, much less explanations about her life when he’s the one who walked away from it, but she’s not come here just to see him. There are explanations to be made.

“Things are not great,” she starts, reaching out to wipe a stray tear from his cheek with her thumb. “I’m getting a divorce.”

The expression on Remus’ face is unreadable. She’s always been able to tell what he’s feeling in each moment, tapping into his mood easily, but she has no idea of what he must be thinking right now, what must be racing through his mind. There’s a slight frown on his forehead, and what she can only pinpoint as confusion in his eyes.

“Of course he doesn’t know that yet, or he would’ve already made sure that my mother lectured me,” she continues. “He doesn’t even know I’m here. If he knew I came to see you he’d go crazy.”

“What happened? What did he do to you?” he asks defensively and worriedly at her words, a fire burning in his eyes now. 

“Oh, it’s fine. Don’t worry,” she says dismissively, shaking her head in defeat. “It’s just not working.” 

Her husband had learned of the soft spot she had for Remus very early on. He’d found the multiple drawings she’d made of him during their Hogwarts years hidden away in one of the drawers of her dresser, along with some polaroids; some of them together, some of him on his own, smiling for her.

He was enraged. He’d thrown a fit like a child and even accused her of cheating on him with Remus when he knew damn well she barely left their home or saw her friends and was always supervised.

She’d completely stopped trying to put any effort in making their marriage work after that. 

They are so different from each other. He doesn’t deserve her kindness or her warmth, and he doesn’t appreciate it either. He barely acknowledges her and when he does, he talks to her like she’s just a kid who doesn’t know anything about life.

She doesn’t even try to argue with him anymore. She can’t be bothered. Her decision has been made for a while now and she’s just been sitting on it, waiting for a good reason to not go through with it. After months, she’s not been able to find one. 

“It’s gonna be hard, but I have to do it. I should’ve done it way earlier, actually.”

The reject of her family, the public scrutiny, the shame she’ll bring onto her family, the humiliation they will put her through… They will make up stories about the why’s; they’ll talk about affairs, drag her name through the mud.

The Black heiress gets a divorce. She’ll be a scandal.

She doesn’t care about what other people may say or think about her or the public image she displays—not anymore—but the backlash she’ll receive from her family will cut deep. They won’t want to see her ever again, and perhaps that’s the one thing that will hurt the most, because as much as they have hurt her with the choices they’ve made for her, she still loves them. She always has and always will. 

She has always tried. Always tried to be the perfect pure blood daughter, to please her parents in all aspects: excel at school, take the classes they wanted her to, dress a certain way, act a certain way. She’s always tried to be exactly what they wanted her to be, at least when she was under their vigilant stare.

All that was just a front. When she was with her friends, all of that changed. And Remus. She had always felt so comfortable with being her true self around Remus. He knew the real her: carefree and fun, friendly and warm, always in sync with her twin brother. He’d been so quick to see her for what she truly was, and had loved her despite it all. But either way, she was still the girl who always pulled back, who was sometimes too afraid to show her true colors, scared to take a wrong step and disappoint her family.

There’s not much left of that scared little girl. All she is now is a decisive woman. You can see it in her eyes, hear it in the words she speaks. She’s changed in their time apart. She’s done with other people making choices for her, tired of being tied down, of not being true to herself. She has tried to be what everyone else wanted her to be, but she’s tired of trying. She couldn’t escape her fate on the first try, but the second one will be the one. Her life is her own to take and she knows that now. 

“I’m doing it for myself. I just want to make that clear.” 

Remus just stares at her in silent concentration, hanging onto every word she’s saying.

She has to set her intentions. She’s not leaving her husband for him. She was ready to leave it all behind for Remus that night, but she’s a different woman now. She’d be lying if she said she doesn’t love him anymore, because she does. She’s never stopped, even for the months she spent cursing him for not being selfish for once in his life.

She loves him, but they can’t be together, at least not yet, and she’s made peace with it already. She needs time—to heal and get to know herself as a free woman, completely separate from the girl her family had made her believe to be.

“I would choose you a thousand times,” she confesses with a sad smile. “I would wait for you forever, you know I would. But I can’t do that to myself. It’s not fair.”

“I understand,” he nods, and there’s honesty in his eyes. There’s a sad smile on his face that mimics hers, but she knows he means it. She knows he understands. “I’m really happy for you. Really. I’ll be here with you for every step of the way. I promise,” he squeezes her hand.

Her sweet boy.

He’s her home. Her comfort, her confidant. She has missed him so much. He’d messed up once, and even if she can’t put her whole blind trust on him, she knows it in her heart: he won’t fail her again. And if he does, she’ll be strong enough to put herself together again. 

“Friends?” she asks.

There’s no way they can go back to the way things used to be before all of it happened, but they can try. She hopes he’ll try, for her. That he owes her.

He smiles.

“Friends.”

[c-e-d-dreamer]

Okay, I know hockey player versus figure skater is a super cliché rivalry, but all day today, my brain was like “hockey player Cassian! Hockey player Cassian! Hockey player Cassian,” so here we are. Also, fun fact, this exact event actually happened to my little brother at one of his games. TW for blood and injuries. Hope you enjoy :) @nessianweek

The cool rush of the air conditioning is the first thing that hits Cassian as he pushes through the doors. The throwback pop song pumping out of the speakers and the smell of popcorn from the snack bar hits him next. He shifts the strap of his bag on his shoulder, resettling the weight, his sticks clacking together in his other hand. He makes his way over to the board declaring the locker room assignments for the day, squinting until he finds the Illyrians. He's about to head off toward their locker room when his eyes snag on someone. 

Nesta is perched like a queen on one of the benches in the lobby, her white skates resting beside her. She has a sweatshirt pulled on, but the red skirts of her dress skim across her thighs, and Cassian can see the jeweled embellishments peeking out under the collar. Unsurprising, she has a book opened in her hands, probably another of her smutty romances. Even in the harsh fluorescent lighting, Cassian finds himself drawn into her eyes, the way they glint as they dance across the pages. 

Cassian doesn't have to think twice before he's sauntering over to her. He drops his bag with a loud thump at her feet, a smile pulling across his face at her answering glower. He loves this game they play. The way he pushes her buttons and she pushes his always leaves flames licking up his skin in the most delicious way. He's sure they make quite the sight, the hockey player and the figure skater, but he'll never stop going back for more. 

"What do you want, Cassian?" 

"Love the outfit today, Nes. The sparkles really contrast well with your dark soul." 

"Don't you have to go smash someone into the boards?"

"I'd love to press you up against the boards." 

Cassian throws a wink her way for extra good measure, and the way Nesta's eyes narrow has his heart ticking up slightly in his chest. 

"Prick," Nesta mumbles, opening back up her book. 

With a chuckle, Cassian takes it for the cue that it is, picking back up his bag and heading for the locker room. He offers Azriel an easy grin as he passes him, his brother merely shaking his head at his antics yet again. 

~ * * * ~ 

Nesta hears her sister before she sees her, Feyre's laughing bouncing off the walls of the lobby. She closes her book and grabs her skates, but as she heads for the door, her steps falter and pause as she takes in Elain walking in beside Feyre. 

"Since when does it take both of you to pick me up?" Nesta asks once her sisters are close enough to hear. 

"Actually," Feyre starts slowly. "We were thinking we could stick around for the game." 

"What," Nesta deadpans, taking in both her sisters' expressions and inwardly sighing when she sees they're both actually serious. "Fine. Give me the keys, and I'll pick you both up later." 

"Oh, Nesta," Elain says, taking Nesta's hand in her own. "It'll be fun. Besides, you and Cassian are friends. Don't you want to see him play?" 

"We are not friends." 

"That's for sure," Feyre pipes in. "There is way too much sexual tension for that to be considered friendship." 

Nesta shoots a glare Feyre's way, but her sister merely smiles innocently. The mischievous glint swirling in her eyes tells Nesta she's not getting the keys from her youngest sister anytime soon. Which is how Nesta ends up pressed between her two sisters, the cold of the metal bleachers biting into the underside of her thighs and a shared blanket draped across their three laps. Elain keeps clapping excitedly to her right while Feyre shouts, "go, baby, go" every time Rhysand cuts up the ice on her left. Nesta thinks her eyes might actually get stuck from rolling them so much. 

Despite the equipment and jerseys making it hard to tell the players apart, the whole team blending together into a mash of blues and gold's, Nesta finds she can pick Cassian out fairly easily. She tells herself it's because he's clearly the biggest guy on the team and the hair sticking out the back of his helmet is a dead giveaway. But either way, her eyes always seem to find him any time he's on the ice, whether he’s sweeping along the blue line to make a play or throwing his body against the other team. 

They’re into the third period when Nesta watches Cassian jump over the boards, joining the rush before falling back into the neutral zone as the other team gains possession. He guards his man well as the play shifts to their defensive zone, the other player trying and failing to shake Cassian loose. The player tries to deke around him, but Cassian is quicker, their sticks clashing together. 

It's like it all unfolds in slow motion. The puck popping up into the air between them. The other player raising his stick like he plans to bat the puck down. The stick colliding with Cassian's head. 

There's a collective gasp from the crowd watching the game as Cassian crumbles to the ice, falling onto all fours. And then there's red. A few drops at first, but soon it's a steady stream. It seeps into the ice, spreading out around Cassian like a crimson puddle. 

"Oh my gods," Feyre whispers.

"I hope he's alright," Elain chimes in. 

Nesta knows that her sisters keep speaking, but all she can hear is a ringing in her ears, like a high pitched screaming sinking its claws into her mind. Her hands fist into the blanket in her lap, and she watches with wide eyes as a trainer walks onto the ice, pulling the cage of Cassian's helmet up and sliding a towel under. With the help of two teammates, Cassian's on his feet and skates back to the bench. Nesta's stomach roils as one of the rink staffers and the referees scrape Cassian's blood from the ice, and even when the game resumes, she can't take her eyes off Cassian slumped over his knees on the bench. 

~ * * * ~ 

Cassian can't help but poke at the bandage on his forehead as he checks himself in the locker room mirror. It's still tender, and he winces at the pain that radiates from that spot. Definitely going to leave a scar. At least he got a goal tonight. Small victories. With a sigh, he shoulders his bag, grabbing his sticks by the door and heading for the rink exit. 

When he steps into the lobby, he finds Nesta standing there. Cassian knew that both her sisters were here earlier, but a quick sweep of his eyes around the room shows them nowhere to be found. When his eyes dance back to Nesta, she's already looking at him, something intense brewing in her eyes like storm clouds rolling in. It leaves Cassian captivated, and in a few strides, He’s standing in front of her, dropping his bag at their feet. 

"What are you still doing here, sweetheart?" 

Cassian throws as much cheek as he can into the question, letting that cocky grin he knows gets under her skin slide across his face. He expects Nesta to scowl, to make some snide remark back, to pick up their game right where they left off, but Nesta's face remains serious. He watches in confusion as she crosses and then uncrosses her arms across her chest, takes a deep breath like she's steeling herself. 

"I just wanted to make sure you're alright," Nesta explains, her eyes glancing up to the bandage before settling back on his own. 

"Oh," Cassian says dumbly, blinking down at Nesta a few times before his brain finally catches up. "It was just bad luck. Stick hit just right for one of the screws in my helmet to go right into my head." 

"It looked… bad." 

"Well, head wounds bleed a lot." 

Nesta nods and silence falls like a blanket between them. Cassian's brain kicks into overdrive, suddenly desperate to keep whatever this precarious moment is going, keep her talking to him, keep those eyes on his. It sparks in his chest like a piece of flint, fire burning under his skin. He's so busy floundering, trying to will his head and mouth to produce actual words, that he almost misses the frown that takes over Nesta's face, her eyes caught on his hand. 

"You're not thinking of driving, are you?" 

The sudden question takes Cassian by surprise, and Cassian’s brow furrows in confusion until he remembers his car keys are in his hand. 

"How else would I get home?" 

"You can't drive with a concussion."

"What makes you think I have a concussion?"

"How could you not have a concussion?" 

"If I had a concussion, why would I have gone back out on the ice to finish the game?"

"Because you're an idiot." 

Before Cassian can even splutter out a protest at the insult, Nesta is reaching forward and snatching the keys out of his hand. Then, for good measure, she reaches out and takes his sticks out of his hand too. 

"There's an Urgent Care like five miles away that should still be open." 

With that and a final, firm nod, as if she's decidedly made up her mind and Cassian can't change it, Nesta turns on her heel and makes for the doors. Cassian is left there gaping, blinking dumbly after her retreating form, while his sluggish brain tries to grasp what exactly is happening. Maybe he is concussed. Not giving himself another second to contemplate, Cassian scrambles to pick up his bag, tossing the strap over his shoulder as he hurries after Nesta. 

"Can I at least buy you dinner after?"

[rae-gar-targaryen]

loved you once [angel reyes x fem!reader]

A/N: So, this is NOT the Angel fic I previewed the other day. That one (and the EZ fic) is STILL COMING, I PROMISE! This just jumped into my head and wouldn’t leave. And I wrote it with a speed I am heretofore unfamiliar with (heretofore? Did I use that right?) I invented a tattoo and an ex-girlfriend for Angel, and I fudged the timeline a bit. So, apologies in advance for that. 

As always, if you want a tag in anything I write for Angel, EZ, the Mayans fandom (or anything else), please feel free to send me a message or an ask, or add yourself to the taglist (link in profile). 

Pairing: Angel Reyes x fem!tattoo artist!reader (as always, the appearance is ambiguous, but the reader is described as having female pronouns/parts. Also, the reader here speaks a bit of Spanish. I’m half Mexican, so I do imagine a latinx reader, but I hope I’ve written this so you can imagine yourself with no restriction.)

Word Count: 15.3K (HAHAHA WHAT THE FUCK all for a TWO AND A HALF MINUTE SONG, ARE YOU KIDDING ME????) of ANGST! (SERIOUSLY THIS IS SO ANGSTY) lyrical nonsense and the remnants of sticky, cotton-candy sadness … fluff that makes you feel empty. 

Warnings: ANGST, non-explicit references to infidelity, sexual references and sexual content, oral (male receiving), fingering and other nastiness -- so 18+ ONLY, please! Canon-typical douchebaggery, references to a past relationship, song references and poetry. (It is me, so yeah, poetry.)

Summary: You and Angel may as well be strangers now. But why? After all, you loved him once. And he loved you, right? Based on the song “Loved you Once” by Clara Mae. Listen here. 

--

We don't need to be best friends, we don't need to hang again. But tell me why we have to be strangers because I loved you once?

What were you doing here? You haven’t been back to the clubhouse in months. Not since -- well, you know. You hadn’t talked to him since then, either. But that wasn’t your own doing. 

No, Angel had erected a veritable wall of silence, and you respected him enough not to breach it. 

That was what relationships were all about, anyway, right? Mutual respect of the other’s needs? So when Angel had told you in no uncertain terms that your relationship was over, you were … upset. Understandably. You wanted to sit with him, talk about where this sudden insistence that you depart his life had come from, but he was resolute. With the absolute air of authority that comes with either a great deal of thought, or borne of virtually sudden external influence, with nothing in between. He clearly didn’t want to sit and talk about it. 

And so you didn’t. 

Ever mindful of his wellbeing, and when he was and was not receptive to communication. 

"It ain't working," he had said. You had settled for merely imagining the faraway look in his large, oilslick eyes, since he was much more interested in staring at his boots and the grooves in his floor, his forearms laid over spread thighs, unmoving and resolute from his spot at the end of the bed. Refusing to meet your eyes. 

From your seat next to him, you made to brush the arm closest to you with your fingers. When you touched, he gave no indication that you were even there. That he even felt you. Which you knew was bullshit. He always felt you. 

"Angel, what --" you hated the way your voice cracked as you tried to ask him what the hell was going on. You hated how you had sounded so small and quavering to your own ears. That wasn't who you were. You were clear, outspoken. It was always one of the things Angel said he loved about you. Loved.

You didn't know this, of course, but Angel hated it, too. How you’d sounded in that moment. Hated that his words had taken the fire out of yours, your voice unfamiliar in its timidity. 

"It ain't working," he repeated. "I can see it. Not my fault you can't." 

That was it. 

No "I'm sorry, querida." 

No "I hope we can stay friends." 

Not that you would expect an apology, or anything as cliché as a "let's be friends," from a steadfast man like Angel. Predictable in his volatility. 

You should have pushed back. Demanded an answer. You hated that you didn’t, the shock and sudden sadness morphing you into a silent, crystalline girl you didn’t recognize. Your eyes welled with tears, turning your head away from where Angel sat -- at least you wouldn’t let him see you cry. Even if you knew he knew the tears had spilled over your lashes and down your cheeks were of his own doing. 

You had arrived back at his place a day after your tense "conversation" to discover that your items you had come to reclaim were tossed into a box and left outside of the door. 

You had knocked once, in the hope that if Angel was home, he’d at least come to the door to shout through it, or, heaven forbid, would open it so you could look him in the eyes just once more while he shattered you. Your knock was met with silence, though you could have sworn you felt Angel on the other side of the door. 

In the months since then, you had cried (obviously), you had questioned (it was sudden, it wasn't just you; your friends were surprised, too), but most importantly, you had persevered. 

You had taken a bunch of new clients and inked some pieces you were incredibly proud of. You had gone out with your friends a few times, always with a wary eye on the door of the local dive, ya know… you never knew who would walk in.

Santo Padre is a small town, after all. And the cracks in your soul were nowhere close to healed. No molten gold to spill in and repair the fissures of your heart, rendering metamorphosis of something broken to something flawed, but beautiful. You sat, alone, still just… flawed. You had never felt less beautiful. Even after all this time. 

And your friend Aneesa, ever the supporter, would stop at nothing if it meant hyping you up enough to leave your cave of blankets, sheet masks, and comfort movies. Your only rule? All nights out with Aneesa were strictly girls’ nights. She was gracious and understanding of this rule, of course. She and Gilly had been together a touch longer than you and Angel. 

And if Angel had ever asked Gilly to ask Aneesa about you? Well… you never heard about it.

Not that Angel would do any of that. Shit like that was so middle-school. 

So, here you were. Back at the clubhouse after months of self-imposed exile for the sake of self-preservation. 

Coco had texted you -- the first you’d directly heard from anyone within Angel’s circle, inviting you to a patch party for some nameless, faceless newbie. The invitation had a string attached to it, of course -- the tattoo artist’s chair in the corner of the clubhouse needed a resident for any partygoers jonesing for new ink. Certainly, the new patch would need something decidedly “Mayan” to show off his new status. 

You had hesitantly agreed -- Aneesa would be in attendance of course, and offered herself as a human-sized buffer to separate you from people you were otherwise hoping to avoid. 

--

Now, perched near the tattoo chair, you busied yourself with setting out your portfolio of completed pieces, sketches and most-requested designs. You wiped down the chair a few more times than strictly necessary, but you wanted to be ready for anyone who might plop themselves down for a new piece of art. 

The main room of the clubhouse was sweltering -- a familiar blend of desert heat, cigarette smoke, citronella, and the smell of citrusy, foamy beer. The dim lighting and thundering bass giving everything a slightly blurry edge in your party-periphery. You glanced across the room at where Aneesa and Gilly sat together on a corner couch, thighs pressed together. Aneesa tossed her head back in a full-bodied laugh at something Gilly had whispered into her ear, swatting his arm -- Gilly’s reciprocal smile demonstrating his pleasure at having garnered such a reaction from his girl. 

A wave of cheers and noise accompanied the thwack of the clubhouse door swinging open -- more Mayans pouring in, jostling one another's shoulders, slapping each other on the arms, and good-naturedly cajoling. 

There was Coco, mid-pull of the cigarette between his lips, quicksilver eyes flashing around the room, taking stock of who was where. EZ followed, million-watt smile on full display as he gently guided a pretty girl with long, inky hair through the bottleneck at the entryway. 

If EZ was ambling his way in, then, surely, not far behind ...

With an arm around a tall, broad guy you hadn’t seen before, was Angel. Midway through a joke with the guy you assumed was the new patch, you took the opportunity to study the man you had once considered the moonlit orbit of your entire world. 

You hated to admit it to yourself, but he looked good… His arms still replete with thick, corded muscle. His hair was a tad longer on top than you remembered, slicked back and belied with cleanly-cropped sides. His smile as warm and blinding as the cruel light at the end of your better dreams, only for you to awake each day alone. 

As you continued your silent study, you were surprised to see -- still adorning his left arm … the tattoo you had given him on the day you had first met. You had thought he would have blacked it out by now … a cover-up on top of a cover-up. 

But there it was --- the soft, leafy greens creeping down his forearm on sharp vines, abutted with bursting blooms -- small, ornate gladiolus buds and a sprig of purpling rosemary. Such a flowery piece on the arm of someone like Angel might have been laughable. But if anyone dared, he would simply stare, stone-faced, with burning eyes and a set jaw, ready to ask just what they thought was so fucking funny. 

To you? It was perfection. It was remembrance. 

‘Cause I loved you, once… 

---

You had moved to Santo Padre from Oakland. Hardly an axis-tilting move, but significant enough to you. 

Your friend Oliver had offered you a seat at his tattoo shop. And you? You were positively itching to get out of the city. A few too many bad nights with a few people you could no longer in good conscience consider friends. 

So, here you sat, resident of one of two chairs in this corner parlour off the so-called “main” drag in sweltering, dusty Santo Padre. 

Your books were pretty clear … Not that you attributed much logic to the ebb and flow in any conceivable pattern of the tide that was tattoo shop patrons, but January seemed an agonizingly slow month. You filled the idle time with keeping the shop neat, disinfecting and re-disinfecting every surface, and organizing Oliver’s books. 

And if you weren’t dreaming up new sketches and designs for the more adventurous prospective client, you were jotting idle lines of lyrical poetry in the margins of your sketchbook. 

If the month dragged on like this, you were sure you could publish an entire book of moody, mid-winter prose that would make Charles Bukowski want to drown himself in stiff Cabernet. 

The dinging of the bell above the parlour door yanked you from your doodling stupor. You looked up to see who had come in, your gaze met with a towering, golden-skinned man donned in a leather vest, his boots squeaking on the shop’s linoleum floor as he made his way to the front desk. He leaned over it and rapped his silver-ringed hand against the top with the ease and comfort of someone who had been in many times before. If the ink trailing his arms was any indication, he may as well be a regular, though you hadn’t seen him in before. There was no way you could forget that jawline, and those shoulders. 

“Yo,” he called in greeting, eyes flashing to where you stood, walking to meet him at the counter. You swore you saw his gaze dart over your form, giving you the old up-down. An easy smile graced his full lips as he made himself comfortable leaning against the counter.  

“Oliver here?” 

You shook your head, the action serving to answer his question and --hopefully-- clear your head of the foggy spell this man was casting over you with his presence alone.

“Nah, sorry. He’s guest-chairing at his buddy’s shop in L.A. Did you have an appointment?” 

“I look like the kind of guy with a datebook?” He chuckled at his own joke. “No appointment, corazón.” 

“Walk-in? Always a risky strategy,” you lilted. 

“What can I say? I’m a risk-taker,” he replied with the practiced ease of breezy flirtation. 

You smiled softly, grabbing Oliver’s calendar from the desk, flipping to the following week. “He’ll be back in next week, if you want to wait?” 

“That’s no good for me, babe, I’ll be out of town.”

“Ah.” You huffed a bit through your nose “Bike rally?” You asked, gesturing at his worn leather kutte, cringing internally a little at the teasing edge your voice had taken on. Were you always this bad of a flirt? 

The man looked at you shrewdly for a beat -- seemingly trying to discern just how much fun you were making of him before taking mercy on you and peeling back the slight layer of awkwardness the conversation had taken.  He scrubbed the back of his neck before confirming,

“Uh, yeah, actually,” he rumbled a chuckle. “Why? You wanna go?” He raised a full brow at you in a mild challenge. 

Your eyes widened at his seemingly-serious invitation. You took in the quirk of his lips, causing the slightest crinkle at the corner of his warm eyes -- the look of a man borne of good humor and who smiled often. It was endearing, and if you were honest, made you melt a little. Even if you now realized he was teasing you. 

“Sorry, guapo,” you cracked a smile of your own, gesturing at the empty shop. “As you can see, I’m a very busy girl. Highest of demand.” 

“Claro,” he replied. “So, I better get in while the getting’s good, huh? Your chair open now?” 

“Uhm,” you chewed your lower lip, now slightly nervous at the prospect of spending more time with this man. “¿Quieres esperar para Olí? I won’t be offended. You haven’t even seen any of my pieces.” 

A beat of silence passed between you both, the man seemingly weighing his options. 

"I mean," You broke the silence and leaned forward, lightly tapping a fingernail against his bicep. “What if my art style doesn’t suit the king of the bikers?” 

"Something tells me you'll suit me just fine." His smirk was full-bore now. He didn't miss a beat, did he?

You were silent, probably for a few moments too long. Was he actually flirting with you? You blinked. He probably flirts with everyone ... get over yourself, you internally chided.

"Angel," the man said, recovering the moment and holding out a large, ringed hand for you to shake. You gave him your name, shaking his hand firmly. 

You nodded your head over your shoulder, toward your chair. 

"Well, come on back, Angel, you can tell me about what we're doing today."

Angel followed you back to your station, and you could swear you felt his dark eyes on your form as you walked, the thought that this man was looking at you with any kind of discerning attention made your cheeks warm a little. He folded his long body into the chair you gestured toward, and you took the rolling seat next to him. He proffered his left arm to you, tracing down a spot on his forearm.

"Just wanna cover this up," he paused, letting you observe the offending ink. "It's about time." 

"'Clara Forever,' huh?" You took in the faded, loopy lettering down his forearm. "Who's Clara?" Your tone was gently teasing by nature, but he seemed to clam up a bit at the question, regarding your sharp tongue with sharper eyes.

"Well, it wasn't forever," he finally bit out, shoulders now a little more tense than before.

"Aw, cariño," you sighed in good-natured taunting. "Didn't anyone ever tell you the number one rule of tattoo? 'Forever' is a certain jinx. And a name is almost never a good idea… unless it's your dog's."

You made a sweeping hand gesture over the rest of his person, your eyes noticeably cataloguing the ink adorning most of the real estate on his arms and what little you could see of the top of his chest. 

"How did anyone let you get this far without telling you the rules?"

He relaxed at the humor in your soft voice, comfortable now that he had confirmation that you were teasing him rather than seriously ridiculing. His posture relaxed once more, he waggled his eyebrows at you, also teasing,

"Le sorprendería saber que nunca fui uno para seguir las reglas?” He asked. Would it surprise you to learn that I was never one for rules? 

"¿Tú?" Your eyes widened in mock surprise. “Para nada.” Not at all.  

"Hey," he swatted your arm gently. "Cuidaté, niña. Insulting your customers? I can see why your chair is empty." He chuckled at his own little jab as you busied yourself gathering your supplies.

You turned and reached for him, holding his arm in one hand and running your now-gloved thumb over "Clara Forever." 

"So?" You queried, "What are we doing with this? How do you want to cover it?" 

Angel shrugged, the leather adorning his shoulders creaking ever-so-slightly with the movement. 

"Figured I would just black it out. I've been putting it off long enough. To hell with her anyway, yaknow?"

"Hmm…" you considered his proposal. "I could do that, if that's what you really want. Easy enough. But…" you trailed.

He shifted in the chair, arching an eyebrow at you.

"But?" He pressed.

Now it was your turn to shrug. You released his arm from your grip and gestured to the booklet containing photos of your most prized work. 

"Why waste the opportunity to give yourself something you really want?" You handed him the book. "Besides… from the looks of things, you have limited real estate left on this arm. May as well fill it with something… more you?” You made to hand him the scrapbook. “You can see what else I've done. See if anything sparks an idea." 

Angel regarded you for a moment. Leaning forward in the chair and slightly more into your space, eyes never leaving yours. He took the edge of the book, deliberately brushing his fingers over yours as he did so, making you hold your breath a little. If Angel noticed, he had the decency not to say anything. 

“Why not?”

You exhaled softly as he leaned away again, flipping his way through your book. 

As he scrutinized the photographic renderings of your pieces, you took the chance to really take him in. His strong jaw and full lips were objectively pleasant, abutted by deliberately-shaped facial hair. He had a prominent brow, something that would surely give away his feelings, even if he decided not to verbalize them. There was no hiding a frown or a smile on that face.  You fiddled with your fingers as he flipped through the pages. 

“This is some seriously top-notch shit, querida,” he voiced his approval, followed by a warm smile. He flipped his way through your minimalist renderings, floral pieces, lines of script, and one particularly involved piece with a burgundy phoenix and lifelike flames...

“Yeah?” You couldn’t hide the pleasure in your voice that he might think of you in a positive light. “Which one do you like?” 

He flipped the book to you, gesturing at a geometric planetary canvas piece you had etched down a prior client’s thigh. 

“Did you think of that one?” 

“The client had their ideas, I just execute, I guess… That was a fun one.” You shrugged, glancing at your shoes scuffing at the linoleum, suddenly feeling very shy under his scrutiny.

“Hey, don’t do that,” he leaned forward once more, his fingers gently brushing along your chin to bring your eyeline to his. “Don’t downplay your talent. You’re a badass. Own that shit.” He gave you a soft wink, releasing your chin from his grip.

Um, wow.

Was it always this hot in the back of the shop? Or were you just spontaneously combusting? Did that seriously just happen?

All you could do was nod. 

“Aight,” he crossed his legs at the ankles, making himself comfortable in the chair. “I’ve decided.” 

“Yeah?” You breathed, “What’ll it be?” 

As if he was doing nothing more complicated than ordering fries, Angel pointed at your book. “Dealer’s choice.” 

“Excuse me?” You couldn’t believe he was just going to trust you to cover up his ex’s name etched into his arm. “¡Oye! Did you hear nothing I said earlier about walk-ins being risky? Nothing about the rules?”

Angel scoffed. “About as well as you heard that I don’t give a shit about rules, babe,” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You like rules, huh?” 

Oh. The rumbling tone his voice had taken on with his last question did not go unnoticed by you. If there was any heat to spare in this shithole desert-town, it was now one hundred percent flooding through your body. 

But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d had that effect on you… (although, let’s be real, he probably, definitely, already knew).

“Fine, Angelito,” the mocking tone had returned to your voice. “But unlike Clara, this one’s gonna be forever. If I find out you cover up my art, I’m gonna blacklist you at every shop in Southern California.” You raised an eyebrow at him in a challenge. “Can you live with that?”

Angel nodded. 

“Do your worst, Vince.” 

You wrinkled your nose at the moniker. “Vince?” 

“Yeah,” he seemed so assured in his own cleverness. “Like Van Gogh?” 

You rolled your eyes. 

“Van Gogh!?” You feigned offense, hand-over-heart, lashes batting. “Not even Frida? Come oooon, Angelito.” 

He chuckled. Shifting in the chair and offering his arm to you so you could get him ready. 

“You gotta earn ‘Frida,’ dulcita.” 

“Everyone’s a critic,” you sigh, shifting your focus and taking stock of the space on Angel’s arm and what you had learned of him so far.

Someone who was seemingly confident and breezy, whose rough exterior belied something softer that was just out of reach. Someone who clearly cherished things and people he adored, if the tribute you were now covering was anything to go by. And, by the same token, more than a little impulsive. He wore his heart on his sleeve, apparently literally. 

You gathered your inks and began to work, your playlist and the buzzing of the tattoo gun filling the silence. 

It’s not like you had any reason to know it, but Angel considered you as you were working, admiring your focus and the intensity with which you afforded your art. Was he a little nervous about the fact that you were free-handing a design for him off the top of your head? Maybe... But what was life without a little risk? And he certainly wouldn’t mind a little risk with you. You were, it was obvious to him, very pretty. It was more than a little off-putting how easily you traded quips with him, seemingly unaffected by his presence and everything that came with it. If it wasn’t for the little hitches in your breath when he gently flirted with you, he wouldn’t have anything to go off of in terms of your interest. Something that was both respectable and maddening to him. 

He reached his other arm over to the side-table, grabbing your sketchbook and idly flipping through the etchings. 

Not only was the book filled with little designs, splashes of watercolor mixing with pen and charcoal, but he noticed the cramped words in the margins, perusing at his leisure and ignoring the itching buzz of the needle on the skin of his other arm.

“So, not only a Vince, but a Frost,” he broke the silence. 

You paused your work, wiping your brow with the back of your hand and looking at him with a question in your eyes.

He tapped his finger along the lines of prose in your book. “A poet,” he said. 

“Ah,” you said. “Uhm, more like a bad poet,” you chuckled, embarrassed. You made to begin again, when Angel gently gripped the wrist of your free hand. 

“The fuck did I just say?” He lightly tugged, forcing you to look into his maddeningly honey-dark eyes. “Don’t brush off your shit. Would Frida do that?” 

You regarded his eyes for a moment longer, darting your gaze to his pouty lips, resolutely set in their mission of imparting some of his confidence onto you. 

“Point taken, Angel,” you pulled your hand from his grip, which he released, trailing his fingertips over your hand as he did so. “I’m the greatest poet who ever lived, you’ve convinced me. Fuck William Shakespeare.” 

“Yeah,” Angel boisterously agreed, pleased to be bolstering you but surprising you with the little barking shout, “Fuck that dude!” 

You chuckled, shaking your head and silently returning to your work, the silence filled once more with the pleasant buzzing as you drew away. 

When you were finished, you released Angel’s arm, allowing him to inspect the clean lines of the greenery that you had drawn out of his former-love tribute. What were once loopy, cursive letters were now vines creeping steadily along his forearm, soft, yellow and red gladiolus buds emerging from where Clara’s name had once sat, neatly finished with the clean lines of the purpling sprig of rosemary along the edge of the piece. 

Angel was speechless, leaving you to marinate in your nerves. 

“It’s …” he started, “... flowery,” he supplied, lamely. 

“No shit it’s flowers,” you shot back, feeling a little defensive now, but wanting to make a quick recovery. “And they’re for you, Angel.” 

He seemed puzzled. 

“Gotta say, Vince, this is the first time a chick’s gotten me flowers,” he chuckled, “Guess they won’t die?” 

“They won’t,” you assured. “They really are for you, you know? Look at you, the rest of your ink. What it covered. You’re clearly a man formed by your experiences. It only seemed right, si? Gladiolus? They’re for remembrance. Rosemary? Symbolizes thoughtfulness and memory.” 

You continued as you began wipe the piece clean before wrapping it in new saran-wrap, “Your memories and choices make you who you are, sure. But you never know… something good could bloom from them, through the cracks."

His silence at the end of your little soliloquy was deafening. He hated it, you were sure of it. Fuck. Why did you have to get so fucking clever with him? You should’ve just done some black ink in something tribal, something masculine. What the fuck was wrong with you??

You dared to sneak a glance at his face, only to find that he was already staring at you, lips softly upturned in the hinting bloom of a smile, tarpit eyes twinkling with a good-natured mirth he would come to reserve just for you. 

“Fuck Shakespeare. That was damn beautiful, Frida.” 

The heat had returned to your cheeks, standing quickly. 

You stripped off your gloves, and made to turn your way to the counter, gathering the aftercare sheet and balm for Angel to take with him. 

You spun back toward him before he could get up.

“Oh! Can I take a picture?” You held up your phone, shaking it lightly. “For the ‘gram?” 

“Sure thing,” Angel dutifully held his arm under the lamp you had used to work, letting the fresh ink and colors pop against the golden dunn of his skin. 

You took a few photos, deciding to scroll through your camera roll later on and post your favorite. You made quick work of wrapping his arm in a sheet of clean plastic wrap before relinquishing your hold on his arm, turning to walk back to the counter. 

“Uhm,” you trailed … the telltale squeak of Angel’s boots on the linoleum indicating he was following you back to the front of the shop. You assembled everything into a bag for Angel to take with him, grabbing one of your cards from the front card-holder, and quickly jotting your number on the back next to your where the instagram handle for your art page was neatly printed, hoping he didn’t notice your sneaky little move. 

Angel resumed his comfortable lean against the counter, turning and tilting his forearm, scrutinizing your work. 

“It’s gonna be a clean one-fifty, Angel.”

He looked slightly surprised at the figure, a light frown dusting his features. 

“You sure about that? For the size, and the color, and time and everything? It’s been, like, hours.”

You shrugged. 

“We’ll call it the friends-and-family rate.” 

He gave you a long look, very clearly looking you up and down now, a prolonged edition of the greeting he had graced you with when he had entered your shop mere hours before. 

“And is that what we are now, querida? Friends?” 

How was it even possible for his voice to reach such a low register when he said these things to you?

While your insides flip-flopped at the flirtation, you hoped your face was the impassive mask you were trying to school it into. You subtly brushed your slightly-sweating palms against the frayed hem of your shorts before bringing an elbow up to the counter, resting your chin in your palm, lightly batting your lashes at him before responding...

“Sure,” you replied. There! Easy, breezy, cool-as-you-please. How does it feel, Angel?

“One day with you and friends already?” He rapped his ringed hand gently against the counter. “Can’t wait to see where we’re at tomorrow.” 

He swiped the bag off of the counter, tossing a few crisp bills onto the countertop and a wink over his shoulder before exiting the shop. 

You counted the bills on the counter, watching as Angel left the building.

Holy shit.

Three hundred bucks. He had tipped you 100 percent of what you charged him.

Cheeky.

Maybe Santo Padre wasn’t so bad, after all… 

---

Now, staring at him from across the room made you feel like you were drowning in the sickly-sweet cotton candy of sugared dreams, now lost to time. The saccharine balm melted to acrid wax, leaving you with only the tinge of bitterness. 

You were jostled out of your reverie by the sudden appearance of EZ’s blocky frame, ambling toward you with the same girl from before on his arm. 

He greeted you with a slow wave and a soft smile. 

“Hey, girl,” he greeted, clearly unsure of how much friendlier and closer he should approach you. 

You took mercy on Angel’s sweet, (big) little brother, opening your arms slightly for a hug. EZ took to the gesture like an over-excited golden retriever, scooping you up and spinning you once, before putting you back where he found you, slightly dizzier than you were before. 

He offered your name to the girl by his side, who looked pleasantly amused at the spectacle before her, her amusement melting to recognition at the name EZ had imparted to her. 

Ah. So she knew who you were. 

You tried not to let that realization sour your encounter, easing a practiced smile onto your features and offering your hand to the girl to shake. 

“Oh!” EZ chuckled. “This is Gaby -- er, Gabriela.” 

“Encantada,” you eased, gently shaking her hand before having a realization of your own. “Gaby, as in Leti’s friend?” 

She nodded, a warm smile illuminating her already sunshiney features. You could see why EZ obviously liked her. She had the practiced social grace of a debutante, but the friendly aura of someone you had known for your entire life. 

“I hope you’re keeping Ezekiel out of trouble,” you teased gently. 

“Only as well as I can,” she replied. EZ rubbed the back of his neck as you two gossiped about him like he wasn’t standing right there. 

“Listen, hermanita,” EZ began, swirling the dregs of his beer around the bottle clutched in his hand as the conversation lapsed into comfortable silence, “About Angel --” 

That was a hard no. 

“Coco!” You called as you spotted the lithe man prowling through the crowd after obtaining a drink from the bar, effectively shutting EZ up. 

Coco sidled over, slinging an arm over your shoulder and nodding in greeting to EZ and Gaby. 

“Wassup, chiquita? Over here with all the cool kids?” 

“You know damn well I was never cool enough for the cool kids,” you knocked your shoulder into Coco’s good-naturedly. 

“Dunno about that, pequeña,” Coco took a drag of his cigarette, sighing as he exhaled. “I’ve got some pretty cool body armour thanks to you.” 

“All in a day's work,” you mock-saluted. You were doing great. Keep it light, keep it friendly. You may be able to make it out of this unscathed, after all. 

Gaby and EZ were speaking softly to one another just to your side, as you and Coco continued your conversation. 

“So, who’s the new guy?” You asked, nodding over to where Angel and the still-unnamed newbie were tossing back shots. You tried to ignore that each one had girls placed on each of their laps. Well, mostly you were trying to ignore one girl placed on one lap; tried to ignore as ringed fingers trailed up and down her thigh hypnotically as he howled in laughter at something the new guy had said. 

The longer you stared at the way he was touching her, the more You thought you could feel it on your own skin. And you knew all too well how that touch felt. Memories, make you, right? 

You blinked harshly, turning your face back to Coco’s, only to find his hawkish eyes trained on you as he continued to smoke. Now you were certain he had seen everything you had, and more. And you cursed yourself for slipping. Because nothing slipped past Coco. 

He took mercy on you nevertheless. 

“Andres. He’s aight. You may not remember him from before, when he was just a prospect.” 

“Guess not,” you agreed, shrugging amiably, suddenly very interested in toying with the hem of your flowy little summertime skirt. 

“Mierda,” you heard Coco hiss, glancing up to see none other than the new guy -- Andres -- walk over, his arm around the waist of the girl from his lap, accompanied by none other than Angel Reyes, furnished with his own lap-turned-arm candy. She was giggling in his ear, popping her gum and bumping her hips against Angel’s as she walked by his side. 

You felt EZ stiffen from your other side. 

Great. 

The easy smile you’d had when conversing with Coco now felt positively screwed into place, settling unnaturally, a stranger's face made up of your own features. 

Andres smirked at you in greeting, eyes trailing over you -- the most unwelcome iteration of that gesture in this context to-date. 

“I hear you’re the girl to see about some ink.” 

You bit back the snarky response that rose to your tongue. You see anyone else here, tonto?

“Sure am,” you replied, cool as you pleeeeaseeee. Maybe a little too cool. The ice in your voice was obvious to everyone except the strangers before you. 

You really were doing great, weren’t you? 

“Great,” the new meat brushed the girl off from his side, plopping unceremoniously into your chair. “You did that right?” He pointed behind you to where Angel was standing, gesturing at his arm and your miniscule mural of memorial greenery. 

“Cierto.” You nodded, sparing Angel’s arm the barest of glances.

“Aight, well, none of that girly shit, alright, sweetheart? Angel may have had the good grace not to say anything, but flowers ain’t really my style, yeah?” 

What the fuck.  

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Coco visibly tense next to you, obviously displeased at the uncalled-for critique of your work. Of a piece he himself had often admired. He would never admit it, but he thought the story behind it was even better. It’s like you had walked out of some shitty romcom Leti watched with her tittering friends and into Angel’s dreams, sinking yourself beneath Angel's skin like a dream he would recount to all of his friends. Coco knew the most about you by nature of Angel's second-hand stories when you were together. Although Coco thought, once he had met you, Angel's stories didn't do you justice. How wonderful and talented you were. How warm and welcoming.

Angel watched the exchange silently, clearly none too keen to defend the piece you had designed for him. That had come to mean so much to you. 

That stung.

You winced, almost imperceptibly. But you were certain Coco saw it, not much escaping his sniper’s eyes. EZ, with his owlish perception and photographic memory, certainly would have seen it, too. If Angel saw it, it’s not like he was going to say anything now. 

Where the fuck was Aneesa? Wasn’t she supposed to be heading this kind of shit off? You glanced over at the couches in the corner where your friend had previously been sitting with GIlly, and was now nowhere to be seen. Fuckin’ typical. 

“Aight, no más flores." No more flowers. “What were you thinking, then?” 

That was you, ever the professional. 

Andres showed you his phone, a rendering of an old-style beastly cat, like a panther from an old folktale, pulled up in his image search. 

“Something for a warrior,” he puffed his chest slightly. “I was thinking here,” he shrugged out of one side of his new kutte, tugging the button-up to expose one side of his chest. 

“You got it.” 

You set to work, cleaning the area to be inked and getting your tools ready. The rest of the group drifted as the project progressed, clearly not feeling the need to stand there for the entire duration of a tattoo. 

You were acutely aware that Angel hadn’t stepped as far away as the others, circumventing the periphery of yours and Andres’ space, not close, but not far. And he still had yet to even look in your direction. Or acknowledge your existence. 

You tried your best to ignore the icy shard of Angel’s indifference that was currently wedging its way between your ribs and lodging itself firmly once more into your heart. At this point, you guessed it would never heal. 

“Sooooo,” Andres lolled his head to the side of his chair to face you, slinging back the beer from the bottle dangling in his free hand. “I haven’t seen you in a while. You were around a little bit when I was prospecting.” 

You opted not to respond, aware that Angel was likely listening, and you would need to choose any words carefully. Andres had no such reservation, clearly uncaring about who might be listening. He pressed on, each word more infuriating than the last. 

“You were Angel’s little sidepiece for a while, right?”   

You tried to keep your despairing sigh to a quiet little nothing. 

“Sure.” You offered lamely. “Sorry, man, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really work better when I’m not talking.” 

“S’alright, jaina. I can talk enough for the both of us.” 

You hmm’d nonchalantly at that, lip imperceptibly curling over your teeth in distaste at the moniker. You chose instead to focus on the piece. You wouldn’t give a shitty tattoo, even if this guy was a douchebag. And the pleasant buzz of the tattoo gun. Maybe you were etching the lines a little sharper than strictly necessary. If he noticed, Andres gave no indication, continuing on with his diatribe: 

“So, what happened? I mean, Angel knocked that other chick up? Ouch, right?” 

You were now seeing red, the edges of your vision blurring slightly with angry, pinpricking tears. Thank fuck you were just about done with this. 

“But that’s the life right? I mean, we’re not exactly known for being steady with just one chick. You know how it goes ...” He eyed you up and down again, lingering a little too long on your legs before finishing his thought with a smirk “... Clearly.” 

You hated his use of “we,” like he was in any way, shape, or form worthy to be in the class of man EZ, Coco, Bishop, or, hell, even Angel, was. None of them would talk to you like this. No matter what Angel had done. 

You shut off the gun, pushing back from the space with Andres, spinning in your chair, and grabbing the clean wipes for Andres’ fresh ink. As you dabbed the area and made to bandage it, the oblivious biker grabbed your wrist. None of the teasing fun or gentleness in the same gesture that Angel had imparted when you had first met. No, Andres’ grip hurt. It was all bruising possession and entitlement. 

“I think we would have fun, you and I.” He leaned forward and far too into your space, the stale stink of warm beer heavy on his breath. 

You wrenched your grip from his, standing quickly and offering him a tight smile, cheeks flaming with your anger and embarrassment. How dare he speak so trivially of your relationship with Angel. How dare he think you were so easily won with his kutte and shitty attitude. 

“Uhm,” you tugged your fingers agitatedly through the ends of your hair, chewing your lip. “You’re all set, Andres. Aftercare sheet is on the table next to you. It’s on the house. Happy patch party!” Your voice sounded so shrill and fake in your own head, but you just didn’t have it in you to care at the moment. 

With that, you quickly whirled on your heel, in a distressed flurry past the Angel-shaped blur who had been watching the entire encounter, and out of the clubhouse door into the cooler late-night air. 

Getting heavy to breathe in this room together. It’s so awkward, we can’t seem to do it better. Can’t we just fake a smile and put our shit to the side? 

---

Angel had waited a whopping 18 hours to text you after your clandestine tattooed meet-cute. 

You were in the middle of exchanging consultation e-mails with a prospective client when your phone had buzzed. 

“Vince?” The text read. 

You bit back a smirk before responding,

“Vince? No Vince here. This is Frida’s phone.”

You watched as the little bubbles appeared in the corner, disappeared for a second, and then reappeared. You were grateful for the little manifestation of Angel’s hesitance. It made him seem more human. And it made you appreciative that he was clearly trying to choose his words with you, when words had seemed to come so easily to him when you had met. 

“My bad. Oh, beautiful, talented Frida.” 

You couldn’t hold back the smile on your features now. Grateful it was still you and only you in the shop so that no one could see your “obviously-texting-a-cute-guy” face. 

“It’s nice to hear from you, Angel. Good thing you didn’t throw away the card.” 

“That card was clearly a gift, querida. Much like the pretty flowers on my arm.” He snapped you a picture of his tattoo, the healing process underway. 

“Looks great!” You sent, cringing at your lack of ability to effectively flirt via text. It was something that your friends had teased you relentlessly about back in the Town -- your notorious lack of game. No! New home, new you! Be cute. Be cute. 

“So, if I’ve given you all the gifts, what do I get?” You sent with a “thinking” emoji. 

Angel at least had the decency to wait a minute or two before replying, either thinking about his response or keeping you in suspense… you weren’t sure. But you were grateful for the little opportunity to catch your breath. How did he make you so speechless when he wasn’t even in the room with you? Some things just weren’t fair. 

“Niña, I paid you for this ink. What more could you possibly want from me?” 

Tricky Angel. Zorro. Like a little fox, he had effectively maneuvered the conversation back to you -- the ball was in your court. Would you tell him what you wanted?

You chewed the end of your fingernail thoughtfully before responding. 

“You texted me, boy. Are you sure it isn’t you who wants something?”

If only your friends could see you now. That was damn smooth. 

“Boy?” 

You snorted to yourself. Trust a guy like Angel to get hung up on something small like that. The bubbles reappeared. 

“I was thinking about this pretty girl I met the other day. Hell of an artist. But a shit poet. Thought I would see if she was free sometime?” 

Angel was merciful. You could kiss him. Had he seriously just taken all the weight out of this conversation? Your heart felt a million pounds lighter in your chest, knowing he was asking you. The wave of relief that he wanted to see you again crashed through you, replaced in the tide with the backdraft of a feeling of mischievousness. You wouldn’t let him off so easily.

So you waited before responding. Let him sweat a little, right?

Only… you weren’t sure Angel was sweating as much as you were, fingers itching with the desire to text him back and accept immediately. 

When what had felt like an eternity (but in reality had only been about seven minutes) had passed, you picked up your phone, opening the conversation with Angel. 

“She’s free next Thursday … After your bike week, el rey de los bandoleros.” 

You put your phone back down on the counter, grinning like an idiot, feeling like you had just swallowed a bunch of bubbles. You entertained the notion that if your combat boots weren’t keeping your feet weighted to the floor, you would have floated away. 

Your phone dinged once more.

“See you then, mi reina.” 

Time passes slowly the more you want it to go quickly. And whenever you have a deadline you’re dreading, it gallops ahead. Time really is that bitch, and she does not give a fuck about your feelings. 

The following Thursday felt like it took a year to arrive. But it found you closing up the shop, your stomach fluttering with butterflies and pop rocks, adorned in your favorite pair of jeans and boots, a clean, flattering tank top that showed off your own ink. You hoped it was fine for whatever Angel had in mind. 

Honestly, he hadn’t said anything about your date. A few flirtatious texts here and there? Obviously. You sent him photos of the pieces you had done for new clients. He sent you ridiculous selfies and a couple of group pics of him and his friends at the biker event. One guy who kept popping up in the photos, Angel had told you, was his “little” brother. But there was nothing “little” about that dude. 

You loved seeing all of Angel’s goofy, smiling faces. Treasuring the photos in your small moments of quiet downtime. 

The rumbling of a bike engine greeted your ears, like the seductive purr of a large cat. You glanced up, a full Cheshire grin alighting your features at the sight of Angel’s gorgeous, deep forest green bike, and the man of the hour looking very at home on the seat. 

He rolled to a stop in front of you, unclipping his helmet and dismounting with his winning trademark smirk, ambling over to greet you. 

“Frida,” he scooped you into a hug, his tall frame causing you to lift, your toes now barely brushing the ground as he brought you to his height. He pressed a soft kiss to your check, setting you down gently and letting you get your bearings, chuckling pleasantly at the obvious, dizzying effect his greeting had had on you.

“Angelito,” you returned. “Back in one piece?”

“Hail to the king, baby,” he countered. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you teased, scuffing the toe of your boot into the gravel of the lot. “So, where are you taking me, o benevolent one?”

“Just gonna hafta find out.” He handed his helmet to you, helping you clip and tighten it beneath your chin. “Ever ridden before?”

“Uhm, well, sure” you replied too assuredly, quickly realizing your slip. “I mean, no. Not like that. I mean, yes, like that. But not on one of these.” Fuck. Could you be more embarrassing? 

Angel released a full-bellied laugh at your response, his head tossing back a little. 

“You’ll have to tell me more about alla that later, cielo.” You put your head in your palm willing the embarrassment to go away. Angel quickly pried your hands away, cupping your cheeks with his own warm hands, long fingers brushing your cheekbones reverently. “In the meantime, just hang on, okay?” 

You nodded, still cursing your idiot-brain that had partnered with the dirtiest corners of your mind to take over your mouth. Shut the fuck up, dumb-dumb. 

You clung to Angel as he drove, your hands roaming his firm torso probably a little too-familiarly. You enjoyed the way the wind whipped around you, tugging at yours and Angel’s clothes as you made your way up the canyon overlooking the desert that was Santo Padre. 

Angel parked his bike on the ridge overlooking the town, the sun beginning its descent in the desert sky in swirling hues of pastels and cotton candy pink-purple-blue overtaking the orange hue. 

You had never been up here before, and you told Angel as much. He looked pleased at that, pleased that he was the one to show you the best view of the Santo Padre sunset. 

Angel busied himself unpacking the bags on the side of his bike while you enjoyed the scenery. Pulling out a couple of wrapped sandwiches and bottles of water, he handed yours to you, coming to stand next to you on the ridge. 

"Thanks," you acknowledged, looking at the offerings. "What, no beer?"

Angel chuckled a little at that.

"I ain't tryna liquor you up, niña. Besides, you want warm beer that's been rattling around on my bike all afternoon?"

You crinkled your nose a little at that. "No," you decided. "Never mind. Besides, I'm more of a whiskey girl."

Angel glanced at you, sipping on his own water idly.

"Really?"

"Really," you confirmed. "Don't tell me you're one of those guys who thinks it's impressive when a girl drinks whiskey because it's such a 'man thing.' "

Angel held up one hand, defensively. 

"Nunca. Just took you for more of a… dunno? Maybe a rum kinda girl?"

"Don't think so. For now, though? Water and sandwiches do me just fine. Whiskey can come later." You took a bite of the now-unwrapped sandwich. "This is good," you confirmed around a slightly-full mouth. "Did you make this?"

"Of course. Pop owns the butcher shop down the street from your parlour. Sliced the meat myself, an' all," he said, a little proudly now that he knew you approved of his sandwich-making skills.

"Bueno," you giggled. "Thank you for this, Angel. Really. This is one of the nicest nights I've had since moving here." You shuffled a little closer to where he was standing, looking in his eyes as you thanked him.

"Bah," he waved away your compliments, "it ain't alla that. This can't be the most exciting thing you've done since getting here."

"Maybe it is," you pressed. "I dunno. Maybe I'm too boring for the king of the bikers?"

"I doubt that very seriously, querida," he turned his body so he was facing you now, sandwich long gone, fiddling with the water bottle in his hands. "You play your cards right, I'll introduce you to the rest of the club. Then things'll get really exciting."

You blinked. One date and he already was thinking about introducing you to his friends? Your inner shy romantic (okay, not so "inner," right? You're pretty clear about who you are) was doing little somersaults in your chest. 

You must've been silent a beat too long because Angel was quick to supplement, "Only if you want."

"I'd like that," you confirmed, nodding and smiling gently. 

"So, are you gonna tell me what brings an East Bay girl here?" 

You raised a brow. You didn't remember telling him where you moved from. He rubbed his hand along the back of his neck nervously, realizing you'd caught his slip. 

"I maaaay have scrolled your Instagram?"

You finished your sandwich, thinking about how much you wanted to tell him.

"Just time for a change of scenery. Olí is an old friend, and he offered me a job. I think he wants to travel more." You shrugged, "It just felt like it was time. Plus, I dunno… I like it here. Much quieter."

Angel nodded at that, not having the heart to tell you that his club was not at all quiet and was the source of the disruption in the otherwise-quaint town. 

You kept talking, telling him about the friends you'd left behind, your old shop, weekends spent in the park surrounding Lake Merritt, and going to Raiders games. Angel took in your features as you spoke, the golden light of the sunset making you glow like something out of a dream he'd had once. Your eyes sparkled as you talked about things you loved, the books and art that inspired your poetry. How you'd gone to art school. You were something.

"-- Sorry, I'm rambling," you breathed in a rush, flush with the amount of talking you'd been doing in a record amount of time. "What? Do I have something in my teeth?"

Angel realized he'd been staring as long as you'd been talking.

"No, querida. Nothing in your teeth." He gave you a dazzlingly white smile.

"Oh thank God," you returned his smile with a small one of your own, shying a little under his gaze, and wondering how long he had been looking at you like that as you'd talked.

He leaned over you now, his height giving him the definite advantage as he'd -- not unwelcomely-- invaded your space. He brought one hand up to cup your chin, his dark eyes revealing flecks of sparkling gold in the pastel wash of the sunset as his gaze once again met yours.

You saw his quick glance down at your lips, you unconsciously giving a small nod before his warm lips met yours.

Oh.

You had obviously been kissed before, been the recipient of past romantic attention. All of that paled in comparison, melting away as Angel's full lips maneuvered over yours, both of his large, calloused hands gently brushing your cheeks as he cupped your face, sliding one hand down to rest on the side of your neck.

You sighed lightly, one of your own hands twined into his shirt, the other resting on the side of his firm torso. 

Angel took the opportunity to slide his tongue past your lips, your own brushing against his as the kiss deepened.

 You were in no hurry for the kiss to end, enjoying the way everything about Angel was so warm, something that was surprisingly welcome, despite the ever-present desert heat of Santo Padre. You could get used to this. 

You had only known Angel a short time, realistically. Your one meeting spawning a series of flirtatious texts and snaps, and now this date that, while low-key, felt almost too perfect to be real. He made you feel safe, desired.

You could already feel him slipping beneath your skin to rest in a special place in your heart. And while you as a person were generally reticent to share that part of yourself with anyone, you had a feeling Angel could take up permanent residence there. If he wanted. 

You dropped from your tip-toes, effectively breaking the kiss.

Angel blinked, looking down at you and noting the pleasant glow on your skin, lips now slightly swollen from his kiss. He could get used to this.

The rest of the evening passed in a pleasant blur, trading quips and stories as the sun went down. Angel told you about his club, his brothers. About his pop and Ezekiel, and how at one time, he enjoyed being the bigger brother, teasing, pranking and lording over EZ until EZ had hit his growth spurt and could (and would) definitely hit back. 

As he drove you home, you snuggled a little bit against him, pressing yourself into his back and enjoying the way you swore you could feel his heart pounding through the kutte and over the rumble of the bike and the road.

He'd dropped you off with a parting kiss and the promise of another date.

Another date turned into several. Time you weren't at the shop was now spent with Angel, showing him what you were working on, inviting him over for dinners and to watch mindless television while he told you what he could about his day. 

The both of you were slowly peeling back the layers around your respectively guarded hearts, revealing more of yourselves only to be met with pure acceptance by the other. Even blindados had to take off their armour at some point. 

You cherished your time with Angel, and he quickly found himself stumbling, head over his own biker-booted heels for you.

After a few months had passed, he had brought you to meet the club. You had manifested nothing but general acceptance of his lifestyle and were eager to meet the people Angel had so obviously cared for. Who had helped shape him into the brash but conscientious person he was with you. 

And one sunny afternoon had found you bringing lunch you had made for the entire club over to the scrapyard, Angel agreeing with your plan. You never were one to show up empty-handed. 

As you walked across the yard, past the gate, and into the clubhouse, your eyes adjusting to the dim interior from the blinding sun outdoors, Angel bounded over to greet you. Taking the bag full of homemade goodies from your arms, he pressed quick kisses to your cheeks, and one to your forehead. 

He turned, met with the pleasantly-surprised stares of his brothers. He announced your name to the room before turning to you, pointing at each man and supplying a name. You nodded, smiling and offering a warm wave to each. 

The man you knew to be EZ from all of Angel's initial texts and photos quickly strode over to you, shaking your hand in his impressively firm grip before bending down to press a quick kiss to your cheek with a,

"Bienvenido, hermanita. Angel's told me a lot about you. Won't shut up, really," giving you a sly wink as Angel swatted EZ's arm in annoyance at his brother's revelation.

Boys.

The smaller man with the sharp eyes and full curls you knew to be Coco made his way over to where you were now seated as Angel went to get you both drinks, the other men digging into your offerings as you made yourself comfortable.

He sat next to you, tossing you a, "You mind?" Lighting his cigarette after you’d shaken your head.

He studied you through his own plumes of smoke before leaning across the table and speaking to you, lowly and with an almost conspiratorial rasp to his voice,

"You did that cover-up for Angel?" He asked on a smooth exhale.

"Mhmm," you nodded. "He gave me free reign. I was nervous he'd hate it."

Coco seemed to chew over your words for a dragging moment. You shifted in your seat. He was definitely sizing you up.

"Bold move, pequeña, giving the secretario of a biker club a sleeve of flowers." 

"I suppose it was," you sighed, more than a little uncertain now. "But it felt meaningful, right, I guess. I just sort of… started drawing. I… think it worked out, though?" You trailed off.

Coco nodded. "It's a fuckin' good piece, mami. Angel told me what you'd said about memories making you who you are." He snorted lightly through his nose. "It's funny. We've never even met before, and you're already sounding like me." 

A small smile played across his lips, returning it with one of your own.

"I'm glad you approve," you nodded. "Angel's opinion obviously matters, and don't tell him I told you this, but it means alot coming from one of his family." 

And that's what they were. His family. You could see it. The obvious camaraderie and care underlying each of their actions with the other. You admired the system of support, cushioned by good humor, despite being flung regularly into harsh reality. It was clear -- they were there for one another.

Coco's voice broke your train of thought,

"Maybe you got space for me in your books one-a these days?"

Your small smile was a full-blown, sunny grin now.

"Of course. Anytime you want to drop by, you're more than welcome." 

"Gracias, chica." Coco leaned across the table and patted your shoulder before getting up and taking his leave.

And so it went. The boys would filter through your shop. Olí teasing you about his offense that all of his most lucrative, inked clients were now going to you. 

You enjoyed the time working on pieces for them afforded you -- offering you a glimpse into their inner workings, what they felt was important enough to take up permanent residence along their skin. Making idle chit-chat with you while you worked. And always, always sharing embarrassing little anecdotes about Angel. 

The months passed with you and Angel, finding comfort in your unpredictable, but welcome, respective routines. 

One night in particular found Angel wrapped up in your embrace, the physical embodiment of your gradual and growing trust in one another.

He had arrived home more than a little rattled, his eyes wildly darting to the corners of the room before settling in you, exhaling a shaky breath before striding the length of the room and crushing you to him, pressing a bruising kiss to your lips. 

You understood he probably couldn't tell you what had happened, but you asked anyway, needing him to know you would hear him.

"Angelito, everything okay?" 

He shook his head softly in the negative, but didn't elaborate. 

You pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

"Okay. We don't have to talk about it," you wound your arms up and around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer to you. "But it's going to be okay. I've got you. I won't let go."

He gripped your wrists, pulling your hands from his neck and sliding your arms down, bringing them to rest around his waist. Once he had positioned you where he wanted, he brought his hands to cup your cheeks, eyes heavy and dark with the weight of his stormy thoughts. 

He nodded at what you had said before bringing his lips back to yours. 

You brought one hand up to meet his, where it rested along your cheek. You twined your fingers through, joining your hands while breaking the kiss. You lead him through the apartment, bringing him to the bedroom. You had music softly playing from your speaker in the corner, candles lit to bathe the room in ambient glow and a warm, honey smell, all in anticipation of Angel's eventual arrival home.

You silently gestured for him to sit on the edge of the bed, where you took your seat next to him. 

You tugged the leather kutte from his shoulders, folding it reverently and placing it on the chair near the bed. He exhaled in relief, shoulders sagging once the leather manifestation of his obligation to a darker world had been removed. The weight of the world a little less on the mantle of his shoulders. 

You turned your attention to his feet next, unlacing and tugging off his boots. Then, his belt. 

Once he was just in his jeans and his t-shirt, you resumed your seat at his side, bringing him back into your embrace and carding your hands through his hair, as his head rested on your shoulder. 

Angel spoke, voice cracking as he broke the seal of silence in the room. 

"It was… it was awful, Frida." He sighed. "I do everything they ask. It's my job … Fuck. Sometimes I wonder how much more my heart can take. But then, I get to come home to you." 

His breath was shuddering now.

And while you didn't always know what to say -- it was a rare sight to see Angel so rattled. But you were a caregiver by nature, ready to give him the pieces of yourself that would make him feel whole.

You guided him down so that he could recline, you came to rest at his side, winding your arms around his torso, your face turned into his neck, cuddling him as he came down from the mania of his emotional high.

The moments passed, Angel's breathing leveling again as you stroked his hair in time to the soft music.

He turned his head to look at you, admiring the flutter of your lashes as you blinked at him, your gaze warm and adoring, full of twinkling fairy light and starshine. 

"Te amo, querida," Angel breathed. This was not the first time he had said it to you during your months together. But each time felt as momentous as the first, each declaration of love felt like the slip of something sweet, and you were determined to store it in your heart and mind forever.

"I love you too, Angel. More than anything," you murmured. "I love your smile, your sense of humor, your strength." You pressed kisses to his face and neck with each admission. "Mostly, I love your strength. And that you trust me enough to tell me when you don't always feel it."

He sucked in a shuddering breath before whispering to you,

"I love your mind. How creative you are. How you see everything so beautiful, just like you," he hmm’d. "Mostly I love your trust. And that you choose to give it to me." 

You kissed him again, leaning over him with your entire body, pressing your palms gently into his shoulders. 

As your kiss deepened, you each began to tug at the other. His hands carded through your hair, tugging gently, but firmly. You lifted his shirt from his torso, the kiss breaking so you could peel it away.

You divested one another of each layer, baring yourselves to the other, body and soul. Again, this wasn't the first time you had done this. But this felt momentous nonetheless. 

Angel skimmed his hands over your form, running his hands softly down and over your breasts, loving your soft sigh at his touch. 

You leaned over him once more, reluctantly removing his hands from you, and placing them gently down at his sides. 

"Your heart is mine, mine to protect," You hummed softly, invading his senses and placing kisses down Angel's neck and to his chest, trailing your lips lovingly over Angel's heart, and pressing one last deliberate kiss there. "And I take my job very seriously." 

As you kissed him, you lightly trailed your fingers down his torso, coming to rest at his hip.

Your declaration was met with silence; you glanced up at Angel through your lashes only to find him already looking down through heavy-lidded eyes at you, his now swirling with some unnamed, weighted emotion.

You trailed your hand across his hip, not breaking eye contact as you took his hardening length into your hand. He inhaled sharply at the sensation of your grip, but refused to look away as you began to pump him slowly, still pressing kisses to his hips, torso and thighs. 

"Please, querida," Angel gasped.

"Please, what?" You murmured back, your voice taking a throaty register you reserved strictly for private moments with your beloved.

"Please… use your pretty mouth?" 

You nodded. 

"Relájate, baby, I've got you," you assured. Sweeping your hair back, the action washing Angel with the sweeping comfort of your scent as you made your way lower down his body. 

Angel slumped back against the bedspread, glittering galaxy eyes still trained on you as you lavished him with attention. 

You took the opportunity to flatten your tongue, licking a broad stripe up the length of him, one hand braced against his firm thigh, the other holding him gently at the base of his cock as you worked.

You swirled your tongue around the tip of him, delighted at his throaty moans, feeling the effect they had on you, making you feel like you were burning from the inside, feeling the slickness from your own center as your thighs rubbed together. 

Taking Angel wholly into your mouth now, you bobbed over him, relishing in the heavy feel of him in your mouth and the throaty groans you received from Angel in response. 

Before you could spend too long lavishing him with attention, Angel tugged on your hair at the base of your neck. Following his grip, you lifted your head and released him from, watching (a little greedily) as his thick length bobbed against him when you relinquished him from the confines of your mouth. 

He guided you up his body, hand still knotted in your hair, pushing his mouth onto yours, uncaring of the saliva on your lips and chin, and the taste of himself on your tongue. 

You straddled his hips, surging the rest of the way up his body and effectively deepening the kiss. The hand that was once in your hair now made its way to loosely grip at your throat, the other skimming his way down your breasts, across your ribs and toward your center.

As his fingers traced through your folds, you involuntarily rolled your hips into his hand, alight at his touch, and desperately seeking more. 

Angel touching you was like the shock of a live wire. Every time felt just as electric as the last, goosebumps erupting across your flesh as his fingers traced across your skin. 

He chuckled through your fused mouths, drawing back at your reaction and the wetness he found between your legs.

"Eager, amor?" Every word fell that fell from his lips sounded like a dangerous purr.

You nodded, drunk on the way Angel's hand gently squeezed your throat, while the other was teasingly making its way to-and-fro across your wet folds, occasionally making his way up to lightly circle and press his thumb over your clit, making your eyelids flutter. Your hips continued to rock against his hand, silently begging for more, his teasing touch making you more than a little crazy.

"Yeah?" Angel asked, his voice thick and syrupy, the timbre like dark clouds. "That shit turn you on? Sucking my cock?"

His words combined with his touch made another rush of heat flood through you. You were certain you would pass out, that your knees would buckle. And you were doing so well, holding your place up and over his hips while he played with you.

The hand on your throat gripped a little tighter, causing your eyes to flutter shut.

"Nuh-uh, baby," he shook you lightly, all mirth gone from his eyes, no more pleasant, smiling crinkles at the corners. His full lips pressed firmly together. "I asked you a question. You answer that shit"

He pressed two fingers teasingly against your entrance, refusing to insert them, despite the little roll of your hips.

"Y-yeaahh," you sighed, head tossed back, "I-I fucking love it -- love you, Angel."

He rewarded you by sliding a long finger into you, allowing you to ride his hand. The hand still around your throat guiding you forward, over him, allowing him to press hot, open-mouthed kisses, first to your lips, dirty and raw, like an exposed nerve in his unabashed want for you. 

He relinquished his hold on your neck, allowing him to trail his lips and his tongue there, kissing you softly behind your ear, down and around your neck to your collarbones, all while his fingers continued their earnest treatment inside of you, his thumb now pressing to your clit, your warming crescendo building.

Using his height and the fact that you were straddling him, Angel encouraged you to lean forward, allowing him to capture one of your breasts in his grip, his mouth following. His warm tongue swirled around your nipple before he sucked the bud into his mouth, grazing his teeth ever so gently over your sensitive flesh.

Angel's attention was rewarded with your gasping sighs and breathy moans. How anyone could make you feel this good was beyond you. Angel had an uncanny ability to elicit responses and feelings like no other person before him.

You felt the thrumming hum and warm, sticky wave of your orgasm building as Angel worked his fingers inside of you, stroking that particular spot from within that he knew would be your undoing.

"O-oh," you whined, keening noises caught in your throat. "Please, baby, I n-need you. Need you inside." 

The room was sweltering. Or was it just you? Angel withdrew his fingers smoothly, not sparing you the chance to be disappointed at the loss of feeling as he smoothly flipped the two of you, guiding you down to the mattress and hovering over your trembling form. 

"Yeah?" Angel asked. "You ready for that, querida?"

You gazed up at him through your lashes, longingly. He would give everything, anything, that he had in the world if you only looked at him like that forever, gaze full of warmth, heat, and unfiltered, starry adoration. 

"Mmm," you nodded, "Please? Angel?"

He was only a man, after all. Who was he to refuse when you asked so prettily for him?

He gently turned you over so that your back was to him, running his hands down the slope of your back and guiding you to your knees, propping your hips up.

Positioning himself behind you, Angel resumed his grip on your throat, using it to guide your head around so that he could kiss you again while he guided himself inside of you. You moaned into the kiss at the sensation, never tired of feeling every ridge of his thick cock sliding into you like he belonged there.

Angel groaned, breaking the kiss and shaking his head, chuckling darkly, his eyes flashing as he swore, 

"Never fuckin' get tired of that shit," he began to move his hips, using his other hand that was gripping your hip to guide you along his lengthy, meeting his thrusts. "Never tired of your pussy … You're so … good."

Angel's words coupled with his thrusts were driving you crazy, causing you to eagerly meet him with the momentum of your own hips, the heat in the room spliced with the distinctive noise of his skin meeting yours. 

Angel, leaning over your back, crowded your every sense, the taste of him, of his kisses still lingering on your tongue. Your ears met with the harmony of your two bodies and the filthy words and sounds coming from Angel's mouth. The sight of him was as intoxicating as ever, as you looked over your shoulder at him, the shadows of the room playing across his tawny skin, glimmering in the low light with the sheen of sweat you knew was also present on yours.

“Say my name,” Angel pants into the slick skin on your back, kissing a line down your spine, his body covering yours possessively.

You were too caught up in everything Angel, failing to respond quickly enough for his liking as you gasped at every thrust.

A crack of heat flashed across your ass, Angel swatting you there once. You should be annoyed, but you couldn't lie -- you fucking loved it when he was like this. Only for you. 

"A-angel," you sighed, the crescendo of your orgasm climbing, threatening to burst any second, you tightening around Angel.

"Bueno," he purred. "You close? Yeah, you fucking are," Angel snarled, taking in the way you threw your hips back desperately to meet him, squirming one hand beneath you to touch yourself. "You can have it, baby, I'll make it good. You just gotta ask pretty for me." 

You deepened the arch in your back, flexing your hips back toward Angel, and gripping the bedspread before you in your fingers, face pressed flush with the sheets, your other hand still pressed to your clit.

Angel tilted your head, leaning over further and gripping your jaw, squeezing to pucker your cheeks. He kissed you, sucking your lower lip between his. He kissed you gently, a deceptive contrast to the hand gripping your face, his hips snapping into yours at a now-brutish pace. He pecked another light kiss to your lips, followed by another, gently biting your lip and dragging it lightly as he drew his face from yours.

He released your lips as you whispered another plea into his mouth.

"Come on then, baby." 

Your orgasm washed over you, pinpricks of striking matches splintering across your skin, followed by a euphoric wave of white-heat, blissfully soothing every nerve it had just lit.

Angel followed, emptying himself into you with a few final thrusts, groaning at the way you tightened just so around him. 

He withdrew gently, collapsing next to you as you both caught your breath. 

Your lashes fanned your cheeks as you blinked hazily at the form of your love through the soft glow of the room.

"I do love you, Angel," you told him, leaning across the sheets to rub your nose back and forth against his, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, grazing your soft fingers against the lines of his forehead, easing them away into an expression of soft serenity. "Always."

---

Now, you walked out of the clubhouse, around to the side of the porch, a quiet corner away from the noise. Willing yourself to calm down as small, hot tears trickled their way, uninvited, down your cheeks. 

Your thoughts were moving a million miles a second, the battle of luck you were waging with the universe saw you quickly losing. 

The year you spent with Angel replaying itself in your mind. Every word, every touch, that goddamn tattoo. Remembrance, my ass. How you would hold him when he came home too high-strung and strung-out emotionally for words. How you would save the best leftovers for him when you knew he had been away and would be craving the Chinese food from the place down the block when he got back. How he felt inside of you on the coldest nights and in the most tender mornings. How he would whisper enchanting endearments into the shell of your ear as he rolled his hips into yours, your mind and body completely his. How you would wear his shirts and overly-large socks around his apartment, leaving doodles and scribbled poems on sticky notes for him to find in his moments alone. How he kissed you warmly, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like syrupy possession that you never wanted to end. 

How it did end. How he had thrown out your world, crumpled it into a crushed paper ball and tossing it away with the carelessness of a child. Ending things with seemingly no spare thought for your feelings. How EZ had let slip when he saw you in town that Angel was expecting a kid, the timing of everything suddenly making a little more sense. How it made you feel, now that you knew you were wholly his, but he was never entirely yours. How you had kept to yourself in the months that followed, the cracks in your heart widening until you felt like you would drown in them. 

The pulse of your feelings for him, always strong; they warm you. But it was still you they all left behind. 

Your thoughts were still swirling when, off to the side, you heard the porch door open and close again, and you prayed that whomever was coming outside was going to have a smoke out front, or that they were on their way out. That they wouldn’t find you. 

But of course, these things never worked out how you wanted them. You cursed any god you could think of for just how un-fucking-lucky you were sometimes. 

Because, really, who other than Angel was making his way around the porch to you? Taking in your hunched form as you leaned over the railing, looking anywhere but at him. 

Of fucking course.

You kept your eyes down, focused in your clasped hands as you leaned over the railing, refusing to look at him. 

And now? Now he was looking at you, and it's the one time you wished he wouldn't. 

One thing you wouldn't do, now that he was here, was break the silence first. He didn't want to hear what you'd had to say, so why would you grace him with your thoughts now? Petty? Sure. But you weren't the one in there with your hands on some ass while a so-called friend harassed your ex. 

A few uncomfortable beats dragged on before Angel broke the silence, shattering it like glass with a verbal hammer.

"What'd he say to you?"

You remained silent.

"What the fuck did he say, Frida?" His voice angry now, demanding. The same tone he used to break your heart. 

"It ain't working. Not my fuckin’ fault you can't see it."

You rolled your eyes, another shard of icy glass painfully wedging into your heart at his use of the name. Still refusing to look in his direction when you replied, softly but sharply, 

"You know exactly what he said. What I'm trying to figure out is why, exactly, you care."

"I care, Frida," was all he offered.

You snorted in response. Undignified, sure. But couldn't he see this was killing you? Where was his mercy?

"I do," he insisted, the thud of his boots across the wood of the porch indicating that he was crossing to you, coming to stand a ways behind you.

"I'm not going to do this with you. He said some shit. It's over. We move on. What more could you have to say about that?"  

Keep it simple, keep yourself safe. You gave him nothing to say back. And then… 

"And if I told you I wanted you? I wanted you back?"

You whipped your head around to -- finally -- meet Angel's eyes, which you did for a fleeting moment before zeroing in once more on your shoes, staring resolutely at the ground. You were not going to let him see you cry again, godfuckingdamnit.

The fleeting glimpse of his face, of his eyes meeting yours once more after all this time, was enough. He looked more tired up close than he had before. Still unfair in his striking beauty, his midnight eyes still enough to pull you in, drown you in their oceanic depths. You hated it. Hated that he still had that power over you. But try as you might, you couldn't hate him. 

Your silence was killing Angel with the precision of a thousand miniscule cuts. Each deeper than the last. Until he couldn’t take it any longer. He reached through the space between, for where your hand rested on the railing. You saw the gesture coming, and whipped your hand away at the last moment, cradling it to your chest like he had burned you. You faced him fully now.

You chuckled softly, wryly, and devoid of any humor before you muttered, "You don't want me, baby. Please don't lie."

“And how do you know that’s a lie?” Angel mumbled thickly, working his tongue around the words, through his own emotion. 

You scuffed your toe into the hewn wood of the deck, shrugging before you responded, simply, 

“If I was what you wanted, you wouldn’t have gone looking elsewhere. And you certainly wouldn't have found someone else. You wouldn’t have said what you said, ended it like you did, with everything on just your terms.” You sighed deeply, with the rattle of tears lodged into your chest before you spoke again, “You made up your mind and never even let me say a word. If you wanted anything to do with me, you could have at least given me a word.” 

Angel blinked, hard. The familiar pressure of real tears building behind his eyes. You were right of course. And fuck, weren't you always? You'd always told him like it was, harsh truths that only you could cushion in your gentle, empathetic way. 

"Please, querida, just let me explain what happened--" 

You held up your hand, shaking your head firmly, effectively silencing Angel.

"No!" Much softer now, "No. I- I'm sorry, Angel, I don't mean to be rude. But, no." Your voice small, but clear, as you'd finally gotten your opportunity to say something back to him. "I, uh, I don't want to hear any explanation, and you really don't have to?"

You lilted the last part like it was a question, but continued on. 

"You, um, you've had a lot of time to tell me something, anything, about what the fuck happened. And you didn't. You left me with nothing. Just confusion and hurt, and I've made peace with that. It's taken a while, but … I just… I don't need that from you. I gave you space, always respected your decisions and opinions, and now you won't do the same. You're still trying to take from me. Offering me an explanation now?" You scoffed. "That isn't for me, and don't fuckin’ act like it is -- it's for you. And I understand that, that's fine. I'm not angry at you for that, but I'm also not going to humor it." 

You exhaled shakily, you couldn't believe you'd said all of that, that you had made it through.

Angel was speechless. It made your heart feel even sicker -- all of this silence from him for so long, and he'd offered to explain himself and you'd (gracefully) told him to fuck off. Why had you done that??

It was about time you'd stood up for yourself, that's why. 

An explanation would be nice, sure. But where Angel's words, whispered affirmations and heady declarations of love, had once made your soul swell and sing… now, you knew, anything he'd had to say to you would only serve to do the opposite. 

And your heart, perpetually bruised by nature of you being a hopeless romantic, just couldn't take it. 

You hopped off the porch, spinning around to face Angel, finding his eyes on you still. Hadn't you wished for him to look at you? To really see you once more? 

"I'm out," you tossed a thumb over your shoulder toward where you'd parked your car. "Sorry, I don't mean to abandon the old post, but uh, I'm sure you guys have someone to fill in. I'll text Aneesa to grab my stuff, don't worry about it." 

Like he would, you thought.

You were mostly rambling to yourself, and not really to Angel, as you backed away, fleeing to your car. 

Angel watched you go, the resonant ache in his chest that had been ever-present since tossing your stuff out, amplified when Luisa had left him, and now sure to be permanent, buried in cement beneath the weight of his every decision, and every word.

You looked good, he thought. Your hair was longer than when he'd seen you last. Your little skirt flouncing as you strode away. Your skin still glowed, full lips still twisted into that wry smile of yours that he had seen from across the room. All of that was true, but your eyes were also tired, and your smile never quite reached them. 

The thought that he was responsible for dimming that sparkle made him feel sicker than he already had. The way you had brushed off Andres, despite his obnoxious insistence, and the things the cocky  new patch had said to you -- may as well add those to the ever-growing pile of things stained and tainted by Angel's guilt.

And he was left alone with that guilt as you left the lot. He turned back to the party. His cool facade slipping back into place. Not ready to face the wrath of EZ and Coco, surely waiting inside to proverbially beat his ass.

What would you say if I come over? And we stand face to face now that we're older?

---

Angel shuffled into his apartment, the late hour catching up to his weary form as he ambled over to his bedside, flicking on the lamp. 

Rubbing a large hand down his face, he sat on his bed in a huff of exhaustion. Your first encounter in months since he'd all-but tossed you from this very room was pricking him with a kind of nauseating nervous  energy. But all he wanted to feel in that moment was you, whether he deserved it or not.

He'd still had it, didn't he? Where was it?

He pulled open the drawer of his nightstand, fishing through its contents for what he hoped was still in there.

His fingers curled over his prize -- a slip of paper adorned with your handwriting. Scrawled lines of poetry on a neon pink Post-It note, curled with age and disuse, something you had left for him while he slept in one morning. 

“I was thinking of you,” you had said when he had asked you about it later, shrugging as if it were the most matter-of-fact thing in the world. 

Your love for him was clean in its simplicity and forwardness, whenever he could wade his way through the mire of your shy demeanor. You had stuck the Post-It to his nightstand while he was sleeping and you made your way to work. Your words were cramped and crunched into the small paper square, but ready to greet him with the shining light of a sunny new day. 

“I see your ardor through a pearlescent lense, and all is pleasantly pink and blurry with you-- Resplendent in your love's solar hope. You are so warm beneath the brush of my fingertips, and I burn. So in love with you, as I am and as I do."

Now, his eyes scanned the words for the millionth time since you had written them. He had committed it to memory by now, wishing he could hold you instead of this crumpled piece of paper, mocking him with its annoyingly bright pink hue.

But how could he? Angel was the kind of man who simmered in his emotion -- burning slowly, lowly, only to reach a pitch. He kept to himself until he couldn’t any longer -- and then it was all bleeding hearts on a very crisp sleeve. 

He had done what he had thought was right. Cutting you out with all of the brutality and finesse of a battleaxe, to focus on Luisa and his unborn son. He thought she was what he wanted. But now, he didn’t even have them. He had nothing to show for his decisions but the lonely, sick feeling ever-present in his chest. 

The you at the beginning of your relationship would have kissed each bruise in his soul, one by one, until they were better. Would have gifted him with the warmth of your time and attention until he was made whole again with the molten heat of your gracious heart. But the you now? 

Angel could never, would never, cover the tattoo on his arm, though he had thought about it. Blacking it out once and for all, so the piece of you he wore on his sleeve would finally match the  pitch, and emptiness inside. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was, as he’d said all that time ago, your gift to him. And he’d made you a promise that he wouldn’t. 

All he wanted was to look you in the eyes so he could remember that he loved you once.

And not that he had any reason to know it, but across town, you had made it home. Your phone shoved to the bottom of your bag, lighting up with texts from Aneesa, EZ, and Coco. But the only person on your mind was Angel. 

How much of what he had said was true? You weren't sure. But you were sure that you knew where you stood, still painfully alone and in love as ever, the cracks in your heart only fillable by the very person you had brushed off earlier.

And, while Angel readied himself for bed, snapping the lights off and attempting to cut through the oppressive darkness by staring at the ceiling with his own penetrative gaze, the empty side of the bed had never felt more cavernous, but more weighted. Mocking. 

If Angel was being honest with himself -- something he was never too keen on being in his more sobering moments -- he didn't love you once. He still loved you.

Thinking after all this time, I just wanna meet your eyes so I can remember why... Why I loved you once.

Tagging:

@themarcusmoreno @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @steeeeeeeviebb @qveenbvtch @mxsamwilson @ifimayhaveaword @huliabitch @pettyprocrastination @phoenixhalliwell @flightlessangelwings @cinewhore @velvetmel0n @moonlight-prose @rebeccasficrecs @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @aerolanya @djvrins @jenrebloggingfics @ciriswife @justanotherblonde23 @superhoeva @witching-hour​ @luckyharley1903​

[fairyoftbz]

jealousy | l. hyunjae

🌊 pairing: bf! hyunjae x fem! reader 🌊 wc: 1.9k 🌊 synopsis: at the beach, your mood suddenly swings, and your boyfriend is too oblivious to understand why you're feeling that way. 🌊 genre: angsty fluff, comfort, very cliché, fluffy end 🌊 tw: insecurities, self body-shaming, a petty fight at the beginning 🌊 a/n: yeah I went to the pool the other day and it was pretty much this, except that I didn't have a hyunjae by my side lol... and Spotify played this olivia rodrigo's song a moment after.. but happy birthday to Hyunjae in advance!!! 🥰 🌊 requested: no!

╰☆☆☆☆╮

“What kind of fuckery is that?” you ask yourself when you take a look around you at the beach while Hyunjae was settling your stuff down in the sand, trying not to get too much sand on the cooler. He removed his t-shirt to be more comfortable, girls built like models ogled at your boyfriend’s back and abs, giggling together and biting their lips as they saw his muscles move around.

The beach was filled with slim, fit people, either working out or getting that tan for Instagram. The girls were so pretty and looked like models that could sign with Marc Jacobs, which had the ability to make you even more insecure than you already were. A feeling of uneasiness settled inside your body, especially your heart, who felt heavy with insecurity when you took another great look at the people hanging out around you.

“Here darling, take a seat,” he said as he placed down a wide tablecloth on the sand with your towel on it, thanking him with a brief smile before guiding him to plant the parasol to let you rest in the shade together.

His shoulders and biceps glistened with sweat as he stopped digging to hammer the parasol pole in the sand, rubbing the grains off his fingers to finally sit down next to you. His smile subsided when he noticed you staring into space, gaze on the water, a weary look painted on your face.

“Y/N, is there something wrong? Don’t you want to go in the water?” he quizzed you, not really understanding your mood swing. You were so excited when he offered to go to the beach, and now, you looked sad, almost disappointed to be there.

“You can go ahead, I’ll join you later,” you said as you rested on your back, covering your face with your straw hat.

Hyunjae observed you laying down, frowning as you didn’t even remove your beach dress. Something felt odd, weird. You loved being there and having fun in the water. What was going on?

He looked around to see what could have upset you this much, but he couldn’t find anything. People, friends and couples were laughing and enjoying the sun, just like he had expected you to do with him.

You open your eyes and clench your jaw when Hyunjae lifted your hat off your face, a veil of concern forming in his eyes. Shifting his weight on one hand, the other caressed your upper thigh, the warmness of his palm contrasting with your shivering skin.

“Did I do something that made you mad?” he dared to ask another question, trying to get a glimpse of your thoughts to try to understand what was actually going on. “No you didn’t. I just don’t want to go in the water now, the wind is making me cold,” you lied and Hyunjae sighed, understanding that you wouldn’t share what was on your mind for now.

He kissed your cheek anyway, mouth lingering on your skin a bit longer than usual and stood up, removing his cap and sunglasses while looking at the people around you with a frown. You watch him calmly walk to the water, silently watching the waves crash against his feet, calves and knees the further he walked in the ocean, his glistening back muscles moving as he raised his arms to dive underwater.

You sighed and rolled on your stomach, your back facing the shore as you folded your arms, using the back of your palm as a cheek rest, closing your eyes in the process. A single tear rolled down your cheek, captured by the edge of your sunglasses, followed by many more, letting the insecurities invade your mind. You didn’t even want to look at all the slim, IG models look alike smirking and eyeing your boyfriend up and down as he walked by. You already felt so uneasy to be here, you didn’t want to add fuel to the fire by looking at what you’ve always dreamt to look like being attracted to your partner.

But Hyunjae didn’t even notice those girls. His frown deepened even more when he only saw the back of your body, something quite usual coming from you. You absolutely adored the beach and the ocean, remembering one of your first dates where you told him that the beach - especially at sunset - was your solace, and now you were facing away from this source of comfort. Plus, there were occasions where you came here without really wanting to go in the water, just to enjoy the warmth and the sight of the ocean, happily waving at your boyfriend that was having fun in the water while you stayed in your seat.

He didn’t even notice them looking at him, because his eyes and mind were focused on you and you only, trying to find what had caused you to become this weary and down all of a sudden. He didn’t feel the same when you weren’t looking at him, when you shut yourself out and let your brain overthink on its own, refusing his help. A pinch of discomfort tightened his heart, regretting that he wasn’t as good at reading people as much as he wished to.

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, what’s going on in that pretty little mind of yours,” he mumbled under his breath as he got out of the water, still not noticing that the source of your uneasiness were the ones staring at him, a few metres away from him as he walked back to you.

Droplets of salty water landed on your cheek and forearm as Hyunjae bent down to kiss your temple, forcing a tired smile on your face to try and not let anything show on your face.

“Is the water good?” you mindlessly asked as Hyunjae rested on his stomach, just like you, pushing his front pieces of hair back before putting his cap on.

“It’s a bit fresh at first, but once you’re in it, it’s good. You’d love it,” his voice trailed at the end of his sentence, eyes trying to probe your soul and bribe you to join him in the water.

“That’s great,” you nodded and sniffled, handing a bottle of water from the cooler to your boyfriend. He uncapped it but stopped, shifting on his side, resting his weight on his elbow.

“Babe, please, what’s wrong? You’ve been acting strangely since we got here, what’s going on?” he asked, voice ringing with frustration. You briefly looked at him before looking at the ocean, letting out a big sigh.

“Can’t you see anything, Jaehyun? Can’t you see that everyone around me, including you, looks like they just walked out of a Dior photoshoot by how slim and fit and pretty they look? That you have all the girls around us that ogle at you like you’re single? Yes I’m mad, yes I’m insecure, but I have my reasons, don’t you think?” you spat out your insecurities with teary eyes to your boyfriend’s face, who looked at you like he just saw a ghost.

That, was the last thing he had imagined. He never thought that you would get so insecure about this because you looked like the most beautiful girl in his eyes. He was about to speak up, but he placed himself in your shoes for a quick second, insecurities, as well as anger, started boiling in his veins as he imagined men looking at you like a fresh piece of meat.

You started scratching the skin around your thumb, a habit that you picked up when you were stressed and nervous and tears gathered in your eyes as you tried to ignore some girls still looking at and trying to flirt with your man. You wrapped your arms around your knees and pressed your chin on top of it, only to have Hyunjae positioning behind you to have you between his legs, wrapping his arms around your middle to press you against him.

He grabbed your hand to stop you from scratching it and he pressed his mouth against your shoulder, remaining silent as he tried to search for his words.

“No. I didn’t see any of those people, because I don’t care about how they look. I don’t care if the girls look like skinny models or if you find their faces pretty. Do you find the men here handsome ?”

“No,” you said in a wobbly voice, eyes glued to the ocean.

“Why?”

“Because I love you and I only have eyes for you,” you said in a shaky voice and Hyunjae remained in silence for a few seconds, knowing that you were smart enough to get what he was implying.

“So I don’t look at girls because?”

“Because you love me,” you said, voice wavering as tears rolled down your cheeks, Hyunjae holding you close to his chest, trailing salty kisses from your neck up to your cheek.

“Of course I love you, and with all my heart. I wouldn’t be with you if that weren’t the case.”

He grabbed your chin and you shifted to the side, sitting perpendicularly to him. His hands cupped your cheeks to make you look at him and he offered you a gentle smile, his thumbs wiping the paths the tears left on your skin when they rolled down your cheeks.

“I only see you, Y/N. You’re much more than looks, and you can’t say that you are horrible next to them. You are just yourself, someone more honest, prettier and funnier than all those girls around us. They don’t interest me at all, I only care about you. It’s not my problem if they think I’m handsome. As long as you’re in love with me, I'm at my happiest,” he caressed your cheek with tenderness, holding a huge amount of love for you in his eyes. You nodded, trying to make his words imprint in your brain and ignore everything and everyone that was surrounding you, but it was far from being easy.

You delicately touched his cheek and he kissed your inner palm while holding eye contact, assuring you that he only had eyes for you.

“Do you want to go in the water? Yes?” his eyes sparkled with joy as you nodded with a smile, your boyfriend springing to his feet and removed his cap, getting all excited when he watched you remove your beach dress.

“Stop staring at me like that Jae, we’re in public,” you giggled as you threw your dress at him, who hummed your perfume on the fabric before dropping it on your towel.

“I won’t. I want to let everyone know that I only have eyes for you,” he said as he grabbed your hand and started running towards the water, entering it with a big splash and laughter.

You dove underwater to get used to the salty water, reappearing at the surface a few seconds later, Hyunjae smiling at you. He wrapped your legs around his waist and held you close, pressing his lips against yours in a hungry kiss.

“Chill, chill,” you laughed as you pulled away breathless, Hyunjae’s hands caressing your body.

“No, no, I wanna show them that they don’t have a single chance against you. And that you’re taken,” he grunted the last part of his sentence, making you giggle and hugging him close.

“Thank you, Jae,” you mumbled and your boyfriend stares at you with a reassuring smile, pressing his lips to your temple.

“I love you Y/N,” you held eye contact again and Hyunjae was happy to see your smile, kissing your lips the following second.

Gosh, you were so in love with each other.

[bored-storyteller]

Hey! I really like how you write about Sally Face, I love how you highlight his kindness but also his strength. It struck me a lot how he wonders if anyone will ever love him, I guess it's hard for him to believe in someone's love for him, from a romantic point of view. I thought ... could you write something about a reader in love with him, who gets rejected for that reason but still loves him until Sal dies? You don't have to do it (also because you prefer angst / comfort right?), But I try to ask you ... I'd like to see it written by you. It will hurt but it will be worth it.

Dear Anon,

I hope you like this because I suffered the pain of hell writing this :3

But jokes aside, I hope it does justice to your expectations, I hope I have treated everything with the right delicacy.

Warning: ANGST and SPOILER (I say this for safety)

The story is set in the canonical plot, even if there may be slight differences (after all there is always one more character, you). But for those who haven't played Sally Face this could be revealing.

77- Sally Face, Sal Fisher x reader (Angst)

“The sunflower that cannot bloom “

"I love you."

Those words had slipped off your lips with one of the most beautiful smiles Sal had ever seen.

You weren't perfect, but you were tailor-made for him. Somehow, he had thought that from the first day he met you, by mistake, on a black day. You had offered him a sunflower, a huge yellow flower that shone like the sun in the midst of his misfortunes, and his black day had grown better.

This was you, what he needed when the weight was too much to carry, when he found himself snorting one too many times, when he felt like crying.

Still, even though you were tailor-made for him, he wasn't tailor-made for you.

He would have liked to believe you, with all his heart, he would have asked for nothing more than to be loved by you.

But he couldn't believe it.

"No, you don't ..." His voice was gentle, as if he were explaining something important to a little child.

Your brows had furrowed as you pointed your gaze into the depths of his soul.

"You do not believe me?" Your tone wandered between uncertainty and offense "Do you think I'm lying to you?"

A sigh rang through the empty hollows of his mask: “No, you're not lying to me. I just think you… don't really know what you're saying. "

Your expression deepened as you prepared to argue back. He had seen the wound open inside you and he had looked away; he couldn't watch you while he hurt you.

Oh, he was so good at making himself loved. The river of emotions that had overwhelmed you had died out as soon as his one living eye was separated from you.

Disappointment, anger, sadness had disappeared in favor of affection for him.

His mask was flat, helpless, cold towards his heart, yet he communicated more than anyone else with that immense little soul of him.

"Sal ..." finally you called him gently, reassuring, while your fingers lovingly brushed the cheek of the cold prosthesis.

"I love you." You repeated it, and he turned to tell you to stop. He couldn't be loved, he didn't feel capable of being loved.

He would never have a love like that of movies, or even like that of normal people, like Maple and Chug. He, as he was, could never have been loved, not even by you.

He was going to tell you, to tell you everything, but you stopped him softly: "but it's okay if you don't want to."

You barely laughed, as if everything was really okay with you, and you leaned on his shoulder, cuddling against his neck.

"I have my whole life to make you understand." You said cheerfully, and he just looked at you, accepting that little stubbornness of yours.

Even though he was aware that one day he would see you happy in the arms of someone you really would love, for the time being it was okay for him to bask in that little illusion you were giving him.

---

Life had been cruel.

"I had no choice."

Those words had pierced your brain.

The first time he had told you with a force that you almost confused with anger. His body had never been so rigid in front of you, motionless, sitting on the other side of the table in the visiting room of the prison, surrounded by other inmates like him.

You wondered if you were sane, because you looked into the eyes of a murderer, a killer who had exterminated families, who had even killed a little girl, yet your tears were for them, but also for him.

Whatever it was, Sal hadn't changed, and behind his mask he was more broken into pieces than you were. He hadn't had a choice, for some reason he hadn't had a choice.

It was weird and unreal, but you had no doubts about him, even though your mind still couldn't believe what happened, and Sal probably didn't really realize it either.

However, the second time he told you "I had no choice" his voice was different. He was different, and so were you. You had grown up, but both of you had stood still in what had happened. At that moment he was telling you so that you believed him, so that you knew it was not what he wanted, because if he could have chosen at that moment you would have been together in front of a pizza, telling you how boring the day had been.

"I beg you ..." You whispered so as not to let him hear how broken your voice was "... tell me what I have to do to save you."

It was the first time you used that word, out of pure desperation.

For a moment he hesitated and hoped you wouldn't see his uncertainty behind the mask. Finally, Sal shook his head in silence; he didn't know if it would do any good, but at least he would try to protect you.

Your hand was holding his for the first time in years, and you both knew it would be the last time you would hold it. You had done everything to be able to have that last contact, to still be able to hold him before they took him away from you forever.

You didn't want to cry, you wouldn't have done it on your last time together, but your heart was so heavy that you thought you would die as soon as you separated.

While you massaged the back of his hand with your thumb, you tried to record every detail in your mind that belonged to him, to burn the heat of his palm against yours, to remember the exact weight of his touch.

I love you, you wanted to tell him, you never stopped doing it, not a second you stopped giving him your best side, and you would have given it only to him also in the future.

"You are so important to me, Sal ..." your blue sky under which sunflowers bloom.

"Thank you ... for always being with me."

Part of you died when you let go of his hand that day.

---

Until the last you hoped that something would happen. A ghost that suddenly appears, an angel, a new discovery ... anything, as long as he was kept away from that electric chair.

When your phone rang, you were deluded for a moment.

"Hey…"

"Sal?"

"They ... allowed me to call whoever I wanted ..."

Your heart fell on hearing his voice. It was his last day, his last day in your own world, that was his farewell to you.

"Sal, I-" Your words broke into a sob you couldn't hold back "I'm with you, I'll always be with you."

Silence invaded the line between the two of you as you tried not to give him your tears as your last caress.

"I know it." He was holding back the crying, you could hear it "And I'll always be with you too, know that."

You were tailor-made for him, and his heart would remain for you, even if you moved on, you would love someone worthy sooner or later, or at least he hoped you would, that the demon would not devour your future. .

"Bring me some sunflowers if you can ... ok?" That request trembled "They always make me think of you."

You forced yourself to cover your mouth with your palm to stifle your agony: "I'll fill you with sunflowers."

Something told you that even if you couldn't see him, he was trying to smile: "It's a bit a cliché but ... be happy."

You would have preferred to have died in that very moment.

"Sal, wait!" You begged for him now, holding on to the phone like it was him, like you could hold him there.

He hesitated at the desperation of your voice.

"I can't ..." his voice was soft, light, like when he consoled you years ago, when all this seemed simply impossible.

“I beg you…” You didn't know who you were really praying for, but you weren't ready to hear his voice go out.

One more minute, one more touch, a hug.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry you had to put up with this." A sob from him too. “Please… fight for your happiness, okay? You deserve all the happiness in the world. "

"Sal ..."

The answer that followed was the only intermittent sound of the blank phone line.

It's over, you'll never be able to hear Sal's voice again. You won't be able to talk to him anymore.

And he never believed you loved him.

---

How could you ever be happy?

His mask still looks at you as it always did, but behind the empty gaze there are nothing but blades of grass growing above his burial.

How could they bury him without his mask? He will feel uncomfortable.

Now you don't have to be strong for him anymore, you can collapse, break, destroy yourself, scream like you've never screamed, ask him to come back, because you need him.

Your fingers caress the cold, hard cheeks of his prosthesis as they always did, as if he were still behind it. Next to it, the sunflower he asked you for, like the one you gave him the first time you saw him.

"I love you Sally face ..." your words now go to the wind, they cannot be refused.

"I really love you."

---

Where you don't know, where you are not, a guy who has the weight of the world on his shoulders thinks about how much he could never be loved as people love each other in movies, or how people love each other in the world. But suddenly, like a ray of light, in the darkness he is facing, the yellow of a sunflower blooms. It's just a thought, but for a moment it's warm, and sweet, and it carries your voice with it.

You exist only within him, but you give him the love he needs, the one he didn't believe in, but which instead exists.

It is a tormented love, which suffers, but still welcomes him and wraps him as your arms did.

You are not there, you are far away, unreachable.

But he feels it, you're still there with him