#COMPENDIUM DOESN’T COUNT

[taymartiart]

hey siri, play the boys are back in town

[the-griffons-saddlebag]

⚔️ 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗺! Wond of Fireballs
Wand, rare (requires attunement by a spellcaster) ___ This wand functions as a “wand of fireballs.” However, during the wand’s creation, the spell’s transcription was riddled with arcane mistakes. As a result, casting “fireball” from the wand can lead to unpredictable outcomes. Whenever you cast the “fireball” spell from the wand, roll a d20 and use the table below to determine the spell’s effect. Regardless of the outcome, the spell’s effect is centered on the point you target with the wand and uses a save DC of 15. If the wand casts a different spell, any extra charges spent as part of using the wand increase the spell slot level of the new spell as well. | d20 | Effect | — | 1–4 | 𝙒𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙖𝙡𝙡. You cast the “flaming sphere” spell. This version of the spell creates a tightly-wound sphere of ragged, spinning wire. On a hit, the sphere deals piercing damage instead of fire damage. When cast in this way, the spell doesn’t immediately require your concentration; if you don’t choose to begin concentrating on the spell at the end of the turn you cast it, the spell ends early. | | 5–8 | 𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙪𝙡𝙡. You summon a Large bull in the nearest unoccupied space to the targeted point. Use the giant boar’s statistics for the bull, except that the bull is made of pure fire and is an elemental instead of a beast. The bull takes its turn on initiative count 20, and it always attacks the creature closest to it on each of its turns. On a hit, the bull deals fire damage, instead of its normal type. A creature that touches the bull or hits it with a melee attack while within 5 feet of it takes 5 (1d10) fire damage. The bull remains for 1 minute or until it’s reduced to 0 hit points. You summon two bulls at the location when you cast the spell with 4 or 5 charges, or three bulls when you cast it with 6 or 7. The additional bulls appear in the nearest unoccupied spaces to the first bull. | | 9–12 | 𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙖𝙡𝙡. You cast the “ice storm” spell instead. This version of the spell creates falling, flaming rocks instead of hail, and deals fire damage instead of cold damage. | ...Continued in the comment below! ___ ✨ Patrons get huge perks! Access this and hundreds of other item cards, art files, and compendium entries when you support The Griffon's Saddlebag on Patreon for less than $10 a month!

[still-breathing-au-p3r]

It’s really nothing new to have a flood of texts and emails spamming his phone after class. The fact that it’s nothing new these days is very new. It’s such a wild change from how things were before he came to Iwatodai that sometimes it’s overwhelming. Minato actually kind of enjoys it despite that– or maybe a little bit because of it– even if he does leave most of them on read.

He’s never had so many friends before. If he’s completely, brutally honest with himself about it, he’s really never had any friends before. None that really counted, anyway. None that had stuck around after one too many conversations where he said too little, or worse– said something they didn’t want to hear.

Now he has a whole compendium of people who know exactly what he’s like and still not only tolerate his company, but actively seek it– and all of them want to hang out at the same time. So now it’s the opposite problem, maybe?

Most of them understand and don’t take offense. Sometimes Tomochika and Miyamoto are a little pushy– or very pushy in Miyamoto’s case– but otherwise it’s fine. It’s a much nicer problem to have, all things considered. It’s been what’s kept his head above water for the past two weeks.

Minato scrolls through his phone, reading through today’s invitations. The track team does have practice today, and lo and behold, there’s Miyamoto’s trademark capslock enthusiasm right at the top of his inbox– but that’s not what grabs his attention. Just below Miyamoto’s is a message from someone he definitely wasn’t expecting.

It’s Aragaki. The subject line reads “Need a favor”. 

Minato can count on one hand the number of times Aragaki has messaged him personally, so it must be important. But then why not say something about it when everyone had visited yesterday? He opens the email, curiosity climbing.

Sorry to ask, but I need you to grab something from my desk and bring it to me. You’ll know it when you see it. Door should be unlocked. 

Straight and to the point, just like always. He can practically hear how Aragaki would say it, the exact matter-of-fact tone he’d use.

He’s got no proof, but Minato has an inkling as to what Aragaki is referring to. Or at least, he knows what he hopes that Aragaki means. If his hunch is right, then it explains perfectly why he’s asking Minato for this favor instead of Sanada or Mitsuru, and why he wouldn’t have wanted to bring it up in front of everyone else.

He’ll be missing track practice today, it seems. Minato can’t turn down this request for anything. He hopes Miyamoto and Yuko will understand. 

–

He finds exactly what he’d been hoping to find in Aragaki’s desk drawer. 

He can’t help the soft smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth at the sight of  the familiar envelope. On the paperwork inside, the date and reason are blank, but…

The signature is unmistakable. That’s Aragaki’s handwriting. 

His smile falters. A part of him wonders if this is just some kind of mind game. Maybe Aragaki just intends to tear the form up, and he knows Minato is the only one who would blithely bring it right to him. He doesn’t want to think that Aragaki is that cruel, but…

Well. Okay. Minato knows he isn’t. While that’s certainly the sort of sick prank that the world might play on him, it’s not something Aragaki would ever do. He’s kind of surprised that such a vehemently bitter idea even crossed his mind.

So maybe he is still… a little miffed… that Aragaki so blatantly lied to him. And went off to die without a word. And catapulted him into the nightmare memory of another hospital bed, another figure being consumed by wires and machinery. That last one isn’t really Aragaki’s fault, but Minato still can’t help being upset. 

It really is the lie that bothers him the most, though. It’s a little unnerving, how much it’s getting under his skin, when normally Minato wouldn’t be this upset, or even upset at all, about being lied to. Minato hadn’t felt this way when Yukari confronted Mitsuru about all the secrets she was keeping. He hadn’t cared what Mitsuru had been hiding. Honesty just never has been a sore point with him. So…why does this feel so different?

The only way he’s going to get any real answers or closure is to see this favor through to the finish. Minato pockets the envelope and makes his way back to the hospital. 

The smell of antiseptic hits him like a truck as soon as he crosses the threshold into the lobby. How does Junpei stand spending so much of his time here? Or Sanada, for that matter, who had come here every day since Aragaki was admitted. It makes him want to sprint right back out into the open air just thinking about doing the same. 

He arrives at Aragaki’s door. He seems to have skipped a few steps– he’s gone straight from the entryway to the patient wing without a single recollection of speaking to the receptionist or walking through the halls. Aragaki is awake in there, Minato sternly reminds himself. It’s his friend on the other side of that door, not an empty shell that used to be him. 

He knocks, and obeys when he’s bid to come inside. Aragaki regards him quietly for a few seconds. There aren’t any other visitors right now; Sanada must still be in practice.

Minato nods and produces the envelope from his pocket. Aragaki nods as he takes it, but his expression is subdued and unreadable.

He tucks it away into the drawer on the small side table to his left. He looks back at Minato and frowns.

Minato doesn’t respond. Aragaki blinks, surprise softening his features for half a second before the scowl settles back into place.

Minato doesn’t feel his face doing anything in particular. He wonders vaguely what Aragaki sees in his expression, but decides it’s better not to ask. Time to move on.

Minato must be making another face, because Aragaki rolls his eyes.

He’s got permission to leave if he so chooses. That’s clearly what Aragaki expects, but leaving things like this on such a sour note doesn’t sit well with Minato at all. 

Neither of them are good at talking, but there’s quite a bit Minato knows needs to be said. As leader, it really is his job, and… it’s his job as a friend, too.

Aragaki must take his silence the wrong way again and scowls at him.

Part of Minato does really want to tear into him, craves the catharsis of it. Aragaki even seems to want him to as well, as if to prove some kind of point to himself. But Minato doesn’t think there’s anything he could say that Sanada wouldn’t have already. 

Besides, being angry is exhausting. Minato’s already tired enough.

He settles himself in one of the chairs at Aragaki’s bedside and folds his hands in his lap.

“I…want to apologize,” he says.

“Huh?” Aragaki looks surprised again. Minato wonders if having his emotions put on shuffle like that is as draining for Aragaki as it would be for him.

“Everyone else visited you at least once before you woke up, but… I didn’t. I was too scared. I didn’t want to see you like that, Senpai.”

Aragaki just blinks at him, as though Minato’s apology is so far from what he’d been expecting that he’s stuck in a frozen state as he tries to process it. Minato wonders if this is what people mean when they tell him that his long silences and stares make them uncomfortable. 

“You…” Aragaki shakes his head, exasperated.

Minato pushes forward. “So… I’m sorry. For being such a coward.” 

“Cut that out, seriously. You don’t need to– I wasn’t even awake. S’not like I would’ve known if you were here or not.”

“Still.”

“The hell d’you mean, ‘still’? Just forget about it. It’s fine.” Aragaki sighs hugely, and his voice softens when he speaks again. “I mean that. It’s fine.”

“It’s really not though. Not to me. I don’t want you to think I don’t care.”

“You’re really sayin’ that like it ain’t your catchphrase?” Aragaki scoffs. 

“Got me there,” Minato says with another ghost of a smile. Now that he’s on the other end of it, Minato suddenly has a better appreciation of what Aragaki said to him a month ago at Hagakure. It really is refreshing to have someone say something to you straight instead of beating around the bush. “But I’d like to visit now, if that’s okay.”

“...Look, that’s real sweet and everything, but I ain’t really in a chattin’ mood right now.”

“That’s fine,” Minato replies. “Neither am I. I pretty much never am.” He digs into his bag and pulls out a book, opening it across his knees. He runs his thumb over the edge of the pages, worn to moth-wing softness by age. “But I’ll still be here.”

Aragaki doesn’t answer, so Minato shifts his attention fully to his book. He only gets through about a page and a half before Aragaki’s grumbling voice cuts into the silence again. “...Anyone ever tell you you’re a goddamn weirdo?”

“Junpei says that a lot, actually.”

“Hmph. Well don’t tell Junpei I agree with him on that,” Aragaki says, his mouth twisting wryly to one side. “It’ll go to his head.” 

“You got it, Senpai.” 

Aragaki makes a sound that might be a scoff, but might also be a suppressed laugh, and just like that the tension in the air dissipates. The next couple of hours pass mostly in silence, but pleasantly. Minato doles out books to Aragaki, and to Fuuka and Sanada when they arrive. They have occasional fragments of conversation amongst themselves, particularly after Mitsuru arrives near the end of visiting hours.

It feels comfortable, normal. The smell of old paper and bookbinding glue overpowers that of medicinal sterility. Minato even manages to forget, for just a moment, that they’re in a hospital at all.

[eyedoeluhn]

I haven’t mentioned the other Celestial (x)s before, so let’s actually run through the three main ones as well as what the Celestial Forge even is. I’m not counting ones like the Celestial Bakery because that’s tiny it’s like eight perks. The CM is my favorite, the CF is…actually not that bad. The CG….

The Celestial Forge is a collection of Jumpchain perks loosely (emphasis on) based around crafting.

A jumpchain, for the uninitiated, is a story prompt game thing where you write a character (most commonly self inserts or ocs) as the ‘jumper’ someone who travels fictional universes at the behest of a random omnipotent being’s entertainment or whatnot. unsurprisingly, I’m not the fondest of them. The power system is in collections of Jumpchain documents which lay the rules ( perks, drawbacks, items, settings, etc) of each universe. These are made independently and are not explicitly balanced. This balance gets more and more wildly out of wack the more jumps you do and the explicit end point of a jumpchain is to become comparably powerful as a ROB by finding a ‘spark’ perk (used to be a specific one but now there are multiple). Sure, jumpchains can end at any point but most people enjoy numbers go-up too much. My favorite wildly unbalanced jumpchains are things like random sitcom shows because oh my god you will find the wildest powers in there. My personal favorite is a free perk that allows you to take command of a vessel and instantly everyone inside or on that vessel will do everything you command no matter what, which is honestly pretty tame but extremely funny.

The CF is a bunch of these Uber powerful perks mashed together into one document. It’s unbalanced, it’s not great for a narrative, its most popular work is BCF, it doesn’t have the greatest PR in my eyes. However I don’t think it’s completely unsalvageable. Some tweaking of points, ignoring powers that ruin your story,and an author who is discerning enough to focus on plot rather than word count could make a fine fic even if it has yet to be done. Also I would prune a lot of powers to make it an actual focus on tinkering.

also, side note, why the fuck are there so many versions on google docs? I understand Jumpchain documents are usually docs but they’re like five pages and some pictures not like eight hundred pages of text. Christ.

The Celestial Grimore is a collection of ‘magic perks’ which are so extremely unbalanced Im not sure how this would even be written. There’s a section devoted to rolling entire near universal compendiums of all knowledge of fictional universes. Basically any magic system, ki, chakra, mana, is in there and it’s terrible. Magic is already a really esoteric and broad power system to bring in OOC especially and putting basically no limits on it and ascribing a million ways to use it doesn’t help. The magic parks of the Forge are its weakest because the technobabble is at least hypothetically interesting and I have no real interest in the Grimoire. Also Got The Grimoire Now What…it did not leave a good impression on me. While at least it’s in a spreadsheet it’s not that readable and looking at it for a minute was enough for me to say it would need extreme pruning or a strong specific central narrative. This is probably the least salvageable of all of the celestials.

The Celestial Menagerie is the odd one out of the bunch. It drops the perk system entirely to be a summons based power where you primarily roll for creatures from real life or fiction. Well I wouldn’t call it perfectly balanced it is the hardest C(X) to become setting breaking imo. It’s the neatest as well, being a pretty google sheets with a built in dice roller and color coding. Well I would make some edits, generally to the powers section to preserve the squishy summoner, you start with limits on how far your summons can get away and how many you summon at once and so on. It’s also my favorite because it allows for some very funny builds, two of my own personal favorites are a guy who has no summons for several thousand words but knows a lot about farming, and on a more punishing rule set a guy who can summon one (1) flea.

The Celestial Menagerie also has the current best C(X) fic, Brocktons Zoo of Myth and Legend. My god do I love BZML. I read it in one sitting, live reacting with my Buddy and we genuinely could not guess where the plot would go next. It’s hilarious and the author makes several extremely respectable choices and values the plot over useless powerwank. It has its problems but in this genre…also most of those problems were extremely endearing anyways. I’ll probably make a post about it at some point but I would recommend reading it blind.

There’s also another c(x) that me and said friend have been playing with that’s deeply stupid on purpose but I’ll wait for some context posts before pitching it.

[the-ninja-legacy-whip]

Who has/will have a signature item?

Outside of weapons? Hrrrrrmmmmm—

I don’t thiiiiink Kai gets/has anything, but that’s subject to change

Jay has the electric switchblade/swiss army knife Nya gave him for his birthday, though it’s not really a “signature” item for him. Maybe his goggles count but I hardly ever reference them—

Zane has the Aurora Unit (it’s gonna come back into play in late s2/S3/early S4)

Cole has his headphones lol

Nya has her bracelet

Lloyd…has his sword (I know I said weapons don’t count but his is very significant! Though now that I say that, I’d absolutely have to give Kai his katanas—)

Same with Skylor and her brass(amber) knuckles heyo

Jesse…would have his naginata, but if we’re not counting weapons then probably his compass, but if that’s not signature enough then maybe his earrings, but he doesn’t get those til waaaaay later—

Pixal’s a spoiler

Olivia has her bracelet (the Realm Ripper) and her compass

Antonia had her phone lol

Harumi has what’s left of her dolls, the keychain Jesse gave her, and her headband

Miranda has her tablet with the Compendium, amongst other things (Bridget also has a tablet, but not as elemental)

Sunni doesn’t really have anything and probably won’t (unless I go with a cute idea I have for Stormlight/Sunshower in the future)

Harleigh doesn’t currently have anything but that’s probably subject to change

[littlemisskittentoes]

wip whenever

in case you haven’t noticed, i’ve been awful at the tumblr thing lately. but im finally excited about what i have cooking for @aroyallybigbangrwrb !

i give you baby firstprince 😌 tags under the cut!

Alex lifts his own arm then, pointing out at the bright shoulder star he’s eyes had found first. “What’s that one?”

“Betelgeuese,” Henry says in nothing but confidence. It doesn’t leave any room for doubt, and Alex likes that, too. The way Henry has this entirely new compendium of knowledge to fill in Alex’s own.

Alex knows he’s smart. He works hard to be that way. He makes a point to hide a flashlight under his bed so that he can read his ever-growing stack of history books without worrying about the way the light leaks through the crack under his door. He writes out lists, carefully lined onto notebook paper, then tucked away under the cushion of the window seat noting the words from those books that he still needs to look up the definition for. He aces his tests. He can even answer the teacher’s questions at the very start of a unit, before they’re supposed to know what the chapter holds. But Henry knows about the things Alex has never even thought to read about.

Henry knows about what kind of trees they pass on the walk from the bus stop and the names of the paintings that pepper their textbooks in class. Each time Alex Trebec announces a category dedicated to mythology or folklore for the night, Alex immediately knows Henry will beat him in their play-along-at-home tally count.

But it doesn’t bother him the way Alex thought it might. It doesn’t give him the same sinking feeling deep in his stomach that happens every time he sees his classmates pick up on their vocabulary sheet without having to sift through another language first. No, losing to Henry never makes him feel like he has to catch up. It only ever reminds him that he has someone to help him get there now.

tag, you're it! @blueeyedgrlwrites @leaves-of-laurelin @onthewaytosomewhere @firenati0n @kiwiana-writes

@suseagull04 @adreamareads @wordsofhoneydew @bigassbowlingballhead @thedramasummer

@hgejfmw-hgejhsf @happiness-of-the-pursuit @affectionatelyrs @inexplicablymine @read-and-write-

@gayrootvegetable @galitzine-nick @gay-flyboys @leojfitz @songliili

@cactusdragon517 @starrypiscesao3 @junebugclaremontdiaz @msmarvelouswinchester

and anyone else interested in playing along!

[thelibrarylesstrektraveled]

Practically Magic Chapter Four: Cinderella

Summary: Growing up in the same tiny mountain town, Y/N Owens and Dean Winchester despised each other. The only thing they ever agreed on was their need to escape. Life took them in opposite directions and neither of them ever looked back. So, when their paths cross over a series of gruesome murders in their hometown it was no surprise that old friction heated up again.

Dean never dreamed he’d be teaming up with a psychic, the FBI frowned on that sort of thing, but he was desperate. When that psychic turned out to be Y/N Owens, Dean knew two things for sure. One, Y/N was the real deal and two, he was in real trouble.

Pairing: Agent!Dean x Psychic!Reader, Dean x Reader, AU Dean x You Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Bobby Singer

Warnings: Slow Burn, Serial Killer Elements, Witches, Haters to Lovers, Claustrophobic Elements, Murder Scenes

Author’s Notes: This is an AU taking elements from the film Practical Magic and applying them to a fictional world where Dean Winchester is an FBI Agent. You will find parallels from that movie here, some quotes and other elements that capture the essence of the world of the Owens Witches. Hopefully! Additional Author’s Notes: This is a unique reader insert story as I have given the reader a physical description including hair color, eye color and body type. Chapter Four: Cinderella Word Count: 3372

Masterlist

Practically Magic Masterlist

“You’d think after 300 years they’d come up with a better line” – Sally Owens, Practical Magic

Dean sat in his car outside of the Compendium for a full twenty minutes trying to figure out what he was going to say. He hadn’t expected to see you there, standing in the middle of that crime scene. Performing a reading, of all things! You’d gotten better at it, of course you had. It was in your blood. You’d grown into yourself. All of that shining, raw potential of the child was now sharply focused in the woman you’d become. It caught him off guard and he reacted out of instinct. Get you out of there and away from him as quickly as possible.

“What the hell’s the matter with you, Dean?!”

“With me? What the hell were you thinking, bringing her here?! This is no place for a civilian, Sam.”

“Y/N is not just a civilian. We’re running out of time and options, we need help.”

“Help? From the friendly neighborhood witch?”

Sam rolled his eyes, “Come on Dean, she’s the real deal and you know it. Everyone in this town knows it”

“That doesn’t make her qualified to assist in a murder investigation.”

“No, but she’s our friend. If she can help, she will. That’s just how she is.”

Dean could only shake his head at his baby brother. How can someone that damned tall be so short sighted?

“Some friend you are. This case is as ugly as they come. You and I, we’re trained to deal with the rough stuff, and we still have a hard time with it. How the hell is a regular person supposed to deal with it?”

Sam could only nod, he hadn’t thought of that.

“And yeah, Y/N is the real deal. You know how sensitive that psychic stuff makes her,” Dean said with a sigh. “This isn’t safe for anyone, but especially not for her.”

“Fair point,” Sam admitted. “But there are better ways of keeping her safe than going after her like that.”

“Old habits,” Dean replied.

“Make some new ones, starting with an apology. She won’t just let this go; you know how she is.”

Sam was right, Dean knew exactly how you were. Stubborn, just like him. Wasn’t that always the problem? Dean reluctantly cut the engine and got out of the car. Dragging his feet wasn’t going to make this any easier.

The Compendium was nearly back in order when Dean opened the door. An impressive feat considering the state it was in after the party. He was exactly three feet into the store when a low growl sounded, stopping him in his tracks. A huge white dog stepped out from behind a bookcase, barring its teeth, the thick fur along its spine standing on end. Dean held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, hoping the dog would see it that way.

“Dean Winchester. Is it arrogance or plain stupidity that brings you to my door?”

“You know me Viv, always the latter.”

Vivienne Owens climbed down the ladder propped up against the shelves, a bundle of smoldering sage in her hand. She arched an unimpressed brow at him, “This place was in tatters after you boys rummaged though everything. It will take me a week of Sundays to cleanse it properly.”

“Send the bill care of Uncle Sam.”

She didn’t give an inch. A thin plume of white smoke spiraled up from the sage to circle around them. Viv’s ever present black cat hissed from its perch on the upper level and Dean felt very outnumbered.

He dropped his gaze, “Sorry.”

“You certainly are.”

“I come in peace. I just want to apologize,” Dean said, appealing to the older witch. “Viv, please. I owe her that.”

“You owe her far more, but that’s a start.”

Vivienne had the same dark eyes, you did. Those huge, fathomless, gypsy eyes. Ones that saw into the very soul of a man. But hers never held the warmth yours did, at least not for Dean. Her eyes were cold and carried suspicion and warning.

“I’m only going to say this once; you hurt her and in the immortal words of the great Dolly Parton… I’ll turn you from a rooster to a hen with one shot.”

Dean couldn’t help but swallow nervously. A woman like Viv didn’t offer idle threats, especially when it came to her treasured granddaughter.

“Noted.”

You knew it was Dean by the sharp scent of his cologne. He always smelled good, even as a kid. It was one of things about him that fascinated you when you were growing up. You loved him straight away, how could you not? His smart mouth and gruff exterior hid a boy you knew to be truly kind and compassionate. He played up the bad boy image to everyone in Silverton, but with you he was soft. He was your protector. Sam was your partner in crime, but Dean was the one who made sure you were safe. You trusted him with your life. Funny how things can change so quickly and so completely.

“I had no idea this room was back here.”

“What you don’t know could fill a book.”

You didn’t bother to turn, instead keeping your eyes on the fire blazing in the brick fireplace. Your frozen feet were propped up on a leather footstool in an effort to regain feeling in them. In hindsight, walking all the way from that house to the Compendium in your stockings was not your brightest move, but you’d been too pissed off to think straight. Even now, cocooned in a thick, wool blanket you were still shaking. Part of you knew it wasn’t just the cold, but the horrific scene that had you chilled to the bone.

“Do you always wander around without your shoes and coat? Or only when it’s below freezing?”

“It was more important to leave than to stop and fetch them.”

“Stubborn,” Dean muttered, dropping your forgotten items in the wingback chair opposite you.

“Me?! I’m the stubborn one?!” Your eyes snapped up to look at him, temper flaring. He had the audacity to smile, just a quirk of the corner of the mouth. Irritated beyond measure, you tugged the blanket closer and looked back to the fire.

“Thanks for returning them, you can see your way out.”

You’d dismissed him like a queen banishing a servant from the realm. He knew you weren’t going to make this easy. “Damn it, Y/N. I’m trying to apologize!”

“Well, don’t let me stop you. You’re doing a fantastic job.”

Dean watched the flickering glow of the fire dance across your face. It was fascinating to see the familiar expressions of the girl he knew reflected back at him in the face of a beautiful woman.

God, why does everything have to be so damn complicated?

“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I didn’t expect to see you there.”

“At the house or at the party?” you asked softly. When he didn’t reply right away, you did instead, “I didn’t expect you either. Maybe I should get a magic eight ball.”

“You used to laugh when I called you that.”

“That was when you meant it as a joke. You weren’t joking today.”

“No, I suppose not.” Dean sat on the footstool so he could face you. It was low to the ground, causing him to draw his knees up so his long legs would fit in the small space. He always was taller than you, now even more so. Life was unfair.

“I’m sorry about what I said, you didn’t deserve it. I’ve been working on this case for a very long time, my temper’s short and I took it out on you. I had to get you away from that house. It’s not safe for someone who hasn’t been trained for it.”

You could see him then, your Dean. The one from all those years ago. The Dean who would coming running when you called. The Dean who vowed to protect you from anything.

“We should have dinner.”

Dean blinked in confusion, “Pardon?”

It was your turn to smile, you always enjoyed baffling him. “The three of us; you, me, and Sam. If we are going to work together, we need to improve our communication skills.”

“We’re not working together, Sweetheart.”

“Yes, we are.”

He matched your infuriating smile with a fierce frown, “I don’t want you getting mixed up in this.”

“I already am. I’ve tapped into it now; it won’t leave me until it’s complete.”

“If you had an ounce of sense in that head of yours, you’d leave and never look back.”

You searched out his gaze, those stunning green eyes looked so much older than his thirty-six years. Things between you had ended badly, but that was years ago. And it didn’t erase all the good that had come before.

“Tried that. Just ended up right back where I started.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Dinner,” you said again. “Tomorrow night, seven o’clock. Your treat.”

Dean knew a challenge when he heard one. This was the sexy, confident woman he’d met on Halloween, throwing down the gauntlet. He may not be a magic welding Owens, but he still had a few moves of his own.

He took your feet and settled them on his lap while he reached for your shoes he left in the chair. His touch was warm. The heat that radiated from him finally banished the cold you’d felt since leaving that house. He gently slid each shoe back on the corresponding foot, his actions deliberate and somehow very intimate.

“Try not to lose them this time, Cinderella.”

You tried to focus on his words instead of his hands resting on your ankles.

Good lord, look at those hands! Were they always so big? Christ. I wish he’d move them a little higher…

“Cinderella only lost one shoe, not two.”

He ran his thumb back and forth over your ankle bone while a grin slowly spread over his face. “Keep ‘em on, Princess. Don’t want you losing any valuable parts to frostbite.”

In one smooth motion, Dean got to his feet and started to stand. His hands braced on the arms of your chair, his face coming within a few inches of yours. His mouth only a breath away. He paused in that position, his eyes looked deeply into yours and you were caught. Your heart sped up and heated your cheeks as you wondered if he was going to kiss you.

He watched with great satisfaction as your pupils grew wide. Your gaze flickered down to his mouth just for a second before snapping back up. Witch or not, you were still a woman. And Dean had always been a big fan. He found it incredibly encouraging that he could get that kind of reaction out of you even under the circumstances. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Dean stood the rest of the way, feeling smug. “See you tomorrow, Y/N.”

“Y… yeah, tomorrow,” you managed to echo as he walked out the door.

Viv’s cat found it’s way to your lap, he must have snuck in when Dean left. You buried your fingers in it’s fur while you contemplated the flames. When you were little, your Gran would tell you stories of ancestors who could read the future in fire. You even managed to do it a time or two, but it was a volatile method. Naturally, it would be. Visions would come, but without context making the information unsettling and essentially useless. If that was what seers in the past used, no wonder everyone thought they were crazy. You made up your mind a long time ago, to be better.

But you couldn’t see what was coming, for you or for Dean. Which meant you had to go in blind. Just like everyone else. Just like a normal person.

“Fuck.”

June 5th, 2002

“Witch, witch, you’re a bitch! Witch, witch, you’re a bitch! Witch, witch, you’re a bitch!”

Dean was in the middle of changing the oil when he heard the chanting. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d heard it. Ever since that damned movie came out a few years back, the local kids latched on to it like it was the song of the summer. It had been nearly a year since he’d heard it, which meant only one thing.

He threw down the oily rag he used to wipe his hands and took off running.

“Witch, witch, you’re a bitch! Witch, witch, you’re a bitch! Witch, witch, you’re a bitch!”

There was a group of five kids, all chanting around a massive oak tree. Throwing rocks and sticks up into the canopy of green leaves. Dean recognized them, a couple of them were from his brother’s class, the rest were closer to his age. Bullies and troublemakers.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing?!”

The tallest boy, looked at Dean and sneered, “What’s it to you?”

Dean looked past the kid and saw a familiar purple sneaker laying at the base of the trunk. Purple, with matching tie-dyed laces. He didn’t need any further confirmation; he was there the day you and Sam experimented with the technique for an art project. Purple always was your favorite color.

“Listen up, asshat. You’re going to take your little buddies and get the hell out of here.”

“Or what?” another boy challenged.

“Or I break your scuzzy face and you leave anyway.”

“Come on, Winchester. We’re just having a little fun,” the teenager from Dean’s class said, tossing and catching the lemon sized rock in his hand. “Besides, it doesn’t hurt ‘em. Everybody knows witches don’t feel anything.”

He chucked the rock into the tree and a pained yelp sounded as it found its target. He laughed and Dean saw red. He punched him square in the face, deeply satisfied with the sound of knuckles connecting with cartilage.

“Fuck!” The kid staggered back and held his face, blood spurting from between his fingers. “You broke my fucking nose!”

“Stick around,” Dean drawled. “I’ll break something else.”

That was all encouragement the boys needed. They scattered and ran back over the hill towards town, chanting their irritating little song the whole way.

Dean picked up the discarded shoe and looked up through the branches and saw your shadow towards the top. “Y/N?”

“Dean?”

“You can come down now, it’s safe. I sent those douchebags packing.”

He watched you nimbly climb down the branches, which was impressive since you weren’t the most athletic kid. Amazing how motivating being hunted down could make a person. When you got close enough, he held out his hands and helped you hop down to the ground.

Looking you over, he saw red all over again. You had dirt and scratches all over your arms and legs, the deeper cuts still bleeding. Long pieces of your hair had come loose from your braid and were sticking to your sweaty face. Your big, brown eyes were rimmed red from crying and your bottom lip was split open.

Dean took your chin in his hand; his thumb barely grazed the cut. You winced and looked down, tears welling in your eyes.

“It’s okay, Dean.”

“I’m going to kill ‘em.” Dean growled, releasing you. “Seriously, an ass kicking it too good for those dicks.”

You rubbed your bicep where that last rock had hit you. It hurt like hell, probably bruised all the way to the bone. You were worried about what your Gran would say when she got a good look at you. She always warned you to stick to the main road, not take short cuts. This is obviously why.

“It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have gone that way. Should have paid attention to where I was going.”

“Hey. This is all on them, you hear me? None of this is your fault.”

You only nodded, looking down at your sock covered feet. Dean picked up your discarded shoe and looked around for its mate.

“Where’s the other one?”

“Um… I lost it over in Settlers Field.”

“Okay, let’s get you cleaned up.” He surprised you by turning his back to you and crouching down, “Hop on, Pipsqueak.”

“You can’t carry me, Dean. I’m too heavy!”

“I carried Sam’s sorry ass all the way down the North Trail when he twisted his ankle last summer and he’s a freaking moose. I don’t want you wandering around missing a shoe.”

He looked over his shoulder at you and winked, “Come on, Cinderella. I’ve got, ya.”

You grinned back, in spite of yourself and climbed onto Dean’s back. He hooked his arms around your legs and stood with ease. Even bounced a couple of times to get a giggle from you before he headed back home.

You rested your chin on Dean’s shoulder while he carried you comfortably on his back, making easy strides through the tall grass. After a few minutes you began to relax. It was a really nice day, sunny and warm.

You hadn’t spent much one on one time with the older Winchester, but you knew Sam worshiped him. It was easy to see why, Dean was the embodiment of cool. He was older than the two of you by five years. Every time you saw him, he was in that beat-up leather jacket, listening to classic rock. And he had that intensity burning just under the surface.

“You must be missing Sammy, huh?”

“A little,” you breathed, then corrected yourself. “A lot. He called last night and said he was having fun though.”

“Only Sam would have fun at summer camp for math geeks.” Dean said, walking through the opened bay door of the garage. “What about you? I heard you got first place for that story you wrote. Shouldn’t you be at camp for writing geeks?”

Dean set you down on the long bench along the back wall and grabbed a few supplies from the first aid cabinet.

“There isn’t a writer’s camp. But there’s a conference in Denver next month. Gran says I can go if I want to.”

Dean dabbed disinfectant over the scrapes on your legs, “You don’t want to?”

You shook your head.

“Why not?”

“My story’s not good enough to present in a place like that.”

“Your teacher thought so, and you did get first place.”

“You didn’t read the other stories.”

Dean snorted in laughter, and you smiled. “Besides, that story was just for an assignment. I can do better.”

“I’ll bet you can.” He replied, fetching an ice pack from the beat-up fridge in the corner. He wrapped it in a clean cloth and held it against your swollen lip.

“Well Pipsqueak, you can hang out with me whenever you like. But you gotta pull your own weight.”

“Okay,” you agreed, if out of curiosity alone. “Doing what?”

Dean waggled his eyebrows and pulled the gray tarp off one of the cars. “Welcome to Dean Winchester’s Summer Camp for Grease Monkeys!”

You recognized it; Sam showed it to you one time. The Impala.

You stepped forward, running your hand over the rough frame, “You’ve been fixing up your dad’s car?”

“My car,” Dean said, pride ringing in his voice. “Gave it to me last year when I turned sixteen.”

Your fingers followed the line of the window as images came to you. Happier times when John Winchester was a young man, taking his pretty blonde girlfriend to the drive-in movies. Mary, the boys’ mother. It had been a junker back then, John always intended to get the car in mint condition. Never really got around to it.

“She likes you.”

“Yeah?”

“You gave her a name.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a little embarrassed. “Yeah. Baby.”

You leaned in the opening where the driver’s side window would eventually be. You could see how she looked the day she rolled off the line. Shiny and new. Polished chrome, black vinyl seats. In a flash, you saw Dean there. His elbow resting on the opened window, his right hand on the wheel. Wind in his hair, his music blasting.

“Baby.” You repeated. “Baby is perfect.”

[lewdestconcubine]

The Szayel Compendium (Part 7 - Relationships)

RELATIONSHIPS.

FAMILY: [Who, if anyone, does the character consider their family? Are these blood relatives? And do they have a good relationship with their family?]

Szayel has one fraternal twin brother, Yylfordt, who as a hollow, he has a complicated relationship with.  He very much loves him, but he resents that he spends his time with someone else, and that he’s essentially the physical manifestation of all of the ‘weaknesses’ and ‘impurities’ that he pulled out of himself.  He’s not sure what to do about it sometimes, and after Yyl’s death, sometimes things get complicated.  Verse dependent he sometimes will have a partner/boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/wife and/or children.  Those relationships are things that sustain him when they happen.

FRIENDSHIPS: [Do they have lots of friends, or just one or two close friends? What do they look for in a friend?] Szayel has lots of acquaintances.  There are a couple of hollows he considers his friends, and of course in RP, he has plenty of verses where he counts different muses as friends.  But canonically he suffers deeply from isolation and loneliness and does rather desperate things to change that fact, through much of it doesn’t work and isolates him further.

FRIENDS IN NEED: [How do they help a friend who is going through hard times? Do they offer advice and support, or do they feel uncomfortable, not knowing what to say?] It’s best to explain things in a way that Szayel can ‘solve’.  If he can invent something. give you a medicine or a treatment, share his knowledge, etc., he is more than willing to help a friend.  If you need to vent, its best to tell him so, and he’ll listen and support, and if it would make his friend more comfortable, or if they want a distraction, he’s more than happy to share himself physically, whether just by giving affection or by doing something sexual/sensual.  But sometimes, he just doesn’t really get what’s needed from him, so if you don’t spell things out and just expect him to be sensitive to your problems…you may end up not liking what he does.  It’s best to explain to Szayel how he can help, otherwise there may be some wild misunderstandings.

NEEDING A FRIEND: [Do they tend to go to friends when they need help and support? Or do they deal with their problems on their own? Do their friends ever worry about them?] Canonically Szayel will generally withdraw and become more paranoid or hostile.  But, in different verses, if you connect with him well enough, he’ll come by for reassurance, whether its nice words, a hug, some good food, or just being acknowledged.  If you’re the type of ‘friend’ he tends to prefer, if you can fuck him well enough that he forgets feeling terrible, it’s a bonus, and you will likely see him often.  He is not at all subtle about this, smh.

ANNOYANCES: [How do they deal with arguments and disagreements with friends or partner?] He tends to fall apart.  Finding a companion is something he stresses over.  If there’s a rift forming for any reason, he doesn’t take it well, will isolate, and just continue down an unhealthy path until he’s either asked to stop, or forced to.  Szayel is rather fragile at heart, even if he pretends that this isn’t so.

ROMANCE: [If applicable: how do they woo a potential partner? What do they look for in a potential partner?] Szayel is demiromantic, and thus really only develops romantic desires towards friends that he has, that he’s also already pursued a sexual relationship with to some degree, or at least has been able to feel physical chemistry with as far as things like..you smell good to him, your touch is comforting to him, and your presence is settling.  He looks for those who can handle his mood lability and who have a complimentary type of strength both physically and/or mentally.  As he’s essentially pan, this could be a person of any gender.

MARITAL PROBLEMS: [How do they deal with problems in their love life? Do they talk it through with their partner? Or do they bury their head in the sand?] Szayel tends to ignore problems in his relationships when he feels that everything for the most part is going well.  He’d rather swallow his own issues or secretly try and fix himself.  He’s conflict avoidant when it comes to things in his private life.  He’s terrified of being alone and will actually take very large amounts of abuse for the sake of not losing a partner.  Unless his partner can pick up on the fact that he’s unhappy and change their approaches to the problems without saying anything…you’re going to have to back Szayel into a corner to even acknowledge that there’s something wrong I the first place.  He tends to self harm and disassociate rather than tell a partner that there’s a problem, as he figures that just as anything that’s mind over matter, if he continuously works to accept a lie, eventually it will be true. 

ADVERSARIES: [What would turn them off a friendship or romance?] Being ignored.  Trying to force other ideologies on him.  Treating him as something below you, when it’s not consensual degradation.

ENEMIES: [What would make them hate someone enough to call them an enemy?] Actively working to undermine him and his accomplishments.  Otherwise, an ‘enemy’ is just the person on the other side of the fight he’s been made to fight because he’s in an army.

STRANGERS: [Do they tend to be respectful to strangers, or are they careless towards anyone who they don’t consider a friend?] Szayel tries to be courteous to those he first meets as he’d rather make a good first impression.  But he will not lie about the fact that he won’t necessarily stick his neck out for you unless you’ve shown him that you can be trusted to have his support.

FUN STUFF: [What kind of things do they like doing with a friend?] Szayel’s very much adventure and pleasure minded.  He likes experiencing fine things like art and music and good food.  He likes dressing people up and making things for them.  He enjoys traveling to unfamiliar places with a familiar person by his side.  And of course anything of a uhhh..physical nature. Szayel loves getting to know someone in the biblical sense...as merger of mind, soul, and body is deeply intertwined with the alchemical symbolism tied up in his character.

DATING: [What kind of things to they like doing with a romantic partner?] Everything listed above.  His friendships often don’t look al that different from his romances.  Sometimes there’s just as much sex.  XD  But in romance you can actually get him to more or less commit to you, and he’s unafraid to plan a future life.  Szayel has a weird purity of connection to him that makes it kind of hard to split hairs between friendship and romance, and often he’ll put a label on it to make the other person feel better.  But that’s not to say that it’s less passionate.  It just means that you have the right to tell him what makes you comfortable in his behaviors, like if you don’t approve of him being openly sexual towards good friends.  He’ll never stop dropping innuendos or flirting however, he’s not really capable of it.  Just tell him where boundaries lie.

BEST FRIEND: [If applicable - who do they consider their best friend?] This is very verse dependent.  Canonically, he’s not really shown to have very close bonds with people.

LOVE: [If applicable - who do they consider to be the love of their life?] This too is very verse dependent.  He clearly lusts over others, but that’s not the same thing. But he does form ships easily if approached the right way.

WORST ENEMY: [If applicable - who do they consider to be their worst enemy?] Canoically, he considers shinigami as the enemy, who are essentially carrying out genocide.  He also sometimes has conflicts with Aizen and with the other Espada.  He fights with Renji and Uryuu, and of course dies by Mayuri’s hand…but they’re more or less opponents, rather than enemies, if that makes sense.  After all, he’s a soldier in a war.  He doesn’t really get how certain characters were introduced to him, so depending on different AU concepts…I feel that he may be incredibly open to meeting some characters, given that they have things in common, but were forced to be on different sides because of the world they live in, rather than any conscious choice.

RESPECT: [Do they respect their enemies, even if they don’t like them? Is there anyone they disrespect? Why?] Sometimes?  I mean, for Szayel, he views it as a great honor for him to be interested in you enough to study you, experiment on you, fight you, or command his attention in any way.  To flat out ignore someone is to disrespect them, as he feels deeply disrespected when ignored.  So, take this as you will.  He’s not exactly normal, nor was his canonical ultimate opponent. 

[charmingbrute]

𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐎𝐍.

#CHARMINGBRUTE—that's how these things so often go. you do your bit, only later to fill in the gaps, to piece together the picture in distant hindsight. what will your legacy be tomorrow, and the day after, and in the days after that?

MUN INFORMATION: aries | 20+ | he/him | discord available for mutuals

This is a QUEUE BASED independent roleplay blog for the Warrior of Light (Meteor Survivor) for the setting Final Fantasy XIV and related expansions. While I write him as the poster boy who appears in official drip marketing, I apply some twists of my own in his character. #endwalker spoilers will be tagged! If you’d like for me to tag spoilers for older expansions, please let me know.

I am a private blog. Which means that I will only interact with you if we follow each other. If I don’t follow you back within a week, you’re welcome to unfollow as it means I do not see our writing meshing or you are simply not a roleplay blog.

thread tracker // modern verse compendium permanent starter call // promo // information

— THREAD COUNT: 165 / INBOX COUNT: 94

RULES + OTHER INFORMATION BELOW.

These are just mun preferences that I’d like people to check out in case they have questions for me or with the character I write as. They aren’t rules, but more of a reference to make roleplaying with me easier.

GENERAL

Only use beta editor with me. Please don't make writing any harder.

The Warrior of Light has no official name and only goes by Meteor for convenience's sake.

Open to criticisms and such. The game has a wide lore and I’m not above missing information. I would like to be corrected if there are errors in my portrayal that I do not know of.

I’m all caught up with MAIN SCENARIO quests and SIDE QUESTS, so this profile will not be spoiler free. I’ll do my best to tag nevertheless.

This blog is NSFW. Sexual themes, violence, mental health struggles, psychological horror will be present here to name a few and will not be limited to such.

Have no shipping preference, but of course will not ship with minor writers/characters. I am 20+ and fine with NSFW but only with my fellow adults.

I am multi-ship and multi-verse!

Tracking the tag #CHARMINGBRUTE. Feel free to also mention me via @CHARMINGBRUTE. If you see that I haven’t liked your thing for me within three days, please let me know! I might have missed the notification.

Discord is available upon request. I also manage a Discord server for any players primarily from the North American Data Center, but those outside of it are free to hang out. Let me know if you want in!

Please don’t rush me to do replies.

Just let me know if you want to interact with Meteor.

Please don’t hesitate to shorten your reply to me whenever. I don’t care about matching lengths, but I do try to match my partner as best as I can.

All ask responses are welcome to be continued!

BLOG

I am using the beta editor.

I am very accepting of other Original and Multi Characters. My only limit is real life people such as celebrities, politicians, youtubers, etc.

I like aesthetic and GPOSE blogs, but I am a roleplay blog and therefore would only really follow other roleplay blogs. I prefer it if you have a proper tagging system in place as well.

I’d appreciate it if you won’t steal any writing I do on this blog.

When writing with fellow masc presenting characters, I usually refer to my partner character as THEY/THEM. This is to avoid confusion and not at all an attempt to misgender your muse. If this bothers you, please inform me!

Icons or pretty graphics are not required to interact with me.

Will probably remain dash only.

Any inbox responses are welcome to be turned into a thread. No need to ask me for permission.

CHARACTER

I only write Meteor within the Final Fantasy verse. Doesn’t matter if it’s from other titles within the series. I’d love to interact!

If you notice the lack of about page, that's very deliberate as I prefer people to find out things about my character through interactions. If this displeases you, you're always welcome to ask me about specific information and I'll answer as best as I can!

I could give writing him with other fandoms a shot provided I’m familiar with the source material or you’d be willing to inform me about it. Some fandoms I know: Dislyte, Genshin Impact, Drakengard and Nier Series, Other Final Fantasy Games, Fate Series, Persona Series, Resident Evil etc.

Will write Meteor at any given point of MSQ. If undetermined, I will default to ENDWALKER!METEOR. I can also write for him as an NPC if you prefer!

Pre-established relationships as WOL will not be altered or reset.

The muse as WOL is canonically a powerhouse. This isn’t me god-modding in any way, but know that you initiate any combat interactions of the sort, he won’t fall down easily.

When interacting with other WOLs, I'm fine with Meteor being a Scion Companion as I have a verse for it! He doesn't have to be the Warrior of Light all the time. In fact, I prefer it if he's not so I can write something else for a change.

I also write as AZEM (ARES)! So if you wish to interact with him, simply mention that you want him specifically. When engaging with other Azems, I default to him just being some guy.

All kinds of relationships are welcome in this blog.

[bobzora]

ok after almost nonstop playing here’s my thoughts on portable (femc route) so far (just rescued fuuka, starting 3rd block of tartarus)

junpei and femc have really good friendship chemistry. we need to bring back opposite-gender characters who aren’t romancable (don’t @ me with examples like sae or a child or some shit u know what i mean) (i’m not big on the romance feature period but minus That option i’m tentatively saying femc’s implementation is the best. which is funny because 3 male route is the Worst version of the romance feature. (2 doesn’t count bc it barely does anything. it’s not the same))

playing this with less 5 hanging over my head (i’m not over 5 and probably won’t be for. a while. (coming up on 2 years since i started!). but i was DEEP in the trenches when i played fes) is refreshing. i forgot how good yukari was. she’s kind of peak

rio is ok i guess like whatever (kenji-_-) but i’m LOVING saori (i’m rank 8 or so) ❤️❤️❤️this is so much better than the Other hermit❤️❤️❤️ily

maybe its because i don’t really like men LOL but theo will never be liz. i miss you elizabeth. he’s not bad he’s just not elizabeth

im doing way better on social stats than i was on fes. probably bc i know what i’m doing lmao

im always broke. i’m so broke. the 3k yen a pop arcade machines will be the death of me but also the compendium is so expensive??? 10k for a pixie?? apparently it’s bc i picked hard :/ well sue me i guess. way to put a damper on my favorite mechanic (<- fusion lover). internet says it doesn’t get cheaper like later games either i am. irritated

shoutout start of block 2 difficulty spike

took a while to figure out the 4esque knockdown system (haven’t played 4, used to 5&fes) it’s kind of strange. but i got it now! (apparently my brother who is at beginning of naoto in 4 (rip) didn’t know about it?.???LOLrip)

still can’t wait to meet aigis (ily so much) and ken (my favorite probably lmao) and shinji (new social link!) and i’m very interested in what they’ll do for ryoji’s SL. he’s my pal

3 is still so mean for the timing of SLs. everybody is at school. everybody is during the day. (everybody as in almost everybody) it’s a Hard Life

p2girlie theme :) forever

goodnight gamers

[the-griffons-saddlebag]

💎 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗺! Blindfold of Judgement
Wondrous item, legendary (requires attunement by a lawful creature) ___ This golden silk blindfold magically obscures your eyes without blinding you. While wearing it, you have advantage on Wisdom saving throws and can’t become blinded or charmed. In addition, whenever you make a roll with advantage or disadvantage and roll the same number on both dice, the blindfold gains 1 charge. The blindfold can hold up to 4 charges and regains 1 expended charge daily at dawn. 𝙎𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙚 𝙏𝙞𝙥. As an action while wearing the blindfold, you can expend 1 of its charges to grant yourself truesight out to a range of 120 feet for 10 minutes. For the duration, you can tell if a creature is telling a deliberate lie (although not what the lie is), and you gain a +2d4 bonus to any Charisma (Intimidation) or Charisma (Persuasion) check you make. When a creature lies, you can see a ghostly haze appear around it. 𝙊𝙗𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙇𝙖𝙬. If you’re attuned to a “scepter of judgement” or “sword of judgement,” this item doesn’t count toward the total number of items you can be attuned to. In addition, for each other item you’re attuned to that has the Scale Tip property, you gain 1 additional charge whenever you roll two of the same number on a roll you made with advantage or disadvantage. ___ ✨ Patrons get huge perks! Access this and hundreds of other item cards, art files, and compendium entries when you support The Griffon's Saddlebag on Patreon for less than $10 a month!

[weneverlearn]

My Favorite Record Store

Ah, the things you find on old laptops...

While recently seeing if my previous laptop could still breath, I found some old writings. This one, below, is a piece I did about 10 years ago when asked to write about my favorite records store for a compendium the now defunct Get Bent website was putting together. My particular fave rave store didn't just rest on a good used selection, but ended with an appearance from the FBI!

Then last week, Record Revolution in the Coventry section of Cleveland, closed - I frequented that place a few times over the years; then I tripped across the Other Music documentary last weekend on Night Flight, and that seemed like another cosmic nudge to post this.

So check it out if you care, and go visit your local record store today!

If memory serves, the first album I bought at Wax Stax...

************************************************

Wax Stax, Parma, Ohio, 1985 – Eric Davidson

My hometown of Parma, Ohio, was a suburb (the largest in the nation in the later 1970s; not anymore), on the west side, about 15 minutes from Cleveland proper. That’s where the great record stores were, on the far east side of Cleveland specifically; or in Lakewood, the slowly hip-morphing near west side suburb that had cool things like neat old homes, vintage stores, dusty dives, rusting diners, even gay people. But that was still about 15 minutes away from no-drivers license me.

         So I made do with the weak mall chain store (yeesh); and a surprisingly worthy shop, Record Revolution, that sat on the far, old, outdoor strip of that mall (my first lesson in learning how most of the things I appreciate in this world will be shoved to the margins). I got my first Velvet Underground record there (White Light, White Heat). There was a huge Peaches Records & Tapes (one of many of the disappearing non-mall, self-standing chain stores, though this one oddly survived under different names until just a few years ago). And then a good used joint, Record Exchange, opened in a small retail strip within walking distance. (It moved a few years later, after adding racks of video games, an ocean of used VHS tapes, and metal tees, and changed its name to “The Exchange,” no doubt to divorce itself from the dying music market.)

And before that even, there was always The Shoppe, a quirky, incense-stunk, flared pants-era cobble of curiosity shops in a big old house in kind of nearby Berea. They always touted that their new vinyl was only $5. Like I wanted a new copy of The Nylon Curtain! It was only worth bothering a friend to drive me there for the selection of “imports,” which at that time in the ‘burbs meant anything not on a major label; or even lame-lier, a German Red Lorry Yellow Lorry 12” single. But I did find some of my early favorites there. I remember, in 1983, sitting in the car outside The Shoppe, the heater on, snowy outside, waiting for my friend to finish his purchase, looking over the Murmur liner notes, thinking “Man, I can’t believe they had a copy of this!”

         So all things considered, I guess I didn’t have it that bad. But the Parma-approachable record stores always had that patina of “west side” to them, which if you lived in Cleveland then, you’d understand. No cool fliers on a board near the door. (“Baby sitter Needed!” doesn’t count.) No piles of weekly newspapers and more fliers flopped around the windowsill near the door. No endless racks of dirty plastic-sleeve 7’ singles. And no crotchety “old” 29-year old at the counter making fun of/informing my purchasing habits. Not that the local stores didn’t have their charms, but let’s put it this way – in 1985, you don’t want Scorpions and Heart posters on the walls of your indie record shop. You want Cramps and Smiths.

         So oh the joy when Wax Stax opened! Tucked away in an even more remote, crumbling, and weird little strip, behind another nearly as old strip, next to a barber shop and nothing else, to me it was the Taj Mahal. With Cramps posters. On the way to/from Wax Stax, I had to pass the Catholic church I was weekly hauled to. And pondering the contradictions between the church rooftop cross and the Stooges, Ramones, Prince, and Rodney Dangerfield albums in my hand did more to form my morality than 1,000 confirmation classes. At least it felt like 1,000!

         But back to the real place of worship…Wax Stax was great! Smaller than any of the previously mentioned stores in town, it was packed with a much higher percentage of cool shit. The thing is, there was a Wax Stax on the east side, and this was an attempt to expand into white flight-ville. So when they opened, the place was already packed with lots of great used and new goodies sent over from the other store on the cool east side. They had actual imports, bootlegs, fanzines, and the #1 sign of any great with-it record store of that era – promo copies. Lots and lots of promo copies.

         See, back then record labels did not just email out, via publicists, a mp3 to blog writers who won’t even take the time to download them. No, record labels sent out finished copies of their albums. (While I wrote for the Cleveland Scene magazine in the late-80s/early-90s, I probably accumulated 33% of my collection via the “freebie box” in their offices, or trade-ins of said freebies.) And labels sent promo copies to record stores too, often more than one. Made sense, right? You want to make sure the employees can hear the new shit, talk it up to the customers, and hopefully order more. Ha, right! What the hell do the employees care? They would’ve ripped open a new one to hear it. But whatever, it was a wealthier time. (Or is that wasteful-er?)

         Bad Moon Rising, Zen Arcade, Tim – probably paid no more than $4 for each of them. Promos all! (Not to mention all their used records rarely rose above $5; new, $8.) The lone female clerk/manager was not only from the east side too – and hence knew what “Pere Ubu” meant – but was not surly and condescending in the traditional indie record shop sense, and pretty cute, too-boot! And she gave great trade. So I was bringing in Bobby Brown and Guadalcanal Diary promos, and a few of these fledgling “CDs” I was getting from the Scene, and trading them in for cheap-ass copies of Death of Samantha, Buzzcocks, and the Volcano Suns. It was as close to mafia accidental back of truck falling off shenanigans as I was likely to get in my life. Or so I thought.

         One day, a little less than two years after Wax Stax opened, I was sifting through the “B” section (“Well, “All That I Wanted” is a good song, but a whole Belfegore album?!” Nah…), and in walked two guys wearing – and I am not embellishing here – long trench coats and fedoras. They flashed a badge at the manager, said a few things to her, then looked over: “Hey buddy, yer gonna have to take off for awhile.”

         Yup, fucking FBI guys, I shit you not. It was one of those mini-moments at the end of the ‘80s where major labels decided to throw a bone to “Cracking down on unlawful sale of promotional copies.” Read the stamps on those old things. It says some nonsense about those being the property of the label. (The labels never tell you that they write those promos off on their taxes, right after subtracting them from the artists’ future royalties.) The preponderance of bootlegs might’ve had something to do with the flat-foots storming the gates too, and maybe some grass passing through the back door. But who knows.

         Wax Stax only closed for about two weeks. Once reopened, it didn’t seem much different, though the scare worked, as there were never again as many promos or bootlegs in the racks. But the two new managers were really nice guys – one a tall, skinny, bespectacled collector geek; the other a black guy in tattoos and dreadlocks who was into Ministry – in Parma! Cool. (Yes, for about a month in my life I thought Ministry fans were sort of cool. Especially black ones. Hey, it was 1987!) Then about a year and a half after that, some really odd older drunk guy (or maybe a hop head – my inebriation radar wasn’t as well-calibrated back then) bought the place, added more t-shirts, posters, video games, cassingles, and those expensive CD things, and, well, you can see where this is going. The place sucked…and closed about a year later.

         But by then I was going back and forth to school at Ohio State University in Columbus, soon to move there permanently. And for my purposes, Wax Stax had done its job exceptionally well. My standards for a cool used record store had been diamond-cut, and as I toured the world with the New Bomb Turks, stopping first at every town’s indie record store, I could make like General Patton surveying the far hills.

         The other day I was scanning down my iTunes list. I didn’t feel like Patton.

         Come to think of it, Used Kids Records in Columbus, Ohio was probably the most important record store in my life. But that’s another story…which you can read about in my book, We Never Learn: The Gunk Punk Undergut, 1988-2001 (Backbeat Books).

[siegecraft]

The best thing about HORUS Pegasus is that is has not one, but two paracausal weapons, so it is always theoretically both of those:

Ushabti Omnigun:

Your mech’s omnigun is a piece of experimental hardware so advanced that it defies physics: it doesn’t require a mount, nor does it have a weapon type or size – meaning that it can’t be modified or benefit from your talents...1/round, as a free action during your turn, deal 1 AP kinetic damage to a character within Range 15 and line of sight. This doesn’t count as an attack, hits automatically, ignores cover, bypasses Immunity, and its damage can’t be reduced or ignored in any way. No rule supersedes this.

Mimic Gun:

This horrifying weapon has no basic form; it constantly contorts itself into different shapes, mimicking the weapons of other combatants. It counts as all ranged weapon types simultaneously. COMPENDIUM ENTRY: This is not a gun.

And in case that wasn't perfect enough, the mech looks like this:

What I love about Lancer is that half the time its mech designs are like “what if the giant robot was powered by ghosts”, and the other half of the time its mech designs are like “what if a really little dude had a really big gun”, and of the two, the second one invariably has the more concerning backstory.

[weatherman667]

TL;DR on Shin Megami Tensei V

As compared to Shin Megami Tensei III:  Nocturne, which is still one of the best RPG’s ever created.

Less hard, but also less fair.  Being hard but fair was the hallmark of the Shin Megami Tensei series, at least up to III and DDS.  The game relies a lot more on levels than strategy, but it also largely prevents you from using strategy.

Graphics have a much higher fidelity, but like so, so many games, often have a similar polygon count to their PS2 era games.

3D adventure engine is not entirely terrible, but makes the game worse.  Also, the improved graphics are wasted on a literal wasteland with terrible camera controls.  The game makes the environments bigger and more boring, so it literally adds Find the Shiny to keep things interesting.

For whatever reason the graphics engine omits other demons when using single-target attacks or talking to demons.  This is notable as the PS2 games would keep them visible.

Instead of a line, they keep both sides in clustered groups.  This seems like it’s meant to be more realistic, but complicates the gameplay.

The game both overcomplicates and oversimplifies the gameplay, with pretty much every single part of the gameplay better in Nocturne.

Recruiting demons is both easier and clearer.  The clearer part is good, but the easier part is part of the game’s effort to make Megaten EASY.  Demons won’t interrupt conversations mid-battle, remaining HP doesn’t seem to have any affect on recruitment levels, you don’t need to rely on special recruitments skills because your demons simply cannot carry skills in a meaningful way.

The demon fusion system is dramatically improved.  You can control which skills get transferred, rather than relying on the RNG.  The game has Reverse and Reverse Compendium fusions, meaning you can look up a demons, and see what combinations of known demons can make it.  This WOULD make transferring skills much easier.

The game severely limits the number of skills you and Demons can carry. This means you cannot meaningfully carry necessary skills.  Because of this, support skills are nearly useless or non-existent  -kaja’s and -unda’s are nearly useless, as they both are limited to one target and 3 turns, rather than all target and until death/end of battle, there are no special communication skills, there are no persistent status ailments, you don’t need Riberama and Estoma, which is an incredible loss, nevermind liftoma, lightoma, and there are no Might skills.  This means that being able to control which skills gets transferred is far less useful.

There is no weight to the story.  The Protagonist is more interesting before he gets super powers.  The entity that super powers you is incredibly boring, and most of his dialogue are things that the Demi-Fiend would simply tell you himself.  Because bosses are fought with leveling and not strategy, this removes most of the weight you get from fighting them.  Most of the conflicts you come across are petty, and are only useful as you fight one and get a free recruitment from the other.  Nocturne had you do things that made you feel like you put a weight on your soul.

Instead of Magatama, you fuse Demon Essences into you, except it’s done in an incredibly stupid way.  You have to use the Glory you could be using to upgrade your skills, your demons’ skills, your party size, to take more skills from Essences, and only limits you to one of each at any time.  The way you get Essences is arbitrary and capricious, which I like.  The problem is that you can only carry one at a time.  They could have simply not put a random cap on it, and every time you fuse the same Essence gives you another skill.

[rae-gar-targaryen]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read part one here.

---

It doesn't snow in Santo Padre.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That had gone famously. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I care, Frida.”

“... and if I wanted you back?”

“Please, querida.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bleeding hearts on a very crisp sleeve.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was he fucking serious? 

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

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

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

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

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

You weren’t about to cave so easily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. And you were doing so well. 

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel was silent for a moment. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are something, Frida.” 

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded toward Angel’s arm once more.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How could something about you not be beautiful?"

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She had outdone herself. You felt gorgeous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If he only knew. 

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

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

And he saw you, too.

Oh fuck. 

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

He fucking wouldn’t. 

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

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

Fuck, you were hot when you were mad.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was he … drunk? 

Fuck this. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel flinched. 

“I deserve that,” he said. 

Strike two. Too little, too late. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strike. Fucking. Three. 

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

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

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

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

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

Ice cold. 

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus fuck!” Angel yelped. 

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

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

Oh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shook your head. 

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

Well, shit. 

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

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

Not much got past Johnny “Coco” Cruz.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel ignored his question. 

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

“No hug for me, jaina?” 

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

You recovered quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coco snorted. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who says I want anything,” EZ asked?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel sighed before he spoke again, 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know that,” Angel snapped. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

Huh. Unexpected  Should you open it? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well. 

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

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

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

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

There. Short, sweet, and to the point.

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

"Gracias, Frida."

"Don't thank me yet."

You put your phone down flat on the counter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If Angel noticed, he hadn't said anything.

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

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

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

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

You shrugged. "Suit yourself."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You decided to take conversational mercy on him, 

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

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

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

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

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

You sighed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I really ain’t,” he said. “And you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At Angel’s puzzled look, you carried on,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what a question it was. 

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

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

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

"Ever the poet, Frida."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 But this moment? This was about you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, querida?” 

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Say something, Frida.” 

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

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

"I don't know, dulce."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know."

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

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

You hadn’t thought to return it.

---

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

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

Your one o'clock was right on time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You patted his arm gently, resuming your work. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Made to be admired in perpetuity. 

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

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

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

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

You shrugged again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

[wickedwitchofthewilds]

Day 7: Dragons

Relationship: Annaliese/Oran Rating: Explicit Word Count: 1152 Tags: Non-Human genitalia, Semi-Public sex, Library sex, flirting, Human/Monster relationship

Read on AO3

Oran paced by her for the fifth time, angrily muttering under his breath. Annaliese looked around the stack of books she held and watched him disappear around the corner before she went back to shelving. Whatever was going on had him wound up tight. Every time he walked by it felt like a bonfire brushing her skin and it wasn't like him to allow himself to get that frustrated inside of the library. Rows and rows of books turned the space into a tinderbox and he usually wasn't one to risk his hoard.

She finished her task and made her way back to the circulation desk, stopping when she noticed him in his knees with his cheek pressed to the floor. His horns—jutting out from the crown of his head and curving into an s—dug into the carpet. Gold glowed under russet skin, another sign of his temper, and steam curled from his nose.

"What are you looking for, love?" she asked crouching down beside him, her knee-length pencil skirt riding up to reveal more of her lace stockings.

Oran sat up and tossed his braids over his shoulder. "Herr Renner's Compendium of the Hidden," he grumbled. "Again."

"Oh dear, has it decided to play hide and seek again?"

"If I was a different sort, I'd burn the damn thing," he snarled, yellow eyes flashing. "Every other book manages to behave but that one."

Anna straightened, offering her hand to pull him to his feet. "Not every book," she said, smoothing down the collar of his cerulean silk shirt. "Just the other day Acrisio Balzarini's Beginners Guide to Tarot began spitting out the Death card at patrons. I spent most of the day reminding people that the Death card doesn't mean they're going to die."

Oran snorted. "Trust me, they're much better now that you're here. They may be part of my library, but they tend to listen to you more."

She smiled and he cupped her cheek, his palm hot against her skin, and his thumb tracing her lower lip. "You're going to smear my lipstick," she giggled, batting his hand away.

"I'd rather do that than play hide and seek with a book," he said, his voice dipping low and his hands moving to her hips.

If it weren't the middle of the day and the library wasn't open, she might've entertained the idea, knowing exactly where she wanted to smear her lipstick. "Tell you what, why don't we make it a game?"

His lips curved into a wide smile. "A game?"

"Whoever finds the book first wins a prize of their choosing."

"Of their choosing, huh," he mused. "Alright. Alright, I'm game."

Anna wasn't too terribly invested in winning since they both wanted similar prizes, but she took a few minutes here and there between helping patrons to check a few of the private reading nooks and underneath the tables in the restricted section. Nothing. She checked the bathrooms after lunch and under the circulation desk again. Neither of them had luck and they couldn't leave the library with a book on the loose.

Friendly competition turned into frantic searching.

She checked the shelves and then checked them again. Storage. Closets. The stairwell. It wasn't until she heard a rustling from the lost and found box that she unearthed the book from underneath a pile of scarves and jackets. The pages flapped and the spine shivered, pleased that it had managed to hide for so long.

"You are in big trouble," she chided, holding the book to her chest and walking the aisles to find Oran. "Dragons don't like it when their hoard doesn't behave."

"They're not children," he chuckled, coming around the corner.

"They act like them sometimes." She handed over the book and Oran ran his fingers over the gilded lettering on the black leather before handing it back. "You found him. You return him."

Such a big leap from when she first started as a library assistant he didn't want and wouldn't let touch the books unless he watched her like a hawk. Now she could be trusted to find and return books to where they belong.

Oran hovered, the blistering heat of him at her back. That warmth found her waist and trailed down to her hips. She sighed at the fiery kisses he pressed to her neck. "I didn't tell you what I wanted," She murmured, leaning into his embrace, pressing the curve of her ass to hard length straining against his pants.

"Did you want something else?" he asked, nibbling her ear lobe.

"No, I ah—"

Oran rucked her skirt up, exposing her lacy black underwear with matching garter underneath. The books shuffled, squeezing together as if trying to get a better look at his hand moving to cup her over her underwear. His finger dragged over the damp fabric. "I've thought about this all day," he admitted, sighing in her ear.

Anna braced her hands on the shelves as Oran rocked his hips into her, cocks pressing against her. She whimpered. The books cooed at her. Spines shivering in anticipation. One fell from the shelf, the pages flipping back and forth. A few others followed, hitting the floor with a thud. She barely noticed, too preoccupied with Oran tugging her underwear to the side and sliding a thick finger inside of her. She didn't pay any mind until spectral hands cupped her face and trailed down her neck and undid the buttons of her blouse. They trailed ink around her breasts and circled her nipples, feeling more like wet tongues than fingers.

"I think the books want to keep you as much as I do," he laughingly whispered, kissing her shoulder. "What do you think, Anna? Can we keep you?"

A finger—not Oran's—circled her clit and she choked on her reply.

The thicker of Oran's two cocks prodded her entrance, teasing her. The second rested against her backside. Anna held her breath as he eased inside of her, stretching her, until he bottomed out, his skin flush against hers. A patch of golden scales on his lower abdomen gently scratched her skin. The ghostly hands held her, caressing her, and she heard a soft gasp from him indicating they were probably touching him too. She wished she could see it.

"You look so good like this," he whispered. "You always look so good with my cock in you."

"You say that, but you only ever give me one of them," she teased, biting back a moan.

Oran stilled. "Do you...do you want both of them?"

Anna snorted. "Is that even a question? I want all of you, Oran."

He sighed, leaning into her, his chest against her back. "I think we should take this upstairs then."

"Should we clean up the books first?"

"Bring them. I think they'll be upset if we leave them out of this."