#Clara only writes fic once a year
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overtrred28 · 1 year ago
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Joining the club | Jen Beattie x reader
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Summary; 2023 and the start of 2024 seem to have something in common already; everyone in the WOSO community seems to be getting engaged. And when you bring this up to your long term partner Jen, it seems she has nothing to say, or does she….
Pairings; Jen Beattie x famous!reader
Words; 2.5k
Warnings; pure fluff, swearing
A/N; It seems to be the season of getting engaged and even though I am way off getting engaged and very very single, I thought I would pretend and imagine that I was getting engaged to the one and only Jen Beattie. There is also a lack of Jen fics on here and I feel the need to write one for her. Enjoy!
First it was Steph and Dean all the way back in January. Lynn and Marley finally did it back in May. Then in June it was Emily and Kat, and Katrina and Clara just a few days after. Kristie and Sam finally revealed theirs from September after months of teasing. Chloe Kelly and Millie Bright got it within the same week, sharing photos with their partners around christmas. And finally a surprise from Ellie and Daan on the first day of a new year. 
It seemed 2023 and now 2024 was the time for engagements in the world of women’s football and you were quite caught up in all the news. 
“Oh my god babe, another one!” You let out a gasp as the post from Ellie and Daan popped up on your instagram feed, stopping your pre-dinner scrolling as you paused and assessed the picture. It was from a few days ago, and you were seeing it now because you had been away with Jen and her family, avoiding social media to spend time with them and only now catching up. 
“What?” Jen’s voice called from the kitchen, you jumping up from the couch with your phone and running quickly into the kitchen. 
“Look.” You aggressively shoved your phone into her face and she adjusted to the bright light as she tried to look at the photo. 
“Oh wow, congrats to them.” Jen smiled quickly before turning away and back to the food on the stove. You frowned at her quick response and disinterest at the post.
“Do you not think it’s funny?” You asked with a small laugh from beside her. 
“What is?” She asked whilst moving around the kitchen to find the rest of the ingredients for your dinner. 
“That everyone in the footballing world seems to be getting engaged at the moment?” You asked again and she didn’t respond with any excitement, again.
“Oh, guess I didn’t notice.” She shrugged and continued to stir the pot. You opened your mouth to talk again but she got there before you. “Could you grab me some bowls, love?” She asked while keeping her eyes on the pan. You paused for a second before grabbing two clean ones from the dishwasher and placing them next to her. “Thank you.” She smiled at you briefly before beginning to dish up the pasta that was now done. 
“You’re welcome.” You snapped out of your trance and silently moved to grab some glasses and the wine from the fridge. She waited for you to finish pouring your drinks before she grabbed both bowls and headed for the couch, you following close behind her. 
“What are we watching tonight, love?” Jen asked as she sat beside you on the couch, now both holding your dinner and the wine glasses on the coffee table. 
“I don’t mind, you pick.” You shrugged before taking a bite of your food and now it was her turn to frown at you, normally you always took control over what to watch together. 
“You okay?” Jen asked simply and you nodded silently while eating and staring at the screen in front of you. “ Okay, how about Bridgerton? We still haven’t finished season two.” She suggested and once again you nodded silently from beside her. 
You weren’t sure why you were feeling slightly off after Jen’s reaction to the post and your comments, but you still snuggled into her on the couch after finishing your pasta and wine.
The episode finished and you could feel the both of you drifting off after a long day. Jen had been back at training after winter break and your schedule had been hectic since returning from time off. You were an actress and your new movie was about to come out so all the promo shoots and interviews were now in full swing, though you were grateful it began in London so you could still go home to Jen every night.  
You met Jen a few years back at an event in London you had both been invited to, catching her eyes from the other side of the room and instantly knowing you had to go talk to her. You knew who each other were, an actress making her name in the world and a famous sports star who silently followed each other in their respective lines of work. One conversation and you knew there was something there, and so did she. You both knew it would be hard with your professions and the distance you would have at certain times, but you wanted to make it work, somehow keeping it from the public eye for two years before hard launching it on your anniversary and sending both sets of fans into a frenzy. 
“Ready for bed love?” Jen spoke softly into the dark living room, smoothing your hair softly. 
“Definitely.” You yawned and sat up, rubbing your tired eyes as Jen stood up and held a hand out for you. You smiled at the gesture and met your hand in hers, pulling yourself up and making your way to your bedroom together. You both had already showered when you got home earlier so all that was left to do was to brush your teeth together. 
Your night routine was almost the same every night, no matter what was going on in your separate lives, you always spent those last few minutes together before crawling into bed. So once you both finished in the bathroom, you hopped into bed on your chosen sides but made your way closer to the middle and each other, Jen opening her arms to you as you laid your head on her chest.
“Sorry I��ve been quiet, tired.” You mumbled into the darkness against Jen as she drew small circles against your back. 
“It’s okay, me too.” Jen looked down at you to meet your soft eyes. 
“I love you.” You smiled and snuggled into her chest once more, eyes drifting closed. 
“I love you too.” Jen placed a kiss against your head before closing her own eyes and drifting asleep. 
The topic of last night's conversation was mostly forgotten in the morning, or at least it wasn’t brought up again between you too. That didn’t mean it wasn’t brought up with different people. Jen arrived at training and as both Steph and Beth walked up to her, they could tell something was on her mind. 
“You alright there Jenny?” Steph bumped her shoulder as herself and Beth joined her sides. 
“Hmm? Oh yeah.” Jen nodded at them but went silent straight after. 
“You sure?” Beth dragged out her words and brought her face as she could to Jen’s, their height difference proving to be a little difficult.
“Yeah, just thinking.” Jen tried to brush them off again but these two were persistent and she knew she wasn’t going to get very far if she didn’t tell them. She stopped her walking and sighed before speaking. “Last night, Y/N brought up how it seems like everyone’s getting engaged at the moment, and I didn’t really say anything back. And then she seemed upset for the rest of the night, but she said she was just tired, which I know she has been, but I also think I might have upset her in some way.” She let out in almost one breath as Steph and Beth tried to process her words. 
“Well she’s not wrong, especially in the last few weeks.” Beth added with a shrug. 
“Do you think she’s ready?” Steph ignored Beth’s comment and looked at Jen.
“Well, I wasn’t sure before, but after last night I think she is.” Jen looked between the two of them. “Just the way she was talking about it and then when I didn’t really say anything…” She trailed off and looked down. 
“I think she’s ready.” Steph spoke with a smile. She had watched from the beginning of your relationship with Jen just how happy you were with one another, and how easy the relationship seemed even when spending time apart due to work. 
“Are you?” Beth asked sincerely, her and Steph awaiting Jen’s reply. Jen was silent for a few seconds, bringing her eyes back up to look at her best friends. 
“I bought the ring like 2 months ago.” She mumbled but they still heard it and instantly started beaming at the Scottish woman. 
“You sly little bastard.” Beth punched Jen’s arm softly as they began to walk again so that they wouldn’t be late for training. 
Throughout the whole day the three of them, mostly Steph and Beth, were coming up with ideas on how she should propose but Jen kept shooting them down. She wanted it to be private, special and a surprise, so anything that involved taking you out somewhere would instantly make you suspicious. 
While Jen had been conversing her thoughts and plans with her best friends at training, you were in your head all day thinking about last night. Which wasn’t really helping especially when you were trying to film press interviews all day and talk about your movie. 
You could have talked to your co-stars about it, after all they had become close friends while shooting and now being with each other everyday for promo, but the only person you really wanted to talk to was Jen; it was always Jen. 
Jen got home long before you, taking her time to deep clean the flat and cook dinner for you once again, knowing you would be exhausted from your long day of work. 
She didn’t hear you opening the door and making your way through the flat, she had been vacuuming with her headphones on and dancing around your bedroom. You stood in the doorway for a few minutes after spotting her, admiring her and waiting for her to see you. And when she did, boy did she get a fright. 
“Ah fuck!” Jen almost jumped out of her skin when she finally turned around and spotted you lurking in the doorway, using one hand to remove her headphones and the other to turn the vacuum off. “How long have you been standing there?” She dropped the vacuum and began to walk over to you. 
“A few minutes. I was admiring your hidden dance skills.” You smiled and stood up straighter, welcoming her into a hug like you do every day. “Hi.” You mumbled into her shoulder. 
“Hi love.” She pulled back and leaned in for a soft kiss. No matter how many times you kiss Jen, it feels like the very first time all over again, even after 4 years. “Busy day?” She asked as you parted, taking in your tired expression. 
“Busy day.” You nodded and smiled at her. “How was training?” You asked as you walked hand and hand to the kitchen. 
“Good, good to be back with the girls.” Jen smiled at you before letting go to retrieve dinner from the oven. You stood at the counter, simply watching her as she moved about wrapping up dinner. “Go put something on, I’ve got it.” Jen smiled and placed a kiss on your temple before ushering you to the lounge room.
“Okay bossy.” You laughed before making your way to the couch and switching the TV over to Netflix to finish the final episode of Bridgerton. You wait patiently for her on the couch, looking over your shoulder every few seconds to see if she is coming around the corner. 
Meanwhile in the kitchen, Jen is trying to hide her anxiety and nervousness as she plates up dinner and feels her pocket one more time. With two champagne glasses now full and a tray full of food she finally makes her way to you, letting out a final breath before entering the living room. 
“Dinner is served.” She places the tray down on the table and bows which makes you laugh. Your eyes fall on the glasses and you’re instantly confused. 
“What’s with the champagne? Decide the wine wasn’t good enough?” You joked and she let out a small laugh shaking her head. 
“Some nights are a little more special than the others.” She cryptically says and has you even more confused but you leave the comment alone and hit play on the remote. 
You eat dinner together while watching the episode, silently watching with a bit of commentary along the way before cuddling up after eating. The episode finishes and you can feel Jen’s heart beating particularly fast, her fingers are nervously playing with one another and she hasn’t spoken in a few minutes. You sit up silently and look at her, she doesn’t look at you. You’re about to fill the silence when she beats you to it. 
“You know how much I love you, right?.” Jen rushes out and leaves you slightly bewildered. 
“I know. I love you just as much.” You reply. “What’s wrong?” You bring your hand up to brush her hair back into her low bun. 
“I’m about to do something and I hope you don’t think it’s random and forced because it’s not and I’ve been thinking about this for a long time and I didn’t want to make a massive deal about it because it’s just you and me and that’s all that matters.” Jen speaks in one long breath and you need a second for your brain to catch up but before it can she’s pulling you up off the couch with her and standing in front of you. She holds your hands in hers and looks directly at you. 
“Wha-” Before you could even think about finishing your sentence, a giant gasp leaves your mouth at her next action. She drops down to one knee whilst still holding holding your hands, smiling up at you as tears well in your eyes. 
“My love, I could go on and on about how much I love you but you already know. There is no one else I would rather spend the rest of my life with, no matter where it shall take us. So,” She let go of your hands, you bringing them up to your face and hers reaching down into her pocket. She fishes the small, black box out, opening it to reveal a sparkling ring and looks back up at you. “Y/N Y/L/N, will you-” 
“YES!” You interrupt her before she gets to finish causing her to laugh and shake her head. 
You just stand there admiring her as she gets up and removes the ring from the box. She brings your shaking left hand from your face and slides the ring on. Your jaw drops at the ring before you jump into her arms, causing her to react quickly and grab hold of your legs. “I love you so much Jen.” You cry into her shoulder as she holds you before you lift your head up, meeting your eyes with hers before pulling in for a kiss. 
The rest of the night is spent in one another's arms just admiring each other and talking softly with each other about the rest of your lives while wrapped up in your sheets.
yourinstagram and jbeattie91
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yourinstagram we joined the club 💍
liked by jbeattie91, stephcatley, bethmead_ and 834,032 others
stephcatley so happy for you! welcome to the club 😉
bethmead_ about time jen jen. congrats 🥰
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THE END!
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bumblebeedrizzzle · 2 months ago
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You Can’t Fool Me
In which Iruma gets injured for the first time in the demon realm.
This fic contains ✨tickling✨ so if that might bother you, then I suggest you keep scrolling!
A/N: I’m really happy with how this turned out!! I wanted to write some good old angst/comfort. I also felt like challenging myself to write what would happen if Azz was angry/frustrated with Iruma. I feel like it's a side of him we haven’t seen yet. Also, Iruma is generally a cheerful guy, but I feel like the inside of his brain must be a mess sometimes. He had a really hard life and still probably struggles with believing he deserves love (show him otherwise, everyone!). I feel like he would be quite reluctant to ask for/accept help since he’s so used to taking care of himself.
Also, LOL. This started because I wanted to write a princess carry scene. It wasn’t even meant to have any tickling. Then it became this. I’m not upset at all, just amused.
CW: Some cursing
Well, shit. Now he’d really done it. Iruma looked down at his ankle, already beginning to swell slightly, and sighed. It’d been a minute since he’d felt so human here. He stopped to think for a moment; he knew enough about the demon realm by now to know that weakness wasn’t something to go flaunting around. But then, he was used to taking care of himself from his time back on earth. There was no need to bother anyone; getting home by himself would be no issue. That left what to do after... Should he ask Opera or his Grandpa for help once he got back? It was only a sprained ankle, so he didn’t want to overthink things. After all, how many injuries had he patched up over the years back in the human world? He took another deep breath as he realized there was no point in making a deal out of such a minor injury. First he’d get home, then find some wraps, and take care of it. He’d be careful on his way to and from school and this would be over within a few days. Problem solved. Thank devils Clara and Azz hadn’t been here to witness his blunder... He had a feeling they might have overreacted some. Feeling satisfied that he’d worked through everything, he picked himself back up and began hobbling home.
• • •
Everything was fine. Everything was just fine. All he had to do was focus on the next step. Then another. That’s all there was to it. Or at least, that’s what Iruma was telling himself so he didn’t lose the will to walk and just sit down. For the past few days, he’d tried icing it, elevating it, and wrapping it. The whole nine yards. It had helped a little, but devils did the thing hurt. It hurt so bad. It didn’t seem to get any better either, only worse. It looked more swollen than before and he couldn’t put most of his weight on it. But he was stubborn and a little scared. He’d gotten through worse and now wasn’t the time to fold. Not to mention that the idea of missing school and not seeing his friends sounded so much worse.
He was currently walking to his next class with Azz. His attention was torn between staying focused on their conservation and focusing on his footing. It was just his luck that a rock would appear the moment he took to look up at Azz’s face. Before he knew it, he had stumbled and found himself falling forward.
Damn, was I always this clumsy?
He braced himself for pain, hoping it wouldn’t make his injury worse than it already was. This is fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.
“Iruma-sama!”
He didn’t hit the ground. He blinked, trying to process what had happened. He felt Azz’s arm was wrapped protectively around him, steadying him.
“T-thanks Azz-kun! Whoops, haha, silly me. Have to watch where I step...”
“Iruma-sama, are you alright? Are you tired? I could carry some things for you?”
Iruma took one look at Asmodeus’ worried face and gulped. I don’t want to make anyone worry about me. It’s fine. I’m fine.
“Nothing to worry about! Especially thanks to your reflexes,” he added.
“You may be able to fool others, but you cannot fool me, Iruma-sama.” Azz said seriously. “What is going on?” He still hadn’t let go.
“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about Azz-kun! Come on, let’s get going to class”, he said with what he hoped was a convincing smile.
He gently shrugged out of the demon’s grasp and took a tentative step forward. Then another and another. Asmodeus followed after a moment. As Iruma gained confidence, he began to walk faster, determined to prove to Azz that he was fine. Unfortunately, pure determination was not going to heal his ankle that fast. Within a minute, he managed to tweak his sprained ankle again.
“Guh!” he said, crumpling to the ground.
Iruma closed his eyes. This was so embarrassing... He didn’t want to see Azz’s reaction. While deep down he knew it would be fine, he was still scared. What if Azz laughed at him? Or called him weak?? His heart twisted painfully at the idea. Plus he’d just told the demon he was fine. I am fine. I’m...fine. He repeated the mantra to himself, as if that would make it come true. Iruma was so caught up in his ruminations, that he didn’t hear Azz approach. He only noticed when he felt a soft hand above his ankle; the injured one. He frantically tried to pull away, but Azz’s grip was as firm as it was gentle. He heard an audible gasp, which he knew there could only be one cause for. Shit. Even though he had it bandaged, Azz would still be able to see that it was purple and definitely swollen. Iruma reluctantly looked up into Azz’s worried eyes and immediately felt so, so guilty.
“Iruma-sama, why didn’t you tell me??”
He was having trouble looking into those eyes.
“I-it's not that big of a deal... just a sprained ankle...”
“What do you mean, not a big deal?? A paper-cut is not a big deal, Iruma-sama. A stubbed toe is not a big deal. Hells, a scratch wouldn’t be that big of a deal. A sprained ankle is. a. big. deal. This is a big deal! Look at how swollen it is!! And purple! When did you even injure it? Has it gotten better at all?!” Asmodeus’ voice steadily raised in volume.
“Just a couple days ago... I’ve been elevating and icing it after school. I didn’t want to miss class.. I wanted to see everyone... I didn’t want to appear weak...” his voice got quieter and quieter.
“I see you have neglected to answer the more important question. Has. it. gotten. better. or. worse.”
Iruma was silent.
“For devil’s sake, you shouldn’t even be walking on this; it will take even longer to heal!! What in the hells has gotten into you?”
Iruma screwed his eyes shut and tried his best to curl up into a ball. Not only had he failed to keep his injury hidden, but now Asmodeus was angry with him. He couldn’t even remember the last time that had happened..
He heard a sigh and suddenly Asmodeus spoke,
“Look, I do not want to be angry at you. I am.. not angry. But, I am frustrated, and a little hurt. Iruma-sama, how would you feel if you were in my place?”
Iruma’s heart throbbed painfully.
“I would.. be worried about you, of course.”
“Then please, you have to take better care of yourself. Do not treat yourself any differently than you would if I or Valec got injured. And it would not kill you to let us help you either.”
“But I can take care of myself just fine, Azz-kun!” he pleaded. “Look, it’s wrapped and I’ve been trying my best. I’ve gotten through much worse!”
Azz’s eyes widened at this. The frustration seemed to melt out of him, replaced with intense concern.
“What do you mean...?”
Iruma looked away as he said,
“I’m not used to receiving help from anyone! I don’t want to be a burden!”
“But, your grandfather..? And Opera-san..? Are you saying they don’t....? That they wouldn’t help..?”
“N-no! Of course not!” Iruma hurriedly said. “I... haven’t always lived with them, though.”
Asmodeus waited to see if Iruma would elaborate, but after several moments in silence decided that today was not the day he would hear about it. He pulled Iruma into a hug, careful not to disturb the injured ankle.
“Fine. I will not pry further today. Just.. understand that we care about you. We are here to help you.” He murmured into Iruma’s hair.
Asmodeus noticed the way Iruma’s shoulders relaxed at this, and it made him feel a bit more like he’d gotten through to his friend.
“All right, we need to get you to the school nurse.”
The shoulder tension was back immediately.
“Are you sure...? I thought it would make me seem weak?”
“Hells no, there’s a difference between sustaining an injury and just being weak. I do not know how you could even question something so obviously wrong. You? Weak? With your rank? It is absolutely absurd to even consider it. Now, let’s get going.”
Asmodeus gathered their things. Iruma moved to try to stand.
“What in the hells do you think you are you doing?”
Iruma tried to recall if he had ever heard Azz curse this much before.
“Um, trying to stand up?”
“On that ankle? I should think not,” Asmodeus scoffed. He returned with their bags on his back. With a quick motion, he swept his arms underneath Iruma’s knees and around his shoulders.
“Wah!?” Iruma spluttered. “A-Azz-kun?? W-what are you doing??”
“What does it look like, Iruma-sama? I am carrying you to the nurse’s office of course.”
“I-I must be heavy though! A-and you have the bags too?”
Asmodeus’ eyes flashed dangerously.
“Are you trying to imply that I am too weak?”
“N-no that isn't what I meant! I just don’t want to trouble you!”
“Trouble me? Please.”
“But… Azz-kun…,” Iruma stammered.
“Would you please stop squirming and just let me take care of you?!” Asmodeus huffed.
The magic word did its thing. Iruma was still very much embarrassed, and still wanted to protest but well... Asmodeus had said please. He never could say no to that.
“I-I suppose..”
“A simple thank you would suffice at a time like this, Iruma-sama. It is my greatest honor to support you in any way I can. Never doubt that.”
Iruma turned a few shades darker red and mumbled “thank you..”, but found himself still quietly fidgeting. It didn’t compare to the actual fight he’d been putting up a minute ago, but it was clearly irking Asmodeus. After a few more steps the demon said,
“If you want to squirm so badly Iruma-sama, shall I give you a reason to?”
Iruma looked up at Asmodeus’ deceivingly bright smile and shivered. His whole face screamed,
Danger!! Do not engage!!
But before Iruma could say anything at all, Azz slipped his fingers into Iruma’s armpit and began lightly scribbling. Seeing how Azz was also carrying him, and had a pretty tight grip, Iruma was totally stuck.
“Wahaha! W-wahahait Ahahahazz-kun! P-please! Hehe!”
“You’re lucky that I need to get you to the nurse’s office, or I think I would tickle you silly so you would never consider doing this again. My goodness, what am I going to do with you, Iruma-sama?”
“Pffft! I-I’m ehehe!! I’m sohohorry! I won’t do it ahahagain, p-promise!!”
Asmodeus seemed to consider this for a moment, then flashed his fangs in another blinding smile.
“Actually, no. I have decided. I will tickle you silly after your ankle has properly healed. Please prepare yourself, Iruma-sama.”
Iruma gulped. He felt flustered and embarrassed, but also a little giddy at the thought.
“For now though, I’ll just distract you with tickles until we get to the nurse’s office. Maybe that’ll stop these ridiculous notions that you’re bothering me from coming out of your mouth.”
“Ahahahazz-kuhuhun! Nohohoho!”
“Oh, Iruma-sama. You got yourself into this mess, you will just have to take it. Tickle tickle, you’ve got nowhere to run.”
“Nahahaha! P-plehehease s-stohop!”
“The tickling or the teasing?” Asmodeus asked with a quirked eyebrow.
“B-bohohoth! Eep! Ihihit tihihickles soho bahahad!”
“Hmmm, no. That doesn’t sound like my problem. Maybe you should have thought about this before you kept your injury from me, tried to walk it off, and implied I was too weak to carry you and our bags”
“B-buhuhut! I-I cahahahan’t mohohohove! EEK! Wahaha, it tickles!! Ihihihit tihihihickles!!”
“Does it now? A fascinating revelation, Iruma-sama.”
Iruma’s laughter went silent for a moment. Azz continued,
“At this rate, you’ll be lucky if I don’t carry you around the rest of today. And the next few days. We shall see what the nurse says. And no matter what, you will be going home in your grandfather’s carriage today.”
Iruma laughed and giggled the whole way to the nurse’s office, all worries of being perceived as weak completely gone. He went home in the carriage, at Asmodeus’ suggestion, and apologized to his Grandfather and Opera-san for keeping the injury from them. He resolved to work on letting his friends and family help him in the future. It was easier said than done, but whenever his resolve wavered, Asmodeus was there to give him a gentle, giggly reminder.
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bloatedandalone04 · 11 months ago
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Wrapped Around Your Finger - Part 1.1
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Series Masterlist | Original Fic
➪in which you pack your bags for paris, still unsure of whether or not you’ll return to london for anything other than the rest of your belongings, and anakin is forced to reach out to liz after she crosses another line.
PSA: strongly suggested to read the warnings before proceeding.
WC; 3.2k | Do not repost this anywhere, reblogs are fine ♡
Guilt had followed Anakin all week.
He talked to you for a good hour over the phone on Wednesday, and not once did he mention the fact that Liz had kissed him. He knew the longer he kept it from you, the worse it’ll be for him, but he was terrified of your reaction. 
Anakin had been faithful for nearly five years straight, and the one time he’s away from you for more than a few days he lets another girl get close to him. Close enough for him to break that streak in a single night. 
He knew that as soon as he told you, it could very well be over, and he never wanted to lose you, let alone because of something so out of character for him. 
Still, it wasn’t fair for you to be kept out of the loop, and though he hated to do it, he’d rather tell you in person. He could only hope that you saw it from his perspective, and how hard he’s been trying to get rid of her. 
Anakin was sitting on the couch, the passing scenery doing wonders at keeping his mind busy. He wanted to call you, but you told him that you needed to sort some things out today, and he’d just have to wait until you were able to talk. 
He had headphones on with the track Vinny and Theo had recorded during all the time Anakin spent with Liz, and he felt like the worst excuse of a friend and band member ever. 
They were actually trying to get music out while he just went out and partied. But he wouldn’t be doing that anymore. 
If one good thing came out of that whole club situation and the wake up call, it was that Anakin was finally inspired to write. Theo had come up with the idea to create a slower song rather than the loud and intense songs they’ve been playing for the last year and a half. He was sure it was because the bass player was feeling down a lot lately and needed a way to vent, and Anakin and Vinny were more than willing to agree to it. 
He listened to the track on repeat as he thought about possible lyrics, and Anakin was happy that Vinny had decided to try his luck with a piano. He played it for about four years before he switched to drums, but he clearly still knew how to play the string instrument as it sounded amazing through his headphones. 
Before long, he had a whole page done and was starting his second when Vinny emerged from the back of the bus. His hair was a mess, signaling to Anakin that he had just woken up from a nap. 
Anakin could probably use a few more hours of sleep, too, but he knew it would never come. He’d just end up tossing and turning and wasting time, so he didn’t even bother. 
Vinny sat down next to him with a huff, taking the notebook out of Anakin’s hands as he did so. Anakin scoffed at him, taking off his headphones and setting them aside as he turned to face his friend. “Is this for a new song?” Vinny asked with a yawn as he read over the page.
“Yeah,” Anakin answered, grabbing his phone and sending you a quick text. 
Vinny set the notebook aside after reading it over. “Sounds good,” he mumbled. “Glad to see you got your inspiration back.”
“Yeah, but at what cost,” Anakin muttered.
“Anakin, Y/n will understand,” he tried to reassure him, but probably knew that it was pointless as Anakin would continue to feel like shit until he knew for sure that he wouldn’t lose you because of the mistake he made with Liz.
So when he didn’t respond, Vinny just shook his head and stood back up. He rummaged around in the mini fridge before grabbing two water bottles and heading back to Clara, leaving Anakin to finish up the song he had titled ‘Falling’.
-
“I feel like I’m wasting everyone’s time,” you confessed as you sat on the grass in the Quad. “I completely messed up that last assignment. I didn’t even try.” 
Evan gave you a pointed look as he sipped from the straw of his smoothie. “You’re not wasting everyone’s time, Y/n,” he stated, making you roll your eyes. “I’m serious. Kenneth would’ve sent you running on the first day if he thought you were wasting his time.”
You shrug and look at different flights on your phone. “Maybe, but I still accused him of favoring me when he was literally just trying to be nice,” 
“Y/n,” Evan called out to you, making you look up. “You’re a good writer. You’re one of the best in the class, don’t think that you’re not. One bad piece doesn’t make you a bad writer, you know that.”
You shrug again, sipping on your own smoothie. “Yeah, I guess,” 
Evan set down his drink and moved closer to you. “I mean it. You’re going places…if you decide to stay, that is. While it’ll certainly give me a better chance at getting published, it’ll still suck to lose you. But if you’re no longer happy here, then you deserve to do something that does make you happy.”
You give him a smile and lean over to hug him quickly. “Thanks, Ev,” 
He returned the hug before standing up. “Are you coming to class today?” 
You think about it for a few seconds then shake your head. “No, I have some thinking to do,”
He nods and gives you a reassuring smile. “Okay, I’ll just see you later then,”
You nod back and watch as he makes his way to the building the class is in before pulling out your phone. 
Ani: I hope you’re having a better day today, baby. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow. I love you. 
The text brings a smile to your lips as you stand up and throw away your garbage as you reply to him.
So far so good. I can’t wait to see you, too, Ani. I love YOU.
You head in the opposite direction of your class, planning on going back to your room and packing your bag for Paris. Maybe you’d even start packing up to go back home. While Evan’s attempts at reassuring you were nice, you still didn’t feel confident in yourself anymore. 
Anakin had even tried to reassure you, but he also said that you didn’t have to force yourself to stay if it wasn’t what you wanted anymore, and to have that support from him had your head feeling clearer than it had in weeks. 
If all else failed, you still always had him, and that was enough for you to know that you’d be okay. 
You pack the essentials and set your bag down next to your desk before sitting down on your bed. Grabbing your phone, you begin to look through more flight options. There was one for three in the afternoon, meaning you’d be able to be in Paris by five thirty at the latest. You’d have to swing by class tomorrow to talk to Kenneth, and to possibly say goodbye to him. 
You really weren’t sure if you were going to come back for anything other than the rest of your belongings once Anakin and the guys leave France and you’d have to say goodbye again. Maybe you could just pack the rest of your things and meet him at the next location. You wouldn’t mind sharing that small bunk with him for the next two months, and you knew he wouldn’t mind either. 
Without another thought, you buy the ticket and set your phone down, pulling out your laptop and continuing to write the rough draft of your short story, despite your plans potentially dropping the class.
The rest of the day passed by in a blur, and before you knew it, it was the next morning and you were packing last minute things and making sure you had your ticket ready. You set everything on your bed, excitement pulsing through you at the fact that you’d be seeing Anakin in less than nine hours.
His text had you feeling the happiest you’ve been all week, and you had shamelessly read it more than once. 
Ani: I can’t wait to see you tonight. I’ve missed you so much, princess.
He was the sweetest, and you were shaking with nerves at the thought of feeling his arms around you again after four weeks of zero physical contact.
You leave your dorm and make your way to class, well aware that it had ended at nine and it was now nearing ten. With a quick inhale, you enter the classroom and meet Kenneth’s eyes from across the room. He was sitting at his desk, his brow furrowed as he looked back down at the papers he was reading. “Miss Y/l/n,” he greeted in a monotone voice. “Glad to see you could make it to class today, though you are an hour late and the class is already over.”
Giving him a forced and embarrassed smile, you step into the room. “Yeah,” you trail off, playing with your fingers as you stand by the door. “I’m sorry I missed the last two classes, it’s just….I don’t know if I’m cut out for this.”
Kenneth didn’t look up from the papers as he said, “Well, you’ve certainly done a great job at trying to prove that,” 
Your face heats up and you look at the floor. “Yeah…I’m really sorry, Kenneth,” you murmur, glancing down at the A on your wrist. You feel the smallest bit of comfort from just looking at it, and you lift your head with a newfound confidence. “I didn’t mean to waste your time. That was the last thing I wanted to do.” 
That had your instructor looking up at you. He studied your face for a few seconds before sitting up in his chair. “You didn’t waste my time, Miss Y/l/n,” he stated. “In fact, I quite enjoyed reading your previous pieces, so I don’t know why you think you wasted anyone’s time.”
You shrug at him and avoid eye contact. You just needed to get through this, then you could go to the airport and be with Anakin again after a month of not seeing him. 
“I assume you came here to tell me that you’re dropping out?” Kenneth asks and you look over at him.
“Do you think I should?” You ask.
“That’s not up to me,” he says. “It’s your choice.”
You huff, “Do you think I’m…..good enough?”
Kenneth raises his brows. “Do I think you’re good enough?” He repeated your question and leaned back. “I think you’re a great writer, Miss Y/l/n, and it would be  unfortunate to lose you before I got to really see what you can do. But, it’s your decision, and I can’t make it for you.”
You give him a small smile and nod. “Right. I guess that’s a good answer,” 
He returns the smile before asking, “Are you going somewhere?”
“Yeah, I’m….my boyfriend is performing at a few venues in Paris, so I’m going to meet him there,” you tell him. “I’m sorry, but I’ll be missing a few classes next week.”
Kenneth nods. “It might be best for you to take some time to figure out what you want to do,” he says. “If you decide to stay, there’s always a spot for you in my class, but if you want to go then I can’t stop you. But just know that one bad piece doesn’t make you a bad writer, and you shouldn’t let it have that much control over you.”
Your smile fades a bit at how similar his and Evan’s words are. Maybe they were right. “I’m trying,”
He shrugged, “That’s all you can do,” 
A few seconds pass before you nod. “Well, I should get going. I don’t want to be rushing to the airport,” 
“Before you go,” he called out to you just as you began to turn around. “I want you to know that, whatever you decide to do, I support you.”
That had a genuine smile forming on your lips. “Thank you, Kenneth, and I’m sorry for…everything,”
Then you were off. You headed back to your room to grab your bag, finding Evan leaning against the wall next to your door. Your look of surprise had him raising his brows, “What, you thought I was gonna let you leave without saying goodbye to me first? Especially since I might never see you again after this?”
You laugh and walk into his open arms. “I haven’t decided if I’m dropping the class or not, Ev,” you say and rest your head against his chest. “And I’d say goodbye to you before I left, anyway.” 
“How generous,” he teased and pulled away. His eyes flickered all over your face before he met your gaze. “Have fun, okay? Go spend time with your famous boyfriend, and don’t worry about anything else, alright? You deserve it.”
You smile and nod, “Okay,” you agree. “I’ll see you next week, Evan. Promise.”
He squinted his eyes at you. “You better,” he said back, giving you another smile before leaving. You grab your bag and look around your room one last time before setting down the note you had written to Bailey. She was still at her parents house since there was some family emergency, and you didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to her. 
You leave it on her bed before locking the door and ordering a ride to the airport, the stress of everything finally beginning to lift once you’re seated on the plane. 
-
Anakin could not stop pacing the length of the small hallway on the bus. 
He was shaking, he was so excited to see you. 
He couldn’t think about much else other than your sweet scent, your kind smile, your achingly pretty face, and the way your body fit perfectly against his own. He was craving your touch and the sound of your voice. He couldn’t believe he had gone a month without you.
Vinny was watching him with a tired expression, his arm draped over Clara’s shoulders as she slept next to him on the couch. “Dude,” he grunted after watching him pace a few more times. “What are you doing? Why are you pacing?”
Anakin flexed his fingers as he shrugged, passing by the brunet once again. “I can’t help it,” he answered. “I have to leave in less than half an hour to pick her up and bring her back here. Half an hour, Vin, then she’s here.”
Vinny let out a laugh of disbelief, glancing down at his sleeping girlfriend. “I hope she’s this excited to see me at some point in the future,” he muttered to himself as Anakin tried to calm himself down. 
“I missed her so much, Vin,”
“I know,”
“I can’t wait to see her,”
“I know, Anakin,”
“Please tell me that you and Clara are doing something tonight,” Anakin was powerless to stop the desperation from coming through in his voice.
Vinny smirked up at him, “Is that your way of asking if the bus will be empty tonight?”
“I need to be alone with her,” Anakin groaned. “I need it to be just the two of us, so we can talk. I need to clear a few things up with her.”
Vinny laughed. “I understand, man,” he said. “I’ll take Clara out for dinner or something and we’ll tour the Paris nightlife.”
Anakin gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you,” then he checked his phone and nearly dropped it when he saw Liz’s newest Instagram post. “Fuck.”
It was a close up picture of Anakin on stage a couple nights ago, his hair damp and his skin sweaty as he finished the last song of the set. He remembered feeling the high of that night, and he would’ve been happy to see that Liz had captured a photo of it, but right now all he felt was rage as he read the caption. 
elizaphotography: Thought you’d all enjoy a hot, up close and personal shot of the sexy lead singer of Screaming Whispers ;) 
She added a bunch of stupid hashtags and even tagged him, and Anakin wanted to throw his phone at the nearest wall. Vinny must’ve sensed the sudden change as he sat up a bit and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“She- I can’t fucking believe her,”
Vinny reached forward and grabbed his phone, his gaze hardening once he saw the post. “Wow, this bitch won’t quit,” he muttered, reading the caption over and over again. “She must think she’s invincible or some shit, because- what are you doing?”
Anakin had swiped his phone out of Vinny’s hand and clicked on Liz’s contact as he left the bus, hoping that the air would cool him off at least a little. It rang for a few seconds before the call connected, “Ah, I knew that would get your attention,”
“Back off, Liz,” Anakin rasped, leaning against the side of the bus as he felt his heartbeat quicken. “I mean it.”
“You’ve been avoiding me like the plague, Anakin,” she stated. “You’re acting like a prick. I thought we were friends.”
“You thought wrong,” he said and tried to take back control of his breathing. “Change that caption, or better yet, delete the entire fucking post.”
Liz hummed, “Thought I was allowed to post you? In fact, it’s on the contract that I get your image out there for the world to see,” she laughed. “Well, it says something like that, anyway.”
“I’m not joking, Liz,” he muttered under his breath, and her annoying voice had his body heating up in rage.
“I’m not joking either, Anakin,” she said back. “You led me on. I can claim that. Don’t piss me off, Anakin, or I’ll tell Y/n myself that you cheated on her.”
“I didn’t-”
“But you did,” she cut him off. “I’m living proof.”
“What do you want, Liz? Huh?” Anakin asked in frustration as he tugged on his hair. “Why do you insist on being such a-”
“A what, Anakin? What?” She pressed. “Call me anything other than my name, and I’ll message her right now.”
Anakin bit his tongue, holding back on calling her every bad name he could think of, because it really wouldn’t help much at all. “Keep her out of this,” he said as calmly as he could. He didn’t like her holding you over him like this when she had no fucking clue about anything involving yours and his relationship. She was just the fucking tour photographer, why did she think she had such an important role in his life? 
“Yeah,” she hummed. “Maybe I’ll do that.” 
Then she hung up and Anakin cursed under his breath as he opened the Instagram app. He deleted all the photos she took of him from his account, wanting nothing to do with her at all anymore. Sure, the photos were great and he actually liked them quite a lot, but he refused to be associated with her in any way. 
Before he got off the app, he clicked on Liz’s account and saw that she did actually change the caption, but it still didn’t settle the anger brewing within him. Without a second thought, he blocked her and pocketed his phone after calling a ride that would take him to the airport and to you.
-
They reunite soon :') (but is that a good thing?)
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thegildedbee · 1 year ago
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Sherlock Fic Recs: Christmas Edition {2023}
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❄️ Gather ~ ☃️ ☃️ ☃️ ~ 'round and 🎉 make 🎷merry🍹, all ye fic-loving fandom elves -- 'tis the season to shine a spotlight🕯️on Sherlockian Christmas fics!!! Here are some of my favorites -- I tried to pick ones that I haven't seen mentioned in recent lists that have been in my tumblr stream. Whether they're new to you, or just a reminder to re-visit faves, enjoy!!! ❄️ [In order of the year they were published.] ........................................................... 1. I'm Not His Date [2014] by objetpetita [ 17,029 words / T ] :: It all starts in a Boston coffee shop, where English professor Sherlock Holmes upends a visiting John Watson in a clever and fun "meet cute" (or "meet irritating-pompous-insufferable") in a whirlwind of Sherlockian proportions, and we're off to the races. There is a snowfight on the Common, Death Driving Miss Daisy: Lacan and Popular Culture, a Harry & Clara Christmas Eve wedding, witches, and a very boozy department party. It's as adorable as my favorite Christmas rom-com film, The Holiday. And it starts off with a corker of a first sentence: "It was morning, it was zero bloody degrees, everything around him was unfamiliar and American and cold, and John Watson was right on that inhuman precipice between still drunk and terribly hung over."
2. 5,687 (Approximately) [2015] by prettysailorsoldier [ 6,771 words / T ] :: Just a few years post-uni, Sherlock is enduring the agonies of a long-distance relationship with his boyfriend, who is on deployment in Afghanistan. During those times when John's on leave, the last people Sherlock wants to see are the idiots at the Met, so they've never caught sight of John and think he is a figment of Sherlock's imagination -- especially since he can't get home that Christmas. The set-up is sketched out with delightful fic flair, and the ending is not only sweet, but satisfyingly punitive [ c/o a very bamf John ]. The text messaging is some of my favorite writing in the Sherlock fandom -- their relationship in all of its multi-dimensionality comes through beautifully.
3. The 12 Truths of Christmas [2016] by @breath4soul [ 3,321 words / T ] :: This is a fic that has at its core the surfacing of unspoken emotional attraction betweenJohn and Sherlock via a very fun concept: “In place of some appalling or imbecilic gift inflicted upon me in the name of tradition on Christmas day, I propose that you provide me with one previously unknown fact about you for each day leading up to Christmas. 12 in total, John.” #9 has all the feels, and is a tour de force -- every time I re-read it it makes me break out in a smile, even though I know what's coming. Sherlock breaks out somewhat more: "Sherlock feels a flood of heat in several places at once. He stands up quickly and walks to his violin. He plays wild, erratic snaps of quick-paced music." The author has a whimsical and entirely understandable note to add: "You may fall in love with John reading this - I did." 4. The Romance Was There [2017] by @apliddell [ 4,011 words / G ] :: The author deserves an award for this being one of the best uses of Harry Watson in a fic, and of HW by Sherlock in a fic :-) 221B has never been cozier, Sherlock has never been more winsome, and John is a species type model of John in all of his clueless Johnness. The narrative dances along and sparkles and shines as seduction evolves, and Sherlock's rogueish charm is on full display. There's a poignant and endearing confessional letter, plus there's a Sherlock/Jeremy Brett reference that is absolute perfection in serving its role in helping the narrative quickstep the night away. 5. The Man in Aisle Ten [2020] by @blogstandbygo [ 1395 words / G ] :: Sherlock has several mysteries to unravel in the midst of Harrod's on Christmas Eve: what is the perfect gift for John? why is he having so much trouble identifying the perfect gift for John? and, incidentally, along the way to solving those, a local one. Luckily, Sherlock has Moira, master department store sleuth, to lead him to the solution. This fic is a small, perfect gift -- rather like the story's denouement --and is as witty as all of SBG's fics are. This is a veritable Peppermint Schnapps Hot Chocolate of a fic, warm, rich, sweet, delicious, tingly, and you'll find you reach the last bit much too fast, immediately requiring a refill. [ And there's a splendid podfic by @podfixx ! ]
..........................
*fic repost recruits, perhaps??? ❤️ @totallysilvergirl, @7-percent, @discordantwords, @helloliriels, @elwinglyre, @mydogwatson
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astriiformes · 2 months ago
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hello!! this is kit. happy birthday!!! you don't have to answer all of these but
🎞️if you could change one scene from any of the movies, which one would you change and how?
⏲️what time period would you want marty to travel to and what would you want him to do? for fun or for something serious?
💫if you have any bttf related wips, here's the oppurtunity to ramble about them! (<-PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLSEPLSPEL)
Thank you!!
🎞️ - If you could change one scene from any of the movies, which one would you change and how?
Oof, just one scene is difficult, because the thing I'd like to change most would be how Jennifer's plot was handled in the second movie, and that requires a bit more overhauling. I think you could still make it better with a little tweaking though -- maybe she doesn't get knocked out and is simply told to stay watch the DeLorean, which still ends up being a problem when she tries to lure someone away from it, or something like that.
I guess that still modifies more like two scenes, but you get the idea! Anything to make her feel like she's got a little more agency. Because I like her a lot and it bothers me that the BttF movies aren't even that terrible at writing women (Lorraine and Clara are both really interesting characters!), but sidelined her anyways.
⏲️- What time period would you want Marty to travel to and what would you want him to do? For fun or for something serious?
Already answered this one but since there are plenty of time periods to choose from I will simply pick another. As someone who studies the history of science, I think that Doc and Marty could get up to some peak shenanigans in Enlightenment-era America (thinking late 18th and early 19th century here) when everyone was obsessed with the phenomena of electricity. I want to unleash Doc Brown on the people that thought lightning rods defied the will of God.
💫- If you have any BttF related WIPs, here's the opportunity to ramble about them!
OH BOY DO I
So, four years ago I started a diptych of stories I am yet to finish but that are some of the fics nearest and dearest to my heart, surrounding the idea of Marty being transgender. (I once called them my love-letter to transmasculinity, which is a little dramatic, but genuinely a bit how I feel about them)
The first is from Doc's perspective, and deals with the fact that, when Marty was first born, the version of him who'd been visited by 17 year-old Marty back in 1955 must've had an absolute heart attack at first. It features a very confused Doc and (eventually) a younger Marty figuring some important things out about himself, and is probably about half-written at uh. Almost 9k words.
The second, companion piece is from Marty's perspective, and set post-trilogy, dealing with him navigating questions of identity as someone who is trans and who now grew up in a different timeline. It follows his relationships with the important people in his life, his dueling existential crises, and the isolating feeling that maybe there's no one who understands you in the entire world -- and the relief that comes from learning that you're wrong.
I've done a truly monster amount of research for these fics--including having a librarian friend help me track down digitized historical documents during lockdown back in 2020--and am contemplating diving into the historical queer archive where I currently work for a second round, though we'll see what I can find. Regardless, I really want to finally finish these stories now that I've circled back around to having a lot of Back to the Future feelings again.
(Also to show the BttF fandom that I'm a much better writer when I'm not churning out only-mildly-edited 1-2k fics every day for a writing challenge, rip, although I'm honored people have been enjoying those ones, too! Just, you know. I can do better.)
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graciegoeskrazy · 3 months ago
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so if Matty’s daughter is Matilda…
what about George’s stepdaughter and Ross’s daughter!!!👀👀👀👀👀
also would u be open to writing them at once? im just wondering no pressure obvs.
Ohhhhh I’ve had this answered for like a year lemme cook. I always use these names while writing and rereading tbh. I’ve just always had these in my head but I assumed everyone would hate that they have names???? Which I totally understand btw! Matilda has been the only names character so far but that was only been for like 2 fics. Anywhoooo. One person asked for this so this is my excuse to finally post it. This has Mattys daughter, mattys stepdaughter, George’s stepdaughter, and Ross’s daughter.
I’ve only written once very briefly for mattys daughter with Charlis daughter but I don’t think I would do one with alllllll of them. I don’t think my brain can take that responsibility.
Okay so here u go.
Matilda George Moss-Healy
Okay so as seen in "she's begging you to stay stay" Matilda's mother, Florence, named her after her father. Her intention was to have her nickname be "Matty" as a way of secretly being close to the father she never knew (until now) but everyone, including Florence herself, just ended up calling her "Tilly." "George" is obviously from George who was Florence's childhood best friend. When Matty gained legal custody of Matilda she gained his last name so it was "Moss-Healy" Matty offered to change it back to just "Moss" but she liked the way she had his name while still having a piece of her mother. In public or on Instagram though...she proudly puts her name down as "Matilda Healy."
Clara Leigh Bechtel-Healy
Clara is a name Gabby always had in mind for her children for when she got older. But when she got pregnant unexpectedly, it was the first name to come to mind. Leigh comes from Gabby's middle name, and they both took up the "Healy" name when Matty and her mom get married.
Emma May Aitchison-Daniel
“Emma May” was a combo Charli had loved since the beginning of her pregnancy. Even before she found out she was having a girl. She would call her by both names all the time. Even when she wasn’t in trouble which is what most parents tended to reserve the middle name for. Charli took “Daniel” as her last name when she got married and Emma did the same when George adopted her 2 months later. Emma and Clara have never taken their biological fathers last names.
Maise Eloise Macdonald
Ross was going back and forth on a couple of first name options but once he laid his eyes on her he decided “Maise” was the winner. It was just a name he liked but “Eloise” was actually suggested by Adam. They were all sat in the hospital taking turns holding and saying hi to little maise for the first time and they were also trying to help Ross come up with a middle name. Adam said “Eloise” out on nowhere and the room went silent. Ross knew it was the one.
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scover-va · 1 year ago
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I need to know more about Michael's mom... Is she a cool mom?
SHE IS A VERY COOL MOM janet afton you will always be famous. to me
Im taking this as a chance to finally ramble abt her anyways so Janet's core inspo when designing her was to avoid 2 key things. Don't make her like Immortal & Th Restless's Clara (due to clara representing michael, not mrs afton, so i wanted to avoid that), and don't base her too heavily off of Ballora. I still have ties to Ballora's character (a music-based theme, blue-centric colour palette, im sure there were more basic ideas but everything else is more hc than themes to keep up) due to my hc thingy of each Funtime having ties to William's wife + kids, but yknow.
But yeah. Funky lady who played bass guitar + did backup vocals in a band during her high school and college years. Literally her and William dating can be summed up by "Seriously, what do you see in that guy?!" "He makes me laugh." bc she was and is WAY out of his goddamn league. Not just bc of the whole serial killer thing he was just an even bigger loser in college. Normal people dont develop a crush on a woman after she nearly breaks your nose and makes you bleed, William /j
But yeah uhh. I also dont like the idea of her being absent or neglectful purely because I got way too attached to her (i was originally gonna do that just to make things easy for myself but. Pretty lady,,, I am a very simple lesbian what can i say) so like. She obviously wasnt the greatest, most fantastic mom to ever exist given she was kinda maybe sorta well aware William was making some weird fucking clowns, but like. Hey. She tried. Also side note my reasoning for her being absent during the whole. Yknow. '83 event (and just evan's bday in general) is bc Evan + Elizabeth are twins and Elizabeth demanded a girls-only trip for her bday, and Janet promised Evan she'd do something just as special for him when she got back. That never happened bc he died lmao loser /j
But yeah uhh. Shes got a lot of regrets. Wishes she coulda done a lot of things better. Kinda dies with those regrets. Ive seen people say that one of fnaf's charms is that no character is 100% good and i LOVE that, and wanted to keep it up with Janet. Good mom and overall a good person, however made some bad decisions along the way and whatnot.
Im still working out specifics (ive been slowly working on a lil private fic abt her and william meeting + their early relationship) but uhhh. Minor notes that dont get their own paragraphs is that William sampled her voice for Ballora so yay easy voice claim, she had an on and off relationship with her band's lead singer (her name's Bev), her birth name is actually Janice Schmidt but if you call her Janice she'll knock at least 2 of ur teeth out, she's a runaway teen and got adopted by this older couple bc her home life kinda sucked (idk specifics yet), and also girlie has an extensive criminal record of minor angsty teen type charges. Also teen Mike dying his hair and then 2020's Michael's hairstyle are both kinda references to Janet's hair because he wnated to look less like his father. Thats all ty. No read more bc you WILL look at my mrs afton post, boy /j
Actually no theres more that im remembering as i write the tags and edit a few details. Back to her and William because god im insane about them. So for starters it. Well i was gonna say Janet was def the first to flirt but i think William definitely developed a crush first and they only kept talking bc of said crush so its kinda up for debate. Anyways yeah at first it was a HUGE sorta like "Well he's funny especially when I fluster him so this can be just a fun lil thing" but because they chatted more they def kinda like. Clicked more. William was a huge fan of listening to her music (from. a distance. he looked kinda like a creep but at least janet only misinterpreted it once) but like *specifically* janet he didnt give a fucking shit abt the rest of the band. Uhh. They had their first run-in and janet kinda. Well. Punched him in the nose before he cleared up that he is NOT a pervert or anything weird like that (bc a guy that looks older than he is staring from a distance when there is a clear crowd he could join kinda gave janet the Wrong idea), then they later bumped into each other in the hall and chatted for a bit, then they kinda just kept "accidentally" running into one another. Uhhh. Some cigaerette-themed flirting and a house party later, yay dating :] can you tell where the current cut-off of the fic is /j Also idk how to put this down properly but they are both runaways and can kinda. Get that vibe from one another. Literally Michael is like some fucked up abomination of the both of them between the troubled past + weird situationship thing + runaway stuff + a lot of minor details that arent important rn. I just. Yeah Janet means the world to me go thru her tag on my blog for some art. Not all of my janet art is posted but the non-posted stuff is all concept work/doodles or just. Shit im too embarrassed to post lmao. Anyways NOW im done ty for reading
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aletterinthenameofsanity · 10 months ago
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(from my main but this is variousqueerthings): am really enjoying reading your analyses of amy -- I definitely felt more resonance with her on this last Big watch I did, when I could disconnect the way she would at times be underserved by the writing, from what was actually going on in her story, and it's fun going from there to reading deeper analysis that picks on those threads even further
I don't know if this refers to only my straight analyses I've posted on this blog, the rambling rants I've done in the tags of other people's posts, or my fics (someone once called a fic of mine an "eloquent rant" and sometimes I feel like that's a great way to describe the more "character-study"-esque of my fics), but either way thanks! I actually had my own reevaluation of Amy Pond as a character when I got back into Doctor Who this year thanks to various other blogs/others analyses (shout out to @saint-eleventh, @thefiresofpompeii, @spoofymcgee, @ameliapondmd, and plenty of others, including you, @variousqueerthings, with your rewatch series). The first time around, when I watching Doctor Who as a freshman in high school, I couldn't pick apart the Moffatisms from the foundation of a very compelling character full of fascinating contradictions and unabiding faith and a desperate loneliness that connects so well with Eleven's. (I also, full admission, hadn't gotten the shift between how companions were written in Davies' era v. Moffat's, with the companion's arc being as integral to the story during 9 and 10 v. during 11's- though I am also now realizing the mistakes that Davies made, especially with his handling of Martha and other black characters.) Now, though, I can ride with the fairytale vibes of Season Five, which has steadily risen through my season rankings, and can also appreciate the push-and-pull of Amy Pond.
I hate love triangles but looking at Rory and the Doctor now as embodying the themes of domesticity/growing up/stagnation v. travelling/danger/curiosity and the way that the narrative constantly tries to shove Amy into the former (literally making her a wife, a womb, a mother, a vessel, stripping away her agency at every turn) makes it all the clearer how Amy, whenever given the chance, turns to the TARDIS. She doesn't want Rory to die in Amy's Choice but chooses him by choosing the TARDIS and life with the Doctor. Her biggest act of agency in the show is demanding the Doctor show up at her wedding, literally yanking him into existence and demanding that he prove to the world that her faith in him was never mad, was always the most sane thing in the world. Even at the end of the God Complex, when she should hate him more than anything, she still believes in him (and frankly, he believes in her. Eleven and Amy are each other's gods as much as they are each other's best friends).
I think that Eleven and Amy are made for each other in the same way that Nine/Rose, Ten/Martha, and Twelve/Clara are made for each other, to believe in each other, to change each other, to make each other's stories full. I love Donna&Ten, Clara&Eleven, and Bill&Twelve as much as anyone else does (I seriously adore all of these dynamics), but you can't tell the Doctors' stories and arcs without the first set of pairings I mentioned. And realizing that about Amy and Eleven and the effect they had on each other (the fact that after eight hundred years without her, she is still the last face he sees before he regenerates, the fact that she can literally remember him from nonexistence) really made me realize the potential and impact of her run as a companion/their dynamic this go 'round. I think that's the great thing about a show that runs for this long and with so many doctor&companion pairings- you are constantly going to bump up against these relationships that transcend friendship and romance and go into world-shattering, character-arc-altering, often-verging-on-codependent dynamics that impact both sides for the rest of their lives.
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bubblywhores · 8 months ago
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Honkai star rail fic! Clara and Svarogs father daughter relationship and how they first met! :D
be nice i kinda didn’t know what to write towards the end but i still really tried pls enjoy
The air in the Belobog’s underworld had always kept the same smell; musk and sweat, miners often jabbed that the smell had altered over time into their blood and tears as well. This particular night in Belobog’s underworld the smell had worsened between the cold damp air and the musk. It felt like it was consuming everyone, the cold sweat rushing down their foreheads, the little warmth, nothing could be felt as overworked vagrants and miners sat. no one fought, no one argued, just sat and for the most part they had sat in silence trying not to let the cold consume them. Some people blamed these conditions on Svarog and as
Wildfire had been attempting to make negotiations for months trying to make Svarog listen and reason with them but nothing was working. it seemed as if everyone was at their breaking points.
With all of that being said, all that could be heard from a distance was sniffling. That wasn’t unusual. Kids always cried from various things such as getting hurt or just simply missing a parent. Svarog calculated all problems and tried to find the most logical solution. That is what he always did. in this case it would’ve been to find who was making that noise.
Svarog’s metal clanked as he walked people who once held conversations quickly quieted down only watching as he walked. Some people rushed away as subtlety as possible but Svarog knew.
Taking his last few steps before reaching the girl she looked up he figured she would’ve ran away but she smiled.
Svarog didn’t calculate that.
The young girl's white hair laid atop her head messily and her eyes shined brightly.
“i’m clara!” she declared excitedly. Svarog knelt on one knee. “Where are your parents Clara?” he asked. The girl for just a moment frowned while she looked for the words Svarog understood everything. “It is okay.” he spoke his voice sounded softer? At least to Clara maybe to the others he still sounded terrifying.
Svarog watched Clara the young girl, already in his head he found out who her parents were and how they were MIA he looked into her further at this point in time and she would be about 8 years old. The girls sniffles brought him back to the matter at hand. “You are sick. your temperature has reached 101 degrees with no medical attention your condition will worsen.”
Clara looked down as he spoke like a child would look down as their parents ‘scolded’ them. “i’m sorry,” she muttered. Another thing that wasn’t in Svarog's calculations. “Why are you apologizing? there is no need.” Clara looked up at him with teary eyes. Svarog wasn’t having this. He lifted Clara up walking somewhere, to someone. “I am Svarog.” was all he had said. Clara’s mood changed significantly and she seemed more at ease as Svarog carried her away.
Reaching Boulder town everyone seemed to have tensed and whispers started floating around.
“What is he doing here…”
“Who is that girl?”
“…what is he gonna do?”
“ Will he listen to wildfire now??”
Clara looked at Svarog. he was a robot so he didn’t care for other’s opinions but Clara couldn’t help but feel bad.
“It's okay Mr. Svarog,” she leaned in to whisper. The young girl’s temperature rose again but by then he had gotten where he needed to be. Outside of the clinic waited Natasha and Oleg. the two commanding officers for wildfire aka the people who wanted to return to the overworld.
“This is Clara, she seeks medical attention and she needs treatment.”
Natasha stood maybe in disbelief that Svarog brought young Clara to them.
Natasha was a good doctor Svarog trusted her to take care of Clara but…
“you will still be here when i am
all better right mr svarog?”
Svarog thought for a moment before answering, this girl Svarog wanted to protect her from the harsh realities. looking down he finally answered.
“i will be here when you are all better now
let the doctor help you clara.” the young girl smiled, taking Natasha's hand.
as they walked into her office he heard them speaking.
“Hello clara i am natasha”
“Hello miss Natasha,” the girl said. Her voice sounded very calm.
Some days Svarog would replay that memory in his head. The day he met what humans would call a child. his child. Clara was like his daughter. He taught her how to live and how to do tasks. He saw her joy for robots and how she always wanted to help everyone.
his treasured gift.
“replay memory 2235678.” Svarog spoke as Clara slept in the next room over. a father’s love for his daughter ! robot or not.
i kinda got lazy at the end but still please enjoy!!
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kaidynsarell · 5 months ago
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Chapter 7- Of Sepia and Crumpled Parchment
🖤🦉🖤🦉🖤🦉🖤🦉🖤🦉🖤🦉🖤🦉🖤
Pairings-Sebastian Sallow x Female OC
Rating-This story is rated overall 🔞(Ch 7 is SFW)
Tags-Grief and Angst.
The full chapter can be found below the cut (3k words)
Ongoing Fic
Chapters 1-10 can be found on WP and AO3
Monday, 12 September, 1892
Morning came with an abruptness that ricocheted against her bones and left her aching and delirious with sleep or, rather, the lack thereof.  Clara drug herself, unceremoniously, from under the nest of blankets she'd all but lived in since Saturday and tried with what experience told her would be little success to restrain the mess of long white blonde waves that insisted on an air of unruliness on a good day and otherwise left her with a snarled, untamable mess.
Today was not one of the good days.
With her brusque departure from the Sallow home two days prior, Clara had stalked down to the dungeons and, exhausted, had flung her body into the sea of green blankets.  She'd buried herself so deep she was swallowed in darkness and lost to the unfathomable depths-drowned in that tenuous space between sleep and waking where thoughts melt with dreams and become indistinguishable.
She'd stayed like that, curled below her bedding and only woken fully to the quick patter of Grace's annoyingly perky footsteps and the tap of porcelain on wood before the footsteps retreated, and  Clara was once again left alone.
She had known what she would find when she pulled back the curtains, and still, she ground her teeth at the sight of that damned delicate tea cup with its soft pink flowers.  Peonies, like the ones she had shared with her grandmother,  though these were a machine-printed stencil, not intricately hand-painted as Beatrice's had been.  The severe lack of brushstrokes and the monotonously uniformed edges offered enough evidence.  Too sharp and repetitive to be natural.  A mockery.  And anger had taken the cup and hurled it against the stone wall, the tea spilling in an arc of sepia to soak into the collection of emerald patterned rugs that tried, and frequently failed to protect their feet from the chilling cold of the dungeon stone floors.
The teacup hadn't shattered on impact.  Clara should have expected the unbreakable charm.  Instead, it merely clattered against the stone and fell with a dull thump to the rug below, which had only angered her further.  The satisfaction of seeing it shattered, ripped away.  But anger was bitter and resentful, and it wove up through her chest and coiled around the fingers clenched white against her pillow.  The same one that had heard her screams since the end of Fifth year, and she'd pressed it over her face and slumped back to the mattress with a furious groan.
She'd not heard another word from Sebastian or Anne all weekend, and Ominis she'd only glimpsed in passing before she'd scurried back up to her dorm, resigned to becoming a hermit who snapped at passers-by from behind her bedhangings.
Even as she'd sanctioned herself away, she'd kept the proteon charmed parchment with her, her fingers too often brushing along the rough edges or tapping across the surface.
But the parchment never rippled under her fingers. No new messy scrawl. No new flecks of onyx freckled over the beige with the furious intensity at which Sebastian wrote.
She cursed the part of herself that had expected him to write.
And she cursed the part of herself that had wanted him to more.
><><><><><
Clara did not climb her way to the Great Hall and Breakfast for the first time since the start of term because she was almost certain Sebastian would be there.  Nor did she look for him among the bustling throng of students-not that he was difficult to spot with the small crowd gathered around the far end of the Slytherin table.
The twin's unexpected return had not gone unnoticed.
She'd been close with most of the group at one point, but she'd not spoken to any of them in several months.  Not even to Natsai or Poppy, whose shared adventures in Fifth year had brought her closer to them than most.  But what she had once thought of as unshakable friendship had slowly faded to that of acquaintance and then only ever to concerned glances across classrooms and smiles that lingered between worry and cautious optimism as they passed each other in the halls.  The same smiles that waited for her acceptance and those she could still only half-heartedly return.
The distance wasn't their fault.  Clara knew they'd reached out-both of them, even Natty, who had dutifully ignored her mother's strict instructions to limit her interactions with Clara after the incident with Harlow.
She still had the unanswered letters saved-the ones she had read and cherished and simultaneously been unable to summon the energy to write back.
The longer time went on; the more guilt had dug its sharp corners under the flimsy attempts she'd made at her own forgiveness.  Ripped it open and clawed at the sweet sincerity of the pages.  Now, she kept the letters tucked away, unable to look at them or their senders without the weight of it pressing between every breath.
But there they stood within the group of students crowded around the twins. 
The twins.
How strange it was to think it.
Stranger still to see them seated together.
It hadn't been so long ago that Anne had questioned if she would ever want to see her brother again. And not for the first time in the days since dissapperating away from the Sallow home, Clara wondered exactly how softened Anne had actually become to her brother's crimes.
Seeing them now, seated side by side, one could almost think they'd never fallen apart.   That the string that had bound their souls from birth had never unraveled.  Never frayed so far as to see Sebastian begging her to let him in and  Anne refusing to say his name. 
So mirrored were their mannerisms and their laughter so synchronous.  Even their smiles quirked up on different sides as though pieces of a whole.  Only the subtle pauses in Sebastian's exuberant charisma and the careful way he still watched his sister as though if his gaze didn't hold her delicately enough, she might vanish before his eyes offered any hint of the year they'd spent distanced from each other.  
Clara shifted her boots against the worn flagstone, determined to find a seat at the opposite end of the table.  As if on cue, Sebastian looked up and over the crowd.  It was almost criminal how quickly he spotted her from across the Great Hall.   Before she could fully shuffle away and pretend she'd not noticed him, Anne, too, had seen her and began waving her over, and Clara couldn't bring herself to deny the other woman.
She pushed herself through the small crowd and sat across from Ominis.
It was the furthest seat from Sebastian, and Clara could still see the little disruption at the corner of his mouth where he'd pulled his bottom lip in and worried it between his teeth.  He was still looking at her-his eyes just as dark and unyielding as they had been days prior as he regarded her from three seats down.  Too long, and she became acutely aware of how disheveled he must think she was.  The quick glance she'd thrown to the bathroom mirror that morning had seen her undereyes still bruised and bagged with stress and her perpetually messy hair only partially tied in a loose knot at the back of her skull,  the hairs that had refused to be restrained falling in haphazard curls around her face. 
He opened his mouth as though to say something.  The unspoken tipped to the edge of his lips and lingered at the precipice between thought and speech.  
Clara looked away before the words could come to fruition and decided the rough swirls of woodgrain on the surface of the table were particularly interesting.
She didn't want to talk to him.
Only the peripheral glimpse of a black and crimson blur barreling into Sebastian spared her need to continue blatantly avoiding the interaction.  At the same time, the muttered " Ooof, Hi!"  from the end of the table snapped her attention unwittingly back to him.
A small boy with a mess of dark curls had launched himself at the older Slytherin.  His arms wound so tightly around his neck that Sebastian almost appeared in danger of death by constriction before the small Gryffindor pulled back and beamed up at him.
" You're really back!  I thought they were all trying to trick me, but it's really you.  Can I tell everyone you'll be back at Crossed Wands?  The next match is in just a few days.  Everyone'll be thrilled!"
Lucan bounced so eagerly on the balls of his feet Clara wondered briefly if muggle photographs of him would appear only as muted blur of vertical lines.
Sebastian's attempt at a smile fell flat.  Small.  Apologetic.  More a poorly altered grimace than anything else. " Ah... look, I'm really sorry, but I can't do it this year.....  You know, N.E.W.T's and all."
" What? " The younger boy's face fell.  All bouncing halted.  The balloon in his chest deflated, and the entirety of his small, thirteen-year-old body sagged.  "But-but you weren't here last year, and everyone was so excited when they saw you'd come back.  It hasn't been the same."
" I wish I could, Lucan.  I really do... but I can't..... I've already missed a whole year, and there's-"
Sebastian's stumbled rush of words died midsentence.  Faltered off the edge of his tongue and fell uselessly to the flagstones below as the Gryffindor's face twisted.  Still too innocent or, perhaps, brave enough not to have learned how to hide the hurt that contorted his features.
Anne swiveled her head to the side and shot an incredulous look at her brother, who seemed barely to notice, his attention still focused on the younger boy.
Anne wasn't the only one, and for several long seconds, the steady hum and murmur of the small crowd gathered around the twins fell eerily quiet.  Contented murmurs melted to furtive whispers until the flurry of screeches and the flap of wings overhead announced the arrival of the morning post, and the steady cacophony of noise saw the little crowd disbanded.
Lucan shuffled away without a backward glance.  Sebastian didn't look over at her again.  Just down at his half-eaten oatmeal, he pushed it around with his spoon, and her stubborn ignored the little sinking feeling in her stomach.
Clara didn't wait for an owl to land in front of her.  The morning post had long since become primarily uneventful for her.  Once upon a time, she might have received small packages of homemade pastries tied with thrifted ribbons from her grandmother or the occasional box of peppermint toads from Professor Fig, who'd been the one to introduce her to the candies and knew her affinity for them.  But she'd failed to save either of them in the end, and anyone else who might have written to her had given up when she'd failed to return their last several letters.
Instead, she added a generous helping of sliced strawberries to her bowl of oatmeal in an attempt to make the bland beige mush edible.  It proved futile.   Maybe she would just pick the strawberries out and nibble those instead. She was never particularly hungry in the mornings anyway.
Two seats down, another student had spread open a copy of the Daily Prophet deposited by a flustered-looking tawny owl.  She could just make out a few glimpses of a small article tucked at the corner of the page closest to her.
Unidentified sources claim a recent attack near Mauranweem to be the work of the Dark wizards formerly associated ...
.....  Authorities have declined to comment further on the matter and...
Following the mysterious death of their confirmed leader, Victor Rookwood...
Clara forced herself to look away.  Back at the pattern of woodgrain, the hardened knot at the center, the swirled contrast of dark and light.  Fingernails dug crescents to scarlet against her palms.  She couldn't think about that right now.
She didn't need to look up to feel  Sebastian watching her again, and for once, she found herself grateful for the alarming screech of the overly large and equally stuffy black eagle owl that had settled in front of Ominis.  With all its distinguished haughtiness, the bird may as well have announced itself as royalty.  Clara could've sworn the pompous thing puffed out its chest as it extended a single leg and dropped a crisp envelope into the blond's lap.
Beneath the bright morning sunlight of the enchanted ceiling, the embossed Gaunt crest was impossible to miss.
The letter was opened, and the thin, slanted writing was converted to braille with a practiced flick of his wand before Clara could try to make out a single sentence from across the table.  Ominis's fingers hadn't even made it past the third line of raised dots when he crumpled the parchment into an uncharacteristically messy ball.  It was stuffed into his satchel so quickly that Clara almost missed the near-white-knuckled grip he'd held over the document.
Anne tipped her head to him and muttered something.  What?  Clara couldn't distinguish between the quietude of her voice and the discordant clamor of conversation that ricocheted between the stone walls.  An ever-present testament to the incredible acoustics of the space.  Had she been a director of music, she might have been thrilled, but as it was thwarting her attempts at eavesdropping,  she only found it irksome.
If Ominis had anything more to say, he didn't voice it.   Just tipped his nose toward Anne and shook his head.  The movement was almost minuscule.  Just the slightest twitch of his head, and Clara wasn't certain which of their mouths had pressed into a thinner line.
          ><><><><><
Clara was still picking the strawberries out of the lump of beige mush in her bowl when Professor Sharp approached them from the staff table.
With his shoulder-length black hair, lined face, and perpetual scowl, he held the air of a man who'd seen far too much at too young an age.  Even the severity of his limp and rumors of how he'd received it only served to add to the gruff persona of the battered war hero.  Aside from his lectures, Clara had never known him to be a man of many words, and he handed each of the twins a square of parchment with little more than a nod before turning away.
Class schedules, given the way Anne glanced over it and slid it into her bag. 
But where Anne had already tucked her schedule away, Sebastian was staring so intently at the document clenched in his fingers Clara wouldn't have been surprised if it burst into flames.  Brows crushed together, and his eyes darted in a harried pattern from top to bottom.  Lingering and scrunching at the same spot each time as though struggling to grasp the meaning of a word, and if he were only to read the entire document enough times he might glean some further understanding.  The pattern repeated with an almost frenzied fervor until his gaze finally snapped up to the already retreating limp of the older man.
" Professor, there's been a mistake with my schedule."
The man only turned halfway, more a glance over his shoulder.  " I assure you, there's been no mistake."
" I don't...I can't-" Sebastian didn't resist when Anne tugged the list from his fingers and flattened it over the table to read.  "- I've not completed  an O. W. L. Surely that means-"
"An exception has been made in this case."
"But-"
"There will be no changes made to that schedule-"  The potions master turned fully.   "- and I expect an Outstanding on that particular N.E.W.T.  You and I both know you can achieve that. "
"But, Sir!  I-"
"The decision is final, Mr. Sallow."
Sebastian held the man's gaze.  His stubborn defiance etched through the fare of his nostrils and the subtle clench of his jaw.  Clara watched the exchange.  A series of micro-expressions she had no hope of fully comprehending.  The twitch of the professor's mouth, the slight furrow of his brow, the infinitesimal tilt of Sebastian's head.    Finally, Professor Sharp raised his eyebrows, and whatever silent argument had passed between them, it seemed Sebastian had lost because his shoulders slumped, and he turned his head back to the table to glare at the offending document, still flattened over the worn wood.
She couldn't see the parchment properly with the way his arms were positioned, and curiosity begged the question.  Coiled it to the tip of her tongue and pressed its feet to the starting blocks until the stubborn that had made its home in avoiding Sebastian latched firm hands around curiosity's eager form, and the question crumpled against her teeth.
The hand he drug down his face pulled at his features.  " I don't believe this....I'm not going.   I don't care-"
Anne's fingers settled against his forearm. " It's in a different classroom now, Sebbie.  You won't have to go in there."
"I know that."  The words were flattened and strained.  So quiet  Clara barely heard him above the din of chatter surrounding them.
Anne didn't say anything else, just squeezed his arm and leaned back against Ominis. 
Clara didn't immediately look away when he glanced at her again. The enchanted sunlight had ignited threads of auburn in his curls and the flickers of honeyed gold across his eyes.
For a second, it seemed he might say something to her.  Part of her almost hoped he would. 
And just for a moment, she could almost imagine him as that same freckled boy she'd known before.  The one who had captured petals between his fingers and pressed their pigment to her soul.  The boy who had wished on fallen eyelashes and shooting stars.
The shift was subtle.  Just a tilt of his head and the flickers of gold vanished as quickly as they'd come. 
Or maybe they'd never been there.  Just a reflection of the candlelight.
Only an imitation of what she'd once known. 
A mockery. 
And anger's hot coils ignited around the place she kept her stubborn and pulled her gaze back to the pattern of the wood grain.
There was only a sharp exhale and the unmistakable sound of crumpling parchment before a half-muttered "I'll see you in Charms."
Clara looked up only in time to watch Sebastian's retreating form as he strode from the great hall without a backward glance.
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ssparksflyy · 11 months ago
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Hiii! Would it be ok if I requested some Jason Grace x reader hcs? Maybe like Jason was having a terrible day (like to the point of tears) and reader comforting him? Thank you in advance if you decide to write this!
(Ps: I love how you write Jason sm agejzejetjfj)
ask and thou shall receive ༉‧₊˚.
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i'll catch you, i'll catch you‧₊˚✩彡
pairing: jason grace x gn!reader warning(s): sad jason :( word count: 1.2k a/n: hi! tysm for requesting <33 sorry it took me a minute to get this out, whenever i had motivation to write, i couldnt, but then when i could, i didnt have motivation?? idk. also ik u said hcs but i wanted to turn this into a regular fic so i hope u dont mind, enjoy!
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if there was one thing jason had perfected over the years, it was hiding his emotions.
from a young age, jason was shoved into a role of leadership. he knew that if he wanted to be trusted and taken seriously as a leader, he couldn't show any sign of vulnerability.
he knew that he gave others hope, that they looked up to him. in times of despair, he was their saving grace. jason was always the shoulder somebody could cry on if they needed to.
so it happened naturally. he was always too busy to care for his feelings. and it wasn't like anybody truly cared or noticed if his smile wasn't as bright anyway.
while out and about with others, jason was always happiest guy you'd ever meet. while alone, he was a wreck. he could only push down his emotions so far for so long.
often times jason was haunted by grief. haunted by those he couldn't save in battle. people always thought they never got to him, but really, they ate him alive. he always asked himself what he did to deserve to live while others didn't.
other times he was just so tired. some days were better than others, but those days that didn't go as planned left jason feeling exhausted.
today was one of those days. everything about today just wasn't going to well for jason, and now, in the dead of night, he was able to go back and replay his day.
as jason lay sprawled out on his bed, he felt tears brimming in his eyes. he took his glasses off and placed them on his bedside table. he just wanted to curl up into a little ball and disappear.
once the tears started, they didn't want to stop. his tears fell like the raindrops racing down his window. lightning struck as a sob escaped his lips.
jason lay in a fetal position, facing his wall. he felt his eyes begin to droop, tired from a long day and crying, but quickly sprang open when he heard quick knocks on his window.
he quickly snapped up to check who it was, jumping out of his bed. he quickly sniffled and wiped his face as he walked over to the other side of his cabin, over to the window.
you stood outside his window with an umbrella, a smile on your face.
jason returned a smile before opening his window. he hadn't expected to see you tonight, but he was glad you were here.
you quickly climbed in through the window and landed with a small thump. you quickly closed your umbrella and leaned it against the wall.
"hey" you said, breathlessly. that window had no right to be so hard to climb through.
"hey, didn't think you'd be stopping by tonight" jason replied, with a small smile.
"i know, i wasn't gonna, sorry. but i couldn't sleep and i just got an update on the whole clara situation," you said quickly, as your smile disappeared and was replaced with a confused look on your face, "are you ok? your eyes and nose are looking a little red."
you stepped a little closer to jason and cupped his cheek with your hand. he was unable to meet your eyes as he slowly placed his hands on your hips.
"yea, no im fine!" jason said, an obviously fake laugh escaping his lips, "i was, um.. doing weed."
"seriosly? 'doing weed?'" jason thought, cringing at his words.
you too cringed at his response. "jason.. hun, you don't 'do weed', you smoke it. and it leaves a smell. the cabin smells normal. seriously, what going on? you know you can tell me anything."
jason let out a small sigh and continued to look down, refusing to meet your eyes. he wanted to tell you how he was feeling, he knew he could trust you. he loved you and you had always been there for him during difficult times, so why was it so hard for him to talk to you about his feelings?
he felt a sob building in his throat. he bit his lower lip in attempt to keep it in, but couldn't help it. when the sob escaped from his lips, so did the tears from his eyes. his grip tightened on your waist as he pulled you in closer.
you stood there, stunned for a second, but quickly recuperated. you hugged jason back tightly. he placed his head in the crook of your neck, and every time he let a sob out, your heart began to ache even more. you had no idea he felt anything like this. to you, jason was always shining like a diamond. you should've known diamonds were made from pressure.
you stood there holding jason until his sobs stopped. he took a step back as he lifted his head up from your neck and sniffled as he said, "'m sorry-"
you stopped him with a shake of your head, "no, there's nothing for you to be sorry about, im sorry i didn't know how you were feeling."
tears were still streaming down his face, and his eyes were red and puffy. you took his hand and led him over to his bed. you sat down crisscrossed on his bed, and he sat across from you, your knees touching each other.
you held his hand up to your lips and placed a small kiss on his knuckles. jason remained silent, allowing you to lead his every move.
"do you want to talk about it?" you asked softly.
jason nodded his head slowly and let out a shaky breath before saying, "i guess, i-" he paused for a second before continuing, "i just get kind of tired of being the person everyone looks up to. and i know, that may sound bad, but sometimes i just want a break, you know? and i feel like i can't get that because everybody is looking up to me."
you nodded your head, showing him you were listening.
"overtime it just builds up, i guess. most times im fine, but i dont know, sometimes, like now, it just hits me. straight punch to the face." he said, making his spare hand into a fist and making a small and soft punch motion, "a-and i just get so overwhelmed."
a few more tears slipped from his eyes as he squeezed your hand. his eyes unable to meet yours once again.
you squeezed his hand back and raised your spare hand to his face to cup it. you leaned forward and kissed away the tears that fell from his eyes. soon, they stopped falling.
you sat back down. "thank you for telling me, lightning." you whispered, "im sorry you have to go through that, i wish i had known. next time you feel overwhelmed, you know you can tell me."
you found your other hand softly playing with his hair. you knew it calmed him down, based on the way his shoulders relaxed and he leaned into your touch, you knew it was working.
"let me know anytime you want to talk about something, okay? i love you, jason" you said, softly.
jason leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on your lips, "thank you, (name), i love you too" he whispered.
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a/n pt2: hello again! tysm for reading, i hope u enjoyed !! just wanted to say that requests are closed rn but will be open again once i catch up! have a good day / night ! go watch the shrek musical rn
peace from manhattan
percy jackson
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professorsaber · 1 year ago
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20 Questions for Fic Writers
No one tagged me for this, but I saw it posted by @walker-lister and wanted to jump on board.
1. How many works do you have on AO3?
20
2. What's your total AO3 word count?
94,345
3. What fandoms do you write for?
Doctor Who (so far only the Twelfth Doctor [but caveat under question 14]) and Back to the Future.
4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?
Portraits of a Romance (Doctor Who)
Loose Ends and Loose Memories (Back to the Future)
The Post-Game Wrap Up (Back to the Future)
r/ThePinheads: Guys, Marty McFLy really *is* a time traveller!!! (Back to the Future)
Their Song Is Almost Over (Doctor Who)
5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?
I always try! I love getting them, so it seems polite if nothing else. But on occasion I don’t have the time and then the notification gets buried in other emails and I forget to.
6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?
“Their Song Is Almost Over” ends with both Clara and the Doctor dying after 20,000+ years together, which is probably the closest I’ve come. I suffer from major depression and so nothing I write has a negative/angsty ending.
7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?
Honestly I feel like I could say “Their Song Is Almost Over”! Clara and the Doctor have 20,000+ years together and an afterlife together, to boot. In the same continuity is also “That She May Find Her True Love First,” in which Clara reunites with the (original, non-canon, female) Fifteenth Doctor a few centuries after breaking up with her predecessor.
8. Do you get hate on fics?
Once, on a fic I posted on FF.net and not AO3, someone just wrote “FAIL.”
9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?
I’ve only written smut once—"I Need You, Now More Than Ever". To quote the summary, “Escaping a planet after a ‘date’ where everything went horribly wrong, the Doctor and Clara find comfort in each other.” So hurt/comfort with sex. There was a four-year gap between me writing it and posting it.
I might do something smutty for Marty/Jennifer one day, but I wouldn’t bet on it.
10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?
Not anymore. The stuff I did as a kid was sorta a massive crossover between just about everything I was interested in, but I wrote little that could be called “fics.” Most of it was me and my friends doing what you call LARPing when you’re an adult. The universes involved a shitton of original characters on top of at least Pokemon, Sonic the Hedgehog, Star Trek, Animorphs, Men in Black, and Honey I Shrunk the Kids: The Series (when I could sneak it in).
11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?
Not that I know of.
12. Have you ever had a fic translated?
Not that I know of.
13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?
Not really, though I’ve taken part in a Discord server game that involves writing a fic one line at a time. (Results here.)
14. What's your all-time favourite ship?
The only ship I’ve ever actively shipped shipped is Whouffaldi, AKA Twelfth Doctor/Clara Oswald. All my DW fics involve them, though bits involve either Thirteen with Clara or later, original Doctors with Clara.
I have a soft spot for Marty/Jennifer in BTTF as well. That’s mainly the reason I’ve never been able to get through the “Marty gets permanently stranded in time” fics out there.
15. What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?
Oh dear god. First, none of them are posted—I strongly believe in posting only finished works. But in all probability I’d say I’m never gonna finish the Mire AU, a Whouffaldi AU that I wrote about 22,500 words for. It was supposed to be a preemptive fix-it for “Face the Raven,” but I later decided that I wanted my Whouffaldi fics to have Clara become a Time Lady instead of using the Mire kit.
Two BTTF ones—Meet the Family and Psychology 135—have been on the drafting board about ten years but are much, much more likely to be finished.
16. What are your writing strengths?
Shit, this is hard! I’ve been told though that I’m good at characterization, and also that I weave in just enough background detail to make it all seem real. So I’m going with that.
17. What are your writing weaknesses?
I spend far too much time on pointless background detail that I can’t fit into the story, I have difficulty finishing anything (especially of great length), and I think my descriptions can be too bland.
18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?
In one of my BTTF fics just a few days ago, I decided that something Doc said was actually from his German grandfather, so I went to our Discord server and asked two German users for a translation. If there weren’t German speakers on our server, I might have used Google Translate and then double-checked with Wiktionary, but in all probability I’d have not done it at all.
BTW, it’s “Ein gesundes Maß an Neugierde ist immer etwas Gutes.”
19. First fandom you wrote for?
This is a complicated question, as you could say I wrote “fanfics” before I was aware of fanfiction or fandom as concepts (see question 10). In high school, c. 2005, I finished a Transformers: Beast Wars fic but never posted it, but I still think that’s the first.
20. Favourite fic you've ever written?
I might also have to say “Their Song Is Almost Over”! To quote another one of these asks I did, “ wrote it in a single sitting, it’s epic in scope, [and] it gives a ship that got an at-best bittersweet ending in canon a gloriously happy ending.”
For BTTF, I’m not sure really. Perhaps “Moving Day”? Because I accomplished so much in such a brief space (compared to my previous BTTF fics), and I loved focusing on Jennifer.
Tagging @bg-sparrow, @daryfromthefuture, @synthsays, @mythical-bookworm, and anyone else who wants to do it!
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claramarla · 8 years ago
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Connections
Pairing: Victor Nikiforov/Yuri Katsuki Word Count: 4200+ Rating: M Summary: Yuri's days are connected by the music that plays throughout them.
Excerpt:
Yuri’s itching to thread his hand through Victor’s fingers again. He settles for stuffing his hands between his knees and biting the inside of his cheek.
Later, he thinks. But that reprimand doesn’t do anything to douse the high giddiness he’s been swallowing down since he got off the plane and tracked down Victor outside of customs.
Oh, he thinks, with something like wonder etching onto his heart, I’m excited.
Here on tumblr, and on Ao3 
There isn’t snow the first day Yuri arrives in Russia. Instead, a fog hangs low on the ground, smudging out views of the water under the bridges they pass in Victor’s car.
It snowed when Victor came to Japan. It would be fitting if it snowed again now, considering the month.
Maybe they left all the snow back in Hasetsu, and only brought warmth with them. But that’s the type of thought that makes his stomach squirm with embarrassment and redirect his gaze out the window.
Yuri’s itching to thread his hand through Victor’s fingers again. He settles for stuffing his hands between his knees and biting the inside of his cheek.
Later, he thinks. But that reprimand doesn’t do anything to douse the high giddiness he’s been swallowing down since he got off the plane and tracked down Victor outside of customs.
Oh, he thinks, with something like wonder etching onto his heart, I’m excited.
Victor keeps shooting quick glances his way, and it’s easy to notice how pleased he is to see both Makkachin and Yuri after more than a few days apart.
“You must be tired,” he says, and Yuri’s considers the time. It’s about 4am in Japan right now.
He shrugs, “Not really. I slept during both flights.”
Feeling a little coy, he adds, “I’ll probably be awake all night.”
Victor sends him a smile that’s too flirtatious for its own right, and says, “What a coincidence, I will too.”
Yuri bites the inside of his cheek again.
Bon Jovi is currently testing the capacity of Yuri’s speakers on his laptop from where it sits on the bedroom floor. Livin’ On A Prayer fills the room in a way that makes him feel nostalgic for college.
His music taste is… eclectic, at best. He doesn’t really know genres the way some of his friends do. Mari’s room used to mirror Yuri’s own walls when they were younger, when posters that came in magazines were coveted. Her walls had been covered in odes to rockstars that were huge in the 2000’s.
Yuri had been too busy taping up posters of long haired athletes to care much about JRock at the time.
Phichit loved music with the same experimental openness he approached everything else, dropping folders of 80s and 90s American ballads onto Yuri’s laptop as an act of friendship in their first year together. There was a weekend where all they watched were MGM musicals, listening to Debbie Reynolds, and watching Fred Astaire dance while Yuri felt a reverent burning itch to transfer those step sequences to the ice.
Victor’s taste in music-
“If you want, we can connect my speakers to your laptop.”
Yuri jumps at the voice and drops the hanger he was threading through his shirt. It hits the floor with a clack, plastic on hardwood.
Victor’s leaning against the door, his hair still messed from the cold wind outside.
“You scared me,” says Yuri as he bends for the hanger. He just realises now how his music being played this loudly is suddenly something he’s embarrassed by.
“I’m sorry, I’ll turn it down,” he says, and quickly reaches for his laptop. Presses the volume button fast enough to transmit a Morse code of anxiety. “I didn’t think you’d be back for another half hour.”
“You can leave it on,” soothes Victor. When Yuri looks over he sees him smoothing hands over his hair, taming it back from its windswept tangles. Victor doesn’t like to wear hats in the winter. They leave his hair crackling and hovering with static.
Unfortunately, the next thing he decides to do is help Yuri unpack. He picks the first thing he can reach for out of one of the boxes. “What’s this?” he asks, looking down at a picture frame, as if Yuri could answer the question without actually seeing the subject.
He prays it’s not some poster of Victor his mother had decided to frame and shove in with the rest of his belongings. Or worse, a poster of himself, like the kind plastering the walls of Hasetsu’s train station. He gets off the floor and walks over.
“Oh,” and then flushes with mild annoyance. “It’s my degree. My mom wanted me to hang it up before. I guess she bought a frame for it.”
Victor turns to him, practically glowing.
“I’m not hanging it up.” Yuri quickly amends. He’s proud of his schooling, and he enjoyed it for the most part, but hanging up your own degree wasn’t something he found comfort or humility in.
“Then I’ll hang it up.” Victor says with some bolster of pride. “I’ll put it next to our medals.”
Yuri makes a choking noise of embarrassment at the idea of his lonely degree hanging next to Victors wall of medals and trophies. Eight Grand Prix gold medals, and a Bachelors from Wayne State University.
Victor is rich.
How rich he was didn’t necessarily surprise Yuri anymore. Spending longer than a few hours together back when they’d crashed into each other’s lives (the second time) made everyone in Yutopia aware of just how well the other half lived.
Yuri had taken the time to explain why they were hand washing the dishes when Victor nodded at the broken appliance next to them. “Why not just buy a new dishwasher?” he asked. Yuri just stared.
Living with him in his own bachelor’s apartment brought that awareness to the surface once again. Victor’s housecleaner came on Wednesdays. Half of his clothing had ‘dry clean only’ on the tag. He owned three cars.
Yuri once bought half his groceries at the dollar store during college.
“Alexa, play track 14,” Victor says. The speaker on the kitchen counter lights up and Victor’s newest choreography experiment plays.
They breathe each other’s program music. Yuri enjoys the routine sound of it in the apartment when it’s still fresh and something exciting to listen to. He watches Victor run through choreography from his spot on the couch; watches the expressions that pass his face, the lay of his arms, the tilt of his shoulders.
Tomorrow, or maybe next week, Victor will ask him to run through some of the routine, to see it in its fruition on the ice in front of him.
Right now it’s easier for Victor to dance across their hardwood floor in socks.
“Alexa, Pause,” he says. Then, “Rewind 20 seconds,” before he does the same steps again. He transitions this time with a deep lunge, brushing the tips of his fingers along the hardwood.
“I like that bit,” says Yuri, transfixed.
Victor turns his head and his expression softens.
“Who’s it for?” asks Yuri, straightening a little.
Victor lips curl up at the edges. He places his finger to his lips and hums. “Hmm? Would you be surprised if I told you?” he teases.
Yuri sighs, incredibly fond.  They’re caught like that for a few seconds, just staring at each other, matching smiles softening for the other.
Victor cracks first, “You’re so handsome when y-“
“Alexa,” Yuri interrupts, “Play ‘Late Night Jazz’ playlist on Spotify.”
He stands up to hold Victor close, just to see the light pinking of his ears up close. Victor’s biting down his own smile.
Yuri’s not a romantic. At least, he’s not sure if he is. But, little actions like these, bridging the distance between them so they sway slowly to trumpet playing, leaning closer to Victor… Yuri presses his face into the shoulder of Victor’s shirt, smelling laundry detergent and dog. What would he have done if he’d given up this opportunity in Barcelona?
They dance together next to the living room coffee table for the next twenty minutes.
Victor’s taste in music is just as dramatic as he is. It almost matches the taste that teenage Yuri imagined Victor would have: a playboy with a Hugh Hefner bachelor’s pad with soft opera music in the background.
Well, matching a playboy persona to a man who rolls around the floor and coo’s endearments to his dog doesn’t seem to fit. And Victor’s apartment is actually smaller than Yuri ever would have expected. It’s modern, and filled with…an interesting theme of décor.
But Victor’s taste in music is exactly what teenage Yuri had imagined, filled with operas and old jazz, soft ballads from tenors and aching reprises from movie scores.
Yuri and Makkachin come home to Nessun Dorma blaring from the radio on the television. Makkachin’s already dancing around Yuri’s legs, waiting for his leash to be unhooked. Apparently, none of this fazes him.
“Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me,” belts Victor from the kitchenette. He had skated to this in 2005, back when he could use songs about disappearing into history, name forgotten.
“Il nome mio nessun saprà, No! NO!”
“Whose name?” mutters Yuri. He puts his coat in the closet. He’s cold, and wet from the sleet outside. Victor was destined to have three stadiums and a shopping mall named after him. No one would forget his name.
Warm arms circle around his waist, and a kiss is pressed behind his ear when he turns his head.
“Mine, won’t you take it?”
And it’s both the cheesiest and most annoying line Yuri’s heard, but he flushes anyway. He loves the idea that he’s the one who gets to keep Victor; loves the idea that he’s the one who will get to wear his name. Victor knows this, and slides little facets of Yuri’s possessive nature back to him like they’re gifts that cost Victor nothing to give. Like he’s not aware that it makes Yuri shiver from his neck to the base of his spine and want to drop to his knees no matter where they are.
Yuri’s going to destroy himself one day thinking of all the things Victor’s willing to give him through no struggle at all.
“Lilia and Yakov have been arguing lately,” Yuri Plisetsky admits quietly one day. The way he says it, as if he’s hiding a secret from the empty ice, eyes looking anywhere but at the only other person in front of him-
It hits Yuri in the chest, and lodges tight in his throat, his jaw.
The rink is empty save for the zamboni which is circling around the first half of the rink. The arena speakers have come back to life in preparation for the novice classes that would take place in half an hour, pushing out Russian and American pop.
Yuri Plisetsky looks lost.
“Do you want to come over for dinner?” Yuri asks. He’d be eating it alone in Victor’s house anyway. Victor’s currently hosting double hours at the gym, studios, rinks, physios, in order to get both himself and his student on the podium in time for World’s. He wouldn’t be home until late.
There’s tension present in Yurio’s jaw. ‘Don’t pity me’ it says.
Yuri smiles. The pride Yurio exhibits feels like a little like navigating a field of landmines sometimes. There’s almost ten years between them, but he doesn’t remember being this proud at Yurio’s age. Then again, Victor’s 28 and he’s still this proud.
“Okay,” Yurio mumbles eventually, and slides off the bench they were sharing. “I need to pick up some homework first.”
Yuri nods along.
“I’m only speaking Russian once I get there!” Yurio threatens.
Trial by fire, thinks Yuri, and prays he can remember enough vocabulary to make conversation better than a toddler.
He can’t, but Yurio speaks slower and lets Yuri respond in English.
  “Oh!” says Victor, abandoning his coat on the nearest chair. “Yurio!” he sings out in acknowledgment. Yurio sends him a look of impetuousness from the kitchenette table, but says nothing of the nickname.
“Makkachin,” Victor coo’s and bends to pay attention to the dog jumping and snuffling around his legs. What follows is a verse of Russian that Yuri can barely pick apart sentences from. “Good boy,” and “Did you miss me?” and “Taking care of the home.” Makkachin loves it and wiggles around on the floor.
“There’s broccoli, carrots and rice in the fridge” says Yuri. He’s surrounded by Yurio’s homework and an answer card, checking over his calculations.
“Thank you,” is accompanied by a hand at the small of his back and a body draped over the back of his chair. Victor’s looking down at Yurio’s physics text books, and then back at Yuri with a confused expression like he doesn’t understand where this fits in with the fiancé he knows and loves.
“You’re really a nerd, Katsuki-kun” teases Victor, in Japanese.
Yuri sticks with English, “I have a bachelor’s of science. What do you have?”
Yurio snorts from across the table, “You’re marrying an idiot, Katsudon.”
“I’ll be a trophy Husband,” Victor says, not at all ashamed.
  “Yakov and Lilia are fighting,” says Yuri, when it’s just the two of them. The movie on tv is being played at low volume, subtitles in English present for Yuri.
“Mm,” mumbles Victor, and he angles his face further into Yuri’s neck, presses straighter behind him on the couch until there’s a long line of Victor Nikiforov touching Yuri’s side.
“They’re not. They’re thinking of getting back together.”
“Yurio thinks they are,” whispers Yuri.
“Yurio is 15. Do you know what I was doing when I was 15?”
Yes, thinks Yuri. Out loud he says, “Tell me?”
“Living with Yakov and Lilia,” Victor says, and smiles against Yuri’s neck. Yuri almost rolls his eyes.
“They were fighting then, and they divorced when I was 17. This is different.”
“Did they always fight?” asks Yuri, and shifts on the couch so he can look up at Victor, whose hands have been maddeningly tracing lines up and down his thigh.
“No, but there are some people who yell when they want someone to understand them.”
“Oh,” says Yuri. And then a moment of silence stretches out between them while Yuri gives Victor a significant stare.
“What?” asks Victor.
“Nothing,” Yuri dismisses. Victor has always been yelled at a lot by Yakov, and now, to a lesser extent, Lilia.
“Yuri~” whines Victor, and tucks his smiling face back into Yuri’s shoulder.
Yuri wakes up with a headache. He wants to fall back asleep, but drags himself up with a resolve he finds every morning.
Two glasses of water later, he takes Makkachin out for his walk, and comes back with his head pounding with every heartbeat. He swallows a pill that Victor assures him is for headaches, helps with the breakfast dishes, and then pulls Victor out of the door for morning rink time.
By the time they reach the bridge, his headache has slipped away, and has been replaced by a flushed warm fogginess that settles right through his body.
Back in Hasetsu, he’d seen Victor step onto the ice still drunk from the night before. At nationals, Yurio had skated with his nose red and dripping, hissing and sniffling as he sat in the kiss and cry.
Yuri’s practiced through worse. He’s skated on next to no sleep, learned new step sequences while suffering from spring colds before.
He’s pulling himself through his stretches with Victor by his side, folds his body over to reach his toes, leans his warm cheek against the cool flooring of the change room, and thinks, this would be a nice place to take a nap.
Victor leans over his stretched back to land a kiss at his shoulder, and asks if his headache is okay. Yuri tries not to evaporate into a feverish cloud.
  “Yuri,” calls Victor from the boards. He’s skated over to where his notebook lays open, and is flipping through it.  Yuri picks himself off the ice and glides closer.
So far they’ve just been going through combination jumps, and Yuri has been drilled for the past 10 minutes on take offs alone. One of Yuri’s Phichit-gifted playlists is playing. Background noise actually helps him keep his head clear, and Victor adores the idea of Yuri having a playlist with both Bruce Springsteen and songs from Top Hat.
Weekday dawns are their private time on the ice, something Yuri appreciates with a reverence because it allows him to warm up, fall down, and be impatient with Victor’s particular brand of coaching cheer without a large audience. There’s no doubt that this private time was negotiated as one of conditions that determined Victor returning to competition - probably arranged in an iron exchange between Yakov and Victor while he was still in Japan. He’s never seen a coach and student relationship like how Yakov and Victor work with each other – full of stubbornness and respect. But he’s never seen another skater quite like Victor either.
“-see the same thing as last week, then I won’t let you do it in competition.” Victor’s smiling as he finishes, and Yuri realises he’s just spent the last 40 seconds staring without listening to a single word.
He shakes his head to focus, “Sorry, could you repeat that?”
Victor pauses. He levels Yuri with a serious expression, and then leans fractionally closer.
“What are you worrying about?” he asks patiently.
Yuri leans away. ”Oh. No,” he corrects. “I think I’m sick.”
Victor hums in thought, and raises a hand to Yuri’s forehead. Yuri doesn’t stop him, and also doesn’t point out that he’d be cool anyway after half an hour in an open rink.
“I feel fine,” he insists, “I just have a bit of a headache, and my head feels foggy.”
He knows as soon as he’s said it that he should have kept that last part to himself. Victor’s expression turns from attentive coach to concerned partner faster than a quad loop rotation.
  Eventually he goes home after ignoring Victor’s insistence for another solid 20 minutes.
He climbs onto the couch, convinced he’ll spend the next hour cycling through social media, emails and whatsapp. It’s only when he’s reading through his third email that the wave hits him, and he puts down his phone, and drops to sleep.
His dreams are filled with feverish strangeness, and the melody of Victor’s short program on sickening repeat.
He wakes up briefly to the sound of keys and the front door opening, but falls back under before Victor’s done taking off his boots.
He wakes up some time later to a hand combing through his hair, and a weight next to him on the couch.
“I brought home some soup,” Victor says softly, and Yuri notices a bowl of it on the table in front of them.
His headache has returned and he grinds a palm into his forehead in retaliation of the thumping.
“What time is it?” he grumbles, trying to push the sleep from his limbs.
“Almost 1 o’clock,” says Victor, meaning he’d slept for almost four hours. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
Yuri’s eyes are closed, savoring the coolness as Victor presses his hand against his face.
“I don’t want you to get sick,” he says. Taking a day or two off is probably okay for him. Taking Victor away from training for more than one day is not negotiable, in Yuri’s mind. He’s prepared to spend the next five days on the couch if he can avoid that.
Victor doesn’t seem to care.
“Oh, I’m definitely going to get sick.” He says it with the same cadence he usually saves for “Oh, I’m definitely going to kiss you,” when they talk about future competitions together.
Yuri considers that they routinely share a bed, and spend the remaining 60% of their day within six feet of each other. Thinks about how Worlds is only 5 weeks away and concludes fuck.
“I’ve already warned Yakov,” says Victor, completely unaware of the anxiety building next to him.
“Victor, nooo.”
  Victor gets sick on day three, despite Yuri’s continued isolation on the couch. He’d gone back to light training after the second day himself, but had disinfected the apartment within an inch of its life while home. Victor ruined all his efforts by hanging around to comb his fingers through Yuri’s hair.
He also found immense joy asking Yuri questions when the fever made his answers jumbled and whiny.
“Please get drunk more often,” he laughs, right after Yuri had swatted him with away with a long, and heavily accented, “Victooooooor.”
Luckily, by then, they’d bought enough medicine for cold and fever relief that they were capable of acting like normal functioning adults. Well, to each of their extents.
They haven’t slept together for over a week. Between their fevers, and catching up on their schedules, they’d fallen into bed earlier each night, practically comatose from cold remedies.
Yuri wakes up hours before dawn feeling coiled tight in the best way: confident and languid, stretched next to Victor. The clock on the bedside table reads 4:28 am. He slides closer, presses his whole body along Victor’s back, and mouths at the back of his neck.
“Mn,” Victor mumbles, “Yuri, I have to get up in an hour,” and then, “Ohhh,” quietly, as he wakes up a bit more.
Yuri uses the moment to wrap his arm around Victor’s chest and pull them closer. The cotton of his own nightshirt is riding up and he can feel the warmth of Victor’s back against his abdomen as the other stretches out, pliant under his arm.
Victor’s hand reaches back and finds Yuri’s hip, slides under the elastic of his pajama pants. He keeps it there, warm against Yuri’s skin, encouraging, and lets out an appreciative hum when Yuri kisses up to the line of his jaw.
Victor isn’t secretive about loving the feel of Yuri pressed to his back. He loves being the little spoon, loves the feel of Yuri rocking into him slow while holding a hand around his chest and breathing damp on his shoulder.
Which isn’t an issue, but Yuri loves seeing Victor on top of him. Can barely breathe when Victor presses him into the mattress, fucking into him with deep thrusts while Yuri pulls at the sheets around them, desperately trying not to come in the first five minutes.
“Ah,” gasps Victor, as Yuri drops his hand from his stomach to the band of his sleep pants. The hand gripping at his hip tenses. Victor arches back and grinds against Yuri, makes another tight noise at the hardness he feels.
It’s slow, and dark, and Yuri’s determined to appreciate Victor’s body in all the ways he finds himself shy of doing during the daylight.
He’s kissing a spot high on Victor’s jawline when Victor’s ankle tangles against his. Toes tug down against the hem of his pants. “Take these off?” Victor asks, breathless.
Yuri manoeuvres away for just a few seconds in order to shuffle out of his pants and shirt, pushing them off the bed and onto the floor.
He returns to press back up against Victor, and licks a long line across the man’s shoulder.
Victor leans back against his body, and shudders from head to toe at the bare feeling of Yuri behind him. His breath is coming uneven as he rocks back into the hardness against his ass.
Yuri returns to trailing his fingertips along the skin just above Victor’s waistband, which has been steadily sliding lower with each roll backward of his hips.
“Ah, Yuri,” breathes Victor, as Yuri pushes down the bottoms of his pajamas to grasp his cock.  He stretches out in an arch, grinds back against Yuri’s hard-on. It’s dark in the room, but Yuri can hear the sound of fingers grabbing at sheets.
If Yuri had to consider it, living privately together would be one of his own non-negotiable conditions for returning to competition. Only this had been constructed silently over long weeks where they could do nothing but breathe heavily against bedsheets in Hasetsu, trying to keep quiet, and the drawn out nights in hotel rooms, where neither of them got sleep.
Luckily, this condition was never something they’d had to negotiate for.
He leaves Victor again, briefly, to reach for the lube under the bed. Uses it to slick between Victor’s thighs and ass before smearing the rest on a firm stroke up Victor’s cock. Victor’s shaking at the stimulation, voice cracking over small sounds, and kicking his pajama bottoms the rest of the way off, lost in the blankets.
Yuri kisses along Victor’s shoulders. His hand is pulling long tight strokes up Victor’s cock. He rests his forehead against the back of other’s neck and thinks, tonight I want to give him a blowjob in the shower.
When he slides his cock between the cheeks of Victor’s ass, he hears a moan that’s hastily bitten down.
A quiet “Mn,” escapes Yuri’s throat, unable to catch his reaction when Victor so clearly loves this. “Ohh,” he breathes.
They rock together like that, using the dark of the room to map each other out with hands and strained noises. By the time Victor comes, he’s whispering soft “oh, oh, oh”s into the sheets and digging his fingers into Yuri’s hip again, goading him to grind harder between his thighs.
Yuri’s practically laying over him by then, toes digging into the mattress, breathing hot pants against the side of Victor’s neck before he spills between one sharp thrust and the next.
“I love you so much,” says Victor, with a bone deep exhaustion that just spells how fucked out he is.
Yuri huffs out a laugh and kisses his cheek, still trying to catch his own breath.
They’re interrupted by the switch of the radio alarm playing classical music.
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astriiformes · 4 months ago
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[Tag Game] Writing Patterns
I was tagged by @marypsue! Thank you, friend.
Rules: List the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern.
Here are mine!
1 - "It was a fateful flash of gold that drew Caspar’s eye to the altar of the church, unmistakably bright even among the sacramental trappings that surrounded it." (Epiphany, Pentiment)
2 - “'Woah, be careful, Magdalene,' said Caspar, watching the toddler nearly trip as she trundled her way over to him." (Bei Wind und Wetter, Pentiment) (This is technically not the first line of the fic, but the actual first line is just a bit of dialogue from the game, so I went with one I actually wrote)
3 - "The second-story bedroom in the Maler home had once housed all three of the family’s sons, from the time Andreas could first walk up the stairs to join his brothers to the day Gabriel had departed for his Wanderjahre, the first to leave home for good." (The Other Side of a Story, Pentiment)
4 - “'Magdalene! How pleasant to see you. Do you suppose that metals have spirits?'” (De Proprietatibus Plumbi, or On the Properties of Lead, Pentiment)
5 - "The little room that read 207 – Herzl Breslaur Jewish Historical Collection on the door was tucked away in a quiet corner of the much larger and ever-so-slightly less quiet Edith & Walter Benson Special Collections Library, which was not to say it was forgotten about, only that it tended to receive visitors with a very specific purpose." (Zichronam Livracha, When the Angels Left the Old Country)
6 - “'Where are they? Honestly if Clara doesn’t come, when she knows perfectly well why I wanted to get everyone together today….'” (February, 1518, Pentiment)
7 - "Shivering as a gust of wind blew snowflakes into her face, Clara clutched the tureen she was carrying closer to her chest." (Beharren ist eine Kunst, Pentiment)
8 - “'Honestly, Andreas the balcony, again? We have a door, you know!'” (On the Revolutions of the Celestial Spheres, Pentiment)
9 - Heart thudding in his chest, Caspar stumbled slightly as his foot hit a rocky patch on the road leading back into town. (Stemma Codicum, Pentiment)
10 - “'How long do you think they’ll be gone?'” (Long Upon the Land, Pentiment)
Honestly this is an entertaining look at how much Pentiment fic I wrote in the last year and a half or so more than anything else, haha. Though at least there's a fun spread of different characters represented (It looks like Caspar shows up the most, which tracks)
I'm a little surprised there aren't more in-media-res dialogue openings; I feel like I used to lean more heavily on those, and in years since have diversified a bit, which is interesting to see.
I'll go ahead and tag @shadowen @animatedamerican @eighthdoctor @philcoulsonismyhero and anyone else who wants to participate, though this is of course optional!
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rae-gar-targaryen · 4 years ago
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loved you once, part two [angel reyes x fem!reader]
A/N: Muahahahaha. IT’S HERE!I know, it’s been over a month. And I’m really sorry for that. But HOLY SHIT, the traction “loved you once’ got was way more than anything I could ever have imagined or expected. I am just so grateful to everyone for reading. For the people I’ve met and gotten to know since engaging in the Mayans fandom and posting fic. Honestly, this wouldn’t exist without you.
For this part, as before I invented a tattoo and an ex-girlfriend for Angel, and I fudged the timeline a bit and added some elements from season three in here. You’ll know them when you see them. Also, if you can tell me where Frida’s date comes from, you win a cookie, and maybe a hug from me.
Part one was based on "Loved You Once" by Clara Mae, this part was definitely moreso based on "You Broke Me First" by Tate McRae. And "After Hours" by the Weeknd. Honestly, the playlist for this fic is a sad, horny mess. You wanna cry, but feel confusedly turned on by it? I may drop the link.
As always, if you want a tag in anything I write for Angel, EZ, the Mayans fandom (or anything else), please feel free to send me a message or an ask, or add yourself to the taglist (link in profile).
Pairing: Angel Reyes x fem!tattoo artist!reader (aka Frida -- as always, the appearance is ambiguous, but the reader is described as having female pronouns/parts. I do imagine a latinx reader, but I hope I’ve written this so you can imagine yourself with no restriction.); also slight Frida x other, and slight Coco x Frida.
Word Count: 23.4K (I KNOW, OKAY?) of ANGST! Half-baked simile and overbaked metaphor. Heartbreak swathed in honey-sweetness, and biting frustration. But maybe, ultimately, the balm of peace?
Warnings: ANGST, non-explicit references to infidelity, sexual references and sexual content, descriptions of sex, fingering, oral (female receiving) so 18+ ONLY, please! Canon-typical douchebaggery, references to a past relationship, song references and poetry. (It is me, so yeah, poetry). This honestly feels just like a compendium of heartbreak.
Summary: You and Angel have been broken up for a while. After the ill-fated run-in at the patch party, will you continue on as you have? Or is it the push you both needed to reconnect? Angel loved you once; will you love him again?
Read part one here.
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It doesn't snow in Santo Padre.
It's not that you enjoyed being cold, or particularly wanted snow. But a part of you had always romanticized the concept of a “classic” winter -- the feeling of crystalline fluff tumbling from the heavens to dust your cheeks and lashes, bathing your surroundings in an ocean of chilly silver-white. Of retreating from the exterior world's glacial crispness and  into the warmth of your home, bathed in an orange-golden glow, the cinnamon-y scent of something baking. 
Of falling into the arms of your beloved, someone who would seep the chill from your bones with his warm embrace, kissing the tip of your cold nose. Who would admire the snowflakes caught in your lashes before they melted away as he presses his lips to yours. Cherishing you and cradling your cheeks as he does so, like you're the snowflake he's afraid will melt away.
But it doesn't snow in Santo Padre. Your idyllic winter fantasy is not to be. No snowflakes, no cinnamon; even the man of your reality is, in truth, much harsher than that of any winter chill you could’ve dreamt up on your own. 
In the real world, your romance with Angel bloomed, despite the dying light of mid-January. And nearly a year later, it felt like the true harshness of winter had come to your doorstep when you were, quite literally, left out in the cold. Not exactly the stuff of dreams. You know what they say, be careful what you wish for. This frigid winter was inhospitable, and worse than you could have ever imagined. 
The stinging numbness of Angel’s harsh treatment of you and subsequent departure left you with frostbitten limbs and an icy heart. 
The chill had subsided, had melted away from your bones some in the passing months... 
Until a few weeks ago. At that damned patch party that you were foolish enough to attend, despite knowing full well who would be in attendance. 
That had gone famously. 
Aneesa had come by the next day to drop off your gear, your books, and a wad of cash you’d tried to push off, but that she’d insisted was from Bishop for the night’s work. 
“So you are alive,” she’d snipped, her annoyed expression melting into one of sympathy when she’d taken in the shadowed look in your eyes, the sunken nature of your shoulders. How you’d shed your party clothes for one of Angel’s old t-shirts he’d left at your place and never come by to reclaim, something you hadn’t done in a while. And if you were honest with yourself (something you were a little afraid to be in this moment of weakness), you knew it was wildly unhealthy to still have it-- let alone to take comfort in wearing it. To want to take comfort in anything to do with Angel.
Though Aneesa hadn’t been in the room when it had all gone down, otherwise occupied with Gilly, she’d heard more than enough from Coco and EZ, Gaby standing to the side with an empathetic expression as EZ recounted how Angel had basically run you off the property in his insistence to speak to you. How you’d looked ready to burst.
You’d apologized, of course, for not responding to her texts and calls. For worrying her. She’d waved the apologies away, opting to scoop you into her signature warm embrace. But it wasn’t just Aneesa. 
The texts from that night went unanswered, despite the near-constant buzzing of your phone. 
It had nothing on the buzzing of the thoughts in your own head, replaying just what-the-fuck had happened at that party. 
“I care, Frida.”
“... and if I wanted you back?”
“Please, querida.”
Frida, this. Querida, that. Honestly, it was too much. 
You were smart to get out of there. You were right to get out of there. You’d said what you’d needed to say in that moment, even if it didn’t scratch the surface of everything you’d wanted to say to Angel since he tossed your shit in a box all those months ago.
You’d almost thought you were back in mid-winter, with the chill that had resided in your bones after you’d gone home, hands shaking and clammy with the nerves from confronting Angel. Your skin felt like it was vibrating on a different frequency. Nauseous. And as you’d slid into bed that night, all you could feel was the cavernously empty side of your bed, threatening to swallow you whole. And not for the first time did you wish it would snow. It would be warmer than the perpetual bleak chill you felt everywhere since Angel had left you.
Now, in the sweltering heat of late summer, the season’s defiant final push before it shunts away into cooler autumn, you find yourself back in your shop. Ever-grateful for central air as you watch the waxy sunshine and passersby through the glass door. 
You were  leaned over the counter, idly sketching, when the telltale ding signalled the shop’s door opening.
As you looked up and saw just who was making his way in, ever-present gentle thunk and squeak of his boots meeting the linoleum, you were struck with visions of your life a year and a half ago, when this very sight had been what started it all. 
A sight that should have been a welcome one -- your man walking into your workplace to greet you on a break with a kiss on the cheek; or, at the very least, what should have been a cherished memory -- the ineluctable meeting with the person you’d thought you’d spend the rest of your life with … all of it was tainted now by the actual sight of him walking to the counter for the first time in a long time (but not nearly long enough, given everything), hands stuffed in his pockets. His eyes were fixed on his feet as he put them one in front of the other on his way to where you stood. 
There was no easy lean on the counter. No self-confident rapping of his ringed knuckles against the hardwood. No smirking grin. 
The Angel before you was a sulking shell of the man who had blown into your life a year and a half ago with his practiced flirtation and his warm, ochre eyes. Maybe 'Clara Forever' should have been more of a red flag than you'd originally lent it. But you weren't reading between the lines then, content with perusing the beauty of the surface poetry that was the man you'd met. 
The man now? Between the lines was all you were reading. How could you trust the surface? After everything. This man was mussed hair and tired eyes, overgrown scruff and rumpled jeans you were sure he’d rolled out of bed in. Despite his disheveled appearance, your guard was still up. You knew how easily Angel slipped beneath your skin, like pin-pricking bolts of easy silk gliding seamlessly into your bloodstream, taking you over before you even knew he was wrapping you up, away, and into himself.  
To say you were grateful for the buffer the counter provided between the two of you would be a massive understatement. It may as well be Everest, because there was no damned way you were going to let him scale it and press his way even further into your day, let alone back into your life.
You were silent as you watched Angel unstuff his large hands from the pockets of his kutte and shift a little from foot to foot. You crossed your arms over your chest, flexing in your impatience, and waited for him to speak.
He looked up at you, sullen eyes meeting your shrewd ones for the first time since that night on the clubhouse porch. 
Oh. And Angel’s eyes had always held so much emotion. You knew you’d said it before, thought it before -- Angel’s feelings were his worst-kept secret, ever bubbling beneath the surface but inevitably bursting through like greenery through the cracks of stone. Spilling molten lava.
Bleeding hearts on a very crisp sleeve.
Today, they were glistening; but not with rage or definitive humor. You saw shame. You saw remorse. You had half a mind to tell Angel just where he could shove those feelings, and then he spoke, cracking the brittle, tense silence between the two of you with the gravelly timbre of his voice 
“You, uhhhh, got any space for me today?” You had to hand it to him, Angel’s question was unexpected; his eyes left yours to take in the  empty chairs at the back of the shop. 
You shuddered a little with your exhaling sigh, internally bemoaning the fact that you were alone to face this as you chewed over just how you could answer. Olí had gone to the bakery a few blocks down to procure some late-morning cafecito. You immediately thought of texting him, begging him to come back and save you from the inherent awkwardness of this situation. But you knew he was likely caught in the line of the belated rush. And eager to flirt with the barista.
On your own again, then. Left to battle with your own emotions, and to face the minefield that were Angel’s. To face the consequences your admittedly-childish and flippant exit the night of the party had wrought. And if you were honest with yourself, you were not ready for this. Not quite ready to face the music (music that, to you, sounded like every clichéd, sad song you’d played ad nauseum since Angel had pushed you aside, causing you to unintentionally meet the quotient of every breakup truism). 
What was it they said? Clichés are clichés for a reason? 
You pulled yourself from the mire of your own thoughts with the sluggish carefulness of a child unsticking their boots from thick mud, hating the way Angel’s eyes shone now with hopefulness as he awaited your answer. 
Was he fucking serious? 
You uncrossed your arms, sighing loudly now before you answered him.
"My books are full," you said simply, shrugging. “Sorry.” Though you clearly weren’t, your clipped words plinking through the tense air like chips of ice.
Angel looked around the empty shop, eyebrows lifting as he took in the underlying meaning to your statement. 
“You got no one in here,” he responded, trying to keep his instant and rushing frustration at the situation at bay. He’d come here to try to talk to you. To hopefully appease your mood by coming to your turf to do so. Make something easy for you. Couldn’t you see that?
You stood unmoving, studying him keenly, almost like you were wagering with yourself on just how long it would take his frustrations to boil over. 
You weren’t about to cave so easily.
“Dunno what to tell you, Angel,” he’d quirked up at the way you said his name, almost like a little puppy, and you tried not to let yet another icy shard wedge its way into your heart at his behest, slightly disgusted with yourself for how you defaulted to the desire to smooth the wrinkle from his brow, to cup his cheeks and kiss away the worry you saw behind his eyes. Even after everything, your first instinct -- your first desire -- was to nurture him. But you told yourself since the patch party that you would be resolute. 
Even if on the inside your heart was frozen, but your resolve was melting.
“My books are full,” you repeated, holding up the datebook where you kept your schedule and making a show of flipping through the obviously-sparsely scheduled pages. “No room for you here.”
The line across Angel’s quizzical brow deepend, ochre eyes hardening into a slate frown. His upper lip curled slightly in annoyance, and as he caught his breath on the inhale, you could see him physically resist the urge to snap at you. 
“A lotta white on those pages, querida,” he bit out, starting to lean forward in the direction of the counter, weight on the balls of his feet. 
You closed the pages to your datebook primly, placing it on the counter and folding your hands over where the book rested. 
“No sé a qué te refieres.” I don’t know what you mean. You gestured at the empty chair behind you. “Business is booming. Now, if you want something done, Olí has openings next week. Or I can have him call you if he has a cancellation. Other than that, I surely can’t help you,” you shrugged, refusing to meet his eyes. 
You may have sounded tough -- cold and distant to your own ears, even. Angel may have been convinced. But you knew that if you looked him in the eye now, he would see the cracks in the already thin veneer that was your display of disinterest. Better to keep your head down, so to speak. Lest he see just how false your sense of bravado truly was.  
“Frida …” Angel slowly reached across the counter, holding out an arm to touch yours. 
You took a deliberate step back, just out of his arm’s reach, your eyes blazing now as he curled his fingers back and dropped his hand once more to his side. You shook your head. 
“Am I speaking something you don’t? I already said I can’t help you." You pointed to the door, “That’s your cue to go. I have a client waiting.” 
You'd had to hand it to yourself. Despite the depression-gymnastics your insides were doing, you were putting up a good front.
With that, you jabbed the finger pointing at the door, now over your shoulder at your empty chair. 
You were nothing if not adamant. Angel supposed he’d deserved that. At the very least, he’d deserved that.
Angel exhaled, rolling his eyes a little at your unwillingness to engage with him, before holding his hands up in surrender, retreating. 
Your heart was pounding in time with his steps to the exit. Were you really going to let him walk away -- keep walking away -- from you? Was he really going to say nothing else?
Angel gave you one last look before turning on his heel and making his way toward the exit of the shop. 
You don’t know what possessed you to say it. Maybe your inner masochist wasn’t done playing “Operation” with your feelings -- perhaps it was the gnarling, twisting fear you felt at seeing him walk away again, and maybe this time for good. But, as Angel reached the door, you called out,
“If you want an appointment, you’d better call first. You know what they say about walk-ins. Always risky.” 
Fuck. And you were doing so well. 
Angel glanced over his shoulder at you, full brows raised in mild surprise at your flimsy olive branch, wrapped in reference to your first meeting. He nodded mildly to acknowledge he’d heard what you’d said, his shoulders shifting beneath his kutte as he pushed the door open and walked back out into the hazy heat. 
Huh. Guess you had more to say to him, after all.  
----
"¿Flores, Angelito? ¿Para mi?" You asked in mild surprise, a little giggle bubbling from your lips as you took in the man before you with his short-sleeved flannel beneath the kutte, his thick, ringed fingers clutched around the bunched stems of an impressive-looking bouquet. 
The few dates you had been on with Angel at this point were all sweet. You’d never had much of a sweet tooth, but … there was a first time for everything. And Angel Reyes made you want to indulge. 
He had texted you the night before, asking if you'd like to meet him at the park the next day for some coffee, and maybe a walk. 
 "A walk?" You'd teased. "So old-fashioned, Angelito. Will we be supervised on this walk?" You drummed your nails against your thigh while you awaited his response, the bubbles in the corner of your screen popping up to indicate Angel was answering.
"Not the first time I've been told I needed adult supervision. But I think you're up to the task," he'd answered. Followed by a "winking" emoji.
Before you could type a similarly-cheeky response, he was typing again. A double-text.
"No need to involve anyone else in our business."
You chuckled at that. You'd give Angel Reyes that one. He certainly was charming. 
He'd met you as planned the next morning, proffering you the cluster of blooms. An unexpected gift. 
"¡Que bonita!" You accepted the bouquet, admiring the starshine sprigs of queen Anne's lace that were nestled between the soft pink pastel peonies and crisp swaths of greenery. You stood, rocking up to your tiptoes to press a kiss to Angel's cheek. "Gracias, guapo."
As you dropped back onto your feet, you took in the mildly flustered expression on Angel's face, rewarding him with another light giggle.
"Yeah, well…" Angel scrubbed his hand along the back of his neck. He had a habit of that, you noted. Was he nervous? "Seemed right, right? Since I've got flowers from you, and all.." he trailed. 
"I love them, Angel," you assured. "You didn't have to get me anything. I was just happy to have coffee with you."
On that note, you turned to the bench you had been waiting on, two cups of still-piping coffee in the little corrugated to-go carrier. You plucked one from its nest and handed it to Angel, popping the little plastic flip-top on the lip of the cup, blowing on it a tad to cool it, before handing it to Angel. 
You’d done it so seamlessly, he wondered if you truly realized what you had done, a cute little gesture of caring that -- the more he thought about in hindsight, the more he realized -- were the kind of gestures that exemplified and embodied you. He couldn’t help but stare down from his height in admiration of you.
“I assume you take it black?” you chirped. “If not, I grabbed packets,” you gestured at the little four-cup carrier, packets of cream and sweetener stuffed into one of the empty holders. 
He chuckled a bit at that, taking a small moment to admire you the moment you turned back toward the bench, your beauty in the late-morning sun as it streaked solar beams making your hair shine like a resplendent halo, the aura of it soft and reflective against the apples of your cheeks, ethereal. 
He appreciatively noted your own tattoos, streaks of ink awash against your skin and flashing beneath the ridden-up sleeves of your hoodie as you reached forward to grab your own cup from the carrier. 
You deposited the empty holder and packets into the trash, bringing your own cup to your lips and turning back toward Angel,
“Shall we?” You tilted your head toward the path encircling the park.
Angel took deep sips of his coffee, seemingly immune to the heat, and savoring the rich flavor as you walked by his side. 
Asbestos mouth, you thought, amused with yourself and your thought at Angel’s ability to slug the piping hot liquid without even flinching. 
For his part, Angel appreciated that you didn’t feel the need to compulsively fill the silence-- content to sip your respective “wake-up” cups, walking side-by-side and enjoying the sun’s tender, teasing warmth while basking in the other’s company. 
Angel didn’t know what made him say it, but in this moment, with you looking so perfect as you did, it felt like the moment to share a little piece of himself, 
“My mom used to bring me here when I was a kid, ya know?” 
You looked up at him from beneath your lashes, not breaking your stride, “That’s sweet,” you acknowledged. “I can just imagine you and Ezekiel running her ragged while you play. Do you and she ever come back here together?" 
Angel balked at your question. It struck him in moments like these, just how truly new you were to the self-contained corner of the universe that was Santo Padre, a vacuous and arid black hole that the rest of space and time forgot. It didn’t occur to him that there was anyone in town who didn’t know what had happened to Marisol Reyes. 
He stopped walking, unsure how to answer your question. You caught on to the change in pace, turning to meet him where he stood. 
“She, uh… she’s dead,” he said, softly and simply. He couldn’t deny the truth, and certainly didn’t see the point in being dishonest about it. 
“Oh,” you breathed. “Shit, Angel, I-- I’m so sorry,” you quickly wrapped your arms around him, mindful not to spill your coffee on him as you brought your hands around his waist. “I didn’t -- I didn’t mean to ask … I didn’t know.”
At first, Angel’s body had stiffened when you made contact with his torso. But he quickly relaxed into the hug, tilting his chin down to rest atop your head, bringing one arm around to gently pat your back, to reassure you that your innocent question hadn’t done any harm.
“S'okay, querida, it happened a while ago. Like you said, you didn’t know.” 
The two of you gently parted from your embrace, you leaning forward to run a reassuring hand over his bicep, genuine empathy emanating in the gesture.
“Well, this isn’t heavy at all,” as you withdrew from Angel, you hunched your shoulders at the mild discomfort you felt having brought up something painful for him. “Nothing like some light conversation on a casual coffee date,” you chuckled nervously. 
Angel had the good grace to smile at that, his easy expression a gesture of mercy on your flip-flopping conscience. 
“I mean,” you carried on, “I know you don’t know me all that well, but… if you ever want to talk, ever need anything, I’m here. I didn’t mean to dig at any old wounds,” you murmured, sincerely, but sheepishly.
“Really, querida, it’s OK,” he reassured. “I didn’t bring it up to be … depressing, or nothing... I have nothing but good memories with her here,” Angel took a long sip of his coffee, nodding at you slightly and resuming his previous pace. 
He pointed over to the swings on the other side of the large lawn, “She used to push me and EZ. Would cheer for us when we got higher. And ... if Pop was working late, and we wanted to play, she’d grab his glove and bring it to play catch with us, even if the damn thing was too big for her hands,” Angel smiled as he looked over at the lawn. “She woulda liked you, you know?” 
He nodded to himself in assurance at his own words, confident in his assessment of your character through the lens of his mother’s memory. 
Your breath caught at that, taken with the compliment. You smiled gently when Angel turned to face you again.
“It would have been an honor to know her,” you said, sincerely. “Sounds like she was a wonderful woman.”  
“She was,” Angel agreed, easily slipping his hand into yours as the two of you continued to walk, his thumb tracing the back of your hand. “I just hope I never lose that. Never forget her.”
Angel’s words gave you pause, struck with your default instinct to nurture. You were no stranger to loss. Who was, really? Not wishing that pain upon anybody, you imparted wisdom that had, in turn, been impressed upon you in your own similarly-sad moments: 
“You won’t,” you assured, taking your hand from his, trailing your fingers up his wrist and to his forearm, tracing your thumb over the sprig of rosemary you had etched into his skin a few weeks prior. “¿Por recuerdo, sí? For remembrance? You remember her in moments like these, where you share her with others. That’s not something you’ll lose, Angelito. Because she lives on in you. And your brother.” 
Angel was silent for a moment. 
Worried you had somehow overstepped -- when weren’t you feeling that way with Angel? Could you ever just mind your own business without spilling clichés like some kind of poetic dimestore vending machine, or a stale-ass fortune cookie? He hadn’t asked for you to  --
But Angel hadn’t said anything to put you down. As a matter of fact, he was just standing there… looking at you with that face again. What did that face mean?
Angel regarded you with a peachy-hued gaze of adoration, your words stirring something in him. But when weren’t they? Would everything you said always make him feel this way?  He had learned from the day you’d met, and your first date, that you were thoughtful. Generous with your thoughts and your empathy. Willing to give to others, but reserved with your own heart. 
And as he held your gaze, he was lightning-struck with the desire to make you feel safe enough to share your everything with him; wanted to kiss your pretty mouth and share every story from his life with you. Wanted to leech any pain from your pretty bones and replace it with the security of his affection. 
The thought might have scared him, if he had given them a second longer in that moment. Never before had he truly desired to share these things with another. 
You were dangerous that way, Angel decided. A real sleeper hit.
He tilted his head down, bringing his free hand to gently graze the high part of your waist with his fingertips, pressing his lips softly to yours. 
Every kiss with Angel was a novel experience, a lesson buried in a newly-cracked book you couldn't wait to turn every page of. He kissed fully, sweetly. At times, he kissed like the languid, steady pour of warm, thick syrup over waffles, overwhelming your every pore. Other times, he kissed like a bonfire -- passionate, smoky, hazy and stuttering in its fervor to reach the height of its burn. 
Now, he kissed you like honey, spliced with a crisp zing of orange zest, all sweetness and light. His hand on your waist a grounding reminder of your place on this earth beside him. But the longer you tasted it -- the heavier it became, filling you with a rush of sugary affectations, awash with your desire. 
You break the kiss to cut the cloying taste, just as much as you'd needed air.
Angel’s gaze upon you as you broke apart was heavy-lidded and weighted with some emotion you couldn’t (or wouldn’t dare, just yet) to name… his full lips dragged into a low, lazy smirk, watching as you giggled lightly, nervously. 
“So …” you trailed, making a vague gesture toward your stomach. “The butterflies. Not just a first date thing with you. Good to know,” you nodded, more to yourself than to him. 
A genuine little barking laugh escaped Angel’s lips at that, his amusement and rush of adoration for you compelling him to bend down once more and press a soft kiss to the side of your head. 
“You are something, Frida.” 
The two of you resumed your walk, you teasingly bumped your hips into Angel’s as you spoke again, 
“Since we’re sharing about when we were kids -- I always wanted to be a dancer, you know? My dad used to take me to classes. But I was… fucking awful,” you giggled. “I was better with my hands than on my feet.”
"I'm sure you are," Angel snickered, quicker than you were...
Your eyes widened when you realized what you’d said,
“I -- not like that. You know damn well what I mean,” you made a vague gesture in the air like you were holding a pen and sketching.  "You know I'm good with my hands. I freehanded that, didn't I?"
You nodded toward Angel’s arm once more.  
“Sí, sí, you’re Frida, after all,” Angel decided not to make a joke at your accidental double-entendre. “It's your hand, but it's also your eye. Your spirit.” 
And if Angel was more honest with himself -- and with you -- in that moment, he could have gone on -- “And in your heart, something inscrutable.” Not that he was one for too much, too soon with any woman.
"--But I'm sure you can dance Frida," Angel continued, gently knocking your shoulder with his own as the two of you continued to walk. 
"And how would you know that?" You teased. "I'm only left feet." As if to demonstrate your own self-deprecating point, you swung one foot behind yourself in a reverse-kick as you walked, an attempt to softly, jokingly kick Angel’s behind. But you’d woefully miscalculated the height differential between the two of you, your leg not extending high enough to reach its target, causing you to stumble and pitch off-balance. 
Angel scooped you in one arm before you could even begin to fall.
“Already tryna kick my ass? Damn, mama, I try to compliment you and this is what I get?”
Angel’s arm was warm around your waist, the result of his successful rescue to keep you from falling. Maybe you were glad with the stunt you’d pulled, if it resulted in him scooping you into his arms like something out of an old movie. 
“Yeah, well I may not be able to kick your ass now. But give me time,” your voice had taken on a breathy quality, overwhelmed by Angel’s proximity to you. “But I did tell you I couldn't dance.”
“Whatever that was aside,” Angel shrugged before replying, as simply and matter-of-factly as though he was telling you the sky was blue, “I know you’d be a hell of a dancer.” He gazed down at where you were held against him before continuing, 
"How could something about you not be beautiful?"
---
Now, you were squirming in your seat as you sat in one of your favorite restaurants in town, the familiar ambience not enough to assuage your nerves. Not only were you unused to the feeling  of the summer dress and heeled wedges you had donned for the first time in your post-Angel months, you were similarly unused to the company. 
Even if the man across from you had been the perfect gentleman thus far.
Christopher was suave, sleek in his black button-up and expensive-looking dress pants, tattoo peeking from the buttoned collar of his shirt, adorning his throat in a way you found regal. He was far too overdressed for this mid-level, casual dining. But you figured that on the first few dates, you should keep it light. A cup of coffee here, a quick lunch at a food truck there. 
The two of you had met when you were perusing your options, mulling over your selection of the perfect avocado at the supermarket. You didn’t see the man on the other side of the display, reaching for the same fruit as you, and you brushed hands. The two of you chuckled and made light conversation, and then went on your merry errand-running ways. Perhaps it would have ended there if you didn’t see him two days later at the bookstore. 
At that point, you had to say something. You took note of the novel in his hands, and by the end of the encounter, he had smoothly asked you to coffee on your next day off. You had liked his firm handshake when he had introduced himself, and the warmth behind his eyes. His smooth voice that sounded like a crime, too suave and beautiful to be legal. 
Had the whole thing been a little rom-com for your taste? Sure. 
Were you a little afraid to get out there again after the absolute shitshow the last few months had been? No shit, Sherlock. 
Were you keenly aware of the way Christopher’s dark eyes danced with mischief the same way Angel’s did? That he had the same keeled, low-pitch to his voice?
Fuck that. You weren’t going to shoot yourself (and someone else) in the foot because you were too busy lugging around heavy, distinctly Angel-shaped baggage. You resolved to give Chistopher an actual chance. 
And this was the first time you had sat down indoors together for a prolonged period. The first date-date. 
To say Aneesa was ecstatic when you told her about your plans with Christopher would be an understatement. 
“Girl, you know he’s gonna treat you. That man is smooth as hell, darling,” she called from the depths of your closet, mocking Christopher’s deep voice that you had relayed to her in your recap of the encounter, while she tossed out dress after dress in her mission to dress you in what she dubbed “the date ‘fit to end all date ‘fits.” 
She had outdone herself. You felt gorgeous.
And while there were no homemade sandwiches, and your favorite worn jeans were tucked away at home, you had to admit that Christopher was doing one hell of a job at making you feel wooed. And maybe Aneesa was right when she said that maybe “new” was a good thing.
You and Christopher had laughed your way through dinner. He didn’t talk much about his work, but was very interested in hearing about your job, and seeing photos of finished pieces from your ‘gram.
“Damn, mama, you drew that?” He asked appreciatively. “You got an eye for the beautiful things.” 
You felt heat rush through your cheeks and down across your collarbones at his words, preening beneath his smoky praises. 
"Well, I'm out with you, aren't I?" You flirted back gently, smiling into your glass of wine.
The easy smirk Christopher rewarded you with was swoon-worthy to say the least.
Who was she? You were impressed with yourself. Gone was the fumbling girl rife with awkward, unintentional double entendre that you were with Angel. This Frida was a smooth motherfucker, making a man like Chris smile.
He, in turn, showed you photos of his son, beaming with pride while he talked about his son’s winning science fair project. 
He had confided in you that, normally, talk of a kid on the first date could be a deal-breaker. 
“But you seem like the kinda woman who ain’t afraid of an up-front man,” he had said. 
If he only knew. 
As the date was winding down, Christopher gave you a kiss on the cheek as he departed the table to use the restroom while awaiting the check. 
You smiled to yourself, using the moment alone to glance down at your phone, basking in the champagne-warm, fizzy feeling of a date gone well. Of mutual attraction and reciprocal attention. When you looked up and out of the glass doors of the restaurant you saw him. The champagne feeling gone, dousing you like ice-water; as quickly and sharply as it had come, it was gone. 
And he saw you, too.
Oh fuck. 
Through the glass, Angel appraised your sundress, your makeup, your styled hair. You saw the decision on his face the moment it was made.
He fucking wouldn’t. 
Oh, but he fucking would. Ever one to place his heart before his own head, Angel reached for the handle, entering the restaurant and making a beeline for you, past the hostess stand. Until his biker boots carried him to your table, where he noted the napkin tossed on Christopher’s side of the table, the companion chair slightly pulled back.
He glanced at the empty plates on the table before raking his eyes up your crossed legs beneath the table, and up to yours, taking in the blaze resonant in your gaze. 
Fuck, you were hot when you were mad.  
Not giving him a chance to speak, you piped up first, voice hard and laced with boxcutter edges and vinegar,
“You need to leave, Angel,” you seethed. 
It was apparent to Angel, even in his slightly-tipsy haze (you hadn’t caught onto his mild impairment, thank God) just what you were trying to get him away from. You were on a date. And it wasn’t beneath Angel, he would admit, to make you sweat a little. Especially after you had brushed him off a few days ago in the tattoo parlour. Petty as fuck, and he knew it. Coco would certainly have told him so.
He pulled Christopher’s chair back even further from the table, lowering himself and spreading his legs out comfortably, leaning back in his chair, head tilted back obnoxiously to appraise you further. 
“You look good, dulce. What’s got you so dressed up and out and about on a Friday night?” He lilted his voice in a crudely teasing way, like he was mocking you for making yourself feel pretty. 
You would not let him have this one, too. Not after the shitshow of a patch party. Isn’t it funny how you could barely bring yourselves to look the other in the eyes then? Too afraid to broach feelings, content to instead skate around them with all the grace of Bambi on ice. But  this town was too small for you to hide from him for the rest of your life. And you were well-past sheepish aches and pains and trying to spare Angel's feelings; no, you were on the road to well and truly pissed.
The pulse and magnetism between you and Angel was always strong, a source of perpetual warmth for you. But it was you he had left behind, in the whispering grip of a ghost. And you? You refused to be that girl on the clubhouse porch forever. 
Now, your blazing eyes met his slightly-glazed, blasé ones.
Was he … drunk? 
Fuck this. 
“I’m not gonna tell you again, Angel,” you warned. “That isn’t your chair. You can go.”
“‘You can go,'" Angel mimicked your words, echoing what you had said to him just now, and of when he dropped by your shop. He giggled. “Bit of a broken record, Frida. Maybe I’m just here to get dinner?” 
You crossed your arms over your chest, tired of Angel’s games, and thinking that Christopher was likely due to return at any moment. 
“Then get your food. If that’s what you're here for, it has nothing to do with me. No reason for you to sit here.” 
Your usually patient nature was fading fast, the ice Angel had bestowed you with in his departure hardening your demeanor into someone he barely recognized. If he had been more himself, maybe that would have been cause for distress. But he was in petty, childish, drunk-Angel mode. The Angel his brother had often chastised him for being. The Angel his brother had laid into him for being after his behavior at the patch party, leaving you to the proverbial wolves while Andres had insulted you. The Angel who was hurt. Who tended to lash out.
That Angel ever-so-delicately chose to ignore your just-left-of-polite plea for him to leave. 
“So, you dressin’ up for dinner with Aneesa? Or … wait… is this a date, amor? You dating? Maybe I’m just tryna to talk to you?” 
A cool hand met your shoulder, a protective arm sweeping over you from behind where you sat. Christopher had reappeared, standing protectively over the back of your chair. 
“And if it is?” Christopher’s voice was smooth, even and deadly-cool in a way that made you shudder a little. 
This was all getting a little “West Side Story” for you. And you had to break it up before something worse could happen. You would not let Angel ruin the first date you had been on since him. Let alone the first decent date. 
“It’s OK, Christopher. Angel was just leaving,” you nodded at him in what you’d hoped was a reassuring manner. For his part, Christopher didn’t flinch at Angel’s antics, and didn’t remove his arm from the back of your chair. 
“C’mon, Frida. I told you, I just wanted to talk. You can’t give me a few minutes?” Angel’s voice had lost its teasing demeanor, bald and glaring. 
You glanced between Angel and Christopher, now thoroughly uncomfortable with the trajectory this night had taken. If Aneesa ever asked, this would be one of the top reasons you’d choose not to date in a small town. Who's dick didn't you step on when you left your house?
You opened your mouth to answer, to politely brush Angel off and resume your date with Christopher, when Christopher surprised you by speaking first. 
“Do you want to talk to him, mama?” Christopher’s arm was still resting reassuringly on your shoulder. You glanced between the two again, unsure of what to say. 
Your pause seemed to be enough for Christopher, taking in the raw emotion behind your eyes as you looked at the slick, kutte-wearing man that was in his seat. Your hesitation and apparent emotion filling in the gaps about just who this person must be to you. 
“Tell you what, darling,” Christopher said, sharp eyes never leaving Angel’s as he spoke to you, “I gotta take a quick call,” Christopher gestured to the sidewalk beyond the glass doors. “I’ll be right out there, give you a few minutes. But if he doesn't leave when you want him to,” he looked directly in Angel’s eyes now, “I’ll be back. I owe you dessert, anyway.” 
You swallowed heavily at Christopher’s words, a kind of sick relief washing over you as you nodded. Was he just that understanding? The demeanour around him had an air of what you would describe as … deadly. While his words were a balm to you, they were clearly a threat to Angel. But maybe that was just you being too dramatic. He was a smooth-talker, is all. 
Christopher took your nod as acquiescence to his compromise, pecking a quick, light kiss to your cheek and striding casually toward the door. The absence of his warm arm now rendering you unpleasantly naked beneath Angel’s gaze. 
“Weeeeeell,” Angel drawled, turning to look over his shoulder, eyes following Christopher as he strode just to the other side of the glass. “That’s who you’re going out with? He. Seems. Nice. Cheerful, too. You sure know how to pick ‘em, querida.”
“Is that really a joke you wanna be making, Angelito?” You sneered. “What the fuck do you want?” 
“I told you,” Angel said lightly. “To talk.” 
You sighed, rubbing your temples, carelessly dropping the napkin that had been resting on your lap on the table, a not-so-subtle white flag. You looked pointedly at Angel, urging him to continue. 
“I meant what I said at the party,” Angel started.
Strike one, Angelito. Mentioning the party was not the way to go. 
“Which part did you mean?” You asked, voice taking on a tinge of faux-sweetness. “The part where your hand practically up some girl’s ass the entire night? Or the part where you let that guy shit-talk my work? Or maybe it was the part where after all that, you cornered me with nobody around to tell me you loved me?”
Angel flinched. 
“I deserve that,” he said. 
Strike two. Too little, too late. 
“You deserve more than that, Angel,” you chastised. “And now you’re still trying to take from me. Date-crashing? You tryna fuck this up for me, too? Haven’t you done enough fucking? So, what is it about me that says you can walk all over me? Why can't you just leave me the fuck alone?” 
Shit. You’d said it at the party, and you were telling yourself again now -- you would not cry in front of Angel. So, why were there hot little slivers poking the corners of your eyes? Your heart felt heavy, sick. It was getting to be a familiar sensation -- like a friend who showed up to crash at the worst possible time. 
The appearance of your tears was sobering to Angel. He reached toward your side of the table in an attempt to brush your hand, to offer you some kind of comfort, even though he was the one you wanted to be comforted from. 
“No, Angel,” you wiped your cheeks and placed your hands in your lap, out of his reach.  “Why aren’t you listening to me? You tell me. How much more could you possibly take from me? There's nothing left,” you shuddered, sucking uneven air between your teeth before gesturing at his state. “I don’t care if you’re drunk, I don’t care if you’re broken. You can’t just walk in here like nothing, trying to tell me the same shit that didn’t land the first time. To what?  To give you my heart back when y-you broke it -- broke me -- first? Is that what you wanted to talk about?” 
Angel was stunned. But, as is the default, Angel deflected. His genuine remorse at your words buried beneath his childish need to lash out, like a child buries toys in a sandbox to spite the friend he won’t share with. 
“That's why you're out with that … What was his name? Chad? Tim? Awfully shiny duds that dude had on,” Angel continued, “He's so… not me."
Strike. Fucking. Three. 
"Possibly one of his best qualities," you snipped, venomously. “But this isn’t about him, and don’t act like it is. You keep trying this thing where you just want me to hear your broken record bullshit about how you want me back, how you wanna talk. But then you don’t say any shit of substance  And you certainly don’t hear a goddamn word I say back to you. That tells me you aren’t really ready to talk. And you don’t give a shit if I’m ready, either,” you bit. “I tried, Angel. To tell you a little bit of what I’m feeling? You don’t wanna hear it. You just want me to hear you -- even if you say nothing.”  
A little flurry of movement caught the corner of your eye, turning your head to see the waiter hovering awkwardly, clearly confused that the man sitting across from you was not the man he had seen you with all evening. 
You pushed back from your seat, standing and beckoning for the waiter to come over. 
"He's got the check," you gestured at Angel. 
You patted Angel’s leather-clad shoulder as you walked past him, toward the door. “Thanks, amor. Real classy of you, paying for a girl’s date, and all.”
Ice cold. 
You walked out of the restaurant as Christopher hung up his phone, turning to see the door swinging shut behind you, and you walking toward him. His sharp brow arched questioningly at your sudden appearance, opening his mouth to ask about the bill. 
“It’s taken care of,” you breezed before he could ask, “Let’s go. You said something about ice cream?” You looped your arm through his as the two of you made your way down the block. 
Inside the restaurant, Angel’s phone buzzed with a text from Coco asking him where the fuck he was, and what the fuck he was doing. 
But his mind was swimming. The verbal truths you’d laid into him wriggling beneath his skin to take residence in the part of his brain that kept him up at night. 
He looked down at his texts again. He honestly didn’t know how to answer. 
---
Then, after a bad night, there was nothing more you wanted than to see Angel, his presence always a balm to your frazzled nerves. His easy, (at times) childlike demeanor was refreshing, and brought a light into your day that you now realized had been long missing before you had moved down here. 
You were sitting on the couch in your living room, feet up on your coffee table, wearing your favorite joggers and oversized tee, the epitome of comfort. 
You had a crappy reality TV show on in the background while you tilted your head back, sheetmask on, the cooling gel seeping into your pores. Cleansing your face and your soul.  
You had texted Angel to come over. After this shit-show of a day, you could use the company. You understood it was late. You understood he may not be able to come over right away -- club shit. And wasn’t there always?
“Hasta pronto, Frida,” his last text had read. See you soon. 
That was over 45 minutes ago. You were antsy. You’d had a long day. Some dude at a consultation had rubbed you the wrong way -- the two of you not communicating your respective ideas together well. The idea that your artist’s brain couldn’t match his vision to deliver something itched at you, wrinkled your brain. You’d had no choice but to refer him to Oli. On top of that, he’d been leery with you. 
Your hands were tired, the fine bones in your fingers aching. And you sure as shit didn’t want to answer any more emails or DMs. You just wanted to lie here, sheetmask on. Unbothered. Your boyfriend’s presence would be a bonus, but he was late.  
Somewhere between your next episode of “90 Day Fiancee” and your umpteenth sigh, you heard it -- the telltale rumble of Angel’s bike making its way down your otherwise quiet street. 
At the gentle rap on your door, you solidified your puddle of comfortable bones long enough to slip off of your couch and make your way down the hall, unlatching it and opening the door, only to be greeted with the rapidly-horrified face of your boyfriend.
“Jesus fuck!” Angel yelped. 
Your body jolted at the shock of his shout, hand coming to your chest. 
“Sorry, Frida, didn’t mean to scare you, but…” he gestured at your face. “What the fuck is that?”
Oh. 
You brought your hand up to where the silvery-grey sheetmask was still resting atop your skin. You sighed, peeling the mask from your face slowly, revealing your dewy skin beneath. 
“Sorry about that,” you chuckled, your heartbeat returning to normal.
You turned and made your way back down the hall, beckoning for Angel to follow, which he did, shutting the door of your place behind him. 
“Sorry about that,” you called over your shoulder as you tossed the mask in the trash beneath your sink. “I kinda forgot it was there.”
“Not for nothing, Frida, but that’s a hell of a home defense system.”
At the question in your eyes, Angel continued, kicking his boots off and shuffling his way into your living room. 
“If any serial killer ever shows up to fuck with you? All you gotta do is answer the door like that. He’ll think another murderer is already here,” at that he sucked air thorugh his teeth like Hannibal Lecter. “Hellooooo, Clarice,” he mimicked, laughing at his own joke and popping the button on his jeans to make himself comfortable as he slouched on the couch. 
“Bien,” you agreed, between a flurry of giggles. “Too many cooks in the kitchen, and all that. Brilliant, Angelito.” 
You popped open your freezer to grab your jade roller, subsequently grabbing Angel a beer from the fridge. 
“Sorry I’m late,” Angel called from the other room. “Club shit ran long. Plus, you sounded kinda down when you messaged me. So I had to make a stop.” 
You peeked into the living room in time to see Angel pull a crinkling plastic bag of mini peanut butter cups from the deep pocket of his kutte, plopping the bag onto the coffee table. “I come bearing gifts.” 
You smiled to yourself in the kitchen, pleased as punch with Angel’s thoughtful gesture. You popped the cap on Angel’s beer, turning to bring the drink to him, simultaneously rolling the jade over your face in your other hand. 
“Gracias, amor,” he accepted the beer from you. “What’s this now?” He beckoned at the roller in your hands.
“It’s to help rub the product from the mask into my skin, plus it’s nice and cold -- keeps my face from getting puffy,” you explained. 
“I don’t understand why you females think you need alla that shit,” he said, taking a sip of your beer, turning his attention to your TV. Not that he would ever admit it, but he was following along the trainwreck of season six of “90 Day Fiancee” with you. Had his own couples he loved to hate. 
“We females,” you emphasized, “just aren’t afraid to prioritize self care, unlike you big, bad bikers. Seriously, Angelito, when was the last time you washed your face with something other than hand soap, or --” you gave an exaggerated shudder to drive home your point, “that shitty 16-in-one body wash/engine oil I know you keep in your shower.” 
Angel gave your shoulder a teasing little shove, ”Man, shut up. I bring you chocolate, and this is how you treat me?” 
Flirtation and sexual chemistry come easy to Angel. He was always blessed with an easy social grace, and women seemed to eat up the flirtatious attention. But anything more serious, and he becomes a blushing little boy, all shuffling feet, nervous smiles and awkward stuttering. There was some of that with you, he wouldn’t lie. But with you? Everything had a way of feeling so natural. 
“Oh, gracias, beautiful, generous, benevolent Angelito, god among men,” your voice was dramatic, teasing, you mocked bowing to him. 
“Okay, that’s enough outta you,” you grabbed your wrist, tugging you into his lap, tracing tickling fingers up your sides, causing you to writhe, shrieking through chiming laughter.  
Angel’s beer long-abandoned on the coffee table, your jade roller now dropped somewhere on the floor, you gazed into Angel’s face from your place reclining across his lap, chest heaving with the exertion of being tickled and laughing too much. 
For his part, Angel was looking down at you, brow softened in fondness for the woman before him, lightly trailing his hand along your cheeks. 
No one was laughing now, and the noise of the TV became an unimportant, staticky hum somewhere in the background to the moment you and Angel found yourselves in. 
You don’t know how you ended up beneath Angel on your couch. You were even less certain just when the two of you had absconded with your clothes. 
All you knew was that the heavy drag of him inside of you was resplendent, beyond words. Was it always like this with him?
And you? You were a brazen little thing, all gasping moans and dragging fingernails, urging Angel on with pleas and fluttering lashes. Your dedication to marking Angel’s back was admirable, and it’s not like he could honestly say he minded. He’d bear the battlescars of a night with you for eternity, if he could. 
As Angel thrust into you, all you could think about -- beyond the heated urgency of the way he was making you feel, was that he was perfect. 
The two of you basked in the after, awash in the blue-white glow of the TV screen still playing before you, skin now slightly sweaty and glistening in its own right, catching your breath together. The synchronicity of it all … music to you. 
You were both unfocused in your respective gaze’s on the television, just content to lie next to one another. Angel was stretched out on the couch behind you, unwrapping peanut butter cups, handing them to you piece by piece. This last one, he had pressed directly to your lips, which you had wrapped around the tips of his fingers, tongue following, as you accepted the candy. 
“Don’t start, Frida. I don’t know that I have the strength,” Angel said, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.
“Just once more, Angelito? You know I’ve had a hard day,” you hmm’d. 
“Evil woman,” he chuckled, reaching for you again. 
“You love it,” you gasped at the feeling of his fingers making their way once more to your center. 
“Yeah,” he rasped, eyes trained on your face as he played your body. “I fuckin’ do.”
Somewhere between rounds two and three, you had managed to talk Angel into wearing a face mask of his own, promising that he would “feel so much better for it.” 
He had acquiesced, of course, never able to tell you no. But made you promise under pain of death that you would never reveal that he had done something so girly to any one of his brothers.
You had agreed, but taken out your phone to snap a quick pic. Angel shirtless, tattoos illuminated against his skin in the ambient lighting of your living room, with a sheet mask on his face was too good not to capture.
“I swear, Frida,” he began, mock-threateningly, “If that ends up on the ‘gram…”
You shook your head. 
“Don’t worry, Angelito. This one’s just for me. And… maybe for Coco, if I’ve had enough tequila.” 
So, the butterflies… Always gonna be there with you, huh?
---
A few days after your date, Coco had texted you. 
“Leti needs a ride to work on Tuesday, and I have a yard shift. I hate to ask, but can you take her?”
“Sure,” you’d agreed. Following up with another message, “Do I pick her up from your place?” 
“She’s coming with me to the yard. She likes to hang in the office with Chucky,” he’d responded. 
Well, shit. 
If you’d known that this favor had come with the condition that you return to the yard -- to anywhere within the vicinity of that god-forsaken clubhouse, you probably would have refused. But you knew Coco was struggling to balance his club life with his relationship with his daughter. And you liked Leti. 
“You got it,” you responded. Cringing to yourself at just how you were going to pull this off and get out of there without anyone else talking to you. But texting Coco back to ask who else was on the yard shift with him would be too obvious. And kinda rude. He knew who you were hoping to avoid. 
Not much got past Johnny “Coco” Cruz.
So, Tuesday afternoon found you rolling over to the yard, hoping to swoop Leti and make a quick getaway. 
Luck, like time, was a bitch of a woman. And never seemed to be on your side in the keen moments you’d hoped she would be. Because as you pulled your car into the dusty lot abutting the scrapyard, who do you see?
Coco, in his snapback and yard uniform, was laboring with a large piece of metal. Ezekiel appeared to be fluttering in and out of the clubhouse, the clinking of glasses from inside reaching your ears when the door opened. 
Angel and … of fucking course … Andres were across the yard from Coco, standing over a junker and exchanging words. 
You sighed, rolling your shoulders and steeling yourself for whatever this was about to be as you got out of your car. 
The sound of your door opening and shutting was enough to draw nearly every eye in the yard to you, Angel freezing in his spot from the other side of the lot
As you began to stride over to where Coco was standing, EZ bound down from the clubhouse steps, intercepting you and greeting you with a warm hug. You smiled easily at the younger Reyes brother, holding your hand up to your eyes to shade your face as you looked up at his smiling face, him already talking to you a mile-a-minute.
From across the yard, Angel observed the interaction. After you’d met the club initially, and met EZ, Angel was content to say that he could appreciate how well you got along with everyone. How well-liked you were by each of the men, especially his brother. 
You two discussed literature, art, and liked to talk shit to each other, friendship in its purest form. Somewhere between Faust and the floodgates, Angel had watched on as you spilled over in your excitement speaking to EZ. Faust and Proust. Did Angel know what -- or was it who?? -- the fuck a "Faust" was? No. But he'd drown himself in literary references that already made him feel over his head if it meant he got to sit back and just take in how well you'd gelled with his family, with Ezekiel. In another life he supposed he'd be jealous that you had so much in common with his brother. But you didn't look at Ezekiel the way you looked at him. 
Even Angel could see it. And if he couldn’t, Coco was quick to remind him. 
“She only got eyes for you, mano,” Coco had told him, quietly, resolutely. 
EZ had left you now, gone back to the clubhouse for something. As you made your way to Coco, hugging him in spite of his obvious hesitance. 
Angel heard him protest against your attentions -- “I’m covered in grease, ma.” 
You’d hugged him anyway. He’d melted into your embrace, smiling softly. Angel had confided to Coco that he had seen you a few days ago on a date. Coco’s eyes had clouded over with something as Angel spoke, but passed through his features quickly, like a summer storm, before clearing. Resuming listening to Angel. The conversation… hadn’t gone well. 
“Back again, huh?” Andres had said from Angel’s side, gesturing lightly to where you stood with Coco. He nudged Angel’s side. “You taking another crack at that?” 
Angel ignored his question. 
“I think she’s here to pick up Coco’s kid,” he said simply, turning his attention back to the junker. Choosing to stay out of the situation, as Andres had left the car and was now striding across the lot to you.
“No hug for me, jaina?” 
You’d frozen in place at the voice behind you, Coco’s quicksilver eyes darting to over your shoulder, where Andres now stood, narrowing at the man’s question. 
You recovered quickly.
“Sorry,” you breezed, turning to face Andres. Noting the way his panther tattoo peeked out from the tank the man was wearing. You would never say you hated any piece you did, per se. But you weren’t about to post this one, wanting no association with it, or the man who bore it. Even if it was perfectly fine work. “Coco really was covered in grease. It’s pretty gross. I think I’m good,” you diverted, nudging Coco’s ribs and smiling to ease the tension. 
Andres shrugged, the blow to his pride obvious in the way his face twisted and his eyes narrowed at how closely you stood to the lithe ex-military man next to you. 
Coco eased through the conversation, patting your arm comfortingly, his eyes finding yours as he spoke, “I’mma go get Leti, OK? I’ll be right back.” 
You were a little distraught at the idea that Coco would leave you with this man, knowing how he had spoken to you before. But you supposed if he could hurry this interaction along and go get his daughter, it might not be so bad. 
“So,” you turned, schooling your facial features into a mask of cool indifference as you faced Andres, who was now addressing you. “We didn’t get to finish what we started the other night,” was all he said.
“Didn’t we?” You asked, tilting your head, nodding toward Andres’s tattoo. “I think we finished. It healed nicely.”
Andres rolled his eyes a little at you, as though you were slow. 
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” He took a step toward you. 
Was this guy for real? Was he not getting it, or did he just not care?
You took a step in kind back from Andres, your anger flaring. “So what did you mean?” you asked. “You mean the bit before I gave you free ink, where you insulted my work? Or the bit after I gave you free ink, where you just insulted me?”
You could see the faint twitch in Andres’s face as you called him out. His patience clearly wearing thin. A man not used to hearing no when it was told to him. 
“That’s what I always liked about you,” he gritted out, smiling fakely, “you got that reaaaal fiery attitude. Not just any guy would put up with it,” he said, as though he was trying to give you advice.
“I dunno what you mean by ‘always,’” you said, politely, your own fake smile screwed into place. “If you excuse me, I’m gonna go find Leti.” 
As you made to leave, Andres lunged forward, gripping your wrist. 
"You really don't remember me?" Andres pressed, "C'mon, chiquita, don't be like that."
"I really don't," you snipped, whipping your wrist out of his grip. You were a little shorter with him than you usually were with people, even in your more frustrated moments. But he really was pissing you off. "Sorry if that's a blow to the ego, or whatever, but I didn't really make it a habit of looking at other guys when I was with someone else."
Andres snorted, tone no longer teasing, eyes dark and flat. You turned to face him again at the undignified sound he had made, noting his cool, angry features. 
"If only that 'someone else' had shown you the same courtesy," he snarled, swatting at your wrist now instead of reaching for it. 
"Hey, man, leave her the fuck alone." You turned to see EZ and Coco striding across the yard with Leti in tow, making their way toward you. Out of the corner of your eye, Angel was also making his way over, shoulders tense. 
EZ turned to you, taking in your crestfallen expression and the way you were suddenly very interested in your shoes. 
"You okay, hermanita?" EZ asked, large hand gentle on your shoulder. 
You nodded, sheepishly. Hating the way you seemed so small in that moment. This man was nothing, to you, or otherwise. And he’d managed to make you feel like you were nothing, too. 
You tried to find your voice again as you spoke, quiet at first, “Andres was just apologizing to me for the way he was rude at the patch party,” you turned to look at him, your eyes blazing now, “weren’t you?” 
Coco snorted. 
Andres narrowed his eyes, glaring at Coco, who held up his hands as if to say, “what can ya do?” 
“Best apologize,” Coco rasped, now pulling on a cigarette that seemed to have materialized from nowhere. “One does not fuck with Frida,” Coco exhaled. “Unwise, mano.” He gestured to you, “She’s got that scary tia energy.” 
EZ’s hand was still resting protectively on your shoulder as you crossed your arms over your chest, waiting for Andres’s apology, now that you’d put him on the spot in front of his brother. Angel watched the entire exchange like a snake coiled to strike.
He knew he had fucked up by not saying shit as Andres dug at you at the patch party. It had been roiling beneath his skin, his blood bubbling and waiting to burst forth. Waiting for a chance to put the fucker in his place.  
“Yeah,” Andres gritted through his teeth, fake smile ready to crack at any moment. “Sorry about that. Too much to drink, and all.” His voice was flat. Devoid of any real remorse, as you knew it would be. 
“It’s alright,” you shrugged. “I hope you enjoy the ink. It’s the last you’ll be getting from me.”
Andres’s eye twitched before the dam broke on his childish rage, “Why you gotta be such a fuckin’ bitch? No wonder Angel fucked around on you -- that smart-ass mouth is gonna get you slapped.” 
He made to step toward you again, EZ and Coco stood before you, protectively, blocking you from Andres’s approach.
But Andres could reach you, Angel had gripped his shoulder, turning him around and landing a punch square to his jaw.
“Man, what the fuck,” Andres swore, spitting a wad of blood at the toe of Angel’s boot. “What the fuck did you hit me for?” 
Angel cracked his knuckles, shaking his wrist and his hand out from the impact of his hit to Andres’s face, readying himself to strike again if he needed to.
“You don’t fuckin’ talk about her like that,” he squared up, shoving Andres in the shoulder. “Listen to me, new patch. I’ll explain the rules -- you don’t look at her. You don’t talk about her. You don’t even think about her.” 
Angel’s shoulders were heaving as he worked himself up more, stalking toward Andres, like a jungle cat, coiled muscle beneath his skin ready to unleash. 
“Nod so I know you understand,” he bellowed in Andres’s direction, pointing a thick finger accusingly into his face, rewarded with Andres's curt nod.
EZ gently removed himself from your side, coming to grab Angel and whisper into his ear, calming him.
“Hey, man,” EZ reasoned, “Now’s not the time. You guys can settle this later. Cage.” 
Angel nodded, breathing heavily through his nostrils and willing himself to calm down as he turned to you, locking eyes with you again, only to be met with an imperceptible look on your face. Had he fucked this up even further now? You had never looked at him like that.
You shook your head, breaking the moment and stepping from behind Coco to go meet Leti where she was standing a comfortable distance away from the whole scene. 
“We gotta go,” you said, hurriedly grabbing Leti’s hand and marching off toward your car with the girl in tow. 
You buckled yourselves in and drove away from the lot in a cloud of dust. Hoping you could just leave it all behind. The further you got from the gates, the easier you could breathe. You drove in silence, as Leti watched you, assessing. Before she broke the silence. 
"We all miss you, you know," Leti said, softly, from her place in the passenger seat. "Just because Angel let you go doesn't mean we wanted to lose you, too. And fuck Andres. He’s a fuckin’ clown."
Leti's words were a wave of molten-hot guilt washing over you, burning your synapses and hardening over any residual anger and sadness you'd felt over the confrontation that had just happened. You knew some of what Leti had been through. How she, so like yourself, was reticent to form bonds with new people. How she'd routinely felt abandoned by those she let herself care about -- and you felt you'd now done the same.
"I'm so sorry, Leti," you implored, looking into the girl’s doe eyes, flecked with amber-gold and layered with wisdom and emotion. Her gaze heavy and so like her father’s. Nothing slipped past them. "I never meant to hurt you, to leave you."
"I-it's just … I miss you, is all," she murmured, twisting her long hair around her finger. "I know EZ misses you. He talks about you all the time. And … and my dad, too. Coco doesn't talk about it alot, but I think that says more than if he tried to put it in words. I know for a fact he misses you. Was pretty pissy with Angel for a while after everything went down." 
You smiled gently, leaning forward across the console to give Leti a soft hug.
“I really am sorry, Leti. I promise I’ll be around more,” you broke the hug, rubbing her arm as you pulled away. “You and Coco are welcome to come over for dinner anytime. I’ll cook for you. Just tell Coco no smoking in the house, cierto? And don’t tell Coco I said so, but you can come hang with me in the shop, if you want. Been slow lately. You can come do homework someplace quiet..” 
She chuckled lightly, nodding and promising to text you about coffee plans as she got out of the car.
You mulled over Leti’s words as you drove away. Maybe cutting everyone other than Aneesa out flatly wasn't the way to go. It's possible you had made a mistake there, though it's not like Leti hadn't confirmed that she understood why you did what you did. And it's not like other people wouldn't have done the same in your shoes. Even still, perhaps re-cracking open the "Angel" chapter of your life had its benefits, if only to once more let in the friends you had made along the way. 
Your departing words to Leti ringing in your ears long after you’d parked at home,
"I'll reach out to the guys more, too," you confirmed. "I didn't mean to leave everyone hanging."
I know you, you're like this. When shit don't go your way, you needed me to fix it.
And like me, I did, but I ran out of every reason.
---
The cracks of the next morning’s light streaming through the slats on his window were barely perceptible to Angel in his haze. The kind of stupor that comes when you’ve effectively straddled the line between two worlds -- Angel reluctantly bids farewell to the gentle caress of sleep, even if it was imperfect and restless; and begrudgingly greets the world of the waking, frowning beneath a heavily-furrowed brow at the grey-orange sun. 
Through the warming beams of light that streamed in isolated splashes across his skin and the bedspread, he could still imagine, half in dreams, that the warmth was you curled beside him, all soft curves, your thigh slotted between his, your sleep-mussed hair, his shirt riding up your form just so as you snoozed, and oh, your sweet, half-awake smiles. But the alternating cool spots of shade from the slats were the chilly reminder of your absence, of the ghost of your touch long gone cold. And as Angel shook himself more evermore awake and into the latter world, he wished he could return to the amorphous and hazy, staticky embrace of his dreams. 
Where life was a little more kind. Where there was a little more you. You were haunting him. Did memories, both experienced in your past together and the hypothetical potential “memories” of an unmet future, plague you, as well? Never to be? Did you dream of him? Or was he your nightmare? He supposed he’d never know, and knew had given up the right to ask. 
Put myself to sleep, just so I can get closer to you inside my dreams ...
It was a truth that was bitter, acrid, and hard to swallow. Or was that just his morning breath? Angel licked his lips, tasting the post-sleep stale dryness on his tongue, pushing himself out his side of the bed and toward the door -- for coffee or his toothbrush, he hadn’t decided. But the need to make a decision was cut short with an unexpected event-- 
A pounding at his door. Three raps from a heavy fist on the other side of his shitty apartment’s excuse for a door.
“Angel!” The shout through the wooden barrier that followed the persistent banging was unmistakably his obnoxious younger brother, come to pester him about what had gone down yesterday. Likely with a peace offering of some sort, as was EZ’s way. 
Angel sighed, rolling his neck to both sides until he was satisfied with the resulting crack, not bothering to tug on a shirt or socks as he padded his way through the cool, empty apartment. 
He fixed his signature scowling look of annoyance that EZ was so accustomed to to his face before swinging open the door. 
One of EZ’s bearpaw-like fists was still raised, fixed to rap against the door again if necessary. The other clutched a carrier with two to-go cups of coffee from EZ’s favorite shop. The one down the street from yours. The one with the cute barista. 
EZ, for his part, looked a little sheepish at the exaggeratedly grumpy look on his older brother’s face, his gilded, mossy eyes widening in a show of good-natured surprise. He recovered quickly, shouldering his way into Angel’s apartment, placing the to-go carrier with Angel’s coffee on his coffee table and flopping on one end of Angel’s couch, the leather giving a groan beneath his weight.
“By all means, bro, make yourself at fuckin’ home,” Angel groused, smacking his lips and turning to swipe the cup of coffee off of the table. 
“You’re welcome,” EZ smarted, eyebrows raised at Angel guzzling the fresh coffee like the heat was nothing. What was it you had called it?
Ah, asbestos mouth. EZ had heard the moniker pass through your lips on more than one occasion and found it to be apt as applied to his taciturn older brother. 
“So,” Angel said between sips of nuclear caffeine. “What? Any particular reason you’re banging on my door at ...” Angel trailed off, clearly unsure what time it actually was. 
“At 11:00 a.m.?” EZ supplied, sarcastically, “You’re right, Angel. It’s practically dawn.” 
“Man, shut up,” Angel groused, “What do you want?” 
“Who says I want anything,” EZ asked?
“This coffee’s got a string attached to it,” Angel shrugged, shuffling over to the couch and sitting a respectable distance from his annoying younger brother.
“We gotta talk about yesterday,” EZ supplied, finishing his sentence over Angel’s exaggerated groan and eye-rolling. 
“Wasn’t the point of yesterday that it’s done, little brother?” 
“Between you and Andres, maybe,” EZ said. “But not between you and me. After that shit you pulled at brunch with Gaby a few days ago, and now this, with Frida...” 
Angel took another sip of his coffee, his annoyance doubling at the increasingly lighter weight of the cup in his hands and at his brother’s pestering. 
“So, what? You wanna try and beat the shit outta me, too?” Angel asked. “Didn’t work out so well for Andres, did it?” 
“Look, Angel, I’m not trying to say I understand why you did what you did, fucking with Frida and Adelita. Because I don’t. And I gotta be honest -- after how yesterday went down, I understand it even less. And Coco agrees with me --”
“Oh, great,” Angel rolled his eyes, cutting his brother off. “You gotta stop going to the Church of Coco, man. What’d he tell you this time?” 
“That you’re fucking your way through your pain,” EZ parroted, mimicking Coco’s signature throaty breeze, “and you won’t stop until you feel something,” he shrugged, resuming his normal voice as he continued. “I don’t know about alla that, but --”
"It was too … domestic," Angel cut EZ off, shaking his head, more at himself than his brother. "Can you really see me with all that shit? Drinking coffee in bed together on a Sunday morning until we're old? Nah, bro … that ain't me. Adelita, the chaos. That's me." 
"It could be you, Angel," EZ protested. "The only person saying you can't have the Sunday coffee life is you."
“I'd just… I'd just fuck it up,” Angel sighed, dropping his forehead into his palm, his elbow on his knee. 
EZ continued drinking his coffee, pausing before delivering the blow. 
“I got news for you, bro,” he said between his prim little sips. “You did fuck it up.” 
Angel tch’d in annoyance at his brother, carding his hands through his hair and smoothing the thick strand that seemed to always threaten to fall over his eyes. For good measure, he tossed EZ that wicked side-eye only that only Angel and his mother had ever been able to truly perfect. 
“You think I don’t know that? You’re supposed to be the smart one.”
Angel takes another pull of his coffee, now just the overly-concentrated dregs at the bottom of the cup, lightly grimacing at the beverage’s bitterness. EZ knew Angel took his coffee black, of course it would be the kind of thing his little brother would remember. But, in truth, given the way this conversation was turning, the literal sensation of bitterness on his tongue was almost too much for Angel to bear. He’d almost preferred it if EZ had forgotten his order -- watered the drink down with cream and (dare he say it?) sugar, and called it a day. Because at least it would be easier to swallow than the harsh truths and bile that were currently stewing inside of Angel, waiting to be given a voice. And it didn’t seem that EZ was in any kind of charitable mood when it came to pulling punches, either. 
Angel took in his brother’s profile from his perched place at the end of the couch: EZ’s legs were spread in a show of comfort, but shoulders tensed, like he was waiting to fight Angel every step of the way, no matter where this conversation was headed. Angel supposed he’d deserved that. 
For as fiercely protective as little Ezekiel was of his big brother, he was -- annoyingly so -- protective of the woman he’d dubbed his hermanita. A soft spot for you, the artsy girl with ink-stained fingers who would press lent books into his baby brother’s hands insistently, all the books you could bear to part with. Always there for Ezekiel with a patient ear and arms that would do their best to wrap around his broad shoulders. 
 Angel was struck again with the heavy weight-- the sinking stone in his gut that -- in theory-- should pull him to the bottom of the river he found himself awash in. Drowning is a sort of grounding, yes? But no… he just drifted further and further down the bank, carried in the foaming rapids by the pressing weight of his choices. In addition to that weight, his guilt prickled. Once again with the realization that his decisions had affected not only his love with you, but your relationship with Ezekiel, as well. How incredibly short-sighted he'd been with it all, playing fast and loose with the lives of everyone he'd loved.
Angel sighed before he spoke again, 
“No one ever tells you, do they?” EZ perked up at that, looking at his brother with his brows furrowed in puppylike-confusion. 
“No one ever tells you just how insecure it all makes you feel,” Angel supplied. “Love. They write a million songs about how perfect it all is -- how it’s supposed to be some kind of divine answer. Birds singing, an’ shit. Or they talk about how it rips your fuckin’ heart out, but they…” Angel pauses to chuckle, “They never tell you how when you’ve got it, you feel both so… happy it’s yours. But terrified at the same time that it never. Really. Belongs to you.” 
He shook his head, meeting his brother’s eyes again, his own swimming with the glimmer of emotion long-kept down. EZ leaned across the couch, placing a warm hand on his brother’s shoulder, nodding at him in acquiescence, encouragement to keep going. 
“I-I know what I did, and I know everyone wants an answer… Why did I do it? Why-why did I let it all go down like that? But what answer would ever be good enough? I hurt her, and that’s the end of it. I was fuckin’ stupid, all because I was scared. I had her, and I knew I shouldn’t have had her at all. And I’m just so fuckin’ … sorry.” 
He sighed, breath shuddering. Opting to fill the now-still air in his apartment with another bitter slug of shitty coffee while EZ pondered what to say in response. 
EZ shifted on the couch, leather creaking beneath him as he weighed what to tell his brother. 
“I- I don’t know what the answer here is, Angel,” EZ finally admitted. “I get that it’s scary. Fuck yeah, it is. But that’s no excuse --”
“I know that,” Angel snapped. 
EZ held his hands up in surrender, placating the red dragon-heat that was his brother’s quick temper before it could rise. 
“I know you do,” EZ spoke softly, “I know, man. But it’s not that simple. You should probably tell her, ya know? What you just told me. But even if you did, she’d be within her right not to hear it. Or not to want to fix shit with you, or take your apology. And you? Gotta accept it.” 
EZ brushed imaginary dirt from the thigh of his jeans before speaking again, 
“Sucks,” he sighed through his nose. “I dunno if I’d be madder at her for taking you back or for not taking you back. But, uh, even if she doesn’t, that doesn’t mean you won’t find it again, Angel. You just gotta decide whether you wanna try here -- and accept the outcome no matter what she decides. You owe her that. But one thing’s for sure … you should actually try talkin’ to her.”
Angel had the faraway look in his eye of a man either deep in thought, or someone not listening entirely, staring through the far wall as EZ had spoken to him. Maybe he didn’t look it, but he’d heard every word, turning them over again in his mind before swallowing them somewhere deep in his gut, internalizing wisdom from someone who was younger than him, but who’d undoubtedly lived through more than most people. EZ was good for that kind of bereft wisdom -- disconnected in its logic coming from someone like EZ, but completely sensical when you understood the depth of the boy’s character and empathy. Not for the first time in his life, Angel was grateful for Ezekiel. 
He smiled weakly at his little brother, acceptance cracking through the little cracked crescent grin, “Mom would’ve liked her, huh?” 
EZ smiled at his brother in return, facile and genuine, as only Ezekiel’s grins could be.
---
I swear, for a while I would stare at my phone just to see your name, but now that it's there, I don't really know what to say…
Across town, EZ had left Angel’s, and the latter, now alone in his apartment and buzzing with EZ's words, was typing a text to you. And here you are … looking down at your phone between gathering your laundry and stacking clean dishes. You saw Angel’s name pop up next to the little text bubble on your homescreen, causing you to pause in your chores.
Huh. Unexpected  Should you open it? 
After everything that had gone down yesterday at the scrapyard, and the shitty attempt a few days prior to fuck up your date-- were you ready now to have the conversation you knew you and Angel were dancing around for the better part of several months? Ready to breach the seemingly impenetrable wall of silence? Feelings like the ones you held for Angel had a way of not being able to stay buried for too long. And you knew you could never truly move on, never would be able to give the icy shards wedged between your ribs and into your heart a chance to heal. Not unless you and Angel got it all out into the open.
And with the circumstances the way they were, with everything that had gone down -- how many women in your position could say they'd had the same opportunity?
How did the old saying go? What three things cannot long be hidden? The sun. The moon. And the truth. 
The truth was, to you, the sun and moon rose and set on Angel. 
The truth was, you had bitten off a few barbs and spat them at Angel in the few moments you’d shared with him since he tossed you from his apartment all those months ago. You weren't a perfect person. But it’s damn well what he deserved, after what he did. You weren’t wrong about that. The fact that everyone, and Angel’s father, were angry at him for the way things had gone down told you that you were not the one in the wrong.
The truth was, Angel had fucked up. Not only with his infidelity and the way he had tipped you from his life, with blunt hands tearing haphazardly at the roots… but he had insulted you, your work, and stood idly by and allowed others to do the same. 
He knew it, and you knew it. And you had both been petty.
But now that the wound was open, and the skin around it raw and heated, pulsing with its own heartbeat -- how could you ever give it a chance to heal if you didn't try to close it?
There was nothing saying that if you read Angel’s message, if you heard him out, and you got the chance to say your own piece, that you had to forgive him. And if it meant moving on? Maybe it was the step you needed to take. 
Like burning a candle to the end. Or, yes, wrapping a wound. Or perhaps like covering an old tattoo. Clara Forever? 
You unlocked your phone, sliding open your texts, taking a deep breath as you did so.
“I just wanted you to know I heard what you said,” Angel’s text read. “I do wanna talk to you, Frida. But only when you’re ready to talk to me. If you ever are. I just want to hear you out. Even if I know you never have to accept my apology.” 
Well. 
You looked down at your phone. You read Angel's text. Re-read it.
You'd be lying to yourself if you didn't acknowledge that everything that had gone down hadn't been building to this. 
 You brought your thumbs to the glass, beginning to type,
"I'm off tomorrow at six. You can come by after."
There. Short, sweet, and to the point.
Your phone pinged in your hand. Glancing down at it, you saw two words in response,
"Gracias, Frida."
"Don't thank me yet."
You put your phone down flat on the counter. 
The truth was, you still loved Angel Reyes. And you weren't sure whether your rage outweighed your ardor. And this scared the shit out of you.
When Angel rolled up the next day at ten after six, you were slightly annoyed. In the beginning of your relationship, he had been incredibly punctual, likely borne out of eagerness to see you. As time wore on, Angel's timeliness waned. At the time, you had assumed it had everything to do with his commitments to the club, and had remained understanding. With the benefit of hindsight, however, you now knew that it likely wasn't always the club. 
You didn't know anything about Adelita, save for her relationship to Angel. And you intended to keep it that way. But a nastier part of your brain was intensely curious. 
Did she make Angel laugh? Was she smarter than you? Prettier than you? She had to be beautiful, just like Angel was beautiful. The thought made your heart ache. 
When she kissed Angel, did she taste your lips on his? Did she know about you now? Did she hold more of Angel's heart than you had? 
If you were more like her, would Angel have chosen you?
You knew you wouldn't ask Angel any of these questions -- what did they always say? Don't ask something you don't really want the answers to? 
You slept easier at night keeping the idea of Adelita just that -- an amorphous, question mark-shaped idea. Knowing Angel's part in it all was more than enough.
Easier. You said you slept easier. Not well. You dreamt of Angel far too often to say you slept well. You dreamt of the feel of his hair between your fingers, both in a gentle and comforting pass, and in the harsh tugging borne of passion. You dreamt of the feel of his warm skin against yours. You dreamt of days spent swimming in the ocean, him lifting you up to twirl you through the water, like a sea sprite, a deity meant to be worshipped. Perhaps most cruelly, you sometimes dreamt of a future. Your memories blended with your dreams at the cruel, twisting hands of hazy sleep. Never to be.
And when Angel arrived at your place shortly after you had returned home from closing the shop, your gut, your brain, and your heart were all writhing in their own respective dances, never in sync with one another, and rendering your nerves completely fried. 
You opened the door, beckoning Angel in. You stopped yourself from moving to help remove the kutte from his shoulders and hanging it by the door, freezing your hands in the middle of raising to do just that, dropping them awkwardly by your sides again.
If Angel noticed, he hadn't said anything.
He shuffled into your place, likely surveying what had changed since he had last been there. To his surprise? Not much. You still had candles everywhere, casting everything in a warm glow. Your overstuffed chairs were still draped in cozy blankets and piled with brightly-patterned throw pillows. The bookcase in the corner of your living room was still packed to the edges, stacks of additional books on the floor at the foot. Your potted green plants made the room look simultaneously larger and smaller. Your dedication to maximalism was admirable. 
You loved what you loved, even if you didn't have the space. In your heart, or otherwise.
Angel breathed in the familiar cinnamon-orange scent that was your place, its permanent residence in his mind sending a zip through his heart. 
You shuffled past Angel, into your living room and making your way toward the kitchen, offering Angel a drink, which he declined.
You shrugged. "Suit yourself."
You made your way into the kitchen, opening a cabinet that Angel knew contained a precarious tower of stacked coffee mugs. Like a personal game of Jenga only you could win, you plucked your desired mug, and closed the cabinet before the dangerous clinking of the remaining mugs could turn disastrous. 
You prepared a cup of tea while Angel stood at the carpeted edge of your living room, unsure of just how comfortable he was allowed to make himself in this space that -- while just as chaotically orderly and distinctly you as he remembered it -- seemed to be purged of any remembrance of him.
Stirring honey into your mug of tea and blowing on it, you watched Angel over the rim of your mug. Watched him observe your space, and waited for him to speak. 
You tilted your head toward the open door of your bedroom, breaking the silence first,
“I, uhhh, I’ve been working all day. I’m just gonna change real fast.” You shuffled your feet into the carpet, padding softly into your room and pushing the door softly shut. 
You slipped out of your jeans and into soft sweats and an oversized tee. Maybe if you felt more comfortable, you could stave off some of the awkwardness. Maybe letting Angel back into your space wasn’t the best idea. 
After changing, you took a moment -- sat on your bed, elbows balanced on your knees and head in your hands … you took a few deep breaths, lit a candle. Your palms felt clammier by the second, knowing that Angel was out there waiting for your re-emergence.
You don’t know how long you were sitting on the edge of your bed, just breathing. Preparing yourself. 
A soft knock on your bedroom door broke your dazed thoughts. You looked up, seeing Angel through the widening crack in the door, fist raised, his knuckle rapping softly on your bedroom door. 
You locked eyes for moment before Angel chuckled sheepishly to himself, shuffling his feet in your doorway,
“I, uh, thought you might’ve jumped out the window,” he chuckled lightly. 
Leave it to Angel to find a way to lighten the heavy mood that had descended upon your space. You managed to crack a small smile, corner of your mouth tilting up just-so in that way he had always found endearing. 
“The thought had crossed my mind,” you shrugged, patting the space next to you, acquiescing to allow Angel to sit. 
He crossed your room, exhaling heavily as he took a seat next to you on the bed. 
Now that you were seated so closely to Angel in the low light of your bedroom, you looked at his face, taking him in. Really looking at him for the first time in months. Trying to ignore the pricking feelings of trauma that were doing their best to bubble beneath the surface and consume you --- had Angel not broken your heart in a manner so like this? Seated next to one another on the end of his bed while he told you, in no uncertain terms, that he was done with you? The thought made a sick wave of nausea wash through you. You wiped your perpetually-sweaty hands along the thighs of your sweats. 
You had survived the last encounter like this, hadn't you? Honestly, what more could he do to you? 
For his part, Angel was silent next to you, surveying the space of your room as he had in your living room. The familiar clutter greeted him -- a stack of books and a coffee mug on your bedside. A sketchbook never too far from reach. The comforter beneath him as pillowy as he remembered. He shuddered a sigh. 
You decided to take conversational mercy on him, 
"Go ahead,” you beckoned. “Say what you have to. But just know I meant what I said at the party. I don't need shit from you. You telling me what you want to say is for you. And when it's done, you're going to give me what I deserve and listen to me. We need to put this behind us. I’m not going to be looking over my shoulder for you for the rest of my life, Angel.” What had started as a murmur grew fiercer with each word.
"That's fair, querida," was all he offered. Your words to him each time you had spoken since the party were evermore forceful. He was used to gentle Frida. It wasn't often that the turn of your tide was leveled against him. Not often he was forced to bear the brunt of your storm when you were upset.
He could see what Coco meant. It was unwise to make you angry 
He turned his body slightly to face yours, looking down at your hands as though he was contemplating attempting to hold one. His fingers twitched where his hands rested along his thighs. Better just to crack the ice, become submerged in frozen water. Take the shock out of it now, even if he wasn't sure where to begin, now that he faced you.
“I”m not really sure what I can tell you that’ll make it better,” he admitted.
You sighed. 
“I’m not looking for you to make it better, Angel. There is no more better. Whatever you want to say, you say it,” you pressed. “We’re past better. We’re not together. you were clear about that. You don’t have to spare my feelings, I’m not your girl.”
Angel flinched, almost imperceptibly, at your last statement.  He knew you weren’t together, knew you weren’t his. Hell, he’d been busy in the months since you’d been broken up. Busy chasing Adelita. Busy with other women when it didn’t work out with Adelita. Busy acting like a jackass with Andres. Busy with club nonsense. But hearing you say that you weren’t his girl? 
It made Angel’s heart ache in a way he wasn’t expecting. 
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he said. At your scoff, he shook his head. “Really. After Adelita told me she was pregnant … I thought it was easier just to let you go. I needed to be there for her, for the kid. Even if it meant -- even if it meant losing you.” 
“Easier for who? For you?” Your voice was soft. You hated that, once again, you felt like the crystalline girl Angel’s heartbreak had rendered you. Worried that the slightest thing would shatter you once more. 
Angel chucked again, but there was no humor behind it. His eyes looked flat, as though he wasn’t really focusing on anything. 
“For both of us, I guess. It’s stupid. I thought if I just -- cut you out … we would both be better. But … that ain’t what happened. I just made us both miserable. I made you hate me. And now ...  She's gone. And so are you,” Angel’s voice was low, cracked. 
The weight of his words, coupled with the gravelly pitch of his voice was making you feel restless, itchy. Grit like pebbly grains of sand you would roll between your fingers on days at the beach, palpable and pronounced.
“A-and,” you interjected, “how did you meet her? When did you meet her?” 
Angel’s eyes darted to meet yours again, finding a swimming emotion he was getting better at putting his finger on. You only looked like that when you were getting lost in negative thoughts, awash in a sad song. Or when he was breaking your heart. He hated that look on your face. Hate that it marred your beautiful features into baleful melancholy. 
“Club shit,” was all he’d said. “We were mixed up in some shit with the rebels. We were helping each other. W-we connected. It just … happened.” 
You whipped your head at that last bit, eyes hardening. Angel’s hands came up, defensively.
“I know. Everyone says that, don’t they? It’s true… and I -- I really didn’t mean to hurt you. When I found out she was pregnant, I thought I was doing the right thing. By her. And by you,” he sucked air in through his teeth before releasing the breath in a huff of air. “I was wrong, Frida. I made every wrong choice, and I’m sorry.”
Angel carded his hands through his hair, tugging the ends lightly in his frustration. “I-- I just been going through some shit lately. And then ... Ezekiel tried to serve us brunch, and I was an asshole.” 
He looked at you, only to meet your puzzled gaze.
“Brunch?” You queried, wrinkling your nose lightly. “Since when are you a brunch kinda guy, Angelito?” 
“I really ain’t,” he said. “And you?”
“I like brunch just fine,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes.
“That’s not what I mean, Frida, and you know it,” he said. “But we can get back to that later.” He took in your loose sweats, the way you had been picking your nails, the bags beneath your eyes. You had looked so beautiful, so perfect and untouchable,  at the patch party the other night. And now -- in your room, all pretense stripped away, Angel could see the real you … behind the professional and put-together front. The tired girl with a broken heart. And he felt the residual ache in his chest that had taken residence left of his heart ever since the day he had put your stuff in a box and left it outside of his door. 
“I know you have something you want to say to me, too, Frida. Your turn. How are you feeling?”
You laughed hollowly, your eyes fixed on the doorway to your room, half expecting Angel to get up and go.
“I’ve been better, Angel,” you deadpanned, swiveling to look at him, and finding him still seated next to you. “Ya know? It’s been a tough couple of days? Between that disaster of a party and whatever the hell went down the other day… but this town is too small for us to just try to ignore each other, and I do like it here.” You rubbed your eyes, the air between the two of you filling with silence that never used to be so awkward.  
“That can’t be all you gotta say,” Angel pressed. “C’mon, Frida. Tell me how you’re feeling. I was… I was awful to you.”
The candle in the corner of the room sputtered, causing momentary, flickering shadows to dance along the walls of your room. Your safe, homey space felt full of shadows and ghosts, words unspoken between the two of you threatening to burst forth, your closet brimming with proverbial skeletons. 
And you were just so tired. And now Angel was pressing you? You weren’t sure if the heat was from your sweats, the proximity of the man next to you, that you had turned up the thermostat too high. Or the fact that you were still so fucking angry. 
“You want to know how I’m feeling, Angel?” You tugged on the ends of your hair, running your hands down the thighs of your sweats once more. Were you always so sweaty? “I appreciate you telling me the truth. Finally. And for apologizing, I guess.”
Tears were pricking at your eyes, the heat blazing in your cheeks matching the heat in the room.  
"But you made me look stupid. Like someone in need of pity," you sucked air in through your teeth. "I fucking hate pity, Angel. It's just misplaced empathy. A useless emotion. And you’d think I’d just wear that mess? For everyone to see? At the party. At the yard. Everyone just feeling sorry for me. For months. Because of you.”
The ache in Angel’s chest intensified. Awash in a wave of hot shame. Was it always so hot in this room? You were right. And weren’t you always? You never were that girl, and he had sent you down the river like you meant nothing, your artist’s hands crushed beneath the washed stones of his choices. He opened his mouth to respond, but you weren’t done, apparently --
“And after everything? The way it went down? You made me feel like … I don’t know … Like you were punishing me,” your voice cracked, sobs and tears imminent through the dam you had erected. “Like I loved you more than you loved me, and you knew it… like you wanted to make me pay for that.” 
“Frida …” Angel turned his body toward yours fully now, closing the space between the two fo you and cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the silvery hot tears that were slipping down your face, sick that he had caused them. Sick that he had even made you think that what you were saying was true. “It wasn’t like that,” he assured. 
“And the shittiest part is,” you hiccuped around your words, “you can’t even tell me give me the comfort of a cliche -- you can’t honestly tell me ‘it meant nothing,’ or that it was a ‘one-time thing,’ because none of that is true, is it? You care about her -- you had a child with her. You love her. And here I thought I could take what you did, take you, fold you up and tuck you away, like a note you pass in school. And I can’t. I just can’t.”
You tilted your face downward now as your tears fell, allowing your face to be fully cupped by Angel’s warm, calloused hands. Even now, you were still amazed at how tender his touch was, despite his rough exterior. All he wanted now was to comfort you, to touch you and bring your eyes to his again. To remind you of his love for you. Once. Now. Always?
“Frida, it wasn’t like that. They were my selfish, stupid choices. Mine. And I was scared. Scared of how much I wanted … everything with you. And it wasn’t right. I told you -- I … been going through some shit.” 
“Scared,” you murmured. Turning your face in Angel’s hands, causing your lips to brush over his fingers. You leaned back, effectively releasing your face from the trace of his touch. 
“Isn’t it remarkable how secure and insecure you can simultaneously feel when you’ve found someone worth loving? I felt it, too. With you  it's now I knew you were the one,” You said. Angel straightened in shock, at how, though you weren’t present for his conversation yesterday with Ezekiel, you parroted his feelings he had confided in his brother back to him. Always on the same page. His full lips pursed as you continued. 
“We can’t keep using what happened to hurt each other. I’m done with that,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m sorry you felt the way you did. I’m sorry you felt like you needed to look elsewhere. And I hope you find what you're looking for,” you hated how soft your voice sounded to your own ears. Hadn't you meant to be forceful, angry? You sniffled. “Because, despite everything that’s happened...  You are someone worth loving, Angelito.” 
"No, Frida," he shook his head softly before looking at you again, eyes glittering. "You are. Someone deserving of more.”
Your breath caught in your chest at his words, taking this moment to look into his ochre eyes once more. You wanted to commit to your memory just how they swirl like melting chocolate and promises in low candlelight.
And, oh. Angel was made to be seen like this, you’d thought. The dim candlelight giving everything in your room a pleasant glow and slightly-blurry edges. He looked like his namesake. And how ironic was that, really? Considering the context of your conversation. 
It's easy these days, you thought, for you to get carried away by your own feelings... While you searched desperately in the emotional rubble for your muse, Angel, the truth of it tore you to shreds with blunt fingernails -- knowing he was  out in the world -- running freely and carelessly. Running away with your imagination. With your hope. With the pieces of your heart that had survived the blitzing storm he had put you through. With the pieces of your heart that had belonged to him. That you feared may always belong to him.  
Looking at Angel now, in the low-lit steadfast luminescence of your room, shadows flickering agreeably across his angular cheekbones. He was sculpted. Made to be admired in perpetuity. Artist that you were, it ached. It stung. The knowledge that your hands were not the ones that had molded him into the man sat beside you. A man molded, instead, by his own choices. 
All you could do was watch as those wrong decisions drifted lazily down the river, only to become a torrent, Angel caught in the current. The waves lapped loudly, sloppily against riverbanks of better judgment, but Angel is never quite washed ashore. No, as you watched, he slipped down the river, out of your fingertips and toward something you're too fearful to quantify. Away from you. 
You want the river to carry him back to you. To home. But you know it never will. 
Angel has two choices now: To drown under the weight of his path this river has wrought; or to swim. 
As you sit beside him in the growing heat of your room, you hope he chooses to swim. Even if it’s not to where you stand. 
"So, is that what’s next?” You asked, wiping your eyes. 
At Angel’s puzzled look, you carried on,
"You're asking for it back," you whispered. “Or you’re going to. My heart? You may not have said it like that, exactly, but it's what you want. Like you don't know how bad it all hurt me, even if you say you know, I don't think you ever will. And even if I wanted to give it to you, I don't know if there's enough of it left."
You wrung your hands together, awaiting Angel’s response. You looked up at him through your lashes, clumped together with the tears that had escaped during your confessional. 
His molten eyes were soft on your form, swallowing before he spoke again. 
“I was such an asshole… to you. And at that stupid brunch … to Gaby. But it was all just … too much. I mean, she was wearing mom’s apron…” Angel shook his head. “And all I could think of … Even with Adelita out there, with her and my boy gone, outta my life… all I could think of was how it should be you wearing the stupid apron. It should be me giving you my mother’s ring. And I was so angry at Ezekiel for having all of that. For having what I wanted … wanted with you.” 
If there was any air left in the room, it was certainly all gone now. All that was left was heat, no air or space between the two of you. Just stagnant air and the weight of words, both said and unsaid. And if Angel had said these words to you more than a year ago? Maybe they would sound different to your ears. Melodious, even. 
Now, all you could think to do was comfort. Ever the nurturer. What else could you do, really, after he'd said that? You shook your head gently, lacing your fingers through Angel’s and squeezing. 
“It’s not that he has something you don’t, or that you can’t have, Angel… What EZ and Gabriela have is what they have. It’s theirs. You’ll have yours. Someday.”
Silence descended upon the room once more. The warm scent of orange-cinnamon from your candle permeated the room, the ever-present heat between you and Angel banishing all thoughts of romantic winter from your mind. 
“I just wanna say, again, Frida… how sorry I am for what happened at the party. For what happened with Andres. It was fucked up of me,” Angel’s tongue passed over his lips. “Did I answer all of your burning questions?” 
You reached over, trailing your fingers over the tattoo you had given Angel what felt like a lifetime ago.  His eyes followed the trajectory of your fingers, his nerves alight at the feeling of your starlit, feathery touch on his skin once more.
"Just one left.” Your eyes locked with his, unwavering. “Who am I to you, really?" You ask, the edge your silken voice had taken on slides beneath Angel's skin clumsily, like crumbling shards of glass. "What did I mean?"
Angel tries not to look at you now. Tries, but fails. His dark eyes meet your downcast ones once more, hates that they are once more glimmering with unshed tears waiting to fall. Hating that once again, he's the cause of the dreary blue tinge shading what should have been your sunny, hopeful worldview. Awash with the sunsets he would take you to see. 
And if there was any time for blossoming truth, for a sprig of rosemary remembrance of sacred feeling, it was now. 
"You're the love of my life," he finally admits, exhaling heavily. "That's just it, ain't it? Always you. And not that I have any right to ask you now -- But I need to know, Frida. Am I yours?"
Any air left was sucked from the room in one fell swoop, leaving you with the stuffy and sticky discomfort of Angel's question and the weight of his heated gaze on you, waiting for something, anything to fall from your pretty lips.
And what a question it was. 
You knew the answer, of course. You reach up to brush your thumb tenderly across Angel’s sculpted cheek, as though you could be the one molding it, nodding before verbalizing your answer,
"You've always been the love of my life. Had my heart. I'm yours, But, I think I know now… that  you were never truly mine. Even if you say it now. You have a heart that's not so easily won, Angelito. That's something I wish I'd learned sooner, wish I could've taken from you… from all of this." 
All Angel could do was shake his head, the crease in his brow deepening at your words. 
"Ever the poet, Frida."
"I thought I was a 'shit' poet?" You teased gently, recalling his words to you when he’d texted you to ask you out for the first time. 
Angel chuckled, the grit and honey in his voice washing over you, a wave of silken heat, his eyes are fixed upon yours intently, leaning forward and bringing his hands to trace along your neck, your jaw, dragging his thumb over the full, pillowy part of your bottom lip. 
“You did win it, Frida,” was all he said. 
The rush of warm, fluttery feeling swam through your body, prickling you like sparkling, popping champagne. Angel’s eyes tracked yours, down to where his thumb was dragging across your lip. Your eyes slipped shut, lashes fluttering. 
You could feel it rushing back. Everything Angel had ever made you feel -- the ardor, the frustration, the crushing weight of the river wild. Heat bloomed across your cheeks and down your chest, between your thighs and through the fingertips that you had brought to grip Angel’s biceps. 
His declaration of love, of melted marshmallow and warm cocoa -- made you crave him in a way you had long thought gone. 
You pressed your lips to kiss the tip of Angel’s thumb. You were rewarded with a reciprocal, sucking in of air on Angel’s part. 
He held his breath momentarily before surging forward and capturing your lips with his full ones. 
You were awash in the memory of every kiss shared with Angel. Of how he’d made you feel in your full-hearted moments together. Rich and full, like morning coffee. Hazy and sweet, like cherry smoke.
Angel’s kiss makes you feel dizzy, fizzing and dissolving simultaneously, like a Mento in a glass of Coke. Volatile and thrumming, both erupting and disappearing so fast, you were afraid you’d never have the chance to process exactly what it made you feel. 
It might be okay, you reasoned to yourself -- if you could hold Angel just for one more night, feel his body pressed against yours. It felt like a good idea in this moment, just to hold him for one  night only. 
Your lips pressed against one another, his hand cupping your jaw trailing back to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging it -- causing your kiss to break. Angel trailed his lips from yours, down and along your jaw. 
Angel’s grip firmed, turning your head further as he continued his attention down your neck, giving you a view of the chair next to your closet where you had haphazardly thrown Angel’s t-shirt when you had worn it last, a symbol of comfort now worn-out. 
You laid back, Angel following, surging over you and pressing you into your cloudlike comforter. His hips rolled into yours, his teeth now scraping gently along the slope of your neck. 
At the gasp you emitted, Angel felt himself harden in his jeans. He'd thought he'd never hear that sound from you again. And replaying the memory of it in his head? Not enough. He rolled his hips into yours again, again, as you dragged your thighs up Angel’s sides, locking your legs around his hips. He trailed warm hand down to caress your breast through your soft t-shirt, leaving a heated trail in its wake. 
“Oh, Angel,” you gasped, rolling your hips to meet his. 
“Can I kiss you like this, amor?” Angel rasped, “I’ll make you feel good.” 
He took in the heat behind your eyes, the kiss-swollen state of your lips when he broke from them. The creeping heat he felt from beneath your collar in his position atop you, and the way your breasts heaved beneath your shirt. 
The thread of resolve you were hanging by seemed to dissolve, leaving you unraveled and threadbare, naked before the man you swore would be your forever. The ache you felt between your legs burned crimson, cloudy and acrid. You tasted Angel’s kiss, tasted him, on your tongue.
You were never more aware of the dimensions of your body than when Angel had his hands on you, tracing and gripping every curve, the touch of places you don't think to touch yourself, strange but pleasurable as you relished in the trace of his rough fingertips against your smooth skin. He slid his hands down your waist, hips and into the loose waistband of your sweats, sliding them down your legs as he went. 
Angel played your body with temerity, a confidence, and before you knew it, your lower half was bare before him. He pushed the soft, loose fabric of your t-shirt up and over your chest, trailing his lips over your now-exposed skin, bringing his other hand to cup your breast, circling the pad of his thumb over your nipple. 
You gasped and groaned beneath Angel’s attention. Gripping at the hem of his shirt, you tugged it up and over his head, trailing your hands down his firm, thick torso. 
Angel was reticent to deprive himself of your touch after not having had it for so long. The touch of your nimble, artist’s fingers trailing over the lines of his body made Angel feel like an instrument being plucked to a tune that made both his and your body sing. He thought he would never feel it again.
 But this moment? This was about you. 
 Angel gripped your wrists, firmly planting your hands next to your head, following the trajectory and leaning over you with his full body. Releasing your wrists, Angel firmly pressed his lips to yours again, his tongue swiping past your lips and invading your mouth. Hot, needy, dirty. 
Ange tore his mouth from yours, his lips trailing lower and lower down your body, kissing your hips, nipping at your hipbone, causing you to yelp and buck your hips.
The action drew Angel’s attention, lifting his lips from your body, his eyes meeting yours. 
“I missed you, baby. Did you miss me? Sweet girl...” His voice was lower than you think you’d ever heard it, dangerously so. 
Bringing his hand down to cup your mound, he traced his fingers through your slick folds.
“Ah-Angel,” you gasped, tilting your head back at the blissful feel of Angel’s touch. As quickly as his touch had come, he withdrew it, causing your eyes to snap open, fixed on him and full of fire. 
“You know how this works, querida. I won’t touch you unless you answer me,” he taunted, the tips of his fingers trailing lightly over where you’d wanted him most, staunch in his refusal to commit to the touch. 
“God, Angel, yes,” You gasped. “P-please.”
Angel rewarded you, prising apart your legs and sliding down your body, tracing a teasing lick of his tongue through your folds, increasing in pace and intensity at the noises passing through your lips.
"I d-do miss you,” you sighed, starting to roll your hips against Angel’s tongue. “I miss the way you touch me… the way you fuck me.”
God. It was hot, the way you talked, the way you gave yourself over to him. 
Stars and firecrackers popped behind your eyes at Angel’s attention, cinnamon heat seeping through your bones, writhing and twisting at the way Angel strung his way through your body. Unable to justify the concept of being left alone, you tugged up at Angel’s jaw, forcing him to look up at you. Met with your wanton gaze, Angel licks his lips at the sight of you and slides back up your body with a grace that defies his size. 
Now level with you once more, he gripped your jaw, turning your head to the side and attacked your neck, your breasts with renewed vigor, grinding his denim-clad hardness against your naked core, the painful drag of the fabric turning pleasurable. 
With your gaze turned toward the wall, you were once again greeted with the sight of Angel’s rumpled t-shirt on the chair by your closet. An object of comfort, threads and strings tying you to a past life.   
What were you doing? Taking comfort in something that you couldn’t, in good conscience, call your own?
The rumpled shirt seemed to be mocking you, taunting you. Reminding you that, once again, you were seeking clinging to something you shouldn't. Seeking solace in things -- people -- that you shouldn't. 
Apart from Christopher's warm, sly, sensational goodnight kiss the other day, Angel's was the first touch you'd experienced like this since, well, Angel… How easy it was to slip back into your feelings for him, get caught up in him.
I'd give it all just to hold you close, sorry that I broke your heart... You shouldn’t be doing this. 
“Angel,” you prised his lips from your body. “St-stop.” 
Angel’s eyes were wild, hair mussed and lips swollen.
“What, querida?” 
“Angel,” you sighed again, sliding your shirt down and coming to sit up. “We can’t be doing this.”
Angel slouched next to you with a huff, trailing his fingers down your arm.
“Why not?”
You sighed. After all this time, the feeling of Angel so close to you was everything you thought you wanted. But everything that had been said? The water beneath your respective bridges? Angel was still awash, had not come to rest on any bank. And you were still waiting on the shore -- now certain that all you would mold from the riverbank clay were memories and half-baked dreams. 
“We’re not together,” you breathed, leaning over the bed to pick up your sweats and tug them back on. “And that’s not what this is. We're too old for platitudes, and happy endings are for children's stories. Whether you want to acknowledge it or not, you know this is wrong.”
“Querida -- I want…" Angel started, before turning away, leaning over his thighs and tugging his hands through his hair… his distress with how he had let himself get so out of control with you was mounting. He sighed heavily, shaking his head.
“What? Angel,” you touched your hand to his still-bare shoulder. “What do you want?”
"A second chance…?" Angel's normally smooth voice trailed at the end, transforming his desire into a question, fading into the silence of the room. He shifted his shoulders, turning his body to once more face yours, but not quite meeting your eyes. 
You let his words hang in silence for a moment, weighing how you wanted to respond.
“Say something, Frida.” 
"I knew you'd say that," you chuckled drily. "I know you, you're like this. But second chances become third, fourth, fifth. I can't trust you. What did you expect me to say?"
Angel opened his mouth to answer before catching sight of the expression on your face, twisted into proverbial knots. Even now, you were being far more gracious than he had any right to expect. He closed his mouth again, sighing.
"I don't know, dulce."
"I do,” you shook your head. “You expected me to say 'yes,' " you reached across the bed to one more lace your fingers through his. "I know you. But what does it say about me that I want to? It would be so like me, wouldn't it?"
You squeezed Angel's fingers tenderly in your grip, awarding him a flickering, wan smile. 
Angel's voice cracked when he spoke again, "Then say yes, Frida. Let me prove it to you. Prove that we’re meant to be together."
"And would you? Would you take me back if I did that to you? If I had someone else's child? While we were together?" 
Angel was silent at that, not having considered the reversal of roles. In truth, though you knew him, he knew you, too. It would be so wildly out of character, how would he have been expected to consider it?
"You think you might, because you love me. But, see, Angelito, I don't think you would. So how can you sit there and say we're two people who are meant to be when we don't even love each other the same? Love doesn't come in pieces, amor. You held my heart in your hands. And you crushed it. Let it crumble into nothing, like sand. Like I meant nothing."
“But this--” Angel gestured between the two of you, eyes lingering on the skin of your neck where his mouth had been, tracing his fingers over your kiss-swollen lips. 
“--Can’t happen.” Tears were rising to your eyes again. 
Goddamnit. Couldn’t you get through one conversation with him without crying?
“Maybe we are meant to be. And maybe we'll find our way back to one another. But right now? I -- I don't think I can. But more importantly, I don't think we should. And please hear me when I tell you how much it breaks my heart to say that."
Your heart was burning, but your skin was ice. Dream, they call desire. And he could hear the heartbreak in your voice. Always stupidly genuine.
Angel was stock-still, and as you took in his prone form, eyes tracing to his face -- you saw a lone tear slip down his cheek, shaking his head. 
"I miss you, you know?" He chuckled, no humor in his soft, velvet voice. 
"I know."
You were in a fugue state, the rumble of Angel’s bike retreating down the street barely registering as you were processing as you retreated to your bed, the room and your sheets noticeably cooler in Angel’s absence. The room feeling too large without him in it.
As you settled into bed, you noticed it -- Angel’s old shirt, still on your chair. 
You hadn’t thought to return it.
---
The following week found you back in the shop, preparing for your mid-afternoon appointment. You had wiped down the table, changed the wrapping, and were now idly jotting as you waited. Thoughts on one person in particular. 
The bell above the shop door dinged, causing you to look up from the poem you were penning on the lime-green sticky you kept a stack of near your work station. 
Your one o'clock was right on time.
And you were greeted with the sight of Angel striding in with two cups of caffeine, offering one two you as he rested his ringed hand on the counter.
“If you want an appointment, you’d better call first. You know what they say about walk-ins. Always risky.” 
Since Angel had departed your place in the middle of the night a week ago, the words between the two of you having had time to simmer and settle, allowing you to process the weight of it all. 
For his part, Angel had given you space. Hadn’t said anything past texting you to tell you he had made it home safely. 
 In the days that had followed, you had cautiously cracked the ice between the two of you, hoping to assuage any awkwardness and rebuild some kind of friendly connection removed from the physical. It was probably better that way. Messaging him idly to ask about his day. Not that you had shared with Angel, but you were also texting Christopher. 
Angel had called the shop, asking if you were available to help him with something he’d wanted to do. Something special, he’d said.
“Something for Ezekiel,” Angel told you. “He’s been through alot lately, with Gaby and the club and everything … been through alot with me lately. Now feels like the right time”
You had, of course, readily agreed. Eager and honored to help Angel with a tribute to his brother. The texts between the two of you changed to exchanges of ideas, you sending him screenshots of your sketches before the two of you had decided on a design that fit. 
You accepted the cup of coffee from Angel gratefully and with a gentle smile, beckoning him behind the counter. Coffee truly was a love language. 
“You can sit in the chair and lean forward, or you can lie on the table. Both are clean. Dealer’s choice,” you said between sips. 
Angel nodded, slugging the last of his coffee and placing the cup down before slipping his shirt over his torso, baring his back to you as he sat in the chair, leaning forward and twisting his abdomen to bare his shoulder blade to you. 
The tawny patch of skin on his shoulder, above the large Mayans tribute that covered the expanse of his back, seemed like the perfect place for something for EZ, the angel (ha ha) on his shoulder and guiding influence in one another’s lives. 
You cleaned and bic’d the area, stenciling your design into the space and getting your kit ready to begin.
Angel watched what he could of you from the corner of his eye, a resonant ache blooming through his chest at the familiarity of this scene. Of you, all business, touching his skin, preparing to impart a piece of yourself that he would wear on his body for the rest of his days. 
You queued up your playlist, the sounds of motown flowing through the shop as you hummed along idly. 
In this moment, Angel knew … he was still in love with you. Likely always would be. You had been far too gracious with him, as you always were -- in the way you had treated him the other night. No mention of your “almost” encounter, for which he was grateful. And he knew he was correct in his assessment of you when you had first started dating -- it was in your nature.
“You mind?” Angel broke the comfortable silence between the two of you, gesturing at the journal-like sketchbook you had left near your station. 
You shook your head in acquiescence, “No. But it’s kind of a mess in there lately,” you acknowledged. “Shit poet, and all.” 
“You’re never gonna let that go, are you?” Angel barked a laugh. “I didn’t insult your poetry, Frida, you did.” 
“Ever the self-deprecating, starving artist,” you sighed dramatically. 
Angel took that as his cue, flipping through the pages of your book. One page felt particularly heavy beneath his fingers. He flipped to it, to be met with dried, pressed flowers that had been delicately glued to the pages, the page covered in a plastic slipsheet -- the dried, dusky pink of peony petals were affixed to the page next to a swath of a white, lacy-looking bloom. 
Around the flowers were sketches of hands that looked suspiciously like Angel’s own, down to the tattoos, and idle lines of poetry. 
Angel furrowed his brows as he glanced at the flowers again.
“You got those flowers for me,” you acknowledged, looking over his shoulder to see the page of your book he had settled on. “One of our first dates, when we went to the park. I’m not sure if you remember.”
Angel’s throat caught in a way that both annoyed and unsettled him. How were you always doing this to him?
“Recuerdo, Frida,” he breathed. “Lo recuerdo todo.” 
You patted his arm gently, resuming your work. 
“I like pressing flowers. It takes a while, but the end result is worth it.” 
You pinched your brows in concentration as you drew along the stenciled lines you’d previously etched into Angel’s shoulder blade, gun buzzing. You began to fill in the minimalist rising sun that was now filling the shoulder blade, stippling the interior as you went, the effect giving the sun an almost stucco-like finish that looked breathtaking against Angel’s golden skin. 
Angel allowed you to continue you work in silence, the weight of the past few days with you settling into his bones. He had pleaded with you, endeared himself to you so much that he had lost his voice. His bones filling with the words he wished he could verbalize. 
He was slowly arriving at that place of acceptance -- Santo Padre was a small town. He would see you. And it appeared that you could now stomach his presence, but he wouldn’t push his luck. Seeing you alone. Hell, even seeing you with someone else, was better than not seeing you at all. 
But once thing was clear -- you were someone who would always be in his life, his memories, his heart.
Angel was lost in his thoughts; you were focused on your work. The only thing that gave any indication as to the passage of time in the room where you two found yourselves was the evolution of your playlist passing through tracks.
Isn’t that how it always was with Angel? Time stood still. 
As you finished his tattoo, you snapped a quick pic for your work Insta -- and maybe, selfishly, for yourself, to admire, too. It’s true, what you had felt all those months ago, and again a week ago -- Angel Reyes was your muse. 
Made to be admired in perpetuity. 
You cleaned and wrapped it, pushing back wordlessly from your seat and making your way to the front as Angel gingerly tugged his shirt back over his head. Quoting the rate over your shoulder, you put Angel's aftercare bag together. But not before slipping the lime sticky in.
“Is that it?” Angel asked, arriving at the front counter, kutte once again in place..
“C’mon, Angelito, you know you get the friends-and-family rate,” you shrugged.
"And is that what we are, querida? Friends?” Angel's voice had none of the bravado it held when he had first spoken these words to you the day you'd met. Now it was cotton soft and carefully tinged with hope. He leaned over the counter.
You shrugged again.
"I guess we'll see, won't we?" You tilted the corner of your lips in a gentle, wan half-smile. 
"One day with you, and already friends again?” Angel breezed. You shrugged lightly in response, as he continued, “Or maybe the day after that? A man can hope, Frida."
“You know what they say, Angelito,” your voice was soft, but he’d recognize the teasing lilt anywhere. He’d heard it so often at the breaking dawn of your relationship. Kindness, with a hint of subtle flirtation. It was just how you were. “Hope springs eternal.”
Angel nodded, tossing a few bills on the counter and gently rapping his ringed-knuckles against the counter, a he was wont to do. He smiled gently at you, all glimmering white teeth and high cheeks. 
As Angel walked away, head down and focused on his phone now as he headed out the door and toward his bike, you watched him leave. Your elbow on the counter and head propped in your hand. 
You wondered when Angel would discover the sticky, recalling the words you had written on it. 
my stark moments of clarity between hazy and woebegone memory (thanks to spilled red wine) -- are still marked by the firm hand of your bruising ardor.
Your phone buzzed, breaking you from your reverie as you looked down at the name flashing on the screen, an easy grin blooming across your features.
“Well, hey,” you greeted. Unable to keep the happy chirp from your voice at hearing from him again so soon.
“Hey, mama,” he greeted in that smooth, throaty rasp of his you adored. “You busy later?”   
---
Tagging: @cinewhore @superhoeva @blessedboo @rebeccasficrecs @themarcusmoreno @joannasteez @justanotherblonde23 @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @huliabitch @ifimayhaveaword @flightlessangelwings @phoenixhalliwell @aerolanya @djvrins @jenrebloggingfics @steeeeeeeviebb @ciriswife @witching-hour @lo-la-bu-ro @doloreschanal @rosieposie0624 @diaryofkali @skyesthebomb @artsymaddie @helli4nthus @xonickibaby @melancholyy-hill @jeonsblackgf-writes @dyke--grayson @pettyprocrastination @moonlight-prose @velvetmel0n @luckyharley1903 @miss-nori85 @ticosas @withmyteeth @chibsytelford @whatupitshuff @themusingofagothicsoul @the-purity-pen @belowva @mayansxlover @emmaveale123 @maddie-georges @kijahslove @supertiffybee @jettia @spnaquakindgdom @abysshaven @starrynite7114 @thesandbeneathmytoes @cyarikashakira @calif0rnia-lovers​
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nehswritesstuffs · 2 years ago
Text
and Grogu makes three
So, @sweetbraveclara asked for Whouffaldi and adopting Grogu and I got enough material together to post something, but I don’t know if this is all I’m gonna fart out or if there’s more coming. It’s just sort of there--no real plot cohesion. Just scenes for this other unholy union of fandoms—what is wrong with my brain lately lol
2387 words; if y’all want a great stop for fics go read Azertyrobaz’s stuff they’re pretty great; I refuse to apologize for this what are you talking about; implications abound that Star Wars doesn’t exist in the Doctor Who universe, or if it does, then Yoda and Grogu are from a very different type of species; I didn’t know how much of a weird niche “writing children” is until I started writing myself and yeah dang the writers of The Mandalorian really spoil us don’t they; less adoption and more being an excellent pair of sitters
Clara finds that one of the Doctor’s old friends is calling in a favor: and is using it for babysitting. [scenes of Twelve, Clara, and Grogu]
-_-_-_-_-_-_-
“So… um… what is it?”
Clara looked at the creature nestled in the the Doctor’s grasp and raised an eyebrow. They had been traveling together long enough that she knew him better than to just bring just anything into the TARDIS, but at this juncture, she was at least mildly concerned that he’d lost his marbles. It was a tiny thing bundled in rough cloth that fit in the crook of his arm, with green skin, large black eyes, and long, pointed ears that made his head thrice the size with how they stuck out so far.
“It’s a child.”
“It looks like it came out of The Dark Crystal.”
“You’d be surprised what a young Mister Henson was exposed to,” the Time Lord shrugged. The Child glanced up at him and blinked slowly. “I might have promised someone I’d take care of him.”
“Him? We sure it’s a him?”
“Probably. It’s only temporary. Besides, I thought you were on sabbatical.”
“I’m on sabbatical so that I can make it not look like I haven’t aged in the past fifteen years,” Clara frowned. Oh, yeah, the little side effect of breaking the Chronolock. “Who even gave him to you?”
“Old friend calling in a favor,” the Doctor replied, a bit too cagily for Clara’s liking. “I’m probably the best sitter for him anyhow, since the wee thing’s only, what, fifty-five?”
Clara blinked. “Come again…?”
“Oh, you know, what better sitter for someone in foreign dimension than another being who has a long lifespan?” Clara folded her arms across her chest, decidedly unimpressed. “I thought you liked kids.”
“I do like kids, but you just signed us up for one for who-knows-how-long, without consulting me first.”
“…like I said: an old friend was calling in a favor.”
“…and how old is this ‘old friend’ that is the crux of this entire situation?”
The Doctor thought about that, gnawing idly on his forefinger as he did so. “Forty-seven?”
“You know what…? I’m just gonna… leave that there,” she said. Clara’s nose crinkled as she nodded and turned to walk away. “I’ll just… erm… be in the library for a tic, alright?”
Once she was gone, the Doctor glanced down at the child and shrugged. “Normally she’s much more enthusiastic about small creatures. Must have caught her on a bad day.”
The child gurgled—not that it minded at all.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-
It wasn’t that Clara was cross or anything like that—no, it was the Doctor’s ship, and he could bring anything or anyone on that he liked—but she was a bit irritated that she was not consulted prior to him bringing a child on board. The kid was cute, yeah, but she wasn’t entirely certain as to what it was, let alone anything else about it. She wasn’t positive as to the relationship it had with its foster father either, or how the foster father knew the Doctor, and that lack of knowledge meant that she remained more cautious than anything else.
Luckily, the Child came with its own pram, a sort of future-chic one that looked more Jetsons than anything, that hovered about and took it places on its own. That meant that the weird eggy-shaped thing was following the Doctor around the TARDIS with wanton abandon, and no one, no where, was truly safe.
“No, your father’s ship is quite different, I can assure you,” the Doctor explained. Clara was relaxed on the upper deck of the control room, leg hooked over the armrest as she read Jane Eyre… well… it was more like pretended to read Jane Eyre as she kept an eye on the Doctor and the Child. “It runs on a completely different theorem.” The Child cooed inquisitively. “No, it has nothing to do with hyperspeed, nor wrinkling time and space. It’s more of a ship that can navigate the current inherent in the vortex in a sort of multidirectional path.”
“I thought you said he’s, you know, not even three years old for his species,” Clara mentioned, raising her voice just enough so he could hear her. “What makes you think he can understand quantum physics?”
“One can never start too young,” he defended curtly. “Grogu is an avid learner.”
“Oh, he has a name now?”
“He’s always had a name.”
“You are doing this on purpose.”
“I have no idea what you mean.” He leaned in closer to the pram, shielding his face with one hand while gesturing with the other, dropping his voice to a whisper. “She’s usually a lot funner than this.”
“Funner is not a word!”
“See? This is why your father left you with me.” The Child giggled and Clara attempted to go back to her book. Jane was first meeting Adèle, which she really did not appreciate given her current predicament, yet soldiered on. Before she knew it, the Doctor was standing next to the chair, the Child and his pram hovering just nearby.
“Yes…?”
“I was thinking about maybe going off on an adventure… a wee picnic on Gatling-VI, a moon completely covered in gardens?”
“You are trying to butter me up, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.” He couldn’t help crack a slight grin. “Do you? I’m thinking we’ve got a few of these ahead of us in the coming while.”
“…and whose fault is that?”
The Child let out a squeak, which seemed to scandalize the Doctor.
“What language!” he gasped, trying to look more scandalized than impressed. “Clara, you hold onto him while I go and fetch the basket and blanket.” He shoved the Child in her arms and scurried off with the pram, leaving the two alone together.
“Your dad must be desperate or something,” Clara deadpanned. The Child didn’t object to that, and instead wriggled until she put him down on the floor. “What’s the matter? You don’t want to follow the Doctor, do you?”
Silently, the Child shuffled across the upper deck, reaching a low-hanging bookshelf. He grabbed the spine of a thin volume and tugged, pulling out the book with ease.
“What do you have there?” she asked. The Child lifted the book above his head, wobbled slightly, then shuffled back to her, presenting his quarry. She plucked it from his grasp and read the title. “‘Twelve Little Banthas’? I take it you want me to read this?”
A grunt—of course.
As it turned out, twelve little Banthas were playing in the snow. One heard a whistle and he had to go. The watchmaid shook her head and looked at the herd.
Why do little banthas insist on playing in the snow?
The Child glanced up at Clara as she read the line, completely serious in her inflection. The definition of a bantha was still a bit fuzzy on her end, and the Child gave her a look only matched by other small children questioning why their adult does not know basic information.
“Hey, I’m trying by best here,” Clara frowned. The Child only grunted—oh, she saw how it was.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-
Gatling-VI, as it was, suited their needs disturbingly well for a quick outing with a relative toddler. The Doctor and Clara were able to find a spot to spread their things out and they all ate their lunch without much incident. While they were cleaning up, the Child watched as Clara pressed a kiss to the back of the Doctor’s jaw, letting out an inquisitive noise.
“Oh, well, you see,” the Doctor stammered, face growing red, “sometimes, that’s just what people do. Your father has no one to do that with, so I’m not surprised you haven’t seen it…”
“Did he just question why I kissed you?” Clara wondered. The Doctor shrugged.
“His father is raising him on his own—there’s no one.” The Child made a noise, indignant, before going back to sipping his tea. “Okay, there was a woman once, but they never did that.”
“Why would they never kiss in front of you?” she asked. The Child put down his drink and tapped the sides of his head.
“He belongs to a sect that doesn’t take their faceshield helmets off in front of other living things,” the Doctor translated. “It is a bit extreme to most, but it doesn’t hurt anyone else and comforts him, so that’s what he does.”
“Oh… that must be a treat,” Clara deadpanned. She watched as the Child picked his tea back up and shuffled across the blanket, dropping into the Doctor’s lap. “You must be one of his favorites—complete opposite of Dad.”
“Complete…? Alright, you lost me.” Both the Doctor and the Child looked at her curiously, making her stifle a laugh due to how they tilted their heads in the exact same way at the exact same time.
“You’ve got one of the most expressive faces I’ve ever seen, and his father’s doesn’t change by being a helmet,” she explained. “Don’t tell me that’s not two completely different kinds of things to deal with.”
“Oh, that makes sense.” The Child drank more tea and his ears wriggled slightly. “At least it’s my eyebrows that are the expressive thing.”
“Uh-huh,” she chuckled. She finished packing the basket and laid down on the blanket, allowing the sunlight to warm her from above. “We should come here more often.”
“You like gardens?”
“I like not running for a change.” She closed her eyes and relaxed, only to hear some shuffling coming from the Doctor’s direction. “What are you up to?”
“You seem to have a good idea,” the Doctor admitted. She looked to the side and saw the Doctor laying down, the Child looking perturbed that his seat was now unavailable. “A kip won’t be bad.”
“Come on then; you too,” Clara said, pulling the tea away from the Child. She placed it atop the basket and laid him down between her and the Doctor, so as to block him in. Once he was down, she closed her eyes again and continued to nap…
…or, at least, she tried to, until she heard a slurping sound coming from between her and the Doctor. She opened her eyes and saw that the Child was drinking his tea again, even though there was no way for him to have gone around that quickly. Raising an eyebrow, she took the tea away again and replaced it atop the basket.
“It’s time for a nap, got it?” she warned gently. She laid back down again, only for her to catch sight of the mug float its way over her body and into the Child’s waiting hands.
Of course he could do that.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-
The pram stood there empty, not necessarily blocking the TARDIS’s corridor, but still made it annoying to get around. She placed her hands on her hips and inhaled, then exhaled, slowly. How had it only been two hours since their outing?
“TARDIS? Where the blood hell are they?”
The lights hummed—on the ship. Ha, cheeky answer.
“Where are they within your labyrinthine confines?”
That was a sufficient enough question and the TARDIS’s baseboards glowed, showing her the path that would presumably bring her to the Doctor and the Child. She followed it, the pram following her in turn, going down several twists and turns until she found them in the kitchen, with the Doctor giving the Child a bath in the sink.
“Oh, and what’s this?” she asked. He didn’t turn towards her, but shrugged.
“Got a bit of gunk on ourselves,” he said. She hugged him from behind, relishing in the fact he was only in a t-shirt on his upper half, presumably for the safety of his sleeves. “It looks like the frog didn’t agree with his constitution.”
“When did he eat a frog?”
“On Gatling-VI—you weren’t looking.”
“This is what I get for travelling with aliens,” she sighed. She looked around the Doctor’s arm to see the Child sitting in a mountain of bubbles, looking at the curiously as he scooped some up in his hand, looked at them, and closed his hand in order to squish them. He tried to shove a bunch in his mouth, but the Doctor redirected it with what looked like an extremely practiced motion.
“None of that,” he chided. “I don’t know what your father does to clean you normally, but here we don’t eat bubbles.”
“Maybe they are edible for him?” Clara offered.
“They’re not.” He began to scrub gently behind one ear, then the other. “I’m fairly certain that he is not able to digest soap any more than you or I can.”
“I tried,” she told the Child, who giggled in response. “Don’t think this means I’ve forgiven you for the tea.” She then looked at the Doctor, who was busying himself with tiny toes. “Why did you leave the pram in the middle of the corridor?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, it didn’t follow us?”
“No, silly, it didn’t. It’s difficult to look this attractive and then not lose points because the self-propelled pram refused to follow you.” With the Child clean, she watched as the tiny creature was lifted out of his bath and plopped onto a fluffy towel sitting on the counter. The Doctor wrapped him up in it before draining the sink and rinsing out the tub. As he did that, Clara dried the Child off, getting him to giggle more. “Mmm… maybe his father needs to have an adults-only job more often.”
“Possibly.” He bent down and pecked Clara on the lips. “I think I can take it from here.”
“Nope—Auntie Clara has this one,” she teased. She picked up the Child and held him close, with him grabbing hold of her shirt as she did so. Giving the Doctor a smile, she stepped back a couple paces and turned around, heading for the door.
“I knew you’d like him.”
“Uh-huh.
“I’ll be in the study.”
“Better have Twelve Little Banthas ready.” She tickled the Child as she carried him out, loving the shriek he gave. “Before we do that,” she whispered to her charge, you’re going to get that box the Doctor’s been hiding from me on top of the wardrobe, got it?” The Child’s eyes got wide in curioisty.
Okay, she wasn’t cross even in the slightest. He was a pretty cute kid to have around, after all.
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