#fixing cinnamon rolls from scratch

[bellaxgiornata]

The Christmas Morning Surprise

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Fem!Reader Word Count: 3.8k

Summary: On Christmas morning you try to surprise Michael with breakfast, but you what you didn't expect was that he had a Christmas morning surprise for you, too.

Warnings/tags: 18+; A bit of smut and some tooth-rotting holiday fluff with a sweet Mikey

a/n: Surprised even myself being able to get yet another holiday fic finished in time! Hope y'all enjoy and feedback is always appreciated!

Michael Kinsella One Shot Tag List: @shouldbestudying41 @kmc1989 @ebathory997 @mattkinsella @shiorimakibawrites @wkndwlff @pinkratts @lazyxsquirrel @1988-fiend @stilldreaming666 @will-delete-this-later-probably @yarrystyleeza @dramaholic18

A faint buzzing noise near your head woke you, gradually drawing you out of your peaceful sleep. It took your mind a moment to realize that the sound was the alarm you’d set on your phone last night before you’d gotten ready for bed. In a rush to silence it, your hand flew out from under the covers, cold air instantly chilling your bare skin. Quickly you swiped your finger across the phone screen on the nightstand beside you, ending the alarm before the vibration could wake up Michael and disturb him. 

Slipping your arm back under the warm covers, you carefully glanced over your shoulder and back at Michael behind you. He was laying on his side facing you, one arm resting on the bed just next to you and partially out of the blankets. He looked peaceful lying there with the faint morning light washing over his features. You secretly always loved when you woke before him, often taking a moment to watch him sleep. It was one of the few times you ever saw him without a single crease of worry visible on his face. 

As you lay there watching the steady rise and fall of his chest while trying to work up the motivation to get out of the warm, comfortable bed, you noticed his brows beginning to faintly furrow together. The corner of his lip began to twitch soon after and a frown crossed your own mouth when he emitted a faint groan. His eyelids fluttered open before he blinked a few times, his hazel eyes landing on you. 

“Ya already awake, love?” Michael’s sleep-riddled voice croaked out.

“Yes,” you answered quietly, “but ya can sleep in, Mikey. I set my alarm to wake me in order to get somethin’ ready for ya this mornin’.” 

You reached a hand out, lightly scratching Michael’s beard with your fingers. His eyelids slowly lowered as a sluggish smile pulled his lips upwards. A satisfied hum rumbled out of him and you tried to bite back a laugh. He reminded you of a dog getting scratched behind its ears in just the right spot with the way he often reacted to your affectionate beard scratches.

“Ya were out late last night,” you continued gently. “Go back to sleep, Mikey. I know ya could use the rest and we don't have anywhere to be until later.”

“Mmmph,” he grunted out, his eyelids struggling to reopen. “Kinda hard to fall back asleep now that I'm startin’ to wake up. Especially seein’ your beautiful face first thing in the mornin’.”

Your bottom lip protruded in a playful pout as you held his tired gaze. The last thing you'd wanted to do was wake him early this morning. You'd meant to just slip out of bed and finish making your surprise Christmas breakfast before he woke up. You'd already done most of the work for the homemade cinnamon rolls last night while Michael was out dealing with his family so that all you'd have to do this morning was bake them in the oven and ice them. But now you'd gone and accidentally woken him early.

Though an idea soon struck you as you took in the sight of the tired smile still spread along his lips. Gradually your fingers slipped out of his beard, sliding upwards to caress his cheek. Slight confusion crossed his features as he gazed back at you.

“Maybe I can help relax ya back to sleep,” you suggested coyly. 

One of his dark brows arched onto his forehead, his tired eyes fixed curiously on you. Bottom lip catching between your teeth, you slowly drew your hand down his cheek, lightly dragging your nails down the side of his neck before it slipped back beneath the covers. His brow rose even higher onto his forehead as he held your gaze, the corners of his lips curling further upwards when you shot him a cheeky wink. 

Your hand made its way downwards, though not without you first taking a moment to curl your fingers appreciatively in the hair covering his bare chest. Eventually your hand continued its descent, your fingers reaching the hem of his boxers. Toying with the waistband teasingly, your tongue darted out, wetting your lips in anticipation of what had crossed your mind. 

“Love, ya don't have to–”

“Consider it your first gift of the day, Michael,” you whispered back, cutting him off.

Without giving him another opportunity to tell you why you didn't need to pleasure him–something he always did for fear of feeling selfish–both of your hands began tugging his boxers down his thighs. Sitting upright on the bed, you began shifting on the mattress, moving the blankets out of the way before stripping his boxers entirely off and discarding them over the side of the bed. Eyes focusing back on Michael's cock, a surge of heat washed through you at the sight of him already growing hard.

“With the way ya look at me sometimes,” Michael’s groggy voice began, “ya would think ya enjoy this ‘bout as much as I do.”

Your eyes flickered up, catching his as a sly grin spread across your face. “‘Cause I do, Mikey,” you purred out. 

Focusing back on Michael's cock, your cunt twitched at the resulting groan he'd emitted in reply to your comment. Maybe you'd satisfy that urge in the shower with him later this morning when you both got ready for the day. But for now, you were going to enjoy turning Michael into a relaxed puddle so he'd fall back asleep while you worked on your little surprise breakfast.

Reaching out a hand, you dragged your nails lightly across the sensitive bit of skin on his lower abdomen, right above his cock. The muscles twitched and jumped beneath your fingertips as you gradually lowered yourself into a comfortable position on the bed between his muscular thighs. Slowly you began to slide your other hand up the inside of his left thigh through the thick, dark hair, grinning in triumph to yourself when his hips gave a faint jolt along the bed in response. 

Knowing you wanted to get him to fall back asleep soon, you figured you'd keep the teasing to a minimum this time. One of your hands curled around the girth at the base of him, your own cunt beginning to grow wet at the slight moan he loosed into the bedroom at your touch. From your position on the bed, you glanced up at him from beneath your lashes. His head had raised from his pillow, his drowsy focus solely on you. 

“Merry Christmas, Mikey,” you whispered, intentionally brushing your lips against his cock as you spoke.

Without waiting for a response, you wrapped your lips around him and began to work the length of his cock slowly and deliberately. A deep moan bellowed from within his chest, echoing around the bedroom–it was a sound that had you humming with pleasure with your mouth full of him. Moments later you felt one of his hands lightly cradling the side of your head, his fingers carefully gripping your hair. 

“Ohh fuck, love,” he breathed out, voice pitched higher than usual. “Ya always know what you're doin’.”

You moaned along his cock at the praise, your thighs pressing together from your place on the bed. Yet again you had to remind yourself you'd take care of your own needs with him later as your head continued to bob along the length of him, your pace increasing a bit with the speed of his panting breaths now filling your ears. While your right hand continued to work the bit of him you couldn't quite fit, your left hand made its way up the rest of his inner thigh and over towards his balls. The moment you began to pay them attention you felt his hips straining to remain still beneath you. 

“ Shit , love,” Michael gasped out. 

It was only a matter of time before you could feel his thighs practically trembling along the mattress. You could tell he was close to cumming, especially with the faint, breathy gasps repeatedly slipping out of him as you sucked his cock. You knew it usually never took much to get him off first thing in the morning, and apparently today was no different. 

Increasing your pace even faster as you tried to take him just a bit deeper into your mouth, you felt his hand tighten its grip in your hair. His other hand darted onto the bed with a soft thump before you saw him fisting the sheets in a white-knuckle grip.

“Love, I'm goin’ to cum,” he breathed out, voice strained. 

Continuing to breathe through your nose, you didn't slow your pace. Only seconds later you felt the warm, thick ropes of his release hit your tongue. The familiar salty taste of him along with the accompanying low, satisfied moans he was making above you had you moaning along with him. You swallowed every bit down as you worked him through his release, only stopping when you felt his grip ease in your hair.

Sitting up between his thighs, you wiped a hand across your damp mouth and gazed down at the sight of Michael before you. His breathing was heavy and so were his eyelids as he drowsily gazed down at you. He shot you a content, sleepy smile from his place along the pillow as his hand dropped from your hair and back to his side.

“Think it's your turn now, love,” he murmured.

You tried to fight back the grin on your face at how exhausted he looked. Gently you shook your head, one hand lightly patting his thigh.

“Not right now, Michael,” you told him. “Later. In the shower.”

“Mmm,” he hummed out, his eyelids drooping. 

“Think ya can fall back asleep now?” you asked him.

“After that?” he asked with a light laugh. “Not a doubt in my mind, love.”

“Good,” you whispered as you slid off the bed. “Rest more, pet. I'll wake ya in a bit.”

Michael hummed out a noise of assent as you drew the blankets back up over him, his head already rolling to the side as sleep began to take back over. You smiled to yourself at the sight, grateful your little breakfast surprise would remain just that still.

The scent of cinnamon and vanilla filled the kitchen, mingling with the scent of the freshly brewed espresso from the two coffee mugs you’d set aside on the little island behind you. Mikey had often drank tea or bland coffee roasts before you’d moved in with him, but once you’d introduced him to your espresso machine, he’d quickly fallen in love with the lattes you made. So you’d certainly made sure to include them in your Christmas morning surprise for him.

Gingerly you spread the icing over the top of the now mostly-cooled cinnamon rolls in the pan that you’d recently pulled out of the oven. The icing spatula glided with ease over the top of each one, the lingering warmth from the pastries causing the icing to loosen and spread over them, dripping down the sides. Your stomach gave a faint rumble as you worked, desperate to taste the fruits of your labor already. You’d spent the previous evening making the cinnamon rolls from scratch while Michael was away dealing with his family, and you’d stored them in the fridge overnight knowing he’d come home far too late to give a damn what was hidden at the back of it. You were planning to wake him for breakfast once you’d had everything finished, hoping to give him as much time to sleep in as you could.

Though as you began icing the final pastries in the pan, you felt two arms slip around your waist just before you felt Michael’s familiar, firm chest molding itself against your back. His nose was soon nuzzling at the side of your neck, the faint scratch of his beard tickling your skin. A smile tugged at your lips as your hands paused their icing, your eyes briefly closing at the display of affection. Despite the things Michael had done, and how terrifying most people seemed to find him, he was truly nothing more than a cuddly teddy bear with you.

“Everythin’ smells amazin’, love,” he murmured against your neck. “Didn’t know ya were makin’ breakfast or I’d have come down and given ya a hand.”

Your eyelids fluttered back open, your attention returning to icing the last of the cinnamon rolls in the pan. “But that’d defeat the point, pet,” you pointed out. “I was hopin’ to surprise ya with breakfast this mornin’. And ya needed the rest.”

“Mmm,” he hummed out, pausing to gently place a light kiss to the place just beneath your jawline. “Ya spoil me, love.”

“It’s Christmas, Michael,” you teased, fighting your body's reaction to the way he was touching you. “‘Course I’m goin’ to spoil ya.”

His arms tightened their hold around your middle, pulling you more flush to the front of himself and causing your smile to widen. You could feel him shifting beside you, his head raising just before his soft lips planted a gentle kiss to your cheek. But when he spoke next, his mouth was beside your ear, causing a shudder to freely race down your spine. He never failed to have an effect on you. 

“Ya always spoil me, though,” he whispered. 

Turning your head towards him, you caught his eyes and held his gaze. The usual warmth and fondness he always looked at you with was present in them now, the sight causing a sensation of happy flutters to swirl through your stomach. 

“Because ya deserve it, Mikey,” you replied softly.

Slowly, you saw the corner of his lips twist upwards, his eyes creasing just a bit at the corners. He gradually disentangled his arms from around your waist, taking a step back. Though both of his hands gave your hips a gentle, affectionate squeeze before he fully released you.

“Why don’t ya take a seat and relax?” he suggested, nodding his head towards the kitchen table across the room. “I’ll plate everythin’ and bring it over. Ya have done more than enough already this mornin’.”

With a sigh you placed the icing spatula in the now empty bowl you’d mixed the icing in this morning. “Alright,” you conceded. “I s’pose I can let ya handle that much.”

Turning around, you grabbed the two still steaming lattes from off the little kitchen island behind you before maneuvering around it and making your way over to the small table by the window. As you set both mugs down, you could hear the sound of clinking on dishware as Michael plated the cinnamon rolls. 

Sliding down into a chair and drawing your mug of coffee up to your lips, your attention returned to him. He’d slipped on a pair of dark gray sweatpants and a black sweater before he’d come downstairs and your eyes lingered appreciatively on the way the material clung to the back of him as he worked. You knew you’d definitely be peeling those clothes off of him later this morning in the bathroom before fucking him in the shower, and that thought had you momentarily readjusting your position in your chair. It was at that exact moment he turned around, holding two plates and beaming back at you from across the kitchen.

“These look great, love,” Michael said as he began to make his way over to the table. “Did ya make them yourself?”

“O’course I did,” you answered. “I made ‘em while ya were out last night. All I had left to do was throw ‘em in the oven this mornin’ and then make the icing.”

Michael set a plate down in front of you before taking the seat across the little table. His eyes had gone a bit wide in surprise at the information.

“Love, ya didn’t have to do that for me,” he told you. “And ya certainly didn’t have to make so many, either.”

You shrugged lightly, picking up the fork from your plate. “I wanted to. Plus I figured if I was goin’ through all the trouble of makin’ them I figured I'd make some to bring over later to share with Anna and her gran. Because who says no to cinnamon rolls?”

Your fork slid through the side of the pastry easily, cutting off a piece that you brought up to your lips. Though your fork hesitated before your mouth as you focused on Michael across from you, his own fork in his hand and an unreadable expression on his face.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothin’,” he muttered with a slight shake of his head. “Just grateful to have ya in my life is all.”

Heat burned at your cheeks as Michael picked up his fork and began to focus on his breakfast. His words had caused a warmth to flood you, filling you with a pleasant sense of belonging. It wasn’t remotely the first time he’d said something so sweet, but it never failed to get your heart thundering in your chest whenever he did because you knew how much he always meant what he said.

“After breakfast I’ll have to pop over to Birdie’s for a minute,” Michael told you as he swallowed a bite of the pastry.

Brows furrowing, you glanced out the window to your right. Just across the snow-dusted street you spotted Birdie’s house.

“Ya have more work to do this mornin’?” you asked him in confusion, your attention returning to him. “On Christmas?”

“No, nothin’ like that,” he said around another bite of cinnamon roll. “I left your Christmas present at her house for uh…safe keepin’. Just to ensure ya didn’t stumble across it ahead of time.”

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously at him as you paused your chewing. Michael visibly began to fidget in his seat, his eyes focused on the plate before him. What could he possibly have needed to leave at Birdie’s to keep you from finding it here?

“These are delicious by the way, love,” Michael said, gesturing his fork at the already half-devoured pastry on his plate. “Thank ya for makin’ them.”

“Well,” you began slowly, spearing another piece of cinnamon roll onto your fork, “it’s certainly not your only present this mornin’.”

Michael sent you a half-grin from across the table as he raised his mug of coffee towards his lips. “Like I said,” he replied, “ya spoil me, love.”

Despite the fact that Michael had told you not to worry about cleaning up the kitchen just before he'd left to stop over at Birdie’s, that's exactly what you’d ended up doing. As soon as you'd covered the pan of cinnamon rolls and stowed them away in the fridge, you could hear the sound of his voice telling you that you shouldn't be the one to clean up because you'd already went through the effort of making everything for breakfast. 

But you'd ignored that voice and started loading the dishwasher afterwards. There wasn't much else for you to do anyway as you waited for him to return from Birdie’s. Though you couldn't help but speculate what gift he could have possibly left at her place. Jewelry? Some sort of electronic? Honestly you had no clue what it could've been.

But you didn't need to speculate much longer because as you were closing the door to the dishwasher you spotted movement out of the kitchen window from the corner of your eye. Turning over your shoulder towards the window, you saw Michael coming up the drive with what was obviously your Christmas present secured in his arms. Your mouth fell open at the sight and you gasped audibly, eyes widening in surprise. 

Without a moment's hesitation you raced out of the kitchen, making your way down the short hallway and to the front door. You reached out and twisted the handle, swinging the door wide open just as Michael neared it. There was a large smile on his face when he saw the look on your own.

“Merry Christmas, love,” he said, coming to a stop on the front step. 

“Please tell me this isn't a joke, Mikey,” you begged. “Because if it is, it's not funny.”

You couldn't tear your eyes away from the puppy curled in his arms. The dog's ears had perked up the moment it'd spotted you though, its tail thudding enthusiastically against Michael’s dark brown jacket. There was a bright red and white Santa hat atop the puppy's fluffy white and brown head. The puppy must have sensed your excitement because it soon began to squirm in Michael’s hold.

“‘S'not a joke,” he assured you. “I know how lonely ya get ‘round here when I'm busy. And I know how ya had been hinting ‘bout gettin’ a pet lately. Figured this little guy would be perfect when I saw him at the shelter.”

“So ya–ya got me a puppy for Christmas?” you asked him in disbelief.

“Yeah,” he answered with a grin. 

You eagerly extended your arms with an excited squeal, reaching them out towards the puppy. Michael began shifting the excitable, squirming ball of fur from his arms to yours. Another delighted squeal slipped out of you as the dog began sniffing and licking at your chin while you stepped back from the doorway, letting Michael into the house. He chuckled warmly at the happy coos you soon began emitting as he slipped off his shoes while you continued further into the house, bringing the puppy towards the sitting room. 

A giggle fell out of you next as the little dog began snuffling at your ear while you lowered both yourself and the dog to the sitting room floor. Though you lost your balance when his two front paws landed on your shoulder as he tried to climb further up to your face. You landed on your back underneath the puppy with a peel of laughter.

“Seems he has some sort o’ charm over everyone,” Michael teased as he entered the room. “Found him similarly with Birdie this mornin’ and I think she was a bit sad to see him leave.”

“Well she's more than welcome to visit,” you told him, scratching the puppy behind the ears as you focused on Michael from your place on the floor. “And thank ya, Mikey. He's perfect.”

“Just glad to see that bright smile on your beautiful face, love,” he replied. “I'd do anything to put it there.”

You couldn't fight the smile that spread wider across your lips at his words. “Well when I can finally get up I'm giving ya your Christmas presents,” you told him. With your smile turning a bit coy, you added, “And don't think I forgot what I said about the shower later, either. I'm not finished with ya today, Michael Kinsella.”

“Mmm,” he hummed back, making his way over towards the pair of you with a cheeky smile on his face. “Now those are the kinda threats I love to hear.”

#michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella smut #michael kinsella fluff #michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella #holiday fluff

[deartouya]

GINGERBREAD COOKIES — HAWKS

❅ *:･ﾟkeigo is an awful baker, but luckily for him he makes up for it with his enthusiasm and pretty face.

*:･ﾟ❅ pairing: hawks x gn!reader

*:･ﾟ❅ content: fluff, established relationship, soso much domestic fluff, keigo's bad at baking but he's handsome so you put up with it, mentions of food/eating.

hehe this turned out cuter than i thought it would :3 alsoalso ik it makes sense for him to be able to cook !! but baking's a whole different skill so !! yeah !!

"What are you doing?"    Keigo starts, his feathers poofing and nearly sending your mixing bowl—one he must've haphazardly balanced on the edge of the sink—clattering to the ground. He looks comically caught, gripping your now dirty whisk with both hands and his eyes rounded in surprise. 

It takes a moment for your sleep-addled brain to catch up, to notice the batter and poorly greased pans—he's baking. Never a good sign when it comes to Keigo, he’s never been the best in the kitchen.  

You couldn’t count on two hands the times you’ve caught him huddled over the stove stirring something which should not be stirred or trying desperately to save the charred remains of dinner. Keigo had a multitude of practical skills, cooking anything but the basics just wasn’t one of them. At least not when you leave him unsupervised. 

“S’a little early to be baking cookies, isn’t it birdie?”  

He hums, eyes heavy and saccharine again with the weight of his grin, “never too early for something sweet, dovie.” 

You don’t bother responding, instead shuffling across the kitchen so you can drape yourself over his shoulders. You tuck your face into the crook of his shoulder, the heavy and warm smell of his cologne overwhelming as you nose along the line of his jaw. Your fingers reach to tangle in his hair, nails scratching lightly over his scalp and drawing a low, appreciative hum. 

The bowl of batter sits abandoned in front of him, and you finally get a better look at what he was trying to make. You think it’s supposed to be gingerbread, but it’s thick, full of clumped powder and smells overwhelmingly like cinnamon. 

“I don’t know if you’re doing that right, baby,” you tease, eyeing his clumpy batter mixture. “Think you’re supposed to mix it until there isn’t any clumps.” Your arms belt tighter around his waist, hooking your chin over his shoulder to get a better look at the mess. 

Keigo blinks then, staring down at the bowl with furrowed brows, “I've been following the recipe. It didn’t say what it was supposed to look like.”  

“Supposed to turn into dough, baby—uniform so you can roll it out and cut it into shapes.” 

His pout deepens then, returning the whisk to the bowl before detangling himself from you, settling against the counter to look at you. It’s then you notice just how messy he’d gotten, streaks of flour litter his cheeks and chin. The sight makes you laugh, leaning into him to wipe gently at his face with your thumbs. Keigo leans heavily into your touch, fighting to keep the pout on his face. “Mhm maybe you’ll have to stay and help me with them then, dove, you always make the best sweets.” 

"Only if you promise not to go anywhere near the oven. I’ll fix the batter and you can help decorate them once they’re baked.” Keigo finally lets the smile grow on his face, leaning to nudge your nose with his own. 

“Aww, you don’t think I can manage a few cookies all by myself? I think the dough woulda turned out good if you’d left me to it,” his voice is light and teasing as he turns into you, lips skating across your cheek. 

“I think you would’ve come out with some rock-hard cookies if I let you try and put that batter in the oven,” with a quick kiss to his collar, you tug him back away from the counter. “Now scooch—quicker we get these made the quicker I can drag you back to bed, hero.” 

He hums, letting you take his space in front of the stove and replacing your spot, draping his broad form over you. Keigo watches as you work, chin hooked over your shoulder and pressing incredibly unhelpful kisses to them. 

You’re not entirely sure he knows just how unhelpful he’s being, a heavy weight at your back which forces you to awkwardly shuffle to get ingredients and makes whisking a much harder task than it should be. 

You quickly learn he’s not much better at decorating the cookies then he is baking them, icing melted and crudely overlapping the lines of what was supposed to be a Christmas tree. 

At least he’s pretty.

tags: @dinodumbass ; @uwuthatshit ; @hirugummies ; @dukina ; @trashy-bowtie ; @boo-kugo ;

#❄; 'tis the season #✶ venus.writes #✶ writes.bnha #✶ writes.hawks #bnha x reader #mha x reader #hawks x reader #keigo takami x reader #takami keigo x reader

[gingersnappish]

Hi!

I’m Ginger: artist-nerd, citizen-scientist, make-garden-not-lawn enthusiast, and avid baker-of-cinnamon-rolls-from-scratch! I very much enjoy fandom! What is my weekly fanfic consumption like? High. Very High. Some of my current favs include: Star Wars (especially Kylux), The Witcher (here meaning I saw about an episode and a half of TWN, found the fandom, and wandered happily off towards Lambert and Aiden), LotR, sometimes StarTrek…..assorted others! I am passionate about creating things, too! Often, that means drawing fan art and/or comics. Actually, I’ve found myself stalling intermittently in that department over the past year or so. I’ve been almost exclusively drawing Kylux things using only Procreate, for a while now. Which I love doing! But I suspect doing just that one type of art for going on 4 years now is starting to have an effect of the breadth and depth of my creative well. So I’ve decided to change up how I create for a while! A good friend gifted me a sketchbook IRL and I want to fill it with traditional media drawings. I want to try drawing from more fandoms, try out new digital techniques and styles that maybe I hadn’t allowed myself before. I want to invest some time into art forms besides drawing, even - I’ve always enjoyed fiber arts and I’ve got a jack loom I’ve meant to finish repairing for a while. Once that is working, I want to learn to weave. And I want to share some of these things here! On that note, I suspect more than a few people who follow me on Tumblr are here because I have drawn a lot of kylux. Especially the long-form fan comic ‘Dying Is Easy Young Man, Living Is Harder’. WRT The Comic: Kraken and I are still fully intending to see it to it’s conclusion! Honestly, though, it’s been on unofficial hiatus for a while now and it’s likely to remain that way for a bit longer. Kraken is super busy with retraining and job related demands IRL, and I am also pretty swamped and trying to get back in a more sustainable groove artistically. The whole sitch doesn’t leave us a lot of room to create a big project like DIEYMLIH together, right now. I know firsthand how hard it can be to wait a long time for a story you enjoy to get finished - so I want to say ‘thank you’ to everyone being very patient with us! We will get there eventually! If you want to check if there has been an update or just re-read the kylux comic to-date, the best place to go is the DIEYMLIH Site

If you want more kylux themed stuff in the meantime, I’m still putting my Kylo Amidala and other AU stuff for them on my Patreon

If you want the whole complete collection of my art (kylux or other)…. I'm working on that. I’ve historically been really inconsistent with tags. I'm trying to be better about that and also go back and fix all my personal art so it is consistently tagged. It’s gonna take a while. Eventually!

#about ginger psa

[wooahaes]

baked from scratch

pairing: non-idol!(trsr) jihoon x gn!reader

prompt: cinnamon

word count: 0.7k~

warnings: food mentions. hoony being kind of a simp tbh.

daisy’s notes: its been 300 years since ive written for trsr (unless i wrote for trsr between now when i’m writing this (nov 8th and also the 23rd i had a busy month) and when this fic posted....... then ignore me)

Jihoon liked to watch you bake for a reason: your concentrating face was one of the cutest things in the world. You hadn’t even noticed he’d snapped at least five pictures of it at this point, too busy staring at your phone and rereading the recipe to ensure you were getting the measurements correct. Those pictures weren’t going to be for anyone else but himself, sure, but he thought you’d have noticed by now. Usually you did, since Jihoon liked taking pictures of you.

What could he say? Your boyfriend was, in the words of some of his friends, kind of a simp. You preferred “devoted” or “loving,” but he had laughed and told you that maybe he was “kind of a simp” for you. That was fine by him. He had you, after all, and no one else did. He liked calling himself your boyfriend, even if he would tease you over how flustered you’d get. Yet he hadn’t expected you to make cinnamon rolls entirely from scratch. Technically, he was supposed to be helping you...

But how could he resist that cute look on your face? Jihoon, as a guy who was in love with you, simply couldn’t.

“Hoony?” You hadn’t looked up, brows still knit together as you pouted. “I grabbed the wrong bag of flour. Can you grab the bread flour?”

He blinked at you for a moment. “Huh?” He paused, muttering to himself, “There’s a difference...?” He knew the difference between all-purpose and self-rising, but bread flour...? Who needed so many kinds of flour?

You did, apparently. “It--It says it on the bag,” you vaguely pointed back at the pantry. “You’ll see it.”

Was this normal for people who liked baking...? Jihoon would have to ask his friends sometimes. He scanned the pantry, finding the bag you’d asked for and bringing it back over. Jihoon set it down next to you, leaning in to peck you on the cheek--just to get your attention away from your phone. He smiled at you when you finally did look up, visibly flustered as you reached up and brushed your fingers over where he’d kissed you.

“I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

You knew that you could get a little bogged down in following recipes, especially when baking with your boyfriend. He’d whined at you before that you were neglecting him once, just to tease you--only to comfort you immediately when you showed guilt over it.

(“I just want it to be good, Hoony,” you had said to him with the cutest pout on your face. “I don’t get to bake with you all the time... I want it to taste good, okay? So you can brag to your friends.”)

“It’s cute,” he told you. “I like watching you.”

A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth, and Jihoon leaned into press a clumsy kiss against your lips. How could he be the boyfriend of someone so cute all the time?

(Probably because he himself was pretty damn handsome and he knew it.)

The moment Jihoon wrapped his arms around you, nuzzling in closer, you let out a whine. “You’re distracting me.”

He planted a tiny peck against your neck, and you could feel the way his lips curved into a smile against your skin. “Good. I’m getting revenge.” 

“Huh?”

“You’re always on my mind,” he said, “so it’s only fair that I distract you this time.”

Another whine and you pulled his arms away from you, grabbing the baby blue apron you’d had left folded up for him. You pushed it against his chest, “You’re supposed to be helping.”

He laughed instead as he took the apron from you, letting the fabric fall from the neat folds it’d once had. “Okay, okay,” he said, pulling the loop over his head--the neat little bow already fixed from the last time the two of you cooked together.

At your command, Jihoon turned around so you could secure the other tie for him. He’d always insist that he could do it on his own, but he liked the careful way you tied it into another neat bow. He liked being able to turn around and grace your lips with another gentle kiss as thanks.

“So,” he said, turning back to the counter full of ingredients. “Where do we begin?”

general taglist: @twancingyunhao​

#wooahaes.fic #treasure imagine #treasure x reader #treasure x you #treasure fics #treasure fluff #park jihoon x reader #park jihoon x you #park jihoon fluff #wooahaes.dec22

[zmediaoutlet]

happy wincest wednesday!! deanna ask<33. do you think anything about s6 happens differently in the het version? or maybe s9/10?

yayyyy happy wincest wednesday, a day Deanna gets to shine <3

I mean the first thing that I think is true is that Deanna is staying with uhh Mark, the hot dude she hooked up with way back when Sam was at Stanford, and Mark's got a kid from a failed relationship with a past woman and Deanna learns to make pretty good meatballs and stir fry and tomato rice soup from scratch when little Ben is sick, and it's actually a lot harder for her to leave than it was for Dean.

But Sam's back and she has to go -- has to, even if she tells Mark that it's just a quick hunt to help and she'll be back for Ben's soccer game on Saturday -- and the break-up with Mark happens a lot faster and is a LOT more painful than the one with Lisa because Sam talks his way into her panties on that very first solo hunt together, when they're alone after the Campbells go their own way, and in her life Deanna has never ever thought of herself as a cheater but it's -- Sam, and his mouth tastes the same and his hands are finally the right size on her jaw when he drags her in close and he's the right weight between her thighs, lying heavy on her hips, at last, after the last year (and more) of missing him. He rolls off the bed quick after but she hardly notices at first that something's off because the sheer relief is too much for her to notice anything else at all, and it's not until she's showering, after, that the random thought pops into her head that she was going to pick up a 24-pack of Gatorade for the kids before the game, and then she realizes that she's got to tell Mark. She's got to. It's not fair, otherwise.

When Cas finally reveals that Sam's soulless she doesn't beat him up -- physically can't, for one thing, especially not now that he's gone all greek god -- but she walks out of the room and gets into the car and knows that from Calumet City to Battle Creek where Mark and Ben are living now is two and a half hours, and two hours if she ignores traffic laws, and she thinks about it -- she thinks about walking in and hugging Ben and taking Mark into the bedroom that she'd barely started to unpack before the breakup and going to her knees and saying how sorry she was, and how she'd never meant to be this way, and could she come back, please, could she crawl back into their bed and have the good boring sex they had and could she try again to make his mom's recipe for cinnamon rolls and could she teach Ben how to repair a carburetor, and get it right this time, and raise a kid who wouldn't crack her heart in half, wouldn't make her want to lay down and never get up again for the sheer enormity of what loving him did to her. How impossible it was to exist under the weight of it.

Then she gets back out of the car and goes back up to where Cas is finishing up his examination of Sam and she tells Cas to leave the room and she tells Sam that they're done, until he gets fixed. "I feel fine," Sam says. "Nothing about this is fine," Deanna says, and his eyes skip from her eyes to her mouth to her tits and then he shrugs, turns away and puts his belt back on, like so what. Like, fine, he'd get it somewhere else and it didn't matter. Deanna goes outside to where Cas is awkwardly waiting and thinks that whoever did this, whoever bifurcated her brother and removed all the best parts of him, she will find that person and destroy them to the last atom, if it's the last thing she does. (Cas looks from her face to the door beyond which Sam's waiting, and disappears.)

#answers #happy wincest wednesday #girl!dean #deanna #?? what is my TAG that's another project for another day #anyway yes #deeper entrenchment with not!Lisa #deeper 'betrayal' by sam #cas is on thin fuckin ice lol #i wonder if deanna would actually fuck cas? #i still think no. although maybe in early s9... #it'd depend on whether she and sam were back together #either way: i maintain that very early seasons/preseries for sam/deanna is the raddest queasiest best option #makes every single part of them just... More

[choking-on-roses]

🍁Happy Thanksgiving🍁

Canadian Thanksgiving falls on the second Monday of October each year. I hardly ever see anyone mention it so I'm gonna do it!

Living in Japan makes it difficult to find the traditional Thanksgiving fixings, particularly turkey. So for this year's spread we've got: roast chicken with cranberry BBQ sauce, homemade perogies from scratch with kielbasa sausage (procured from a specialty meat shop in Nasu), lasagna from scratch, mascarpone dinner rolls from Costco, and a pumpkin pie, also from scratch! I even had to boil and puree the pumpkins myself. My other Canadian co-worker doesn't drink alcohol so we made mulled apple juice to drink which I think may be my new winter staple.

Put apple juice in a pot, add a cinnamon stick, a couple of whole cloves, some allspice berries, and a touch of maple syrup and let it simmer on low heat on a back burner. Hot, tasty, and simple!

Don't forget to be thankful for the good things around you. Happy autumn!

#Thanksgiving #personal

[beginning-to-be-happy]

My car broke down on the way to work yesterday morning, like all the lights shut off and it just stopped. Long story short, it was the alternator, and the only honest shop in town towed it and fixed it. I was able to pick it up today.

I just put $580 into this car last month. Today was another $500. It's 16 years old and has 288,000 miles. It's really nice not having car payments, but I think it's time to get a newer used one, but a Subaru wagon this time so I can haul small stuff in the back. I'm not looking forward to making even a tiny car payment, but maybe I can start donating plasma again to offset that and my student loan payments starting up.

But I digress. I was supposed to work in the office yesterday and today but ended up getting to work from home. So today, I'm making spaghetti sauce from my dwindling supply of fresh tomatoes, I'm making homemade tortillas later by pressing them under a pie pan, and I'm making a batch of chocolate chip cookies to freeze into balls for easy use later.

I also might make cinnamon rolls from scratch for the kids for Saturday morning.

I get so much more done when I'm home. If I was in the office I'd be going crazy during slow times. Instead, I'm productive af 😌

Happy to have a job that understands that shit happens, and happy that I get to be home.

#personal story #jobs

[foodvips]

How Can I Make A Perfect Apple Pie From Scratch?

This article will guide you through the process of making a mouthwatering apple pie from scratch. Whether you're a beginner or an experienced baker, these step-by-step instructions will ensure that your apple pie turns out perfectly every time. From selecting the right apples to creating a flaky crust and a flavorful filling, we've got you covered. When it comes to selecting the right apples for your pie, it's important to choose varieties that are firm and tart. Granny Smith or Honeycrisp apples are excellent choices, as their tartness adds a nice contrast to the sweetness of the pie. Avoid using apples that are too sweet or soft, as they may turn mushy during baking. Next, let's talk about the crust. A perfect apple pie starts with a flaky and buttery crust. You can easily make your own crust from scratch using a simple recipe that combines flour, butter, salt, and cold water. Follow the instructions carefully to achieve the perfect texture and taste. Remember, the crust is the foundation of your pie, so it's worth the effort to make it from scratch. Now, let's move on to the apple filling. To make a flavorful filling, slice your selected apples and combine them with sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and a touch of lemon juice. This combination of flavors will enhance the taste of the apples and give your pie a delicious aroma. Cook the filling to the right consistency before adding it to the pie crust, ensuring that it's not too runny or too dry. Once you have your crust and filling ready, it's time to assemble the pie. Roll out the pie crust and transfer it to a pie dish. Fill the crust with the apple filling and get creative with the topping. You can create a beautiful lattice or crumb topping, adding visual appeal to your pie. Don't forget to crimp the edges for a professional finish. Now comes the baking and serving part. Bake your apple pie at the ideal temperature and time to achieve a golden brown crust and perfectly cooked apples. Keep an eye on the pie and look for signs that it's done, such as bubbling filling and a fragrant aroma. Allow the pie to cool before serving, and consider serving options like a la mode with a scoop of vanilla ice cream or topped with a dollop of whipped cream. If you encounter any issues along the way, don't worry. We've got troubleshooting tips to help you fix common problems like a soggy crust or runny filling. With a little know-how, you'll be able to overcome any challenges and create a perfect apple pie every time. Finally, don't be afraid to get creative and add your own unique twists to the classic apple pie recipe. Whether it's adding caramel or streusel topping, experimenting with different spices or fruits, or making mini hand pies, the possibilities are endless. Let your imagination run wild and make the apple pie truly your own.

Selecting the Right Apples

When it comes to making the perfect apple pie from scratch, selecting the right apples is key. You want apples that are firm and tart, as they will provide the best flavor and texture in your pie. Two popular apple varieties that work well for apple pie are Granny Smith and Honeycrisp. Granny Smith apples are known for their tartness, which adds a nice contrast to the sweetness of the pie filling. They also hold their shape well during baking, so you won't end up with a mushy pie. Honeycrisp apples, on the other hand, have a perfect balance of sweetness and tartness, making them a great choice for those who prefer a slightly sweeter pie. When selecting your apples, avoid using varieties that are too sweet or soft, as they tend to become mushy when baked. You want apples that will hold their shape and provide a pleasant texture in every bite. So, stick with firm and tart apples like Granny Smith or Honeycrisp for the best results.

Making the Perfect Crust

Making the perfect crust is a crucial step in creating a delicious apple pie from scratch. With the right recipe and technique, you can achieve a flaky and buttery crust that will complement the sweet and tangy apple filling. Here's how you can make the perfect crust: To start, gather the following ingredients: flour, butter, salt, and cold water. These simple ingredients will come together to create a dough that is both tender and flavorful. It's important to use cold butter and water, as this will help create the desired flaky texture. Next, combine the flour and salt in a mixing bowl. Cut the cold butter into small cubes and add it to the flour mixture. Using a pastry cutter or your fingers, work the butter into the flour until it resembles coarse crumbs. This step is important for incorporating the butter evenly into the dough. Once the butter is evenly distributed, slowly add cold water to the mixture. Start with a small amount and gradually add more as needed. Mix the dough until it comes together and forms a ball. Be careful not to overmix, as this can result in a tough crust. Once the dough is formed, transfer it to a lightly floured surface. Use a rolling pin to roll out the dough into a circle that is slightly larger than your pie dish. Gently transfer the rolled-out dough to the pie dish, being careful not to stretch or tear it. To create a decorative edge, you can crimp the edges of the crust using your fingers or a fork. This will not only add a professional touch to your pie but also help seal in the filling. If you prefer a lattice or crumb topping, follow the instructions for creating these designs. Before adding the apple filling, it's important to pre-bake the crust to ensure it is fully cooked and golden brown. To do this, prick the bottom of the crust with a fork to prevent it from puffing up during baking. Then, bake the crust at a preheated oven temperature according to your recipe's instructions. Once the crust is baked and cooled, you can fill it with the flavorful apple filling and bake the pie according to your recipe. The result will be a perfectly balanced apple pie with a flaky and buttery crust that will impress your family and friends.

Preparing the Apple Filling Discover the secret to making a flavorful apple filling by combining sliced apples with sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and a touch of lemon juice. Find out how to cook the filling to the right consistency before adding it to the pie crust. When it comes to making the perfect apple pie, the filling is the star of the show. The combination of sweet and tart apples, along with a blend of warm spices, creates a burst of flavor that will have your taste buds dancing with delight. To achieve this, start by selecting the right apples. Choose firm and tart varieties like Granny Smith or Honeycrisp, as they hold their shape well during baking and provide a nice contrast to the sweetness of the pie. Once you have your apples, it's time to prepare the filling. Start by peeling, coring, and slicing the apples into thin, even slices. In a large bowl, combine the sliced apples with sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and a touch of lemon juice. The sugar adds sweetness, while the spices add warmth and depth of flavor. The lemon juice helps to balance the sweetness and adds a subtle tanginess to the filling. After the apples are coated in the sugar and spice mixture, let them sit for a few minutes to allow the flavors to meld together. This will enhance the overall taste of the filling. Next, it's time to cook the filling to the right consistency. Transfer the apple mixture to a saucepan and cook it over medium heat until the apples are tender, but still hold their shape. Be sure to stir occasionally to prevent the filling from sticking to the bottom of the pan. Once the filling has reached the desired consistency, remove it from the heat and let it cool slightly before adding it to the pie crust. This will prevent the hot filling from melting the butter in the crust and creating a soggy bottom. Spoon the apple filling into the prepared pie crust, spreading it evenly. If desired, you can also add a few dots of butter on top of the filling for added richness. With the flavorful apple filling prepared and ready to go, you're one step closer to creating the perfect apple pie from scratch. The next step is assembling the pie and baking it to golden perfection. But that's a story for another paragraph. Assembling the Pie Creating a delicious apple pie is not just about the filling and crust, but also about the art of assembling it. To begin, you'll need to roll out the pie crust. Start by lightly flouring your work surface and rolling pin to prevent sticking. Gently roll the dough into a circle, rotating it occasionally to maintain an even thickness. Once your crust is rolled out, carefully transfer it to a pie dish. You can do this by gently folding the dough in half and then in half again, and placing it in the center of the dish. Unfold the dough and gently press it into the bottom and sides of the dish, ensuring it is evenly distributed. Next, it's time to fill the crust with the apple filling. Spread the prepared apple filling evenly over the crust, making sure to fill any gaps. For an extra touch of elegance, you can create a lattice or crumb topping. To make a lattice, cut thin strips of dough and arrange them in a crisscross pattern over the filling. For a crumb topping, combine flour, butter, and sugar to create a crumbly mixture, then sprinkle it over the filling. To give your pie a professional finish, it's important to crimp the edges. Using your fingers or a fork, gently press the edges of the crust together to seal it. You can also use a decorative technique, such as fluting or scalloping, to add a touch of flair to your pie. This not only enhances the presentation but also helps to prevent the filling from leaking out during baking. With the pie assembled and the edges crimped, it's ready to be baked to perfection. Follow the baking instructions for your specific recipe, ensuring that the pie is cooked at the right temperature for the right amount of time. Once baked, allow the pie to cool before serving to allow the flavors to meld together. Now that you know the secrets to assembling a perfect apple pie, you can impress your friends and family with your baking skills. Whether you choose to create a lattice or crumb topping, or experiment with different crust designs, the end result will be a delicious and visually appealing dessert that will leave everyone wanting more. Baking and Serving When it comes to baking the perfect apple pie, getting the temperature and time just right is crucial. Preheat your oven to 375°F (190°C) for a golden, flaky crust and tender apples. Bake the pie for about 45-50 minutes or until the crust is a beautiful golden brown and the filling is bubbling.To ensure that your pie is fully cooked, insert a toothpick or skewer into the center. If it comes out clean, your pie is ready to be taken out of the oven. Remember, the apples should be tender but not mushy.Once the pie is out of the oven, resist the temptation to dive right in! Give it some time to cool down, allowing the flavors to meld together and the filling to set. It's best to let it cool for at least 2 hours before serving.When it's time to serve, you have a few options to take your apple pie to the next level. One classic choice is serving it a la mode with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. The contrast of warm pie and cold ice cream is simply divine. Alternatively, you can top it with a dollop of freshly whipped cream for a lighter and creamier touch.If you want to get creative, you can even drizzle some caramel sauce over the pie or sprinkle it with a crunchy streusel topping. The possibilities are endless!Remember, presentation is key. Cut your pie into neat slices and serve it on a beautiful dessert plate. You can also dust it with a sprinkle of powdered sugar for an elegant touch. Don't forget to savor each bite and enjoy the explosion of flavors that a homemade apple pie brings.

Troubleshooting Tips When it comes to making apple pie from scratch, there are a few common issues that you may encounter along the way. But fear not! With these troubleshooting tips and tricks, you can fix these problems and ensure that your apple pie turns out perfectly every time. Soggy Crust: One of the most frustrating things that can happen when baking an apple pie is ending up with a soggy crust. To prevent this, make sure to preheat your oven to the correct temperature before baking. Additionally, you can blind bake your pie crust by covering it with parchment paper and filling it with pie weights or dried beans. This will help the crust to maintain its shape and crispness. Runny Filling: Another common issue is having a runny filling that spills out of the pie when you cut into it. To avoid this, be sure to use the right amount of thickener, such as flour or cornstarch, in your apple filling. These ingredients help to absorb excess liquid and create a thicker consistency. Additionally, make sure to let your pie cool completely before cutting into it, as this will allow the filling to set. Uneven Baking: Sometimes, you may find that your apple pie is not baking evenly, with some parts being undercooked while others are overcooked. To solve this problem, try rotating your pie halfway through the baking time to ensure that it bakes evenly. You can also cover the edges of the pie crust with foil if they are browning too quickly, while allowing the filling to continue cooking. Burnt Crust: Nobody wants a burnt crust on their apple pie. To prevent this, you can cover the edges of the pie crust with foil or a pie shield during the baking process. This will protect the crust from burning while allowing the filling to cook. You can remove the foil or pie shield during the last few minutes of baking to allow the crust to brown. Overly Sweet or Tart: Achieving the perfect balance of flavors in your apple pie is crucial. If your pie turns out too sweet, try reducing the amount of sugar in the apple filling or using tart apples. On the other hand, if your pie is too tart, you can add a bit more sugar or use sweeter apple varieties. Don't be afraid to experiment and adjust the flavors to suit your taste. With these troubleshooting tips in mind, you can overcome any challenges that may arise when making apple pie from scratch. Enjoy the process of creating this classic dessert and impress your friends and family with your delicious homemade apple pie!

Adding Creative Twists

When it comes to apple pie, there's no shortage of ways to get creative and add your own unique twist to this timeless dessert. Whether you're looking to impress your guests or simply want to try something different, exploring creative variations can take your apple pie to a whole new level of deliciousness. One popular way to elevate the classic apple pie is by adding a delectable caramel or streusel topping. The rich and sweet caramel adds a delightful gooeyness to each bite, while the crunchy streusel topping provides a satisfying contrast in texture. You can even combine both for an indulgent caramel streusel apple pie that will have everyone begging for seconds. If you're feeling adventurous, why not incorporate different spices or fruits into your apple pie? Experiment with adding warm spices like nutmeg, cloves, or allspice to enhance the flavor profile. You can also try mixing in other fruits such as cranberries or pears to add a unique twist and create a more complex taste sensation. For those who love individual-sized treats, making mini hand pies is a fun and adorable way to enjoy apple pie. These bite-sized delights are perfect for parties or for satisfying your sweet tooth on the go. Simply cut the pie dough into smaller circles, fill them with the apple filling, and fold them over to create mini pies. They are not only delicious but also make for an impressive presentation. So, go ahead and let your imagination run wild! Get inspired by these creative twists and put your own unique spin on the classic apple pie. Whether you choose to add caramel, experiment with spices and fruits, or make mini hand pies, you're sure to create a dessert that will surprise and delight your taste buds.

Frequently Asked Questions

What types of apples are best for apple pie? The best apples for apple pie are firm and tart varieties, such as Granny Smith or Honeycrisp. These apples hold their shape well during baking and provide a nice balance of sweetness and tartness.How do I make a flaky and buttery pie crust?To make a flaky and buttery pie crust, you can follow a simple recipe that combines flour, butter, salt, and cold water. Cut the cold butter into the flour mixture until it resembles coarse crumbs. Then, gradually add cold water and mix until the dough comes together. Be careful not to overmix, as this can result in a tough crust.How do I prepare the apple filling?To prepare the apple filling, slice the apples and combine them with sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and a touch of lemon juice. Cook the filling on the stovetop until the apples are tender and the mixture thickens slightly. This will ensure a flavorful and perfectly cooked filling for your apple pie.How do I assemble the pie?Roll out the pie crust and transfer it to a pie dish. Fill the crust with the prepared apple filling and then either create a lattice or crumb topping. To crimp the edges, simply fold the excess dough over and press it with your fingers or a fork. This will give your pie a professional and decorative finish.How do I know when the pie is done?The pie is done when the crust is golden brown and the filling is bubbling. You can also insert a toothpick into the center of the pie to check if the apples are tender. If the toothpick goes through the apples easily, the pie is ready to be removed from the oven.What can I serve with apple pie?Apple pie is delicious on its own, but you can also serve it with a scoop of vanilla ice cream (a la mode) or a dollop of whipped cream. This adds a creamy and sweet element that pairs perfectly with the warm apple filling.How can I fix a soggy crust or runny filling?If your crust is soggy, you can try baking it at a slightly higher temperature for a few minutes to crisp it up. If your filling is runny, you can sprinkle a little flour or cornstarch over the apples before adding the top crust. This will help absorb excess moisture and thicken the filling.Can I add creative twists to the classic apple pie recipe?Absolutely! You can add a variety of creative twists to the classic apple pie recipe. Some ideas include adding a caramel or streusel topping, incorporating different spices like ginger or cardamom, or even experimenting with different types of fruits like pears or berries. Read the full article

#American #ApplePie #Breakfast #Desserts #Recipe

[sohannabarberaesque]

With the onset of the Pumpkin Spice Life season upon us, we can just picture the following Hanna-Barberian scenarios:

1) In some Wisconsin Dells fudge shop:

CRAZY CLAWS, handing the clerk a list of names and addresses: Send all these characters on this list a pound each of Pumpkin Spice Fudge, the best you have.

FUDGE SHOP CLERK, dumbstruck: And I wonder if we can actually handle such a load, to begin with!

CRAZY CLAWS: At any rate, do the best you can, and make sure you include a card with all such boxes in this order proclaiming "Greetings from Wisconsin Dells--where else?"

2) As Scooby-Doo and crew are in the middle of a difficult case:

VELMA DINKLEY, goading Scooby-Doo into action: How about a few Scooby Snax?

SCOOBY-DOO: Ruh--?

VELMA DINKLEY: Pumpkin Spice Scooby Snax, to be exact?

SCOOBY-DOO, with some excitement: Rumpkin Rice Rooby Rax?

[Velma tosses a few of the aforementioned into Scooby's mouth with precision rivalled only by the Swiss, with some serious action ensuing]

3) Early evening at Huckleberry Hound's house, fixing up some instant pumpkin spice cappuccino for Clementine and he:

CLEMENTINE, beaming with some excitement: I can't believe we're into the Pumpkin Spice Life season again, Huckleberry ...

HUCKLEBERRY HOUND: I do admit as much, Clementine.

CLEMENTINE: And to think it coincides with fall colours just starting up again ... so if we do a fall-colour drive sometime, Huck, how about a Thermos of pumpkin-spice cappuccino for the road?

HUCKLEBERRY HOUND: Anything for you, Clementine. And who isn't as deserving?

4) At a campground in Jellystone Park attracting the fall-colour crowd. Yogi smells some cinnamon rolls coming out of a camper's oven when--

BOO-BOO, as ever annoyed: You know what the ranger keeps saying, Yogi--!!

YOGI BEAR, knowing where his foci is bound to be: I just can't resist the smell of cinnamon rolls with a hint of the old pumpkin spice in the bargain!!

RANGER SMITH, intercepting the endeavour oh so suddenly: And what bear would actually stand being deprived such a sensation as cinnamon rolls, pumpkin pie spice or no? Besides, bears are NOT supposed to be near human picnic or camping areas, to begin with!!

BOO-BOO: It was bound to come to that one of these days ...

5) At a roadside diner somewhere close to Trolltown (thankfully, not Grubb's Diner), close to dawn and with the colours starting to turn:

PIXLEE TROLLSOM, who's with some close Troll friends this morning: I see you've got some cinnamon rolls "with a hint of pumpkin spice added"--could I have one, please?

A TROLL GIRLFRIEND: Could I have one too?

[At least a couple others in Pixlee's party order likewise]

A TROLL WAITRESS, inevitably chewing on and popping bubble gum in spite of rules against the practice: And would you prefer some pumpkin spice trollpucchino to go with those cinnamon and pumpkin spice rolls?

PIXLEE TROLLSOM: I think we'll just have regular trollffee.

A TROLL WAITRESS: I won't hold it against you, ma'am, but believe you me, this IS the Pumpkin Spice Life season--even among us Trolls!

[Giggling all around]

6) In the motorhome of the Hair Bear Bunch, somewhere "out on the road," some weekend morning seeing fog and crisp, cool weather in the process:

SQUARE BEAR, dumbfounded as usual over a receipt for cinnamon rolls: Uh, Hair--how much of this Pumpkin Pie Spice should I add to the cinnamon mixture?

HAIR BEAR: Personally, I'd prefer replacing, say, a teaspoon of the cinnamon with the pumpkin pie spice to make the cinnamon rolls a little more in keeping with the current Pumpkin Spice Life mindset!

SQUARE BEAR: Thanks, Hair! [Aside] I just hope it doesn't quite ruin the whole ... and you know how Hair gets when all is said and done!

7) Some Hollywood donut-and-coffee place, the sort of early Southern California morning characterised by the inevitable marine layer and drizzly appearence:

TOP CAT, ordering for the crew: Three bakers' dozen of your pumpkin spice donuts, frosted accordingly, and a pot of your best coffee!

A WAITRESS: Let's see, that's 39 of the pumpkin-spice donuts and coffee; is that for here?

TOP CAT: You had better believe it! My clowder is here to make an obvious celebration of the Pumpkin Spice Life making its presence known again, as if you didn't know!

BENNY THE BALL, interjecting: Uh, TC, why three bakers' dozen?

TOP CAT, mildly frustrated at these episodes of Benny's: Benny, believe you me, this is pretty much the MO in these circumstances, and believe you me, you guys are in for a TREAT rather than a TREATMENT, to paraphrase the Old Gold Cigarettes ads back in the day! Now get back to the table, if you would, please!

BENNY THE BALL: Sure thing, TC!

TOP CAT, somewhat as an aside: Sheesh--this Pumpkin Spice Life season comes at you like the Sour Grapes Girls trying to challenge The Banana Splits to another absurd stunt! Or The Great Grape Ape suddenly coming out of nowhere!

[Meanwhile--]

THE GREAT GRAPE APE, emboldened: Did someone mention my name just now? Grape Ape! Grape Ape!

[Whereupon TC goes into facepalm mode, expressing disbelief over that those words just translated into]

#vignette #hanna barbera #pumpkin spice season #pumpkin spice life #crazy claws #fudge #wisconsin dells #lovethedells #scooby doo #scooby snax #huckleberry hound #pumpkin spice cappuccino #yogi bear #jellystone park #trollkins #troll aesthetic #cinnamon rolls #hair bear bunch #motorhome kitchen #fixing cinnamon rolls from scratch #top cat #marine layer #pumpkin spice donuts #the great grape ape #hannabarberaforever

[randominagines]

Pairing: Avengers X neutral!reader

Warning: fluff

P.s. if you find any mistake please correct me, English is not my mother tongue and I want to improve. Reblog, if you can, it helps a lot, thank you💕

P.p.s. gifs belong to the creators.

Avengers reacting to you telling them "I love you":

TONY

For as much as he looks confident, he would be shocked at first: he actually didn't expect you to love him back. He has a bad temper, as we all know, and can sometimes be full of himself, but you showed him, in several occasions, that you know how big his heart is. He would stare at you, his eyes scanning you and, for the first time ever, speechless; then he would finally process your words and kiss you. That's his way to show you how happy he is about your confession. He would then open his heart to you: "Y/n, I must say that I'm surprised, but I couldn't be happier, I love you too."

STEVE

Steve is a pure soul: he would immediately smile and show how enthusiastic he is while his cheeks go pink. He would stare at you with his big blue eyes and hug you, his arms lifting you and making you twirl. He would be totally overwhelmed with joy and would caress the back of your head. "Y/n, you can't imagine how much this means to me, I love you too." He would say then he would kiss you softly, his touch delicate and respectful, because he's still a 1945 man, after all.

THOR

I feel like he would be the kind of person who's been in love with you for years but never thought you could love him back or look at him as a lover, so he would feel like you just lifted his burden. Thor would take a moment to process it: he would look at you, his eyes widened, then he would melt into the sweetest smile. He would immediately cup your face with his hands, his intense eyes fixed on you. "Y/n, I love you too, I've always loved you." He would say before passionately kissing you, in a slow but super intense way, his strong hands gentle but firm on your skin.

NAT

Natasha is so perceptive so she would probably have sensed that before, but hearing it from you is something else... she would be so shy: she would look away and smile, her stomach filling with butterflies while she asks "You really do love me?". She knows how pure and precious you are and she just wants to make you happy but she also had a difficult life and love was never in her plans, mostly because she didn't think she could find it. You would put a finger under her chin and look at her in her eyes and repeat that once again. "Yes, I love you, Nat, a lot.". She would melt at this point: her lips would search for yours and she would caress your cheek while kissing you, then she would whisper. "I love you too, oh my God, I really do."

WANDA

Wanda is basically a cinnamon roll and she has a romantic soul: she would smile, her eyes looking at you with tenderness while she walks to you and slowly reaches her hand to caress your cheek, her touch delicate. "You can't imagine how happy I am, I love you too, y/n." She would say, her forehead against yours. You would be the one who searches for her lips but she would immediately kiss you back, her arms crossing on your shoulders. She would kiss you with tenderness, her lips curved into a smile while she gives you small kisses all over your cheeks, nose and neck, then she would gently hug you, happier than ever.

PETER

He. Would. Freak. Out. He would initially look at you in shock, his heartbeat fastening and his hands nervously scratching the back of his head. He would stutter a lil bit and mostly starting to talk nonsense. "What? Are you sure? I - I mean, of course you are, but you do love me? I like this, I mean, that's great but..." You would have to shut him up by putting a hand on his mouth, your joyful laugh making him calm down and smile. "Pet, I'm sure, I love you." You would say while gently caressing the back of his head. He would slowly put a hand on you waist, his eyes scanning you to check if that's okay with you, then he would smile. "I love you too, very much." He would say and then kiss you while keeping smiling against your lips.

SAM

He would be mesmerized: he wouldn't stop staring at you, his usual smirk on his face but this time looking softer, tenderer. He would walk to you without saying a word, then he would grab your waist and kiss you: his tongue searching for yours and his hands caressing your waist. He would smile on your lips and gently squeezing your hips: "I love you too, baby." He would say and give you another quick kiss before biting his lower lip. "God, how gorgeous you are." He would compliment you and enjoy the redness spreading in your cheeks;

BUCKY

Bucky loves you intensely, but he is so broken that he needs time to process. He wouldn't say a word, his eyes would widen and he would stare at you, his whole body suggesting him to run to you but his mind keeping him still. He would take a deep breath. "Y/n, I'm complicated and you are..." He would try to say, but words are not exactly his field. He would caress you cheek slowly, almost afraid to break you, then he would exhale. "I don't know if I deserve you." He would finally spill the truth. You would caress him, your eyes looking at him with tenderness before comforting him. "Bucky, you deserve anything that makes you feel happy and loved, because you are a good person and I will not believe otherwise." His eyes would get watery while he gently caresses you, his lips curving into a tiny smile. "I love you too, y/n, I hope I'll be able to prove it to you." He would whisper, his lips on yours. "You will." You would say before kissing him slowly.

LOKI

Loki's face would be a mix between absolutely enthusiastic and surprised: he would immediately smile, his eyes lighting up and his hands searching for yours. He would kiss both of your hands and look at you. "What have I done to deserve someone like you?" He would whisper while hugging you, his face hidden in the crook of your neck. You would hug him back and caress the back of his head, your fingers playing with his long black locks. He would look at you and smile. "I've never been good with these things, but I do love you and I want to make you happy." He would say and you would smile. "You already do." You would say while he smiles on your lips before kissing you again and again and again.

#avengers headcanon #avengers imagine #bucky barnes imagine #loki imagine #natasha romanov imagine #wanda maximoff imagine #thor imagine #steve rogers imagine #tony stark imagine #peter parker imagine #sam wilson imagine #bucky barnes x reader #loki x reader #natasha romanov x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #thor x reader #steve rogers x reader #tony stark x reader #peter parker x reader #sam wilson x reader #bucky barnes x you #loki x you #natasha romanov x you #wanda maximoff x you #sam wilson x you #steve rogers x you #tony stark x you #thor x you #avengers x you #avengers x reader

[rae-gar-targaryen]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read part one here.

---

It doesn't snow in Santo Padre.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That had gone famously. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I care, Frida.”

“... and if I wanted you back?”

“Please, querida.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bleeding hearts on a very crisp sleeve.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was he fucking serious? 

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

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

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

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

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

You weren’t about to cave so easily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. And you were doing so well. 

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel was silent for a moment. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are something, Frida.” 

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded toward Angel’s arm once more.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How could something about you not be beautiful?"

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She had outdone herself. You felt gorgeous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If he only knew. 

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

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

And he saw you, too.

Oh fuck. 

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

He fucking wouldn’t. 

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

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

Fuck, you were hot when you were mad.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was he … drunk? 

Fuck this. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel flinched. 

“I deserve that,” he said. 

Strike two. Too little, too late. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strike. Fucking. Three. 

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

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

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

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

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

Ice cold. 

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus fuck!” Angel yelped. 

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

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

Oh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shook your head. 

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

Well, shit. 

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

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

Not much got past Johnny “Coco” Cruz.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel ignored his question. 

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

“No hug for me, jaina?” 

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

You recovered quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coco snorted. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who says I want anything,” EZ asked?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel sighed before he spoke again, 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know that,” Angel snapped. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

Huh. Unexpected  Should you open it? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well. 

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

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

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

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

There. Short, sweet, and to the point.

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

"Gracias, Frida."

"Don't thank me yet."

You put your phone down flat on the counter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If Angel noticed, he hadn't said anything.

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

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

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

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

You shrugged. "Suit yourself."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You decided to take conversational mercy on him, 

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

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

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

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

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

You sighed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I really ain’t,” he said. “And you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At Angel’s puzzled look, you carried on,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what a question it was. 

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

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

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

"Ever the poet, Frida."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 But this moment? This was about you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, querida?” 

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Say something, Frida.” 

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

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

"I don't know, dulce."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know."

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

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

You hadn’t thought to return it.

---

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

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

Your one o'clock was right on time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You patted his arm gently, resuming your work. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Made to be admired in perpetuity. 

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

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

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

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

You shrugged again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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​

#loved you once #it's here #loved you once part two #and it's SO LONG #i'm SO SORRY #angel reyes x reader #angel reyes x you #angel reyes x frida #angel x frida #angel reyes x oc #angel reyes x fem!reader #angel reyes agnst #angel reyes smut #mayans mc fic #mayans fic #mayans mc #mayans #angel reyes #clayton cardenas #my writing #rachel reynolds #angel reyes headcanon

[rogue-durin-16]

'BOUT DAMN TIME

Request: Could you write some George Luz fluff where he and the company’s female medic have had crushes on each other since Toccoa and their feelings come out while watching Trigger for Talbert while in Holland (set around the Crossroads episode)?

Pairing: George Luz x medic!Reader

Genre: fluff

Tags:

Requested by: @carpediem1219

Permanent taglist: @elia-the-bibliophile @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @comfort-reads

Warnings: language and I think that's pretty much it(?)

A/N: Joined this fandom for the amazing miniseries, stayed for cinnamon roll Don Malarkey and cute clown George Luz so here we go. Thanks for the request love! Enjoy <3

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

"What's with the gal?" I questioned, toying with my breakfast, my attention fully laid on the one girl that had very recently joined us in most of our training at Camp Toccoa.

"Dunno, Luz, what's with her?" Perconte asked monotonously, eyes fixed on a book held in his hand.

"What's she doin' here?"

"Well—" Guarnere elbowed perconte before he could get any word out.

"why dontcha ask her, Luz?" He suggested with a half smile.

"Yeah, Luz, go ask the lady."

"C'mon, Luz!"

"Yeah, go ask her!"

Spurred by my colleagues, I shot up sporting a cocky grin and attempted to make my way to the almost empty table in which the intriguing lady sat.

On my way there, however, Liebgott thought it would be funny to trip me, which triggered a burst of muffled laughter from the table I had just left, and simultaneously startled the poor girl, as I fell right by her table.

Quickly pulling myself up to sit by the girl's side, I greeted her, sounding as suave as possible. "Mornin', miss."

"Mornin'...?" She replied, staring at me with a shocked and confused glance, her brows knitted. "Are you okay?" She questioned.

"Wha... Yeah!" I scoffed, making myself comfortable in my new seat. "It was intentional." I blatantly lied, making her snort.

"Sure it was." She then stayed in silence, attentively observing me, and it dawned on me I had to say something.

I cleared my throat and attempted to sound unironically smooth. "May I ask" she quirked an eyebrow —not exactly a good signal, but I kept on going nonetheless— "What's a girl like you doin'—"

"In a place like this." She finished, ruining my line. "get a bit creative maybe."

Scratching the back of my neck, I subtly turned distressed to my friends, who I found hiding their amusement; they all gave me a thumbs up, some mouthing 'you got this'.

Very helpful.

"So—"

"I'm a medic." She responded before I could formulate the inquiry. "Name's Y/n Y/l/n. And yours is...?"

"George Luz." gifting her a way more eased smile, I extended my hand to her.

"George Luz, huh?" She firmly shook my hand, reciprocating the smile while her eyes scrutinized me. "Wanna have breakfast with me, Luz?" I enthusiastically nodded, earning a soft chuckle from her.

I knew it right away; that ought to be one of my favorite sounds in the whole world.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"HEY Y/L/N!" I leaned on the trembling medic from behind, given that I stood after her in the jumping line. "YOU ALRIGHT?!"

"I'M AFRAID OF HEIGHTS!" She confessed, spinning her head only enough for me to hear what she was saying.

It took me a hot second to process, and once I did, I couldn't help but snort. "AFRAID OF HEIGHTS?!"

She then attempted to fully turn to face me, and her fuming gaze was met with my amused one. "I'LL KILL YOU AND MAKE IT LOOK LIKE AN ACCIDENT!"

"OH C'MON, Y/N!" I reached for her bicep and rubbed it reassuringly. "IT'LL BE OKAY, YOU'LL SEE!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/n was as scared as the first time we jumped during our training— maybe even more, but so was I.

So were all of us.

I couldn't reassure her this time, but actions speak louder than words sometimes; taking a deep breath, I gave her leg a couple of taps. Startled, she snapped her head at me, here eyes wide. I cued her to stare down, where the back of my palm rested on her thigh.

No words were needed for her to understand what I was offering, and she waisted no time interlacing our fingers with a grateful look on her gaze.

I gave her hand a squeeze of rather fake comfort —though I didn't know who I was trying to comfort— and let my head fall back.

Unbeknownst to me, we would endure endless teasing on Harry's behalf for that little move after the arduous jump.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Y/n Y/l/n in the flesh!" I shouted, jogging to the front of the tank where our medic was sat. "And in one piece, lads!" I dramatically announced.

I helped her get off the war vehicle by holding both her hands, offering her support and balance —and maybe, just maybe, to bring her close to me and linger on her touch.

"We were about to—" my eyes widened when the girl engulfed me in her arms; after the initial shock, I lost no time to reciprocate the brief hug. "Start dividing up your belongings— ouch!" I took my hand to my left bicep, which had just taken Y/n's punch.

"You thought me dead?!" And which belongings, asshole?" She reached out for the bag that rested on the tank "all I have's pinched."

"Thievery won't be tolerated in this company!" I dramatically exclaimed, impersonating Sobel.

"You're a clown," Y/n stated between chuckles. Everytime I made her laugh, my heart swelled a bit. "I'm glad you made it, Luz."

"Of course you are."

"Hey Y/n/n!" Talbert called for the medic from behind me. "Mind checking this? Think it might be infected."

"Comin'!" She spared me an apologetic smile, passing by me in Talbert's direction. "Let's see what you got... Yeah, 'm afraid it's infected. Hold on Tab, we'll fix it real quick—"

"Man, just tell her." Perconte, who had sneakily approached me, urged me.

"Have you gone mad?"

"Well what you gonna do? Observe her forever?"

"Uhh yeah."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

READER'S P. O. V.

"Christ." I let out a soft chuckle at the panting Technician, exhausted from all the jumping and running. "That's a handful, right there." He stated, making his way to sit besides me on top of a couple of piled trunks.

After about half an hour of watching over a restless, eager-to-run-outside Trigger, and seeing how the dog had determined to ruin the Platoon's bags, George had taken an interesting approach; exhaust the dog.

"You could've helped, you know?"

"You seemed to be handling the situation just fine." I feigned obliviousness to his worn-out self, which triggered a piqued scoff that held no actual resentment whatsoever.

In all honesty, I doubted Luz could hold any kind of resentment towards his friends for longer than a couple of hours.

"Hold on, I'll bring you some water." I resolved, hopping off the trunk in order to grab one of the recently refilled canteens from the table.

On my way back to Luz, I was met with a way much appeased Trigger, which walked with me until I reached the trunk; once I had sat back down, and proceeding hand the canteen to George, the dog laid on his stomach at our feet.

"Good job." I praised the boy.

"Is that surprise I hear?"

"Well, it's shocking that you can do something apart from good impersonations and being lucky."

"Jesus, Y/l/n."

"I'm kidding, Luz."

"Good, 'cause I'm good at a lot of things."

"Such as?"

"Flirting." He winked at me intently, but I couldn't bring myself to read between lines.

"Okay, flirt with me then." I couldn't believe the sentence that had just left my lips. Thankfully, with George Luz, everything could be played out as a joke.

"You're shittin' me?"

Being too scared to tell the truth, whilst simultaneously not being able to lie any longer, I chose to chuckle and look away; even though I felt his eyes fixed on me, I desperately hoped George wouldn't be able to read me.

"I've been flirting with you for a year."

I gave him a dazed look, trying my best not to let my hopes get too high. George was my friend.

Just my friend.

"Okay, not good at flirting I guess." I frowned, not quite understanding what he meant by that. "I'm good at dancing."

"Wait what?"

"Yeah, I'm a good dancer."

"No I mean—"

"C'mon Y/l/n, let's dance." He tugged both my hands with a playful smile that barely hid the disappointment in his eyes. "Bless 'em all, Bless'em all," he began to swing my arms, singing. "The long and the short and the tall— c'mon Y/n!"

It would have been amusing, had it not being dawning on me that George Luz had actually been flirting with me for the past year, and he was, for once, not kidding.

"George!"

"What?!"

"Have you... Really been flirting this whole time?"

"Dunno, have I?"

"Luz!" I slapped his chest, annoyed, making him take a step back.

"Okay, yeah, I might have." He nonchalantly said, downplaying his sudden shyness.

"Why?"

His eyes widened as he let out a snort. "Wha— Because I fuckin' like you?" I took a step back in astonishment, "well, actually, liking is a fucking understatement, Y/n!" George seemed to be about to spiral out of... frustration? "you know, hell, I think I love you— and honestly, I don't buy you didn't come to that conclusion on your own because I was so painfully obvious—"

Cupping his cheeks, I pulled him into the kiss I had longed to give him since we first met at Camp Toccoa.

I attempted to break the kiss, but quickly changed my mind when I felt the warmth of George's hands resting on my waist, pulling me closer.

We were starting to get lost in each other's touch, deepening the kiss, when the door of the room was bursted open, making Trigger begin to bark again.

"JESUS— NOT IN FRONT OF THE DOG!" George and I simultaneously pulled away from each other after hearing Talbert's yells.

"Tab, calm down, the dog's—"

"Shut up, Luz!" I bit my lip, deciding to stay quiet.

George and I shared a buffled look at the sight of Talbert pampering Trigger, muttering something about how we were 'a couple of horny bastards' before taking the dog with him.

Once he was at the door, he turned to face us and, looking daggers at the both of us added, " 'bout damn time."

The moment he left, we both broke out in a fit of laughter, on result of the emotional rollercoaster we had just went through.

"Fuckin' Christ." Once the laughs started to die down, the Technician extended his hand to me, which I gladly took, and pulled me to him. "So... You like me?"

"Hell, I think I love you." I mockingly repeated his own words.

"Oh my god, Y/n Y/l/n loves me." Though he was obviously teasing, there was a kind of joy sparkling in his eyes that I hadn't seen before; that made my stomach flutter.

"Don't let it get to your head, Luz."

"Oh I'm definitely letting it get to my head." I playfully smacked his chest right before he brought me to him for another kiss, shorter and softer.

As I saw it, that kiss was some sort of celebration of a new beginning between us.

#george luz #george luz x reader #george luz x you #george luz fanfiction #george luz headcanons #luz x reader #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers #george luz request #bob request #bob boys headcanons #band of brothers headcanons #hbo miniseries #hbo war #george luz aesthetic #george luz fluff #frank perconte #floyd talbert #crossroads #currahee

[touyasdoll]

Dumb Luck

From anon: Hi, I've had a shitty few days with terrible luck and I hoping a request for you could make things better. Just a simple Shoto x reader story where the reader regards Shoto as her/their lucky charm, because he makes them feel less cursed and actually valuable. (I'm really venting here, but I hope this gets your inspiration flowing, it doesn't have to be very long.)

Word count: 2.3k

A/n: I’m so sorry that it took so long to get to, but I hope you enjoy and I hope things are going well for you, anon 🖤

———————————

“All right, class, we have a new student. I trust that you will all make her feel welcome.”

Your new home room teacher was addressing the entirety of Class 1A, but he kept his intimidating gaze squarely fixed on a shorter looking boy with purple balls atop his head, who was clearly squirming under Aizawa’s stare.

Making a mental note to avoid whoever that boy was, you scanned the room to peer out at the faces of your new classmates. They all looked nice, save for one blonde boy who’s face seemed to be permanently transfixed in a scowl.

Maybe you should avoid him too? And that’s when you saw the most handsome face you had ever laid eyes on for the very first time. His hair was two-toned, red and white. His eyes were also heterochromatic and one was framed with a large scar, but both seemed to gleam as he offered a gentle smile toward you.

“Go ahead and introduce yourself and then feel free to take your seat at the back of the class next to Todoroki."

That’s when you noticed the empty seat next to him. You cleared your throat, trying to fight off the blush that was creeping across your cheeks.

"Hi, my name is Y/n. I'm looking forward to getting to know you all."

You smiled as you took in some more of your new classmates faces, feeling reassured by the bright smile on the face of a green haired boy who just might have been an actual cinnamon roll in disguise.

"What's your quirk?"

Your attention was called to a girl with horns and pink skin, who also offered a reaffirming smile in your direction.

"Oh, uhm, I have a telekinesis quirk."

Tucking some hair behind your ear, you shifted on your feet as you were about to take a step toward your assigned seat when another male student with bright red hair called out.

"What? That's so manly! I mean--not that you're--that's not what i meant, you're really pretty actually I--," he scratched at the back of his neck, his face flushing the same shade as his crimson hair. "I mean can we see your quirk? If that's okay with you?"

Aizawa sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as he took a seat at his desk, shaking his head at the awkward exchange that he would rather just not acknowledge.

You laughed it off and blushed in response to the red head's compliment.

"Uh, yeah, if that's okay?"

Looking over at your teacher, he exhaled and nodded, his stoic expression returning to his persistently tired features.

"Oh, and uh pick a number between 1 and 10,000"

Setting your bag down, you nodded toward the boy and watched him bare his sharp teeth as he momentarily paused to think and then nodded in response to your request.

"Okay, I got it."

Maintaining eye contact with him, you focused on his thoughts while activating your quirk to lift his backpack off of his seat, guiding it toward the front of the room with your hands, before returning it to it's rightful place.

"Whoa! That's so cool!"

He grinned in awe as he watched his backpack settle behind him once again.

"Y/n?" The green haired boy had his hand up, looking perplexed, but also so polite as he waited for your attention. "Why did you have him pick a number?"

You smiled as you physically picked up your bag, slinging it back over your shoulder.

"Oh, because there's kinda two parts to my quirk, but actually, could you pick a number? I don't know if I wanna repeat the one he picked."

You watched the red head blush as he shrunk back in his desk, before glancing back at Todoroki, who eyes were still intent on your frame.

"You can tell Todoroki for confirmation, so you know I'm not faking."

He perked up a bit at the sound of you saying his name, the corners of his lips turning up in a shy smile before he leaned over, so that the boy could whisper his number in his ear.

"Got it?"

You smiled at Todoroki, his small smile making your stomach do flips before you found the will to look away from him and back and the other boy.

After a moment of concentration, you announced your guess.

"4,389. Right?"

His green eyes went wide and an excited smile broke across his freckled cheeks.

"Whoa, are you psychic? Telekinesis AND telepathy? That's so awesome! Oh my gosh, can I ask you some questions after class, so I can write some not--

You nodded, blushing a bit at his enthusiasm. You've always enjoyed your quirk, but no one had ever reacted quite as energetically to it and the rest of the class seemed almost as amazed as him.

"Wait, what was Kirishima's number?"

The perpetually angry looking blonde boy's face twisted in curiosity as you moved to take your seat.

"It was uh, six thousand, nine hundred sixty-nine. Right?"

Your voice was barely above a whisper as your quickly scurried toward your desk, not missing the deep shade of red Kirishima had turned before the blonde boy smacked his arm with the back of his hand.

"Is there some significance to that number?"

Todoroki's gaze followed you as you took your seat beside him, ignoring the laughter that had erupted throughout the classroom, much to Aizawa's chagrin.

"Oh, uh, yeah it's uh--I don't quite know how to explain it though. Uhm," fidgeting in your seat, you slung your bag over your chair before turning somewhat sideways, angling yourself in your seat to face him, keeping your voice low. "Do you not know why the number 69 is significant?"

His expression seemed to only grow more puzzled as he cocked his head further to one side.

"No. I can understand why 6,969 would be significant, seeing as it's 69 repeated, but I don't see why that number i--"

A boy with yellow hair, striped in the front with a bit of black leaned over, interrupting Todoroki's query.

Suddenly, his eyes grew a bit wider and he nodded slightly, the faintest hint of a blush creeping up on his cheeks.

"Oh, I see. Okay. I can see why that would be funny.”

His smile was small and somewhat reserved, but it was adorable and the sight of it made you giggle.

"Yeah, that's why I didn't wanna go with his number. Didn't want anyone to think that I was a perv or playing a gross joke or something. I'm not trying to start off on the wrong foot here."

He cocked his head slightly to the side again, turning somewhat in his desk the way you had to better face you.

"Well, I think you have made a good first impression. I like you."

Your cheeks may as well have gone up in flames, you could tell they were beet red.

"Oh, uhm, thank you, Todoroki."

Clearing your throat again, you hoped the excess color would drain from your cheeks in the time you took to stare at the floor beneath your desk.

"You can call me Shoto."

His hand awkwardly extended toward you after a brief pause, flashing in front of the view you had of your feet beneath your desk.

You reached out and shook it carefully, feeling an icy coolness in your palms that you were grateful for as you felt your hands clam up.

"It's really nice to meet you, Shoto. You're uhm, you're so much nicer than anyone I ever interacted with at my last school, so uh, thank you for that."

His brow furrowed in confusion as you both retracted your hands.

"What do you mean? They weren't nice to you? Why?"

You shrugged shifting your weight to rest your elbow on the desk, accidentally knocking your unprotected cell phone straight off the desk, which mercifully landed on top of Shoto's bag, which had fallen to the floor, no doubt saving your phone from what would have been a thoroughly cracked screen.

"Oh--! Oh, wow, I thought that was going to end up broken for sure. That would have been my just my luck."

"Maybe your luck is changing. I hope your experience here at UA is different than it was at your previous school. I'll do my best to make your time here more positive."

His smile was somewhat sheepish, but genuine and for the first time in a long time, you felt comfortable around your peers. Maybe transferring schools was a good idea after all.

//Two Weeks Later//

"Dang it!" You huffed as your hurriedly threw your books into your backpack, scrambling to get up from the desk in the library.

Shoto calmly looked up at you in your frenzied state and stood, beginning to pack up his things as well.

"Where are we going?"

Throwing your bag over your shoulders, you nabbed the last of your books off the desk and made a move to start toward the door, but stopped when you realized Shoto was getting up to follow you.

"I completely lost track of time. I have to catch the last bus to go and pick something up downtown and I think I'm about to miss it."

He nodded and stepped toward you, following you out the library doors.

"Sometimes the buses run a little late. Maybe if you're lucky, it won't have come yet."

You scoffed and rolled your eyes at his suggestion.

"Yeah, sure. Look, I will give you fair warning now; I'm one of the unluckiest people in the planet. The odds are super slim of even something small going wrong? My luck dictates that absolutely EVERYTHING will go wrong. At this point, I'm nearly convinced that a witch cursed me as a baby or something."

He shrugged, coming to a halt at the curb as a bus slowly began to pull up.

"I told you."

Your mouth gaped slightly as you shook your head.

"Okay, wow, well I'm glad you were right about the buses running late."

"I meant about what I said about your luck changing. I hope you've been having a better time here than at your last school. You deserve to, Y/n."

He stepped back and gestured for you to enter the bus ahead of him, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Oh, uhm, I--uh, I hope so."

You climbed up the steps and nearly tripped up the small flight of stairs, but his strong hands steadied your hips from behind before anyone could notice your falter, keeping you from making a fool out of yourself in front of a nearly packed bus.

"Thank you, Shoto."

You scurried toward the first set of open seats that you could find, letting your hair dangle in your face to try and conceal the heat on your face.

"Sorry, I, uh--," Shoto took a seat beside you, actively trying not to let his muscular thigh brush against yours, which was virtually impossible on a crowded bus, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable with the way I touched you, I--I just didn't--didn't want you to fall or anything."

Feeling a bit more brave in sensing how nervous he was over the interaction, you relaxed and let the arm and leg that were already pressed up against him in the tight quarters press against him a little more intentionally.

"It's okay, I appreciate you not letting me make an absolute fool of myself. Seems like you're always around to help me in that regard."

Giggling, you began searching for the nerve to look up and make eye contact with him.

Hearing him mumble something, you decided to dig deep and look up at him with a curious smile.

"Hmm? Did you say something?"

His left side was giving off more heat than usual as you noticed he was blushing too, scratching the back of his neck nervously with his right hand.

"Dumb luck, I guess. That I'm always around when you need it. I'm glad I can be, I hope I can, uh, continue to be. If you, i-if you would let me be around you more often lik--"

He was rambling, clearly nervous, and it was an adorable sight to see. Further emboldened by his demeanor, you shifted your weight to lean against him, brushing the back of his hand with yours.

"Are you trying to ask me out, Shoto?"

His expression went blank as he nodded, save for the adorable flush on his cheeks.

"I am. Did I do it right? Or---wait, did you read my mind?"

You shook your head as your giggled, knitting your fingers together with his.

"No, I didn't need to."

He smiled, shifting his weight to lean against you as he rubbed the back of your hand with his thumb.

"How did you know then?"

You shrugged playfully before resting your head against his shoulder.

"Dumb luck."

#shoto #shoto fluff #shoto x reader #shoto imagine #shoto torodoki #shouto todoroki #todoroki shouto #todoroki shoto x reader #bnha fluff #bnha todoroki #bnha imagines #bnha x reader #mha x you #mha todoroki #mha imagines #todoroki imagine #todoroki x reader #todoroki #my hero #my hero x reader #boku no hero academia #my hero academia imagines #my hero academia

[jaskierswolf]

Prince Julian getting turned into a goose or swan by evil Step Whatever but instead of running away to hide in shame he stays in the castle to wreck havoc similar to Untitled Goose game. People are so scared of this bird they call in a witcher because the goose is seemingly indestructible.

Prompt by the lovely @ecccentrick originally sent to @bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher ❤️ Thanks darling for letting me take this one! It’s just under 2k so wooo. On AO3.

__________________

Geralt was tired and already angry at the world when the young servant boy had run up to him at the market. He’d been caught up on a contract as the snow had begun to fall, cutting him off from the path up to Kaer Morhen, meaning he was stuck amongst the humans who despised him for the whole of winter. He longed for the safety of his home and the company of his brothers but he’d settled in Kerack instead. The trees in the market place were covered in snow and the stalls were selling all sorts of holy wreaths and evergreen garlands. One particular merchant had candles burning brightly, to advertise their stock. The scent of apples and cinnamon filled the air, almost overwhelming Geralt’s sensitive nose.

“Master witcher!” The servant called hurriedly.

Geralt sighed and pressed his fingers to his forehead. He had been planning on retiring to his room at the tavern, perhaps a trip to the local brothel, but he knew that tone of voice. That was the voice of someone in need of a witcher’s services. A night in the arms of a whore would now be a night tussling with some variety of monster. He just hoped it was a simple one. He turned to face the young lad, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Yes.”

“My Lord, the Viscount of Lettenhove, has requested that you come with me,” he simpered with an exaggerated bow.

Geralt suppressed a groan, he fucking hated nobles. It was all posturing and throwing money around up until the point where he actually wanted to get paid. He thought, once again, of the blistering bonfires at Kaer Morhen and the epic feasts which spanned for twelve days through the shortest days of the year. They all left their home with a thick layer of fat around their muscles, but not this year, not for Geralt. He tried to smile politely at the young servant. “And what is it that ails the Viscount so badly that he requires a witcher?”

The boy blushed, his composure failing as he stammered, looking for the right words. “My Lord Viscount will fill you in on the details, Master witcher.” Geralt frowned. It was never a good sign when the messenger didn’t even want to tell him the facts of the contract. He huffed and rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’ll meet with him.”

“Thank you, good sir.”

“Just. Just lead the way.”

Geralt was hurried into Lettenhove castle under the cover of a heavy black cloak. They snuck him in through the kitchens. The servant boy grew more anxious the closer they got to the castle and he was practically jumping out of his skin by the time they were inside.

“What the fuck is going on?” Geralt asked, his hands itching for his sword but there was no point until he knew what sort of monster he was facing.

“The. The… well the Terror of Lettenhove. He, it. It used to terrorise the market place but now he, it has found a way into the castle and it is destroying everything. There is just no way to kill him, it, to kill it, Master witcher.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes and looked around the busy kitchen. It was filled with all manner of servants, not just the kitchen staff. He wasn’t entirely well-versed in nobility but he was certain that the stablehands didn’t normally cower under the tables in the kitchen. He grasped his medallion in his hand but it was still beneath his fingers. “Take me to the Viscount.”

The Viscount was a tall man, well built with greying brown hair and soft blue eyes, one might call him handsome if it weren’t for ugly sneer on his face. The guards outside the room were practically shaking in their armour, and yet this man was draped across a throne like there wasn’t a care in the world. Geralt couldn’t help the low, almost inaudible growl that escaped his lips; fucking nobles.

“You got a monster problem?”

The Viscount laughed a grotesque bitter laugh. “Of sorts, oh how you’ll laugh, witcher.”

Geralt sighed, his fists clenching at his side. He was done with the riddles in this fucking castle. “I’m listening.”

“We are plagued… by a goose.”

Geralt blinked, waiting for everyone to start laughing. It had to be a joke. You didn’t hire a witcher to kill a goose. You hired a huntsman if it was that bad… but a monster slayer?

“Sorry?”

“A goose. The Terror of Lettenhove is a goose. It’s hassling my staff, stealing food, destroying the drapes and furniture. I heard it was causing havoc at the market last week too, but here’s the catch, witcher. No one has been able to kill it. My finest archers have shot it but the arrows bounce right off its feathers. The guards’ swords break the second they hit it, we’ve tried capturing the bastard but it is too quick, too intelligent.”

Geralt scowled and thought back to the servant’s first description of the goose. He’d kept calling the goose a ‘he’, and clearly this was no ordinary bird. If Geralt had to guess it was some kind of curse, one that either the Viscount didn’t know about… or he was the one that was responsible.

“Do I have to kill it?” Geralt asked, fixing the Viscount with an icy glare.

“That would be preferable but,” he paused and sighed, clearly reluctant to continue “if you can’t kill it then I want it gone; far, far away. With the Solstice and Yuletide celebrations around the corner, I want it gone!”

Geralt nodded. “So why did you curse him?”

The Viscount suddenly sat upright in his chair, flushing furiously. “Excuse me?”

“The Terror of Lettenhove? He’s cursed, and I think you had a hand in it.” Geralt cross his arms in front of his chest and smirked at the flapping Viscount.

“You’ve got some nerve, witcher!” He spat. “If you think I’ll pay you after such insolence!”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Hmm.”

And with that he stalked out of the room. He would try to find this goose and hopefully manage to lift his curse. The castle was eerily quiet as he moved through the corridors. There were no servants buzzing around, no guards past the Viscount’s room. He closed his eyes and listened carefully for any traces of the goose. He smiled faintly when he heard a honk from one of the upstairs rooms and the rustling of feathered wings flapping. His instincts were telling him to draw his sword, like he would normally when tracking and hunting monsters, but he knew this time there was no real danger, and he didn’t want to harm the poor man who had been cursed. His best guess was that the man was the heir to the Viscount’s title or perhaps a long lost cousin coming to reclaim the estate. It was usually petty squabbles that led to such curses.

He didn’t hesitate before climbing the stairs, taking them two at a time. He was just grateful that the cursed man was a goose and nothing so terrifying as a striga. The honking got louder as Geralt moved through the house. He started to notice the destruction the bird had caused, feathers strewn all over the floor, curtains torn to shreds, scratches from the bird’s beak dug into the wallpaper. The honking bird fell silent as he approached one of the bedrooms. Geralt tilted his head and peered cautiously round the door.

“Shit!”

The bird flew at him, a mess of noise and white feathers. Geralt tried to grab his neck but, as the Viscount had said, the bird was too quick. He was pecking insistently at Geralt’s face and hair. Geralt forced himself to still. The bird honked and flapped, the wind from his beating wings swept through Geralt’s hair until the bird realised he was no longer getting a reaction. He dropped to the floor and stared up at Geralt. Geralt raised an eyebrow at the goose, staring back into startling blue eyes that had no place on such an animal.

“You’re cursed?” He asked in a hushed voice, squatting down so he was closer to the goose’s eye level.

The creature nodded and let out a pitiful honk before running around the room flapping its wings.

“Erm, it’ll be ok?” Geralt scowled as the bird jumped onto the bed, the bed sheets were shredded and goose feathers, most likely from the pillows, were strewn around the room. Geralt huffed a laugh, it almost looked as if it had snowed inside.

The goose honked loudly and stared pointedly at the mattress next to him.

Geralt hummed and slowly moved to sit down next to him. The bird immediately honked and jumped into Geralt’s lap before staring up at the ceiling. Geralt groaned as he followed the goose’s gaze.

Mistletoe.

“Fuck.”

The bird flapped its wings and honked loudly right in Geralt’s ear.

“I have to kiss you to break the curse?”

He nodded.

“But you’re a goose.”

A loud honk, clearly he was offended by Geralt’s bluntness.

“Shit. Fine,” he growled. “Not really sure how to kiss a goose but I’ll try.”

He grimaced as he placed an awkward kiss on the top of his beak. Geralt’s medallion hummed violently, springing from his chest and suddenly his lap was full of a brightly dressed men.

The man honked once more and then coughed. “Oh fucking bollocks!” He cursed and fell back onto the bed. “I thought for sure I would be stuck like that for the rest of my long life! Thank you, witcher. Gods, of all the things he had to take from me, it would be my voice. Hey… where’s my lute?! Oh fuck.” The man jumped up from the bed and started to ransack the room. “The fucking bastard!”

“He cursed you into a goose… and you’re worried about a lute?” Geralt scoffed and crossed his arms.

The man turned around with icy blue fire in his eyes. He put both hands on his hips and blew his fringe from his eyes. He was wearing a brilliant blue doublet with flashes of gold peeking out on the torso, it was unbuttoned and dark chest hair was just visible under his collar. He was obviously a relation to the Viscount, a younger version but infinitely more handsome. He was glaring at Geralt with a burning intensity but he lacked the sinister air that the Viscount had.

“You’re Geralt of Rivia? The White Wolf, Butcher of Blaviken?” He asked with a vague wave of his hand.

Geralt flinched at the old moniker but nodded. “Geralt is fine.”

He grinned and stuck out his hand. “Jaskier! Or as my father would prefer, Julian Alfred Pankratz and next in line the title of Viscount, but fuck that. I’m going to be a bard! I graduated from Oxenfurt with a bloody degree, I refuse to waste my life in this dump!”

Geralt smirked and glanced back up at the mistletoe, licking his lips thoughtfully. Now that Jaskier was himself again, kissing him really didn’t seem like such a chore, in fact he wanted to. Jaskier blushed as he noticed where Geralt was looking.

His gaze softened as he bit his lip. “Of course, this dump does have a rather lovely bed. It seems almost a shame to ignore it.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed and pulled Jaskier back into his lap so they were sitting, once more, under the mistletoe. “wouldn’t want to break tradition either,” he said as he glanced up at the green plant with its distinctive white berries.

Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt’s neck and brush their lips together, barely touching. “Tell me, Geralt, are you this forward with all the people you save?”

Geralt chuckled and pressed his forehead against Jaskier’s. “Only ones as pretty as you,” he muttered before finally capturing Jaskier’s lips in a heated kiss. ________________

Tag list: @alwenarin @slythnerd @davidtennan-t @flippinfricks @innocentcinnamonpun @marvagon @elliestormfound @geraskier-trashh @panerato @moonysourenza @artistsfuneral @hailhailsatan @wherethewordsare @havenoffandoms @bitchy-witchy-post-mortem @electricrituals @geralt-of-riviass @00qtee @kittynannygaming @stinastar @scribblesonmapleleaves @thecomfortofoldstorries @fontegagrilledcheese @anythinggoesfandoms @veritasrose @trickstermoose67 @nonegenderleftpain @ohheytheremiss @kueble @love-more-today-than-yesterday @kozkaboi @llamasdumpsterfire

#the witcher #geraskier #cursed!jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier pankratz #geralt/jaskier #mistletoe #winter prompts #wolfie's witcher writing

[ji-yaaan]

Anonymous asked:

Hello! I like your blog and the little comments here and there makes me laugh at times hehe ^^ May I request headcanons for Vil, Leona, Mal, and Floyd reactions and what they'll do to reconcile w/ the reader after a very hearted argument to which Reader may have said "I hate you" before storming out. Would they wait for a bit? A few days or hours? Or would they be upfront with their apology immediately? Reader also apologizes at the end, crying slightly if that's okay. If you notice me, thanks! 

°•°•𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐇𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐌𝐞?•°•°•

HC's with: Leona, Vil, Floyd, and Malleus.

Note: Ofc, I was late yet again. Pls forgive me dear sir... And ofc tumblr hates me so it won't cooperate! Drafts got deleted 3 times.... so if it somehow becomes inconsistent... I DEEPLY APOLOGIZE! STONE ME GENTLY! anyways, i hope you enjoy this, actually no, I beg that you enjoy this?! Idk lololololololololol.

[𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚍? 𝙸𝚍𝚔 𝚕𝚘𝚕]

°•°•°•𝙇𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙖 𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙖𝙧 •°•°•°

“I HATE YOU!” with bits of tears in your eyes, you slammed the door shut behind you leaving Leona dumbfounded all by himself.

You hate him?You hate him!?!? Is that like for real??? He’ll scratch the back of his head in shame of pushing things too far to the point you were in tears.

But what can he do? His pride caught the best of him and he acted rash in the heat of the moment. This prideful lion just doesn’t know when to shut up smh.ಥ‿ಥ

He’ll try to remember when did everything started to go wrong, but he'll just get more and more guilty the more he thinks about it.

“Tchhhh... I messed up big time...”

It's not his style to give up easily, but his mind was set in a frenzy the moment he thinks about you leaving him.

A day without you started to become dull and boring the moment he grew fond of you. So it somehow became a habit of his to constantly seek you unconsciously. Whether it's a whiff of your scent, your voice ringing in the hallways, even the sound of your footsteps is something he could easily recognize.

But now that the two of you fought, this lion will find any way possible to avoid you seeing him.

Yeah... it will probably take a while for him to apologize...(꒦ິ⌓꒦ີ)

But when the time does come, expect Leona to prepare a simple yet sincere apology.

“Oi herbivore... Sorry about the other day ok? I missed my pillow for a while now...I lose...”

Simple yet sincere :') The prideful arrogant lion somehow learned to apologize despite his ego way ahead of him. He can't stand the thought of loosing you ok? (｡•́︿•̀｡)

°•°•°•°•𝙑𝙞𝙡 𝙎𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙚𝙣𝙝𝙚𝙞��•°•°•°•°•

“VIL STOP IT! I hate this! I hate everything! I hate you!” you quickly ran away to the door as vil stood in his spot stupefied.

You hate him? You hate the Vil Schoenheit himself?Then so be it...

Vil is basically pissed and angry™. Moreover, you had the guts and audacity to tell him you hate him. His pride was shattered in front of him. And he's not happy about that (꒦ິ⌓꒦ີ)

Nope. Nah. Never. He's not apologizing anytime sooner now. He'll be waiting for that spicy well deserved apology you have for him...

He'll try his best to avoid you and give you the sassy cold shoulder treatment™. It will probably last for a few days or maybe a week. He has his pride y’know?

Not until he hears a muffled sob in the hallways and realized it was your voice. You looked visibly upset and sad as you cried your heart out, all alone in the empty hallways.

Oh no... What did he do? Was his nagging that bad? Did he take it too far with the makeovers? Guilt ate his soul away as he tried to sort out his thoughts with the clear image of your crying face embedded in his mind.

“Okay... Maybe I did take it a little too far...”

Making up his mind, Vil will try to make everything set for tomorrow and apologize to you to fix this feud  you both have. ( ╹▽╹ )

When classes are over and the two of you finally get to be alone, Vil will try to straighten this misunderstanding now! ( ꈍᴗꈍ)

“Hey Y/n I just want to tell you... I'm sorry.” “Vil I'm so sorry for the other day!-”

The both of you stared at each other with shock... Did the both of you just say sorry at the same time?

“Pfffttttt-” The both of you laugh from how hilarious this moment was. It felt as if the fight you had didn't happened at all. (人 •͈ᴗ•͈)

“Y/n I'm sorry... I took it too far with what I do without asking your opinion first...”

“Yeah... I'm sorry I lashed out at you too... That was petty...”

Vil will definitely make a million dollar once in a lifetime seen smile, so you better treasure this rare sight!!!(｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

“No more fighting, okay? ”

•°•°•°•°•𝙁𝙡𝙤𝙮𝙙 𝙇𝙚𝙚𝙘𝙝•°•°•°•°•°

“Floyd I hate you!” you slammed your way out of the table, running away from Floyd.

Angering Floyd was not the brightest Idea in the book. His infamous “bad moods” was not something anyone would like to experience. But somehow, he was really pushy and annoying today and you were fed up with it.

“Ahhhh~ Koebi-chan hates me now? what do I do?”

Thankfully, Floyd wasn’t really angry, though he was sad and heart broken that his favorite person said they hated him.(╥╭╮╥)

Floyd is an impulsive boi, so he might secretly follow you to see your face or something lol.

Ofc, Knowing Floyd, he’d definitely skip classes and skip his job at the Mostro Lounge  due to his mood swings. Ofc, a certain octoboi wasn’t really happy with this.

Azul will probs tell Jade to help out his brother or something, lol Azul be secretly worrying for the two of you loooool.

However, with the help of Jade, the mushroom eel himself, he can guide his brother to make up with you!!!

Thank god mushroom eel is here to save the day! ( ´◡‿ゝ◡`)

A fight with Floyd won’t really last long. Because Floyd being Floyd, he’ll naturally come to you like nothing ever happened! That’s why you have to be patient and understanding when it comes to Floyd ok?

With the biggest hug from behind you. There was a cute eel boi that has come to ambush you with love!

“Shrimppy! Don’t avoid meeee! I miss you so much so hang out with me at the Mostro Lounge againnn!”

Floyd is not really good with his words nor his apologies. Though, his blunt and honest demeanor is definitely one of his charming points!!!! (☆▽☆)

“Shrimpy! I have some takoyaki with me! let’s share them together ok?!”

Ugh, Floyd is too cute... It would be a capital sin to not forgive him and decline his offer! Tsk I’m watching you, you better accept that apology!

•°•°•°•𝙈𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙪𝙨 𝘿𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙞𝙖•°•°•°

“MALLEUS I HATE YOU!”

Shock. Pure shock. You hate him? The last thing Malleus wants is to hurt your feelings. In his eyes, humans are delicate and vulnerable beings, so he tries his best to protect you and treat you with utter delicacy. Yet it seems as if he failed to do that...

Just before you slam the door behind you and escape this fight, a hand grabs your wrist in attempts to stop you. Nonetheless you still make your way out, leaving Malleus standing there alone.

Malleus was deeply hurt and sorry for making you sad and angry. His heart was shattered with the thought of you leaving him, someone who made their way this close to his heart, someone he cherishes deeply.

But this fight wont really last long because Malmal would definitely try and apologize as quickly as possible!(ᓀ˵▾˵ᓂ)

Malleus is the soft type of person and I feel like he’d give up easily if it was you lol.(｡•́︿•̀｡)

Even if his apology was heard but not accepted, he’d gladly say his sorry no matter how much time and patience it will take, just for you to forgive him.༎ຶ‿༎ຶ

He’ll try to give you and Hour or two to clear your mind, then he’ll apologize!

Standing in front of your room, he’ll knock lightly at the door in front of him... No answer... So you’re still mad huh?

Leaning his forehead at the door, He’ll try to talk to you in hope for you to come out of your room. But nahhh, no signs of you leaving your room soo (´°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥ω°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥｀)

He’ll mutter apologies after another just in case you hear them :’D

“Y/n I’m sorry for hurting your feelings earlier... that was rash of me to say, so I truly apologize... I hope my feelings reach you.”

Hearing his voice, it would prolly sound as if he’s ready to cry any moment by now. You’d be a monster if you don’t forgive this fae cutie!!!(┛◉Д◉)┛彡┻━┻

When you finally come out of the door to see him. I bet you he’s moment away from his tear dripping down. Ó╭╮Ò

“You’re not mad now right? Then is it fine to ask if we eat some ice cream later?”

You bet that Malleus would give you the biggest  cheeriest grin in the entire world! oh the things you keep doing to him never surprises him. Pls dont leave this cinnamon roll or else-

That's it cuties! I need to sleep now- my classes are thriving, but I'm not!!!

God, school stuff are taking away my precious freedom and time for writing smh.

Oh god, I'm ranting again... What's new? AHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

Anyways, I need to woosh now and I hope you enjoyed this one!!!

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst wonderland #disney twst #twst imagines #twst fanfic #twst headcanons #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #leona kingscholar #twst leona #leona kingscholar x reader #vil schoenheit #vil schoenheit x reader #twst vil #floyd leech #floyd leech x reader #twst floyd #malleus draconia #malleus draconia x reader #twst malleus

[anystalker707]

Pleasantly Surprising

Pairing: Gerard x Reader Word count: ~ 4 000 Genre: Fluff / Enemies to lovers Summary: (Y/n) meets a nice group of guys in a concert. Warning: Blood, but no violence or wounds description.

Requested on Wattpad

a/n: This one if for you blood kink bastards </3

(Y/p) = Your pronouns

Feeling the cold night air filling my lungs with a faint smell of grass is much better than the smoky and sweaty, heavy air present among the public that gets worse near the mosh pit. I lean back against the brick wall, feeling the cold surface through the thick jeans of my jacket, digging into my shoulder blades as I try to control my breathing, quietly watching the band leaving the stage to give place to another.

My throat feels dry, aching the slightest after I swallow around the sharp and cold breaths, so I look around for a stand to buy at least a soda, ankling over to the nearest one. The line isn't actually that long – thank hell –, but that doesn't prevent a random bastard from trying to cut in line.

"Hey, what in the fuck you think you're doing?" I raise an eyebrow, pulling them back by their collar and they just look at me with this sulky face, bottom lip sticking out and lip ring glowing lightly under the reduced lighting. "No cutting in!"

"Says who?" they retort bitterly. "What you gonna do about it?"

"Aw, bold, aren't we?" I raise an eyebrow, glancing down and... the motherfucker is wearing school clothes, lacking the tie and shirt untucked. Private school. "What are you? Not like the other kids? The line isn't even that long, stupid."

"Fuck off," they sigh, shrugging out of my grip and harshly fixing their clothes.

"Frank– Fuck, Frank, the hell, can't we leave you alone for a single second?" A random voice suddenly interrupts our interaction before a tall person approaches, a motherly and worried air lacing their gaze. They look from me to Frank before exhaling, raising an eyebrow, at which Frank shrugs. "I'm sorry for whatever Frank did, he–"

"Fuck, no, Ray!" Frank cuts them off, "you're not playing the good guy here! I was just trying to–"

"Trying to cut in the line, yeah, very nice of you, isn't it?" I roll my eyes, twisting my mouth. At least he isn't lying, but is he stupid or something? Why would he try to convince us what he was trying to do was alright?

It looks like Frank is going to argue for a second, but ends up just groaning through gritted teeth and looking away with a sigh and tense shoulders.

Ray doesn't look any amused, only observing Frank like who looks at a puzzle after having tried to solve it for weeks without success. They shake their head, turning to me instead. "I'm Ray, he/him, nice to meet you. Sorry for Frank, what he did is... unfortunately usual."

I observe him looking at him from head to toes. School uniform just like Frank's, tucked shirt, loose tie. "Hi. I'm (y/n), (y/p). And don't worry, I would've done the same," I breathe, looking away from the two to hand the person behind the counter the money after pointing to the drink I want.

"What?" Frank gasps. "You would've done the same and still acted all like that towards me?"

I roll my eyes, sighing. "Me doing it doesn't mean I like being affected by it." I grab the change, shoving it in my pocket then step aside for Frank and Ray, cracking the can open.

"Y'know–" Frank crosses his arms over his chest, throwing his nose in the air, "–my momma says that you should treat the others as you want to be–"

"Aw, honey, so you'd like me cutting in the line right in front of you? Shamelessly?" I raise an eyebrow at him, unable to hold back a grin when his face gets bright red, hands balling into fists. Not gonna lie, it's kinda cute how he twists his mouth. Frank is about to curse when Ray is shoving a couple of cans into his hands – a sigh leaves his lips instead. "Two for each?" I question and sip on my drink.

Frank smirks, looking at me with humor. "Yeah, wanna watch me drink them at once?"

Ray rolls his eyes at Frank, shoving him out of the way after noticing there were people behind them. "We're actually with two other friends. Are you alone here? Do you wanna come along?" He smiles, ignoring Frank's complaints, so I opt for doing the same.

"I guess that'd be nice," I hum, shrugging. Otherwise, I'd be going home right now and Ray actually seems nice... I mean, Frank does too, but I'm not feeding his ego.

The other two stand against a brick wall when we find them, both quietly chatting to each other until seeing us approaching. The first one doesn't exactly react, more interested in the can Ray hands him, but the second, greasy punk, hums questioningly, straightening their posture as taking a good look at me almost like I did to Frank earlier. "And who are you?"

"(Y/n), (y/p)," I mutter, looking at them from over the rim of the can, taking a sip of my drink.

"Found lying in the trash when I approached," Frank adds, but doesn't seem so confident after I playfully shove him aside.

"Gerard, he/they," Gerard replies, eyes never averting away from mine. What is he, kind of a gang leader? Got a hell of an ego, though a bit differently from Frank – I'm noticing a pattern here, huh. "Mikey, he/him," he continues, nodding to the other guy.

I throw my empty can in a trashcan before leaning in towards Gerard. He tries to escape the touch, but he's against a wall, there's nowhere to go. How cute. "Belleville High," I say, finally able to make out what the small black letters embroidered on the chest area says, and step away, allowing Gerard to breathe. "Isn't it that private school? Catholic one? Wow, who'd know I'd find BH students here!"

"Stereotyping, are we?" Frank raises an eyebrow. It's impossible holding back a smile at him.

"No, never," I chuckle. "It's just a... rare occurrence. You came here right after school?"

"Not really." Ray shakes his head. "Just didn't have the opportunity to change. Good thing it's Friday, tho," he chuckles humorlessly and I nod in a silent agreement.

"And where do you study?" Frank takes a better look at my face. "If you study, that is."

I scoff, but don't reply just yet. Mikey is the most tidied up out of the four whereas Gerard has his tie loose around his neck, shirt untucked, blazer all wrinkled. "Of course I study, dumbass!" I glare. "But I'm in the public school near the park. But I've seen you before." I nod towards Gerard. "Just don't know where."

Gerard's eyes narrow. "Are you sure?"

"It's not always that I see a greasy vampire looking around, so yeah."

A silence hovers between us for a moment, both of us staring at each other until he feigns unamusement, looking away – I smile with a stupid pride swelling in my chest.

The night ends with us exchanging numbers after a solid hour of joking around and throwing sarcastic insults at each other. Teasing Gerard was particularly fun because he often ran away from the whole joking or at least tried to and even Mikey laughed when it failed, though sometimes succeeding when Frank finally managed to get the spotlight on himself. Ray is sweet, despite being the perfect example for 'looks like a cinnamon roll, but can actually kill you.'

Gerard got my attention, to be honest.

Saturday and Sunday go by quite slowly and thankfully texting the guys every five minutes doesn't make it as depressing as usual. Texting Gerard isn't the same as texting Frank – who replies a text to each word I send him –, however. Gerard often replies with a word or a vague comment and guess what? I'm only more interested.

No Gerard manages to slip between my thoughts during school, but it ends up happening as soon as I step past the gates. Belleville high, isn't it? Shitty elite, but they don't really seem to be like that... let's see if that wasn't just great acting. That's not even a mile away from here. I look down the street, the direction opposite to where I would usually go. It won't hurt to say hi, right? Not to mention I've got nothing to do for the rest of the day.

Belleville High's classes finish about ten minutes later compared to my school's, so I don't bother walking too fast, but not slow enough to let my palms get clammy or overthink anything. Amazing how I can feel like this about people I only met once. Okay, whatever, take a deep breath because I guess I know these curls.

"Look at who we have here!" I throw an arm around Frank's neck, interrupting whatever they were doing and attracting wide eyes towards me. Turns out I found them earlier than expected, hanging out in the park.

"Damn, are you everywhere?" Frank raises an eyebrow at me and presses his lips together, though never stepping away. Blood?

"Who knows?" I joke. "Also..." I trail off, only now taking a good look at them. "Man, what in the hell fucking happened to you guys? Seriously–" I yank a paper off Frank's back, sighing at the 'kick me' written across it and hand it to him, shaking my head. What fucking idiot did this? How the hell did they even get into a fight? It doesn't seem like they were fighting each other.

Frank groans poorly, wadding the paper into a ball and tossing it at the nearby trash can. He's got a few scratches above his eyebrows and blood trailing down the corner of his lips. Mikey and Gerard are probably in the best state out of the four – Gerard got blood trailing down his nose and same for Mikey, though on opposite sides and Mikey's cheek is smeared with blood. I can't say the same about Ray... I don't know how he's not even wincing with all that blood trailing down his face.

"Well," Mikey breathes, bringing a hand to the back of his head, "you can say that–"

"Why do you even want to know?" Gerard steps forward, hands clenched into fists by his sides. "You got nothing to do with it, okay?"

"Aw," I breathe a chuckle. So he wants things to happen like this? But does he have the nerve to keep it? I may not have known him for long, but the attitude is clearly foreign, unmatching. "And what, baby? You lost, didn't you? And you're a fucking sore loser!"

"I just don't see why you should know." He twists his mouth, looking at me uninterested, but it doesn't take long until he's looking at me with these eyes, irises barely seen, eyebrows scrunched close. "And don't talk to me like that! Maybe it would even be better if you fucked off and left us alone, don't you think?"

Man, he talks a lot. Too much. No wonder why he's in such a state. Maybe he'll shut up if I...

"Holy..." Frank trails off with a quiet chuckle and I'm certain Gerard would have glared at him if he wasn't processing what just happened.

Meanwhile, Mikey and Ray stare at me with wide eyes – as wide as Gerard's, but they're not as petrified as Gerard is, for sure, only with hesitant, unsure grins on their faces. I suppress the urge to laugh at Gerard, instead more focused on rubbing my tongue against the roof of my mouth, trying to get rid of the salty and metallic taste.

A quiet sound comes from Gerard as he finally moves, maybe a groan, not sounding really comfortable. He brings a hand up to his lips. The perfect trail of almost dry blood is now smudged, following the direction I licket it to, having the blood smeared across his chin and bottom lip. "Ugh, ugh, ugh," he groans, frantically cleaning his lips and chin with the back of his wrist, against the sleeve of his blazer. "What the fuck? You're gross!"

I roll my eyes with a sigh. "Man, I wonder why I thought being an asshole could be solved."

"Eh, trust me, he isn't normally like this," Ray says with a shrug, looking at Gerard like if he was a chained angry dog even after receiving a glare.

No one gives Gerard's tantrum much attention as we soon sit down on the grass and change the subject before we can notice. Surprisingly, Gerard sits down next to me. Even more surprisingly, he leans closer at some point and whispers, "well, look at who's the vampire now."

Saying Gerard's words got stuck in my head would be an understatement. Maybe it's a nightmare, maybe it's not, but it does get me randomly blushing or stupidly grinning during random times of the day. Nonetheless, school the following day does help a bit with cleaning my head a little.

After a few hours of staring at blackboards, the setting changes to staring at records hanging on the walls and it's honestly better. Incoherent, loud chatter being changed to music of my choice is a lot better, even if I need to talk to a customer now and then.

"This is the place I told you about. I've only been here once, but it seems good," a voice says from the outside, but I don't look up from my homework.

"Never been here," someone else says. A pause follows then their footsteps sound clearer and I sigh, shoving my things on the space under the counter.

"Hello, good afternoon," I say automatically, holding back a groan at how my eraser insists on falling and grabbing it fast. "How can I help you?" I finally look up just to freeze. And the four have the same reaction, to be honest. "I knew I had seen you before," I say to Gerard.

"What a small world!" Frank approaches, immediately narrowing his eyes and throwing his nose in the air as looking over to me. "So you're not a rebel who only wanders around and goes to free concerts during the night and stalks us?" He raises an eyebrow, looking around the place, inspecting the shelves full of records and CDs.

"So you only got one set of clothes?" I mock, staring at his school uniform.

Frank exhales, shoulders dropping. "We just got here from school." He motions vaguely to his messenger bag and I nod, humming, not like it matters a lot.

While we talk, Ray and Mikey wander around, talking quietly to each other and sometimes taking a record in hand, but Gerard... he stands there awkwardly, observing Frank and I with a lost gaze. What is he doing? Trying to act all cool like last time? Or doesn't know how to react?

"Hello," I greet, which sounds more like a question. Frank turns around to look at him, apparently understanding Gerard as much as I do.

Gerard presses his lips together and steps forward, also leaning against the counter. "You didn't mention you work here."

"Didn't have a reason to." I shrug.

The corner of his lips twitch and he's holding eye contact until sighing. "Okay, whatever. Got anything new on Misfits or Pumpkins? Also, Bauhaus." He glances at me, black strands falling over his eyes for a moment before he's pulling them away. Cute.

"Of course." I grin, moving to the cabinets behind the counter.

Frank eventually darts off as I show Gerard the records and cassettes like he wanted. I glance around to make sure Frank is paying attention to whatever Mikey is telling him and Ray before I turn to Gerard again, grinning lightly. "Y'know," I mutter, leaning forward with my elbows over the counter. "I've got passes for a bar concert tonight. Wanna come?"

"What do you mean by passes?" His eyes never avert from the records – he runs his fingers over them delicately, examining each of them closely.

"Each ticket was about ten dollars and they're sold out, but the store is sponsoring the event and I got free passes." I smirk, watching his eyebrows raise lightly. "I usually can get one person in with me. What do you say?"

He pauses. "Why me?"

"Because you're the one I know the least." And also the one I'm interested in. "Pick you up at seven, what do you say?"

He sighs. "I'll text you my address."

.

"Wow, you're..." Gerard stares at me with a blank face, standing there and letting all the cold air get in. He rushes into the car, closing the door carefully.

"I'm...?" I raise an eyebrow, sinking my foot down on the gas, pulling away from the sidewalk.

"I don't know." Silence. "Not what I expected."

"Glad to know." I grin. "You're also not what I expected. You're never what I expect, to be honest..." He wasn't all open in the beginning, but also wasn't the asshole he was in the park – in his defence, at least, he had just gotten out of a fight, nerves still on edge. At the store, however, he seemed more like himself. "Also, you're looking good."

Gerard's eyes are surrounded by eyeliner and a red eyeshadow – definitely nothing I would see him in, but also nothing I'm disappointed about –, bringing out his paleness. And for the first time, he isn't wearing that stupid school uniform and fancy shoes are replaced by platform boots. A leather jacket clutches his shoulders, decorated with a few studs and patches, and covering a nice Slipknot shirt. And there are his jeans, fucking tight and I swear I hadn't noticed this guy got such a nice ass and, fucking hell, it's difficult not staring at his thighs flat on the seat, with a chain falling over one of them.

"Thank you," he mutters quietly. Even in the reduced lighting, I can see his cheeks gaining a red tone before he looks away.

The place is crowded, but not overly – which is why the tickets were even sold, at first place – and it's fun seeing Gerard's chin drop when he looks at the sign of the place. To simplify, everyone is either always wanting to play in this bar or come watch someone play and the tickets are not only always sold in small quantities, but also expensive.

"Let's go," I chuckle after having spent a good moment observing Gerard.

We jog across the street, towards the entrance, just straight away skipping the whole line. The guy in charge of letting people in looks at us indifferently, in a silent question, muscles clear under the tight staff shirt. Even if there's no visible difference in his expression, he does relax a bit after I show him my pass and steps aside to let us in.

"Wow," Gerard mutters, almost inaudibly.

"You like it?" I ask as we walk through the people. No answer comes. He stayed back, of course; the boy is kinda shy and hesitant, after all. "C'mon!" I take a hold of his hand to pull him with me until we're in the bar area, which's much calmer. He stands there for a moment, looking around, until I point at one of the stools, sitting down on the one beside it.

Gerard shifts on his seat, hands resting on his lap and clenched into fists. He observes everything with wide eyes and I can't bring myself to avert my attention away from him. He's beautiful.

When the band starts playing, however, the atmosphere starts changing. It's a classic punk band – the kind of people you'd see around in skate lanes, spraying anarchist messages on a building's wall or behind a McDonald's counter – and the music is good, nonetheless, raw and emotional and demanding. Great to dance to.

Gerard is shy, as already stated – what makes me wonder how he even agreed on coming –, taking a good time to actually stand up from the stool and join me.

His hand is warm under mine, maybe not as warm as his cheeks seem to be. I had taken it in mine to pull him up from the stool, only, but he didn't let go and... oh well. Aren't you interesting, Gerard? I grin to myself and take his other hand to pull him to dance with me; that if you consider moving around to the rhythm of the song some kind of dance, but Gerard doesn't complain.

I'm not sure how much time goes by – I only question myself about that once the band is saying good night, breathing audibly as they get off the stage. The live music is replaced by a momentary incoherent chatter when loud music fills the place again, this time coming from the speakers. Gerard and I are out of breath when averting our attention from the stage to each other. My arms feel a bit sore after all of that, almost the opposite to my numb legs.

"Wanna grab a drink?" I nod towards the bar. "We can go to the alley to take a breath, then."

"Sounds good."

The non-alcoholic drinks are as cold as the night air, suddenly making it even more obvious how much we jumped around to the band's sound. We lean against the wall opposite to the side of the bar and I look at Gerard, watching his chest rise and fall fast, only coming to a longer pause when he brings the glass to his lips. He observes something above us, maybe the sky, but I don't care.

"Your nose is bleeding again." I suddenly note, seeing the dark red trail now almost reaching his upper lip. Not a surprise. He hurt his nose not much over a day ago and all the jumping must have opened the wound.

"Fuck." Gerard brings a hand to his nose and sighs when seeing the red stain on his fingers; I chuckle softly, halfheartedly. "What? You wanna lick it again?" he teases, raising an eyebrow at me. He apparently opts for not ruining the sleeve of his leather jacket, regarding it more than his school blazer.

I roll my eyes, smiling helplessly. "Well, if you'd like me to," I decide to tease back, looking at him through half lidded eyes.

"Ah, you wouldn't dare!" He chuckles, blood staining his lips according to how he talks.

"You think so, honey?" I raise an eyebrow. A few stutters come from him, but I just grab his glass and set it aside with mine, on the ground, before stepping towards him. "Tell me, why are you always so... bold around me? It's clear it's not part of you, as Ray even said." I suppress a humorous chuckle at how he frantically backs away against the wall, having nowhere to go. This brings me memories. "Maybe it has a specific reason?"

Gerard's eyes are wide, lips twitching, though no word ever comes through and his expression changes instantly once I get a hold of his hips and pin him to the wall. Feeling the heat coming from his cheeks is almost possible and all that resistance is gone, tendering into compliance and shyness.

"Look at you, Gerard," I mutter, rubbing circles into his hips as leaning in. "How surprising can you be?"

Having Gerard only letting out a quiet whine in response as his hands rest hesitantly over my shoulders make my heart flutter in my chest. I finally lean in, pressing my lips to Gerard's; he returns the kiss right away, lips sliding against mine easily.

And there it is; the rich metallic taste of Gerard's blood. I run my tongue over his bottom lip, snatching a hum from him, which turns into a whining-gasp once my teeth sink into it slightly.

His hands tighten around my shoulders, I grip harder onto his hips in consequence and he's sent relaxing back against the wall. He never had control over the kiss, but he's suddenly just giving up on the power at once with a quiet sound, slowly wrapping his arm around my neck to pull me closer and I gladly deepen the kiss.

"Wow, love," I breathe as soon as we part the kiss, lungs screaming for air. Gerard doesn't reply verbally, with his lips brushing lightly against mine and, by now, the blood is starting to get sticky, on its way to drying, also on my lips.

"I hope we can go out more often," he mutters shyly, not long before burying his face in the crook of my neck.

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