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rae-gar-targaryen · 3 years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read part one here.

---

It doesn't snow in Santo Padre.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That had gone famously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I care, Frida.”

“... and if I wanted you back?”

“Please, querida.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bleeding hearts on a very crisp sleeve.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was he fucking serious?

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

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

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

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

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

You weren’t about to cave so easily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. And you were doing so well.

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel was silent for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are something, Frida.”

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded toward Angel’s arm once more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How could something about you not be beautiful?"

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She had outdone herself. You felt gorgeous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If he only knew.

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

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

And he saw you, too.

Oh fuck.

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

He fucking wouldn’t.

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

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

Fuck, you were hot when you were mad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was he … drunk?

Fuck this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel flinched.

“I deserve that,” he said.

Strike two. Too little, too late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strike. Fucking. Three.

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

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

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

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

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

Ice cold.

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus fuck!” Angel yelped.

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shook your head.

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

Well, shit.

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

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

Not much got past Johnny “Coco” Cruz.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel ignored his question.

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

“No hug for me, jaina?”

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

You recovered quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coco snorted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who says I want anything,” EZ asked?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel sighed before he spoke again,

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

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

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

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

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

EZ shifted on the couch, leather creaking beneath him as he weighed what to tell his brother.

“I- I don’t know what the answer here is, Angel,” EZ finally admitted. “I get that it’s scary. Fuck yeah, it is. But that’s no excuse --”

“I know that,” Angel snapped.

EZ held his hands up in surrender, placating the red dragon-heat that was his brother’s quick temper before it could rise.

“I know you do,” EZ spoke softly, “I know, man. But it’s not that simple. You should probably tell her, ya know? What you just told me. But even if you did, she’d be within her right not to hear it. Or not to want to fix shit with you, or take your apology. And you? Gotta accept it.”

EZ brushed imaginary dirt from the thigh of his jeans before speaking again,

“Sucks,” he sighed through his nose. “I dunno if I’d be madder at her for taking you back or for not taking you back. But, uh, even if she doesn’t, that doesn’t mean you won’t find it again, Angel. You just gotta decide whether you wanna try here -- and accept the outcome no matter what she decides. You owe her that. But one thing’s for sure … you should actually try talkin’ to her.”

Angel had the faraway look in his eye of a man either deep in thought, or someone not listening entirely, staring through the far wall as EZ had spoken to him. Maybe he didn’t look it, but he’d heard every word, turning them over again in his mind before swallowing them somewhere deep in his gut, internalizing wisdom from someone who was younger than him, but who’d undoubtedly lived through more than most people. EZ was good for that kind of bereft wisdom -- disconnected in its logic coming from someone like EZ, but completely sensical when you understood the depth of the boy’s character and empathy. Not for the first time in his life, Angel was grateful for Ezekiel.

He smiled weakly at his little brother, acceptance cracking through the little cracked crescent grin, “Mom would’ve liked her, huh?”

EZ smiled at his brother in return, facile and genuine, as only Ezekiel’s grins could be.

---

I swear, for a while I would stare at my phone just to see your name, but now that it's there, I don't really know what to say…

Across town, EZ had left Angel’s, and the latter, now alone in his apartment and buzzing with EZ's words, was typing a text to you. And here you are … looking down at your phone between gathering your laundry and stacking clean dishes. You saw Angel’s name pop up next to the little text bubble on your homescreen, causing you to pause in your chores.

Huh. Unexpected Should you open it?

After everything that had gone down yesterday at the scrapyard, and the shitty attempt a few days prior to fuck up your date-- were you ready now to have the conversation you knew you and Angel were dancing around for the better part of several months? Ready to breach the seemingly impenetrable wall of silence? Feelings like the ones you held for Angel had a way of not being able to stay buried for too long. And you knew you could never truly move on, never would be able to give the icy shards wedged between your ribs and into your heart a chance to heal. Not unless you and Angel got it all out into the open.

And with the circumstances the way they were, with everything that had gone down -- how many women in your position could say they'd had the same opportunity?

How did the old saying go? What three things cannot long be hidden? The sun. The moon. And the truth.

The truth was, to you, the sun and moon rose and set on Angel.

The truth was, you had bitten off a few barbs and spat them at Angel in the few moments you’d shared with him since he tossed you from his apartment all those months ago. You weren't a perfect person. But it’s damn well what he deserved, after what he did. You weren’t wrong about that. The fact that everyone, and Angel’s father, were angry at him for the way things had gone down told you that you were not the one in the wrong.

The truth was, Angel had fucked up. Not only with his infidelity and the way he had tipped you from his life, with blunt hands tearing haphazardly at the roots… but he had insulted you, your work, and stood idly by and allowed others to do the same.

He knew it, and you knew it. And you had both been petty.

But now that the wound was open, and the skin around it raw and heated, pulsing with its own heartbeat -- how could you ever give it a chance to heal if you didn't try to close it?

There was nothing saying that if you read Angel’s message, if you heard him out, and you got the chance to say your own piece, that you had to forgive him. And if it meant moving on? Maybe it was the step you needed to take.

Like burning a candle to the end. Or, yes, wrapping a wound. Or perhaps like covering an old tattoo. Clara Forever?

You unlocked your phone, sliding open your texts, taking a deep breath as you did so.

“I just wanted you to know I heard what you said,” Angel’s text read. “I do wanna talk to you, Frida. But only when you’re ready to talk to me. If you ever are. I just want to hear you out. Even if I know you never have to accept my apology.”

Well.

You looked down at your phone. You read Angel's text. Re-read it.

You'd be lying to yourself if you didn't acknowledge that everything that had gone down hadn't been building to this.

You brought your thumbs to the glass, beginning to type,

"I'm off tomorrow at six. You can come by after."

There. Short, sweet, and to the point.

Your phone pinged in your hand. Glancing down at it, you saw two words in response,

"Gracias, Frida."

"Don't thank me yet."

You put your phone down flat on the counter.

The truth was, you still loved Angel Reyes. And you weren't sure whether your rage outweighed your ardor. And this scared the shit out of you.

When Angel rolled up the next day at ten after six, you were slightly annoyed. In the beginning of your relationship, he had been incredibly punctual, likely borne out of eagerness to see you. As time wore on, Angel's timeliness waned. At the time, you had assumed it had everything to do with his commitments to the club, and had remained understanding. With the benefit of hindsight, however, you now knew that it likely wasn't always the club.

You didn't know anything about Adelita, save for her relationship to Angel. And you intended to keep it that way. But a nastier part of your brain was intensely curious.

Did she make Angel laugh? Was she smarter than you? Prettier than you? She had to be beautiful, just like Angel was beautiful. The thought made your heart ache.

When she kissed Angel, did she taste your lips on his? Did she know about you now? Did she hold more of Angel's heart than you had?

If you were more like her, would Angel have chosen you?

You knew you wouldn't ask Angel any of these questions -- what did they always say? Don't ask something you don't really want the answers to?

You slept easier at night keeping the idea of Adelita just that -- an amorphous, question mark-shaped idea. Knowing Angel's part in it all was more than enough.

Easier. You said you slept easier. Not well. You dreamt of Angel far too often to say you slept well. You dreamt of the feel of his hair between your fingers, both in a gentle and comforting pass, and in the harsh tugging borne of passion. You dreamt of the feel of his warm skin against yours. You dreamt of days spent swimming in the ocean, him lifting you up to twirl you through the water, like a sea sprite, a deity meant to be worshipped. Perhaps most cruelly, you sometimes dreamt of a future. Your memories blended with your dreams at the cruel, twisting hands of hazy sleep. Never to be.

And when Angel arrived at your place shortly after you had returned home from closing the shop, your gut, your brain, and your heart were all writhing in their own respective dances, never in sync with one another, and rendering your nerves completely fried.

You opened the door, beckoning Angel in. You stopped yourself from moving to help remove the kutte from his shoulders and hanging it by the door, freezing your hands in the middle of raising to do just that, dropping them awkwardly by your sides again.

If Angel noticed, he hadn't said anything.

He shuffled into your place, likely surveying what had changed since he had last been there. To his surprise? Not much. You still had candles everywhere, casting everything in a warm glow. Your overstuffed chairs were still draped in cozy blankets and piled with brightly-patterned throw pillows. The bookcase in the corner of your living room was still packed to the edges, stacks of additional books on the floor at the foot. Your potted green plants made the room look simultaneously larger and smaller. Your dedication to maximalism was admirable.

You loved what you loved, even if you didn't have the space. In your heart, or otherwise.

Angel breathed in the familiar cinnamon-orange scent that was your place, its permanent residence in his mind sending a zip through his heart.

You shuffled past Angel, into your living room and making your way toward the kitchen, offering Angel a drink, which he declined.

You shrugged. "Suit yourself."

You made your way into the kitchen, opening a cabinet that Angel knew contained a precarious tower of stacked coffee mugs. Like a personal game of Jenga only you could win, you plucked your desired mug, and closed the cabinet before the dangerous clinking of the remaining mugs could turn disastrous.

You prepared a cup of tea while Angel stood at the carpeted edge of your living room, unsure of just how comfortable he was allowed to make himself in this space that -- while just as chaotically orderly and distinctly you as he remembered it -- seemed to be purged of any remembrance of him.

Stirring honey into your mug of tea and blowing on it, you watched Angel over the rim of your mug. Watched him observe your space, and waited for him to speak.

You tilted your head toward the open door of your bedroom, breaking the silence first,

“I, uhhh, I’ve been working all day. I’m just gonna change real fast.” You shuffled your feet into the carpet, padding softly into your room and pushing the door softly shut.

You slipped out of your jeans and into soft sweats and an oversized tee. Maybe if you felt more comfortable, you could stave off some of the awkwardness. Maybe letting Angel back into your space wasn’t the best idea.

After changing, you took a moment -- sat on your bed, elbows balanced on your knees and head in your hands … you took a few deep breaths, lit a candle. Your palms felt clammier by the second, knowing that Angel was out there waiting for your re-emergence.

You don’t know how long you were sitting on the edge of your bed, just breathing. Preparing yourself.

A soft knock on your bedroom door broke your dazed thoughts. You looked up, seeing Angel through the widening crack in the door, fist raised, his knuckle rapping softly on your bedroom door.

You locked eyes for moment before Angel chuckled sheepishly to himself, shuffling his feet in your doorway,

“I, uh, thought you might’ve jumped out the window,” he chuckled lightly.

Leave it to Angel to find a way to lighten the heavy mood that had descended upon your space. You managed to crack a small smile, corner of your mouth tilting up just-so in that way he had always found endearing.

“The thought had crossed my mind,” you shrugged, patting the space next to you, acquiescing to allow Angel to sit.

He crossed your room, exhaling heavily as he took a seat next to you on the bed.

Now that you were seated so closely to Angel in the low light of your bedroom, you looked at his face, taking him in. Really looking at him for the first time in months. Trying to ignore the pricking feelings of trauma that were doing their best to bubble beneath the surface and consume you --- had Angel not broken your heart in a manner so like this? Seated next to one another on the end of his bed while he told you, in no uncertain terms, that he was done with you? The thought made a sick wave of nausea wash through you. You wiped your perpetually-sweaty hands along the thighs of your sweats.

You had survived the last encounter like this, hadn't you? Honestly, what more could he do to you?

For his part, Angel was silent next to you, surveying the space of your room as he had in your living room. The familiar clutter greeted him -- a stack of books and a coffee mug on your bedside. A sketchbook never too far from reach. The comforter beneath him as pillowy as he remembered. He shuddered a sigh.

You decided to take conversational mercy on him,

"Go ahead,” you beckoned. “Say what you have to. But just know I meant what I said at the party. I don't need shit from you. You telling me what you want to say is for you. And when it's done, you're going to give me what I deserve and listen to me. We need to put this behind us. I’m not going to be looking over my shoulder for you for the rest of my life, Angel.” What had started as a murmur grew fiercer with each word.

"That's fair, querida," was all he offered. Your words to him each time you had spoken since the party were evermore forceful. He was used to gentle Frida. It wasn't often that the turn of your tide was leveled against him. Not often he was forced to bear the brunt of your storm when you were upset.

He could see what Coco meant. It was unwise to make you angry

He turned his body slightly to face yours, looking down at your hands as though he was contemplating attempting to hold one. His fingers twitched where his hands rested along his thighs. Better just to crack the ice, become submerged in frozen water. Take the shock out of it now, even if he wasn't sure where to begin, now that he faced you.

“I”m not really sure what I can tell you that’ll make it better,” he admitted.

You sighed.

“I’m not looking for you to make it better, Angel. There is no more better. Whatever you want to say, you say it,” you pressed. “We’re past better. We’re not together. you were clear about that. You don’t have to spare my feelings, I’m not your girl.”

Angel flinched, almost imperceptibly, at your last statement. He knew you weren’t together, knew you weren’t his. Hell, he’d been busy in the months since you’d been broken up. Busy chasing Adelita. Busy with other women when it didn’t work out with Adelita. Busy acting like a jackass with Andres. Busy with club nonsense. But hearing you say that you weren’t his girl?

It made Angel’s heart ache in a way he wasn’t expecting.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he said. At your scoff, he shook his head. “Really. After Adelita told me she was pregnant … I thought it was easier just to let you go. I needed to be there for her, for the kid. Even if it meant -- even if it meant losing you.”

“Easier for who? For you?” Your voice was soft. You hated that, once again, you felt like the crystalline girl Angel’s heartbreak had rendered you. Worried that the slightest thing would shatter you once more.

Angel chucked again, but there was no humor behind it. His eyes looked flat, as though he wasn’t really focusing on anything.

“For both of us, I guess. It’s stupid. I thought if I just -- cut you out … we would both be better. But … that ain’t what happened. I just made us both miserable. I made you hate me. And now ... She's gone. And so are you,” Angel’s voice was low, cracked.

The weight of his words, coupled with the gravelly pitch of his voice was making you feel restless, itchy. Grit like pebbly grains of sand you would roll between your fingers on days at the beach, palpable and pronounced.

“A-and,” you interjected, “how did you meet her? When did you meet her?”

Angel’s eyes darted to meet yours again, finding a swimming emotion he was getting better at putting his finger on. You only looked like that when you were getting lost in negative thoughts, awash in a sad song. Or when he was breaking your heart. He hated that look on your face. Hate that it marred your beautiful features into baleful melancholy.

“Club shit,” was all he’d said. “We were mixed up in some shit with the rebels. We were helping each other. W-we connected. It just … happened.”

You whipped your head at that last bit, eyes hardening. Angel’s hands came up, defensively.

“I know. Everyone says that, don’t they? It’s true… and I -- I really didn’t mean to hurt you. When I found out she was pregnant, I thought I was doing the right thing. By her. And by you,” he sucked air in through his teeth before releasing the breath in a huff of air. “I was wrong, Frida. I made every wrong choice, and I’m sorry.”

Angel carded his hands through his hair, tugging the ends lightly in his frustration. “I-- I just been going through some shit lately. And then ... Ezekiel tried to serve us brunch, and I was an asshole.”

He looked at you, only to meet your puzzled gaze.

“Brunch?” You queried, wrinkling your nose lightly. “Since when are you a brunch kinda guy, Angelito?”

“I really ain’t,” he said. “And you?”

“I like brunch just fine,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

“That’s not what I mean, Frida, and you know it,” he said. “But we can get back to that later.” He took in your loose sweats, the way you had been picking your nails, the bags beneath your eyes. You had looked so beautiful, so perfect and untouchable, at the patch party the other night. And now -- in your room, all pretense stripped away, Angel could see the real you … behind the professional and put-together front. The tired girl with a broken heart. And he felt the residual ache in his chest that had taken residence left of his heart ever since the day he had put your stuff in a box and left it outside of his door.

“I know you have something you want to say to me, too, Frida. Your turn. How are you feeling?”

You laughed hollowly, your eyes fixed on the doorway to your room, half expecting Angel to get up and go.

“I’ve been better, Angel,” you deadpanned, swiveling to look at him, and finding him still seated next to you. “Ya know? It’s been a tough couple of days? Between that disaster of a party and whatever the hell went down the other day… but this town is too small for us to just try to ignore each other, and I do like it here.” You rubbed your eyes, the air between the two of you filling with silence that never used to be so awkward.

“That can’t be all you gotta say,” Angel pressed. “C’mon, Frida. Tell me how you’re feeling. I was… I was awful to you.”

The candle in the corner of the room sputtered, causing momentary, flickering shadows to dance along the walls of your room. Your safe, homey space felt full of shadows and ghosts, words unspoken between the two of you threatening to burst forth, your closet brimming with proverbial skeletons.

And you were just so tired. And now Angel was pressing you? You weren’t sure if the heat was from your sweats, the proximity of the man next to you, that you had turned up the thermostat too high. Or the fact that you were still so fucking angry.

“You want to know how I’m feeling, Angel?” You tugged on the ends of your hair, running your hands down the thighs of your sweats once more. Were you always so sweaty? “I appreciate you telling me the truth. Finally. And for apologizing, I guess.”

Tears were pricking at your eyes, the heat blazing in your cheeks matching the heat in the room.

"But you made me look stupid. Like someone in need of pity," you sucked air in through your teeth. "I fucking hate pity, Angel. It's just misplaced empathy. A useless emotion. And you’d think I’d just wear that mess? For everyone to see? At the party. At the yard. Everyone just feeling sorry for me. For months. Because of you.”

The ache in Angel’s chest intensified. Awash in a wave of hot shame. Was it always so hot in this room? You were right. And weren’t you always? You never were that girl, and he had sent you down the river like you meant nothing, your artist’s hands crushed beneath the washed stones of his choices. He opened his mouth to respond, but you weren’t done, apparently --

“And after everything? The way it went down? You made me feel like … I don’t know … Like you were punishing me,” your voice cracked, sobs and tears imminent through the dam you had erected. “Like I loved you more than you loved me, and you knew it… like you wanted to make me pay for that.”

“Frida …” Angel turned his body toward yours fully now, closing the space between the two fo you and cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the silvery hot tears that were slipping down your face, sick that he had caused them. Sick that he had even made you think that what you were saying was true. “It wasn’t like that,” he assured.

“And the shittiest part is,” you hiccuped around your words, “you can’t even tell me give me the comfort of a cliche -- you can’t honestly tell me ‘it meant nothing,’ or that it was a ‘one-time thing,’ because none of that is true, is it? You care about her -- you had a child with her. You love her. And here I thought I could take what you did, take you, fold you up and tuck you away, like a note you pass in school. And I can’t. I just can’t.”

You tilted your face downward now as your tears fell, allowing your face to be fully cupped by Angel’s warm, calloused hands. Even now, you were still amazed at how tender his touch was, despite his rough exterior. All he wanted now was to comfort you, to touch you and bring your eyes to his again. To remind you of his love for you. Once. Now. Always?

“Frida, it wasn’t like that. They were my selfish, stupid choices. Mine. And I was scared. Scared of how much I wanted … everything with you. And it wasn’t right. I told you -- I … been going through some shit.”

“Scared,” you murmured. Turning your face in Angel’s hands, causing your lips to brush over his fingers. You leaned back, effectively releasing your face from the trace of his touch.

“Isn’t it remarkable how secure and insecure you can simultaneously feel when you’ve found someone worth loving? I felt it, too. With you it's now I knew you were the one,” You said. Angel straightened in shock, at how, though you weren’t present for his conversation yesterday with Ezekiel, you parroted his feelings he had confided in his brother back to him. Always on the same page. His full lips pursed as you continued.

“We can’t keep using what happened to hurt each other. I’m done with that,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m sorry you felt the way you did. I’m sorry you felt like you needed to look elsewhere. And I hope you find what you're looking for,” you hated how soft your voice sounded to your own ears. Hadn't you meant to be forceful, angry? You sniffled. “Because, despite everything that’s happened... You are someone worth loving, Angelito.”

"No, Frida," he shook his head softly before looking at you again, eyes glittering. "You are. Someone deserving of more.”

Your breath caught in your chest at his words, taking this moment to look into his ochre eyes once more. You wanted to commit to your memory just how they swirl like melting chocolate and promises in low candlelight.

And, oh. Angel was made to be seen like this, you’d thought. The dim candlelight giving everything in your room a pleasant glow and slightly-blurry edges. He looked like his namesake. And how ironic was that, really? Considering the context of your conversation.

It's easy these days, you thought, for you to get carried away by your own feelings... While you searched desperately in the emotional rubble for your muse, Angel, the truth of it tore you to shreds with blunt fingernails -- knowing he was out in the world -- running freely and carelessly. Running away with your imagination. With your hope. With the pieces of your heart that had survived the blitzing storm he had put you through. With the pieces of your heart that had belonged to him. That you feared may always belong to him.

Looking at Angel now, in the low-lit steadfast luminescence of your room, shadows flickering agreeably across his angular cheekbones. He was sculpted. Made to be admired in perpetuity. Artist that you were, it ached. It stung. The knowledge that your hands were not the ones that had molded him into the man sat beside you. A man molded, instead, by his own choices.

All you could do was watch as those wrong decisions drifted lazily down the river, only to become a torrent, Angel caught in the current. The waves lapped loudly, sloppily against riverbanks of better judgment, but Angel is never quite washed ashore. No, as you watched, he slipped down the river, out of your fingertips and toward something you're too fearful to quantify. Away from you.

You want the river to carry him back to you. To home. But you know it never will.

Angel has two choices now: To drown under the weight of his path this river has wrought; or to swim.

As you sit beside him in the growing heat of your room, you hope he chooses to swim. Even if it’s not to where you stand.

"So, is that what’s next?” You asked, wiping your eyes.

At Angel’s puzzled look, you carried on,

"You're asking for it back," you whispered. “Or you’re going to. My heart? You may not have said it like that, exactly, but it's what you want. Like you don't know how bad it all hurt me, even if you say you know, I don't think you ever will. And even if I wanted to give it to you, I don't know if there's enough of it left."

You wrung your hands together, awaiting Angel’s response. You looked up at him through your lashes, clumped together with the tears that had escaped during your confessional.

His molten eyes were soft on your form, swallowing before he spoke again.

“I was such an asshole… to you. And at that stupid brunch … to Gaby. But it was all just … too much. I mean, she was wearing mom’s apron…” Angel shook his head. “And all I could think of … Even with Adelita out there, with her and my boy gone, outta my life… all I could think of was how it should be you wearing the stupid apron. It should be me giving you my mother’s ring. And I was so angry at Ezekiel for having all of that. For having what I wanted … wanted with you.”

If there was any air left in the room, it was certainly all gone now. All that was left was heat, no air or space between the two of you. Just stagnant air and the weight of words, both said and unsaid. And if Angel had said these words to you more than a year ago? Maybe they would sound different to your ears. Melodious, even.

Now, all you could think to do was comfort. Ever the nurturer. What else could you do, really, after he'd said that? You shook your head gently, lacing your fingers through Angel’s and squeezing.

“It’s not that he has something you don’t, or that you can’t have, Angel… What EZ and Gabriela have is what they have. It’s theirs. You’ll have yours. Someday.”

Silence descended upon the room once more. The warm scent of orange-cinnamon from your candle permeated the room, the ever-present heat between you and Angel banishing all thoughts of romantic winter from your mind.

“I just wanna say, again, Frida… how sorry I am for what happened at the party. For what happened with Andres. It was fucked up of me,” Angel’s tongue passed over his lips. “Did I answer all of your burning questions?”

You reached over, trailing your fingers over the tattoo you had given Angel what felt like a lifetime ago. His eyes followed the trajectory of your fingers, his nerves alight at the feeling of your starlit, feathery touch on his skin once more.

"Just one left.” Your eyes locked with his, unwavering. “Who am I to you, really?" You ask, the edge your silken voice had taken on slides beneath Angel's skin clumsily, like crumbling shards of glass. "What did I mean?"

Angel tries not to look at you now. Tries, but fails. His dark eyes meet your downcast ones once more, hates that they are once more glimmering with unshed tears waiting to fall. Hating that once again, he's the cause of the dreary blue tinge shading what should have been your sunny, hopeful worldview. Awash with the sunsets he would take you to see.

And if there was any time for blossoming truth, for a sprig of rosemary remembrance of sacred feeling, it was now.

"You're the love of my life," he finally admits, exhaling heavily. "That's just it, ain't it? Always you. And not that I have any right to ask you now -- But I need to know, Frida. Am I yours?"

Any air left was sucked from the room in one fell swoop, leaving you with the stuffy and sticky discomfort of Angel's question and the weight of his heated gaze on you, waiting for something, anything to fall from your pretty lips.

And what a question it was.

You knew the answer, of course. You reach up to brush your thumb tenderly across Angel’s sculpted cheek, as though you could be the one molding it, nodding before verbalizing your answer,

"You've always been the love of my life. Had my heart. I'm yours, But, I think I know now… that you were never truly mine. Even if you say it now. You have a heart that's not so easily won, Angelito. That's something I wish I'd learned sooner, wish I could've taken from you… from all of this."

All Angel could do was shake his head, the crease in his brow deepening at your words.

"Ever the poet, Frida."

"I thought I was a 'shit' poet?" You teased gently, recalling his words to you when he’d texted you to ask you out for the first time.

Angel chuckled, the grit and honey in his voice washing over you, a wave of silken heat, his eyes are fixed upon yours intently, leaning forward and bringing his hands to trace along your neck, your jaw, dragging his thumb over the full, pillowy part of your bottom lip.

“You did win it, Frida,” was all he said.

The rush of warm, fluttery feeling swam through your body, prickling you like sparkling, popping champagne. Angel’s eyes tracked yours, down to where his thumb was dragging across your lip. Your eyes slipped shut, lashes fluttering.

You could feel it rushing back. Everything Angel had ever made you feel -- the ardor, the frustration, the crushing weight of the river wild. Heat bloomed across your cheeks and down your chest, between your thighs and through the fingertips that you had brought to grip Angel’s biceps.

His declaration of love, of melted marshmallow and warm cocoa -- made you crave him in a way you had long thought gone.

You pressed your lips to kiss the tip of Angel’s thumb. You were rewarded with a reciprocal, sucking in of air on Angel’s part.

He held his breath momentarily before surging forward and capturing your lips with his full ones.

You were awash in the memory of every kiss shared with Angel. Of how he’d made you feel in your full-hearted moments together. Rich and full, like morning coffee. Hazy and sweet, like cherry smoke.

Angel’s kiss makes you feel dizzy, fizzing and dissolving simultaneously, like a Mento in a glass of Coke. Volatile and thrumming, both erupting and disappearing so fast, you were afraid you’d never have the chance to process exactly what it made you feel.

It might be okay, you reasoned to yourself -- if you could hold Angel just for one more night, feel his body pressed against yours. It felt like a good idea in this moment, just to hold him for one night only.

Your lips pressed against one another, his hand cupping your jaw trailing back to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging it -- causing your kiss to break. Angel trailed his lips from yours, down and along your jaw.

Angel’s grip firmed, turning your head further as he continued his attention down your neck, giving you a view of the chair next to your closet where you had haphazardly thrown Angel’s t-shirt when you had worn it last, a symbol of comfort now worn-out.

You laid back, Angel following, surging over you and pressing you into your cloudlike comforter. His hips rolled into yours, his teeth now scraping gently along the slope of your neck.

At the gasp you emitted, Angel felt himself harden in his jeans. He'd thought he'd never hear that sound from you again. And replaying the memory of it in his head? Not enough. He rolled his hips into yours again, again, as you dragged your thighs up Angel’s sides, locking your legs around his hips. He trailed warm hand down to caress your breast through your soft t-shirt, leaving a heated trail in its wake.

“Oh, Angel,” you gasped, rolling your hips to meet his.

“Can I kiss you like this, amor?” Angel rasped, “I’ll make you feel good.”

He took in the heat behind your eyes, the kiss-swollen state of your lips when he broke from them. The creeping heat he felt from beneath your collar in his position atop you, and the way your breasts heaved beneath your shirt.

The thread of resolve you were hanging by seemed to dissolve, leaving you unraveled and threadbare, naked before the man you swore would be your forever. The ache you felt between your legs burned crimson, cloudy and acrid. You tasted Angel’s kiss, tasted him, on your tongue.

You were never more aware of the dimensions of your body than when Angel had his hands on you, tracing and gripping every curve, the touch of places you don't think to touch yourself, strange but pleasurable as you relished in the trace of his rough fingertips against your smooth skin. He slid his hands down your waist, hips and into the loose waistband of your sweats, sliding them down your legs as he went.

Angel played your body with temerity, a confidence, and before you knew it, your lower half was bare before him. He pushed the soft, loose fabric of your t-shirt up and over your chest, trailing his lips over your now-exposed skin, bringing his other hand to cup your breast, circling the pad of his thumb over your nipple.

You gasped and groaned beneath Angel’s attention. Gripping at the hem of his shirt, you tugged it up and over his head, trailing your hands down his firm, thick torso.

Angel was reticent to deprive himself of your touch after not having had it for so long. The touch of your nimble, artist’s fingers trailing over the lines of his body made Angel feel like an instrument being plucked to a tune that made both his and your body sing. He thought he would never feel it again.

But this moment? This was about you.

Angel gripped your wrists, firmly planting your hands next to your head, following the trajectory and leaning over you with his full body. Releasing your wrists, Angel firmly pressed his lips to yours again, his tongue swiping past your lips and invading your mouth. Hot, needy, dirty.

Ange tore his mouth from yours, his lips trailing lower and lower down your body, kissing your hips, nipping at your hipbone, causing you to yelp and buck your hips.

The action drew Angel’s attention, lifting his lips from your body, his eyes meeting yours.

“I missed you, baby. Did you miss me? Sweet girl...” His voice was lower than you think you’d ever heard it, dangerously so.

Bringing his hand down to cup your mound, he traced his fingers through your slick folds.

“Ah-Angel,” you gasped, tilting your head back at the blissful feel of Angel’s touch. As quickly as his touch had come, he withdrew it, causing your eyes to snap open, fixed on him and full of fire.

“You know how this works, querida. I won’t touch you unless you answer me,” he taunted, the tips of his fingers trailing lightly over where you’d wanted him most, staunch in his refusal to commit to the touch.

“God, Angel, yes,” You gasped. “P-please.”

Angel rewarded you, prising apart your legs and sliding down your body, tracing a teasing lick of his tongue through your folds, increasing in pace and intensity at the noises passing through your lips.

"I d-do miss you,” you sighed, starting to roll your hips against Angel’s tongue. “I miss the way you touch me… the way you fuck me.”

God. It was hot, the way you talked, the way you gave yourself over to him.

Stars and firecrackers popped behind your eyes at Angel’s attention, cinnamon heat seeping through your bones, writhing and twisting at the way Angel strung his way through your body. Unable to justify the concept of being left alone, you tugged up at Angel’s jaw, forcing him to look up at you. Met with your wanton gaze, Angel licks his lips at the sight of you and slides back up your body with a grace that defies his size.

Now level with you once more, he gripped your jaw, turning your head to the side and attacked your neck, your breasts with renewed vigor, grinding his denim-clad hardness against your naked core, the painful drag of the fabric turning pleasurable.

With your gaze turned toward the wall, you were once again greeted with the sight of Angel’s rumpled t-shirt on the chair by your closet. An object of comfort, threads and strings tying you to a past life.

What were you doing? Taking comfort in something that you couldn’t, in good conscience, call your own?

The rumpled shirt seemed to be mocking you, taunting you. Reminding you that, once again, you were seeking clinging to something you shouldn't. Seeking solace in things -- people -- that you shouldn't.

Apart from Christopher's warm, sly, sensational goodnight kiss the other day, Angel's was the first touch you'd experienced like this since, well, Angel… How easy it was to slip back into your feelings for him, get caught up in him.

I'd give it all just to hold you close, sorry that I broke your heart... You shouldn’t be doing this.

“Angel,” you prised his lips from your body. “St-stop.”

Angel’s eyes were wild, hair mussed and lips swollen.

“What, querida?”

“Angel,” you sighed again, sliding your shirt down and coming to sit up. “We can’t be doing this.”

Angel slouched next to you with a huff, trailing his fingers down your arm.

“Why not?”

You sighed. After all this time, the feeling of Angel so close to you was everything you thought you wanted. But everything that had been said? The water beneath your respective bridges? Angel was still awash, had not come to rest on any bank. And you were still waiting on the shore -- now certain that all you would mold from the riverbank clay were memories and half-baked dreams.

“We’re not together,” you breathed, leaning over the bed to pick up your sweats and tug them back on. “And that’s not what this is. We're too old for platitudes, and happy endings are for children's stories. Whether you want to acknowledge it or not, you know this is wrong.”

“Querida -- I want…" Angel started, before turning away, leaning over his thighs and tugging his hands through his hair… his distress with how he had let himself get so out of control with you was mounting. He sighed heavily, shaking his head.

“What? Angel,” you touched your hand to his still-bare shoulder. “What do you want?”

"A second chance…?" Angel's normally smooth voice trailed at the end, transforming his desire into a question, fading into the silence of the room. He shifted his shoulders, turning his body to once more face yours, but not quite meeting your eyes.

You let his words hang in silence for a moment, weighing how you wanted to respond.

“Say something, Frida.”

"I knew you'd say that," you chuckled drily. "I know you, you're like this. But second chances become third, fourth, fifth. I can't trust you. What did you expect me to say?"

Angel opened his mouth to answer before catching sight of the expression on your face, twisted into proverbial knots. Even now, you were being far more gracious than he had any right to expect. He closed his mouth again, sighing.

"I don't know, dulce."

"I do,” you shook your head. “You expected me to say 'yes,' " you reached across the bed to one more lace your fingers through his. "I know you. But what does it say about me that I want to? It would be so like me, wouldn't it?"

You squeezed Angel's fingers tenderly in your grip, awarding him a flickering, wan smile.

Angel's voice cracked when he spoke again, "Then say yes, Frida. Let me prove it to you. Prove that we’re meant to be together."

"And would you? Would you take me back if I did that to you? If I had someone else's child? While we were together?"

Angel was silent at that, not having considered the reversal of roles. In truth, though you knew him, he knew you, too. It would be so wildly out of character, how would he have been expected to consider it?

"You think you might, because you love me. But, see, Angelito, I don't think you would. So how can you sit there and say we're two people who are meant to be when we don't even love each other the same? Love doesn't come in pieces, amor. You held my heart in your hands. And you crushed it. Let it crumble into nothing, like sand. Like I meant nothing."

“But this--” Angel gestured between the two of you, eyes lingering on the skin of your neck where his mouth had been, tracing his fingers over your kiss-swollen lips.

“--Can’t happen.” Tears were rising to your eyes again.

Goddamnit. Couldn’t you get through one conversation with him without crying?

“Maybe we are meant to be. And maybe we'll find our way back to one another. But right now? I -- I don't think I can. But more importantly, I don't think we should. And please hear me when I tell you how much it breaks my heart to say that."

Your heart was burning, but your skin was ice. Dream, they call desire. And he could hear the heartbreak in your voice. Always stupidly genuine.

Angel was stock-still, and as you took in his prone form, eyes tracing to his face -- you saw a lone tear slip down his cheek, shaking his head.

"I miss you, you know?" He chuckled, no humor in his soft, velvet voice.

"I know."

You were in a fugue state, the rumble of Angel’s bike retreating down the street barely registering as you were processing as you retreated to your bed, the room and your sheets noticeably cooler in Angel’s absence. The room feeling too large without him in it.

As you settled into bed, you noticed it -- Angel’s old shirt, still on your chair.

You hadn’t thought to return it.

---

The following week found you back in the shop, preparing for your mid-afternoon appointment. You had wiped down the table, changed the wrapping, and were now idly jotting as you waited. Thoughts on one person in particular.

The bell above the shop door dinged, causing you to look up from the poem you were penning on the lime-green sticky you kept a stack of near your work station.

Your one o'clock was right on time.

And you were greeted with the sight of Angel striding in with two cups of caffeine, offering one two you as he rested his ringed hand on the counter.

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

Since Angel had departed your place in the middle of the night a week ago, the words between the two of you having had time to simmer and settle, allowing you to process the weight of it all.

For his part, Angel had given you space. Hadn’t said anything past texting you to tell you he had made it home safely.

In the days that had followed, you had cautiously cracked the ice between the two of you, hoping to assuage any awkwardness and rebuild some kind of friendly connection removed from the physical. It was probably better that way. Messaging him idly to ask about his day. Not that you had shared with Angel, but you were also texting Christopher.

Angel had called the shop, asking if you were available to help him with something he’d wanted to do. Something special, he’d said.

“Something for Ezekiel,” Angel told you. “He’s been through alot lately, with Gaby and the club and everything … been through alot with me lately. Now feels like the right time”

You had, of course, readily agreed. Eager and honored to help Angel with a tribute to his brother. The texts between the two of you changed to exchanges of ideas, you sending him screenshots of your sketches before the two of you had decided on a design that fit.

You accepted the cup of coffee from Angel gratefully and with a gentle smile, beckoning him behind the counter. Coffee truly was a love language.

“You can sit in the chair and lean forward, or you can lie on the table. Both are clean. Dealer’s choice,” you said between sips.

Angel nodded, slugging the last of his coffee and placing the cup down before slipping his shirt over his torso, baring his back to you as he sat in the chair, leaning forward and twisting his abdomen to bare his shoulder blade to you.

The tawny patch of skin on his shoulder, above the large Mayans tribute that covered the expanse of his back, seemed like the perfect place for something for EZ, the angel (ha ha) on his shoulder and guiding influence in one another’s lives.

You cleaned and bic’d the area, stenciling your design into the space and getting your kit ready to begin.

Angel watched what he could of you from the corner of his eye, a resonant ache blooming through his chest at the familiarity of this scene. Of you, all business, touching his skin, preparing to impart a piece of yourself that he would wear on his body for the rest of his days.

You queued up your playlist, the sounds of motown flowing through the shop as you hummed along idly.

In this moment, Angel knew … he was still in love with you. Likely always would be. You had been far too gracious with him, as you always were -- in the way you had treated him the other night. No mention of your “almost” encounter, for which he was grateful. And he knew he was correct in his assessment of you when you had first started dating -- it was in your nature.

“You mind?” Angel broke the comfortable silence between the two of you, gesturing at the journal-like sketchbook you had left near your station.

You shook your head in acquiescence, “No. But it’s kind of a mess in there lately,” you acknowledged. “Shit poet, and all.”

“You’re never gonna let that go, are you?” Angel barked a laugh. “I didn’t insult your poetry, Frida, you did.”

“Ever the self-deprecating, starving artist,” you sighed dramatically.

Angel took that as his cue, flipping through the pages of your book. One page felt particularly heavy beneath his fingers. He flipped to it, to be met with dried, pressed flowers that had been delicately glued to the pages, the page covered in a plastic slipsheet -- the dried, dusky pink of peony petals were affixed to the page next to a swath of a white, lacy-looking bloom.

Around the flowers were sketches of hands that looked suspiciously like Angel’s own, down to the tattoos, and idle lines of poetry.

Angel furrowed his brows as he glanced at the flowers again.

“You got those flowers for me,” you acknowledged, looking over his shoulder to see the page of your book he had settled on. “One of our first dates, when we went to the park. I’m not sure if you remember.”

Angel’s throat caught in a way that both annoyed and unsettled him. How were you always doing this to him?

“Recuerdo, Frida,” he breathed. “Lo recuerdo todo.”

You patted his arm gently, resuming your work.

“I like pressing flowers. It takes a while, but the end result is worth it.”

You pinched your brows in concentration as you drew along the stenciled lines you’d previously etched into Angel’s shoulder blade, gun buzzing. You began to fill in the minimalist rising sun that was now filling the shoulder blade, stippling the interior as you went, the effect giving the sun an almost stucco-like finish that looked breathtaking against Angel’s golden skin.

Angel allowed you to continue you work in silence, the weight of the past few days with you settling into his bones. He had pleaded with you, endeared himself to you so much that he had lost his voice. His bones filling with the words he wished he could verbalize.

He was slowly arriving at that place of acceptance -- Santo Padre was a small town. He would see you. And it appeared that you could now stomach his presence, but he wouldn’t push his luck. Seeing you alone. Hell, even seeing you with someone else, was better than not seeing you at all.

But once thing was clear -- you were someone who would always be in his life, his memories, his heart.

Angel was lost in his thoughts; you were focused on your work. The only thing that gave any indication as to the passage of time in the room where you two found yourselves was the evolution of your playlist passing through tracks.

Isn’t that how it always was with Angel? Time stood still.

As you finished his tattoo, you snapped a quick pic for your work Insta -- and maybe, selfishly, for yourself, to admire, too. It’s true, what you had felt all those months ago, and again a week ago -- Angel Reyes was your muse.

Made to be admired in perpetuity.

You cleaned and wrapped it, pushing back wordlessly from your seat and making your way to the front as Angel gingerly tugged his shirt back over his head. Quoting the rate over your shoulder, you put Angel's aftercare bag together. But not before slipping the lime sticky in.

“Is that it?” Angel asked, arriving at the front counter, kutte once again in place..

“C’mon, Angelito, you know you get the friends-and-family rate,” you shrugged.

"And is that what we are, querida? Friends?” Angel's voice had none of the bravado it held when he had first spoken these words to you the day you'd met. Now it was cotton soft and carefully tinged with hope. He leaned over the counter.

You shrugged again.

"I guess we'll see, won't we?" You tilted the corner of your lips in a gentle, wan half-smile.

"One day with you, and already friends again?” Angel breezed. You shrugged lightly in response, as he continued, “Or maybe the day after that? A man can hope, Frida."

“You know what they say, Angelito,” your voice was soft, but he’d recognize the teasing lilt anywhere. He’d heard it so often at the breaking dawn of your relationship. Kindness, with a hint of subtle flirtation. It was just how you were. “Hope springs eternal.”

Angel nodded, tossing a few bills on the counter and gently rapping his ringed-knuckles against the counter, a he was wont to do. He smiled gently at you, all glimmering white teeth and high cheeks.

As Angel walked away, head down and focused on his phone now as he headed out the door and toward his bike, you watched him leave. Your elbow on the counter and head propped in your hand.

You wondered when Angel would discover the sticky, recalling the words you had written on it.

my stark moments of clarity between hazy and woebegone memory (thanks to spilled red wine) -- are still marked by the firm hand of your bruising ardor.

Your phone buzzed, breaking you from your reverie as you looked down at the name flashing on the screen, an easy grin blooming across your features.

“Well, hey,” you greeted. Unable to keep the happy chirp from your voice at hearing from him again so soon.

“Hey, mama,” he greeted in that smooth, throaty rasp of his you adored. “You busy later?”

---

Tagging: @cinewhore @superhoeva @blessedboo @rebeccasficrecs @themarcusmoreno @joannasteez @justanotherblonde23 @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @huliabitch @ifimayhaveaword @flightlessangelwings @phoenixhalliwell @aerolanya @djvrins @jenrebloggingfics @steeeeeeeviebb @ciriswife @witching-hour @lo-la-bu-ro @doloreschanal @rosieposie0624 @diaryofkali @skyesthebomb @artsymaddie @helli4nthus @xonickibaby @melancholyy-hill @jeonsblackgf-writes @dyke--grayson @pettyprocrastination @moonlight-prose @velvetmel0n @luckyharley1903 @miss-nori85 @ticosas @withmyteeth @chibsytelford @whatupitshuff @themusingofagothicsoul @the-purity-pen @belowva @mayansxlover @emmaveale123 @maddie-georges @kijahslove @supertiffybee @jettia @spnaquakindgdom @abysshaven @starrynite7114 @thesandbeneathmytoes @cyarikashakira @calif0rnia-lovers

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ivyyreid · 3 years

Text

greek tragedy

description: breakups are hard. but you usually don't completely change who you are and start killing, right?

category: angst

tw: mentions of self harm, eating disorders, breakups, knives, mentions of stab wounds, death, suicide, blood, men, guns, self-loathing, one-sided love.

masterlist

sometimes, i don't know what haunts me more.. the memories of you... or the happy person i used to be.

two years and two months ago.

spencer came into the bullpen with a gleam in his eye. a shy kind of happiness. the kind that makes you blush, and makes you embarrassed. the kind that makes people feel like kids again.

vivian came in with the same smile. the same red on her cheeks, the same glint in her eyes.

they both felt like kids again. happy, and in love.

they held hands under the table in the conference room. everyone noticed. and everyone smiled a bit more, knowing that two happy people are now making each other happier.

the night before, vivian and spencer had kissed in the rain under the stars. after an eternity of falling for each other, they finally gave in.

when they came in the next day, vivian's blonde hair seemed a little more golden, her eyes a little more warm. spencer's face seemed softer, and relaxed.

they played in the park, and watched nineties movies, and ate thai on the roof while watching the stars. all with the biggest goofiest smiles on their faces.

because you're nothing if not crazy when you're in love.

two months ago

blonde hair stained brown.

pink lips turned red.

a realtionship gone sour.

they broke up last week. they stood in the rain once again. but this time the rain didn't bring hope, and a new start. this time the rain fell, tainting the blue sky gray.

the girls heart shattered onto the pavement. pieces on the sidewalk, pieces in the grass. pieces being washed away by the rain.

no one knows what they said to each other, how it ended.

all they know is that the cuts on vivian's wrist are fresh, and that the numbers on her scale have rapidly declined.

she came into work on monday, her golden blonde hair painted dark brown, her young pink lips stained blood red. everyone stared, except spencer. she stared at no-one, but spencer.

she was there for a day after the breakup. maybe two. long enough to know that someone else had already brought a gleam into spencer's eyes. that someone else was already making him happy.

no one saw her after that. she left quickly and quietly. one day, her desk was personalized and filled with framed pictures, the next it was empty and bare. you could say that her desk matched her heart.

now, she lies on the floor of her bathroom. head pounding, rivers of red seeping onto the tiled floor.

one month ago.

seven men stabbed twice in the heart, all dead, over the course of two weeks. all left with red carnations.

the bau accepts the invitation to take on the case.

vivian watches the news coverage announcing the bureaus involvement, a smirk dancing on her face as she applies a new coat of lipstick.

one week ago, at the bar.

the bar is full of bodies. bodies against bodies. dancing, sweating, living.

the tall brunette, with the red lipstick and cold eyes slips off her coat, revealing the small black dress underneath. the heartless predator.

a drunk mans eyes follow the woman's every move. analyzing her every curve, watching the way her lips part. he sets down his glass and walks over. the unsuspecting prey.

he makes his way through the crowd, licking his lips as he nears vivian. her blonde hair, now turned brown, and her blood red lips enchant him.

her finger plays with her straw, spinning it around in her drink as she makes eye contact with him. she tilts her head slyly, and smiles a bit. egging him on.

"jonathan," he says, standing over her.

"cleo," she responds, flipping her dark hair over her exposed shoulder. she stands up, hand on his tie, and leans forward to whisper seductively in his ear:

"let's get out of here, jonathan."

three days ago, at the bau.

"we have a new body," hotch announces as he walks into the room. he pins a few pictures to the board. the first, an image of a smiling man. dark brown hair, dark eyes, and a square jaw. the next few are the body. dumped carelessly in an alleyway. two stabs to the heart, and red carnations scattered onto the body.

"woah," emily says, concern lacing her voice. "that makes fourteen bodies now."

"she's devolving," morgan adds. "speeding up the kills. her last kill was only one day ago, she's getting more dangerous. but she's also more likely to slip up."

the team nods to this, each thinking their own separate thoughts. eventually, they will all come to the same conclusion. the same suspect. but they won't share their ideas until it's too late.

the teams profile:

the unsub is female.

she recently suffered heartbreak, and has a newfound prejudice against men.

she changes her appearance each time. wigs, makeup, etc.

she stabs each victim twice in the heart, which must mean something.

she leaves red carnations at each scene, which means "alas for my poor heart, my heart aches," in some cultures.

she is highly intelligent, driven, but also depressed and self-loathing.

she is likely to have self-inflicted wounds, and possibly try and kill herself.

one day ago, vivian's apartment.

vivian stares in the mirror, and the woman in the mirror stares back at her.

a blonde wig is tossed carelessly on the floor, and boxes of colored contacts join it.

these objects are supposed to be able to change who you are on the outside, but to vivian, they're crushing her even more on the inside.

she doesn't recognize the woman in the mirror. the dark straight hair, red lips, and hollow eyes. the woman in the tight dress and heels.

she looks down, trying to hold back the tears that threaten to spill over her face. this isn't the girl that spencer loved. she isn't the girl that spencer loved anymore.

and then she looks back up, and her heart stops. because there she is.

the girl in the mirror has long, wavy blonde hair and sparkling green eyes. her eyes are full of life, not hollow and lifeless. her lips are pink, her cheeks flushed, her face innocent. her sundress hangs perfectly around her frame, and underneath her bright converse her socks mismatch.

the girl that spencer loved. the girl vivian stopped being when spencer stopped loving here.

the image takes vivian's breath away for a second, and a tear slips down her face, but she doesn't stop staring at the reflection, hoping that if she stares hard enough the girl will die and leave vivian alone.

her stare turns into a smirk. smirking at the innocent, dumb, oblivious girl. laughing silently at her.

the girl was oblivious to the heartbreak that awaited her. the emptiness that would creep into her soul.

the girl that was so blindly in love with the man that didn't care for her, even though he acted like he did.

maybe she was still in love with him. just a bit. even after he broke her heart, she still loved him. but she also hated him.

fuck spencer.

a couple of hours ago, bau.

vivian's face is front and center on the tv. her blonde hair, green eyes, and large smile.

the team sits around the table, shocked at the conclusion they came to.

vivian, their ex-coworker who always seemed so perfect and happy, is the unsub? vivian killed fifteen men?

they may want to deny it, but they all know it makes sense.

she broke up with spencer and completely fell apart. she quit her job. spencer says she was angry and sad and completely broken, hence the hate towards men. and the killings started around the time her and spencer broke up. even the number of stabs on each body makes sense. two stabs for two years her and spencer were together.

they're all shocked, but most can still talk, and move, and discuss. spencer is just frozen.

how could vivian have killed someone?

forty-five minutes ago, vivian's apartment.

spencer looks around the apartment, flashlight held and gun drawn.

when he used to come over, the apartment was homey and life like. plants would hang from the ceilings, and would sit on shelves. books were scattered on tables, and the floor to ceiling bookshelf would be disorganized. she used to have pictures of her and the team, and of spencer everywhere. but now it's bare, and empty. if spencer knew any better he would think no one lived there at all.

the team does a quick search, clearing all the rooms before gathering again in the living room.

"she's obviously not here, but she knows that we know it's her. she's been wanting us to know." derek says, and glances at spencer. "spencer, is there anywhere she liked to go, anywhere close?" he asks, and spencer furrows his brow.

"the roof! she liked to watch the sky!" he says suddenly, and hotch nods. the team climbs up the flights of stairs to get to the roof, which at first glance appears to be empty, until spencer notices a woman sitting against the chimney.

"spencer no way, she's armed man," derek says as spencer moves forward, but spencer tells him it's ok. he knows her. she has no intention of hurting him.

vivian stares at him, a tears falling down her face. spencer sits down next to her, eyes widening when he notices the knife in her hands. pointed at her own heart.

"vivian..." he says cautiously, taking in her died hair and red lips, "this isn't you. put the knife down." at this, vivian collapses into a fit of sobs, trailing mascara down her cheeks.

"i'm so sorry spencer," her voice is shaky and she's crying, but she keeps the knife pointed upwards towards her heart.

"please vivian just put the knife down," spencer whispers, his voice cracking a bit.

"i can't spencer, i have to do this," she sobs. "i killed....i killed so many people and i can't stop myself and i still love you but i hate you and you broke my heart but i have to do this spencer."

the boys eyes are sad, because deep down he knows he can't stop her from doing this. but he'll still try,

"please vivian, i-i love you," he pleads, but vivian just shakes her head, and laughs through her tears.

"no you don't spencer," she whispers, smiling a bit. "but it's ok. you will never have to hurt the way you know that i do," she says, and spencer knows whats coming. her grip on the knife tightens, and in a flash she jams it into her heart, gasping a bit as it deepens.

"no!" spencer yells, as she slumps and collapses. blood trickles from her lips, and her tears spill from her eyes. but still, she smiles. because it's finally over.

her final breath isn't sad, it's relieved. because she doesn't have to suffer anymore. the sadness, pain, and anger is finally gone.

spencer is tearless. her death was shocking, sad, but it was truthful. maybe she deserved it, even wanted it, but spencer knew she was going somewhere where she was happier.

happier without him.

as spencer stares at her body, laid out on the concrete, he sees the girl he loved. the blonde hair, sea green eyes, and the innocent face.

innocence, purity.

and all he can think about as she's wheeled into the ambulance, covered by the blanket is who she used to be. who she really is.

the beautiful, happy girl.

maybe one day, in another life she'll find true love.

who knows?

all anyone knows is that the day that her heart poured a red river onto the concrete, she started over. she began anew.

and maybe that was better for everyone.

103 notes · View notes

acciowests · 3 years

Note

For the elorcan prompts, could you do something where lorcan has to comfort their children?

I couldn’t think of much other than the classic hurt knee or nightmares so... I offer this instead... Enjoy :)

Dad vs Dinosaur

WORD COUNT: 2085

SUMMARY: Lorcan is already dealing with a crying Marion who has colic, but it doesn't help when Cal and Octavian get into an argument over toys and their favourite dinosaur loses its head. With all three kids now upset and in need of comfort, Lorcan takes up up the job of caring for all three of them while Elide is out and takes them upstairs. Snuggling up with three of his favourite people, he reads their chosen book to hopefully please his young audience and make everything better.

"I know, baby girl," Lorcan cooed, Marion's cries echoing through the living room where he was trying to watch over his two sons, "It's okay, come on, sweet girl."

To their misfortune, the last of their three kids had gotten colic; crying for hours with no valid reason for most days of the week. This had been going on for five weeks now, and Elide, who was still exhausted and recovering from birth, wasn't dealing with it too well. She'd gone for dinner with Aelin and Lysandra, leaving all three husbands to look after their kids. Usually, Lorcan didn't mind, but with Mari like this and Cal and Octavian getting on his last nerves as they argued, yet again, he was beginning to tire.

"Boys," Lorcan sighed, rocking Marion over his shoulder and tapping gently on her back, "Daddy would really appreciate it if you could sit down and play nicely."

They both turned to him, Octavian with a frown and Cal with his eyes puffy and watery. Cal was holding one of their t-rex toys in his chubby hands, Tavy now attempting to grab it from his older brother who simply held it above his head, out of his reach. "But, Dad!" Octavian cried, pointing to Cal, "He won't let me play with Rex."

Changing Marion's position in hopes that a different outlook would please her, he slipped the babe into the crook of his arm, cradling her against his chest but allowing her view to cast out toward her brothers. Even at a couple of months old, Marion already seemed to adore her big brothers.

"Who had it first?" Lorcan asked, knowing that the answer would only please one of them, but that it was the fairest. Whoever told kids "sharing is caring" definitely wasn't preparing them for later life. They didn't have to share their things if they didn't want to. Even if that thing was a toy dinosaur and the person who wanted it was your little brother. And technically, the toy was Cal's, given to him by his Aunt Aelin and Uncle Rowan for his third birthday.

"I did, Daddy," pouted Cal, a chubby fist wiping at his eyes. As he lowered both hands, Octavian pounced. For three years old, the toddler was surprisingly strong, yanking on the toy with all his little might. Cal was ready though, his hand gripping the middle of his toy as Tavy pulled on its head. Lorcan was about to ask Tavy to stop when a piercing crack echoed through the room and suddenly, the toy was in two parts rather than one.

Everything slowed. Tavy looked with wide eyes at the t-rex head and neck in his hand, and Cal blinked, as though not quite believing what had just happened. Lorcan had only a few seconds to lower Marion into her crib and drop to his knees in front of his son before the screams started. Tavy backed up against the sofa, the toy still in his hands as he watched Cal burst out into tears. Lorcan was scooping him up, rubbing at his back and holding him tight to his chest as Cal pressed his wet face into his neck. In the process, Cal had dropped the remainder of the dinosaur, and looking at it now, there was no way for it to be fixed. He let out a sigh, cupping the back of Cal's head and pressing a kiss to his hair, somehow thankful that his son was crying over broken toys and not something more serious.

Lorcan's eyes locked on Octavian's, offering the toddler a gentle smile, "Go to your room, bud. I'll be up in a minute."

It was clear he was holding back tears, his cheeks red and his eyes glossy, but Tavy just nodded, holding the dinosaur head close to his chest as he moved up the stairs. If there was one thing Lorcan was sure of in his parenting, it was that he never got angry with his kids. Well, not quite. He got angry, of course, but he never displayed that anger to them, never shouted or sent them away in a negative manner. Right now, Cal needed space, and if he knew his son as well as he thought he did, Tavy was also better at calming down when he had his own space too. If both he and Elide were here, she would have gone up with him, but he was currently on his own, and his kids would have to take turns having his attention.

"Tavy didn't mean to break Rex, buddy," Lorcan started, pulling back and wiping at the tears on his son's cheek, "He just wanted to play, you know that right?"

Cal hiccuped, his chest heaving with tears as he tried to breathe through them, something Elide and Lorcan had been adamant about teaching them when it came to overwhelming emotions. Cal let out a long breath, his eyelashes dripping and his nose a rosy shade of pink. "I-I know, but I was playing first," he cried, rubbing at his cheek with his own fingers now.

"And that makes you upset, right? That he tried to take away your toy?" Lorcan asked, waiting patiently for the five-year-olds response.

Cal nodded, sniffing heavily, "Yeah, really upset, Dada. And... And now he's b-broken."

Lorcan nodded, tucking a piece of hair behind Cal's ear that was becoming unruly. It was a dark, chocolate brown shade that curled around his cheeks in messy waves. Elide loved playing with it as much as she loved playing with Lorcan's.

"I know, and I'm sorry about that, Tavy is too. Would you forgive him if Daddy tries to get you a new dinosaur? We can get two, one for you and one for Tavs, so there are no disagreements. You can even choose which one," he suggested, taking his son's hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. He would never get over how soft their skin was and how nice it felt.

Cal reached up, letting Lorcan adjust him onto his hip as he stood. Together, they walked over to the sofa, sitting before Marion's cot. Cal began rocking it gently, Marion's cries more like whimpers now. "I think I can forgive him if he says sorry," whispered Cal, his eyes glued to Marion, his other hand fisted in Lorcan's shirt.

"That's very grown-up of you, bud. I'm proud of you," Lorcan smiled, pressing his cheek against Cal's head and swaying. He didn't care if he was five, Cal would always be his baby.

"How about," he whispered, a smirk curling on his cheeks, "You go get your blankie and meet me and Marion back in Tavy's room?"

Cal nodded, jumping up excitedly as though the last ten minutes hadn't happened and rushing off to his room. Lorcan smiled at his son as he went, lifting Marion and cradling her to his chest as he made his way to Octavian's room. Tavy was sat at his window, head in his hands and his favourite plushie in his lap. He immediately noticed the t-rex head resting on the window sill. Lorcan knocked with his knuckles, moving in slowly as Octavian turned, and perched on the end of the bed.

"Hey bud, can Daddy talk to you?" he asked, palm tapping Marion's back again as her cries ever-so-slowly subsided completely.

Octavian had slightly narrowed eyes, but nodded nonetheless, moving to sit next to his father and briefly stroking Mari's head. "Are you mad at me?" he asked, pure curiosity in his voice as his little legs swung against the bed.

"Nope, are you mad at me?" Lorcan offered, knowing Tavy didn't always understand situations like this, that it was sometimes best to ask questions he already knew the answer to, just to make sure they were on the same wavelength. Tavy was like Elide in that way; sometimes Lorcan thought he knew what she was thinking, and other times he was on the completely wrong end of the scale. Like mother like son, he supposed.

Tavy blinked, slowly shaking his head, "No, Dada. I not mad at you. Do you still love me?"

"I love you so much, buddy. Do you understand why Cal might be mad at you though? He still loves you, no matter what, but you're both upset right now and Daddy just wants to help," he explained, watching as Tavy's attention diverted to the bear in his hand. Sometimes, it was easier for him not to make eye contact, and Lorcan was a hundred per cent understanding of that. He knew that emotions were a hard thing for toddlers, and they were even harder when you were looking someone right in the eyes.

Octavian nodded again, this time making his bear nod along with him, "Because I broke Rex... but, I didn't mean to, I promise."

"I know you didn't, but you understand that Rex was Cal's toy and he was playing with it first?" Lorcan asked, smiling as Tavy looked up to him, pressing on his knees to see Marion better. He lowered her, resting her against his chest and facing outwards so Tavy could gently stroke his finger along her cheek.

With a sigh, he nodded, "Yeah, I sorry Daddy, I didn't mean to make Cal cry."

Asking if he could hug him and then proceeding to put his arm around his son as he nodded, Lorcan let Tavy lean into his side, his cheek warm against his arm as Lorcan's fingers tucked around his chest. "Would it be okay if Cal came in here? And we all read a story in your bed, just the four of us?" he asked, hearing Cal's creeping across the landing.

Octavian blinked, "Four?"

Lorcan gave a fake gasp, "Well we can't leave Mari out, can we? Your poor baby sister wants some snuggle time, too."

He giggled, nodding and climbing down from the bed, "Yes, that's okay, but only if I can choose what book we read."

He didn't recall mentioning a book, but he supposed reading a few pages wouldn't hurt anyone. Elide had the best story voices, everyone knew that, but he was more than happy to read to his boys if that's what they wanted. To Marion too, though she didn't exactly understand what he was saying. As Octavian searched through his book box, Cal appeared in the doorway, his blanket wrapped around his back like a cape or a cloak.

"Tavy?" he started, swaying just beyond the threshold, "Can I come in?"

Octavian nodded, not bothering to turn as he pulled out a book that, thankfully, didn't look too thick. As Lorcan moved up to the pillows, leaning against the headboard and sitting in the middle so Tavy and Cal could slide in either side of him, he watched his two sons intently. Tavy had put his book on the mattress beside Lorcan before moving back to the window. Cal plodded in with his blanket, sliding in under the duvet and pressing kisses to Marion's head as she rested in her father's lap. When Tavy turned back, pulling himself up and kneeling on Lorcan's other side, he held out something in his palm, thrusting it toward his brother.

"Here," he whispered, "I sorry."

Cal blinked down at the head of Rex in Octavian's hand. But, with a smile, he took it, pressing a kiss to the dinosaur's nose, "Thank you. I'm sorry I didn't let you play. Daddy said he's gonna get us both dinosaurs, though! So we can play together!"

Octavian's eyes lit up, beaming as he leant back against his pillow, now pulling the duvet up over himself. With one hand, he held his book, and with the other, he took Marion's hand, letting her fist curl around his finger. "Yay," he cheered, "And look, book about dinosaurs!"

Even Marion gurgled at that, her thick lashes blinking curiously as her hands waved, lifting Tavy's hand with her own as she did so. Passing Lorcan the book, Octavian curled properly, his head on Lorcan's arm as he rested as close to Marion as he could get. They had certainly bonded the last few weeks. Cal did the same, his leg hooking over Lorcan's thigh as he settled against his father, a hand on Marion's chest and massaging gently. With nothing left to do, he flipped open the first page, taking a deep breath before starting the tale, his kids warm against him and somewhat content after another long day.

* * *

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the-cheese-writes · 3 years

Text

Makeover ~ Prinxiety

TW: Deadnaming, transphobia, mentions of dysphoria, one use of bad language

Word count: 3148

A/N:

Virgil is mtf and lesbian and Roman is now a girl called Rowan :3

Hope you enjoy this fluffy fic that was actually inspired by a scene from Burlesque.

~ Bre

----------

“Virgil! Can you help your father with something please?” Cringing at her deadname, Vera closed her notebook and stashed it away before calling back to her mother.

“Coming mum!” When she got downstairs, she saw her dad holding up a shelf on the wall and holding out a screwdriver for her.

“Virgil!” She cringed again. “There you are. Come help me with this,” her father said. Taking the screwdriver, she grabbed a few nails from the box and screwed them into place, twisting firmly until they were secure.

Stepping back, she smiled a little at her dad and handed back the tool. “Thanks son. You seem to know the basics, which is great! Diy skills are a great trait to have in a husband. Whoever your wife will be one day will be happy.”

Though she was crying inside, Vera nodded and plastered the best smile she could for her parents before turning around and quickly heading back up to her room. She was on the brink of tears and as soon as she closed her door, she broke down, feeling an overwhelming wave of discomfort and utter hatred for herself and her body wash over her.

Her parents would never understand. How could they? They were cisgender heterosexuals; they could never fully understand the dysphoria people like her had. How damaging it was, how detrimental it could be to her and her mental health and how pronouns were so much bigger and meaningful than mere words.

Knowing she couldn’t take this alone, Vera texted her best friend, Rowan and asked if she could come over. Within seconds, she got a reply and Rowan, being the gracious princess of a girl she was, said that she could.

Grabbing her hoodie, Vera made her way down and out the door, telling her parents where she was going before she left.

“Mum, Dad, I’m going to Rowan’s,” she said as she grabbed her keys from the shelf.

“Okay sweetie! See you later,” her mum replied. For a moment, Vera thought she had survived and quietly exhaled relievedly. But unfortunately, her satisfaction didn’t last long.

“Bye son!” She heard her father call just before she fully closed the door.

And that tipped the scale.

A waterfall of silent tears plummeted down her face as all her pent up feelings of bitterness and disdain crashed down with them. She sobbed soundlessly through the streets all the way to Rowan’s house, her hood hiding her face and tears from everyone who passed.

Those who gave her a small look, whether it be from sympathy or disgust, didn’t bother talking to her, but that was just as well, because she couldn’t deal with social interaction at that moment. All she cared about was reaching Rowan because, as far as she was concerned, she was the only person who would be able to comfort her and know what to do.

Vera considered knocking at the front door, but then she realised that Rowan’s parents might be home, and she definitely didn’t want them seeing her in her ruined state. So she climbed in through the window, as she usually did, because if you don’t go into your best friend’s home through the window, are you guys even best friends?

Hearing rustling outside, Rowan smirked and turned around on her chair after she heard her window open.

“Really? Coming in through the window? Why did you need to put in all that effort when you could have just simply walked through the door…” Rowan’s voice trailed off once she saw Vera’s tear stained cheeks and messy hair through her purple plaid-pattern patched hood.

“Virgil?” She instantly ran forward and hugged her.

Vera knew she meant well, but Rowan accidentally deadnaming her only brought forward more tears to the table and she broke down in her friend’s arms.

They sank to the floor, Rowan holding her the whole time and when they eventually pulled away from the hug, Rowan took Vera’s hands in her own and lowered her hood.

“Hey, hey,” Rowan said softly, rubbing the back of Vera’s hands with her thumb, then wiping away a few tears from her cheeks. “What’s wrong hun?”

Looking down at their hands, Vera stared at them and blushed a bit at the feeling of Rowan’s gentle, ever-comforting touch on her skin. She gazed up at the gorgeous girl in front of her and shook like a leaf as she considered telling her best friend her biggest secret.

Revealing to Rowan what Vera had been wanting to tell her for so long could potentially put a strain on their friendship and Vera had such a strong bond with Rowan - she didn’t want to lose it. But she figured that one day, Rowan would find out the truth, so why not now, when they were in their teen years and could still live life to the fullest?

“I…” Vera began and Rowan leaned in in anticipation. “I was… deadnamed.” Holding her breath, Vera anxiously glanced up at her friend through her bangs. Rowan’s expression was unreadable at first, but then a confused look was painted across her face.

“Deadnamed… but that’s what happens when-” she mumbled, then cut herself off, realising what Vera had just told her. She stared at her with wide eyes. “Are you saying that… that-”

Vera nodded, bucket loads of tears springing through her eyes. “I’m trans.”

She cried into her palms and braced herself for the worst, knowing what Rowan’s reaction would be.

‘You’re trans? How can you be trans? You were born a boy so you’ll stay a boy.”

“Trans? But you’re 16 you’re just confused. Give it a few more years you’ll grow out of it,”

“Are you sure you aren’t just interested in girl stuff?”

“How can you expect me to just suddenly use these pronouns for you now? Do you know how hard that is?”

She would be just like her parents and then she would lose everyone. Her loved ones, her friends and most likely her home. Frantic thoughts churned around her mind as she quietly cried.

‘I’ll be homeless, unloved, forgotten, discarded, abandoned I’ll never-’

A pair of warm arms wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her in for a kind embrace, halting her train of worries. Weeping into her friend’s shoulder, Vera allowed Rowan to hold her, stroke her hair and comfort her, washing away all her negative thoughts with a single touch.

“I’m so sorry I deadnamed you. You’re no more different to me than you were before. I still see you and view you exactly the same,” said Rowan in a soft voice, calming Vera’s frenzied nerves. “You’re my best friend and I’d never trade for even the biggest diamond in the world, even though that’s already you.”

Taking Vera’s face in her hands, Rowan wiped away more tears from her cheeks and this time, they finally stopped falling. There was a beat of silence. Vera hung her head and steadied herself and her breathing.

“Do you have a new name?” asked Rowan after she saw Vera compose herself.

“Yeah,” she answered, fidgeting with her hands. “It’s Vera.”

Rowan gasped and smiled, placing a hand to her chest. “Girl, that’s a gorgeous choice.”

Hearing Rowan nickname her ‘Girl’ sparked a new and welcome feeling in Vera. It felt freeing, ecstatic, joyous and her whole soul was more jubilant than it ever had been before.

It’s funny how much one small word can affect a person.

“Thanks,” she beamed. “I wanted to choose something unique and interesting. ‘Vera’ just stood out to me.”

“And it fits you like a glove,” Rowan added almost instantly, without any hesitation. Blushing, Vera looked down and hid her face.

“You can still call me Vee though. I always liked that nickname,” she said, laughing softly.

“Whatever you want, Vera,” said Rowan, smiling and Vera delightfully grinned back. Suddenly, Rowan’s face fell and raised a hand to her cheek. “Oh no. Your concealer and eye shadow’s wiping away…”

“It’s nothing, just makeup I’ll live,” Vera chuckled softly, holding Rowan’s hand on her face.

“Nothing? Nothing?? Makeup is more than just nothing. It makes us feel dazzling, beautiful, stunning and just downright gorgeous.” Raising her hands and moving them flamboyantly, Rowan stood up and walked to her drawers and opened the top one. She seemed to be searching for something, Vera noticed, hearing the rustles and movement.

“Hmm,” Rowan hummed quietly. Vera tilted her head, intrigued.

“What’s up?”

“I’m running low on eyeshadow and other makeup supplies.”

“Wait, didn’t you just buy some new ones 2 months ago?” asked Vera. Rowan just went silent.

“Your point being?” she eventually replied, turning around with her hands on her hips and Vera giggled. Smiling at her laugh, Rowan then grabbed a bag from her chair - that was unsurprisingly already packed - and took her best friend’s hand.

“Where are we going?”

“Out. I’m giving you a makeover,” Rowan said with a smirk, before pulling Vera out the door with her.

After she grabbed her keys and said goodbye to her parents, the two girls walked to the town centre, discussing Vera’s sense of style along the way. Rowan seemed to understand her preferences and when they arrived at the mall, she got to work straight away buying all the clothes that would look great on her.

“Vee look at this!” Holding up a black skirt, Rowan showed it to her friend, who beamed at the sight of it.

“Ro I love it!” She then lowered it to her waist to measure.

“It seems like it’s your size. Wanna try it on?” All of a sudden, Vera’s anxiety spiked. It was then that she remembered that, though she was a girl, she still looked like a boy to those around her.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean…” she gestured to herself and Rowan’s eyes softened in sympathy. Gently, she held Vera’s shoulders.

“I understand Vee. I’m not gonna ask you to do anything you’re not comfortable with yet. We can just try it on back at my place,” she reassured comfortingly in a soft voice, melting Vera’s heart and walls. She blushed and smiled back, then Rowan held up the skirt. “So we’re getting it?” she asked eagerly and Vera nodded.

After around an hour and a half later of shopping, Vera looked down at the three bags they had. They didn’t buy a lot, since she had found a way to reuse most of her old clothes, but purchased a decent amount of new, more feminine clothes. To finish their shopping spree, they were lastly going to buy some makeup for them both.

But Vera felt a little guilty seeing that Rowan had spent all her savings on her. She knew that Rowan wouldn’t want her too, but she couldn’t help it.

“Hey Ro?” Vera said. Rowan hummed in response and turned her head. “I appreciate all of this, I do. But you really didn’t need to bother yourself so much with me-”

“Ahem? Back. The hell. Up.” Rowan suddenly stopped in her tracks and raised her free hand, pointing up her index finger. Vera couldn’t stop the smile etching onto her face from her amusing actions as she turned around to her. (She had stopped a couple steps ahead.) Rowan was always an extravagant queen; Vera didn’t know why she didn’t expect this to happen.

“I very much did need to bother myself with you,” Rowan stated, taking a few paces forward towards her. “This shopping session was to help get your mind off all the current shit happening in your life, since it’s not fair that it’s all happening to you. I’m here to help build your confidence, however I can, and obviously clothes play a big role in it.” She held up the bag she was holding and Vera chuckled. However, her face quickly fell.

“But.. your money-”

“Was well spent. Whatever I was saving up for doesn’t matter anymore and in actual fact I can’t remember what it was, nor do I even care now! All I know is that I spent it well and on a beautiful, gorgeous, caring, sweet girl,” said Rowan, emphasising the word ‘girl’ and making Vera beam. She hugged her friend tighter than she ever had before and when she pulled away, a bold thought suddenly crossed her mind as their eyes met, but she hastily swiped it away.

“Come on.” Rowan took her hand and led her to their last store. “Let’s finish our shopping session.”

***

“Are you done yet?” Rowan called from outside her room. Vera was inside, trying on the clothes they had bought and this was her final outfit. She was so excited to see her new friend in all her gorgeous glory and Vera had teased that this was definitely her favourite clothing combination. Rowan waited impatiently for her, tapping her feet and leaning against the door.

“Almost!”

After around 15 more seconds, Vera finally said, “Alright! You can come in now!” and Rowan wasted no time in opening the door. She gasped and froze in shock and awe.

“Vera… you look so marvellous,” she said, barely any louder than a whisper. Vera had managed to steal her breath away, merely by just standing there.

She wore a purple, oversized printed t-shirt accompanied by the black and white grid skirt they saw earlier. A pair of black lace-up boots sat at her feet and black mesh tights covered her legs, and to top it all off, Vera wore a few silver chains around her neck, accentuating her whole look and a couple of silver earrings too.

To put it simply, Rowan was starstruck.

“Thanks,” Vera said shyly, looking down to hide her burning blush. “I wish my hair was a little longer though.” Blowing a few chocolate strands out of her view, Vera reached up a twirled a couple as Rowan took some steps closer.

“I think you’d look exquisite either way and, to be honest, I kinda prefer this look more with a pixie cut. It suits you,” she said with a sweet smile, which Vera returned.

“Thank you Ro.”

Rowan then pulled her over to her bed and sat her down as she searched in their bags for their newest makeup items. She handed Vera a brush and her concealer and foundation, but Vera pushed them back.

“Actually, can you do it this time? It’s not that I’m uncomfortable or anything, but I just wanted you to do it, “ she said innocently, gazing up with wide eyes.

“U-uh. Sure. Okay,” Rowan stuttered. Gingerly, she reached up and brushed Vera’s hair out of her face, their eyes momentarily locking, then gave her a headband to wear. “What do you want?” she asked after Vera had put it on.

“Um, I dunno. Surprise me,” Vera winked and Rowan smirked, then set to work.

The two played Disney songs as Rowan worked and sang to their hearts’ content, but occasionally smudged a few aspects of the look in doing so. Rowan didn’t mind though. As long as they were having fun, she didn’t mind if Vera accidentally messed it up a thousand times. As long as she got to see her smile.

When she was finished, Rowan got a mirror and handed it to Vera. “Take a look.” And she did, gasping quietly as she admired her eyeshadow and most of all, her lips. They were a kind of ombre tone - lined black and gradually fading into a subtle burgundy red.

“Jee-muh-nattie Ro, you really outdid yourself here. Colour me impressed!”

“Thanks Vee,” Rowan grinned. “The lipstick should be dry by now.” She then started tidying her things and packing up her brushes and new palette, storing them back in their drawer. Vera was still admiring her appearance in Rowan’s full-body mirror when she finished cleaning up. Truth be told, Rowan loved how much Vera was loving her looks and who she saw in the mirror. It wasn’t every day that she was so confident, and Rowan was so glad to see a shift in her self-esteem.

“You look absolutely stunning, you know,” she complimented as she sat back down on her bed, making Vera’s face instantly flush.

“Thank you Ro, for everything you’ve done for me today,” Vera said as she joined her.

“Ah, it was nothing,” Rowan waved it away, but Vera shook her head.

“No, seriously. You don’t know how much it’s helped me.” She took her friend’s hands in her own. “I don’t know what I would do without you, I’m not sure what I would have done in that moment if you weren’t there to help me. Thank you so much from the bottom of my heart Ro, for all you’ve done since day one.”

Tilting her head slightly, Rowan smiled kindly at her best friend, feeling her face heart up the longer she stared. “And thank you for being the incredibly charming little cherub you are!” she replied, booping Vera’s nose and causing her to giggle.

Her expression soon turned to concern however, as she remembered that Vera didn’t actually live with her (unfortunately). “Vera, what are you going to do when you get home? Won’t your parents think spitefully when they see you like this?”

Looking down, Vera furrowed her eyebrows worriedly, all the while grasping Rowan’s hands. “I’m not sure. I don’t really know what I’m gonna do, because they obviously are too scared to accept me.” Rowan nodded understandably. “But, right now I just want to focus on now, and being here with you and spending the best minutes of my life with you.”

“As do I,” replied Rowan, raising Vera’s knuckles up to her lips and kissing them softly, flustering her.

Then their eyes locked, again, and they lost themselves in each other’s eyes. Suddenly the world was still and quiet, the wind stopped blowing and the room around them faded away. And before they knew it, they were kissing.

It was sweet and juvenile, like them, and their lips moved perfectly together, fitting flawlessly like pieces in a puzzle. Rowan raised a hand to Vera’s cheek, slowly sliding it down to her neck, whilst Vera grabbed her opposition’s waist, pulling her in closer ever-so-gently.

After a couple minutes they pulled away, muted by shock and the butterflies dancing in their stomachs. Rowan was the one to break the silence, laughing breathlessly and grinning, Vera soon doing the same. She hesitantly looked up, their eyes meeting again and Rowan grazed a tender hand on her cheek, which Vera leaned into.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” she said lovingly, completely entranced. “Be my girlfriend?”

“Of course!” Vera replied excitedly, almost instantly and lunged at Rowan, encasing her in a hug but causing them to tumble off the bed and onto the floor in a laughing heap.

#sanders sides #fanfic #sanders sides fanfic #brewrites #virgil sanders #roman sanders #prinxiety #hurt/comfort

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jaxsteamblog · 3 years

Text

Druk

Click here to read the entire fic on AO3

Dragons.

Katara stared, open mouthed, from her spot far below the suspended walkway. Red and blue scales rushed around Thuy and Zuko, bringing tears to her eyes.

Red and blue.

“We felt it was almost prophetic,” One of the Sun Warriors next to her said. “When the Fire Lord married a Waterbender Queen.”

“I can see why.” Katara said hoarsely.

“And with the Avatar being a native water element, it was equally auspicious.” She went on.

“Okay, sorry, I know you’re trying to say something profound,” Katara said, still watching the entwining dragons. “But those are dragons.”

The Sun Warrior chuckled.

“I can see why a Spirit chose you. You have the appropriate amount of reverence for these things.” She said.

Katara did turn then.

“Pardon?” She asked.

“Iroh related to us what kind of person you were, to let us make a better judgement. You are soul bound to the Spirit La, correct?” The Sun Warrior asked.

Katara said nothing. Thuy’s shriek of joy snapped through the air and Katara faced upward again.

“Are those spirits?” She questioned instead of answering.

The dragons rushed back into their respective caves and Katara tried to follow the pair down the long stairs with her eyes.

“Ran and Shaw are ancient beings, but they are not spirits.” The Sun Warrior stated.

“But they don’t live forever.”

“No.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Not quite.” The Sun Warrior said and Katara looked over at her. The woman’s smile was coy, which made Katara frown.

Nothing more was said about it until dinner. Thuy and Zuko had talked nearly non-stop since they were within earshot on the stairs. Zuko was near tears for parts of it, as he spoke about feeling his inner fire connect with the dragons when they passed by. Thuy, who was part way through her training with Zuko, had worked through her mental block around the element.

“Fire is life, Auntie.” Thuy enthused repeatedly. “The sun feeds the grass, fire bakes our bread, it’s all connected.”

“You sound like those musicians Suki likes.” Katara said gently and Zuko laughed at that.

As the revered sun set, the equally sacred torches were lit to illuminate the dining area. Fire dancers appeared in the square of beaten earth, and they only vaguely resembled the ones Katara had seen at other festivals in Caldera. The face paint made her think of home and the drums became hammers to drive the feeling to heart.

The men and women who danced told a story in a language Katara didn’t understand, but she knew what it was meant to evoke. It was a shared fear of the dark, of the dangers that lurked in the unseen spaces around the safety of their hearth. It was a call for the sun to return.

As both Zuko and Katara were caught up in the emotion, a train of dancers covered by a dragon stamped into view. The drum beat changed and the dancers became more grounded, and the Sun Warrior from earlier approached their table.

“Avatar Thuy, I humbly ask for your wisdom.” She said, bowing low.

Thuy looked over at Katara, who nodded, and cleared her throat.

“Of course.” She replied.

The Sun Warrior stood and gestured. Two men came over, carrying a chest on a small palanquin between them.

“A prophecy stated that the blood of an Avatar would be required to bring back the dragons. But as their return is to bring balance, balance would be needed as well. We have looked for a man and woman, light and dark, yin and yang, and we believe you will lead us to the prophecy.” The Sun Warrior said. The two men lowered the palanquin in front of her and she opened the chest. From her seat, Katara could see a glittering gold egg.

Thuy shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m…” She started. Zuko stopped her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Her spirit and her body is that of a woman. Nothing else.” He said, his voice firm.

“My most sincerest apologies, Avatar Thuy, I did not mean that.” The Sun Warrior said, bowing lower.

“Maybe you could skip the formalities and just speak plainly?” Katara offered.

The woman smiled.

“That would be wise, yes.” She said. “Thuy, I have recognized your transition and I believe you are able to find the ones who make a balance, not that you are that person. I don’t think the prophecy speaks of one person, but of two.”

“We did try Hikaru and they couldn’t do anything.” One of the palanquin bearers said, mostly to his companion. Thuy heard him and snorted.

“I appreciate that, really. And, I know it might seem obvious but…” Thuy looked down the table at Zuko and Katara.

“What?” Zuko asked.

“Us?” Katara added incredulously.

“We had the same thought.” The Sun Warrior agreed.

“What?” Zuko repeated.

In bed that night, Zuko and Katara sat up with the egg between them. It was warm to the touch and Katara could feel something hum inside of the shell.

“Do you think this is an actual, for real dragon egg?” Zuko asked.

“They say it is.” Katara said, looking at the egg.

“And we have to hatch it?”

“I guess?”

“How?”

“Does it look like I know how to hatch a dragon egg?” Katara shot back, bewildered.

Zuko frowned, also staring at the egg.

“Why wouldn’t Ran and Shaw hatch it?” He whispered.

“Is it their egg?” Katara asked.

Zuko looked up at her.

“I don’t even know what gender they are.” He said in naked confusion.

“But why would they need a Waterbender to hatch a dragon egg? Dragons were the first Firebenders!” Katara continued in exasperation.

“I think.” Zuko started, but stopped short, staring hard at the egg again. “I think it’s a spirit thing?”

“But that’s not a spirit egg.” Katara said, but sat back. “Do spirits lay eggs?”

“Augh!” Zuko fell back on the bed, his hands in his hair. “This is so frustrating!”

“You know, I really wasn’t expecting our marriage to become some sort of fated, prophecy fulfilling sort of thing.” Katara said.

“Dealing with the political nightmare is enough for me really. I don’t need prophecies added to it.” Zuko muttered.

Katara crawled up toward him, laying down next to him with the egg nestled between them. It certainly felt alive to her.

“It’s still nice, being here with you.” She said softly.

Zuko rolled onto his side and started to brush her hair back from her face with his hand. He was searching her face, looking for something or simply trying to memorize it. This was becoming a habit, now that they were fully entrenched in their schedules.

“Three months is such a long time.” He said, just as quietly.

“How did we handle the separation before?” Katara asked.

“I feel like being married should’ve made me more comfortable with it.” Zuko said.

Katara leaned in and kissed him lightly. He held her face and she relaxed under the warmth of his touch.

“I am glad we got married though.” She said.

“Oh me too, absolutely.” Zuko said and she huffed out a breathy laugh.

“Even if it’s not fate, I’m glad you are who you are. Loving you, being able to love you, kinda helped a lot of other things in my life.” She said.

“Because I’m the son of the man who murdered your mother?” Zuko asked wryly.

“I mean, sorta, yeah.” Katara quipped and made him laugh.

“Maybe that’s the point of this.” Zuko said, lightly tapping the egg with his knee. “Healing after violence.”

“You have to cultivate life in order to heal.” Katara said, quoting one of Iroh’s many wisdoms. Zuko smiled, gazed into her eyes again, and then kissed her.

“I love you Katara, much more than I thought I could ever bear.” He said.

“I love you more than I ever wanted to again. It scares me.”

“Why?”

“What if I lose you? I would die.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You would go on.”

“How do you figure?”

“The love doesn’t go anywhere, Katara. As long as you’re alive, my love for you will exist. Just like how your mother’s love still exists.” Zuko explained.

Katara touched her fingers to her necklace and Zuko brushed his thumb over her cheek. It was only after she felt the cool dampness left behind his movement that she realized she was crying.

“I don’t think we’re hatching this egg.” She sighed.

Zuko looked down and shrugged.

“It’s pretty though. We can keep it in the palace.” He said.

Reaching down, Katara pulled the egg up to their chests. It was almost like a swaddled fat baby, if she squinted.

“Let’s just keep it warm and in the morning, we can tell them we tried.” She said.

“That’s fair. Well, goodnight baby dragon.” Zuko patted the egg and Katara rolled her eyes.

“What would you name a dragon? Fang Jr.?” She asked.

Zuko snorted. “That’s as bad as Mister Whiskers.”

“Oh hush.”

“Maybe Druk.”

“Druk?”

“It means thunder dragon. And, I mean, when I think about our elements together, a storm isn’t out of the range of possibilities.”

“I like it. Druk.” Katara repeated the name. Then, wrapping her arms around the egg, she pressed her cheek against the gold shell. “Goodnight Druk.”

It took them a while to fall asleep. The bed wasn’t very large to begin with, and the egg took up a lot of space. But it wasn’t too foreign; the living aura it gave off made Katara feel like there was just a third person in the bed with them. When she did fall asleep, the sounds of drums and heartbeats tattooed rings of color in her head.

“Katara.” Zuko whispered sharply, sounding terrified. “I broke the egg.”

Adrenaline shot through Katara’s muscles and she was upright before she was even awake.

“What?” She slurred, looking around.

Zuko shushed her, putting his hands on her shoulders and yanking her down.

“I think I rolled over it in my sleep. It’s broken.” He said.

Looking down, Katara saw the silvery, mother-of-pearl sheen of the inner shell. Large, rounded pieces were still between them, with flecks of gold scattered around the bed.

“Oh we are in so much trouble.” She whispered.

“But now we know it was empty.” Zuko said weakly, picking up two of the largest pieces. He looked up and met Katara’s eye, his face pale and sick.

“I don- OW!” Katara’s shoulders seized as something sharp dug into her back. As she went to slap whatever freakish Fire Nation bug had bitten her, the sharp bites moved upward.

Her hand was lightly nipped and her eyes widened. Staring forward, Katara watched Zuko blink.

“What. Is on. My shoulder.” Katara said slowly.

“Druk.” Zuko said.

The thing perched on her shoulder gave a small trill. Something leathery and warm wrapped around the back of her neck and Katara felt her throat dry. A thin red whisker floated up into the corner of her vision.

“Oh. Cool.” Katara said and her breath quickened.

“So, uh…” Zuko leaned forward, holding out his hands. Druk, still unseen, trilled again and beat small wings against Katara’s face.

Moving her hands slowly, Katara pushed the back of the dragon’s small body.

“It’s okay.” She said and Druk protested, but hopped forward.

Zuko’s hands dipped under the unexpected weight, but Katara was focused on the dragon.

Druk was the size of a cat owl kitten; much smaller than what she expected to be in an egg of that size. His scales were a deep crimson color, seemingly purple in the low light. He had a crest of pale yellow fur on his head and his whiskers seemed to have a mind of their own.

Wrapping his tail around Zuko’s hands, Druk postured nobly and shot out a burst of fire.

“I’ve heard most couples get a pet before they have kids.” Zuko said, looking up at Katara.

She moved her hand slowly to the dragon, lightly petting the fur on his head. Druk chirped, flapping his wings, and Katara yanked her hand back quickly.

“How long until he’s as big as them?” Katara asked, holding the hand she had pet Druk with tightly in her other. She looked up and Zuko looked pleased, which annoyed her.

“I don’t know. I don’t know much about dragons at all.” Zuko said, smiling.

Druk flapped more, lifting himself out of Zuko’s hands. He hovered for a second, but then darted right to Katara. She caught him, anxious, and held him to her chest. His front claws came up toward her collarbone and she held him there.

“We brought dragons back.” Zuko said in awe.

“How?” Katara asked, confused.

Zuko finally looked at her, putting both hands to her cheeks and kissing her deeply.

Katara understood then. The Fire Nation had not just hunted dragons after all.

Druk chirped indignantly, shoving his head in between their faces. Zuko leaned back but gently stroked Druk’s fur.

“I guess he has a favorite.” He said.

“Mom is everyone’s favorite, at first.” Katara said, tilting her head to look down at Druk.

“Good morning, Druk.” She added.

Druk stretched upward and nipped the bottom of her chin.

Of course he was a brat.

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#zutara #fanfiction #jax writes #zutara month #modern au #the fic that prompts built

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octothorpetopus · 4 years

Note

spence and derek are together and the team doesn't know but then one of then gets mad bc they are tired of hiding, so angst w happy/fluffy ending

Give A Little Bit (Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid)

After six months of dating in secret, Spencer is ready to tell their friends. Derek isn’t quite so sure.

A/N: I had a lot of fun with this one, especially Derek’s introspection towards the end. I hope you like this!

Tags: @thebostonreaper @criminalminds-world @agenthotchner @rxseinbloom @cha0ticbisexual @starsandsupernovae

“Coffee. Now.” Derek paused in the doorway to the round table room. “Uh, please.” Emily looked up from where she stood by the coffee machine, arching her eyebrows.

“You look awful.”

“I feel awful.” He slumped into his chair, accepting the styrofoam cup gratefully when she offered it to him. “God, why does no one remind me not to drink too much?”

“You’re a grown-ass adult, Morgan. At this point, if you’re hungover on a work day, that’s on you.”

“Yeah, that’s not helpful. Coffee is helpful.” He chugged the entire cup in one go, wincing at the bitter taste.

“Man, what did you do last night?” He shrugged, and the rest of the team filed in. Spencer sat down next to him, his eyes curious.

“I went out.”

“Hot date?” Derek smirked.

“I guess you could say that. We were clubbing for awhile, then went back to my place for a nightcap, things got out of hand, and now…” As if to prove his point, he knocked his sunglasses over his eyes, blocking out the brilliant overhead fluorescent light.

“Wait, wait, wait. This is the fifth night in like, two weeks you’ve had a date. Derek Morgan, do you have a girlfriend?” He laughed easily, but shifted in his seat.

“Come on, Em, I-“

“Who is she? Come on, tell me.”

“You don’t know her.” Spencer cleared his throat, smiling flatly.

“Hey, guys?” He gestured to the front of the room, where Penelope was waiting patiently.

“If you guys would please stop flirting, I’d like to start the briefing.” Sheepishly, Derek waved a hand.

“My bad. Proceed.”

“Thank you. Now, if you’ll look at your tablets, you’ll see- oh, god, I didn’t mean to look at that…”

It was a local case, and as it turned out not one that they could be helpful in, so Derek went home to his little house in Arlington, flopped down on his sofa with his German shepherd’s head in his lap, and flipped on a cooking show. He was ready to doze off to Rachel Ray’s pickled onion recipe when his doorbell rang.

“I swear to god, if you’re a Jehovah’s Witness or someone trying to sell something, I will throw you into the Potomac!”

“It’s me.” Derek’s mood brightened. He raced to the door, skidding on the hardwood floors. and threw it open.

“Hey there, pretty boy,” he said, leaning against the door frame as nonchalantly as he could.

“Hi.” With the awkward sweetness Derek had grown accustomed to, Spencer leaned in to kiss him quickly, his hands wrapped tightly around the strap of his messenger bag.

“Oh, come on, you can give me more than that.” Derek seized Spencer’s face firmly in his hands and kissed him, really kissed him, long and slow and sweet and warm. The beginnings of rain floated through the air. “Come on in,” he said, holding open the door. Spencer stepped inside, but didn’t go straight to the kitchen like he almost always did (Derek always had a steady supply of baked goods from Penelope, most of which Spencer ate). Instead, he stood in the foyer, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“What’s up, Spencer?”

“Uh, can we sit down?”

“Yeah, sure.” They sat down in the living room, and that’s when Derek knew something was happening, something big. Spencer always sat on the floor in front of the sofa, for some reason, and despite Derek’s protests that it was bad for his back. This time, however, he sat in one of the soft but rarely used leather armchairs, his fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm on the stiff black leather.

“Spencer, baby, talk to me.” Derek absentmindedly scratched the top of Clooney’s head.

“Do you remember our first date? Like, our first real date?”

“Sure. It was about a month before Emily came back.”

“That was six months ago, Derek.”

“Yeah. Wow. Spence, what’s your point?”

“My point is that it’s been six months, or actually six months, two weeks, and four days, and we haven’t told a single member of our team.”

“...Spencer, we’d lose our jobs. We could face legal repercussions. We’re government agents.” Derek leaned back, smiling, but his stomach turned. This was more serious than he’d thought and he knew it.

“Derek, you know Hotch wouldn’t report us. Penelope and Kevin make it work. Why can’t we? Tell me, why can’t we make it work?”

“Look, I don’t want to argue about this tonight.”

“Derek.” Spencer clutched his hand, pleading. “I need to tell my friends- our friends- our family.”

“Why? Why do they need to know?” Spencer got to his feet, stammering and starting to pace.

“I don’t know, Derek, maybe because I’m sick of hearing you talk about all the girls you go out with when I know damn well that at the end of the day, I’m the one you come home to. I don’t want to have to hear you talk about your ‘girlfriend’ who doesn’t exist just so you don’t have to tell Emily. What is going on with you? I understood not wanting to tell people for the first few months, but we’re six months into this thing. Do you… do you not want to be with me?”

“Spencer, of course that’s not it.” Derek stood up and took Spencer’s hands, but Spencer ripped them away.

“Then what? Are you embarrassed of me? Of how young I am? Or is it just because I’m… odd?”

“No. Never, ever think it’s because I’m ashamed to be with you.”

“Then why?”

“I just want some damn privacy! Don’t you? We let these people into every little nook and cranny of our lives whether we want to or not, and I want- no, I need something that they don’t get a say about!”

“They don’t get a say, but I sure as hell should.”

“I’m doing this for us! I’m doing this for you, Spencer!”

“I- what?” Spencer stepped back, puzzled.

“Look at us, kid. You were a child prodigy and had three PhDs by the time you were twenty-four. And me, well… you know me. What are they going to think?”

“They’re our friends, Derek. They’re our family..

“Friends don’t always have the response you want them to. Come on, you know that.”

“So, what? You don’t want them to know about us because if they know we’re queer-” Derek flinched at the word, but Spencer didn’t seem to notice. “-then they’ll think I’m even weirder than they already think I am? I don’t care about that, and I honestly don’t really think you do either. I think this is about you. You don’t want them to view you as any less of the alpha male hypermasculine son of a bitch that you try to be.”

“Don’t you dare profile me, doctor,” Derek snarled, and even though they were the same height, Spencer seemed tiny by comparison. “You know, I thought you were different than them. I thought you were willing to give me a little privacy. Our fourth date, we made a promise not to profile each other. Ever. You just broke that promise, so I don’t think you get to tell me anything about our relationship right now.” Spencer bit his lip, still obviously angry, but he couldn’t seem to come up with anything else to say. “Why did you have to do this, Spencer? We have a good thing going, don’t we?”

“Sure. But what’s the point of a good thing if it never sees the light of day?” Before Derek could respond, both of their phones buzzed.

“New case.”

“New case.” They stared at each other for a moment.

“We should-”

“I think I’ll take my own car.” Spencer pressed his lips together until they disappeared in a thin white line, and Derek couldn’t tell if he was trying not to scream or cry. “I’ll see you there.” Without waiting for a response, he left, slamming the front door behind him and abandoning Derek, who stood quiet and helpless in the living room, Clooney whimpering at his feet. He was so tired of fighting, but something in him wouldn’t let him tell them. Something in him screamed YOU CAN’T YOU CAN’T YOU CAN’T over and over and over again, bouncing around his head like an echo in an empty cathedral. But if he didn’t, he would lose Spencer. Those two things weighed in the scales of his mind, but he pushed them aside. They had a case, and he didn’t have a choice.oice.

At some point while they were arguing, the light mist had turned into heavy rain, and by the time Derek made it into Quantico he was soaked from head to toe. He dripped water on the round table room floor. Spencer was already there when he arrived, folded into his chair, his expression not angry but sober, introspective. When Garcia started the briefing, his head snapped up, as if waking from a dream.

“Last week in Harlon, Kentucky, three former inmates from a federal penitentiary were found stabbed to death and buried in shallow graves in a park. They were found by a woman walking her dog, who used to be a K-9.”

“They were killed fairly close together, that means this unsub isn’t hesitant,” Rossi mused.

“We should be looking at other released inmates.” Hotch set his tablet down on the table.

“Victims and families of their crimes, too,” Emily added.

“Could be a corrections officer gone rog-“

“We should be looking at everyone working in the criminal justice system when they were put into prison,” Spencer said, interrupting Derek without a second thought or glance.

“Uh, yeah.” Hotch’s eyes flirted back and forth between Spencer and Derek. “We’ll do a preliminary profile on the plane. Wheels up in thirty.” Everyone stood to leave, but Hotch didn’t move. “Morgan, stay behind for a minute.” He paused halfway to the door, briefly considered making a break for it, but stayed. When he turned around to look at Hotch, Hotch was more concerned than anything else. “What’s going on with you and Reid?” Derek shrugged, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible.

“Nothing.”

“Really? He seems upset. Specifically at you.”

“I don’t know, Hotch.”

“Morgan, if there’s something going on with you two-“

“Hotch, I promise. Everything’s fine.” Hotch didn’t look as if he believed Derek, but he didn’t press the issue further.

“Fine. Grab your go bag, let’s get this show on the road.”

That was how it went. It was another short case, not a hard one either. Spencer ignored Derek, Derek let him, and the rest of the team stood by in awkward silence, unsure what was happening but not willing to say anything about it. That was how it went. At least, until the plane ride back to Washington. They sat at opposite ends, instead of curled up next to each other like they always slept, like they had always done even when they were just friends, or at least before they realized that they were anything more than that. Derek watched Spencer turn the pages of his book absentmindedly. He knew that Spencer couldn’t be reading, because it was taking him far too long. Hesitantly, quietly, he got up and crossed the plane to sit across from Spencer, who pointedly didn’t look at him. Everyone else was dead asleep, but Derek couldn’t and he could tell that Spencer couldn’t either.

“Talk to me,” he whispered, fighting the urge to reach over and squeeze Spencer’s bony knee like he always did when they were making up from a fight.

“About what?” Still, Spencer didn’t look up.

“Spencer, goddamnit, I can’t see why you’re so upset with me.”

“Really? You really can’t see it?”

“If anyone has a right to be upset, it’s me. I told you, I’m not ready.”

“And that’s exactly it. You’re thinking about how this affects you. ‘I’m not ready.’ I am. We have to make these decisions together, and you’re not even considering-“

“I don’t need to consider anything,” Derek hissed, trying to keep his voice low but failing. “I’m not ready, and it’s not fair of you to expect me to-“

“No, you know what’s not fair?” Spencer wasn’t thinking anymore, and his volume was increasing steadily. Out of the corner of his eye, Derek saw JJ start to stir. “What’s not fair is for you to expect me to not tell my friends about our six-month relationship. What’s not fair is that even though neither of us has been out with another person in those six months, you refuse to let me call you my boyfriend.”

“Keep-“ Derek’s head darted around. Everyone else was still asleep. “Keep your voice down.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep my voice down,” Spencer said, very much not keeping his voice down. “Fine. But I’m sick of you telling me that I have to pretend like everything’s normal when it’s not.” JJ was fully awake now, and Derek could see her gently shake Emily.

“Spencer, I have my reasons. But I also need a certain amount of privacy, even from you. I have things I need to work through and frankly, I need more time!”

“You’ve had six months! Six months to work through these things! What am I supposed to think, Derek?”

“Guys, I-“ Spencer waved a hand to silence Hotch, who stepped back, stunned.

“You act like I don’t get a say in this. Like your feelings and whatever the hell you’re going through only affects you. I’m tired.” Spencer bit his lip. “I’m so tired.”

“I’m tired too, kid.” They stood, just staring at each other. Derek felt the weight of everyone else’s eyes on them.

“So that’s it, huh?” Spencer asked, and in the crack in his voice was everything that wasn’t said. As angry as he was, he would not do to Derek what Derek would not do to himself.

“Yeah, kid. I think that’s it.” Derek had to lean against a seat in order to keep from falling to his knees.

“Morgan, go sit down,” Hotch said firmly.

“I’m gonna go- I-“ Derek gestured vaguely towards the bathroom and stumbled away, his breathing choked and heavy. He hardly closed the door behind him before the first sob racked his body, and he clapped a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. His shoulders heaved and tears began to surge down his cheeks, but he endured it all in as much silence as he could, curled on the floor of the BAU jet bathroom. Outside, he could hear soft, unintelligible whispering, but no one came after him. They all knew better than that, and anyway, the one person he actually wanted to see right now was the last person who would want to talk to him. He briefly considered calling his mom, or even one of his sisters, but he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t be pushed away from the few people on this earth who knew everything about him- well, almost everything. Slowly but steadily, Derek got to his feet. His entire body felt heavy, like he was trying to walk through water. When he opened the door, everyone tried very pointedly not to look at him. He sat down across from Rossi, who flinched but didn’t look up from his magazine.

“You okay, kid?” He asked, so quietly Derek almost thought he imagined it.

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Still not looking up, Rossi pulled a magazine off the seat next to him and tossed it to Derek. It was a Newsweek from two weeks ago, but Derek still felt a surge of gratitude. Not enough to dull the sensation that his heart was quite literally breaking in two, but it was something. No one else spoke, not to Spencer, not to each other, and certainly not to him. They might not have had any idea about what was going on (if they did, they didn’t show it), but they got the idea that it didn’t involve them. Maybe it should, Derek thought to himself. But if he told them now, any of them, what was any of it for?

The little house in Arlington was the same as he’d left it, except that Clooney’s water dish had been refilled by his friend who dogsat for him whenever he was out of town. Stopping only to scratch the elderly German Shepherd behind the ears, Derek headed straight for the living room, collapsing in a heap of limbs on the sofa. He couldn’t deny that it was his fault anymore, could he? Spencer really hadn’t been asking that much, when it came down to it. Just that they could be together in public, in the eyes of their friends. Because that was what you did when you were with someone. Only they had never really been together, because Derek had always laughed it off when Spencer had asked if they were boyfriends. Why was that? Why couldn’t he get up the courage to be something with someone? Not even just someone, but someone he thought he maybe loved.

So, it was love. Then why couldn’t he ever bring himself to say those words, or any like them, out loud? It wasn’t like he had never been in a long-term relationship before. It wasn’t like he had never been someone’s boyfriend, or like he’d never said “I love you”. All the dates he’d been on, the late nights shared on this same sofa, dinners with his family, introductions to his friends passed through his head like the old-school viewmaster he had loved to play with as a kid. It took him a moment to realize why this was so different than all of those other times, and when he did, he fell off the sofa onto the floor, knocking his head against the coffee table as he tumbled down. He had been a boyfriend, he had said “I love you”, he had been out in public and met the parents and the friends before.

But he had never done it with a man.

Why it had taken him this long to figure that out, he didn’t actually know, and kind of wanted to smack himself for, but then he noticed the blood dripping from his head where he had hit the coffee table, and decided he’d probably injured himself enough for one night. While he was getting up to find the first-aid kit he kept in the hall closet, he looked back, incredulous. Sure, figuring out he liked men had been a fairly recent development, but he honestly didn’t see it as life-changing at the time. No, he hadn’t told anyone, but that was because it wasn’t anyone else’s business… right?

No. That wasn’t right.

In the dim light of the bathroom, Derek inspected his injury. It wasn’t a super deep cut, but it would take a while to heal, and he’d probably have a scar for a while. Watching his blood dilute and swirl down the drain, he remembered a specific day from his childhood he hadn’t thought about in years. He had only been twelve, maybe thirteen, and playing basketball with a few friends after school when they heard yelling from around one side of the community center. That had been the first hate crime he had ever seen- a gay kid got beat up simply for being gay. And as a Chicago cop, and an FBI agent, it was not the last. It wasn’t the last time he heard slurs tossed around like they bore no weight, casual ignorance from the coworkers in the locker room or friends on the street. If they’d known about him, would they have stayed quiet? Would they have kept their vitriol to themselves until he was gone and then let it spew, melting the world around them like acid? Or would they have done to him what they did to that kid that day at the community center? No, he was too big and too strong for that. Being big and strong was what protected him, from fists and rage, but also from prying eyes. No one ever expected that the 200 lb former linebacker and Judo black would be the one with the dirty little secret. Maybe if they did, it would be easier. Maybe if he thought it would surprise everyone less, it wouldn’t be quite so hard. When Spencer had come out to the team a few years ago, no one had seemed surprised. It wasn’t hard to see how the skinny kid with the messy hair, who’d never really had a girlfriend, who wore sweater vests and sneakers everywhere, who could carry a conversation with only his endless fount of knowledge, could be different from the rest of them. Only he wasn’t that different, was he? No, his coming out had been what sparked Derek’s journey of self-discovery, so they weren’t as different as they seemed. What he truly couldn’t endure was the surprise. He didn’t want to be seen in a different light- he was just Derek Morgan, same as always. But that was never really the case with a bomb like this. No one ever just took it without flinching, without questions that demanded answers he couldn’t give.

The scales in his mind, which up until this point had been weighted so heavily towards that one side, that side that said everything would go wrong and his life would change forever, began to tip now. Because now he was in his home office, staring at the bulletin board over his desk. His office was the one place no one else ever went in his house (his bedroom was almost his own, except the time he’d let Emily sleep in his bed after getting a little too wasted at the FBI Christmas party). But no, his office was his and his only, so that was where he kept all the reminders he needed for himself, without anyone else’s input. A signed puck from a Chicago Blackhawks game he’d gone to with his father before he died. A dried flower from the bouquet his mom had sent him when he was accepted into the FBI academy. But he wasn’t looking at those things right now, right now his eyes were fixed on the photo that had taken a prominent position front and center. If he’d been profiling himself, he would have said that the reason was that that photo had some kind of importance. It was him and Spencer, about three months earlier, at a Washington Wizards game, basketball being the only sport he could convince Spencer to go to. The picture was a close-up of the jumbotron, during the third-quarter Kiss Cam (he had paid the guy working the Kiss Cam twenty bucks for the footage). In it, Spencer was wearing one of Derek’s old Wizards jerseys, and he was still in the middle of saying something when Derek had kissed him. His wide eyes made it obvious it had been a surprise, but his smile and the hand resting on Derek’s backwards baseball cap gave him away. Derek loved that picture, that’s why he had put it on the board right where he could see it as he worked. He wanted to go back to that, to the quiet ease and the loud feelings, to blending into a world that told them they had to stand out.

The scales were tipping. On one side, there was the world. On the other, there was Spencer. Spencer, who loved brownies and foreign films. Spencer, who wore his sneakers to The Capital Grille. Spencer, who should have been jaded and cynical but still had an optimism about the world Derek couldn’t quite refute. The scales were tipping, and Derek made no effort to stop them. With every minute he stared at that picture, every minute he thought about the last six months, they tipped further and further until there was no denying that one outweighed the other. With a little resignation, a little relief, and a lot of apprehension, Derek got up, turned off the office light, and went to bed.

The round table room was dead silent when he walked in, not that anyone had been talking before he’d arrived. Rossi and JJ were watching everyone with wide, wary eyes. Emily was staring into her coffee. Garcia bit her lip, her nerves obviously getting to her. Hotch was scrolling through his tablet. Spencer sat in his chair, staring off into the near distance. His hair was more of a mess than normal, his tie was crooked, and his eyes were heavy-lidded and red, like he’d stayed up all night.

“Garcia.” Hotch nodded. “Let’s get started.”

“Okay, well-” Penelope’s voice wobbled, and she started suddenly as Derek raised his hand. “I- what?”

“Can I say something before we start?” Confused, a little freaked, she looked to Hotch for confirmation. Hotch looked equally as confused, but nodded.

“Go ahead, but try to make it quick.”

“I will.” On shaky legs, Derek stood. Everyone looked at him, their interests piqued, except Spencer, who continued staring off at some point Derek couldn’t see. “Six months ago, I met someone. Well, no. I already knew them. Six months ago, I saw someone I knew in a different light. And for the last six months, I’ve been falling head-over heels in love.”

“Derek, how come you never told me?” Penelope gently squeezed his hand. “Whoever she is, I’m sure we’d love her.” He smiled, shaking his head.

“That’s just it. You’re not going to love her, because there is no her.” Confused, the team glanced at each other, but remained silent. “He is so incredibly special to me, and I’ve wanted to scream it from the rooftops for six months, but I just… I couldn’t.” Now, for the first time, he turned to Spencer. “Spencer Reid, I love you.” Spencer’s head snapped up, his eyes wide like he’d just woken up. His mouth opened and closed a few times but he didn’t say anything. Derek wasn’t watching anyone else, but he was sure they were wearing identical looks of shock. “I’ll never be as sorry for anything else in my life as I am that I never told you that, and that I made you keep this secret for so long.” He crouched in front of Spencer, taking his hands. “I had to think. I shouldn’t have had to, I should have just let myself be with you, but I did. I’ve seen a lot, Spencer, a lot of myself and a lot of the world. And I hate to say it, but I’ve got way too much fear for my own good. But I realized that if I weigh whatever fear I have against you, it’s no contest.” He cleared his throat and straightened, facing his startled friends. “I’m bisexual. It took me a while to figure it out, and even longer to come to terms with it, but it’s who I am. Six months ago, about a month before you came back, Em, I asked Spencer to go to the movies with me. We’ve been together ever since. Last week, he asked me if we could tell you. I let my demons get the better of me. I’m not gonna do that anymore. Spencer.” He held out a big, weathered hand, pleading silently for Spencer to take it. Spencer stares up at him, clearly hesitating. But then he blinks, and whatever reservations he had disappeared. He took Derek’s hand and let himself be pulled into a hug. Derek felt his narrow, bony arms wrap around his shoulders and his head bury into the crook of his neck. “I’m so sorry,” Derek whispered, knowing the rest of the team was still watching, not really caring.

“I forgive you,” Spencer murmured.

“I love you.”

“Yeah, I got that.” Derek frowned. “Sorry. Love you too.”

“Ahem.” Hotch cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, I’m very happy for you guys, but can we finish the briefing first?” Derek and Spencer untangled their limbs, both grinning sheepishly. They sat back down, an awkward but cheery silence sweeping the room.

“Wow. Uh, okay.” Penelope wiped her eyes and Derek realized she was crying a little. So was he, just a few little happy tears in the corner of his eyes. In fact, it looked like there wasn’t a dry eye at the round table. “So, yesterday in Sacramento, one Mr. Paul Young was found in a dumpster with his hands cut off- ew.”

“Morgan. Reid. Hang on a minute.” Hotch beckoned for them to stay as the rest of the team headed to the jet. Derek winced. He’d known there would be something, but he’d hoped rather foolishly that Hotch would give them a few days. Nope.

“Hotch, listen-“

“Guys, just… hold on.” Hotch scanned them both with those dark, analytical eyes. “I won’t tell Strauss if you don’t want me to, which I’m assuming you don’t. I’m guessing you two know that this isn’t going to be easy.”

“Hotch-“

“I’m not done. You cannot have anything happen like what happened on the plane yesterday. If you do, I will tell Strauss. I’m not threatening your jobs, and even if I do tell Strauss, I will fight for you to keep your jobs. But that can never, ever happen again. Am I clear?” Derek nodded vigorously, and out of the corner of his eye saw Spencer doing the same. “Good.” Hotch remained serious for a moment, then broke out smiling. Derek couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Hotch smile so brightly. “I’m happy for you guys. Really.”

“Thanks, Hotch.” When Derek glanced over at Spencer, he was flushed bright red.

“Alright. Get your stuff, get on the jet. I’ll see you there.” He pushed between them, leaving them alone by the round table.

“I’m sorry too, you know,” Spencer said, turning to face Derek.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Neither do you, really. You needed to process things I didn’t even know you were thinking about. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like those feelings weren’t valid, or if your feelings weren’t as important as mine.”

“No. Never.” Derek took Spencer’s face in his hands and smiled, feeling the happy tears resurface. “It all worked out in the end.”

“No. Not the end. The beginning.” Slowly; hesitantly at first, Spencer leaned in and kissed him, and Derek let him, pushing back with more fervor.

“We should go,” he said quietly, breaking the kiss and leaning his forehead against Spencer’s. “Hotch’ll be pissed if we’re late.”

“Let him.” Spencer grabbed the collar of Derek’s t-shirt with one hand, the back of his head with the other, and pulled him in for another kiss. When he broke the second kiss, he held out his hand, which was soft and bony in comparison to Derek’s. Derek took his hand and let Spencer lead him out of the room. He was right, really. This wasn’t the end of a secret not worth keeping. It was the beginning of a real love story.

#criminal minds #moreid #cm fic #criminal minds fic #moreid fic #derek morgan #spencer reid #angst #criminal minds angst #cm angst #cm fan fiction #cm fanfic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction

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wellimaginethat · 4 years

Text

Control: Part One

Pairing: Connor Rhodes x (female) Reader

Word Count: 1459

Author’s Note: So this request kinda hit home because I battled an eating disorder my entire teenage life and the first two years of my twenties, and still has ‘relapses’ of unhealthy behavior every once in a while, so this is very much based on my own personal experiences but also some research that I’ve done. The request also gave me the option of writing it for either Connor Rhodes or Crockett Marcel, and I had a hard time choosing between the two because I love them both, so I flipped a coin. I might end up writing a version for Crockett if anyone wants me to

Trigger Warning(s): READER HAS AN EATING DISORDER PLEASE DO NOT READ IF THIS TRIGGERS YOU!!!

Disclaimer: I don’t owe nor am I affiliated with any of the Chicago shows, I just like to play with the characters

Summary: Connor finds out that his girlfriend has an eating disorder and tries to talk to her about it, but she won’t let him.

Y/N = Your Name

I AM AWARE THIS MIGHT NOT BE CORRECT FOR EVERYONE BUT THIS IS BASED OFF OF MY PERSONAL EXPERIENCE

You couldn’t remember when it started or how. What had been the tipping point.

All you know is that it made you feel in control, it made you feel good when you could keep your weight level or even drop some weight. However, no matter what the scale told you, every time you looked in the mirror you just didn’t see yourself as being thin enough.

And it didn’t matter what the people around you told you. You kept doing what you were doing.

You had the signs, but you hid them and played them off. You were so good at hiding this by now that no one noticed, not even your boyfriend.

At least he hadn’t, yet.

He was mad at himself for not noticing the signs. It seemed so obvious after it had been pointed out to him, and after it was finally pointed out, it felt like it had been screaming at him the entire time. He was a doctor for crying out loud, he should have noticed.

How did he not notice the times you would skip entire meals? Or how you’d excuse yourself to the bathroom right after eating?

Connor couldn’t stop thinking about it. You had been dating for six months and he hadn’t noticed once. It never even crossed his mind that you could have an eating disorder. You seemed fine.

It plagued his mind as he drove home, he pulled his phone out and called you.

“Hey babe.” You greeted him cheerfully.

“Hey.” Connor’s voice immediately tipped you off that something was wrong.

“What’s up?” You asked softly. “Is something wrong?”

Connor hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “Yes, there is. Can you come over?”

That made you worry. “Um, yeah. I can, are you home now?”

“I’m on my way there right now.” Connor told you.

“Alright, yeah. I’ll be right there.” You told him, the worry evident in your voice. “I’ll see you in a few.”

“Thank you, drive safe.” He told you before hanging up the phone and going to his apartment. He spent the time he waited for you thinking about how to brooch the subject. He couldn’t just flat out ask you, that would get him nowhere.

When you got to his apartment, you hesitated before knocking on the door. Usually, you’d just walk in if you knew he was expecting you, because he had told you that you could months ago, but today was different. You didn’t know what was bothering him and you were worried he was going to break up with you.

Connor pulled the door open and gave you an odd look. “You could’ve just come in, it wasn’t locked.”

You stepped inside. “I didn’t know.” You saw him frown so you clarified. “I didn’t know if you were upset with me or not.”

Connor shook his head and gave you a small smile that did little to reassure you. “No, not at all.”

“But you’re upset.” You said quietly.

“Not with you.” Connor told you softly.

You nodded slowly, looking at him. “Then what’s wrong?”

He shut the door behind you. “Let’s sit.” He motioned towards the living room.

You paused, a new fear overcoming you. “Are you...are you breaking up with me?” You asked quickly, your heart breaking as you tried not to start crying then and there at the idea.

“No.” Connor answered you just as quickly as you had asked the question, shaking his head.

You relaxed a little and nodded slowly. “Then what’s this about?”

Connor hesitated. “Let’s sit down and we can talk about it.” He walked to the couch and took a seat and waited for you to sit.

You slowly walked over and took a seat beside him, looking at him and waiting for a moment. “Connor...is everything okay?”

He didn’t answer you right away, he just looked at you. “Can I ask you something?” He asked calmly, and it made you worry.

You nodded slowly. “Of course.” You answered him softly. “Anything.”

“Dr. Charles pointed out that you share the signs of someone with an eating disorder.” Connor started out calmly.

“What’s your question?” You asked slowly, quietly, trying to pretend like you weren’t getting anxious just from the possibility that Connor might suspect something wasn’t right with your eating habits.

“Do you?” He asked, finally looking at you. You could see it in his eyes that he was worried about you, which you hated. You didn’t want to worry him.

You scoffed and shook your head, trying to play it off like it was a crazy idea. “Of course not.” You told him, looking at him but your eyes not meeting his. You could see it on his face that he didn’t believe you. The way his lips set in a firm line and any hope he had that it wasn’t true vanishing, his eyes filling with worry.

“I can help you.” Connor told you, he was pleading and insistent.

“I don’t know what you think I need help with exactly, I’m fine.” You told him with a shrug of your shoulders, trying to remedy the situation before it got out of hand. “I just told you that I don’t. Plus you’ve seen me eat, Connor. Do I really seem like someone that’s starving herself?”

“Charles didn’t say anorexia.” Connor told you in a quiet voice, eyes watching you as you fidgeted. He was upset with himself because he didn’t notice the signs. He didn’t notice how you always had a blanket over you when you were on the couch, no matter what temperature it was in the apartment. He never noticed the calluses on your knuckles. Or how that, coupled with the fact that you complained about having a sore throat, could mean something more. He blamed himself for not noticing soon.

You frowned deeply, seeing that he was looking at your hands now. “So what? He thinks I’m making myself puke?” You asked, starting to get upset.

“You have the signs.” Connor spoke calmly, trying to keep the situation calm.

You stood up, huffing. “What signs exactly? Huh? Because I’m sure they can be explained.”

You were starting to feel nervous and like you were being backed into a corner, you wrapped your arms around your midsection in an attempt to calm yourself as you took a few steps away from the couch.

“I can help you.” Connor told you again, standing up as well.

You spun around to face him. “I don’t need help, Connor, I’m fine.” You emphasized the word fine. But were you really?

Connor took a step towards you, reaching out, it almost seemed like he was trying to tame a wild animal. Did you seem that upset? “You’re not fine, Y/N. You need help and I can help you.”

You shook your head quickly. “I don’t need help because there’s nothing wrong with me!” You shouted at him.

Connor took a deep breath to calm himself and stared at you with a firm expression. “Y/N.” He spoke calmly, and for some reason it made your skin crawl and a fire start in your chest.

“Don’t.” You said in a warning tone, you wore a serious expression and Connor could tell you were angry.

“Just talk to me.” Connor spoke softly, trying to defuse the situation before it got any more out of hand. “I just want to help you.”

“For the last time, I don’t need your help! I have this under control!” Your voice was somewhere between a yell and a scream, and it broke a few times when you hit the highs.

He brought his hands up slightly, almost in surrender, but it just kept reminding you of how someone approaches a wild animal, or a dangerous person. Did he think you were dangerous? “Y/N, please.” He said softly, seeing the pain behind the anger. “I’m not judging you, I just want to help.”

You shook your head ferociously, turning on your heel and heading towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Connor asked, following you and reaching out to grab your wrist to stop you.

“Away from you.” You told him, pulling free from his grasp.

“Y/N, please.” He repeated, and when you looked at him, you wish you hadn’t because it broke you to see that you were hurting him. “Don’t go.”

“Why should I stay here when you won’t believe me?” You asked angrily, turning and pulling the door open and walking out, slamming it shut behind you.

You took the stairs, feeling like you needed to keep moving. So that’s what you did, first the stairs, then out the door to the city, then you just kept walking on the sidewalk.

PART TWO COMING SOON

#connor rhodes x reader #connor rhodes imagine #connor rhodes imagines #chicago med imagines #chicago med imagine #tw eating disorder

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handsoffmyfriends · 4 years

Note

i already know your gonna do some fluffy noya stuff, SO, how about some soft boy tsukishima?! (because i’m about to write some heartbreaking shit and i need some fluff to read after.)🥺💖 so how about him catching you cry or knows your having a bad day so he like gives you a piggy back ride or something.

BAD ENDING

— you’ve been acting strange lately. you’ve been trying to keep it together so as not to bother your boyfriend, tsukishima kei, but it all comes to a head during one volleyball practice.

PAIRING: Tsukishima Kei x F!Reader

WORD COUNT: 1,045

WARNINGS: tsuki being tsundere, fluff stuff

A/N: SAAAAM YOU BROKE ME WITH YOUR FIC so here please take this confused but loving tsundere boy and his yn that iS ALIVE !!!!!

Tsukishima was worried about you. You hadn’t been yourself the past few days and he was starting to get concerned. It wasn’t like you were shutting him out or not watching him practice like usual, you were still doing all the normal things you did. There was just something... off about you, something he couldn’t place.

Something was clearly bothering you, but every time he asked how you were, you shot him with that gorgeous smile that he fell in love with. You would say everything was fine with him around, then try and give him a kiss on the cheek, but you were way too short to manage it on your own. It never failed to make him blush with embarrassment at how cheesy you were, but he secretly loved it. He would just never admit to it, but you knew.

It came to a peak one day during volleyball practice. You weren’t in a club of your own so you often came by the gym to watch the team practice. You’d usually help out however you could, whether it was running around to collect all the lost volleyballs or helping Kiyoko out as an extra set of hands.

Today, you didn’t help out. Which was fine, it wasn’t like you were actually part of the volleyball club, so you weren’t obligated to actually help out. Usually it was because you had extra study material to go over. You would be spread out on the second level, far away from stray volleyballs, nose deep in papers and knowledge. The way you could block out all the noise going on around you honestly impressed him.

Except, you weren’t studying. You had your nose buried deep in your phone and you looked absolutely miserable. It broke Tsuki’s heart, but he couldn’t just stop training to talk to you. Coach Ukai had made it very clear that your presence was more than welcome if you didn’t disturb practice.

It was a painfully long practice session, even if it didn’t run any longer than usual. Just knowing you were so close, looking so upset, made it that much harder for Tsuki to focus. No one else seemed to notice your despair. He couldn’t decide if he was relieved or pissed off about that.

By the time Coach called an end to practice, you had already scaled the ladder back down to the ground level. Tsuki was on you in an instant, not caring that his teammates were still around and probably watching your entire interaction. His hands were holding your face so tenderly, his expression so full of concern as he asked you what was wrong.

You didn’t give him the usual bright smile, nor did you say everything was fine. The tears that glazed your eyes finally spilled out, falling sluggishly down your pretty face. He rubbed them away with careful sweeps of his thumb as his heart broke even more at the sight of you so utterly distraught.

“I—” you started with a thick voice, cracking through the single sound, “I got... I got the bad ending, Tsuki.”

He frowned in confusion. “Bad ending?”

You sniffed and nodded your head weakly, fluttering your eyes and coating your lashes in your tears. Even while crying, you were so beautiful to him. “Yeah. Mystic Messenger, the otome game I’ve been playing for the past month? I ended up getting the worst of Seven’s bad endings.”

It was like a glass had dropped, shattering the very air around him. Was this seriously what had been bothering you? He couldn’t believe it.

“Let me get this straight,” he leveled you with an icy gaze, pulling his hands away. “You’ve been acting strangely and you’re now crying... over a mobile game?”

You nodded emphatically, not finding an issue with your behaviour. You had been invested in Seven’s route and you wanted nothing more than to win the best ending for the hacker. You’d let him down and it tore you apart. “Yeah. Can you hold me? I really need a hug.”

He regarded you for several long seconds, still reeling at the reasoning behind your distress. He couldn’t understand it at all. You didn’t wait for him to respond, instead quickly wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your face into his chest.

You clung like a koala, not letting go even when some of the team came to investigate. Hinata, unable to mind his own business as per usual, was the first to ask the question, “what’s wrong with Y/N?”

“She’s upset about her otome game,” Tsuki answered in a tone that indicated how stupid he thought it was and was confident that his team would back him. “She got the bad end on Seven?”

Instead, it was as if the world had gone insane because Hinata actually understood. “Wait, Mystic Messenger?”

Tsuki shrugged with an incredulous expression. Just what the hell was going on?

“Kenma told me about it!” Hinata explained, as if it justified anything. “He was super bummed about Seven’s bad ending, too!”

“You’re all idiots,” Tsuki rolled his eyes. “Come on, Y/N, I’ll walk you home.”

You merely gripped at him tighter. “I’m too sad to walk!” you sobbed. Hinata nodded in understanding.

Tsuki sighed in defeat. With a little maneuvering, he pulled you away enough for him to kneel down to your level, meeting you eye to eye. “You know how you always want a piggyback ride because I’m so much taller than you?”

That did the trick. It snapped you out of your deep rooted sadness over an otome mobile game. With a squeal of delight, you wasted no time in scrambling around Tsuki’s beanpole frame and securing yourself firmly to his back.

Tsuki kept a stoic face as he stood up to his full height, with you clinging on for dear life. Tsuki glared at every one of his teammates that dared look his way, challenging them to say something. Without another word, he strode out of the gym, away from their invasive ears.

With your arms around his neck and your face tucked down next to his, you gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. “The world is so high up here. How do you not get vertigo?”

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scribomaniac · 3 years

Text

Something Wicca This Way Comes Ch 10

After almost a year I am back and with a chapter update! It felt good to write again and I hope I can keep churning out chapters and finish this fic up in the next few months.

Killian couldn’t believe it. The past few hours were a blur to him and as he sat in his living room, staring down at his clasped hands, he tried to process it all. Emma was the Firestarter. What did that even mean? It meant that she’d killed the judge, sure, but what else? Was she the one that tried to steal the Book of Shadows? Did she have anything to do with the break in? According to the Book, she could be either good or evil. Killian desperately wanted to know where she landed on that scale, but if he was being honest with himself, he was also terrified.

Liam obviously thought he knew the answer, since he was the one to trap her in the crystal cage after blasting her through glass windows. Killian had always trusted Liam in times like these. His instincts were always so spot on . . . except for that time with August. But maybe Emma had been behind that, too. If she was the Source’s bodyguard, if she had gotten close to him only to kill him and his brothers.

Clenching his jaw, Killian wasn’t sure what to think anymore.

“We have to question her,” Liam’s voice broke through Killian’s thoughts. His voice soft but firm.

Killian shook his head, “No. No, I can’t. It’s too soon.”

“It’s been an hour, Kil,” Will shrugged, “we can’t wait forever.”

“The longer we wait, the more vulnerable we are.” Liam sighed as he stood from his seat. “We need answers, and she can give them to us. Now you can stay here and try to . . . process all of this, or you can come upstairs with me and Will.”

After zapping her with the crystals, Will orbed Emma’s body up into the attic. The plan was to keep her in the crystal trap until they could think of what to do next. However, after an hour of sitting silently in their living room they didn’t have much to go on.

Liam wasn’t waiting any longer, though, and headed towards the stairs without waiting for an answer from Killian. “Come on, Will.”

Knuckles tightening, Killian’s nostrils flared as he stood up suddenly and passed his older brother, checking Liam’s shoulder with his own on the way up.

When they opened the door to the attic, everything looked exactly as they had left it, save for one small detail. Emma was now awake.

“Emma,” Killian breathed out. He stepped forward, then stopped, unsure of what to do. He looked her up and down, checking her for any wounds Tink might have missed earlier. “Are you—?”

Raising a delicate brow, Emma chuffed out a laugh, “What? Are you seriously going to ask me if I’m alright?” Looking around at the crystals, now dark and quiet, Emma snorted, “How chivalrous.”

“Who are you?” Liam asked, moving to stand in front of Killian.

Emma tilted her head, “You know my name.”

“Who are you really?” Liam squared his shoulders and raised his chin, looking like the strong Navy captain leading his crew into battle. “We know you’re the Firestarter. We know you’ve been trying to kill us—” At that Killian had to look away. Did they really know that? For certainty? “—so tell us, who are you?”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Emma smirked, looking like she was enjoying this all immensely. “I never lied about my name.”

“Just about everything else,” Liam sneered.

“We don’t know that for sure,” Will said slowly, walking up to stand very close to the edge of the invisible boundary of Emma’s trap. “Emma,” he bent down to look her in the eye. Killian thought he looked like a teacher about to ask a very small child why they hit their classmate. “Are you a good Firestarter, or a bad one?”

Raising a brow, Emma asked, “Really?”

“Christ, Will, we know she’s evil. She was working with that Spirit for Christ’s sake.” Liam yanked his youngest sibling away from Emma by the back of his shirt.

“Well it never hurts to ask! Besides, she was possessed by the Spirit, so,” Will stood back up to his full height and shrugged his shirt back into place. “And your questions wasn’t any better. Who are you—really? That’s the one thing we do know!”

“God you’re so annoying,” Emma pushed her hair from her face and looked down the ground, as if trying to hide from the Charmed Ones and their bickering. “I should’ve let Zelena kill you.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Killian found himself asking. It had been bothering him for a while now. Why hadn’t she killed him when he was powerless in her apartment? Why not let Zelena kill them—possession or no? If destroying the Charmed Ones really was her goal, then she could have claimed that victory at least a dozen times by now.

Emma didn’t look up at him. In fact, she acted as if she hadn’t heard his question at all. She sat as still as a statue in her trap, her knees brought up to her chest and her hands covering her brow.

Nostrils flaring, Liam stomped forward and grabbed a crystal lying outside the trap’s ring. “I’ve had enough of this.” He placed the crystal on the trap’s border, activating the other stones and striking lightning straight into Emma’s chest. “Now talk!”

Emma’s body clenched with pain but she rode the wave of electricity out silently. “Liam—“ Will started, his face easily showing his confliction.

Liam didn’t listen though, slamming the crystal against the border again, asking, “Who sent you?”

This time Emma did cry out, doubling over onto her side. Her cries echoed in Killian’s ears, and his eyes squeezed shut. He couldn’t do this. Not this. It might have been a lie for her, a ruse to get close to the Charmed Ones, but it hadn’t been fake for Killian. He couldn’t just cut the place in his heart she’d wiggled into. Couldn’t ignore the sirens going off in his head saying that this was wrong and make it stop!

At his limit, Killian turned and ran out of the attic.

At the bottom of the stairs Killian leaned over to catch his breath. With his hands resting against his knees, he sucked in oxygen as if he’d just ran a marathon. He could only guess what his brothers were thinking of him. A coward, perhaps. More than likely they thought him a fool. Liam did, he knew. And his older brother was right. He’d been tricked by a pretty face and a shy smile.

“Killian? You okay?”

Looking up, Killian found Tink standing in the dining room, a crease between her brows.

“Aye, I’m—I’m fine, Tink.”

Eyes narrowing, Tink looked him up and down before jerking her head back towards the kitchen. “Come on,” she said, “sit down and have something to eat. You look like you’re about to keel over.”

Knowing better than to argue with his white-lighter when she gets that glint in her eyes, Killian followed Tink into the kitchen and took a seat at the counter. Before he knew it a cup of tea was placed before him and he could smell meat cooking on the stove.

Back turned to him, her attention seemingly on the food in front of her, Tink casually asked, “So how are you feeling?”

Huffing out a laugh, Killian cupped the mug in his hands and focused on how the heat seeped into his skin. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “It’s still sinking in.”

Tink hummed and the pan in front of her sizzled. “I am too. I only met Emma a handful of times but I never would have guessed—a Firestarter,” she shook her head, “that’s so rare.”

“I should have guessed,” Killian said darkly, thinking about every interaction he’d had with Emma these past few months.

“Oh, Killian,” Tink paused her cooking to turn around and look at him with her big, sad eyes, “How could you have possibly known?”

“Liam knew—I should have listened to him.”

“Liam,” Tink said slowly, carefully, as she turned the stove off and placed a plate of bacon in front of him, “is suspicious by nature. Oh, don’t give me that look! I love him, but he could’ve just as easily been wrong about her as he was right. He’s too protective of you and William by half.”

Keeping the look on his face—brows furrowed, lips pursed, jaw tight—Killian continued as if he didn’t hear her. “I’m such an idiot. She was there the night of the Guardian attack, the arraignment, she just happened to be driving by the day the house was burgled—I mean, I bet she was the reason why I kept getting all those strange premonitions!”

“What premonitions?” Tink asked as she not so subtly pushed the plate of food closer to him.

Raising a brow, Killian picked up a piece of bacon and shoved it in his mouth. Speaking around the food, he explained, “I had a few visions of the past. One about a little girl crying and the second about Mary Margaret’s baby.”

Standing up straighter, the white-lighter’s eyes glinted with a strange intensity that confused Killian. “A baby?” She asked, leaning across the kitchen island to look Killian straight in the eyes. “Mary Margaret’s? When?”

Swallowing, Killian answered, “One was after I first met Emma, the night Nolan was attacked, and the second was when Liam brought up the Firestarter. I was reading the page when I saw some female demon take Mary Margaret’s baby from the hospital.”

“And what did that demon look like?”

“Uh—” Killian tried to think back. “I don’t know. She had long hair, wore feathers and diamonds.” Biting on his lip, he added, “I think she said something about being fair, or this was fair? It was a while ago. Why? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing—nothing, I just. I need to go.”

Before Killian could get another word out, Tink orbed away.

“Oh, is that bacon?” Will’s voice called out from behind Killian, making the middle Jones brother blink. “I’m starving!”

“I’ll bet,” Killian muttered, glaring at the strips of meat still on the plate on front of him. Torturing sure could whip up an appetite. He should know after all, since Killian had tortured numerous demons over the past few years. Stomach curling at the sudden memories, he pushed the plate of bacon towards Will and said, “Have mine.”

Popping a strip into his mouth, Will mumbled a thanks. Killian waited to hear more footsteps approach, signifying Liam’s entrance, but he never came. Turning around to look down the hall towards the staircase, Killian asked, “Liam still up in the attic then?”

Liam grunted, “No, I convinced him to take a break. He’s in his room with the Book of Shadows.” He took a moment to lick the grease off his fingers and then wipe them off on his jeans. “I think he’s looking for a truth potion recipe or something since Emma’s not talking.”

That hardly surprised Killian. He remembered what happened to the last demon they’d trapped—Glass was his name, or something like that. He’d tried to talk and had been turned into ash. Frowning, Killian realized that could have been Emma’s doing too. But then again, was she really so powerful that she could start fires that she couldn’t see? Inside of a crystal trap? If she could do that much damage when she wasn’t even the room, then surely the Charmed Ones would’ve been dead by now.

So that meant there was someone else who was that powerful. Killian’s mouth ran dry at the thought of it. Of Emma being there one minute, and the next swallowed up by Hell fire.

“I need to—” he stood up and shook his head. Unable to look his younger brother in the eye, Killian stormed from the kitchen. “I need to go upstairs.”

He took the stairs two at a time, bringing a light layer of perspiration to his skin. The door to the attic was still open, and from the top of the steps he could see Emma in the same spot he left her in. She looked tired—crystal lightning would do that to you—but otherwise fine.

Hearing his arrival, Emma turned her head to look at him. Their eyes locked, freezing Killian where he stood. Finally, after at least a minute of silence, Emma joked, “I’d invite you in, but the place is a mess.”

The joke fell flat, and the silence returned. Killian could hear his heart beating in his chest. He had so many things he wanted to say, so many questions he wanted to ask, but his tongue was a dead, leaden thing in his mouth, preventing him from so much as uttering the smallest of sounds.

His feet returned to him though, and one foot at time he crossed the threshold into the attic, then found himself toeing the line of the crystal trap.

To Killian’s surprise—or was it? Can he really be surprised anymore?—Emma stood up and looked him straight in the eye.

“Killian,” she whispered, her green eyes wide and bright and staring right into Killian’s soul.

Swallowing thickly, Killian heard himself ask, “Was any of it real?” The question was absurd, he realized. Of course it wasn’t real. How could it have been? Still, he found himself needing to hear it from her lips.

Emma’s brows furrowed and her lips locked together. She looked at war with herself, but that couldn’t be. Why would she be conflicted over such a simple question? Stepping back, the hairs on Killian’s neck rose as he considered that this might be an act; a way to regain his sympathy and trust. She’d played him for a fool once, but not again. Killian was stronger than that.

“Alright!” Liam’s booming voice broke the silence as he swiftly entered the attic, his hands full of the Book of Shadows. “Here were are—Killian?” The eldest Jones brother cut off upon noticing the younger. Narrowing his eyes, he looked back and forth between Killian and Emma, “Alright, mate?”

Killian tried—and most likely failed—to hide a grimace. Taking another step away from Emma, he nodded, “Aye. I’m—everything’s fine.”

“That’s good!” Will said as he trailed Liam in at a much slower pace. “Because Liam here thinks he’s found . . . something.”

“I have found something—look, close the door and come over here.” Will closed the door, then the three of them walked over to the corner of the room where they kept a chest full of scrying crystals, potions, and other witch-like items. “See this?” Liam pointed to the margins of a page about chakras and how to cleanse them. Right beside that though, underneath Liam’s finger, was a spell written in pencil.

“Who wrote that?” Killian asked, leaning in closer to get a better look. It must have been written ages ago as he could barely make out the words.

“Haven’t the foggiest, but it’s a truth spell. I can just about make it out, and once we have it we can use it on Emma and get out answers.”

Will hummed, pursing his lips in thought. “I don’t know Liam, that’s not very official, is it? It might not work.”

“But it’s worth a try.”

“We can barely read this,” Killian shook his head. “I don’t know. What if we mess it up and hurt—” Killian glanced over his shoulder. Emma was watching them, but without any signs of interest. As if she didn’t care a lick about what they were talking about. As if she didn’t care what they did to her. “Someone?” Killian finished lamely.

Liam gave him a dry look, opening his mouth to continue the argument when the attic door banged open. Before any of the Charmed Ones could so much spin around to greet their intruder, a very angry Mary Margaret roared, “Get away from my daughter!” And with the wave of her arm, she sent the Charmed Ones flying.

#charmed au #charmed #ouat #captain swan #killian jones #emma swan #something wicca this way comes #liam jones #liam jones ii #tink #mary margaret #snow white #is this any good? idk but here it is!

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honeytea8 · 4 years

Text

“With you, forever” - Guido Mista/Reader

A/N: Discord prompt for the week was Greek AU and the first thing that popped in my head was Mista’s hat, since it kinda looks like a Trojan warrior’s helmet, so that’s where this came from!

Word Count: 1.6K (becuz why not)

Ares!Mista and Milkmaid!Reader insert for you :)

Not once had Mista ever been jealous of Apollo. Not once, until the moment it dawned on him that you—the very object of his affections—spent many of your days under the sun’s watchful eye.

The warm coloring of your skin was proof of this, as you shepherded the sheep and tended to your father’s cattle. Even as sweat licked at your forehead and the fine little hairs on your nape and hairline stuck to your skin. To Mista, you were an oasis to a thirsty, dying man. The healing balm to tortured souls and the one who had seized his ravaged heart.

You were an unassuming young milkmaid, with skin smoother than wax and hair softer than cotton. Every time he caught a glimpse of your flawless skin, his throat grew parched and the thoughts buzzing in his head came to a screeching halt. You, the beauty of your hometown, stood second to none in his book.

Being the god of war that he was, one thing Mista greatly admired was your devotion and hardworking nature. This truth was punctuated by the sturdiness of your limbs; the sinew and muscle of your thighs alone could bring a lesser man to his knees. You filled him with desire but Mista didn’t push or prod, content with simply watching you and pining from afar.

When he overheard your father’s talk of marriage, it was then Mista determined in his heart that idleness would do him no good. Somehow, he must have you by his side forever.

He was Ares, a trojan warrior battle-bred and destined to be a hero. This simple endeavor should be easy enough. There wasn’t an inkling of doubt in his mind that he wouldn’t be able to win your love. With a single goal in his heart, he took a leap off his lofty throne beyond the clouds.

Mista found purchase near a well, the only well in the entire village. He had memorized your routes by now, so when the sun shifted a few centimeters to the left, he knew you would begin your trek up this specific hillside. You would carry with you a wooden pail, like you always did, but this time, he would be there to ask for a drink. You would grant it, he’d confess, and then whisk you away from this land to one far greater.

This was what he thought, however, reality was quite different from fantasy.

When Mista had asked for a sip of your water, your pouty lips screwed into a frown; with pinched brows you questioned, “What kind of a traveler leaves home without a waterskin?”

The sound of your voice had him floundering for a moment. Not only because it was the first time his ears were blessed to hear it, but also because it was so soft and sweet, despite the harshness of your tone.

How foolish he must appear now? His suave bravado completely dissipated at your words. But mercifully, you still scooped your little dipper into the pail and offered him a drink anyway.

Mista grinned boyishly, “You have refreshed me, amore. I owe you my life.”

“Keep it.” you huffed while turning on your heels. “Don’t need it.”

In that split second when your gaze left him, your eyes showed a fire he had never seen in you before, one that burned brighter than the embers of Hephaestus. If he didn’t love you before, he was positive he did now.

Mista gave chase, keen on following you even to ends of the earth.

“My name is Mista, god of war. You may have heard of me? Ares? The Olympian?”

You said nothing to indicate that you’d even heard his boasting.

“May you grant me the name of my savior, at least?”

“Nope.”

He blinked slowly, “Then...will you marry me?”

At his words, you paused for only half a second, “Are you mad?”

“For you? Possibly.”

Again, reality was quite far from fantasy but Mista wouldn’t complain about the fickle inner workings of fate. He would have your heart eventually, it was really as simple as that.

But by the day’s end, you had rejected him countlessly.

“You need a different approach.”

Apollo, or Giorno rather, greeted him with a knowing smile on his lips. Mista slumped further in his throne, shaken but not defeated.

“Of course you saw the entire thing.”

Was there such a place on earth Giorno’s scrutiny did not reach?

“It’s in the job description, amico.”

Giorno took a seat upon a cloud beside him. The two gods remained silent, watching you as you went about your evening. Mista had been watching you more intently since you spurned his advances. It was a stinging blow to his pride, but he wouldn’t be much of a warrior if he quit. No, he would surely see this through to the end.

“A different approach,” Mista murmured. “Like how?”

“Hmm, well, have you tried showing your intentions rather than howling it into the high heavens?”

Mista scratched his neck sheepishly. “That bad, eh?”

“Indeed, our dear brother would’ve come to slay you himself had I not managed to intervene.” Giorno’s warm grin spread into something a bit more teasing, a part of himself he only liked to show Mista.

The warrior god laughed, “I can handle Abbacchio’s temper, god of wine that he is. Dionysos hasn’t seen battle in over a thousand years, he could never slay the great Ares.”

“Be that as it may, it would do you well to let your actions speak louder than your words in this case. That mortal is different; your journey will only be as difficult as you make it, do not neglect the beauty of surrender.”

Mista hummed in thought, sobering up a bit at his brother’s prophetic words. Giorno was right—not that he’d ever doubted! Mista wondered in what ways he could best show you that his intentions were true. What would it take to get you to accept him?

“Ever the wise one, Giorno?”

“Again, brother, it’s in the job description.”

Mista was a brute—a force of nature on the battlefield, and the absolute manifestation of chaos, destruction, and violence. He had killed countless men in times of war, using his body like an ax to cut down every foe. He was no strategist like Fugo or mischievously clever like Narancia. He could not think his way through this. Mista could only follow his instincts.

For the next several months, he devoted himself to your cause.

When you arose at dawn to feed the chickens, he was there to help. When you hand-washed your linens in a river downstream, Mista was there with his robes hiked up, ready to assist. Whenever you drew out your hoe to till the land, whether for plowing or for harvesting, he followed suit.

Did the sheep’s wool need to be taken for the winter? Did the meat need to be salted and preserved? Were the cows properly milked so they wouldn’t moo all day and night? Whatever it was that you required, Mista was there to serve. He’d even stayed with you when your father fell ill, procuring herbs for his tea and medication.

Until then, you hadn’t warmed up to him at all. You would glare and make snarky remarks to get him to leave you alone. Sometimes even ignoring him completely. But after seeing him dirty and bruised from scaling a mountaintop just to obtain a rare healing herb for your father. Well, after that, you couldn’t quite remain unaffected by his charm.

Soon, you realized there was more to this strange god than what the eyes could see. His humor, his confidence, his quirks and antics. (Honestly, who in their right mind numbered their weapons while skipping every number with four in it?)

You were surprised that he hadn’t mentioned marriage again after that first day. Of course you knew it was what he ultimately wanted, but he’d left it alone until you were comfortable.

Meanwhile, Mista had given himself over to you as a friend and much needed companion. He listened to you bare your soul with rapt attention, clinging to every word that fell from your lips. The many talks you both had well into the night were some of the most interesting and indulgent you’d ever had. You had never felt this way with anyone; it was the kind of happiness that made colors brighter and food taste better!

After much consideration, you finally agreed to take Mista as your love, though it wasn’t easy. You still couldn’t reconcile the yearning you had for him with your duties here on earth.

One evening, as you both sat out in the yard, you broke down and cried. He had floundered, again, but regained himself enough to move closer and lend you his shoulder. Please don’t cry, my love, is what he wanted to say but the lump in his throat was unyielding. What could bring you to tears like this? He hoped it wasn’t his doing.

“Mista,” you said, taking a shaky breath. “I don’t think I can leave with you…”

Ah, now he understood.

This was your life after all, and Mista had foolishly thought he could snatch you away from everything you knew. That he had been doing you a favor by wanting to take you to a place he thought was better than this.

It was true he wanted to remain by your side, but not unless he would get to see your smile or that wicked fire in your eyes.

The god looked down at the calluses riddling his palms, the various cuts and scars each had a story to tell. They were innumerable. These were the very hands he wanted to hold you with. In this battle against his heart and mind, who would win?

Mista shifted closer to you, drawing an arm around the slope of your shoulder.

“Okay.” he said quietly. “So, what if I decided to stay here with you, forever?”

#jojo #jojo's bizarre adventure #mista x reader #greek au #my writing #vento aureo #jjba #guido mista #guido mista x reader #jjba x reader

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birth-fic-lover · 4 years

Text

I’ll birth your baby part 1

As everyone in Fiona’s office packed up for the day one of her work friends asked “any plans for the weekend?”

“The usual” Fiona said, knowing that no one knew what her usual activity was. “Yourself?”

“My husband is taking me to his mothers, gonna try and convince her to give up her snake collection.”

“Good luck” Fiona said picking up her bag. She headed out the door and back to her home, she checked her phone, her client had requested an 6pm appointment.

As she parked her car she spotted her client, not because they had met before but because she was almost 9 months pregnant. She was stood with her husband, “he must be in on this too” she said to herself as she turned off her engine.

She got out and held out her hand “You must be Amanda”.

“Yes, thank you for fitting us in a bit earlier. Me and the hubby wanted to have one last weekend away” Amanda said.

“Of course, you might as well take the chance while you can” Fiona said taking them into her home. “I am glad you found my house alright”.

“Yes, it is a bit out of the way” the husband commented.

“As you can imagine, with doing things like this neighbors would just complicate things” Fiona explained leading them to the examination room. “So as I expained on the phone, I will do one final examination. For your piece of mind and mine, besides my legal team insists. Of course you will get a full birthing report within the week, if I have time before you arrive on sunday I will try and do it then. I know that some like to use an element of truth when recounting their birth story”

“Yes we read over the contract, in the case that our child could develop any disabilities relating to the birth we would contact you directly?” the husband asked.

“No it would be my legal team who would of course inform me, your baby is extreamly healthy and I see no problems from your file.” Fiona helped Amanda onto the examination table, “you are aware of the multibles clause? If you are found to of been carrying twins or more I do have a hefty fee, it’s just to stop any couples trying to get a cheeper price. Besides the suprise on my end isn’t very nice or safe for the babies”.

“Yes we are certain that it is one” Amanda said.

Fiona used the doppler to examine the baby, “yes everything is in order to proceed. Because your child’s father is fully aware of your actions we have a little bit less paperwork”.

“Does that happen often?” Amanda asked.

“Most women decide they would rather tell there loved ones that they braved it alone, including there husband. Or sometimes it’s the cause the father isn’t in the picture, I even work with those who it would be tramatic for them to give birth.”

Amanda nodded, “so how does it work? Is there a device you use to transfer the baby into you?”

Fiona smiled “I have always had the ability to transfur unborn children into me”.

“Oh right” the husband said not fully understanding.

After the couple filled out all the paperwork on the office, they expected to retuen to examination room. But Fiona said “no need I can do it in here, Stan you may want to hold your wife’s hand”.

“Will it hurt?” Amanda asked.

“It will just feel a bit strange” Fiona promised, she took her chair and faced Amanda. She had remebered to put on one of her more looser work dresses so there was no need to change. She put her hands on Amanda’s covered belly and focused.

Amanda felt no pain but she felt like someone had pulled a plug out and all her amniotic fluid was swerling around her womb as it drained out of her. Her belly softened and Fiona’s began to bloat. After a minute she felt her childs placenta ditached from within her, it suddenly disappeared and Fiona suddenly had a full term bump. Fiona’s hands were still on her now flattened belly as she felt the last drops of fluid leave her. Fiona then removed her belly, and smiled at the amazed couple.

“One last set of papers to sign to confirm the transfer” Fiona said, she rubbed her belly while watching them sign. Amanda then put her hand out and Fiona leaned her belly towards it, Amanda smiled as she felt the kick.

Fiona wished the couple a happy trip and promised to call once the delivery was complate.

As Fiona climbed the stairs she realised she had forgotten to set up her birthing room. She sighed, being full term would not make the job easy. The baby was already between her hips. She slowly got to work getting all the fresh medical equipment out of it’s packaging, she then went to put the plastic cover on the bed when she realised that it was downstairs. She walked down one hand on the handrails the other supporting her belly, she went to get the plasic cover and found climbing the stairs slow and difficult now she didn’t have the free hand to support her.

She could feel a back pain starting as she finally reached the room again, she tried to move her back around but it kept it’s strenth. Fiona knew it wasn’t truly a contraction, but that labor was starting in one form or another.

In some ways she was relived, when she had not enough progress and there was less then 24 hours till pick up she would have to resort in breaking her waters or using a drug to start contractions. She wondered if the baby could tell it was in a diffrent womb, she felt some hard kicks during the rest of the evening as she ate some dinner. Just something light to chase away hunger.

As she was wondering if she should sleep in the birthing room that night or not she felt her first proper contraction, she could feel her muscles warming up. But they were not too bad, they never were at this stange. The pains were more annoying than painful, as she was answering emails for future clients. She worked secretly with some charitites that would pay for women with disabilites to use her service. She would always charge the charities a fraction of her usual rate, happy to help those who wouldn’t be able to do the delivery.

As the evening got later she wasn’t able to concentrate on anything but her breathing. When Fiona was in pain, she had a bad habit of holding her breath. She decided to go upstairs while they were still 5 minutes apart, she did not want to be stuck downstairs.

Another benifit of living without neighbors was that in the summer she could labor outside, the cool air would feel good against her sweaty belly. She wished that she could do that tonight, there was something sexual about feeling like an animal grunting and groaning thought her pain surrounded by trees. But her clients had spacifically asked to have the birth documented in detail, she didn’t think they would apprecaite her choosing an outside birth.

As she started to climb she had to stop, “come on baby, we gotta get through this together”. She tried to wait out the contraction still standing, as soon as it was over she continued to climb. She made her camp in the birthing room, she hoped this wouldn’t take all weekend. “It’s lucky your mum and dad gave me over when you did” she said to the bump, this baby was ready.

Over the next few hours all Fiona could do was contend with the contractions as they built up. Fiona leaned against the wall timing her contractions a bit closer now, the pain ramped up quickly on some contractions and wretchedly slowly on others. When she felt peak of the contraction, she would let out long moans as her muscles held her womb tight. Sometimes just as she was feeling some relief, it would tighten up again catching her by surprise.

By the early morning Fiona was in almost in constant pain and the pressure inside her womb was unbearable.She was on the bed and rocked on my knees, anything to dissipate the pressure. She knew that she would need to break her waters at this rate, she hadn’t diatated much in the past hour. The uncomfortable fullness of her womb made her belly seemed to feel fuller and bigger with each contraction.

Fiona longed for the urge to push, she reached to the medical trolly by her bed. She grabbed the amnihook and then tensed as another contraction came, the contraction pushed the baby another few centimetres further into her birth canal. As soon as it was over she inserted the hoot and used to tear open her amniotic sac. She felt her waters leaving her body, with it her contrations go stronger.

Time ticked by as Fiona approached the 4-hour mark since her water broke, her contractions went from 2 minutes apart to 1 minute to seconds apart while their intensity went off the scale. Fiona bore down as her hands kept her legs spread open as much as possible. She could feel her baby spread her birth canal open and slowly descend down it.

She felt the bulge and smiled in relief, it looked like it would not take long now. Each push Fiona was making progress, her belly clenching around her swollen womb as it was happening.

Her swollen belly had decreased in size as bore down again and again, until she pushed once more and her baby reached a full crown. The pain was so immense that it felt like someone had taken a blowtorch to her crouch. The head slowly inched its way out, before a pop of fluids brought the head out and hanging between her legs. She just had the shoulders to contend with now, she took deep breaths and gave a huge push feel both shoulders makin there way out. She didn’t give up, on the next contraction she did the same and the baby side out.

Fiona’s body relaxed as she picked the crying baby up and comforted him, she cut the cord and set to work on the umbilical cord.

A few hours later she had already contacted the parents who had decided to come back early so they could meet their son. Fiona had napped and spent the day cleaning up and writing her birth report. Stan gave her a genorous tip for deliverying there son so quickly, before Fiona could blink it was monday morning. She had magically healed by now, she greeted her work friend. “How was the mother in law?”

“Bad news she tricked us into buy her a new snake, how was your weekend?”

“Got my jobs done quicker then usual so spend sunday resting”.

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thenextchapter22 · 3 years

Text

To Be Loved by Lucifer

Description: Mika is upset to find out she has gained weight yet again and cannot fit into her clothes. She tries to lose weight by starving herself among other things and Lucifer is not pleased.

Warnings: NSFW, Eating Disorders, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Panic Attacks, Corporal Punishment, Insecurity, Plus Sized OFC

Pairing(s): Lucifer/OFC

Word Count: 7,499

Link to my AO3: Click Here

Author’s Notes: Despite the tags, there is some fluff involved as well! And if you ever feel like you aren’t good enough or the right size, just remember you are loved and please please do not copy anything in this fic because, it is just that - fictional.

_+_

“No!” Mika cried out. “No way!”

She pulled and yanked but it did not move. It was stuck. No force in the Celestial Realm or Devildom could help her now.

This could not be happening to her. She was just having a bad dream. Mika would wake up and it would be fine.

But alas, it was no dream. She was really in her bedroom in Devildom, getting ready for Monday morning classes. Just a regular morning like the others… or it was supposed to be.

Her uniform skirt was not buttoning up. She had gotten fat enough to not fit. The reasoning was all the midnight snacks with Beel no doubt, and that was 100 percent her own fault. She should have paid more attention to her own body.

She tried one more time, grunting as she tugged with all her might, she could handle sitting too straight and sucking in her gut for a few days until she lost the weight again. But then the button actually popped off. Shot across the room, hit the wall, and fell to the floor. Mika stared at it like the button had committed murder. And she stared some more, until her eyes burned with incoming tears. She felt frustration boil in her belly, then immediate anger at herself.

Yes, she was a bit bigger than the average woman, a “plus size” to be exact. When Mika first came to the Devildom, surrounded by seven sexy demons who she immediately wanted to fuck but did not have the confidence to say anything, she was insecure in her size. But over the months here with them all, they had gotten to know her and made her feel good inside and out with kind words and gentle touches that eventually turned into more with most of the brothers. She realized she was more than her weight. She was comfortable in her skin for the first time in her life, and it was demons of hell that made her feel good ironically.

So this, this sudden weight gain, it broke her emotionally. It was like she was starting over and all the work she had put into herself was gone in a snap. Every kind word the demon brothers had said to her when she down about her appearance vanished into pure hatred for how disgusting she was once more.

How much weight was it? She couldn’t tell just squeezing her belly between her fingers. It was only her belly, too, because her boobs still fit into her bras, and her shirts fit fine, too, but they were looser around her belly anyways. Maybe 10 pounds or so? Mika wished there was a scale so she would know exactly.

Mika groaned, wiping her wet eyes and scrubbing her cheeks roughly. This was terrible. She would not be going to RAD today, and probably not tomorrow either. She couldn’t let anyone see her so fat. Plus, she would have to go in something other than the uniforms she owned and that would probably get her sent home and Lucifer would reprimand her.

No, she was not going. She was going to starve herself for a couple days and feign illness. She would need to lose this weight fast, so not eating for a few days sounded like a good plan.

Oh fuck. She’d have to lie to Lucifer.

“I hate myself.”

She plopped back onto her bed, her DDD above her face. She sighed heavily and opened the chat with Lucifer.

Hey, I’m not feeling too well this morning, gonna skip classes today. Sorry. I’ll make up for any lost work I promise.

She felt like she was texting her boss, not her... lover. Ugh, she was so nervous he would totally be able to tell she was lying. And usually she was a good liar, but to Lucifer, she just was bad at it. Well, Mika couldn’t take it back now.

The DDD beeped. Lucifer replied. She bit her lip, dreading what he would say.

I’m on my way to your room

“Fuck!”

She threw her phone down and groaned again. This was awful. Not only did she look terrible from crying, she was huge now. Mika did not want the eldest to see her this way.

Plus, Lucifer was probably going to punish her. And not in the sexy way. But in the painful way where she wouldn’t be able to sit for days without squirming and getting looks from the other demons in the house and school.

There was a knock on her door. “Mika, may I come in?”

“Um… just a second,” she called out.

Frantic, Mika grabbed a pair of pants from the floor and threw them on. She would just have to fake it and hope.

Lucifer eyed her as soon as she opened her door. He did not look impressed, arms crossed in his RAD uniform. “You don’t look ill. What’s wrong?”

Shit. “I…”

“Yes?” he raised his brows, his lips pursing just so. Her mouth opened and nothing came out. He sighed. “Don’t waste my time. I have piles of paperwork to sign off on today.”

And that, right there, was all it took. She could not do it. She would not lie to him. She had done so once, with Belphie, and it turned out to be the worst choice she had ever made and it nearly ended up with her dead.

She sighed. “I can’t lie to you.”

He uncrossed his arms, and titled his head down at her. “Well, it seems you already did.”

She winced. “I know.” She invited him inside to talk, an inevitable really if she had thought more into it and just not sent the stupid text, and he sat on her bed. Mika sat beside him, silent for a few seconds. Hands in her lap, barely thinking of anything, simply gathering courage to speak her mind.

Before she could speak, Lucifer cupped her cheek, turning her head just so, and wiped his gloved thumb under her eye gently. The tense atmosphere he gave off was gone and in replace of that was concern, especially in his eyes which were almost always telling to her what he was feeling. “You were crying recently. Tell me what’s wrong.”

She sniffled. His hand was warm, and comforting. “It’s hard to say…”

He frowned. “Please understand that I will always be here for you, Mika. Whatever you need me to be for you I can, whether that’s a lover, or just somebody to talk with. You must know that. So tell me. Why can you not come to classes today? The sick excuse is something Mammon even rarely uses any longer.”

She just spit it out. “I’m…disgusting.”

“Mika!” He held her face tighter, and stared into her eyes with great intensity. It was like she could feel his eyes burning into her own, an invisible beam cutting into her deepest insecurity. Lucifer looked at her like she disappointed him and it ached.

“Do not ever speak of yourself that way again. I won’t tolerate lies.”

Mika’s emotions were going haywire. She was angry at him, angry at herself. “It’s not a lie, Lucifer.” She stood up, practically wrenching her face from his grip, and stormed over to her closet. She grabbed a RAD skirt and threw it onto the floor, and did it with several others, making a pile of discarded clothes as she ranted. “I’m fat as fuck right now! I can’t fit into any of my skirts for school and a button literally popped off of it. You know how long it took me to even cope with this overweight body I have?! Honestly I really don’t think I ever did! I’ve always been ugly. And I always will be ugly!”

He was at her side in seconds, holding her close, hushing her, pressing her face into his chest with his large hand. She sobbed into his arms, clutching the back of his jacket, albeit rubbing her wet snotty face into his nice uniform.

“My love, you are so, so beautiful. Your soul shines brighter than any other I have met. There is nothing I would not do to protect you from harm, even from your own foolish words.” She gasped as he said this, but he went on. “I don’t know what else I could say to make you love yourself like I do.” His fingers found her chin from where it was buried in his shirt, and he pulled her face to look up at him. There was something akin to pity, she assumed, lingering there in his expression. “You know I can and should punish you for this, correct? I have said many times I will not allow lies in this house.”

Her throat was tight, she could barely swallow. She nodded as best she could in her position. “Yes,” she murmured. It was what she dreaded. He did always comfort her, made her feel treasured, but in the moment she would feel ultimately continuously guilty for whatever she had done to deserve the reprimand.

“Good, as you well should. But,” he continued, “I believe you have punished yourself enough. I think I should show you just how much you mean to me instead. Show you just how absolutely stunning I think you are.” He went from punisher, to seducer in an instant.

“Wha—Lucifer!” She gasped as she was grabbed around her waist and tossed onto her bed, bouncing on the mattress. “What are you…”

He looked determined, and a bit mischievous which was one of her favorite Lucifer’s (up there with domineering). Those subtle shifts in his lips, and his brows, it took her some time to figure out just what each expression meant. “I adore you, Mika. Let me show you.”

She gulped, and nodded slowly. “Okay, show me.” She spoke quietly. If he wanted to touch her, let him. Maybe it would help her. She wouldn’t know until he tried.

Lucifer got to work on removing her clothing. First her shirt, which he gently unbuttoned and pulled over her head. She shook out the frizz that came with that and he smiled at her.

This moment felt so intimate, more than any of the last few times they had sex. The last time it was in celebration of an exam she got a near perfect score on and he praised her over and over again.

No, this moment felt almost virginal. She was in a bad place, and vulnerable to every word he would say. She realized this was almost like their first time, when he was gentle and slow with her despite her saying she had been with men before. But he didn’t care, because demons were not the same as human men.

She had been very shy then, but still a spitfire when told off. It was how she had always been. She was introverted at times, afraid to speak her mind in fear of rejection or failure, but then she was also adamant and spoke louder than any other on certain days and for certain things.

And with him, she could be innocent. She could be fierce. She could be anything she desired to be. He let her take control and let her be controlled whenever she wanted. Because she was a human and he was a demon; it was why he gave her a pact with him. To show ‘ultimate love’, Asmo once said to her. A pact from a demon was a bond not unlike love. It was, in fact, the greatest way to show it.

“Darling, pay attention now.”

Lucifer’s teasing voice had Mika startled, coming back from her thoughts. “Y-yes. Sorry.” She blushed.

He chuckled. “It’s quite all right, it’s positively endearing when your eyes glaze over as you think.”

His adept hands found her bra, hands stroking over her back and causing goosebumps before un-clasping, letting it fall and tossing it away. Her room wasn’t cold, Devildom never was really, but she felt her nipples harden instantly.

He stared at her for a moment, admiring the beauty of her pale voluptuous body, before he pushed her back onto the bed.

She went easily. Head cushioned by her pillows, she watched him lick his lips. His presence was calming, but had her nerves prickling in wonder at what he was going to do next. His uniform brushed against her nude upper half as he lowered his body over hers to kiss her mouth. The taste of him always made her feel lightheaded.

Her hands itched to touch him, but she kept them at her side, obedient. He always would tell her when she could touch, he had drilled that into her from day one, and she realized he probably wasn’t going to allow it today because he wanted to show her how much he “adored” her. She really knew him too well but that wasn’t something she would say aloud to him.

Lucifer was an amazing kisser, so much so that her thoughts were nonexistent as he licked against her lips before delving into her mouth. She focused on his vibrating hums tickling her lips, and listened to their soft moans melding together. He wasn’t overly gentle, but she had to press up against his mouth to feel a bit more of him, smell and taste him.

His hands found her breasts while he expertly used his tongue to brush against her own. He pinched her nipples, tugging the pert buds while cupping her tits with his bare hands—and when did that happen, fuck skin to skin contact was the best— causing her to exhale harshly into his own mouth as he bounced them a bit.

He leaned away for a second to say, “Ah, so soft in my hands.”

She squirmed. She was softer, and that meant fatter. “I know…” she said sorrowfully.

He pinched her nipple harshly then in reprimand, and she groaned, pushing her chest upward into the pressure. “No, darling. No.” He growled. “I love your body. Every single inch. And I meant I love how smooth your skin feels against my own.”

The hot mouth traveled down her neck, suckling more as it went, not enough to leave marks but enough to leave her breathless. He licked a line down from her neck which she happily bared for him. One hand left her breast to stroke over her waist, and in place of pinching fingers was his tongue and teeth. Tugging with fervor, suckling and getting her wet with his mouth. He blew against it, and she sucked in air, desperate sounding moans escaping her throat.

He moaned over her breast, his other hand squeezing her and flicking his thumb over her nipple repetitively. She felt it down to her toes and in her core, the tightness in her muscles from the attention. “This body is incredible, and mine to play with. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Mika whispered, head tossed back. “It’s yours.”

“And I do not lie, Mika. Correct?”

“Uh-huh,” she agreed.

“Then listen to me. You are beautiful. You are sexy. I want you to know that you deserve to feel loved, by me, and by your own self.” She cried as he abruptly went to her neck to bite nearly enough to make her bleed.

Sliding down her body from her breasts, he kissed and bit softly at her flesh, tugging here and there with his blunt teeth. Above her belly button he suckled a bit, and then slipped down more. His elegant fingers found her pants zipper to pull it down, and then he was having her lift her lower half to slip her pants off until she was only wearing her underwear, which were boxer style to help suck in her stomach. The band rested just above her belly button.

When he moved to pull down her underwear, Mika reached a hand down to stop him instantly. “Please… I…” She bit her lip, unsure. She felt amazing, truly he was making her feel so good, but this was… this was hard to do.

His eyes shone with nothing but kindness, and he spoke with a tender tone. “My love, I want to worship this body. Let me?” He kissed above her waistband, lips hovering and breathe hot against her skin. The sensation had her eyes fluttering.

It wasn’t like she didn’t want it. Because who would turn down Lucifer Morningstar? No one with at least one brain cell. Having his hands and mouth and tongue and dick anywhere on or in her was nothing short of a miracle, and that was where the problem lay. Her insecurities took hold of her tight, and started to push away any of the desire she felt like burning hot coals inside.

His dark red irises gazed up at her as he spoke, “I want to devour you.”

She shivered and moaned. He was so sexy. Her core was leaking with each second he kept position over her lower half, and he could no doubt smell its wetness. But would he find her gross to look at? She wasn’t as pretty anymore with her pudge and fat belly.

He stayed where he was, fingers lightly scratching over her body, up and down on her thick thighs. She had no problem with big thighs, the more to pull others in close when fucking she thought. But bellies shouldn’t be so pudgy, and hips shouldn’t be so squishy. Especially when you were already a bigger sized human.

“Mika. I’ll ask again.” He spoke in a husky tone, and his tongue dipped against her for a quick second like a cat lapping up a droplet of milk. He grinned devilishly. “Can I eat your pussy?” he asked, and pressed his palm right against her core, rubbing it up and down over her underwear.

“L-lucifer!” she cried out. Fuck this, she couldn’t deny anymore her neediness. Her wants for him. Her insecurities would have to wait a fucking minute for her to have a great orgasm from the Prideful Avatar’s mouth. “Yes!”

“Hm, good girl, that’s what I like to hear.”

Her underwear was tore into bits in milliseconds, Lucifer’s demon claws being used of course. She had no time to react, as his mouth was on her and he was eating her like she was his last meal.

“Lu-lucifer, yes, so—Fuck!”

He lapped at her folds, and made lewd noises as he did so. He kept her open with one hand on her upper thigh, but realized soon that he did not need to and that hand went to play with her clit, index finger rubbing in circles, pressing down against it hard. Her legs had never spread so wide before as Mika gave him full access to all of her private area.

Mika’s hips buckled upwards, head rushing and static ringing sounds in her ears. The kisses to her mouth were nothing like what he was doing to her lower body. He licked over her in an oval pattern, tongue flat and then sharp and flickering like a snake. It danced over her clit for a moment and Mika bit her lip, but he soon focused on her entrance. He pursed his lips over it, humming and dipping the tip of his tongue into her just enough to open her up and make her gush into his awaiting mouth.

Lucifer’s mouth left you, and he suddenly pressed his fingers into her, Mika’s eyes watered and she cried out from the shocking pressure that was totally filing and fantastic. She clenched around him as he worked his two fingers in and out of her for a few quick bursts, then his tongue was pushing between the digits to open her more. His fingers and tongue worked together to get her ultimately wet and open, and he hummed some more, the vibrations of his sounds causing body spasms. The single finger on her clitoris rubbed back and forth demonically fast. She was stretched open so far.

“Ah! ‘S good!” She sobbed, limbs twitching, core tightening. She would come soon, but she held off, waiting. She was obedient for him, only for him. Permission was needed. She was in a totally different headspace, one she saved for these moments alone.

The finger on her clit turned into a thumb and forefinger pinching and rubbing together. His hand fondled one of her boobs, and she could smell herself from how close it was to her face. The musk made her wetter, if even possible. His tongue left her pussy and he licked over her labia while he squeezed her sticky tit, wet from her own fluids. She glanced down at him while she could, and saw his glimmering eyes and perfect mouth against her. His teeth found her clit then, and he licked and nibbled it, never picking just one sensation. She opened her mouth and let out soft puffs of air and shook her head back and forth from overstimulation.

She needed release. She wanted it so badly.

As if he read her mind, or maybe her body, he raised his head to say in a deep dark tone, “Mika, you may come,” before biting her clit and sucking wetly with fervor as fingers pumped in and out of her.

She convulsed on his mouth, legs pushed together enough to press him into her further. She moaned loudly as her orgasm spread over her entire body, sending shockwaves of pleasure.

Once she came down from the high, Lucifer moved away from her leaking pussy. He sat back on his knees between her spread legs, uniform looking perfect still. He licked his lips and smirked wickedly, fingers dancing over his plump mouth to suckle them. “My sweet tastes so sweet.”

She groaned. “Please no.” She threw her arm over her eyes. But admittedly, that was a hot image she would forever remember.

He laughed. “I apologize.” He lay next to her, tugging her head to his collarbone. He brushed his fingers through her hair, sighing. “I hope you know now what you mean to me. And how much I dread hearing you speak lowly of yourself.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I’ll try to be better.”

And she would try. Mika was feeling better. She still hated her weight gain, but Lucifer didn’t mind it, so she could mind it a little less. It bothered her but seeing how Lucifer had basically just worshiped her to show her what she meant to him, she could just as easily do this in return.

Anyone with eyes could see that Lucifer loved her in some way. But if they saw him now, not “Council Member Lucifer”, they would truly see just how much. Because that Lucifer hid himself from others, emotions were hard to show on that Lucifer, the one with a public image to maintain, the public image of Pride and being loyal to Diavolo always. Outside of this room they could kiss, hold hands, and speak caring words, but once in the presence of others, he closed off his face. He was protective, still, and caring, but it was a different type of protection and care. It was almost possessive, while in private it was gentler. His eyes were softened more.

And Mika was fine with that, she was totally fine with all sides of him. She understood. She went through tough times herself where she had to be brave or whatever else.

So she never took for granted these moments.

“Come to me when you feel this way again.”

“Okay.” She paused. “Do I have to go to RAD?” she asked, and pouted at him.

He sighed. “No, you do not have to if that is what you wish. But, if you don’t want to go to class today you must stay with me so I can keep an eye on you.”

She licked her lips. “Please, I would like that a lot.”

He kissed her cheek, then lips, and she giggled. He smiled at her blushing face. “Then it settled. Let’s clean you up and get you changed into something comfortable. Then you will gather your school work so you have something to study. I will watch over you, but I won’t have time to pay much attention to you.”

She smirked at him. “Well, I think my attention was satisfied enough for now.”

He chuckled. “I’m glad to see you feeling better, dear one. Let’s go.”

_+_

Lucifer’s study always smelt like leather and smoke, in a soft way, nothing to intense. The air was warm and soothing. Mika used to be terrified when she came in here, sometimes still was, but now she just felt tension she didn’t even know was holding her down melt away in the air.

“You may sit on the couch if you wish. If you need help, please let me know.” He sat in his large swivel chair and picked up his pen and got to work on the huge stacks that layered his desk.

She shrugged. Taking a seat in the center of the sofa, she pulled out her Demonic History and got to work. What felt like hours but was actually just one, she signed and cracked her neck from her slouched position. She glanced up and saw that Lucifer was in the same spot he had been, swishing his wrist over documents in elegant flourish. He was totally focused. Mika was not.

She felt her eyes burning from looking at the notes and work books and tiny texts that filled each page so she looked around for a moment, and fidgeted a bit with her phone, twirling it around.

“Mika, take a break. Go get some lunch.”

“But I’m not—” She looked at him, and he was not happy. His red eyes glowering, pen paused on the document before him. She swallowed, heart pounding. “I could eat. Thanks.” She stood, dropping her stuff on the sofa and table, and went to the kitchens, leaving Lucifer to do what he did best: approve and sign paperwork.

Food did not sound appealing. She knew she promised to do better, but Mika could not take how she looked, or felt. It was an awful feeling she wanted to go away. It would not be easy to hide eating less but she could do it with a big effort.

Once she reached the kitchen she got out a glass and filled it with some berry juice. She wasn’t sure what berry that was used, it was dark red and smelled acidic and had an aroma not unlike oranges which was odd as it wasn’t, you know, orange. But it didn’t poison her so she drank some.

She pulled up Devilgram and scrolled, liking some of Asmo’s posts of new outfits that looked like they were made for Billionaires in the human world, and Mammon’s picture of his face between two magazines with himself on each front cover from his modeling gigs. They looked amazing, and she never stopped being awed at how good he was at modeling. She laughed at the picture Satan posted of Belphie napping upside down on the stairs with his pillow on the bottom step and his legs straight up. He didn’t look comfortable but you couldn’t get the title of ‘Avatar of Sloth’ from nothing.

She poked at her stomach when it growled at her. “Shut. Up. No food. Only juice.” She said to it, poking the fat at her gut. It argued back and she sighed.

Lucifer would probably notice if she didn’t eat. Demon’s had great senses of smell. Also, if he asked, and she said yes but it was a lie, she would probably be punished for real this time.

Wait, she could do what her friends used to do when they wanted to fit into a dress for events and stuff. Puke it up! There was nothing else to do really, because she would not actually eat. But Mika told herself, she had to really do it. If she ate and wasn’t able to, it would be the exact opposite of what she wanted.

So she pulled out some leftovers and took a few bites. She let it settle a bit, messing on her phone, feeling fuller and grosser. Then, she went to the nearest bathroom and, after making sure no one was around, she closed the door and knelt over the toilet. She stuck her finger in her throat and gathered all her inner strength to be smaller and pressed and spewed the food out. It burned, but the feeling was gone soon enough. Mika was proud of herself. The feeling reminded her of when she was 21 and drunk, feeling done for the night at 1am, and then she vomited and was ready for 2 more hours of fun.

Her DDD said it had been over 40 minutes so that seemed enough time for a break. She went back to Lucifer’s room and knocked to be polite, he announced she could enter again.

“Did you enjoy your lunch?” he asked, still scribbling, head down.

“Yeah, had some leftovers.” She sat down and opened her text book.

“Hm. Lucky Beel didn’t eat them all last night.”

Mika laughed at that. “Yup, but the fridge was pretty bare otherwise.”

He sighed, but she saw a smile peeking out at the corner of his lips. “I’ve already got a re-stock before he comes back from RAD.”

She nodded a few times, feeling happy he didn’t realize what she had done. Guilt was building again, but she pushed it down and focused on her studies.

She did a few more sheets of work that needed to be done, and highlighted some other stuff she wanted to ask Satan about for the Potions and Spells class. Her thoughts kept wandering to what she had done, and she wanted to know more. Her phone was calling to her, so she picked it up and started searching. Key words like ‘getting thinner quick’ and ‘vomiting food’ came on her search. It was called purging, and being bulimic. Interesting, she thought, and seemed easy enough. She could do this each night after dinner! What a great idea!

“Now, Mika, this is not studying, is it?”

She gasped as her phone was taken away from her hands, Lucifer standing in front of her. He tutted, the DDD she had been tapping away on gripped loosely in his forefinger and thumb.

“I-I…” she stuttered.

He raised a brow at her, then sighed. “Oh dear. I’ll be keeping this for a while. I’ll be done shortly and I can help you if you’d like?”

She smiled. “Sure, that’d be nice. I’ll always be in need of help… especially with Demonic History.”

He chuckled. “Considering there have been many millennium of History, I would think so.” He knelt down and kissed her sweetly. “Study hard now.” He whispered, velvet lips pressed against her own.

Mika nodded as he walked away, a light tinge of pink on her face. “I promise,” she murmured.

She cracked down then on her studies once more. So much so that what felt like moments later, but was actually 10 minutes, her phone dinged with an alert and she heard nothing, focused on reading some lines in a very old book yet again.

“MIKA!”

She jumped at the fury she heard from Lucifer, it was a tone he all too often took with Mammon, but not ever her. Not like that.

He was instantly before her, a flash of Infernal magic so bright it stunned her eyes as she stared up at him, nervous and frightened at why he was so pissed off.

“What. Is. THIS.”

And he showed her the screen of the phone he confiscated away, open on an article showing vomiting and the art of being skinny by purging. Her nerves tingled, icy cold in fear, and her body shook in small tremors.

He was not supposed to know. Especially not like this.

“I-I-I d-don’t—”

The phone was gone, where Mika was not sure, and in replace of it was his face as he crouched down to her level, lines of fury prominent on his brow. His eyes dark ruby red and almost black. She could feel magic rippling around him, and saw his demonic form flashing in and out. “NO. You do NOT lie to me again, little girl.”

She gasped. His demon form was out, horns and wings and pure rage came with it. The wings at his back wide and terrifyingly black, overtaking the room. She sunk further into the couch trying to be smaller as instinct took over her like an animal in the wild. This fear was too similar, too alike to ‘that time’ and she despised it so damn much. “P-p-please, I’m sorry… don’t hurt m-me…”

She felt herself slipping into blackness. Was he killing her, was she letting him? She didn’t feel anything around her throat, or on her body anywhere at all, just the brush of the couch that felt like it was moving, back and forth, rocking. Or was that her?

And the air was gone like a snap of fingers. She was in a dark place with no fucking air. It was too hot to breathe. Nonexistent oxygen. Suffocation. Darkness. Heat. Shouldn’t darkness be cold?

“Mika. Mika.”

Lucifer called to her from a tunnel. Her eyes would not open, but he was there. She knew he was right there, but he sounded farther than before. The rage was gone, in place was a voice soft and far away like a dream.

Lucifer would always protect her, even from his own pride and anger (Satan was just the same, worried of his Wrath that never actually hurt her). She wanted him closer, even knowing he yelled at her before about her phone. That was how much she needed him. She over looked his wrong for what she needed, and she wasn’t sure what that need could have been just yet. Maybe a kiss? Or to be able to actually see him?

“Please, darling, I am so very sorry to have frightened you.”

A touch, then, gentle on her arm. Stroking up and down, tickling with the lightness of the touch. “Open your eyes. Breathe with me, that’s my good girl.” As if he grounded her with his commanding voice, air came easy then. Oxygen came in violent bursts of stinging in her lungs that faded after a few times of exhaling and inhaling until it was something normal again.

When she next became aware fully, Lucifer was surrounding her, wings and all. He was warm, she thought, like a heated blanket on a cool winter day, and his feathered wings radiated heat like his body did as it was pressed to her. Lucifer’s big hands cradled her gently. One at the base of her neck with his thumb lightly rubbing, the other at the back of her head stroking her hair soothingly. They were still on the couch she noticed.

His chin touched her forehead as he spoke to her, slowly and softly, “You are precious to me. I can’t help but become angry when I see you harming yourself yet again… this time in a different manner. I’m sorry, my love, for all I have done wrong to you.”

Tears stung her eyes at the sweet words. “’s okay, Lucifer. Really.”

“It’s not. But you’re the kindest creature to forgive a cruel one such as myself. It will not happen again, I promise you.”

She shook her head against him, fabric rustling. Her fingers clutched into his shirt, and she pressed her nose into the spot between, nuzzling absentmindedly. He smelled of smoke from a campfire and the ocean breeze. She didn’t have to worry. Lucifer was her protector her, and he only cared for her. She understood why he did what he did.

Mika spoke then. “I’m okay now. Don’t worry.”

“I will worry as I like.” He paused, his long fingers scratching over the back of her neck. “Did you do what your phone said, this ‘purging’?”

“Yes…”

He sighed. “We’ll speak more in a moment, after you have some water.”

He attempted to stand, but Mika gripped his shirt in her fingers. “No. Stay with me, please.”

Lucifer pet her head a few times, and she felt like a cat in the best way possible. She kept her gaze down, embarrassed. “I’m not leaving you. Count to three and I will return, can you do this for me?”

Easy enough to do. “Yes,” she mumbled. She closed her eyes, let go of him, and counted. Before she got to 3, he was back, and she grabbed him tight. He was no longer in his demon form so she held him around his waist, very nearly suffocating in his scent.

“Darling, here,” he said, turning her head sideways. He pressed a glass to her lips and she sipped it. The cool water was nice and seemed to wake her from her dazed state a little.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They sat there for a moment. The crackling of the room’s hearth was the only sound, and she focused on it, slowing her racing heartbeat. Lucifer kept his hands moving on her body, circular motions on her lower back, and his other playing with her hair. Never straying from her, never stopping comforting her with his loving hands. He allowed her this moment of peace for a few minutes, and she was grateful for it.

Until, “Mika, my dear, we must speak of this now.”

She knew it was coming, but did not want it to come so soon. “…okay…”

She could practically feel the way he settled his body, preparing for a speech. He was good at those. Lucifer spoke sternly, petting her locks as he did. “This absolutely cannot and will not happen again. If you eat, you will keep the food inside your body. I know you’re upset and unhappy about your weight gain, my dear, but I’ve said before that your health matters to me. And this, what you have done, it’s incredibly unhealthy.”

She winced. “I know. It’s… I can’t stop my thoughts, they just happen and I…” she trailed off, unsure of what else to say.

He hummed at her. “And when they do come, these terrible thoughts, you will come to me, or someone else in this house. I’ll help you however I can. You have to know my brothers will, too. We all care very deeply for you, Mika.”

She opened her mouth to protest. “But—”

“I promise.”

She sighed. “All right. I will…”

“You will what?”

“I’ll come to you if I have any bad thoughts.”

“Good, I’m glad.” He kissed her forehead. “Now, are you ready for your punishment?”

She bit her lip. She really was not.

He frowned, and caressed at her hair softly. “Mika. We can wait until you are not in such a state.”

“I’m fine.” He narrowed his eyes a tad. She took a breath, and nodded. Now or never, or rather later. She hated putting things off to the last minute. “Okay. Yes. I’m ready.”

He assessed her once, up and down, into her eyes then, searching. She did not move a muscle or avert her eyes from his. “Very well. This way.” He led her to his desk, where he moved some papers aside and turned over some other private ones. “Hands here and here.” He pointed, and she placed them. “Spread your legs, and dip your back.” She blushed as she did this, head down and hair in her face. It was obviously going to be a spanking, and she hated this position for those.

He stood next to her, his aura changing with what was to come. She was more in tune with the types of energy demons gave off now after learning from Solmon, and from her pacts, and his was very stern and unmoving. “10 hits to your bottom. You do not have to speak, just stay still and take this punishment. The color system is in place. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Lucifer.”

“Very good.”

She heard the click of his heels as he stepped behind her. His hand grabbed her hip, the touch making her jump, his fingers gently holding her still. He made a soft noise as if to assure her she was fine. Then his other hand rubbed over her ass, almost warming it up for the pain to be given. Briefly she thought if she was wearing her RAD skirt he would be able to see her panties from her positioning.

She tensed in anticipation as he just kept rubbing her butt. It was the second worst part of being spanked, waiting for it to start, while the first was obviously being spanked. This was what Lucifer did best, though, make her wait; it was part of the punishment.

The swat was sudden and really hard. She grunted, the discomfort flaring up. She vaguely heard the swooshing of… what was that? A paddle? No, it was too small. She widened her eyes in recognition. Oh fuck, it was a ruler, wasn’t it? She turned to look, but then his stern voice halted her.

“Keep facing forward.”

So she did, and two more hits came in hard succession. They stung like hell, the contact worse than a paddle because it was so thin and the force of the ruler seemed to be more intense. Her nails ground on the desk a bit. It got her entire ass, not just one cheek, and he hit it at a different angle.

Mika’s eyes watered up, and after the next hit, harder than the first ones, she grit her teeth and felt her throat get hot. She lost focus when his hand rubbed over the spot he hit then on her left butt cheek, and he rubbed really hard, too, so hard she could feel the indents the ruler made from the edges. She only kept her position because he held her hip so tightly.

He went hard on the rest, fast and efficient. So efficient Mika barely held her legs up. Her ass was burning and stinging and her stomach was clenched tight. Her arms shook holding her upper body against the desk. Was it over? She had no idea.

“You did so well.”

She collapsed forward onto her forearms, eyes watering up. A few tears fell onto the desk. “I’m sorry, for everything.”

“I know, love, it’s all forgiven. Come, let’s rest on the sofa.” He took her around her waist, leading her while she wiped her face. He sat down first, pulling her across his lap sideways so her legs rested long on the furniture. Then he chuckled as she sat on his lap and cried out from the sting.

She smacked his chest lightly, pouting. “Jerk. It hurts.”

He rubber her inner thigh, cooing almost sympathetically and sarcastically at the same time. “That’s how punishments work, Mika.”

She said nothing, grumbling about asshole demons. He just laughed some more, but it helped her mood settle a bit. The spanking wasn’t that bad, honestly it could have been worse. And she knew that had he not frightened her so much before she probably would have received 10 more hits to her ass than she did. She was almost glad he freaked out on her, her ass was certainly thankful.

“Hm. I hope you know I will be informing the others of what happened.” Her eyes widened. “Not of your spanking, although I’m sure if any had been near they would no doubt have heard it. No, I’m speaking of what we’ll call your… unhealthy dieting… to put it in a kind way.”

“Please no, don’t tell them Lucifer! I promise I’ll do better,” she begged.

But she was no Asmo and she could not charm any demon. He tutted at her, tipping her chin up to gaze at her with his beautiful red eyes. “It must be done to keep you safe. They’ll look after you when I cannot. Do you understand why I’m doing this?”

She sighed. “Yes… I just don’t like it.”

“Again, my darling, punishment.” His eyes twinkled.

She growled, and he laughed, kissing her lips sweetly, killing her hate with his wonderful talented mouth. “My adorable little Mika.”

She blushed. “Luci…”

He pulled her close. “I love you.”

She leaned into his embrace. “I love you too.”

They sat there, close and warm, Mika’s butt tingling occasionally. But she focused on Lucifer’s arms around her, and his lips tickling her hair as he breathed. She would never get over how he made her feel so many amazing things. Or just how much he treated her like family even though she was human. Being loved by Lucifer was such an unimaginable thing, and yet here he was, loving her with all his being.

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