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#wheres the accompanying art piece where they are nothing but sad

aisclosed · 8 months

Text

the art of purrsuasion - y. jungwon

jungwon has the purrfect solution for your unfurtunate situation

PAIRING: non idol! y. jungwon x reader GENRE: university au , fluff, friends to lovers | WORDCOUNT: 3.9 k WARNINGS: mild language? nothing rlly

Birthday Café Event!

Jungwon blinks at the sign hanging over the door to his favorite café, willing the mirage to change before his eyes. Not that it would do much considering the walls plastered with large posters of some k-pop idol in various poses, accompanied by balloons and streamers hanging obnoxiously from the ceiling.

The once cozy shop, tucked away in a less traveled street near his classes, had become a constant in his weekly routine. He found comfort in the quaint tables, the soft notes of music and the aroma of fresh baked goods flooding his senses as he grinded through his work. And yet, the café was betraying him now, the bustling crowd of fans indicating that today, his favorite latte and croissant wouldn't be there to soothe the sting of a 5 page requirement.

“Jungwon!” a voice calls in greeting, and he whips around to meet your eyes, catching your quickly falling expression as you take in the packed café. “Woah…what the hell is going on?”

You were another new constant in his life, ever since the first day of the semester. You had stumbled into class late, your hair whipping wildly around you as you quickly slid into the nearest available seat. Luckily for Jungwon, it just so happened to be the seat next to his own. He had slid his notes over to you, receiving a grateful beam in return that had his stomach churning and his cheeks heating.

That same seat was occupied by you the next day, and the day after that, and the next. Until, sometime between the muffled snorts at your professor’s sad attempts at jokes and whispered, “what the fuck does that even mean’s, the pair of you had become friends.

Jungwon was all for trying new things, but what he craved was stability, playing by the rules, routine. You were the opposite, a whirlwind of a person coming into his life with all the force of a hurricane.

Instead of putting up his walls to maintain some semblance of security, Jungwon found himself swept away by your gusts of change, and happily so. Where he once had to drag himself out of bed, fighting the urge to skip his 8am lecture, he now woke even before his alarm had a chance to ring. You were his new routine. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday he would rush to get to class to see you, and every Tuesday and Thursday he would count the minutes until he could see you again.

In a stroke of genius and a slight desperation to see you more often, Jungwon had suggested study dates sessions. You had regarded him with a smile tugging at the corner of your lips and mirth dancing in your eyes. Heat had licked at the apples of his cheeks and he had begun to stutter out an excuse when you had cut him off “Yeah, I’d like that, text me when and where.”

And so, another piece of you slotted into Jungwon’s schedule, study sessions at the café whenever the two of you could squeeze one in. Maybe the two of you had slight ulterior motives but your grades weren’t complaining and you certainly weren't either. Jungwon much preferred your “dates” to class time. It was the only time he could listen to you freely ramble about everything, from your kitten Dalgona to your frustrations, without the sharp glare your professor was privy to shooting at him.

Now, it's been a particularly challenging week, with never ending assignments, a frustrating project and a three hour long lab on top of it all. Jungwon really needs this. Jungwon really needs you.

You can almost visualize a darkening cloud thundering over Jungwon’s head as he shoots daggers at the café. Letting out a laugh, you bump your hip against his to grab his attention, “Hey it’s alright, we can find somewhere else to study, no need to commit arson.”

Jungwon tilts his head inquisitively, “Yeah, but where? They’re doing construction by the Library Annex and the Main Library is across campus. We don’t have many options besides the big cafes but those are just as busy.”

“My dorm is like five minutes away and my roomie’s gone home for the week,” you offer, Jungwon’s eyes widening comically in response. “Unlessssss, you want to stay at this café? Who knows, maybe you’ll get scouted by some big shot k-pop company. Get some fans of your own,” you tease.

Jungwon scoffs, pushing you lightly as his cheeks flush with color. “As if. Alright, if you’re sure it won’t be an inconvenience let’s go to yours.” Beaming in satisfaction, you tug at his hoodie sleeve, leading him towards the direction of your dorm.

He admires you silently, the way your hair bounces slightly with each step and the swift glances you give when you think he’s not looking. As if you think he might get lost despite the firm grip you have on the fabric of his sleeve. For a second Jungwon considers shifting his arm slightly to just interlock his fingers with yours, but before he can, you’ve come to a halt, looking at him in horror.

“Wait! I forgot all about your cat allergy, will you be okay with Dalgona there? Maybe we should just look for another place?” you ask, your eyes round with worry. Jungwon looks down at you, trying his best to stop from melting at your cute expression.

He shakes his head softly in denial, “My allergy isn’t that severe, I think I can handle a couple hours. Plus I’ve been wanting to meet Dalgona for ages anyways.” Jungwon gestures for you to continue leading the way but you merely squint at him skeptically. Huffing in false exasperation he takes your hand in his, pulling you forward. “Come on, I’ll be fine. I mean it.”

Your pupils dilate at the action, flickering to where your hands are now joined. A wave of embarrassment washes over Jungwon and he laughs awkwardly, hurriedly trying to release his hold on your hand.

Before he can, you’ve already interlocked your fingers with his own, holding onto him firmly as you begin continuing your journey to your dorm. For a second, Jungwon allows himself to be tugged along like a rag doll after you.

Even from behind he can see the slight blush on your ears and cheeks as you desperately try to maintain your composure. The wind tousles your hair gently, pushing the strands back to reveal your features illuminated softly by the sunlight. Jungwon feels as if the air has just been stolen out of his lungs and he thinks that if it meant he got to see this view, he would gladly follow you to the ends of the Earth.

It's not until the pair of you have reached your building and are waiting for the elevator, hands still linked, that something odd occurs to Jungwon. Glancing at the receptionist across the lobby, he leans down to whisper into the shell of your ear. “Y/N,” you startle at the feeling of his breath against your skin, looking up at him inquisitively, “Aren’t pets prohibited in student housing? Unless it's a service animal.”

You glance worriedly at the receptionist, signaling to Jungwon to wait for your answer. The elevator door opens with a chime and you hurry in, pulling Jungwon with you.

It's only when the door shuts securely that you begin whispering conspiratorially, “Ok, yes technically Dalgona isn't allowed to be here. But I'm working on getting him written off as an emotional support companion. You don't understand, I need him,” you pout at Jungwon pleadingly.

“Alright,” Jungwon chuckles, swinging your hands together as you exit the elevator, coming to a stop in front of your room, “It’s not like I was gonna report you, I just don't want you getting into any trouble with housing.”

“It should be fine honestly, Dalgona is a really sweet kitty, he doesn't get into much trouble. The only real issue is my RA Renjun,” you gesture at the floor monitor's door down the hall, fit with a shiny plaque and complaints box. “He’s really nice though, he’s just a bit of a stickler for the rules. Which is his whole job so I don’t really have much place to complain.”

You come to a stop in front of your door, shifting to grab the keys from your bag. Jungwon reluctantly releases your hand and you finally fish out your keys, opening the door and leading him in. “He’s been pretty close to catching me, sometimes Dalgona meows really loudly near the door and Renjun knocks. I just act like I’m not here and he gives up. I’ve been avoiding him like the plague,” you giggle and Jungwon shakes his head in exasperation.

Jungwon takes in his surroundings while you set down your bag and fiddle with your speaker until Wave to Earth plays quietly in the background. Your room is cute, a large bed equipped with a fluffy duvet and numerous plushies pushed to one corner, and walls and shelves littered with albums, trinkets and plants. On your pillow sits a small calico kitten, his stare trained on the unfamiliar figure in his territory. Suddenly Jungwon’s caught in an intense stare off, sharp green eyes meet rounded brown eyes, both unwilling to be the first to break away.

The tension is shattered when you suddenly chuckle at the scene, “What are you two doing honestly,” you giggle, scooping up Dalgona into your arms. “I’ve always agreed you were cat-like Wonnie, but I didn’t expect to see this feline face off,” you walk over to Jungwon, lifting Dalgona slightly, “Say hi to Jungwon baby,” you coo softly.

Jungwon offers his fingers for Dalgona to sniff and he does so tentatively, before deeming the new intruder acceptable and nuzzling into his palm. “He likes you!” you squeal happily, looking up to find Jungwon already looking at you with a soft smile. Suddenly you’re all too aware of the lack of distance between your faces, the way his broad stature looms over you and the way his eyes draw you in.

Laughing nervously, you stumble back, nearly tripping on your rug as you try to regain some semblance of normalcy. “Woah, careful,” Jungwon steadies you, his hand resting against the small of your back.

“Thanks,” you breathe out, Dalgona leaps out of your arms with a meow, affronted by your jolts. The movement snaps the two of you out of your daze and you clear your throat awkwardly and step away from him. “You wanna get started on the review outline?” You gather your laptop and notebooks, settling onto your bed and beckoning Jungwon to come join you.

Jungwon nods stiffly, and sits gingerly at the edge of your bed despite there being ample space for him to scoot closer. It's silent, an uncomfortable tension that you’ve never experienced with him stifling the air. Jungwon leans in slightly from his position, struggling to read the notes on the screen and you meet eyes.

You're blinking owlishly at each other when suddenly you both break into laughter, Jungwon doubling over until he's laying flat on the bed, right next to you. “What's wrong with us today?” you wheeze, wiping a stray tear from the force of your laughs.

“I have no clue,” Jungwon smiled sheepishly, “We’re just being a little silly, I don't know why it’s so awkward. Maybe it's the new setting that's throwing us off.” You roll back into your back, mimicking Jungwon’s position until you're looking back into his eyes.

“Yeah maybe it is, we really should get to working though, this assignment is gonna kill us if we push it off any longer,” you grumble shifting back to look at the papers. Jungwon nods in agreement, and this time the silence that settles is warm, accompanied only by the faint sounds of music and Dalgona playing with his toys.

It's hours later and Jungwon’s eyes have started to sting, the letters and words all blurring together. He lets out a sigh, throwing his head back dramatically to rest against your shoulder. You look at him in amusement, knocking your head against his playfully, “Am I losing you to the deathly grips of literary analysis Wonnie?”

Jungwon only groans in response, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck. Absentmindedly, he thinks that you smell good, warm and slightly sweet, nothing like the scents that usually overpower his sensitive nose. It's kind of intoxicating, like the smell of fresh baked treats at the café, and Jungwon finds himself inhaling you subconsciously.

“Jungwon… did you just sniff me?”

He halts, a prickling heat crawling up his neck, “No?” Jungwon denies meekly, unwilling to lift his head up.

“Oh my god you were sniffing me!” you giggle gleefully, “I don't think you can get any closer to being an actual cat Won, what's next will you meow for me?” Jungwon releases a sound of indignation, backing to splutter a series of denials, when Dalgona starts meowing rather loudly near the door.

Immediately you shoot up from the bed, “Baby! Please don’t.” You grab his favorite toy on the way picking him up and trying best to mollify whatever was bothering him.

There's a loud knocking on the door. You freeze, looking in horror at Jungwon who stares back, equally helpless.

“Y/N! It's Renjun!” you scrunch your face in panic, cursing your luck. “Come on, Y/N you can’t act like you're not here this time, I literally just heard your voice in there. Open up or I’m going to have to get the building supervisor and really don’t want to have to do that.”

“Oh my god,” you whimper, quickly placing Dalgona in your bathroom, equipped with toys and a mat to hopefully keep him occupied while you figure out how to save your academic life. You shut the door as quietly as you can and Jungwon walks over, rubbing soothing circles into your hip.

“Don’t worry we’ll come up with something,” Jungwon whispers comfortingly, but you’re not sure he believes it himself. You smooth your hair, plastering on your most disarming smile and swing the door open.

Renjun’s stood with his hand hovering over the air, clearly poised to knock again. “Heyyyyy Renjun Oppa, it's been a while. I never see you anymore, I almost thought you were avoiding me,” you say brightly, hoping he doesn't see right through your ploy. The hand Jungwon has still resting on your waist tightens just a fraction at your words, before returning again to its ministrations.

“Uh huh I’m sure you did Y/N,” Renjun says dryly, “Can I come in, we need to talk.” Your smile stiffens but you simply nod, inviting him in. He walks in, giving Jungwon a nod in greeting, Renjun doesn't say anything but you don’t miss the way his eyes scour the place, looking for any sign of an prohibited presence.

With a sigh he pivots and turns to you, “Look Y/N I’m sorry to do this when you have company but you know what this is about. I keep hearing meowing from your room and you know pets are against policy. As much as I want to make an exception for you, I can’t. I don't want to get you in any trouble but I will have to file an official report for this.”

Tears prickle at the corner of your eyes as you begin to plead with him, “Wait Renjun please I can explain-”

“It was me.”

Both you and Renjun turn in unison to look at Jungwon incredulously. His cheeks are slightly flushed but his brow is set with determination. “The meowing, it was me.”

“Jungwon, stop you don't have to do this-,” you start but he waves you off, stepping in front of Renjun.

“I, uh get compared to a cat a lot,” Jungwon gestures at his face shyly but Renjun only stares blankly in response. “So I kind of have this habit of meowing, and Y/N finds it cute so I was just doing it to impress her. She just didn't open the door for you before because she wanted to save me from the humiliation.”

At this point you’ve faded into the background, hand clamped in disbelief over your mouth as your eyes dart furiously back and forth between Renjun and Jungwon.

Renjun narrows his eyes, assessing Jungwon fully.

“You do look like a cat, I'll give you that, but you truly honestly expect me to believe that all this time the meowing I've heard from this room has been you and Y/N doing some weird kinky furry shit.”

“I do not have a furry kink,” you protest fervently but are silenced by both guys shooting you a sharp glare, one that clearly says keep quiet.

“It's really not a kink,” Jungwon mumbles before meeting Renjun’s eyes defiantly, “But yes, that's the truth.”

Renjun scoffs in disbelief at the situation, crossing his arms across his chest. “Alright then, prove it.”

“Okay come on, that's too far, Jungwon you don’t-”

“Alright I will,” Jungwon cuts you off brazenly, clearing his throat before releasing a set of meows that sound almost entirely too similar to your kitten’s. Your jaw unhinges and you let out a strangled noise, you’re unsure whether to laugh, cry, or coo at Jungwon. His cheeks are now a bright pink, his hands instinctively coming up to make a claws, his sweater forming cute paws to accompany the image. It's all too cute, and he's doing it all for you, if Renjun doesn’t kick you out first you think you might melt into a puddle on the dormitory floor.

Renjun sighs, pinching his nose bridge before letting his hand drag down his face. “You know what I give up. I can’t afford to be sitting here dissecting whether you guys are actually furries or not. I have an exam coming. Y/N I don't want either of us getting in trouble so if you are hiding a pet, please resolve the issue, or at least find a way to be more discreet.”

You nod feverously, thanking Renjun for not filing a report and basically pushing him out the door. He’s just crossed the threshold when Dalgona lets out a very untimely meow from the bathroom. Renjun freezes, swiveling around to question you further but Jungwon quickly intercepts, “Just saying bye, Renjun hyung!”

Renjun looks as if he’s aged 5 years by the end of your interaction and so he surrenders with a grimace, giving a half hearted wave and walking towards his room. Jungwon and you wait with air lodged in your throats, ears pressed against the wood door until you hear the faint creak and click of Renjun’s room closing with finality.

You face each other, giving a simultaneous cheer of celebration before you jump onto Jungwon. He accepts your hug with open arms, lifting you and spinning you around in utter delight. The rush of adrenaline settles into a lingering flutter, and Jungwon sways you gently from side to side in his embrace.

You're still nuzzled into the soft fabric of his hoodie, when you mumble, “I can’t believe you actually did that. And that it worked. Yang Jungwon, I could quite literally kiss you right now.”

“Maybe you should,” he whispers so faintly, that for a second you question whether you even heard it at all. It isn't until Jungwon’s hand finds your chin, tilting it up to face him and his thumb swipes gently against your parted lips that you realize it's real.

It's with baited breath that you wait, painstakingly, for Jungwon to make a move. “What do you think hm Y/N?” he asks you with a smirk settled onto his face, “Don’t I deserve a kiss baby?” Instead, Jungwon’s rolled the ball back into your court, the decision is yours to make, and there's really never been any other choice. Not with him. Not for you.

You lean in and he meets you halfway, nose brushing against your cheek as he presses a soft kiss against your lips. Jungwon pulls back to look at your expression, the way your breath is stuttered, your flushed cheeks and your widened pupils.

“I’ve been wanting this for so long,” Jungwon mumbles against your lips, capturing them in a proper kiss. The phrase makes your head reel with thoughts, but it's too difficult to try and dissect what he means when his fingers are buried into your hair and he tastes so good on your tongue.

You don't break away until your lungs are burning, parting with a gasp. For a moment you both stare at each other, watching the rise and fall of your chests, not sure what to make of what just occurred, not sure what comes after. Jungwon’s suddenly filled with humiliation at the memory of earlier and he buries his face into the crook of your neck. “I can’t believe it took me meowing to finally confess to you,” he whines softly.

You let out a sharp guffaw, the tremors of your giggles shaking Jungwon’s head. He turns to look at you from his position, pouting playfully at being the subject of your glee. “Was that really a confession, Wonnie? All you did was ask me for a kiss,” you tease as you brush his bangs away from his eyes.

He takes your teasing challenge in stride, straightening to look at you properly, his hands resting on your hips. “I like you Y/N. A lot. You're all I think about and all I look forward to being with. You’ve completely wrecked my schedule, my life and my dignity. Not only have I meowed for you but I'd even go as far as to bark,” he jokes, pinching your waist as you swat at him playfully.

“I know you’ve already got your hands full with one kitty in your life,” Jungwon continues smiling fondly, “but if you’ll have me I’d love to be the second.”

Your face might split from the smile you give him, eyes curling up cutely into crescents. “I like you too, Yang Jungwon. A lot. Honestly, I don't even like coffee, so if I can bear drinking those nasty drinks for you, I definitely think I can handle another kitty. Especially one as cute as you.”

Jungwon beams at the compliment, grabbing your cheeks gently to peck your face all over, when a rather loud meow resonates from the bathroom.

“Dalgona!” You gasp in panic, breaking away from Jungwon to gather your kitty, checking to make sure he’s okay. Jungwon leans against the door frame watching you coddle Dalgona, giving the feline the kisses that were supposed to be his. He scoffs at the smug look Dalgona shoots him at having received all your attention.

You look up at the sound, smiling at the envy painted so clearly on Jungwon’s face. Leaving Dalgona to roam on his own, you cup Jungwon’s cheeks allowing him to lean into your palm. “What’s it take for a guy to get some affection from his girl around here,” Jungwon sighs theatrically in false annoyance.

A laugh escapes you, and you tug Jungwon forward by the fabric of his jacket until he’s flush against your body, his lips a millimeter distance. “You’ll figure it out, I find you can be rather purrsuasive when you need to be.

a/n: overwrote again,,, but this was inspired by @alouettesque 's promptlist ! hope u guys enjoyed it :)

getting back into writing regularly so send an ask or fill out the form to be added to my taglist! see u guys soon mwah

perm taglist: @hoonsunivrs @pkjay @thatfeelinwhenyou @lacimolela @ttalgi @cieluna @ahnneyong @luvlee1313 @meowmeowhoon @llama-lyna @dmoki @w3bqrl @16doie @itsvynnie @tniastwon @given8taken @yakjw @miukityy @meowwonie @simp4jakesim @teddywons @flowertothejungwon @skywithf1 @yur1a1 @nyeonglover @fallingenluvv @run2seob

*if you changed ur @ pls send in another submission :(

#enhanet #kflixnet #k-labels #enhypen imagines #enhypen x reader #jungwon x reader #enhypen scenarios #jungwon oneshots #yang jungwon #yang jungwon x reader #jungwon imagines #enha x reader #enha smau #enhypen smau #jungwon fluff #enhypen fluff

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mrs-snape5984 · 8 days

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„I hope, I’ll always have you in my mind, so that I know to find you every time.“

„Put your head on my chest, that’s your safe place. We‘ll fall deeper in love every day. From life unto life and for always.“ („Soul Mate“ by Flora Cash)

There’s something in my current life, that came hand in hand with my disease ME/CFS…slowly creeping into my fibres…infecting my mind with sadness. It’s loneliness, that I’m talking about. Overwhelming, crushing, suffocating loneliness.

Before this cruel bitch of a disease put a stopper in my life, as I knew it from before, I haven’t been healthy, either. But neither my severe Colitis Ulcerosa, nor the other few sicknesses and disabilities had achieved to break me the way, ME/CFS broke me!

What’s left, is only a shell of myself…a sad shadow of the woman, I’ve been prior to today. Where did the intelligent, sassy, witty and caring person go to, when she disappeared so insidiously from my personality? On some days, I still get a little glimpse of her, when I’m talking to my beloved friends @vulnus-sanare, @preciousthelmadonna or my bestie Miri, who often just “enjoys” sitting beside me in my dark room…embraced by silence and darkness. These tiny jiffies, when I’m recognising my previous character…my true nature, even though it’s only for a brief time, I’m feeling a little less anxious…a little less worthless.

But sadly, these moments become more rare with each new PEM crash of my disease (PEM = Post-exertional malaise = worsening of symptoms after certain activities). It feels as if I’m fading away from life…I’m fading away from other people’s lives as well as from my own.

Since I can’t leave my dark room - and most of the time even my bed - I’m not capable of joining social gatherings anymore. It’s impossible for me to endure listening to more than one person at once, so even my three kids have to “visit” me one after the other in my chamber. There are days, when I can’t even reply to messages from others, just because screen time is killing me.

All the more, I’m grateful for these few friends, who stay with me, no matter how silent I am, because they make me feel worthier and loved. And yet, I’m afraid of not being able to give them the same amount of support in return…due to the restrictions of my cruel reality, which are confining me.

So, there are many days, which I’m spending in total gloominess and silence with nothing but solitude surrounding me. And even if I’d be capable of sending text or audio messages (since I can’t type them out properly sometimes), I often hold myself back from reaching out to these understanding friends…only because I don’t want to be a burden to them.

I commissioned the lovely artist @hannisimp for this beautiful piece of art. Lin, you gave me exactly, what I needed with this tender artwork of yours. You gave me the feeling of being less alone. Severus accompanies me for 21 years now. He’s the safe haven, the comfort blanket, which I’m clinging to so desperately! My dear, I can’t stress enough, how grateful I am for your fine art. You made the love and the trust between Severus and my - oh, so self-inserted - OC Jules become palpable. There are no words to express my gratitude, so I just stay with these: Thank you for everything, my friend! Thank you for your talent, your kindness and each of your messages. I won’t ever take these things for granted.

🖤Severus & Julia🖤

🖤Sevy & Jules🖤

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sageofgrief · 3 months

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my first and only love

︱ gale galleon x reader, highschool sweethearts, established relationship, gale spoiling you because you deserve it <3

divider by cafekitsune

art by aliztyy (twt)

the day you met him was the day butterflies suddenly erupted inside your stomach. his brown golden hair that smelt like vanilla and coffee stung your nose in a good way, and his charming eyes that you could stare into forever, you wouldn't mind getting lost in it if it meant you could better understand him better, eyes are the windows of the soul after all.

ah damn it, he's too gorgeous. there's no way id ever get his atten- "hey!" you lifted your pen up from your notebook that you were just writing in to a familiar voice. you shifted your gaze to the person infront of you to see gale galleon. "o-oh! uuh.. sorry i was uh.. writing ssssomething.. can i help you..?" you stuttered out, making a fool out of yourself. "sorry.. can i uhh borrow a pen?" he nervously laughed. ahh he looked so cute blushing and avoiding your gaze, you didn't notice it unfortunately since you were also avoiding his gaze. you nodded and gave him the pen you were holding. he turns his back to his table to write something, while he was doing that, you could practically feel the hot blush on your face. it felt like your face was about to erupt like a volcano because of how flushed you were! so cute. you had all these thoughts in your head but before you could realize, he turns back to you and slides a piece of folded piece of paper along with your pen on your desk. he gulpd silently and turns back around.

you tilt your head in confusion and open the folded paper and what you saw was something you never could have expected. there on the lined paper, with messy but charming handwriting said "you're really cool, wanna hang out? -gale :)" and two drawn in boxes that said yes or no. you blinked a second time to really process if this is happening. without a thought you drew in a checklist in the yes box and folded it back together. you tap gale's shoulder and handed him the paper. he turns back to open the table and you swore you heard him do a little victory "yes...!" celebration after opening it. he once again turns back to you and says "soooo...movies? weekend?" "aye aye, captain".

"you always had that stupid eyepatch on everyday at school, people called you a pirate and some of the juniors even called you captain galleon!" months later, you were in your shared house with gale, you sat on the couch with his head on your shoulder. firepit crackling accompanied with the cold night air breeze and that post rain smell, what was it called.. ah yes, petrichor.

"you think my eyepatch was stupid?" he looked up at you and pouted with those big sad puppy eyes, "of course not, you goober. you looked edgy" "damn right i looked edgy" he said proudly then laughing along with you. "i never thought this would happen you know.." you sighed as you looked deep into his alluring eyes, his breathing calmed you... he sat up straight and kissed your forehead before saying "..me neither" and giggling like a child, shortly after he pulled you into a big bear hug where your head layed on his chest and there you fell asleep. he stroked your hair and had his chin rested on top of your head, shushing you to sleep coupled with whispering sweet nothings. just before you fully fell asleep though, you slurred out something while you were half awake, "i love..you gale... i always...will.." he smiles warmly and kisses your head, "i will always love you too, silly." and continued stroking your hair until you drifted off to dreamland.

apologies for any typos, i quite literally wrote this in bed.

intro • masterlist • general rules • detailed request rules • main acc @sageofgrief • nsfw acc @sageofmarionette

#sageofgrief #avallum #avallum x reader #first stage production en #fsp #fspen #fspen x reader #gale galleon #gale galleon x reader

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pekuliar · 1 year

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I’m a little sad we didn’t get to see canonical kid versions of the rest of the Lupgang in Lupin Zero SO take these headcanons of the 2 best characters in the gang:

Kōichi Zenigata had always been a good student, a real old-fashioned gentleman through and through. He was hardworking, helpful, and one of the best Class Presidents you could ever hope to vote in. He had no shortage of admirers (both secret and not) too. But where he really shone was on the school’s baseball team.

Zenigata was his high school’s star pitcher. His signature move was, ironically, “The Handcuff” — a hard-hit ground ball that bounces directly at an infielder, causing it to be difficult for the ball to be hit. (Look it up, it’s a real thing!)

He joined law enforcement because that was what his father did too, and he grew up believing that it was the right and noble thing to do. With his impeccable work ethic and strategic intelligence, he quickly landed a job with the ICPO.

On one of Zenigata’s first cases with the ICPO, he was among a squad deployed to the USA to investigate rumours of a midnight heist on the Japanese wing of a prestigious art gallery.

Hours before the rumoured heist, Zenigata was patrolling the area near the gallery while undercover, when he stumbled upon a group of rowdy teenagers gathered around a narrow alley. At that time, the sun had already set, and it was odd for a group of teens to be out this late — Zenigata, ever the Boy Scout, began to approach them to ask what they were doing, when he noticed that the group was gathered around a small child. A small child that was red-faced, clearly trying to hide his tears.

And as he got closer, Zenigata could hear the teens jeering and taunting the boy in English, while the boy seemed to only be able to stutter out Japanese sentences: “Please leave me alone”, “I didn’t do anything to you”, “I don’t understand you”.

Now, Zenigata was no stranger to the way most of the world treated people like him — having been deployed outside Japan many times even as a rookie officer, Zenigata knew how racist and xenophobic people could be. And so it was with a stern look and flash of his badge that the teens quickly scattered.

The boy, still crying softly, now tried to stand up as tall as possible, smoothing out the scuffs on his Haori and Kimono in a strangely dignified way. A Haori and Kimono! A strangely formal outfit for a child no older than 10.

That aside, this was no hour for a child to be out alone. Zenigata asked where the kid’s parents were, in Japanese and the softest voice he could manage. The child only said, “They said I’m supposed to look out for them here.”

Zenigata hummed. He disappeared, then minutes later returned with a pack of convenience store sushi. “Well, if you’re gonna wait here alone, I think it’s best if a cop waits with you.”

The child said nothing, but nodded and crammed another tuna roll in his mouth. (Quite the appetite this kid had, thought Zenigata.)

The hours flew by, Zenigata keeping an eye on the stragglers heading in and out of the art gallery, accompanied by a kid who looked like he’d stepped straight out of a Japanese folk tale but demolished almost a whole 7/11’s worth of sushi. The boy seemed quite happy to have someone who spoke his language, chattering away to Zenigata about the strange things he’d seen in America.

Soon, Zenigata was interrupted by the crackling of his radio — indeed, a gang of thieves had arrived to break into the gallery, and all officers were called in to apprehend them. Apologising to the boy, Zenigata rushed off.

A couple hours later, in a flurry of adrenaline, blaring sirens, and blue and red lights, the thieves had been apprehended — a Japanese gang intending to take back a rightful piece of their history. (Zenigata couldn’t say he disagreed with the sentiment, but the job was the job.)

By the time Zenigata returned to where he’d left the boy, he was gone. Wherever he was, Zenigata could only pray that the adorable, old-fashioned little boy with the ravenous appetite was safe.

(Of course, unbeknownst to him, Zenigata would meet the little boy again — this time, Zenigata would have a couple more grey hairs, and the little boy would have a katana sharp enough to cut lightning.)

#my writing #lupin the third #lupin iii #lupin zero #koichi zenigata #inspector zenigata #zenigata #and spoiler alert:#goemon ishikawa xiii #goemon #headcanon

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uummi · 10 months

Text

Written for @dicktimweek 2023

Day 5: First Crush/Love | Dick learns Tim is his soulmate after Damian Gains Robin | BAMF Tim Drake

Words Count: 1649

Title: Black Dahlia

Pairing: Dick Grayson/Tim Drake

Warnings: Implied Character Death| Implied Reverse Robins AU| Implied Joker Junior AU

Dick was a naturally gifted master of performance

Perhaps the fact that he opened his eyes in a show where the led lamps illuminating the interior of the tent gave the feeling of the soft shadow of the moon and the noise of applause served as a lullaby was one of the reasons why he had this habit

Even when he was a baby bird that was too small to carry his parents in the sky with his own wings, he invited people to the show of their lives with his bright smile on his face, enjoyed the smell of excitement spreading around with pleasure

But every art had an inspiration, like that his father and mother had painted their canvas, before they met which was a blank piece of white brick, using the colors of the rainbow they had collected while floating

Dick, on the other hand, has his own in the blue eyes of an older boy he met by chance one day

A boy with a huge camera that looks big on tiny but obviously very painful calloused hands and a small but strong shining smile like a star

Timothy Drake...

It all started on a summer day when he turned 5 and it was going to be determined whether he would start accompanying his parents to their shows

That's why it wasn't a strange situation when everyone was running around with celebration supplies from a month ago, or talking about the childhood of the acrobat who made the sun jealous with their excited tones to each other

For Dick, on the other hand everything was a mess because he still hadn't figured out how to do his family's special move

Even if he felt his muscles crying with pain every day, he worked late into the night and even sometimes gave up sleeping and continued his training, nothing he did was working

He could see that his parents were looking at him with sadness so he was starting to get scared now

What if he fails and his parents start denying Dick's existence? What was he going to do then, he didn't have another family

He didn't want to be alone...

As a result, although he knew that everyone was waiting for him, he decamped through the caravans and started running towards the wooded area next to where the circus decided to stay

He had no strength left to endure this expectation any longer...

He also did not believe that anyone would try to find him, which is perhaps why the thin fingers touching his shoulder caused him to scream

Ice blue eyes that would melt with warmth nevertheless complement the body dressed in red clothes and looked at it with such sincerity that Dick believed for a moment that he was an extremely important person

'Why are you crying, are you hurt?'

He touched his hand to the point where his eyelids were, and when he felt the wetness, he made a surprised sound towards the air because he was not even aware that the tears had regained their freedom

The boy began to speak as if he had never removed the question he was asking from his thin lips while Dick was trying to wipe the wetness off his face, and the other was trying to ignore them after a caress with the hand he placed on his knee

Also Dick was having new thoughts about the beauty of the being in front of him every passing second

The more Timmy talked, I told you to call me Tim why are you already trying to find a nickname when I have one, Dick was starting to calm down a little more. Two of them even started bouncing stones in the lake opposite where they were sitting

At the end of about an hour, the younger boy began to explain what the situation that was bothering him was

In fact, he was just waiting for a conversation consisting of sentences indicating how upset they were or that such a thing would definitely not happen

It happened to everyone else like this

So the response he received in return was the last thing he expected

'Do you want me to teach you?'

In response to his incredulous looks, the teenager with straight black hair said that he really had a great teacher and that he was trying to learn all the movements that attracted his interest after his training with him

And even before his sentence was finished, he presented a perfect work of art

A special show for only certain people, like a bird flying at night

He was so lucky...

Timmy gave him tips to perfect the movement for a while, and Dick felt that after a long time he was really ready to fly

Dick wanted to give something on top of that, but what could it be?

For a few seconds, his eye was caught on the camera, which Tim did not let go of for a long time. With the idea that came to his mind, he tried to find a suitable angle by taking the machine left by the tree in his hand

When he got the position he wanted, he quickly sat Tim down and settled into his lap

'Smile Timmy!'

The young boy complied with the request and also joined their cheeks and planted a small kiss on Dick's one at a moment when he was sure that the machine had caught

After both sides got their photos in their hands, the sounds of footsteps began to approach before Dick had a chance to say anything else

'Timothy, if you're done, let's go now. Don't keep father waiting any longer'

After the sound heard from a grown man, Dick, who saw that the young boy had provided his head and slowly began to advance his body, shouted in alarm

He didn't want it to end, he didn't want to leave Timmy's side!

'Watch me before you go!'

Tim's eyebrows rose into the air with a pleasant curl, and although Dick knew even from this that his cheeks were starting to blush, he did not disturb his determined posture

Upon these words, he became possessed of that image that did not come out of his dreams. The normally air-stitched hair scattered by the summer breeze closed the ice-blue eyes for a moment, the hand that did not hold the camera threw a few tufts behind the ear, and an angelic smile that pinched the sides of his face decorated the pink lips

Ah... He didn't want him go because he had fallen in love

He forgot about the fingers touching the top of his head, the arm dragging him towards the tent or the other boy he saw just for a second who called Timmy, and he wasn't fully himself until he reached his parents' side or even presented the Grayson family's special move

If Tim is able to do the Quadruple Somersault, wouldn't that make him a Grayson?

He was awakened from his thoughts by the kiss that his mother placed on his cheeks and greeted them gently in response to the sounds of applause

'My little Robin... We always knew you would make us proud'

He could look into his mother's smiling eyes and feel that he was starting to laugh through his aching cheeks, or he could relive how full of confidence his father's peaceful embrace was

Turning his head, he turned to Tim, who was standing at the end of the tent door. The young boy was waiting like being the most beautiful being he had ever seen, and he was kind of sending his congratulations by raising his thumb to him

And then he was gone before Dick could talk to him again

So Dick squeezed the photo he put in his pocket with all his might

The one which Tim kissed him...

Would he ever see him again, he wonder

This question continued to haunt his brain until the death show of his family. Every year, he would examine the people inside the tent before going on stage and would give Tim his art along with every beautiful feeling from his heart

Now the top of his canvas was covered with blood, a storm had broken in the sky he was flying

He closed his eyes and tried to eliminate the pain, but he just didn't know what to do

And then Dick felt startled by the hand placed on his shoulder as he cried, knowing that his parents' broken wings would never heal again and that their bodies, captured by wild animals, would be buried in the ground

Nevertheless, he raised his head, ignoring the drops floating from the tears that filled the blues

Opposite him was a young man whose hair reached to his shoulders. Although the hood was tightly covered, the green wires decorating the ends could be noticed

But the really noticeable part was perhaps the scars that turned the sides of his mouth into a horror movie scene. It's like someone put a knife through the tip of his lip and went to the last point he could go

As if this situation would prevent Dick from recognizing him...

'Timmy?'

The blue-green eyes opened in surprise and the decayed hands buried in his hair paused for a few seconds

Then the head area moved towards the shoulder with a slight curve. As if he didn't know what he was talking about

Dick remembered a news story he had read in one of the newspapers called the Joker attack in Gotham and what happened as a result, and realized that the stones had fallen into place

So while he was even more upset that everyone he loved had to suffer, he cried once again for all of the childhood he had lost

He was cursed...

#dicktim #batcest #dicktimweek #dicktimweek2023

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velvetineblue · 9 months

Note

Getting Taiyang a birthday present has always been a struggle over the years. It’s weird because Mana never had too much trouble with thinking of something ( sans the time she actually got him War & Peace as a present- it was a joke she said, before presenting him his actual present ) so one might think her influence would rub off on Calum.

It hasn’t, but Calum did figure out what to get Taiyang for his birthday!

“This from Sol,” he says, handing Taiyang a roll of paper tied with a blue-green ribbon. “They worked on it for the last week.” Which, for a child is a very long time.

And then Calum hands him box with a piano wire bracelet with a silver charm of a tremble clef attached. That and there's an accompanying plate of cookies beneath because he’s assuming Taiyang is also hungry… “Try not to wear it in the water.” Calum adds hastily. “…I don’t think it’s waterproof.”

( HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO SHARK BOI :DDDDD winter you'll be getting a few more asks from me :3 )

birthdays are a strange thing. he's caught between delight and embarrassment— embarrassment for what, he doesn't quite know; like it's an embarrassment, an inconvenience to be born. taking up so much space in a room, and in the minds of others, for a day— it's nice . . . but that same heightened significance feels a little selfish... and unfamiliar. in his childhood home, his birthdays had gradually become no big affair, but Taiyang had learned not to mind it. even to prefer it that way. because what was worse: a quiet day with a cake and a few presents, or a birthday 'party', where his friends and classmates were exposed to the sad state of affairs that was his home life? ( the memories of his father, drunk as usual, blustering around the room, telling his stupid stories to a chorus of laughs— but hovering only one escalation away from erupting the gathering into chaos? ) NO THANKS. no, he'd learned not to ask for much: if you want for nothing, then the heavy weight of disappointment could not drop down on you, like a cartoon anvil from the sky, squishing coyotes underneath it . . .

but perhaps that's why his eyes light up at the simplest thing: a rolled-up piece of paper with the crayon markings of a child. or marker, or maybe watercolor paint— whatever Sol had deemed an appropriate artistic rendering for his birthday, it would be cherished more than the most expensive gallery art piece could ever be. looking it over with the biggest grin, he can't help but laugh at the innocent imagination of the kid, put to paper. " I'm so keeping this. Sol's gonna have to look at it when they're like 15 years old, and they think it's embarrassing as hell— I don't care. it's staying on the fridge forever. " but what was 'forever' to a child, anyway? a week probably felt like a lifetime in their little hands, which made the artwork that much more precious. smile beaming, he settles for words of gratitude more within the understanding of a child: " tell Sol I love it. " Taiyang would, too, next time he sees them.

already giddy from the cute gift, he blinks in surprise when there's a box, too. ( the cookies, well, he kind of eagerly anticipated: Calum seemed like the homemade-gift type to him, and Calum knew how much Tai loved his homemade baking . . . in all the time he'd known him, Calum had probably picked up on what Tai's favorite recipes were, too; and one glance at the plates content confirmed his suspicion. if it weren't for the surprise third gift, he would have grabbed and teared into a cookie already— )

but instead, he takes the box gingerly, giving it a slight shake. ( not the best idea— what if it was something fragile? ) " is this jewelry? " a faux thoughtful look is given towards his friend; " are you proposing to me, Calum Reynolds? finally; it's about time... " jokes aside, he unwraps the item, delicate silver glinting into his eyes. as the pretty piece of jewelry unravels, he feels the warm, fuzzy static of nostalgia in his belly . . . it invokes visions of his grandmother, setting him on her lap, his little toddler feet dangling... a happy jazz-piano song filtering through the house on a summer day, white window curtains flapping gently in the warm breeze... his mom and grandmom laughing in the kitchen over the sink. it's like, all the happy memories of his childhood mixed with the slight sadness that it's gone. . . but more than anything, it's the feeling of family. Calum's voice breaks him out the momentary reverie. Tai looks up at him, and sees family. family in the flesh, standing right in front of him; not drifting through his memories. that's Calum... he registers his words slowly. " right... yeah. I won't, " he confirms, seeming a little distracted— ( but in a good way. there's a lump in his throat. ) he's not really much of a huggy person, with most people, but . . . Calum is family. so, he's gathered into a bear-hug, with an appreciative pat to his back. " thanks. for everything. " and he doesn't just mean the gifts. when he pulls back, he attaches the bracelet around his wrist, looking down with a smile. " hey, do you even like piano ... ? I should play something for you sometime— if you do. "

#SORRY I'M SO LATE TO GET TO THESE i think its bc tai-muse feels weird & awkward abt birthdays so he's like ummmmmmMMMMmmasjjaj #buT I'M GETTIN THRU THEM && also he wuvs calum sm #calum you are his BRO in every sense of the word; the u w u 's are overflowing for calum #asjajja #tenderpulsive

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virgilsjourney · 2 years

Text

Summary: On autumn & associations.

Tags: Ficlet, College/Uni AU, POV Logan, Character Study, Slice of Life

Content warning: Past unhappy home life (briefly implied)

Relationship focus: Friendship/found family for all; Logan/Patton (pre-relationship); Roman/Virgil (pre-relationship)

_____________

It’s while he’s walking home from the library that Logan notices it: the leaves are beginning to crunch underfoot. He doesn’t realise he’s slowed his pace until he comes to a complete standstill, and then he blinks and taps his foot on the pathway experimentally. The fallen leaves are curled, dry like paper; when he glances down, the sight of amber and brown surprises him, somewhat—he usually tracks the changing of the seasons with clockwork precision, but now autumn seems to have snuck up on him all at once. It’s an odd feeling, thinking back to the silent dread that would normally accompany this time of year: the nights drawing in and getting colder, leaving him unable to spend the evenings outside (away from home, blessedly alone). Something twists in his chest. Sadness, even remembered sadness, is hard to shake.

As he nears the tower block, he can see that the light is on in their apartment, a golden glow cast from the kitchen-cum-living room on the fourth floor. There’s the silhouette of someone in the window; Logan recognises it as being Virgil when the figure gives him a customary half-salute-half-wave.

Logan waves back.

When he opens the front door, it’s to be immediately greeted by the sound of chatter drifting from the kitchen. He smiles when he hears his name—“Yeah, well, Logan can be the judge,”—and calls out a greeting before following the voices into the room.

“Finally,” Roman says. His legs are dangling over the arm of the couch; he’s wielding a script that has multiple page corners folded over, sticky notes galore. With his free hand, he gestures expansively to the window and says, “Cast your eye over our toil.”

Virgil, still by the window, scoffs. “You mean my toil.”

He presses something against the glass and as Logan gets closer, it’s clear why Virgil had been standing there to begin with: the window has been decorated with bats made from cleverly folded pieces of black card.

Logan settles on the couch, leaning on his knees; he shoves Roman’s legs out of the way as he does so, ducking to avoid Roman hitting him in the head with the script—a well-oiled routine. As he asks, “So, what am I judging?”, he peers over the top of the couch and finds Patton sitting cross-legged on the floor, grinning up at him.

“The bats,” Patton answers. Pieces of Halloween themed scotch tape cling to his fingertips, rows of smiling pumpkins—a little strip adorns the bridge of his glasses which, Logan thinks with affection, could equally be an accident or intentional.

“You need to be more specific, Pat,” Virgil says. “It’s between my bats,”—he nods at the upper half of the window—“and Roman’s.” He points further down, where a row of what looks like black amorphous blobs are stuck, to varying degrees of success.

“Ah.” Logan fights a smirk. “Well, it’s a close call.”

This time, he does not avoid Roman’s signature ‘script to the head’ move. “Rude! Mine have character.”

“Yeah, sure they do,” Virgil replies, “they’re works of art; Van Gogh’s got nothing on them.” It’s probably supposed to sound like biting sarcasm, but when directed at Roman, it’s like he can’t stop the fondness from colouring every word.

“Judging matters aside, you are aware that it’s not Halloween yet?” Logan asks.

Virgil gives him a deeply unimpressed look.

“If you value your life,” Roman says in a ridiculous stage whisper, “you’ll drop that question.”

“Too late,” Virgil says; and he gives an evil looking smile, all teeth, which might have been intimidating, once, if Logan didn’t know that the more terrifying Virgil acts, the greater he values the friendship.

Patton shuffles over to the window and places the rest of the tape on Roman’s ‘bats’ before standing up to point at Virgil, mock-stern. “No outright spookiness until Halloween.”

“Damn,” Virgil says with a shrug. “I’ll have to push back the crypt rental.”

“Surprisingly not the worst thing you’ve said today,” Roman says.

“And on that note,” Logan says, “I’m leaving.”

He doesn’t, of course—he just goes to the kitchen area, leaning over the counter awkwardly to check that the toaster is plugged in.

“Uh, what are you doing?” Patton says.

Logan turns. Patton’s at the sink, filling up a glass of water.

“Making… toast?” Logan says, confusion growing. “It’s—I was late coming back, so I don’t really have time to do a full—”

“Yeah, but…” Patton sets down the glass then opens the fridge. He brings out a bowl covered in plastic wrap; there’s one of Roman’s sticky notes on top, with Logan’s name written in Patton’s hand. There’s also an entirely inaccurate doodle of Saturn. “I saved you some pasta,” Patton says.

“Oh.” Logan takes the bowl. “Um, thank you.” He almost leaves it there, but a little apologetic impulse creeps up. “You didn’t have to—”

“But I did,” Patton finishes. He winks, and it seems more understanding than teasing.

All of a sudden, Logan decides that he doesn’t want to point out that piece of tape still stuck to Patton’s glasses: it suits him, he thinks.

Logan heats the pasta up—underneath the hum of the microwave, he can hear Roman and Virgil still bickering playfully; when he glances over, he watches Patton begin to add his own attempt at bats to the window.

Logan turns back to the microwave, smiling.

The nights might be drawing in, but finds he no longer minds it quite as much.

#sanders sides fic #logicality #prinxiety #sanders sides fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides college au #sanders sides uni au

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pre1ude · 1 year

Text

@vilestblood , sent 👫 for four headcanons about our muses' relationship

Their first meeting, logically, ought to be at an external performance before Daniel is even hired, yes I know that's how it should work, but consider instead: an audition or even a debut in front of Antonin's private audience, for the fact alone that Danny can actually pick his repertoire. Which - if he's just met ✨ Mister Cainhurst ✨, in all his odd glory - is guaranteed to be absolutely unhinged. He's immediatelly so very charmed by where he is and who he's with. Technically, it should be nothing new, but while he may have spent most of his measly time outside of home around the well-respected upper class, it's not every day you meet a 7 ft tall gnc blonde with the weirdest vibes imaginable. So Danny sets out to impress him the only way he knows how - by making sure the very first impression he makes is with his music. That is to say: he stiffly drones through a brief conversation, barely meets Nin's eye and then shreds Erlkönig in tempo accelerando, all the way to full speed on a violin. If he has actual operatic accompaniment he would make it a point to overshadow the poor poor tenor they decide to stick him with. Shows off with the triple stops, breaks a few horsehairs and then becomes the equivalent of 🥺👉👈 once the piece is finished.

From then on it goes as smoothly as one would imagine. Granted, Dan susses some oddities out fairly quickly and 'a society of wildly individualistic eccentrics' isn't enough to explain some of them away. He ends up balancing a tightrope between turning a deaf ear out of habit so he can continue to enjoy his time, independence and flourishing reputation, and exploring his suspicions, cautious of the rug being pulled out from under him in a horribly karmic, thematic 'haha you thought' moment. He would like to lead a comfortable existence but he's hardly going to achieve that through willful ignorance. Speaking of, funnily enough, I think he'd initially refuse to suspect Antonin outright, the most vampire looking motherfucker there ever was, because he'd have more or less put him on a pedestal by then. Maybe even shares some suspicions and unanswered questions with him, partly to test him, mostly to assuage his fears. So their eventual "I know what you are." "Say it." "Vampire." "Sure, that works." Twilight moment will be hilarious when it happens and will certainly fall into the category of 'one of those hard life lessons'. A sobering moment. Great for building realistic rapport, though. Like, for example, the issuing of some immunity or protection (in writing), which Danny will ask for and genuinely require in order to stay. A failsafe, if you will.

Antonin represents a whole new school of thought and expression for Daniel, a manner of not denying himself the vengeful need for violence by putting it into his art. By the time he comes into Antonin's employment, Daniel would have had one or two experiences with conducting and only half-feathered attempts at composition. Not because he thinks his efforts aren't good enough, but because the music he creates will always be an expression of emotion for him, most of which is a disturbing tell-all. This baby can hold so much repressed rage and sadness in him. Around Antonin, especially once he's treated to his fascinatingly complex moral codex, he leans in that direction wholeheartedly, without fear of judgement when it becomes more than clear he won't receive any. Still ever cautious, at first, as is his penchant, with references vague, symbolic and perfectly pedestrian so as to keep a low profile, and later far more personal, influenced by and written for his unique set of supernatural skills. Meaning, an until-now passive aggression comes up to the surface and he allows it to lace with his creations, soak into them thoroughly. His first fully transcendental performance is reserved for Antonin in private company. Written and conducted by him entirely; an ode, if you will, to a great big influence in his life. A muse, almost. He requests a hall without windows and advises against bringing in glass.

He indulges Antonin a great deal, even after the Twilight Moment. Whatever admiration Danny harbored for him would simply evolve into a more understandable, mature artistic interest. The man is odd, it can't be denied, who wouldn't be curious about him. His very existence is source of inspiration aplenty; he's something eldritch, mythological, surreal in his own right, an otherworldly subject ideal for musical consecration - historic and mystical both, and at times self-indulgently iconoclastic. He's lived for millenia, he hails from a whole different culture, his voice feels like warm steel. Perhaps Danny's interest isn't quite fully devoid of that admiration he was supposed to lose (on moral grounds), even if on a less personal level. So yes, there are symphonies and operas referencing him a great deal in our musician's future, expressions of his deep-seated fascination, some more interpretative than others. Rarely complimentary, but never condemning.

And have this thought: If he were to want, Antonin could very well work with Danny to restore/replicate old, long-lost musical pieces from Cainhurst times. Daniel can hardly say no to digging up cultural treasures, art is a legacy he's rather protective and passionate about.

+ 1

It's tradition for me to do a bonus on each hc post, but literally all I can think of is Dan's dog, Bentley, having the most ardent desire to chase down Crowtonin. Hauls absolute ass whenever he sees Birb TM. Barks him up trees, shakes his whole ass in excitement about it. Something about that animal in particular just makes him wanna say hi in the most doglike way possible. To such a degree that Daniel finds himself constantly resorting to Baby Swaddle Jail just to keep Ben in line. Save the poor defenseless bird's life. 😔

#➻ 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐈 𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 —《answered.》#vilestblood.#kept these pretty basic tbh. and non invasive.#anyway can dan please give crowtonin head scritches 🥺 he loves birds

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alyssathorne · 2 years

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Alyssa Thorne X S. Elizabeth

In a banner week for being able to do “pinch me I’m dreaming” jobs - I have something thing I created for a friend to show you! This was made for @ghoulnextdoor - otherwise known as author and notorious perfume sniffer, S. Elizabeth. I also know her as a pal; one whom I feel incredibly lucky to have met in this weird world. She is the most spectacular person and I could talk about her for days! But you should just get to know her yourself.

This piece was created EXCLUSIVELY for the Patreon that accompanies her incredible TikTok perfume review channel, Midnight Stinks. If you like perfume, this is THE TikTok for you. Her voice is so soothing and the descriptions of the smells are like nothing I’ve ever heard before, and are incredibly unique, transportive, and sometimes funny as heck.

For this piece, I imagined a tableau that represented the feelings I get when I watch her videos. So I present: Midnight Stinks - a fantastical, imaginary vanity table with luxuriant floral overgrowth, magically springing from the surface. A scene with shimmering bottles, gleaming jewels, yellowing old books full of notes on various scents. A table fit for a notable scent historian.

I also included a sneak peek at the book photos I shot for her upcoming book, The Art Of Darkness - it is gorgeous and you need to pre-order and see it for yourself! Pre- Order the book HERE

When I asked what she would like people to know about the book, she said

"It was conceived of at a time when "Good Vibes Only" was a big thing that influencers and wellness gurus were all espousing. And that really rubbed me the wrong way. We've since started talking about that attitude as "toxic positivity" and I was sort of thinking of this book as the antidote to aggressively good vibes, and a way to sit with distressing, uncomfortable things that don't feel good in a safe and sometimes beautiful space."

Here is a quote from the book to illustrate this (in my opinion) super refreshing perspective.

"Ever since I learned as a child that we all at some point experience unpleasant feelings or behaviors or conditions, whether that be fright or fury, melancholy or misery, sadness or sickness, I have been fascinated by how we describe and communicate these things, these darker aspects of the human condition–especially as it relates to language and visuals, and in particular the way these things are depicted in art.

We all experience darkness. We can’t avoid it, and I don’t think we should. If we’re eternally trying to live the light where it’s always bright and happy, where we ignore or evade our distressing, uncomfortable feelings, then we are starved of shadows, of nuance, and risk an existence robbed of the richness of contrast. When we only validate our positive feelings, we vastly restrict our tools for looking at the world. We are neither dealing with reality as it is nor adequately readying ourselves for the random pains and struggles that life has in store for us. We deny our inner darkness at our own peril. Because tragedies and calamities are inevitable and darkness will descend at some point in your life, no matter what sort of mindset you have. Despite what you may have heard, good things don’t only happen to good people, and bad things don’t only happen to bad people, and whatever it is, your positive or negative thoughts did not make it happen. Shit happens. Pain is pain, feelings are feelings. And as humans, for our emotional health, it is important that we experience and embody the full spectrum of feelings and emotions."

Honestly, please seek out the book if you like dark art. It's truly special.

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mademoisellehypergamy · 3 years

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✨ CREATING A PERSONA FOR HYPERGAMY & SOCIAL CLIMBING ✨

The votes are in and “Persona” won! Ladies, get the notebooks out. Class is in session. And this is gonna be a long one.

Be honest with me: Are you currently your ideal woman? The majority of you will probably answer honestly and say no. And there’s nothing wrong with admitting that. The harsh reality is most women on their hypergamous journey aren’t even close to being the ideal woman they aspire to be. Hell, the average woman (hypergamous or not) will probably live her life never being able to become that woman, if we’re being completely honest here.

I believe every hypergamous woman should create and adopt a persona. You are who you believe to be. When I was younger, my teachers and parents told me I was academically gifted. So guess what? I believed the same! That pushed me to work even harder in school. Same concept applies here. You are who you believe to be. A persona isn’t a “fake” version of you. It is you. Your ideal person. It is malleable, so it can change at anytime. Just like you changed throughout your life.

STEP 0 - WHY YOU SHOULD ADOPT A PERSONA

✨Not Everyone Will Win the Birth Lottery. But that doesn’t mean you can’t rewrite your past, and repave your future path. Let’s face it: some of you were born into bad circumstances; abusive families, poverty, toxic relationships, obstacles and barriers, etc. And some of you are living lives currently that you aren’t satisfied with: stressful job, health issues, bad environment, *insert sob story here*, blah, blah, blah, woe is me! But should your current and past conditions get in the way of your hypergamous journey? No! Absolutely not.

✨You Can’t Be the Same Basic B*tch Forever. Okay b*tch, when you were being “true to yourself” in the past, look where it got you. Probably in a less than favorable situation. Congratulations for being an authentic basic b*tch! 🥳😊

Ladies, change is necessary. When you started your hypergamous journey, you underwent a change. Are you saying your hypergamous self is fake? Of course it isn’t! It’s still you, just an “elevated you”. One that is more aware and knows what she wants.

✨ Most People Don’t Even Know Who TF They Are. It’s sad, but true. Most people are lost and suppressing their true desires and personality. I’m here encouraging you ladies to create your ideal persona and to become this woman. Because this woman is who you are deep inside, who you want to be. Stop hiding her! Create her, and become her! As long as this person isn’t harming anyone, there is no reason you shouldn’t chase your dream self.

STEP 1 - CHOOSE & CREATE YOUR PERSONA

This is the fun part ladies! Time to choose and create your new persona!

✨ What Kind of Woman Do You Aspire to Be? Have fun with this ladies! What kind of woman have you always dreamt of becoming? Is she wildly intelligent and beautiful? Or perhaps she has a heart of gold and is adored by all? Nothing is off limits. This is you.

For those of you who are truly struggling, below I have included a few examples of common personas. If you don’t know where to begin, choose one as the “foundation” and build on it. Make it your own!

*Disclaimer: Anyone that I mentioned/included below is simply for inspiration. Not all of these women are hypergamous. This is just for inspiration*

1. The Socialite/ The “It” Girl: This is the girl that everyone knows. She’s always at a party with a glass of champagne, wearing the latest styles, and living the BEST life. She’s glamorously unattainable and few have access to her, but somehow she’s a part of every social circle.

Inspiration: Jamie Chua (https://www.instagram.com/ec24m/)

2. The Traveler: This is the girl that travels constantly. Whether it’s across the globe or to a different state/town, she’s always on the go! No one seems to know how she funds her lifestyle because she always appears to be traveling and never working. Her pictures are always on point and high quality, with a combination of bikini pictures, relaxing scenery, exotic foods, and endless hotels.

Inspiration: Jennifer Tuffen (https://www.instagram.com/izkiz/)

3. The Influencer: Think of the ultimate Instagram Baddie; perfect body (usually because of surgery), full lips, carefully applied makeup, nails always done, hair on point. She is sponsored by all the clothes brands, and lives lavishly. She’s always out at a restaurant and traveling. Typically dresses in more revealing clothes/lots of bikinis. What differentiates her from the Socialite? The degree of elegance and class. While the Socialite gives you an “heiress” vibe, the Influencer is more on the “flashy celebrity” side.

Inspiration: Kaylar Will (https://www.instagram.com/kaylarwill/)

4. Femme Fatale: She rarely posts on social media, but when she does, it only makes you question her existence more. This girl is beautifully sensual, and her social media only reveals bits and pieces of her life. She is an entire mystery, no one knows about her private life. One day she’ll be flying from London, the next she’ll be visiting an art gallery She’ll sometimes post images of gifted roses with poetry captions. She oozes seduction and dark mystery.

Inspiration: Dita Von Teese (https://www.instagram.com/ditavonteese) Now I thought long and hard about who to choose for this one, and if you take a moment to look at Dita’s IG account, you will understand why. You will notice that the ONLY thing she posts about is her clothes/lingerie brand or things relating to business. She reveals nothing about her personal life. Every post is promotion about her business. In fact, the last time she posted something about her “life” was on October 8th when she posted her CAT modeling another designer’s scarf. She’s a very discreet woman, and it works in her favor.

5. Girl Next Door: You know that basic b*tch that’s SUPER popular for no reason? This is her. From her Starbucks to her Tiktoks, she’s just your average girl living her life. In a way, she isn’t a threat because she seems approachable, relatable, and friendly enough through social media. Something about her aspires others that they can achieve a similar lifestyle. She’s terribly basic, but somehow, it works.

Inspiration: Loren Gray (https://www.instagram.com/loren/)

6. Exotica: *This persona is best suited for women of color* She is exotically beautiful and unique. She is a trendsetter, not a follower. She has an air of heightened sexuality, with a touch of grounded-spirituality. Something about her is wild and untamed, and she oozes excitement and adventure.

Inspiration: Monica Leon, or “Danger”. Now if you’re in my generation, you may remember the reality show “For the Love of Ray J” (which was ghetto btw💀). To this day, one girl that I will NEVER forget on that show, was “Danger”, the girl with the tiger tattoo on her face and that NO ONE liked, but Ray J was obsessed with. Although she no longer is on Instagram (and has since legally changed her name), I still believe she naturally embodied that exotic and mysterious woman persona. I recommend watching the show for free on Youtube just to observe her (and only her because the other women were pickme’s 💀)

7. The Luxurious Diamond: This woman is the epitome of class and elegance. She exudes femininity and grace, and holds an air of mystery by only showing us bits and pieces of her life. What we see is soft luxuries, wineries, beautiful clothes/scenery, and a life of comfort. She balances a mature, elegant, ladylike presence, with subtle girly-youthfulness.

Inspiration: Г-жа Анисимова https://www.instagram.com/creme_de.la_femme/

✨How Does She Look Like? From her hair to how she wears her makeup, be able to create a vivid description of her appearance. Being able to do this will show you where to work on with your current appearance.

✨Personality We all have traits about ourselves that we don’t like. This is your chance to identify your traits that you love and maximize them, while also working on the aspects of your personality that are a bit more problematic.

It’s important to recognize that some “negative” traits are not really negative. Society just shames us for them. For example, “The Socialite” persona may be polite, but that doesn’t mean she’s super open and friendly with everyone. Not everyone is her friend, and she is naturally unattainable. So why would she be super friendly to everyone? Some may call her “standoffish”, but I call it “selective”.

✨Past Self? Not a Problem. So let’s say you had a less than perfect childhood and endured a lot of trauma. Not a problem, just reinvent your past! Now I’m not saying to straight up lie and make up a crazy story about how you grew up with billionaire parents and traveled the globe. I’m saying adopt a realistic story that’ll help you on your journey.

For example, if your date were to ask about your past, instead of telling him how tragic your childhood was and how you were homeless and abused by your parents, and no longer have a relationship with them, you can say: “I moved around a lot as a child (“homelessness”), so I really enjoyed being able to interact with a lot of different people (make the negative seem positive). My parents still move around a lot, so it’s hard for us to meet (explains why you aren’t in contact with your parents).

Reword and reframe, ladies. Not everyone needs to know everything.

STEP 2 - BRING HER TO LIFE

✨Remove. You cannot embrace your new persona, your new IDENTITY, if you are still stuck in the past. And that includes past connections that do not serve you. Some of your old friends (college friends, childhood friends, etc.) are not meant to accompany you on this journey. And that’s OKAY. Same with other toxic relationships in your life, family included. You will have to decide who to keep, and who to distance yourself from.

✨ Social Media! I’ve mentioned this in an earlier post, but social media is the easiest way for you to push your new persona. You control the content that goes on your social media, so even if you haven’t fully embodied your new persona, you can sure as hell fake it on social media.

- Unless your persona is a socialite/influencer type, avoid posting too often. - Be consistent; if you retouch your images, make sure its consistent with all your photos. - Be mindful of what people tag you in/post about you. You know that “friend” who always posts the ugliest pictures of you? Yeah. They’re not your friend, hun.

✨Dress. The. Part. Okay, sis. You can have the personality down perfectly, but if the look doesn’t match, no one will buy it. Your look is the first thing people notice, so invest in it. It doesn’t cost a lot, especially with fast fashion sites like Shein that sells clothes for $5. Just be able to keep up the appearance.

✨ Immerse Yourself in the Environment. Looking the part and having the right personality is not enough, ladies! It wouldn’t make sense for you to be a “Socialite” sharing pictures of you eating at Red Lobster and Olive Garden every night. It wouldn’t make sense for the “Traveler” persona to share only bathroom selfies in her apartment. You have to live like the woman you aspire to be, and that includes placing yourself in those environments.

If you are not in the place financially to do so, learn to project the image without spending money. Ex: If you can’t afford to go to Hawaii, go to your local beach and take bomb ass pictures. Don’t tag the location. People will automatically see a beach in your picture and assume you are on vacation traveling. Get creative, ladies.

✨You Owe Them Nothing. Ladies! Remember you don’t owe anyone anything. Not an explanation, not your time, nothing. So if you are living this new persona and people are asking questions you don’t want to answer: don’t. This is your life.

STEP 3 - YOUR PERSONA WHILE DATING HYPERGAMOUSLY & SOCIAL CLIMBING

So now that you have created your ideal persona, and taken the steps to incorporate it into your life, how can you use your newfound persona to aid you on your hypergamous journey and while social climbing?

✨Infiltrate New Circles. Your persona should be someone exciting and enticing. People love befriending people who are happy and adventurous. Use your persona to befriend others and enter new social circles. You can do this through: - Social media; follow similar accounts to yours and interact with them. - Activities related to your persona; Let’s say you adopted the “The Luxurious Diamond” persona and started visiting wineries. You may notice when you go that there are regulars; identify the regulars and use your common interest of wine to strike a conversation. -Interest groups; join clubs/groups that help you reach your goals. For example, “The Traveler” may have always wanted to travel to Bali, but didn’t want to go alone. She joins a travel group to meet other likeminded inviduals and meets a travel buddy. This person ends up introducing her to others who also enjoy traveling.

✨ Be a Chameleon. You should never be set on just one persona. Like I said earlier, your persona should always be malleable. You should be able to change yourself to your benefit, and always be open to expansion. When it comes to dating, a man may “want” a certain type of woman, but the secret is that most men just want a woman who is open to possibilities. I remember a man who used to be on my roster who loved music. This man was always insisting on taking me to operas and symphonies. And he too was a musician (I really don’t like dating musicians, but that’s a topic for another day), so whenever he was performing he would have me sitting in the box so I’d have an “undisturbed” experience. Now ladies, I’m not into music AT ALL. But I was open and willing, and guess what? The man adored it, and he adored me even more! He spoiled me like crazy and would serenade me with music he wrote about me because I was his “muse”. Although I ended up ghosting him, I definitely appreciate a good opera now!

✨Be Larger than Life to Entice. The attractive part about these personas is the fact that it feels almost fake. The image that is portrayed is almost mythical, like something out of a fantasy. You can’t believe this girl is traveling so much, or you can’t believe this girl still has a social life in the middle of a pandemic! It’s unbelievable, but that’s what makes us so intrigued. Men especially love fantasy. That’s why many men have a “dream girl”, a woman that embodies their physical and emotional fantasies. They love the impossible. It’s also important to remember that you are always being watched. People see you, whether in person or on social media, and when they see someone or something more interesting than their mundane life, curiosity will get the best of them. They’ll be drawn to you and want to know you.

✨ The Persona Advantage. Creating a persona is supposed to help your journey. The purpose is to reinvent yourself into someone who will help you better navigate your hypergamous life. For example, if you are trying to get into more exclusive, affluent circles, creating a persona who is skilled in social and dining etiquette would be more beneficial than a persona that’s an Instagram Influencer. Being an Instagram Baddie that wears Fashion Nova won’t help you at a Charity Gala. So be sure to think of what you desire in life to shape yourself into that. Don’t just become someone who won’t get you to where you want to be.

This post will definitely have a Part 2 in the future, but in conclusion: You can be whoever you want to be as long as you play the role. Be an actress in your own life, and live the life you desire.

Well ladies, I’ll be away for Valentine’s day weekend. Wishing you all a wonderful and safe weekend ❤️ Lots of love.

Follow my IG for more: @mademoisellehypergamy

#mhlessons #hypergamy #hypergamous #black hypergamy #hypergamy tips #black femininity #keptwoman #kept wife #spoiled girlfriend #spoiled gf #spoiled heaux #black girls in luxury #black women in luxury #luxury lifestyle #black women in leisure #black women in femininity #sugaring tips #sugaring

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illuminiscentboba · 2 years

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FIND YOU (keiji x fem!reader)

genre: fluff, angst, implication of dea1h

a/n: what if I were to write a part two and this was the prologue- if I did would anyone want to join the taglist?

"Mr. Keiji, where have you put the trays?"

A young girl waddled up to the young man, trying to get a peek at the canvas on the tabletop. To him, there was nothing much to see, a dabble of blue and green, some peach, and dark blue, the easy part was out of the way.

"It is Sir Akaashi to you," he offered the young lady a tired smile, ruffling her white and black locks as she oo'd and aah'ed at the art piece, clearly having forgotten about the trays.

Even in his young adulthood, fine lines etched across his cheeks and there was certain fatigue he experienced that made some days harder than others.

"But you aren't Sir Akaashi right now!" He began to protest but alas, she was correct.

On the battlefield or as a guard at nightfall, he was known as sir akaashi but sitting in the kitchen, parchment, and canvases across the clean counter as the rays of the afternoon sun filtered from the window by the sink, he was just keiji.

"Ok then call me Keiji then." He rose from his spot, making his way over to the golden tinted drawers and cupboard, taking out a few of the prettier trays for his friend's daughter whom he expected was a step behind.

She wasn't, still hovering over the portrait, a forlorn gaze as she stares down at the empty spot on the canvas.

"Are you still drawing pictures of lady y/n?" His heart squeezed at the mention of your name, and he placed the trays on the counter. "Of course, but why do you look so sad, hana?"

There were many paintings of you in his home, goofy ones that capture your smile and the expressions you'd shoot at him across the counter he sat at right now, the paintings with less strokes, the memories you too shared though there wasn't as many with him in it.

There was the painting of you standing in the doorway, so happy to see him after his knight shift when you promised you'd go to sleep but decided to wait for him how he wished you would again.

The painting of you pouting, surrounded by paint as he tried to teach you how to paint, the expression you'd have as you recited poetry and as you excitedly told him about what you were writing about, the time you both looked after Bokuto's newborn and even though it was a nightmare, he couldn't capture the glow of your face or the feeling in his heart when you said, "maybe it would be nice if we had a child together."

"She's gone, isn't she?" The young girl's whisper knocked him out of his reverie as she told the truth that her parents had told her. She handed him a handkerchief.

You always had his handkerchiefs on you. Collecting them like it was a game.

He took it, willing a smile onto his face.

"No, she's out there. I'm just not allowed to see her yet. She...has some issues she has to resolve before I can and so it's my job as her lover and best friend to wait. And I'm really good at waiting, so don't worry."

But that didn't mean that he didn't miss you..

He fended off the thought and emotions it accompanied, crouching to boop the child's nose, and she rubbed at her tiny nose, looking a little skeptical but it was understandable.

A lot of things didn't make sense without hearing the one hard-to-believe truth.

But he couldn't give away your family secret after all.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu angst #akaashi keiji hq #keiji x reader #akaashi x reader #akaashi fluff #akaashi angst #hq keiji fic #lumi writes ✨

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rae-gar-targaryen · 3 years

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loved you once [angel reyes x fem!reader]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so you didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was it.

No "I'm sorry, querida."

No "I hope we can stay friends."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To you? It was perfection. It was remembrance.

‘Cause I loved you, once…

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oliver here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But?" He pressed.

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you think of that one?”

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

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

Um, wow.

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

All you could do was nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel nodded.

“Do your worst, Vince.”

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

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

You rolled your eyes.

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

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

“You gotta earn ‘Frida,’ dulcita.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He seemed puzzled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The heat had returned to your cheeks, standing quickly.

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

You spun back toward him before he could get up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy shit.

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

Cheeky.

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah. So she knew who you were.

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

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

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

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

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

“Only as well as I can,” she replied. EZ rubbed the back of his neck as you two gossiped about him like he wasn’t standing right there.

“Listen, hermanita,” EZ began, swirling the dregs of his beer around the bottle clutched in his hand as the conversation lapsed into comfortable silence, “About Angel --”

That was a hard no.

“Coco!” You called as you spotted the lithe man prowling through the crowd after obtaining a drink from the bar, effectively shutting EZ up.

Coco sidled over, slinging an arm over your shoulder and nodding in greeting to EZ and Gaby.

“Wassup, chiquita? Over here with all the cool kids?”

“You know damn well I was never cool enough for the cool kids,” you knocked your shoulder into Coco’s good-naturedly.

“Dunno about that, pequeña,” Coco took a drag of his cigarette, sighing as he exhaled. “I’ve got some pretty cool body armour thanks to you.”

“All in a day's work,” you mock-saluted. You were doing great. Keep it light, keep it friendly. You may be able to make it out of this unscathed, after all.

Gaby and EZ were speaking softly to one another just to your side, as you and Coco continued your conversation.

“So, who’s the new guy?” You asked, nodding over to where Angel and the still-unnamed newbie were tossing back shots. You tried to ignore that each one had girls placed on each of their laps. Well, mostly you were trying to ignore one girl placed on one lap; tried to ignore as ringed fingers trailed up and down her thigh hypnotically as he howled in laughter at something the new guy had said.

The longer you stared at the way he was touching her, the more You thought you could feel it on your own skin. And you knew all too well how that touch felt. Memories, make you, right?

You blinked harshly, turning your face back to Coco’s, only to find his hawkish eyes trained on you as he continued to smoke. Now you were certain he had seen everything you had, and more. And you cursed yourself for slipping. Because nothing slipped past Coco.

He took mercy on you nevertheless.

“Andres. He’s aight. You may not remember him from before, when he was just a prospect.”

“Guess not,” you agreed, shrugging amiably, suddenly very interested in toying with the hem of your flowy little summertime skirt.

“Mierda,” you heard Coco hiss, glancing up to see none other than the new guy -- Andres -- walk over, his arm around the waist of the girl from his lap, accompanied by none other than Angel Reyes, furnished with his own lap-turned-arm candy. She was giggling in his ear, popping her gum and bumping her hips against Angel’s as she walked by his side.

You felt EZ stiffen from your other side.

Great.

The easy smile you’d had when conversing with Coco now felt positively screwed into place, settling unnaturally, a stranger's face made up of your own features.

Andres smirked at you in greeting, eyes trailing over you -- the most unwelcome iteration of that gesture in this context to-date.

“I hear you’re the girl to see about some ink.”

You bit back the snarky response that rose to your tongue. You see anyone else here, tonto?

“Sure am,” you replied, cool as you pleeeeaseeee. Maybe a little too cool. The ice in your voice was obvious to everyone except the strangers before you.

You really were doing great, weren’t you?

“Great,” the new meat brushed the girl off from his side, plopping unceremoniously into your chair. “You did that right?” He pointed behind you to where Angel was standing, gesturing at his arm and your miniscule mural of memorial greenery.

“Cierto.” You nodded, sparing Angel’s arm the barest of glances.

“Aight, well, none of that girly shit, alright, sweetheart? Angel may have had the good grace not to say anything, but flowers ain’t really my style, yeah?”

What the fuck.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Coco visibly tense next to you, obviously displeased at the uncalled-for critique of your work. Of a piece he himself had often admired. He would never admit it, but he thought the story behind it was even better. It’s like you had walked out of some shitty romcom Leti watched with her tittering friends and into Angel’s dreams, sinking yourself beneath Angel's skin like a dream he would recount to all of his friends. Coco knew the most about you by nature of Angel's second-hand stories when you were together. Although Coco thought, once he had met you, Angel's stories didn't do you justice. How wonderful and talented you were. How warm and welcoming.

Angel watched the exchange silently, clearly none too keen to defend the piece you had designed for him. That had come to mean so much to you.

That stung.

You winced, almost imperceptibly. But you were certain Coco saw it, not much escaping his sniper’s eyes. EZ, with his owlish perception and photographic memory, certainly would have seen it, too. If Angel saw it, it’s not like he was going to say anything now.

Where the fuck was Aneesa? Wasn’t she supposed to be heading this kind of shit off? You glanced over at the couches in the corner where your friend had previously been sitting with GIlly, and was now nowhere to be seen. Fuckin’ typical.

“Aight, no más flores." No more flowers. “What were you thinking, then?”

That was you, ever the professional.

Andres showed you his phone, a rendering of an old-style beastly cat, like a panther from an old folktale, pulled up in his image search.

“Something for a warrior,” he puffed his chest slightly. “I was thinking here,” he shrugged out of one side of his new kutte, tugging the button-up to expose one side of his chest.

“You got it.”

You set to work, cleaning the area to be inked and getting your tools ready. The rest of the group drifted as the project progressed, clearly not feeling the need to stand there for the entire duration of a tattoo.

You were acutely aware that Angel hadn’t stepped as far away as the others, circumventing the periphery of yours and Andres’ space, not close, but not far. And he still had yet to even look in your direction. Or acknowledge your existence.

You tried your best to ignore the icy shard of Angel’s indifference that was currently wedging its way between your ribs and lodging itself firmly once more into your heart. At this point, you guessed it would never heal.

“Sooooo,” Andres lolled his head to the side of his chair to face you, slinging back the beer from the bottle dangling in his free hand. “I haven’t seen you in a while. You were around a little bit when I was prospecting.”

You opted not to respond, aware that Angel was likely listening, and you would need to choose any words carefully. Andres had no such reservation, clearly uncaring about who might be listening. He pressed on, each word more infuriating than the last.

“You were Angel’s little sidepiece for a while, right?”

You tried to keep your despairing sigh to a quiet little nothing.

“Sure.” You offered lamely. “Sorry, man, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really work better when I’m not talking.”

“S’alright, jaina. I can talk enough for the both of us.”

You hmm’d nonchalantly at that, lip imperceptibly curling over your teeth in distaste at the moniker. You chose instead to focus on the piece. You wouldn’t give a shitty tattoo, even if this guy was a douchebag. And the pleasant buzz of the tattoo gun. Maybe you were etching the lines a little sharper than strictly necessary. If he noticed, Andres gave no indication, continuing on with his diatribe:

“So, what happened? I mean, Angel knocked that other chick up? Ouch, right?”

You were now seeing red, the edges of your vision blurring slightly with angry, pinpricking tears. Thank fuck you were just about done with this.

“But that’s the life right? I mean, we’re not exactly known for being steady with just one chick. You know how it goes ...” He eyed you up and down again, lingering a little too long on your legs before finishing his thought with a smirk “... Clearly.”

You hated his use of “we,” like he was in any way, shape, or form worthy to be in the class of man EZ, Coco, Bishop, or, hell, even Angel, was. None of them would talk to you like this. No matter what Angel had done.

You shut off the gun, pushing back from the space with Andres, spinning in your chair, and grabbing the clean wipes for Andres’ fresh ink. As you dabbed the area and made to bandage it, the oblivious biker grabbed your wrist. None of the teasing fun or gentleness in the same gesture that Angel had imparted when you had first met. No, Andres’ grip hurt. It was all bruising possession and entitlement.

“I think we would have fun, you and I.” He leaned forward and far too into your space, the stale stink of warm beer heavy on his breath.

You wrenched your grip from his, standing quickly and offering him a tight smile, cheeks flaming with your anger and embarrassment. How dare he speak so trivially of your relationship with Angel. How dare he think you were so easily won with his kutte and shitty attitude.

“Uhm,” you tugged your fingers agitatedly through the ends of your hair, chewing your lip. “You’re all set, Andres. Aftercare sheet is on the table next to you. It’s on the house. Happy patch party!” Your voice sounded so shrill and fake in your own head, but you just didn’t have it in you to care at the moment.

With that, you quickly whirled on your heel, in a distressed flurry past the Angel-shaped blur who had been watching the entire encounter, and out of the clubhouse door into the cooler late-night air.

Getting heavy to breathe in this room together. It’s so awkward, we can’t seem to do it better. Can’t we just fake a smile and put our shit to the side?

---

Angel had waited a whopping 18 hours to text you after your clandestine tattooed meet-cute.

You were in the middle of exchanging consultation e-mails with a prospective client when your phone had buzzed.

“Vince?” The text read.

You bit back a smirk before responding,

“Vince? No Vince here. This is Frida’s phone.”

You watched as the little bubbles appeared in the corner, disappeared for a second, and then reappeared. You were grateful for the little manifestation of Angel’s hesitance. It made him seem more human. And it made you appreciative that he was clearly trying to choose his words with you, when words had seemed to come so easily to him when you had met.

“My bad. Oh, beautiful, talented Frida.”

You couldn’t hold back the smile on your features now. Grateful it was still you and only you in the shop so that no one could see your “obviously-texting-a-cute-guy” face.

“It’s nice to hear from you, Angel. Good thing you didn’t throw away the card.”

“That card was clearly a gift, querida. Much like the pretty flowers on my arm.” He snapped you a picture of his tattoo, the healing process underway.

“Looks great!” You sent, cringing at your lack of ability to effectively flirt via text. It was something that your friends had teased you relentlessly about back in the Town -- your notorious lack of game. No! New home, new you! Be cute. Be cute.

“So, if I’ve given you all the gifts, what do I get?” You sent with a “thinking” emoji.

Angel at least had the decency to wait a minute or two before replying, either thinking about his response or keeping you in suspense… you weren’t sure. But you were grateful for the little opportunity to catch your breath. How did he make you so speechless when he wasn’t even in the room with you? Some things just weren’t fair.

“Niña, I paid you for this ink. What more could you possibly want from me?”

Tricky Angel. Zorro. Like a little fox, he had effectively maneuvered the conversation back to you -- the ball was in your court. Would you tell him what you wanted?

You chewed the end of your fingernail thoughtfully before responding.

“You texted me, boy. Are you sure it isn’t you who wants something?”

If only your friends could see you now. That was damn smooth.

“Boy?”

You snorted to yourself. Trust a guy like Angel to get hung up on something small like that. The bubbles reappeared.

“I was thinking about this pretty girl I met the other day. Hell of an artist. But a shit poet. Thought I would see if she was free sometime?”

Angel was merciful. You could kiss him. Had he seriously just taken all the weight out of this conversation? Your heart felt a million pounds lighter in your chest, knowing he was asking you. The wave of relief that he wanted to see you again crashed through you, replaced in the tide with the backdraft of a feeling of mischievousness. You wouldn’t let him off so easily.

So you waited before responding. Let him sweat a little, right?

Only… you weren’t sure Angel was sweating as much as you were, fingers itching with the desire to text him back and accept immediately.

When what had felt like an eternity (but in reality had only been about seven minutes) had passed, you picked up your phone, opening the conversation with Angel.

“She’s free next Thursday … After your bike week, el rey de los bandoleros.”

You put your phone back down on the counter, grinning like an idiot, feeling like you had just swallowed a bunch of bubbles. You entertained the notion that if your combat boots weren’t keeping your feet weighted to the floor, you would have floated away.

Your phone dinged once more.

“See you then, mi reina.”

Time passes slowly the more you want it to go quickly. And whenever you have a deadline you’re dreading, it gallops ahead. Time really is that bitch, and she does not give a fuck about your feelings.

The following Thursday felt like it took a year to arrive. But it found you closing up the shop, your stomach fluttering with butterflies and pop rocks, adorned in your favorite pair of jeans and boots, a clean, flattering tank top that showed off your own ink. You hoped it was fine for whatever Angel had in mind.

Honestly, he hadn’t said anything about your date. A few flirtatious texts here and there? Obviously. You sent him photos of the pieces you had done for new clients. He sent you ridiculous selfies and a couple of group pics of him and his friends at the biker event. One guy who kept popping up in the photos, Angel had told you, was his “little” brother. But there was nothing “little” about that dude.

You loved seeing all of Angel’s goofy, smiling faces. Treasuring the photos in your small moments of quiet downtime.

The rumbling of a bike engine greeted your ears, like the seductive purr of a large cat. You glanced up, a full Cheshire grin alighting your features at the sight of Angel’s gorgeous, deep forest green bike, and the man of the hour looking very at home on the seat.

He rolled to a stop in front of you, unclipping his helmet and dismounting with his winning trademark smirk, ambling over to greet you.

“Frida,” he scooped you into a hug, his tall frame causing you to lift, your toes now barely brushing the ground as he brought you to his height. He pressed a soft kiss to your check, setting you down gently and letting you get your bearings, chuckling pleasantly at the obvious, dizzying effect his greeting had had on you.

“Angelito,” you returned. “Back in one piece?”

“Hail to the king, baby,” he countered.

“Yeah, yeah,” you teased, scuffing the toe of your boot into the gravel of the lot. “So, where are you taking me, o benevolent one?”

“Just gonna hafta find out.” He handed his helmet to you, helping you clip and tighten it beneath your chin. “Ever ridden before?”

“Uhm, well, sure” you replied too assuredly, quickly realizing your slip. “I mean, no. Not like that. I mean, yes, like that. But not on one of these.” Fuck. Could you be more embarrassing?

Angel released a full-bellied laugh at your response, his head tossing back a little.

“You’ll have to tell me more about alla that later, cielo.” You put your head in your palm willing the embarrassment to go away. Angel quickly pried your hands away, cupping your cheeks with his own warm hands, long fingers brushing your cheekbones reverently. “In the meantime, just hang on, okay?”

You nodded, still cursing your idiot-brain that had partnered with the dirtiest corners of your mind to take over your mouth. Shut the fuck up, dumb-dumb.

You clung to Angel as he drove, your hands roaming his firm torso probably a little too-familiarly. You enjoyed the way the wind whipped around you, tugging at yours and Angel’s clothes as you made your way up the canyon overlooking the desert that was Santo Padre.

Angel parked his bike on the ridge overlooking the town, the sun beginning its descent in the desert sky in swirling hues of pastels and cotton candy pink-purple-blue overtaking the orange hue.

You had never been up here before, and you told Angel as much. He looked pleased at that, pleased that he was the one to show you the best view of the Santo Padre sunset.

Angel busied himself unpacking the bags on the side of his bike while you enjoyed the scenery. Pulling out a couple of wrapped sandwiches and bottles of water, he handed yours to you, coming to stand next to you on the ridge.

"Thanks," you acknowledged, looking at the offerings. "What, no beer?"

Angel chuckled a little at that.

"I ain't tryna liquor you up, niña. Besides, you want warm beer that's been rattling around on my bike all afternoon?"

You crinkled your nose a little at that. "No," you decided. "Never mind. Besides, I'm more of a whiskey girl."

Angel glanced at you, sipping on his own water idly.

"Really?"

"Really," you confirmed. "Don't tell me you're one of those guys who thinks it's impressive when a girl drinks whiskey because it's such a 'man thing.' "

Angel held up one hand, defensively.

"Nunca. Just took you for more of a… dunno? Maybe a rum kinda girl?"

"Don't think so. For now, though? Water and sandwiches do me just fine. Whiskey can come later." You took a bite of the now-unwrapped sandwich. "This is good," you confirmed around a slightly-full mouth. "Did you make this?"

"Of course. Pop owns the butcher shop down the street from your parlour. Sliced the meat myself, an' all," he said, a little proudly now that he knew you approved of his sandwich-making skills.

"Bueno," you giggled. "Thank you for this, Angel. Really. This is one of the nicest nights I've had since moving here." You shuffled a little closer to where he was standing, looking in his eyes as you thanked him.

"Bah," he waved away your compliments, "it ain't alla that. This can't be the most exciting thing you've done since getting here."

"Maybe it is," you pressed. "I dunno. Maybe I'm too boring for the king of the bikers?"

"I doubt that very seriously, querida," he turned his body so he was facing you now, sandwich long gone, fiddling with the water bottle in his hands. "You play your cards right, I'll introduce you to the rest of the club. Then things'll get really exciting."

You blinked. One date and he already was thinking about introducing you to his friends? Your inner shy romantic (okay, not so "inner," right? You're pretty clear about who you are) was doing little somersaults in your chest.

You must've been silent a beat too long because Angel was quick to supplement, "Only if you want."

"I'd like that," you confirmed, nodding and smiling gently.

"So, are you gonna tell me what brings an East Bay girl here?"

You raised a brow. You didn't remember telling him where you moved from. He rubbed his hand along the back of his neck nervously, realizing you'd caught his slip.

"I maaaay have scrolled your Instagram?"

You finished your sandwich, thinking about how much you wanted to tell him.

"Just time for a change of scenery. Olí is an old friend, and he offered me a job. I think he wants to travel more." You shrugged, "It just felt like it was time. Plus, I dunno… I like it here. Much quieter."

Angel nodded at that, not having the heart to tell you that his club was not at all quiet and was the source of the disruption in the otherwise-quaint town.

You kept talking, telling him about the friends you'd left behind, your old shop, weekends spent in the park surrounding Lake Merritt, and going to Raiders games. Angel took in your features as you spoke, the golden light of the sunset making you glow like something out of a dream he'd had once. Your eyes sparkled as you talked about things you loved, the books and art that inspired your poetry. How you'd gone to art school. You were something.

"-- Sorry, I'm rambling," you breathed in a rush, flush with the amount of talking you'd been doing in a record amount of time. "What? Do I have something in my teeth?"

Angel realized he'd been staring as long as you'd been talking.

"No, querida. Nothing in your teeth." He gave you a dazzlingly white smile.

"Oh thank God," you returned his smile with a small one of your own, shying a little under his gaze, and wondering how long he had been looking at you like that as you'd talked.

He leaned over you now, his height giving him the definite advantage as he'd -- not unwelcomely-- invaded your space. He brought one hand up to cup your chin, his dark eyes revealing flecks of sparkling gold in the pastel wash of the sunset as his gaze once again met yours.

You saw his quick glance down at your lips, you unconsciously giving a small nod before his warm lips met yours.

Oh.

You had obviously been kissed before, been the recipient of past romantic attention. All of that paled in comparison, melting away as Angel's full lips maneuvered over yours, both of his large, calloused hands gently brushing your cheeks as he cupped your face, sliding one hand down to rest on the side of your neck.

You sighed lightly, one of your own hands twined into his shirt, the other resting on the side of his firm torso.

Angel took the opportunity to slide his tongue past your lips, your own brushing against his as the kiss deepened.

You were in no hurry for the kiss to end, enjoying the way everything about Angel was so warm, something that was surprisingly welcome, despite the ever-present desert heat of Santo Padre. You could get used to this.

You had only known Angel a short time, realistically. Your one meeting spawning a series of flirtatious texts and snaps, and now this date that, while low-key, felt almost too perfect to be real. He made you feel safe, desired.

You could already feel him slipping beneath your skin to rest in a special place in your heart. And while you as a person were generally reticent to share that part of yourself with anyone, you had a feeling Angel could take up permanent residence there. If he wanted.

You dropped from your tip-toes, effectively breaking the kiss.

Angel blinked, looking down at you and noting the pleasant glow on your skin, lips now slightly swollen from his kiss. He could get used to this.

The rest of the evening passed in a pleasant blur, trading quips and stories as the sun went down. Angel told you about his club, his brothers. About his pop and Ezekiel, and how at one time, he enjoyed being the bigger brother, teasing, pranking and lording over EZ until EZ had hit his growth spurt and could (and would) definitely hit back.

As he drove you home, you snuggled a little bit against him, pressing yourself into his back and enjoying the way you swore you could feel his heart pounding through the kutte and over the rumble of the bike and the road.

He'd dropped you off with a parting kiss and the promise of another date.

Another date turned into several. Time you weren't at the shop was now spent with Angel, showing him what you were working on, inviting him over for dinners and to watch mindless television while he told you what he could about his day.

The both of you were slowly peeling back the layers around your respectively guarded hearts, revealing more of yourselves only to be met with pure acceptance by the other. Even blindados had to take off their armour at some point.

You cherished your time with Angel, and he quickly found himself stumbling, head over his own biker-booted heels for you.

After a few months had passed, he had brought you to meet the club. You had manifested nothing but general acceptance of his lifestyle and were eager to meet the people Angel had so obviously cared for. Who had helped shape him into the brash but conscientious person he was with you.

And one sunny afternoon had found you bringing lunch you had made for the entire club over to the scrapyard, Angel agreeing with your plan. You never were one to show up empty-handed.

As you walked across the yard, past the gate, and into the clubhouse, your eyes adjusting to the dim interior from the blinding sun outdoors, Angel bounded over to greet you. Taking the bag full of homemade goodies from your arms, he pressed quick kisses to your cheeks, and one to your forehead.

He turned, met with the pleasantly-surprised stares of his brothers. He announced your name to the room before turning to you, pointing at each man and supplying a name. You nodded, smiling and offering a warm wave to each.

The man you knew to be EZ from all of Angel's initial texts and photos quickly strode over to you, shaking your hand in his impressively firm grip before bending down to press a quick kiss to your cheek with a,

"Bienvenido, hermanita. Angel's told me a lot about you. Won't shut up, really," giving you a sly wink as Angel swatted EZ's arm in annoyance at his brother's revelation.

Boys.

The smaller man with the sharp eyes and full curls you knew to be Coco made his way over to where you were now seated as Angel went to get you both drinks, the other men digging into your offerings as you made yourself comfortable.

He sat next to you, tossing you a, "You mind?" Lighting his cigarette after you’d shaken your head.

He studied you through his own plumes of smoke before leaning across the table and speaking to you, lowly and with an almost conspiratorial rasp to his voice,

"You did that cover-up for Angel?" He asked on a smooth exhale.

"Mhmm," you nodded. "He gave me free reign. I was nervous he'd hate it."

Coco seemed to chew over your words for a dragging moment. You shifted in your seat. He was definitely sizing you up.

"Bold move, pequeña, giving the secretario of a biker club a sleeve of flowers."

"I suppose it was," you sighed, more than a little uncertain now. "But it felt meaningful, right, I guess. I just sort of… started drawing. I… think it worked out, though?" You trailed off.

Coco nodded. "It's a fuckin' good piece, mami. Angel told me what you'd said about memories making you who you are." He snorted lightly through his nose. "It's funny. We've never even met before, and you're already sounding like me."

A small smile played across his lips, returning it with one of your own.

"I'm glad you approve," you nodded. "Angel's opinion obviously matters, and don't tell him I told you this, but it means alot coming from one of his family."

And that's what they were. His family. You could see it. The obvious camaraderie and care underlying each of their actions with the other. You admired the system of support, cushioned by good humor, despite being flung regularly into harsh reality. It was clear -- they were there for one another.

Coco's voice broke your train of thought,

"Maybe you got space for me in your books one-a these days?"

Your small smile was a full-blown, sunny grin now.

"Of course. Anytime you want to drop by, you're more than welcome."

"Gracias, chica." Coco leaned across the table and patted your shoulder before getting up and taking his leave.

And so it went. The boys would filter through your shop. Olí teasing you about his offense that all of his most lucrative, inked clients were now going to you.

You enjoyed the time working on pieces for them afforded you -- offering you a glimpse into their inner workings, what they felt was important enough to take up permanent residence along their skin. Making idle chit-chat with you while you worked. And always, always sharing embarrassing little anecdotes about Angel.

The months passed with you and Angel, finding comfort in your unpredictable, but welcome, respective routines.

One night in particular found Angel wrapped up in your embrace, the physical embodiment of your gradual and growing trust in one another.

He had arrived home more than a little rattled, his eyes wildly darting to the corners of the room before settling in you, exhaling a shaky breath before striding the length of the room and crushing you to him, pressing a bruising kiss to your lips.

You understood he probably couldn't tell you what had happened, but you asked anyway, needing him to know you would hear him.

"Angelito, everything okay?"

He shook his head softly in the negative, but didn't elaborate.

You pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Okay. We don't have to talk about it," you wound your arms up and around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer to you. "But it's going to be okay. I've got you. I won't let go."

He gripped your wrists, pulling your hands from his neck and sliding your arms down, bringing them to rest around his waist. Once he had positioned you where he wanted, he brought his hands to cup your cheeks, eyes heavy and dark with the weight of his stormy thoughts.

He nodded at what you had said before bringing his lips back to yours.

You brought one hand up to meet his, where it rested along your cheek. You twined your fingers through, joining your hands while breaking the kiss. You lead him through the apartment, bringing him to the bedroom. You had music softly playing from your speaker in the corner, candles lit to bathe the room in ambient glow and a warm, honey smell, all in anticipation of Angel's eventual arrival home.

You silently gestured for him to sit on the edge of the bed, where you took your seat next to him.

You tugged the leather kutte from his shoulders, folding it reverently and placing it on the chair near the bed. He exhaled in relief, shoulders sagging once the leather manifestation of his obligation to a darker world had been removed. The weight of the world a little less on the mantle of his shoulders.

You turned your attention to his feet next, unlacing and tugging off his boots. Then, his belt.

Once he was just in his jeans and his t-shirt, you resumed your seat at his side, bringing him back into your embrace and carding your hands through his hair, as his head rested on your shoulder.

Angel spoke, voice cracking as he broke the seal of silence in the room.

"It was… it was awful, Frida." He sighed. "I do everything they ask. It's my job … Fuck. Sometimes I wonder how much more my heart can take. But then, I get to come home to you."

His breath was shuddering now.

And while you didn't always know what to say -- it was a rare sight to see Angel so rattled. But you were a caregiver by nature, ready to give him the pieces of yourself that would make him feel whole.

You guided him down so that he could recline, you came to rest at his side, winding your arms around his torso, your face turned into his neck, cuddling him as he came down from the mania of his emotional high.

The moments passed, Angel's breathing leveling again as you stroked his hair in time to the soft music.

He turned his head to look at you, admiring the flutter of your lashes as you blinked at him, your gaze warm and adoring, full of twinkling fairy light and starshine.

"Te amo, querida," Angel breathed. This was not the first time he had said it to you during your months together. But each time felt as momentous as the first, each declaration of love felt like the slip of something sweet, and you were determined to store it in your heart and mind forever.

"I love you too, Angel. More than anything," you murmured. "I love your smile, your sense of humor, your strength." You pressed kisses to his face and neck with each admission. "Mostly, I love your strength. And that you trust me enough to tell me when you don't always feel it."

He sucked in a shuddering breath before whispering to you,

"I love your mind. How creative you are. How you see everything so beautiful, just like you," he hmm’d. "Mostly I love your trust. And that you choose to give it to me."

You kissed him again, leaning over him with your entire body, pressing your palms gently into his shoulders.

As your kiss deepened, you each began to tug at the other. His hands carded through your hair, tugging gently, but firmly. You lifted his shirt from his torso, the kiss breaking so you could peel it away.

You divested one another of each layer, baring yourselves to the other, body and soul. Again, this wasn't the first time you had done this. But this felt momentous nonetheless.

Angel skimmed his hands over your form, running his hands softly down and over your breasts, loving your soft sigh at his touch.

You leaned over him once more, reluctantly removing his hands from you, and placing them gently down at his sides.

"Your heart is mine, mine to protect," You hummed softly, invading his senses and placing kisses down Angel's neck and to his chest, trailing your lips lovingly over Angel's heart, and pressing one last deliberate kiss there. "And I take my job very seriously."

As you kissed him, you lightly trailed your fingers down his torso, coming to rest at his hip.

Your declaration was met with silence; you glanced up at Angel through your lashes only to find him already looking down through heavy-lidded eyes at you, his now swirling with some unnamed, weighted emotion.

You trailed your hand across his hip, not breaking eye contact as you took his hardening length into your hand. He inhaled sharply at the sensation of your grip, but refused to look away as you began to pump him slowly, still pressing kisses to his hips, torso and thighs.

"Please, querida," Angel gasped.

"Please, what?" You murmured back, your voice taking a throaty register you reserved strictly for private moments with your beloved.

"Please… use your pretty mouth?"

You nodded.

"Relájate, baby, I've got you," you assured. Sweeping your hair back, the action washing Angel with the sweeping comfort of your scent as you made your way lower down his body.

Angel slumped back against the bedspread, glittering galaxy eyes still trained on you as you lavished him with attention.

You took the opportunity to flatten your tongue, licking a broad stripe up the length of him, one hand braced against his firm thigh, the other holding him gently at the base of his cock as you worked.

You swirled your tongue around the tip of him, delighted at his throaty moans, feeling the effect they had on you, making you feel like you were burning from the inside, feeling the slickness from your own center as your thighs rubbed together.

Taking Angel wholly into your mouth now, you bobbed over him, relishing in the heavy feel of him in your mouth and the throaty groans you received from Angel in response.

Before you could spend too long lavishing him with attention, Angel tugged on your hair at the base of your neck. Following his grip, you lifted your head and released him from, watching (a little greedily) as his thick length bobbed against him when you relinquished him from the confines of your mouth.

He guided you up his body, hand still knotted in your hair, pushing his mouth onto yours, uncaring of the saliva on your lips and chin, and the taste of himself on your tongue.

You straddled his hips, surging the rest of the way up his body and effectively deepening the kiss. The hand that was once in your hair now made its way to loosely grip at your throat, the other skimming his way down your breasts, across your ribs and toward your center.

As his fingers traced through your folds, you involuntarily rolled your hips into his hand, alight at his touch, and desperately seeking more.

Angel touching you was like the shock of a live wire. Every time felt just as electric as the last, goosebumps erupting across your flesh as his fingers traced across your skin.

He chuckled through your fused mouths, drawing back at your reaction and the wetness he found between your legs.

"Eager, amor?" Every word fell that fell from his lips sounded like a dangerous purr.

You nodded, drunk on the way Angel's hand gently squeezed your throat, while the other was teasingly making its way to-and-fro across your wet folds, occasionally making his way up to lightly circle and press his thumb over your clit, making your eyelids flutter. Your hips continued to rock against his hand, silently begging for more, his teasing touch making you more than a little crazy.

"Yeah?" Angel asked, his voice thick and syrupy, the timbre like dark clouds. "That shit turn you on? Sucking my cock?"

His words combined with his touch made another rush of heat flood through you. You were certain you would pass out, that your knees would buckle. And you were doing so well, holding your place up and over his hips while he played with you.

The hand on your throat gripped a little tighter, causing your eyes to flutter shut.

"Nuh-uh, baby," he shook you lightly, all mirth gone from his eyes, no more pleasant, smiling crinkles at the corners. His full lips pressed firmly together. "I asked you a question. You answer that shit"

He pressed two fingers teasingly against your entrance, refusing to insert them, despite the little roll of your hips.

"Y-yeaahh," you sighed, head tossed back, "I-I fucking love it -- love you, Angel."

He rewarded you by sliding a long finger into you, allowing you to ride his hand. The hand still around your throat guiding you forward, over him, allowing him to press hot, open-mouthed kisses, first to your lips, dirty and raw, like an exposed nerve in his unabashed want for you.

He relinquished his hold on your neck, allowing him to trail his lips and his tongue there, kissing you softly behind your ear, down and around your neck to your collarbones, all while his fingers continued their earnest treatment inside of you, his thumb now pressing to your clit, your warming crescendo building.

Using his height and the fact that you were straddling him, Angel encouraged you to lean forward, allowing him to capture one of your breasts in his grip, his mouth following. His warm tongue swirled around your nipple before he sucked the bud into his mouth, grazing his teeth ever so gently over your sensitive flesh.

Angel's attention was rewarded with your gasping sighs and breathy moans. How anyone could make you feel this good was beyond you. Angel had an uncanny ability to elicit responses and feelings like no other person before him.

You felt the thrumming hum and warm, sticky wave of your orgasm building as Angel worked his fingers inside of you, stroking that particular spot from within that he knew would be your undoing.

"O-oh," you whined, keening noises caught in your throat. "Please, baby, I n-need you. Need you inside."

The room was sweltering. Or was it just you? Angel withdrew his fingers smoothly, not sparing you the chance to be disappointed at the loss of feeling as he smoothly flipped the two of you, guiding you down to the mattress and hovering over your trembling form.

"Yeah?" Angel asked. "You ready for that, querida?"

You gazed up at him through your lashes, longingly. He would give everything, anything, that he had in the world if you only looked at him like that forever, gaze full of warmth, heat, and unfiltered, starry adoration.

"Mmm," you nodded, "Please? Angel?"

He was only a man, after all. Who was he to refuse when you asked so prettily for him?

He gently turned you over so that your back was to him, running his hands down the slope of your back and guiding you to your knees, propping your hips up.

Positioning himself behind you, Angel resumed his grip on your throat, using it to guide your head around so that he could kiss you again while he guided himself inside of you. You moaned into the kiss at the sensation, never tired of feeling every ridge of his thick cock sliding into you like he belonged there.

Angel groaned, breaking the kiss and shaking his head, chuckling darkly, his eyes flashing as he swore,

"Never fuckin' get tired of that shit," he began to move his hips, using his other hand that was gripping your hip to guide you along his lengthy, meeting his thrusts. "Never tired of your pussy … You're so … good."

Angel's words coupled with his thrusts were driving you crazy, causing you to eagerly meet him with the momentum of your own hips, the heat in the room spliced with the distinctive noise of his skin meeting yours.

Angel, leaning over your back, crowded your every sense, the taste of him, of his kisses still lingering on your tongue. Your ears met with the harmony of your two bodies and the filthy words and sounds coming from Angel's mouth. The sight of him was as intoxicating as ever, as you looked over your shoulder at him, the shadows of the room playing across his tawny skin, glimmering in the low light with the sheen of sweat you knew was also present on yours.

“Say my name,” Angel pants into the slick skin on your back, kissing a line down your spine, his body covering yours possessively.

You were too caught up in everything Angel, failing to respond quickly enough for his liking as you gasped at every thrust.

A crack of heat flashed across your ass, Angel swatting you there once. You should be annoyed, but you couldn't lie -- you fucking loved it when he was like this. Only for you.

"A-angel," you sighed, the crescendo of your orgasm climbing, threatening to burst any second, you tightening around Angel.

"Bueno," he purred. "You close? Yeah, you fucking are," Angel snarled, taking in the way you threw your hips back desperately to meet him, squirming one hand beneath you to touch yourself. "You can have it, baby, I'll make it good. You just gotta ask pretty for me."

You deepened the arch in your back, flexing your hips back toward Angel, and gripping the bedspread before you in your fingers, face pressed flush with the sheets, your other hand still pressed to your clit.

Angel tilted your head, leaning over further and gripping your jaw, squeezing to pucker your cheeks. He kissed you, sucking your lower lip between his. He kissed you gently, a deceptive contrast to the hand gripping your face, his hips snapping into yours at a now-brutish pace. He pecked another light kiss to your lips, followed by another, gently biting your lip and dragging it lightly as he drew his face from yours.

He released your lips as you whispered another plea into his mouth.

"Come on then, baby."

Your orgasm washed over you, pinpricks of striking matches splintering across your skin, followed by a euphoric wave of white-heat, blissfully soothing every nerve it had just lit.

Angel followed, emptying himself into you with a few final thrusts, groaning at the way you tightened just so around him.

He withdrew gently, collapsing next to you as you both caught your breath.

Your lashes fanned your cheeks as you blinked hazily at the form of your love through the soft glow of the room.

"I do love you, Angel," you told him, leaning across the sheets to rub your nose back and forth against his, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, grazing your soft fingers against the lines of his forehead, easing them away into an expression of soft serenity. "Always."

---

Now, you walked out of the clubhouse, around to the side of the porch, a quiet corner away from the noise. Willing yourself to calm down as small, hot tears trickled their way, uninvited, down your cheeks.

Your thoughts were moving a million miles a second, the battle of luck you were waging with the universe saw you quickly losing.

The year you spent with Angel replaying itself in your mind. Every word, every touch, that goddamn tattoo. Remembrance, my ass. How you would hold him when he came home too high-strung and strung-out emotionally for words. How you would save the best leftovers for him when you knew he had been away and would be craving the Chinese food from the place down the block when he got back. How he felt inside of you on the coldest nights and in the most tender mornings. How he would whisper enchanting endearments into the shell of your ear as he rolled his hips into yours, your mind and body completely his. How you would wear his shirts and overly-large socks around his apartment, leaving doodles and scribbled poems on sticky notes for him to find in his moments alone. How he kissed you warmly, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like syrupy possession that you never wanted to end.

How it did end. How he had thrown out your world, crumpled it into a crushed paper ball and tossing it away with the carelessness of a child. Ending things with seemingly no spare thought for your feelings. How EZ had let slip when he saw you in town that Angel was expecting a kid, the timing of everything suddenly making a little more sense. How it made you feel, now that you knew you were wholly his, but he was never entirely yours. How you had kept to yourself in the months that followed, the cracks in your heart widening until you felt like you would drown in them.

The pulse of your feelings for him, always strong; they warm you. But it was still you they all left behind.

Your thoughts were still swirling when, off to the side, you heard the porch door open and close again, and you prayed that whomever was coming outside was going to have a smoke out front, or that they were on their way out. That they wouldn’t find you.

But of course, these things never worked out how you wanted them. You cursed any god you could think of for just how un-fucking-lucky you were sometimes.

Because, really, who other than Angel was making his way around the porch to you? Taking in your hunched form as you leaned over the railing, looking anywhere but at him.

Of fucking course.

You kept your eyes down, focused in your clasped hands as you leaned over the railing, refusing to look at him.

And now? Now he was looking at you, and it's the one time you wished he wouldn't.

One thing you wouldn't do, now that he was here, was break the silence first. He didn't want to hear what you'd had to say, so why would you grace him with your thoughts now? Petty? Sure. But you weren't the one in there with your hands on some ass while a so-called friend harassed your ex.

A few uncomfortable beats dragged on before Angel broke the silence, shattering it like glass with a verbal hammer.

"What'd he say to you?"

You remained silent.

"What the fuck did he say, Frida?" His voice angry now, demanding. The same tone he used to break your heart.

"It ain't working. Not my fuckin’ fault you can't see it."

You rolled your eyes, another shard of icy glass painfully wedging into your heart at his use of the name. Still refusing to look in his direction when you replied, softly but sharply,

"You know exactly what he said. What I'm trying to figure out is why, exactly, you care."

"I care, Frida," was all he offered.

You snorted in response. Undignified, sure. But couldn't he see this was killing you? Where was his mercy?

"I do," he insisted, the thud of his boots across the wood of the porch indicating that he was crossing to you, coming to stand a ways behind you.

"I'm not going to do this with you. He said some shit. It's over. We move on. What more could you have to say about that?"

Keep it simple, keep yourself safe. You gave him nothing to say back. And then…

"And if I told you I wanted you? I wanted you back?"

You whipped your head around to -- finally -- meet Angel's eyes, which you did for a fleeting moment before zeroing in once more on your shoes, staring resolutely at the ground. You were not going to let him see you cry again, godfuckingdamnit.

The fleeting glimpse of his face, of his eyes meeting yours once more after all this time, was enough. He looked more tired up close than he had before. Still unfair in his striking beauty, his midnight eyes still enough to pull you in, drown you in their oceanic depths. You hated it. Hated that he still had that power over you. But try as you might, you couldn't hate him.

Your silence was killing Angel with the precision of a thousand miniscule cuts. Each deeper than the last. Until he couldn’t take it any longer. He reached through the space between, for where your hand rested on the railing. You saw the gesture coming, and whipped your hand away at the last moment, cradling it to your chest like he had burned you. You faced him fully now.

You chuckled softly, wryly, and devoid of any humor before you muttered, "You don't want me, baby. Please don't lie."

“And how do you know that’s a lie?” Angel mumbled thickly, working his tongue around the words, through his own emotion.

You scuffed your toe into the hewn wood of the deck, shrugging before you responded, simply,

“If I was what you wanted, you wouldn’t have gone looking elsewhere. And you certainly wouldn't have found someone else. You wouldn’t have said what you said, ended it like you did, with everything on just your terms.” You sighed deeply, with the rattle of tears lodged into your chest before you spoke again, “You made up your mind and never even let me say a word. If you wanted anything to do with me, you could have at least given me a word.”

Angel blinked, hard. The familiar pressure of real tears building behind his eyes. You were right of course. And fuck, weren't you always? You'd always told him like it was, harsh truths that only you could cushion in your gentle, empathetic way.

"Please, querida, just let me explain what happened--"

You held up your hand, shaking your head firmly, effectively silencing Angel.

"No!" Much softer now, "No. I- I'm sorry, Angel, I don't mean to be rude. But, no." Your voice small, but clear, as you'd finally gotten your opportunity to say something back to him. "I, uh, I don't want to hear any explanation, and you really don't have to?"

You lilted the last part like it was a question, but continued on.

"You, um, you've had a lot of time to tell me something, anything, about what the fuck happened. And you didn't. You left me with nothing. Just confusion and hurt, and I've made peace with that. It's taken a while, but … I just… I don't need that from you. I gave you space, always respected your decisions and opinions, and now you won't do the same. You're still trying to take from me. Offering me an explanation now?" You scoffed. "That isn't for me, and don't fuckin’ act like it is -- it's for you. And I understand that, that's fine. I'm not angry at you for that, but I'm also not going to humor it."

You exhaled shakily, you couldn't believe you'd said all of that, that you had made it through.

Angel was speechless. It made your heart feel even sicker -- all of this silence from him for so long, and he'd offered to explain himself and you'd (gracefully) told him to fuck off. Why had you done that??

It was about time you'd stood up for yourself, that's why.

An explanation would be nice, sure. But where Angel's words, whispered affirmations and heady declarations of love, had once made your soul swell and sing… now, you knew, anything he'd had to say to you would only serve to do the opposite.

And your heart, perpetually bruised by nature of you being a hopeless romantic, just couldn't take it.

You hopped off the porch, spinning around to face Angel, finding his eyes on you still. Hadn't you wished for him to look at you? To really see you once more?

"I'm out," you tossed a thumb over your shoulder toward where you'd parked your car. "Sorry, I don't mean to abandon the old post, but uh, I'm sure you guys have someone to fill in. I'll text Aneesa to grab my stuff, don't worry about it."

Like he would, you thought.

You were mostly rambling to yourself, and not really to Angel, as you backed away, fleeing to your car.

Angel watched you go, the resonant ache in his chest that had been ever-present since tossing your stuff out, amplified when Luisa had left him, and now sure to be permanent, buried in cement beneath the weight of his every decision, and every word.

You looked good, he thought. Your hair was longer than when he'd seen you last. Your little skirt flouncing as you strode away. Your skin still glowed, full lips still twisted into that wry smile of yours that he had seen from across the room. All of that was true, but your eyes were also tired, and your smile never quite reached them.

The thought that he was responsible for dimming that sparkle made him feel sicker than he already had. The way you had brushed off Andres, despite his obnoxious insistence, and the things the cocky new patch had said to you -- may as well add those to the ever-growing pile of things stained and tainted by Angel's guilt.

And he was left alone with that guilt as you left the lot. He turned back to the party. His cool facade slipping back into place. Not ready to face the wrath of EZ and Coco, surely waiting inside to proverbially beat his ass.

What would you say if I come over? And we stand face to face now that we're older?

---

Angel shuffled into his apartment, the late hour catching up to his weary form as he ambled over to his bedside, flicking on the lamp.

Rubbing a large hand down his face, he sat on his bed in a huff of exhaustion. Your first encounter in months since he'd all-but tossed you from this very room was pricking him with a kind of nauseating nervous energy. But all he wanted to feel in that moment was you, whether he deserved it or not.

He'd still had it, didn't he? Where was it?

He pulled open the drawer of his nightstand, fishing through its contents for what he hoped was still in there.

His fingers curled over his prize -- a slip of paper adorned with your handwriting. Scrawled lines of poetry on a neon pink Post-It note, curled with age and disuse, something you had left for him while he slept in one morning.

“I was thinking of you,” you had said when he had asked you about it later, shrugging as if it were the most matter-of-fact thing in the world.

Your love for him was clean in its simplicity and forwardness, whenever he could wade his way through the mire of your shy demeanor. You had stuck the Post-It to his nightstand while he was sleeping and you made your way to work. Your words were cramped and crunched into the small paper square, but ready to greet him with the shining light of a sunny new day.

“I see your ardor through a pearlescent lense, and all is pleasantly pink and blurry with you-- Resplendent in your love's solar hope. You are so warm beneath the brush of my fingertips, and I burn. So in love with you, as I am and as I do."

Now, his eyes scanned the words for the millionth time since you had written them. He had committed it to memory by now, wishing he could hold you instead of this crumpled piece of paper, mocking him with its annoyingly bright pink hue.

But how could he? Angel was the kind of man who simmered in his emotion -- burning slowly, lowly, only to reach a pitch. He kept to himself until he couldn’t any longer -- and then it was all bleeding hearts on a very crisp sleeve.

He had done what he had thought was right. Cutting you out with all of the brutality and finesse of a battleaxe, to focus on Luisa and his unborn son. He thought she was what he wanted. But now, he didn’t even have them. He had nothing to show for his decisions but the lonely, sick feeling ever-present in his chest.

The you at the beginning of your relationship would have kissed each bruise in his soul, one by one, until they were better. Would have gifted him with the warmth of your time and attention until he was made whole again with the molten heat of your gracious heart. But the you now?

Angel could never, would never, cover the tattoo on his arm, though he had thought about it. Blacking it out once and for all, so the piece of you he wore on his sleeve would finally match the pitch, and emptiness inside. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was, as he’d said all that time ago, your gift to him. And he’d made you a promise that he wouldn’t.

All he wanted was to look you in the eyes so he could remember that he loved you once.

And not that he had any reason to know it, but across town, you had made it home. Your phone shoved to the bottom of your bag, lighting up with texts from Aneesa, EZ, and Coco. But the only person on your mind was Angel.

How much of what he had said was true? You weren't sure. But you were sure that you knew where you stood, still painfully alone and in love as ever, the cracks in your heart only fillable by the very person you had brushed off earlier.

And, while Angel readied himself for bed, snapping the lights off and attempting to cut through the oppressive darkness by staring at the ceiling with his own penetrative gaze, the empty side of the bed had never felt more cavernous, but more weighted. Mocking.

If Angel was being honest with himself -- something he was never too keen on being in his more sobering moments -- he didn't love you once. He still loved you.

Thinking after all this time, I just wanna meet your eyes so I can remember why... Why I loved you once.

Tagging:

@themarcusmoreno @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @steeeeeeeviebb @qveenbvtch @mxsamwilson @ifimayhaveaword @huliabitch @pettyprocrastination @phoenixhalliwell @flightlessangelwings @cinewhore @velvetmel0n @moonlight-prose @rebeccasficrecs @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @aerolanya @djvrins @jenrebloggingfics @ciriswife @justanotherblonde23 @superhoeva @witching-hour @luckyharley1903

#angel reyes fic #angel reyes x reader #angel reyes x fem!reader #angel reyes x you #angel reyes x oc #angel reyes angst #angel reyes smut #angel reyes #clayton cardenas #mayans mc #mayans fx #mayans #mayans mc fic #my writing #rachel writes #holy shittttt this boy is long #it just got away from me #sorry #loved you once

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mssirey · 3 years

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Some agentreign, with a tattoo artist Alex!

Alex knew the roughly sketched symbol, of course. How could she not recognize the insignia of the character her sister played on her show—the campy series with its sometimes shallow commentary or ham-fisted allegories of the world, but that left enough room for interpretation that lent to a beloved view of its main cast.

When Alex glanced up at the woman who had booked her afternoon slot, there seemed nothing outwardly fan-ish about her—her aesthetic one of corporate power, her blazer a sharp cut from a designer Alex couldn’t be bothered to know the name of, her palette choices bold, but smart—not someone she would have read as having much time for fun. But then, Kara was much the same, and she knew better about how deeply her sister loved being a part of a show about superheroes.

“My daughter really loves the show,” the woman offered with a little wave of her hand at the drawing, a jittery air around her, as if she anticipated the judgment she might face, “and Supergirl is her favorite character, of course!” She laughed, a short puff exhaled as her shoulders sagged and her hand returned to ring together with her other. “She said I was her Supergirl the other day, and if you knew how much she loves the character—“

Alex stopped her then, a gentle smile touching her lips. “That is a beautiful base for a tattoo,” she assured. She stepped forward, reached out without thinking, hand covering the nervous twist of fingers, warm against her palm. That close, she realized how tall the woman was—especially as her shoulders pulled back and she straightened up just a little.

Alex almost withdrew her hand as the woman’s teeth clacked sharply together. She watched lashes flutter over warm chocolate eyes as they dropped to where their hands touched, lingering while their breath was held as one.

“Wow— ” one hand pulled free of hers, Alex’s stomach ready to turn, only for fingers to run so gingerly over her own skin—from wrist up her forearm—drawing her gaze down to the full sleeve of ink that she had poured her own heart into, disappearing beneath the once-tidy cuff of her shirt, since stained with the efforts of the day. “Your tattoos are… so…” she had heard all manner of words to describe the art she wore—everything from ‘intense’ to ‘troubling’—rarely a favorable opinion coming from someone who wasn’t an enthusiast, “catching.”

Alex swallowed as those fingers traced a line of color, meant to accentuate the form of the figures at the center of the design—both a representation of herself, stood back to back; one stripped down to blood and bone; the other painted in an unnatural light, too ‘perfect’, meeting all the expectations placed on her, shackles on her wrists and chains weighing down her shoulders.

“I designed it myself,” she said the first thing to come to mind, her eyes almost rolling at her own lack of wit.

“I really like it,” the woman commented before seeming to realize how long she had been touching Alex, her hand jerking upward, a marvelous warmth reaching her cheeks.

They parted, a full pace put between them by the time Alex found the breath to offer her thanks.

“So, um, did you just want the insignia?” Alex held up the sketch to bring them back to business.

The woman faltered, a plea writing itself into her expression. “Well, um, so, you might be able to tell, but I’m not much of an artist,” she exhaled, a laugh bubbling up after, plucking at the chords of Alex’s heart. “I know I want to use the symbol, but I… I don’t know what else to include.”

Alex chuckled along with her. “That’s alright,” she assured. “Come on, let me stretch a few ideas for you,” she waved for the woman to follow her, leading them to her drawing table. The sigh of relief she heard tickled up her spine, and she had to resist shivering.

Drawing on little bits of knowledge she had picked up from Kara, Alex started with a simple base, offering the traditional symbol along with a few alternate designs—some softer, some sharper, some with broken or doubled lines to add a bit of extra dimension—before getting into a range of accenting options.

The woman was vocal with her thoughts as she looked over Alex’s shoulder, humming approving notes when something stood out to her, or commenting on the touches she liked, allowing Alex to easily evolve the piece. There was particular interest when she mentioned the phrase ‘el mayarah’ and explained its meaning.

“Oh! Ruby has definitely said that before,” she gushed, the happy little sigh that accompanied the words tugging at the corners of Alex’s lips, her grin so effortless. “We should definitely include that!”

It wasn’t long before they had a final design— staying true to the show’s version of the insignia and incorporating both ‘el mayarah’ and the script of the language used by Supergirl, wreathed by a flowy, cape-like backing.

“This will likely take two visits— one for the linework and base coat, and then another for the detailing. Is that okay?” She certainly wouldn’t be sad to see the woman again and grinned when she agreed. “You said you were hoping to have this on your back,” Alex prompted as she led the woman to her station.

“Over my heart, yeah,” she confirmed.

“I really like it,” Alex echoed the words spoken to her, and she genuinely meant it. She loved the way the woman talked about her daughter, how every word ran deep with love, how cherished the little girl was.

“Is there anything I should know... going in?” There was a surge of nervousness buzzing in the air as the woman shrugged out of her jacket, folding it neatly over the chair at Alex’s desk.

There was a moment—as Alex watched buttons slipping free of their holes—that she forgot herself, staring longer than might have been polite before she busied herself with putting on her gloves and arranging her inks. “Mostly that when I’m over your ribs, you will feel it,” she sucked in a sympathetic breath. “But, I’ll be gentle, and you can always take a break, if you need.”

She waved the woman toward the chair, turning away as she divested her bra and slid into place against the padding.

“Comfortable?” She got only a nod before she pulled up her own stool. “Relax,” she coaxed, placing a gentle hand on the woman’s back. “I’ll take good care of you and you can swear all you like.”

“Glad to know it.”

As Alex had warned, the woman did feel it. Her breath hissed through her teeth, a sharp inhale that tugged at her, but then she relaxed beneath Alex’s hand. “Good girl.” The words slipped out before she could think to question them, and her own breath caught in her lungs, her gun lifting away from the woman’s skin. There was a soft shiver and then stillness, the barest whimper bubbling out of the woman.

Alex could have perished. The woman was so pliant beneath her, and it took everything to concentrate on the design. But she leaned into that soft praise, continued to encourage her to stay loose, and things went very well—hardly needing to hold the woman still and working straight through without a break. And in the end, she did manage to finish the whole piece, running only slightly overtime.

There was a little disappointment knowing that she likely wouldn’t see the woman again. “If you need any touch-ups, you can always reach out,” she offered.

“Thank you,” the woman said as she gingerly slipped back into her jacket. She bent over Alex’s desk, scribbling something down on the sketchpad with all the trial drawings. “Maybe we could get dinner some time,” she nodded down at the page, where her number was scrawled.

“I’d like that,” Alex grinned, excitement blooming in her chest. The woman’s name was also there on the page. “Then, I’ll see you later, Sam.”

“I look forward to it, Alex.” The sentiment echoed through her for days, accompanied with the image of Sam’s haughty little smirk.

#tattooed!alex #tattoo artist alex #agentreign #danvarias #alex danvers #sam arias #mssirey #my writing

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friendodo · 3 years

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shen yuan and shen jiu fic recs

Anon wanted some recs for fics with shen yuan and shen jiu interacting as the focus of the fic. None of these are shipping the two -- not that i’m against it at all, just a bit harder to find so just focusing on platonic here! Please enjoy, these are in no particular order:

A Pairing of Souls (series) by @muzu-writes

This is a buddy cop movie. SY wakes up in the plant body and a ghostly SJ is right next to him and basically says “alright wake up hurry up let’s go get my body bitch”. These two teaming up to get into Huan Hua Palace and steal SJ’s body from the disaster that is LBH is so fun and well written. It’s a series now and the focus in the current instalment has shifted to Bingyuan but it’s still so good 🥺 I actually drew fanart of this lol x x

Local 12 Year Olds Refuse to Be Separated; What Happens Next Will Warm Your Heart by @alllula

Very well written fic set in the PIDW world but where cultivators can fuse like gems for advantage in battle. SY and SJ (brothers) fused for safety when they were sold to the Qiu and continued living that way even when they became a peak lord. Soooooo interesting and seeing SJ and SY so perfectly in sync is really fun. Especially love that SY, SJ and YQY can all form a perfect fusion while in battle and everyone else is like 👀 👀 👀 like YES GIMME THAT GOSSIP PLEASE

Two for the Price of One by Empressed (@EmmyEmberossa on Twitter)

ngl I can’t remember this one perfectly but I remember really enjoying how close SY and SJ got. They eventually become sworn brothers and SJ is so happy to have a friend 😭 Cue the rest of CQ meddling to find out which demon has bewitched their shixiong into being so happy!!!

indulgence Points +100 by Shoutowo (Twitter)

beautifully written from the start to the end with an extremely adorable piece of art to accompany it. SY is the son of SQQ and YQY and SY wants to be just like his papa SJ!!! I die from all of the cuteness and softness in this fic, so grateful it exists 🙏

Baptism of Fire by Zyva (@Beiyuann on Twitter)

SY is SJ’s biological son. This is....Mwah. Masterpiece. MASTERPIECE. The way SJ is written here is perfect. It’s a really convincing representation of a genuine father and son relationship between the two. Shen Jiu really really cares for SY and it’s so sweet and he struggles so hard to learn from his quickly growing son. Bonus awkward YQY and LBH having an embarassingly massive crush on SY and having to suffer through SJ absolutely knowing all of this makes this perfect. 💖

The Life of Times of Peerless Green by Eram_Quod_Es

Superhero AU with some transmigration flavour. SY and SJ are brothers. SY is constantly getting into deep shit and gets battered so SJ is constantly worried. He shows how much he cares in an extremely SJ way and it’s very sweet and also a bit sad tbh!! The writing for this is amazing and you can tell that a lot of thought has gone into the world building. 😊

Nothing Gold was Good Anyway by @alllula

This is probably the first ‘SY as SJ’s son’ fic I read. The entire starting sequence is so fun, SY and SJ just immediately vibe with each other. SY is a kid working part time as a laundry worker at the brothel that SQQ frequents. He looks just like SQQ so SQQ decides to freak out CQ and brings back SY and claims he’s his son. Antics ensue!! Not complete but definitely a fun read

#svsss fic #svsss fic rec #svsss #scum villain #scumbag system #scumbag villain

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mariesdeluluworld · 3 years

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Hi . . . So yesterday i had an idea. I’ve always wanted to do a Greek mythology/gods/goddesses x Harry Potter, and I wrote this chapter/idea thing. It’s basically a Greek god Draco x reader au where there’s no magic school and the HP characters are gods and goddesses. The reader is female and is an artist and somehow see’s god Draco in a dream and he becomes her muse. She then has a gallery of all the paintings she’s done of him and for some reason god Draco in mortal form walks in. This is a forbidden love story and Draco is basically Apollo, but his God name is Draconian. There reason why I’m posting this here is because I really like this idea but I’m not sure if people will like it, so I’m posting this to see people’s thoughts. If you do like it please let me know. :)

Warnings: Angst, break-ups, sadness 16+ please

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐝 & 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥

𝙂𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙠 𝙈𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙮

𝘿𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙤 𝙈𝙖𝙡𝙛𝙤𝙮 𝙭 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙊𝙣𝙚

A crash of a paintbrush hitting against the wall followed by a loud frustrated groan echoed in the English flat. A soft lull of ambient music sounded from an open window in the flat, with the tip-tap of raindrops falling against the buildings of the small town Diagon Alley, England. In the far corner of the flat sat a blank canvas sitting on an easel with a wild-haired young woman cursing under her breath as she ran her hands down her trousers.

She glared at the stretched canvas, anger and hopelessness lingering in her eyes. Her upper lip curled in a sneer as her hands twitched. She looked as if she would throw the empty canvas out the window and scream. Instead of throwing the canvas, she threads her fingers into her hair and pulled slightly. Her chest rose with every breath she took and as the moments passed, her chest became heavy and tears started falling from her eyes, dripping down her cheeks steadily.

She didn’t know what to do; didn’t know what to paint. She was stuck and couldn’t get herself out of the bottomless pit of artist block.

What if she never churned out a painting? Said a voice in the back of her mind. What if she lost the familiar touch of her brush, caressing the canvas, painting her imagination and visions? What if . . .

The crying artist’s knees gave out, and she eased down to the floor, sobs flowing freely from her throat. She wished she could stop, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t. She couldn’t stop the tears. Couldn’t stop the self-doubt. All she could do was cry and feel sorry for herself.

She’s been at this; this continuous trial and error; this pattern of failure; the routine of tears for weeks. She’s tried to paint her sorrow and heartbreak, to turn it into the pieces of art like others before her did with their emotions. This should’ve been easy for her. After all, turning her sadness into pieces of art was what got her into painting in the first place. It’s what provided an escape for her during the messy divorce of her parents. Yet here she was, stuck with nowhere to go.

The bills were piling up on the small dining table, and her phone was full of voicemails and text messages from her agent, mother, father, and friends. Nothing from her boyfri . . ex-boyfriend. Of course. Nothing from him about taking all his shit in theirs — no, her— flat. All his band CDs, posters, and junk were piled in the corner of the living room by the front door. Every time she walked by it, she would give the pile the finger and resist the urge to kick it — she already did once but she learned it hurt like a mother and didn’t feel like picking up his shit and fixing it back into the pile — so she would just threaten it or glared at it.

The artist hated seeing his stuff. Hated being overpowered by the memories of them together. The sadness that accompanied those memories was the worst. She hated reliving in the past, seeing their happy moments, and wondering what went wrong, and how could she fix it?

‘No,’ she thought, ‘it was not my fault.’ She didn’t know whose fault it was, but was it truly hers? Or was it him? It takes two to fail a relationship, after all. That’s what she learned throughout her parents’ divorce.

She didn’t realize that she’d stop crying until she felt the heaviness leave her chest and she could breathe once more. She sighed and wiped her tears, trying to put on a happy face. Though she quickly realized it wasn’t working. With a roll of her eyes, she stood up from the floor and took a deep breath, and stalk towards the open window. Her eyes took in the semi-busy streets and cobblestone pathways and old-style buildings mixed with modern-day architecture.

She watched a young group of kids walking together, wearing red overcoats with the crest of Hogwarts School on their chest pocket. They laughed and spoke animatedly, their hands moving as they explained the topic they were speaking about. She almost smiled at their existence but stopped herself when she was bombarded with unhappy memories of her own time and experience at Hogwarts when she was a teenager.

During her last few years at the school, she lost almost all her friends and retreated into herself as she dealt with her parents’ divorce. She remembered how her grades plummeted and her professors became immensely worried about her behavior. How they’d ask her to stay after lessons and ask her how she was, if she needed help, or if she was okay at home. She’d always given them the same rehearsed answer: “I’m okay, I don’t help, I’m just tired, that’s all,” and all they could do was nod their heads and let her go. The only person who truly knew what was going on was her best friend, the only one who stayed by her side, who understood Luna Lovegood.

Luna had lost her mother when she was ten and understood the pain of feeling helpless when it came to parents and their issues. Throughout those three years of pain, learning to get over, and dealing with school and life, Luna stuck by her side, helped her with school and passing. Now, ten years later, she and Luna were still together, helping each other, and best friends.

Snapping herself from her memories and thoughts, she slammed the window closed, locking it in place before striding to her bedroom, with only one mission in mind: Go to bed and sleep for however long she wanted.

The sun was bright. So bright it made the young woman squint, trying to block out the light from her eyes. She tried to move forward, trying to leave her steps behind. Though she had no idea where she was or where she was going, she felt compelled to keep moving. With every step, she felt the soft brush of something and the softness under her bare feet. She tried to pull her attention from the brightness of the sun and look down, but something was keeping her gaze glued to the brightness in front of her.

When she stopped, she felt a light breeze blow behind her, encouraging her forwards, and an overwhelming feeling washed over her. A sense of calm and clarity reached her, and without difficulty, she urged her feet to move forwards. With each step, she felt the burdens of her heart lift along with the weight on her delicate shoulders.

A light wind blew around her, and she gasped at the sensation. The wind caressed her skin like an attentive lover would, kissing and assuring her before delving deep into her skin. It was what she read in romance novels — never had she experienced it in real life. It was intoxicating. She wanted more of it. She giggled and let her feet move faster, trying to reach what she could now see; marble steps.

Once she reached the steps, she gasped as the sun became less bright and started changing its shape. She watched in curiosity, watching as it started to become a figure. Anticipation rushed through her body and she couldn’t figure out why. Why did she feel this way? Why did she feel as if she was seeing her true love?? The light was back, and it became so bright she closed her eyes, trying to shield them from the brightness when she felt a hand cup her cheek and chin. She gasped and her eyes shot open. Standing before her was a tall man, with the body of the Grecian statutes she’d see at a museum, with sliver-blond hair and grey-blue eyes. Eyes she’d see in the aftermath of bad storms. When the sky started clearing and the blue pierced the grey blankets. She didn’t know what to do; she was shocked and couldn’t speak or move. She just stared; taking this man in with her greedy eyes. He was shirtless and only wore a cloth of linen around his waist, shielding his manhood and lower body. His skin was smooth and pale, with no imperfections. The sound of fluttering caught her attention as she watched as the man before her raise pure white wings. They were big and strong, and she wanted to reach out and touch them. Wanted to caress the feathers and run her fingers through his hair; down his back. He was gorgeous, strong, tall, and had a slender jaw with a strong nose. His lips were baby pink. She wanted to press her own lips against his . . .

She was startled as the winged man slipped his arms around her waist, holding her close to his body. His rich, honey smell reached her nose, making her skin tingle. She wanted to run her nose down the side of his neck and nuzzle him as if she was a cat. His fingers pressed into the skin of her back and he stared into her eyes. She could get lost in those eyes. No, she wanted to. She wanted to dive deep into his beautiful stormy eyes and swim in the blue-grey oceans. If she had to die, she would’ve been satisfied to drown in his ocean. The man lifted his hand and touched the skin of her cheek, caressing it with his long and articulate fingers. She felt peaceful standing in this beautiful stranger’s arms, and she wanted to lean into his body. Instead, she leaned her face into his hand, letting him stroke her cheek. She watched as the man’s lips stretched into a smile. A smile that made her heart leap and jump up and down. Smiling suits him. Makes him more angelical and gorgeous.

Before she knew it, he was picking her up with his muscular arms, and leaning his head down, slowly. She gasped as the man’s hot breath hit her mouth. He was so close to her face, and his eyes were heavy-lidded. She could almost feel the ghost of his lips against hers. He stopped and waited. His eyes were on her own, waiting. She didn’t know what he was waiting for. Why did he stop? She was confused for a brief moment, until it slowly became apparent as to why he stopped. He was waiting for her to lift her head up and close the distance. He was asking for consent to kiss her. She smiled and bit her bottom lip before reaching up on her tip-toes, raising her head. Their lips barely touched when a spark, a shot of lightning, bolted down their bodies. Sending a sense of euphoria down her body, making her toes curl. She pressed her lips, and they kissed.

Until she felt something pulling her away, dragging her from the man.

He reached his hand out, trying to catch her, but she slipped through his fingers as if she was sand on a beach. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. She reached towards the stormy-eyed stranger, watching as the brightness appeared behind him, casting an angelic glow against his body and skin. She memorized everything, the obvious distress in his eyes, the angry scowl on his lips, and his hand reaching out to her. He was angry at losing her; she realized. And she was too. She didn’t want to leave him; she wanted to stay and kiss his luscious lips and lose herself in his body, eyes, and hands.

With one last silent scream, the bright room and the beautiful man disappeared.

The young woman shot up from her comfortable bed. Sweat coated her skin, and she felt her chest heave and her lungs constrict. Soon, tears started flowing and sobs were all that occupied the room. She felt her throat become raw and beg for a break, but she couldn’t stop crying. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to cry. It all hurts. She didn’t know how to live in a world where he didn’t exist. What a cruel mind she had. To make up something so good and so pure and just rip it away. She wanted to go back and be held in his arms once again. She just . . .

She sighed and ripped the blankets from her body and stomped out of her bedroom. She didn’t bother looking at the clock to check the time; it was dark, and that’s all she knew. The stars and the moon were her only witness, and they watched as she sat at her easel and a blank canvas. They watched as she mixed colours and gathered her brushes and painted. She painted until she got every detail just right. Every muscle. Every strand of hair. Every feather. She painted until he became real, and stood on the canvas, immortalized in the paints.

She gasped as the rays of the sunrise hit the canvas, casting an ethereal glow on her painted stranger, and she smiled. If she blocked out everything around her, she could almost picture herself in his arms once again, holding her back against his chest, kissing her neck, and digging his fingers into her skin. But the fantasy was just that, a fantasy. A fantasy that was ruined by knocking.

The knocking tore her from her imaginative world, and that was when she realized that the day moved on. It was no longer night-time, or early dawn, it was noon.

She sighed and walked over to her front door, and for the first time in a while, she didn’t give her ex’s junk the finger, or glare at it. She just moved forward and looked through the peephole to see her neighbor Mrs. Elenor Brown, the elderly woman who lived two doors down.

She smiled and unlocked her door and opened it to see the old woman. “Hello Mrs. Brown,” she greeted. “Hello (Y/n), darling, how are you?” asked Mrs. Brown. Before (Y/n) could speak, Mrs. Brown interrupted.

“Darling, I don’t mean to bother you, but I was wondering if you had a few eggs you could spare? I’m doing a little baking this afternoon and I seem to have used up all my eggs! How silly of me, but anyway,”

(Y/n) smiled sweetly at the old kind woman. “Of course, Mrs. Brown, I’ll go check and see.” She invited the old woman in. Mrs. Brown shuffled in and smiled kindly. “Thank you, my dear,”

(Y/n) walked into her small kitchen and opened the fridge. Her (e/c) eyes scanned the shelves before landing on her carton of eggs. She pulled a few eggs out and placed the carton back in before walking out. She looked around for Mrs. Brown and found her standing near her easel.

“Here you go Mrs. Brown,” she spoke. Mrs. Brown turned and smiled at (Y/n). “Darling, did you paint that?” she asked. (Y/n) nodded and Mrs. Brown gasped in astonishment. “Oh, my darling! This is absolutely amazing!” Blushing, (Y/n) smiled and tried to avoid the old woman’s eyes. “Thank you, Mrs. Brown.” Elenor took the eggs from her hand and nodded her head. “Of course, my dear, you have talent.” She patted (Y/n)’s cheek fondly before they walked back to her door. Mrs. Brown thanked (Y/n) for the eggs and promised to bring some of her goodies over once she’s done before she left.

(Y/n) leaned against her front door, basking in the silence. Her eyes drifted towards her easel and she sighed. For the first time in a while, she was able to paint. And now her fingers were itching to paint more of her stormy-eyed stranger. But should she? Could she even sell him? No. She couldn’t. But the bills sitting on her dining table were calling her name, reminding her of the impending deadline and doom. She had to open her gallery with something, and she really needed the job and coverage. With her eyes set in determination, she marched up to her canvas and cracked her fingers before she picked up her painted stranger and replaced his canvas with another blank and tried to paint. She mixed colors and tried to paint a scene . . . any scene. But nothing came up except him. She groaned and rolled her eyes.

She really needed to paint something, so she took a deep breath and started painting. She started painting him and his surroundings. With each painting, she included a small bit of him, whether it was his stormy eyes or his sliver-blond hair. He was there, influencing her fingers, touch, mind, and emotions. She could feel him surrounding her. If only she could touch him. However, they were separated. Separated by memories, dreams, and time.

#draco malfoy #draco x reader #draco malfoy x reader #harry potter #draco fanfiction #greek mythology #greek gods #greek au #apollo #x reader #reader insert

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