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who-knew-a-sheep-can-write · 8 months ago

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Sympathy For Wolves: Werewolf!Blackwatch!Cole Cassidy x Fem!Reader

Chapter 6: What Big Eyes You Have

Contains needles and blood in this one!

“You can’t tame what’s meant to be wild, doc. It just ain’t natural.” ~ The Howling

It was dark, nearly pitch black outside save for whatever light the moon gave off. She hung above the two of you, sitting fat and happy in the sky, the pale white light barely illuminating the woods around you both.

He could smell how wet the woods were, the fresh rainfall on old and mossy trees and the mud squelching beneath your pairs of military boots muddled his nose. He was craving a cigarette, for the stench of tobacco to clog his nose and distract him from the woods standing tall around him. He felt caged standing in the towering evergreen, they cast odd shadows into the small clearing you both found yourselves in. His throat burned for a cigarette, swallowing thickly as he dream of being able to light one up right now and compromise whatever mission it was that they had to send the two of you out on together - a rarity but it had happened twice now.

He could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance, the sky lighting up in the east as thunderclouds rolled away from you both, leaving you two cold and wet, shivering out in the middle of the woods alone. The wind still blew harshly, shaking branches and threatening to take down the smaller trees completely. Hell, he even had to keep a hand on his hat to keep it from blowing off of his head.

Cole turned to look at you. Your normal blue and white Overwatch uniform was muddy and torn a bit from the snagging branches. The flowing coat almost every higher up Overwatch agent got was all snagged and torn, leaving you barely anything to keep warm or shelter you from the rain that had just fallen. You were probably soaked through to the bone, you shivered and held your gun tightly in both hands, your tired eyes keeping watch at the trees. Your hair was messy and your face even had some mud and scrapes on your cheek and chin. You were drained, not really able to keep up in case something did happen yet you still kept worried eyes on the trees. You looked terrified and you looked miserable.

Why the fuck were you two even out here alone and with no supplies? Hell, not even a damn compass. Cole turned around a bit, looking at the skyscraping spruce trees and how they blew roughly against the wind. The winds were howling, the trees looked as though they were going to snap at any moment should the winds become too rough. He couldn’t even make out stars from where you both were, the dark clouds still loomed over but they were peeling away. Cole tried to fumble in his pockets for his communicator.

The communicator he and Genji had weren’t as fancy as the ones Reyes had or the medical one Moira was given, it really was just a glorified flip phone from the early parts of the century just reused for them to probably save money. He felt the familiar box in his pocket, managing to pull it out and flip it open. The screen was cracked but it still relayed the holo-image of his boss. Pressing the button to dial Reyes just sent it to an unavailable tone.

Cursing to himself, Cole tried again and again and again. The unavailable drone the communicator gave off only raised Cole’s heartrate.

He tried Captain Amari, praying that the saint of a woman would pick up. Scrolling through and finding her image and pressing dial seemed to work at first, giving in two rings of a dial before cutting out and giving you both the unavailable drone.

Angela? Angela had to answer. There was no way he would even call Moira for help, even if it was life or death. Cole pleaded for the angel to pick up only to be met with the unavailable tone immediately.

Genji’s contact did the exact same thing. Reinhardt and Lindholm’s didn’t even let him access a call and Oxton and Sojourn left him on a long-going dial tone.

He was becoming desperate, running out of people to turn to and call.

Morrison! Morrison had to answer. He absolutely had to. Cole clenched his jaw, ready to take an ass chewing verbal beat down Morrison was about to put him through for fucking up the mission and getting lost in the woods with you with no supplies and blah blah blah. Pressing the button dialed. He kept his eyes glued to the little holo-screen with its cracked glass. He was pleading internally to the holo image of Morrison’s overdone Overwatch portrait with all of his medals pinned to his chest.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four rings.

“We’re sorry. The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service.”

“Fuck!” Cole sneered at the communicator. Turning back to you, he could see you frantically going through your own communicator, a desperate look on your face too. Your communicator was a fancy Overwatch model, fancier than the one Reyes had despite being the leader of Blackwatch. It had a better tracker on it, but it was seemingly useless right now as neither one of you could get ahold of anyone. You were flicking through the ones he had just tried, calling them and getting the same responses. You tried other agents he had never heard of, you got the same endings. You even tried Moira despite feeling the same way about her and got nothing. “Nothin’?” Cole questioned, shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Nothing,” you shook your head.

“Let’s just keep walkin’ then. Gotta hit somethin’ somewhere.”

You looked back down at your communicator in defeat before pocketing it and following closely behind Cole, basically right against his back.

Cole kept his eyes open, glancing around at the endless maze of trees and bushes with no sign of life or light. No animals running around trying to find shelter from the storm that just passed, no little cottage to try to take refuge in and keep warm.

“… -her.”

Cole halted in his tracks, you stopping right behind him. You pressed yourself against his back, you were absolutely shaking by this point, clutching the back of his chest plate.

Did you hear it too? It was so quiet anyone could have mistaken it for an odd gust of wind.

Glancing behind his shoulder, you didn’t to have heard it, instead, you were trying to make yourself as small as possible to save heat.

“… -ll her.”

There it was again.

Was it the howling winds? Maybe whatever animal out in the woods was crying out? He’s heard that foxes and cougars sound like a woman’s scream before, but nothing like animals talking or anything. He’s heard of what the Overwatch moon base is doing with animals, but no reports of this on earth.

Cole slowly reached his hand down his holster, gloved fingertips slowly curling around the handle of Peacekeeper and slowly pulled her from her sheath. His tired eyes stayed on the trees, watching for any movement that would either prove he was going mad or prove that you two are not alone out here.

His eyes scanned the woods, moving past one gnarled tree to the next, looking over bushes and past twisting branches until he felt his blood freeze.

His eyes had landed on an oddly shaped bush, the branches and leaves in the middle split apart just enough to reveal a familiar haunting sight. It was like something ripped straight from a comic.

Two yellow eyes, glowing faintly from the bushes, pupils dilated so small they got lost in a sea of gold looking right at him.

Feeling him tense up, you pulled back a bit to see what was wrong, still trembling cold behind him. He felt sick to his stomach, dizzy all of a sudden as he couldn’t help but stare at those golden eyes. It was almost like he was in a trance.

Whatever it was suddenly stood from the bush, Cole’s face going pale as it towered before him. Familiar claws, a maw full of sharp teeth ready to maim someone.

But it wasn’t the one who attacked him.

This one was bigger, broader, it looked like something that could take down someone far bigger than Reinhardt.

An arch of lightning lit up the sky, bleeding light into the woods and showing just a bit more of the beast. Various shades of brown fur and scraps of simple jeans and a red flannel loosely hung off of the beast’s bulky form. The one that had attacked him was pitch black, it was lean and tall with little defining features. This was not Talon’s new pet project.

It snarled at him, claws flexing and teeth bared. Cole tried to back up, nudging you to do the same only for him to hear it again.

He heard it clear as day this time.

“Kill her.”

Everything was a sterile white around him. There were no specks of dirt to be found in the office and it was freezing in here. Cole scrunched his nose at the strong chemical smells that stung his nostrils. Despite the room being just as big as Angela’s office, it still felt claustrophobic in there, he felt like he was suffocating. He sat quietly on the examination table, eyes trained on the “good doctor” before him. There was something else in here than made him want to just run out of here, there was an odd feeling at the back of his throat, almost like he was having an allergic reaction to something. He feared that if he spoke up, Moira would get the idea to make sure exactly what was wrong in the worst ways possible.

Moira sat on a rolling stool, one lanky and very thin leg crossed over another, eyes trained on her computer as he scrolled through, punching orders for blood and whatever horrible experiments she was about to do to him. He heard about her time at the Oasis University, how she was kicked out, about her little rabbit “farm.” He didn’t want the mad scientist coming anywhere near him within a ten mile radius, but sadly, Angela was too busy to take him and he needed one last exam before he could go out on missions again - he had no choice. Either be examed by the woman who probably melted plastic and metal into ant hills as a kid or be reamed by Reyes for putting it off for so long.

Cole held his breath as Moira kept putting in orders, she would take occasional glances at Cole before going back to type away. She made no conversation at all with him since he stepped inside. He didn’t honestly know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. It probably would be best to just keep his mouth shut, get it all over with, and then be done with it all.

Moira suddenly stood up, the printer below the computer spitting out a couple of pages of stickers, probably for vials of blood and such. She stalked over to one of the pristine white - why does everything have to be white in doctor’s offices? - cabinets and pulled out six thin yet long vials and then dug through a drawer for a new needle as well as a band for his arm. She dragged over a small stand with a tray. Cole went to roll up the sleeve to his left arm only for Moira to leave it on his right, Cole gave her a look that he knew she didn’t see as she went to retrieve the stickers for the vials.

Cole glanced around the room some more, not wanting to look at the sadist before him for long, wanting to just get out of here as fast as possible, even if he has to play along with her cruel games. It was when Cole looked at the tall bookcase by the door did he notice a couple of books poking out just a bit more. Squinting, he could only make out one of the books in English, the rest seemed to be Irish or some other language she knew. The ones that had caught his attention were on the bottom shelf, books of myths and fairytales and creatures. Cole raised a brow but didn’t question it, not wanting the back-alley doctor before him to go into a medical lecture about whatever sick thing that she was concocting in her head. It was when she turned around with the empty vials all open that Cole suddenly felt unease settling in his stomach.

She set the vials down for a moment before picking up the elastic. She tied it tightly around Cole’s right bicep, the gunslinger’s nose twitching as he tried to not sneer at her for picking the arm he shoots with to draw blood from. He winced as the elastic bit into him, digging through the thick material of his Blackwatch uniform. She produced a small alcohol wipe, cleaning his inner elbow, the cold and wet square was dragged across his warm flesh so slowly that it made him want to just get up and leave, especially when she dug her nail in just enough to scratch at him.

He normally didn’t mind needles, he was poked and prodded a lot when he was brought into Overwatch originally. Angela had done so much bloodwork and given Cole so many shots that he swore he would’ve been immune to any and all diseases. Hell, he has plenty of tattoos too littered all over his body (some of which he does plan to get lasered off pretty soon, especially the Deadlock tattoo on his left forearm) so he didn’t really have an aversion to needles medical or not.

But with Moira? He wanted to pull back and kick the needle from her ghoulish hands and get the hell out of hell.

Instead, he took a deep breath and kept his eyes off of her, knowing she would try to do something to make him tick.

He felt the needle prick into his arm and puncture through his vein. He didn’t feel the blood flowing but he felt the metal inside of his stretched elbow and the rubber still tight around his bicep.

Moira worked over him, filling each vial with his blood quickly. The doctor herself reeked of chemicals too, matching her sterile office and medbay.

“Tell me, are you having any strange cravings?” she piped up, focused on filling the vials still.

Cole cocked a brow and glanced at her. Was this some sort of tactic to get him to look at her so she can put him in even more unease?

“No,” was all Cole gave as an answer before looking down at the floor.

He started to count the pristine white tiles, getting to twenty when Moira suddenly pulled the needle out and stuck a bandage on the puncture. She snapped off the band and cleaned up the vials.

“Any odd or out of place dreams? Nightmares maybe?” she asked as she disposed of the needle and waste.

Cole swallowed thickly. He was about to confirm the odd nightmares he’s been having ever since he woke in Angela’s medbay and how it was all about that creature and how there was a new one in the dream taht had awoken him this morning. He kept his lips sealed, he didn’t want to give her any information she could use.

“No.”

“I’ve heard of your little bout with Commander Reyes in the range yesterday,” she tutted. “Are you noticing any other emotional bouts besides anger?” She plucked each individual vial up one at a time and placed them all into a little carrier for them. “Maybe hunger? Are you suddenly more happy at times?” She placed the last vial in the carrier and gave him a look. “How is your little play thing? Y/n, isn’t it? One of Morrison’s little worker bees that I’ve seen you around with? Feeling more lustful than usual, Cassidy?” she hinted towards him, giving him side eye.

“That ain’t any of yer business,” Cole sneered, cutting off her next possible question.

Had she heard what you both had done last night? You both were rather loud, he was shocked nobody had come to pound on his door or shout at him to quit fucking and being loud. Something made his skin crawl at the thought of Moira being alone with you, it burned him on the inside just thinking about the things she could say or do.

“I’m just doing my job,” she feined innocence, puffing out her thin chest with a false sense of pride. “That creature that used you like a squeaky toy could of had hundreds of diseases. I’m only worried about my team.”

She had turned back to her little stand with the computer and printer and pressed a few more buttons, the printer spitting out a few more pieces of paper that she folded up and put in the carrier. She had a look on her face that Cole knew all too well, the look that she always gives him when she is about to really get under his skin and make him squirm.

“You could of had something like rabies! That has a one hundred percent kill rate you know. Or maybe a staph infection with all of the oozing blisters you can get? Maybe even a pasteurella infection, if under the right conditions it can cause necrotizing fasciitis where you skin will start to die and turn black-” Moira stopped, almost as if another idea popped into her sick and twisted head. She turned to look at him sitting very uncomfortably on the hard examination table. “How are the bite marks? Last I saw they were a bitter black around where that thing sank its little teeth into you.”

She stepped closer to him, this time Cole started to feel caged.

“All healed up, no need to worry about em anymore,” Cole stood his ground.

“Are you sure? Do you want me to look?”

“No.”

Moira stood before him, eyeing him with a small smirk on her thin lips. It felt like the room got suddenly colder, the hairs of Cole’s arms stood straight up. His shoulders tensed and he clenched his jaw.

Sensing the negative vibe Cole was giving off, Moira simply chuckled.

“There’s no reason to fear me, you simple thing. I ask these things to make sure.”

“Make sure of what?”

“You could still be infected.”

What did she say? Still? As in he was infected with something before?

“What?”

Moira’s brows tilted up, it dawned on her that he wasn’t properly informed on the entire situation.

“Why else would you have been out for nearly nine days upon coming back here to the base? You had a constant fever that could have killed you should your body suddenly reject medicine, you weren’t responsive to most treatments, your wounds remained opened where Angela’s nanobots couldn’t even close them. She thought you had rabies, we all did until you suddenly started to heal. And just like that, you woke up. Your little girlfriend played nurse for you for about a week or so and now you’re walking around getting into scraps with the Commander like you weren’t knocking on death’s door within moments of your life.” Cole stayed quiet throughout her little rant, the entire time Moira kept her eyes on him, looking over at the spots where he had been initially wounded. His shoulder, his hip, his ankle. “So that begs the question: What was it that mauled you?”

Cole swallowed, his throat dry all of a sudden as he kept his eyes pinned on Moira in case she did something.

“I don’ know,” Cole muttered, hoping it would have been enough for the woman before him to back down.

Moira’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly, the so-called doctor grabbed at the carrier of the vials and headed to the door.

“Wait here, I’ll only be a moment to run the tests,” the “doctor” stated sarcastically, almost as if she knew Cole was going to book it the second he knew she was long gone from this room.

He watched with stern eyes as she turned and left, the doors sliding closed behind her. He waited a minute or two before he stood up from the very uncomfortable examination table.

He first went over to the bookshelf he had been eyeing at earlier. It was tall, reaching from floor to ceiling. Half of the height were opened up shelves, the bottom half was a cabinet where the doors were locked. Looking at the bottom shelf a lot better now that he was close, he could see that the books were all mostly old, coming from nearly one hundred years ago according to the faded gold stamping on the old leather bindings and spine. Most came from the 1990’s, the ones written in Irish coming from before then.

The books were all filled with notes poking out of the top, colorful little tabs just peeking out just enough for someone to flip to their respective pages. Cole pulled out the thickest book and open looked at the cover, the bindings were roughened up from nearly a century of being used, leather faded and had lost most of his brownish-red tone, the marbled printing of the leather now faded to be smooth. The stamp of the name with still legible though.

‘Monstrology of the Old World’

Cole couldn’t make out the name of the author but cracked open the book just barely. He flipped to one of the pages that had a note sticking out of the top, the old book’s spine snapping and crackling as the old glue popped from the sudden movement. Cole was met with a photo, a drawing from centuries ago according to the scripted date. A man was on his hands and knees, a limb in his mouth as mutilated bodies surrounded him. The man was hairy, his clothes had been torn all over, his beard and his hair made some sort of mane and his eyes were wild. Most of the text underneath the photo was faded, mostly the name of the artist, but Cole could make out the word ‘werewolf’ amongst the faded ink.

He felt a prickle run down his spine as he turned to another page to see another drawing from around the same time as the first. A man sitting with an expensive looking cloth wrapped around him looked furious, a dead infant before on a silver platter as the buildings in the background were set ablaze. There was another man, fleeing, but he was changing to look like a beast. A canine snout, wolfish eyes and ears at the top of its head.

He felt compelled to put the book back, sliding it back into its place just as he found it so Moira wouldn’t know.

There were multiple other books in the row exactly like the one he just flipped through.

‘You could still be infected,’ he heard Moira’s words ringing through his head.

He swallowed hard and turned on his heel, walking away front the shelf behind him.

He couldn’t be, right? There was no way! This was all just a series of unfortunate events.

As Cole passed the door to Moira’s office, he couldn’t help but stop in his tracks. It was almost like he had been possessed. His back straightened, his eyes opened up more, and his senses sharpened. He turned to look at the door; it was a large iron door that seemed to be unlocked when he glanced down at the pad.

He could smell something coming from behind the door. It smelled… natural? Something natural in a room that was anything but. It cut through the harsh bleach and chemical smells Moira had used to scrub everything just a little too clean that it would grate at anyone’s nerves. He knew she hated the false scents candles and air fresheners gave off, and she never kept plants around like Angela did to spruce up her office.

What was that smell?

Cole chewed on the inside of his cheek for a second, debating on if he wanted to enter her office. Would he end up like one of those poor rabbits she liked to experiment on? Or maybe something worse? Or who knows - maybe Moira secretly likes to garden in her spare time and has something alive for once in her private office?

The longer he stood before her door, the more the smell tempted him. He could feel the minutes dripping away slowly like honey, each second that slipped past only thinned his control and made his decision only tougher.

Curiosity killed the cowboy, Cole pushed the small button on the bottom of the pad by the door and it slid open quickly. Cole was met with Moira’s office cast in the darkness. Flicking on the lights, he felt unease as he took in her office. It was nearly all white save for a couple of grays here and there as well as the Blackwatch logo sitting painted on the front of her desk.

There were no plants or decorations in this room either, instead, the walls were lined with lines of bookshelves, each having a locked glass door in front, allowing Cole to see what lied inside of each. It was mix of books and binders towards the front of her office by the door, but towards the back held more disturbing things. Medical “equipment” he was sure nobody used anymore, plenty of preserved skulls and bones in containers, and a whole lot of medical jars filled with dead animals floating in a pale yellow liquid. Cole swallowed, wanting to just turn around and leave, turn the light off, close the door and leave Moira’s medbay before she got back just like she knew he would do.

But the smell stopped him. It was stronger in here, smacking him in the face. He couldn’t find anything at first glance. It was only when he took a few steps deeper into her office did he notice something towards the back against the wall. It was hidden behind her desk chair at a first glance inside: A small metal cupboard, the door just barely cracked open not even an inch. Cole slowly rounded her desk, standing before the small cabinet before crouching down.

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing on edge. His nose was starting to tingle from the smell to the point where his nose hairs felt like they were going to shrivel.

The smell was pungent, woody and natural. It smelled moist and dark, like a forest right after it rained.

Cole slid his fingers between the slightly opened door and the metal face of the cupboard and slowly opened it, revealing a small potted plant beneath a now-dead lightbulb. The plant was tall, tied to a small stick to keep it straight. The flower’s petals hadn’t yet bloomed, the buds were a vibrant purple though. The buds were dropping, the stem was a bright green. It looked well-taken care of, meticulously groomed and all.

The smell was heavy now in his nose, adding onto the frosty weight Cole felt in his gut as he was in the office of the person he trusts the least in the whole base.

Cole’s breathing became uneven, his mind went hazy all of a sudden. He felt a slight stinging in his eyes, causing him to stand suddenly go to rub them with his gloved fingers. As he stood, he accidentally bumped the cabinet door closed, the metal clunking in place. His eyes felt like they were going to start burning as if he was about to stare at the hot desert sun for too long.

The stinging suddenly stopped and Cole was able to keep his eyes open again.

He felt dread suddenly wash over him. He needed to leave.

He retreated from Moira’s office, making sure to close the door and turn off the light before he left.

It was when he was about to reach the door to the main hallway did something else catch his eye. The full-length mirror on the opposite wall, he just so happened to have looked at it before he was about to leave.

He froze dead in his tracks, fear prickling his skin like millions of needles.

His irises were yellow.

He had to be hallucinating. Whatever that plant was had to be making him hallucinate.

Walking over to the mirror, he rubbed at his eyes and stared at them in the reflective glass. They were yellow, faintly giving off a glow. His pupil was retracting and dilating quickly as he started to panic inwardly.

The door suddenly swung open behind him, thinking it would have been Moira, Cole didn’t move. He froze in place, waiting for her sarcastic response.

“Cassidy, there you are!” Reyes’ voice cut through the thick silence. “Care to explain what you fucking did to one of the punching bags a few days ago?”

Cole felt his heart pounding in his ears as Reyes blocked the door, probably with his arms crossed over each other and a look of heavy disappointment a father would give to his misbehaving son.

“Boss, I-”

“Look me in the eye, Cassidy.”

“Reyes-”

Cole tried to move away from the mirror when he heard Reyes’ feet coming towards him, but his boss clapped a hand on one of Cole’s shoulders and spun him around to face him. Reyes’ scowl turned to pure shock at the sight of Cole’s eyes, proving he wasn’t drugged and hallucinating.

He felt icy claws rake lines down his back, fear welling up inside of him as his mind screamed at him to get the hell out of dodge.

Cole booked it out of the room, leaving Reyes more confused than ever.

#overwatch #cole cassidy #cole cassidy x reader #cassidy x reader #mccree x reader #jesse mccree #werewolf!mccree #werewolf!cassidy #werewolf!cole cassidy

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the-hinky-panda · 2 years ago

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Vanishing Act (Kevin "KJ" Jimenez Fic)

Title: Vanishing Act (Part I of II)

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Kevin "KJ" Jimenez x Fem! Reader

Summary: You've lost everything: family members, your job with the US Marshals, your life, all because of one man: Lincoln Potter. When you get word that he's put a hit out on one DEA Agent Kevin Jimenez, you decide maybe you might get an ally in your quest for revenge. You just have to keep both of you and KJ alive until you can get your revenge on Potter.

***

Kevin Jimenez was never a lucky man.

He was intelligent, detail oriented, dedicated to his work but luck had nothing to do with it. It certainly had nothing to do with the current state of his life, that was for certain. Two years of borderline obsession with the Galindo cartel that resulted in divorce papers from his wife, custody arguments about the kids, and for what? If luck had played a part in his life at all, then at least he would still have his job after all that.

But Kevin Jimenez was never a lucky man.

That is, until today.

He has no idea how he managed to stand in the middle of his living room, bullets ricocheting off the walls, pictures, and decorations, and not so much as get nicked.

Larry Bowen, on the other hand, is not so lucky.

KJ is still standing in the middle of the room, no place to go for cover. Bowen is dead, two gunshots to his chest. EZ Reyes is to his right, Angel Reyes directly in front of him, and a third figure, a woman, dressed in black to his left. All three have guns pointed at each other. All he can do is hope his luck holds while the three armed assailants work this macabre interaction to its conclusion.

“Put the fucking guns down!” the woman shouts.

“You put your fucking gun down!” Angel yells back.

EZ takes a shot at her, clipping her shoulder and she returns the favor, plaster from the wall next to his face exploding with the impact of her bullet. Angel raises his gun in KJ’s direction but the woman fires again, this time hitting Angel’s gun and knocking it from his hand.

“Fuck!” Angel shakes his hand from the shock of his weapon being hit. “Who the fuck are you?”

Your eyes are zeroed in now on EZ, who’s crouched low by the wall in the kitchen. Slowly, he takes his finger off the trigger of his gun and holds it up. You do the same and every one takes a breath. The three of you don’t move any closer to each other but you all do holster your pieces. Now that the immediate danger is over, the adrenaline surge that KJ felt with the instinct of fight or flight and he could do neither finally explodes.

“What the actual fuck is happening?!”

Both EZ and Angel are suspiciously quiet. It’s you, to everyone’s surprise, that answers.

“Potter put a hit on you.” You motion to the two brothers. “My guess would be he hired these two bargain basement thugs to do it.”

Angel shakes his head. “‘Bargain basement?’”

EZ’s jaw ticks. “I was more offended by thugs.”

KJ feels the sharpness of the betrayal of the hitmen being family in his chest.

“Either way,” you continue, “Potter wants you dead for some reason, which means it’s in my best interest to keep you alive.”

KJ swallows. “You want Galindo? The Cartel?”

“I want Potter.”

It doesn’t surprise him that the odd ADA has made enemies along the way in his career. There’s a story behind the venom you use when you say Potter’s name. This isn’t about saving him at all. It’s about using him as leverage. And as much as that would have infuriated him in the past, staring down the barrels of three guns and a dead boss have altered his perception somewhat.

“Look,” EZ says, “whatever deal you have with Potter-”

You hold up a hand. “Let me stop you there. Because I can tell you all about the deals that Potter makes. I guarantee that one or both of you are looking at a lifetime sentence in jail which will magically go away if you put a bullet in this man’s head. And if you don’t, you’re going to suffer, your family is going to suffer, and no one is going to have a happily ever after.”

“What are you proposing?” Angel asks.

You take out a set of car keys and toss them at Angel. “I have a car sitting three blocks over at the back of a dead end street. It’s set up with a pipe bomb underneath it with a remote control, the garage door opener clipped to the visor. There’s already a body in the front seat, same height and weight as your target. And I’ve already planted his ID and some other belongings in the car.”

Angel looks at the keys. “Why didn’t you just blow it before you came here?”

You raise an eyebrow. “I wasn’t sure if I was going to need to add a couple more bodies to the car before I blew it.” Your eyes land on Bowen. “Glad I waited. If you’re worried about an investigation from the coroner blowing the cover, don’t. I’ve already paid him off to say it was Agent Jimenez.”

“You’re CIA.” The realization leaves his mouth before KJ can stop it. Your efficiency, your thoroughness, your resources all point to Black Ops level type shit. But you’re here by yourself, that much is obvious. If you had a partner, they would have been involved in the firefight. They would help with the body. You’re rogue.

“Something like that.” You state it with finality before turning to Angel and EZ. “Potter’s going to show up here to look over your handiwork in about twenty minutes. I suggest you get this poor son of a bitch out to the car and blow it before he arrives. Whatever deal you all had will still be honored.”

EZ looks over KJ. “And what about him?”

“You’re going to forget all about him. He’s my problem now.”

***

Apparently, two hours into the drive up the coast, KJ realizes he’s not the only problem you have. That “clip” of the bullet from back at the house is still bleeding. He’s been watching the red stain grow, soaking the fabric of your black shirt and even spread to the upholstery of the driver’s seat of the Jeep Cherokee that may or may not be yours. If that wasn’t concerning enough, the thin sheen of sweat and pale coloring of your skin definitely is.

“You should let me drive.”

You scoff. “You don’t even know where we’re going.”

“I would if you tell me.”

“Not going to happen.”

He sits back in the passenger seat. “Of course not. You’re just going to pass out from blood loss in another hour and run us off the road. So glad I survived the hit to die in a fiery crash somewhere near San fucking Bernardino.”

“Are you done?” You shift in the driver’s seat trying to position your injured arm on the center console so it has some support. “Thought you would be a bit more appreciative of me saving your ass back there.”

“Only to kill us both out here.”

“Fine.” You jerk the steering wheel and pull the car over to the shoulder of the highway and slam it into park. “You want to drive, have at it.”

You climb out of the driver’s seat, cradling your injured arm against your chest as you stalk your way around the car and stop at the passenger side. Before you can change your mind, he climbs across the console and slides into the driver’s seat. He sits back and feels your blood start to soak into his shirt but there’s no way for him to stop that from happening. He supposes this is the price he has to pay to survive the car ride. You clamber into his vacated passenger seat with an angry, yet tired, huff.

“So?”

You roll your eyes. “So, what?”

“Where are we going?”

“North.”

“How far-”

“North,” you repeat before leaning your head back and closing your eyes.

North it is. He pulls back on the road and drives for the next two hours in silence. Whenever there was a cross road or interchange, he took whatever direction that was north. The gas light turns on somewhere around Bakersfield and he pulls off the highway to a gas station right by the exit. He pays for the gas, pumps it, uses the restroom and you still haven’t moved from your slumped over position in the passenger seat. When he returns to the driver’s seat, he pokes your leg, gives your elbow a slight shake and you come to, mostly.

“Where…”

“Bakersfield,” he answers.

You look around the gas station that he has yet to pull away from. It’s the middle of the night, hard to see any details past the bright service lights of the station. Your tired eyes squint, trying to see into the darkness, trying to see whatever threat may be lurking out there. “We have to keep going.”

“Why?”

“Away,” you slump back against the seat. You’re weak from the blood loss, and still very pale. Your eyes are having difficulty focusing. “From Potter.”

“I thought you wanted to take him down.”

“Take him down, we need to go up.” You laugh weakly at the statement.

You’re not making much sense and with his life completely topsy turvy at the moment, KJ needs you and all your faculties. He reaches over and lays his hand on your forehead, like he used to do for his kids. You swat it away haphazardly but thankfully you don’t feel feverish. “Alright, we’re stopping for the night.”

“No!” You sound like a petulant child.

“Yes,” he states firmly. “You need medical attention and rest.”

“No hospitals.”

On that, he had to agree with you. “No hospitals. You have a first aid kit in here?”

“Yeah.”

“Cheap hotel it is then.”

Your head falls against the glass of the passenger side door with a thunk. “Sure know how to show a girl a nice time, Agent Jimenez.”

He pulls back out on the highway, wanting to get past Bakersfield proper, and find something out of the way on the outskirts. “Guess I’m not an agent anymore.”

“Guess not.”

He presses his lips together, grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. He supposes he’s not a lot of things anymore: agent, husband, father. All those things are in the past, dead and blown up on some dead end street in his neighborhood. There’s only one thing that he still has, that’s still his. “You can call me KJ.”

He waits for you to give him your name but you’ve already passed out again.

***

You’re quite pretty. The early morning light paints your skin in a soft, hazy glow. Your hair is still mostly pulled back into a ponytail but strands have escaped and curled around your face. But KJ is certain the most attractive aspect at the moment is that you’re still asleep in the front seat of the car. You’re quiet, not angry, snapping at him with sharp sarcasm with a nihilistic edge.

You’re at peace and you’re lovely.

He sighs as he opens the passenger side door and rests his hand on your shoulder. Your brow furrows in your sleep but you keep sleeping so he squeezes your shoulder until your eyes flutter open. Immediately you’re on alert, sitting up straight and trying to take in your surroundings.

“Where-”

“North end of Bakersfield somewhere. Come on, I got a room for a couple hours so we could get that gunshot wound under control. Get some rest.”

“I’m fine. Bleeding’s stopped by now.”

“Yeah, well, it still needs to be bandaged.”

“We need to keep moving. We need to keep going north.”

He’s tired, bone tired, weary of dealing with one clusterfuck after another. He needs a break, a block of time to reassess the situation and come up with a plan. “Well, I need a fucking moment to breath. You said you need me because Potter wanted me dead. If that’s true, you’re going to fucking follow me into the hotel room. Let me patch up that wound and get some real sleep before moving forward.”

“Look, I know the DEA-”

“You don’t know shit!” he snaps. “You don’t know shit about me, about what I’ve had to fucking sacrifice for this fucking case! You probably don’t even know that those two ‘thugs’ that showed up to kill me were family.” He feels tears stinging his eyes. “Mi familia. Mi sangre.”

You don’t back down, but you do soften a bit. When you do speak, there’s no harshness to your tone. “You’re right. I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”

It’s a hollow victory but he’ll take it at the moment. He goes to the back of the Jeep and takes out the two duffle bags, slinging his bag over his shoulder and carrying yours. When he comes back to the passenger side, you’re standing next to the car but have a death grip on the door. He can see your muscles shaking from the effort to keep you upright. He slips his free arm around your torso and is surprised that you don’t protest. Perhaps you know just how bad a shape you’re in at the moment.

You lean on him for the short walk across the parking lot and then follow him into the room under your own power. It only lasts until you make it to the small wooden chair. The hotel room is basic, bare bones, but it looks relatively clean. He still pulls the comforter off the bed before putting the bags down on it.

“Where’s the first aid kit?”

“It’s in my bag, towards the top.”

He unzips the worn, leather bag and finds a smaller bag, equally as worn, sitting on top of clothes. He carries it into the bathroom and opens it up. There’s a good sized bottle of rubbing alcohol and he uses that to sterilize the counter and sink. He sees you in the mirror, leaning on the doorframe and unbuttoning your shirt. Well, trying to at least, as your hands are shaking from the injury and its side effects.

He steps over to you and immediately starts undoing the buttons himself, concentrating on the task and the reasoning behind it. The sooner he can patch you up, the sooner he can sleep. He expects you to swat him away, determined to do this intimate act yourself, but you don’t. You just lean back and let him do it, helping only when he starts to peel the semi dried fabric from your injured arm. He also expected your fire to come back, that ice cold determination to see your mission through but it hasn’t. You’re still leaning against the door jam, right shoulder and arm bloodied, clad in your jeans and simple black sports bra.

You look tired, weak…soft.

He turns and reaches for a clean washcloth, soaking it in the alcohol, before starting to clean the blood from your arm. “So you’re not CIA.”

You hiss and jerk your arm when the alcohol runs into the wound but still your movements. “What makes you think that?”

What makes him think that? He certainly can’t say the truth, that you lack the hard dissociative edge that he’s seen before in CIA agents. You’re staring at him through the haze of pain but you’re very much reading his expression. So he throws out the question that’s been plaguing him since he left Santo Padre.

“Why didn’t you just kill Angel and EZ?”

You take in a deep breath through your nose and release it slowly. “Because I know how Potter works. The people he sends to tie up loose ends are just as much the victims as the people they kill.”

He couldn’t argue with that statement.

“You’re right,” you say. “I didn’t realize they were related to you. How?”

“Second cousins.” He scoffs. “Not like they were my brothers.”

Something akin to pain, but deeper, passes through your eyes. It happens so quickly, he thinks he may have imagined it.

“And I’m not CIA. I’m a US Marshal,” you confess quietly. “Well, was one at least.”

He’s cleaned away most of the blood so he can see the wound. It certainly isn’t a clip, the bullet went completely through the muscle of the underside of your bicep. It went clean through though, but the bullet wound is still oozing blood and will continue to do so until it’s packed and bandaged. “Let me guess, witness protection?”

“Right again.” You glance down at the wound. “Guess it was more than just a clip.”

He pulls out cotton, gauze pads, and bandages, laying them out on the sterilized sink counter. “Spoken like someone who’s never been shot before.”

“My line of work we tried to prevent situations from getting to that point.”

“Sounds like you were successful.”

“Until I wasn’t.”

He wonders if he’ll reach a point when he’s able to talk about this clusterfuck with the succinctness and resignation that you just did. But you’re talking and that’s something he wants to encourage. The more he knows the better. “So how did Potter fit into that situation?”

You’re quiet for a moment. “You almost done?”

And just like that, the conversation is over. He wraps the bandage over the cotton and gauze and fixes it in place with a metal clip. “Done.”

“Thank you.” You pick up your bloodied shirt and toss it in the trash. “Are you hungry? There’s a Burger King across the street.”

“No,” he starts cleaning up the bandages. “I’m good. You?”

You shake your head. “Maybe after some sleep.”

Which brings up another issue. There is only one bed out there. By the time he repacks the first aid kit, you’re already under the sheets and balanced on the right edge of the bed. He debates taking a shower, getting into a clean set of clothes, and then laying down but it all seems to be too much of an effort. Instead, he lays down on top of the sheets and stares at the cheap, popcorn ceiling. He listens to your breathing, wondering if you’re just going to stop mid-inhale from the blood loss. IF he’s going to have to take you to the hospital for an infusion and proper stitches. But you don’t. And soon, he finds himself being drawn under the blanket of sleep listening to the steady exhalations of you next to him.

***

When KJ wakes up, it’s completely dark in the room. He listens for your breathing but doesn’t hear anything. There’s nothing. No sound, no movement, no warmth.

“Fuck.”

He turns on the light next to him and braces to find your dead body. But you’re not there and somehow that’s worse. You’ve left him stranded in northern Bakersfield with no car, no new ID, and fifty dollars in cash. What exactly did he expect though? He has nothing on Potter, less than nothing in fact. His entire career in the DEA has been completely erased. The sight of his office being stripped and torn apart still makes his stomach churn.

There’s nothing for him to do until he figures out where he’s going to go and how he’s going to get there. He gets up, grabs his bag, and heads into the bathroom to get cleaned up. He tries to come up with a way to make some money while he showers. Without being able to use credit cards or withdraw from his bank accounts, if he even has them anymore, he’s going to need to make some fast cash. Maybe the hotel needs some extra help and he can get enough together to get somewhere further away from Santo Padre.

He’s pulling his t-shirt over his head when he hears a noise come from the other room. He had left his gun on the back of the toilet and he picks it up as he peers through the steam left over from his shower. The door is partially open, light flickers in from the faulty streetlight outside the room. The smell of fresh food: charbroiled and smoked meat, cheese, and grease hits his nose and causes his stomach to growl. There you are, struggling with bags of food, a hurt arm and a stubborn, dented door to a cheap motel room.

You didn’t abandon him. You didn’t leave him in the middle of nowhere.

“Jimenez, some help here?”

He tucks the gun in the waistband of his jeans as he moves to help you through the door. “Sorry. I, uh, I thought you left.”

You give him a slightly concerned look. “I did leave. To pay for a few more hours for the room and grab some food. You okay there?”

The relief he feels at your return shouldn’t be as strong as it is, but here he is. Heart slowing from its rapid pace, a slight burning to the back of his eyes. You didn’t leave. You didn’t abandon him. This too means more than it should. He puts the bags of food down on the small desk and re-locks the door. You drop into a chair, exhausted and pale.

“You shouldn’t have gone out there by yourself.” He tries to sound chiding but it lacks conviction. He’s still too relieved that you didn’t leave him behind. “You’re still recovering from the blood loss.”

You pull a hamburger out of the Burger King bag and unwrap it. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

He gives you a disbelieving look and you slowly cave.

“Okay, okay, I haven’t actually been shot and had significant blood loss before.”

He starts pulling food out of the other bags. “What did you get?”

“I didn’t know what you like to eat so I got a bunch of stuff.” You point to a plain white plastic bag with styrofoam containers. “That’s supposed to be some award winning BBQ, coleslaw, and potato salad. There’s also some more Burger King, lo mein and egg rolls, and a meatball sub.”

“What, no Indian food?”

You take a large bite out of the burger. “I owe you some chicken tikka masala then.”

He takes half the BBQ and sides, sitting down on the other chair at the small desk. It only takes a couple bites before he realizes just how ravenous he is. He can’t remember the last time he ate. He can’t really remember how much time has actually passed since the events in the living room. It seems like a lifetime ago already. You’ve finished the burger and are reaching for the meatball sub.

“I don’t normally eat like this.”

He motions to your shoulder with his fork. “It’s the blood loss. Your body is trying to make up for what it’s lost. Protein is the best thing to eat.”

“You’re not just saying that to keep the potato salad all to yourself, are you?”

He looks over at you and sees a small smirk at the corner of your mouth, a slight brightness of mirth in your eyes.

You didn’t leave him.

Not yet, anyway.

***

You finally tell him where you’re heading: Olema. It’s a small, touristy town along the coast about thirty miles north of San Francisco. You have a friend who runs a bed and breakfast there and who is willing to give you both some space to regroup. Right now though, the plan is less focused on revenge and more on healing. You try to drive but have to pull over two hours in because you’re still too weak to keep your head up and your eyes open.

“You can get some sleep. I can use Google Maps-” he stops himself short. That’s right. You made him toss his cell phone into the car before Angel and EZ blew it up. No phone along with everything else. All his pictures of his family, his soon to be ex-wife, his two kids. The loss of something so simple like a picture hits him like a tidal wave and he has to forcibly swallow down the lump in his throat.

You open the glove compartment and pull out a slip of paper, writing the directions down. “Here, just keep taking the 5 up to the 580 West. When we get to San Rafeal, you’re going to get on the 101 North. Then we hit the 1 which will take us straight into Olema. If I’m asleep by the time we make it into town, you can stop at the Due West Tavern. It’ll be on the left side of main street about a mile into town. We should get there towards the end of dinner.”

He takes the slip of paper and tucks it in the visor, hoping you don’t see the sheen of tears in his eyes. But he knows you probably do. You’re incredibly astute and detail oriented. He figures you wouldn’t be successful in your job if you weren’t. “Thanks.”

You’re quiet for a moment. “Eighteen months.”

“What?”

“That’s how long I tell people that it takes to adjust to their new lives. Eighteen months.”

He feels another wave of grief hit him. “That sounds like forever.”

“The first year is hard. You remember all the anniversaries, routines, holidays and traditions. Once you get past that first year, that’s when you stop existing and start adjusting. It takes another four to six months to settle into the new life then.”

He remembers what it was like when his mother died. The first year had been terrible, all the memories and holidays exacerbating the loss of the quiet, kindhearted woman who endured hell on earth so he wouldn’t have to face it alone. “It’s like the grieving process.”

“That’s exactly what it’s like.” You turn your head and study his profile for a moment. “It’s okay to grieve, to feel the loss. It’ll help shorten the adjustment period if you acknowledge the emotions for what they are.”

“Grief.”

You hum as you fold your legs close to your chest and put your feet on the dashboard. “Survivor’s guilt is a big one too.”

Bowen. He can still see the dark red stain of blood soaking into the jute rug and spilling out onto the hardwood floor of the living room. He chances a quick glance over to you, your relaxed posture, half closed eyes. He’s detail oriented too and wonders if you’re in a sharing mood now.

“Who did Potter take away from you?”

You pick at a rip in your jeans. “Everyone. Everything.”

He waits to see if you’ll elaborate but by the time he looks over, you’re already turned towards the door and asleep. He glances up at the directions you gave him and estimates there’s only about another two and half hours of driving ahead. So he does what you suggest and he sits with his grief for that time.

***

You’re still asleep, curled into a ball in the passenger seat when he pulls into the gravel parking lot of the tavern. He wonders if the place is open given there’s only two cars in the lot despite it being seven forty at night. He turns the car off and releases a long sigh. He’s drained. Emotionally, mentally, physically. Now all he wants to do is sleep for about a week. He reaches over and gently squeezes your arm.

You sit up immediately and take in your surroundings, letting out a slightly disgusted noise. “Can’t believe I slept all the way here.”

“Six to eight weeks.”

You open the passenger side door and slide out of the car. “What?”

“That’s how long it takes for someone to get their strength back from significant blood loss.”

You nod as you start to make your way towards the front door of the restaurant. He takes a moment to take in the area. The sky is not completely darkened by night yet. The smell of the tavern food, fish and steak, drifts through the air and mixes with a sharper, cleaner scent. He knows he should know what it is but he can’t put his finger on it at the moment.

“Hey,” you shout and he sees you’re holding the door open for him. He hustles his way over to you and follows you into the building. You’re familiar with the place given the ease in which you navigate the formal dining room and lead him into the dark bar area of the tavern. Everything is dark wood, the floor, ceiling beams, bar, tables, chairs even.

“Sorry, kitchen’s closed-” a man appears from behind the bar but stops mid sentence when his eyes land on you. A large smile breaks across his face. “Hey, you made it!”

“Hey, Tony!” You give him a one-armed hug. “I know it’s late but-”

“I got you.” He motions to a corner booth, away from windows and a guttering candle in the center of the table. “Have a seat and I’ll scrounge up something for you guys. I’ll call Mom too, let her know you’re here.”

“Please tell me you have some clam chowder left over,” you ask, easing yourself down into the booth.

“For you, I will find some.” He turns to KJ. “What about you?”

He has to admit, he’s hungry again and anything sounds good to him. “I’m not picky.”

Tony claps him on the arm. “My kind of customer. What do you guys want to drink?”

“Whatever’s on tap is fine for me.” You’re already propped up in the corner, your injured arm resting on the table. KJ can see some slight bleed through your shirt. Tony notices it too.

“I’ll bring some whiskey too. Make a couple boilermakers out of it.”

KJ slides into the booth across from you. He can’t tell if it’s the poor light but your skin tone is still ashy and you look exhausted. “So, Tony and his mom are going to help us?”

You nod. “Tony’s mom, Amelia, used to be my boss. She was my mentor, taught me everything I know. She’s retired now but helps me out when I need a safe place to crash or stash people for a short time until witness protection can iron out paperwork.”

“She’s the one who runs the Bed and Breakfast?”

“Yeah. It’s a good front for moving people quietly. A good blend of tourists and fugitives. It helps that Olema is out of the way for most people.”

“Why do people come here?”

“Mostly for the hiking trails in Point Reyes National Seashore. There’s lots of hikers and backpackers that come through here. There are some horse stables and you can do trail riding too. But in a state where you also have National Forests like Redwoods, Sequoia, Lassen, and Yosemite National Park, this little place gets passed over quite a bit.”

Tony comes back with two bowls of rich looking clam chowder, a container of oyster crackers, two beer glasses, a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. “Alright you two, eat up because mom is on her way and says she’s a lot to discuss. You know what that means.”

You roll your eyes but immediately reach for a spoon. KJ looks at you expectantly. “What?”

“What does that mean?”

A small frown crosses your face. “It means we don’t have a lot of information to work with. I don’t know why she’s surprised though. Potter is as slippery as an eel in an oil spill.”

“How long have you been chasing him?”

“About five years now.” You close your eyes when the first spoonful of food goes in your mouth. “No more talking about Potter. This food is too good to be ruined by conversation about that asshole.”

KJ actually finds a small laugh inside of himself before picking up his own spoon.

#kevin jimenez x reader #kevin jimenez x you #kevin jimenez #maurice compte #Vanishing Acts series #mayans mc fic

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justsomerandomfanfic · 1 year ago

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Fanfic Friday (10/20/23) Poll -

Summaries (sorry if they're terrible XD):

Peter B. Parker X GN Reader - Title: Chrysanthemums, Dahlias, and Lavender - Fluff/Angst;

Summary: Peter B. sits with you and remembers the day he met you. From meeting on the playground, walking down high school halls, and sharing your first kiss... Post Into The Spiderverse.

Peter Parker (Noir) X Fem Reader - Title: It Had To Be You - Fluff/Angst;

Summary: After falling into your dimension, Peter tries to find a way back to his, but doesn't expect falling a third time... Falling for you. But as the years go by, Peter never expected to run into two familiar faces, realizing that he doesn't have a choice but to leave you. Post Into The Spiderverse/Post Across The Spiderverse.

Jaime Reyes X GN Reader - Title: Bittersweet Goodbye - Fluff/Slight Angst;

Summary: College is over, you and Jaime should be celebrating, but he has to go home. Pre Blue Beetle.

Sam Winchester X Female (Angel) Reader - Title: An Angel's Dilemma - Fluff/Slight Angst;

Summary: Sam's in love with you, the only problem is that he just can't seem to get through to you... Are you just oblivious or do you just not feel the same?

Regulus Black X Female Reader - Title: They Say It's Forbidden - Fluff/Angst;

Summary: You and Regulus are in love, but James and Sirius aren't really fond of the Slytherin... And they'll do everything in their power to stop the two of you from staying together.

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bullet-prooflove · 2 years ago

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hi friend! how have you been?

this isn't really an ask, but what are your preferences if i were to request some sort of dom!reader x sub!character?

and do you write only fem!reader?

thank you so much and i hope you have a wonderful day/night! <3

I am doing fab babe! This is week two off my antidepressants and honestly I feel amazing!

Ok so to your qs!

I only write fem reader as it's my experience if that makes sense. Like I have written gay chars from a third person perspective before (Mystrade etc, and I adored writing them) but I cant from a second person perspective as it's more about you as a character if that makes sense and my experience is female. - I hope that makes sense.

I do write some subby bois but it depends who it is if that makes sense?

For some chars it really works for and others it doesn't. Eg: I couldnt write Nick Amaro as sub because he really has a dominant vibe to me, he doesnt bend, I think on some level he needs to be the one to be in control of certain situations to feel safe and secure.

Also I don't really view it as linear as sub/dom if that makes sense. It's about writing the experience for me and what the chars get out of it.

So an example of this is someone like Angel Reyes who has never had someone care for his needs before as opposed to someone like Connor Rhodes, who needs to get out of his own head and know that he's loved. It's not as simple for me as dom this or sub that, I think theres more depth to the writing if you explore why the chars need to adopt those roles.

So basically if you are looking for just smut from that dynamic it wont happen with me.

Also you'll know from my pinned post that I dont write specific situations, so if you put in reader does this and then this and then this I won't be writing it.

I usually write from prompts and these can come in the form of a little idea like gag with Joe Velasco, or a phase like "You're taking me so well darling" with Mike Duarte.

I hope this was helpful and not confusing!

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cloveroctobers · 2 years ago

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bumblesimagines · 9 months ago

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Ez Reyes

can i buy you a drink? for old times' sake?

you were never there for me.

i don't love you anymore.

can i buy you a drink? for old times' sake?

you were never there for me.

i don't love you anymore.

Pronouns: They/Them/Theirs, Gender Neutral!Reader

"You better not forget about us, Beverly Hills." You felt Bishop clap his hand over your shoulder, a big friendly grin stretched out across his face. You rolled your eyes at his words but couldn't help the giddy smile from spreading across your face, especially with all the supportive Mayans you viewed as uncles and brothers looking just as thrilled as your own father.

"Well, I have to finish packing, but I'll drop by later." You told them, feeling Bishop playfully shake your shoulder before you stepped toward Riz. Your father pecked the top of your head and pinched your cheek, snickering to himself when you swatted at his wrist with a huff and an eye roll.

"Don't stay out too late with your friends, 'ight?" Riz called as you headed toward the door, chuckles spreading throughout the bar when you shot him a glare over your shoulder. No matter how old you got, he still took it upon himself to embarrass you in front of others every chance he got.

Opening the door and throwing one last wave over your shoulder, you stepped out of the clubhouse and headed down the rickety steps. You reached into the pocket of your jacket, feeling around for your keys but your attention turned away from your parked car when the gate slid open and two motorcycles rolled in. Ah, fuck. You bit the inside of your cheek and pulled the keys free from your pocket but just as you pressed down to unlock the car, you heard it:

"Aye, (Y/N)!"

"Fuck," You sighed and turned around, planting a polite smile on your face while you waited for Angel and Ezekiel to finish taking off their helmets. Angel moved first and the only thing you saw before he tugged you into a tight embrace was his big dorky grin. You could smell the cigarette smoke reeking off him and grunted, hoping the smell wouldn't cling to your clothes. "Hey, Angel."

"Hey yourself, Beverly Hills." Angel laughed as he pulled away.

"I'm not even going to Beverly Hills." You groaned. "The new place isn't anywhere near there!"

"But with that fancy new job, you'll live there someday, right? You better tell the pretty girls about the attractive biker down in Santo Padre." Angel said, pushing his sunglasses up to rest atop his slicked-back hair. "Make sure to tell 'em he's funny and hot and-"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll tell them all about Coco." You grinned when he clicked his tongue and lightly pushed your shoulder with his fist, his eyes rolling dramatically. He glanced over his shoulder at his younger brother and glanced back at you, wiggling his brows and smirking before he spun on his heels and headed into the clubhouse.

"Hey." Ezekiel greeted gently, tugging his gloves off his hands and offering a sweet smile. You remembered a time when just his smile would make you weak at the knees and giggle like a lovesick idiot. But it only filled you with bitterness looking at it now. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips as he glanced toward your car. "Leaving so soon?"

"I gotta finish packing." You answered.

"Ah, right, you got a new job away from here, right? I'm happy for you. It's hard leaving this place, take it from me." Ezekiel sighed heavily, stuffing his gloves into the pocket of his jeans and curling his fingers around the front of his kutte. "Listen, (Y/N)... can I buy you a drink? For old times' sake? I always miss you every time you visit. Thought it'd be nice to catch up with you."

You inhaled deeply, eyes flickering toward the clubhouse when the Mayans inside cracked up with laughter at some unheard joke or story. It'd been nearly two years since you'd last seen Ezekiel Reyes face to face and spoken with him. Two long years since you'd stood in his trailer with tears in your eyes while he kept his head bowed, never uttering a single word as you tore into him. You'd broken up with him when he couldn't promise to keep his distance from Emily Galindo, a married woman bound to be his demise. He'd called and called but you ignored him until Riz stepped in and forced him to back off.

"No, thanks, Ezekiel. I have nothing to say to you if I'm honest. Everything I did want to say was said years ago. I hope you're doing well but you were never there for me when we were dating so why would I need you as a friend? You showed me how conditional your loyalty was." You told him and turned away from him, heading toward your car and opening the door. Ezekiel followed because being stubborn ran in the Reyes family, and reached out to cup your elbow.

"I know, I'm sorry. I fucked up. I... I have no excuses, (Y/N). I miss you. I miss us. I miss what we have and what we could've had-"

"I don't love you anymore." You told him bluntly, watching his face crumble in a matter of seconds. He released your elbow and stepped back, his gaze dropping onto the ground and lips pressing tightly together. "That love faded a long time ago, Ezekiel. It's best if you forget about us... 'cause it's never happening again."

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rae-gar-targaryen · 4 years ago

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loved you once [angel reyes x fem!reader]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so you didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was it.

No "I'm sorry, querida."

No "I hope we can stay friends."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To you? It was perfection. It was remembrance.

‘Cause I loved you, once…

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oliver here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But?" He pressed.

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you think of that one?”

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

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

Um, wow.

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

All you could do was nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel nodded.

“Do your worst, Vince.”

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

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

You rolled your eyes.

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

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

“You gotta earn ‘Frida,’ dulcita.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He seemed puzzled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The heat had returned to your cheeks, standing quickly.

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

You spun back toward him before he could get up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy shit.

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

Cheeky.

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah. So she knew who you were.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was a hard no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took mercy on you nevertheless.

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

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

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

You felt EZ stiffen from your other side.

Great.

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

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

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

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

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

You really were doing great, weren’t you?

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

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

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

What the fuck.

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

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

That stung.

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

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

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

That was you, ever the professional.

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

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

“You got it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

“Vince?” The text read.

You bit back a smirk before responding,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You chewed the end of your fingernail thoughtfully before responding.

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

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

“Boy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your phone dinged once more.

“See you then, mi reina.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel chuckled a little at that.

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

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

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

"Really?"

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

Angel held up one hand, defensively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I maaaay have scrolled your Instagram?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coco's voice broke your train of thought,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Angelito, everything okay?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His breath was shuddering now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sucked in a shuddering breath before whispering to you,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please, querida," Angel gasped.

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

"Please… use your pretty mouth?"

You nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come on then, baby."

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of fucking course.

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

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

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

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

"What'd he say to you?"

You remained silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like he would, you thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tagging:

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

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

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staticscreenwriting · 3 years ago

Text

All our promises // Angel Reyes

Summary: Inspired by “The One That Got Away” by Katie Perry. Angsty but with a happy ending. I missed writing for this certified sadboy.

Pairing: Angel Reyes x Female Reader

Likes, reblogs, comments are all much appreciated. I am German. Sometimes I get the tense wrong or make mistakes. This isn’t edited or proofread because it’s almost 1 am and I am tired! I am useless when it comes to punctuation. Go easy on me, please.

Angel remembers exactly what it felt like kissing her for the first time. Like a roaring storm in the middle of the summer. Like laughing so hard it makes your lungs burn. Like running barefoot on hot asphalt.

He was almost out of Highschool then. A young fool about to be thrust into a world of uncertainty. It was like the life he had been waiting for for so long was finally there, ready for him to just reach out and grab it. But something was holding him back. An invisible force. Those voices in his head that had been there since he was a kid. That told him he wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t EZ.

Sometimes giving in to your fears is easier than overcoming them. He felt so lost and afraid and scared and life felt like one big cloud hanging over him.

Then (Y/N) came into his life. Bright and warm like the sun, filtering through every crack of his stoic being and filling them with light.

And it was good. It was so good. Until life caught up with them. Growing up, Angel thinks, is the killer of all joy. It takes the good things, the innocent and lovely things, and it twists them and turns them and all that was once so easy now feels like a weight resting on your shoulders. Pulling you down. Weighing you down. Crushing you.

It’s been years since he’s last seen her. She was crying then. Defeat written all over her face. Maybe a bit of relief too. Because despite how much they loved each other, how much they wanted to hold onto the ruins of their relationship, sometimes the brave thing is letting go. And that moment, Angel decided to be brave. If only to set her free. To make it easier for her.

Now she’s standing by the bar, beer in hand and a smile on her face. All the feelings he ever felt for her, the ones he never quite let go of, come washing back over him like an angry tidal wave crashing against a stormy shore.

She’s in a pair of dark-washed jeans and a black shirt. She looks more grown-up than he remembers, more adult. And yet her eyes still hold the same sparkle and the corner of her lip still pulls up into the same mischievous smirk he grew to love so dearly.

When their eyes meet it’s like a tiny electric shock curses through his veins. Of course, she’s here, this is Gilly’s party and she’s been Gilly’s friend long before she ever was anything to Angel.

They share a hello, a small friendly hug. She smells of cigarette smoke and summer heat and yet beneath it all, he catches a whiff of the same flowery perfume she wore when they were barely adults.

It’s strange, he thinks, how hard they try to be civil and to push history aside. And it’s not like he expects some kind of grand gesture, it’s just so god damn awkward. Like everyone is waiting for a bomb to explode while Angel and (Y/N) try so hard to keep the spark from setting it ablaze.

A melancholic tune echoes from the jukebox in the corner and Angel’s eyes lift up from his beer, seeking out hers across the room. It’s not a song he particularly likes but it’s one that throws him into an ocean of memories.

She had a Mustang, sleek and gorgeous and midnight blue. The seats were beige leather with more holes than one could count. It smelled like cold smoke and cherry chapstick and dust. She loved that car and Angel loved that she loved it. That car was always filled with laughter and kisses and music.

She made him listen to Radiohead over and over again. Angel couldn’t find a single redeeming quality about their whiny songs but he did enjoy seeing her happy and so he suffered through it. And maybe it wasn’t all bad if he got to kiss her during the slow songs. Kiss her and kiss her and kiss her more.

They share a smile as Thom Yorke’s voice drifts through the room, across the crowd, and straight into their hearts.

He remembers another party much like this one, only they were both a little younger. Angel didn’t know it would be one of the last ones they’d celebrate together for a long time. It was Halloween and she made him dress up. No one ever managed to make him dress up. No one but her. He would’ve done anything for her. Hell, he still would to this day. And it wasn’t much of a costume really, just an all-black outfit, some dark shades, and a guitar. But (y/n) god she looked so sweet in her petticoat dress and with her bouncy hair.

The whole June and Johnny Cash thing was kind of a running gag. A love like no other. One for the history books. Never one without the other. Fucks sake they didn’t have a clue back then. It felt like the world revolved around them, like the moon and all the stars decided to come out and illuminate the night for the two of them only and like nothing could ever tear them apart. And what really was it that got between them? Time ? Distance ? Dreams ?

And now she’s here and she’s laughing and smiling and happy and it’s all he ever wanted for her, all he still wants, but it hurts. Maybe in another life, she could be his girl. A life where he’s deserving of her. Where he’s got something to offer. Where he doesn’t stand between her and her dreams. A life where he is enough. One where he can afford a damn ring to put on her finger. One where he makes her stay.

It’s all too much. The voices scream at him from the inside, repeating nasty words, dark thoughts. His lungs are burning, his heart feels like it might collapse and his eyes gloss over from the smoke and the sadness. It’s all too much at once. Invisible walls close around him. Squeeze him tighter and tighter. Take away all the air. And what is left? Absolutely nothing. An emotional wasteland.

The air outside ain’t granting him much in terms of cooling him down, it’s a dry heat, a signature Santo Padre summer night. It manages to get him out of the haze a little bit though. Beer in hand he walks towards the broken cars lined up in the back of the scrapyard, ready to be taken apart in search of the pieces still worth keeping. He climbs onto the roof of an old forest green Jeep Wrangler and lets his legs dangle.

The amber glow of his cigarette illuminates the night. There’s a distant melody coming from the clubhouse, a murmur of voices, so close yet so far away. It’s silly, Angel thinks, to sit here and sulk when he could be in there having fun. There’s a ton of girls who’d kill for a glimmer of his attention but how could he ever give it to them. How can he grant another person his attention when his heart still rests in the palm of (Y/N)’s hand?

It’s terribly unfair. My god it fucking sucks.

The crunching of gravel under boots pulls him from his lamenting. She steps through the night like a shooting star, bright and shiny and all-consuming. She smiles at him the way she always did, warm and soft and understanding. There’s an infinite gentleness about her every move. And that’s not to say that she’s not tough or strong, she is. But they’ve always been each other’s safe place. A place to be vulnerable. A place to show weakness. A place for silence and softness and dreams.

“Whatcha doin all alone out here, huh Grumpy?”

Though she’s joking, there’s an edge to her words he doesn’t miss. He never misses anything about her. He knows her so well, better than he’s ever known anyone. Better than he knows his own fucking self.

“Just needed some air.” He replies and shrugs his shoulders casually.

“So you mope out here all by yourself?”

“That’s a problem?”

He hasn’t dared to look at her. He knows that once he does, his heart will just start hurting more than it already does. It will shatter into a million different pieces. Tiny and sharp and impossible to reassemble.

“No. I guess not. You mind if I mope with you?”

It’s a rhetorical question. She doesn’t even wait for a reaction, just slides up onto the hood of the car then climbs onto the roof, sitting next to him as the night settles upon them like a thick black blanket of quietness.

He really thought he could do this. This whole friendship thing. The being civil thing. The seeming unbothered by hanging out with your ex even though there’s still a hole in your heart that’s been there ever since you broke up thing. The pretending like he doesn’t still love her thing.

He can’t though. Maybe all the fights and the killing people and the waving around guns like a big boy is just a farce. Maybe he ain’t as tough and he thinks he is. Maybe this is where the real bravery lies. Telling people how you feel. Facing our inadequacy. Admitting to yourself that sometimes the people you love most deserve better than you.

It’s quiet for a moment, just them breathing alongside each other and the music coming from the clubhouse playing in the distance.

“You know … if it makes you uncomfortable that I’m here you can tell me to leave.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Okay then. Could’ve fooled me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you hardly look at me. You avoid me as much as possible. Hell, you chose to stay out here just so you don’t have to be in close proximity to me.”

“Said hi, didn’t I? Hugged you too.”

“Yeah sure but —“

“But what, (Y/N)? We broke up. What are you expecting me to do here? I’m trying okay. But it’s hard.”

It’s the first time since she’s joined him out here that he looks at her. Really looks at her. The way her skin shines with a thin layer of sweat brought on by the summer air. The way her eyes look red and tired. The way she doesn’t smile. Doesn’t hold any softness. The way she seems … sad.

“Do you not think it’s hard for me too?”

“Is it? Could’ve fooled me.”

Now it’s her time to raise her eyebrows in question. A glimmer of hurt flashes behind her eyes. Like a lightning bolt illuminating the sky for a mere moment. A blink and you’ll miss it situation. One second of chaos and then all is calm again.

“Huh?”

There’s anger bubbling inside of him. Like a cauldron in an old cartoon, bubbling, and brewing, and constantly on the verge of spilling over.

“ You left. You left and judging by your Instagram posts you’ve been pretty damn happy these last few years without me. I don’t blame you, Hermosa, I get it. Don’t mean it doesn’t kill me”

“ You’ve been stalking my Instagram? I didn’t even know you’re on there.”

“ Not under my actual name. Got a dog as my profile picture.” Angel admits and shrugs his shoulders as his gaze looks back out into the infinite darkness before him. “ Doesn’t matter anyway. “ “ It matters. I — I can’t believe you’re blaming this all on me. I thought we were good. “

“ Yeah well you thought wrong! “ his voice cuts through the night like a blade through flesh. Unforgiving and brutal and without any care for casualties. “ I loved you and you left!”

“ To follow my dream. One that, may I remind you, you always encouraged me to chase! “

“ You left me. Just like everyone else always does. “

“ Yeah I left but I tried to make this work. I called and texted and you never answered so I stopped trying. I came back when your mom died, and you told me to leave. Remember that? You told me to leave and then went back to fucking the naked girl in your bed. “ he can hear the tears in her voice and he hates himself for it. He hates himself on a good day. One can only imagine what he feels like right now. “ Maybe people aren’t leaving you, Angel. Maybe it’s you pushing them away. “

The gravel crunches underneath her boots as she hops down from the roof of the car and starts walking away. The night engulfs her like a tidal wave, swallowing her and pulling her back towards the sea.

“ Did you have your tattoo removed? “ Angel calls out to her, voice laced with sadness. He doesn’t really know what he expects to accomplish with those words, they just slip out of his mouth without him really thinking them over. They make her stop in her way though, like someone stopped time, put their finger on the turntable to stop the record from spinning.

“ What?”

“ Asked if you got your tattoo removed. "

"Oh, I understood. I just can't believe you'd ask me that. "

His thumb runs over the spot on his left wrist where a small sun is kinked into his skin permanently. It's one of his smallest tattoos, barely noticeable in between the rest of them but it's no doubt his most important and meaningful one.

Because it matches the tiny crescent moon that sits on the same spot on her wrist.

They got it the day she turned 18. Fueled by the excitement of entering adulthood and high on love.

He doesn't even remember who it was that mentioned the fact that she might've gotten it removed. All he knows is the stabbing pain in his chest. Like a burning dagger. Like a gunshot. Shrapnel lodging itself into his heart.

Erasing the ink from her skin feels an awful lot like erasing him from her life. Something he deserves no doubt but something he's not sure he can survive.

"I - Angel I can't believe you'd think that. Where did you get that idea from?"

Angel shrugs and he's fairly sure he resembles a cranky toddler right now.

"Someone said so."

"Oh someone did, huh? Well someone sure doesn't know shit. I can't believe you think I would do that. I love you. "

Present tense. She says love. Not loved. It's a minuscule thing. He notices it anyway. It makes all the difference.

"Come on, I need to show you something."

She doesn't wait for him to follow, she knows he will. Angel would follow this woman to the end of the earth without a question, without a second thought.

Because it's still present tense for him too. It always will be.

Angel can't hold back the smirk as he catches sight of her mustang. The shiny blue paint is chipped and scratched and there's a few bumps here and there but this car knows many of his secrets and many of hers. It has seen tears and laughter. Infinite sadness and absolute ecstasy.

She opens the trunk and pulls out a cardboard box filled with some kind of paper trash and drops it in front of his feet, rage and sadness and disappointment shining in her eyes.

"What-"

"Those are letters. One for every moment that I wished I could've shared with you while we were separated. Every time something exciting or special happened I say down and I wrote you a fucking letter. Because even though you didn't want to talk to me I still wanted to share my life with you. Even if it was just pretend. Even if I never sent them. When your mom died and I came to see you, I wanted to give them to you. Spill out my heart and beg for forgiveness and understanding and hope we could go back to before. To being us. But you were so mean and cold and - and you had a girl over and I really thought that was it. You closed that door. That doesn't mean I stopped loving you. I wanted you in my life, Angel. There's a moon on my wrist where there's a sun on yours. Forever. I'd never get rid of you, not when I spent most of my life loving you."

"Hermosa I - "

"Save it, Angel. Oh and keep those. They're yours anyway…"

Before he can react, she pulls the mustang out of the parking lot with screeching tires and disappears into the night.

Angel's eyes wander towards the box of letters and he can't help but pick some up and open them. Some of them are written neatly, on fancy paper with floral borders. Some come with Polaroid pictures. Some are hastily scribbled onto a sheet ripped messily from a notebook. All of them have her entire heart caught in carefully curated words. And they are meant for him. Like his heart is meant for her.

A storm is coming, you can feel it. The air is sharp and heavy and tastes like copper, like licking a penny, like drawing blood.

He hopes the storm has no mercy on him. Pulls him in. Never spits him out again. Swallows him whole.

It's a night much like this one only it's a long time ago. It's hot and the air is pregnant with the promise of a storm though it's not yet here.

A much younger Angel sits on the roof of her house with (Y/N) leaning against his side, sharing a bottle of liqueur they had snagged from her parents' cabinet. They're a little drunk on liqueur and a little more on love. And there's something about sitting on the roof with the person that holds your heart and looking out onto your neighborhood, your life. Something as close to magic as humans can get. The world feels both small and insanely big at the same time.

"Are you scared?" Angel asks as he takes the bottle from her hand and lets another sip of the bitter liquid flow down his throat.

"Of the future?"

"Yeah."

"Mmh. A little. But excited too. There's so much for us out there and soon we actually have the chance to see it all. Find our place."

Angel lets out a mix between a scoff and a chuckle. "Seems like Mike and Cass already found theirs. Married with a baby on the way. They're our ago. It's crazy."

"I don't know, " she replies and shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly. "I think they seem happy and that's all that matters. They seem to love each other a lot."

Angel grows silent for a second before the words slip from his lips, too fast for him to keep them there. "Do you want to get married?"

She swirls her head around at lightning speed and regards him with wide eyes "are you proposing?"

"Nah, Hermosa. Just asking for future reference. "

She's quiet. Contemplates. Then kisses his cheek and leans her head back against his shoulder. "Yeah, I'd like that."

"How should I do it? Propose I mean."

"It really doesn't matter. I love you now and I love you always. Just ask me. You'll know the moment is right when it comes along. "

"Any time? Doesn't matter? Really? What if it's like a crazy storm outside and we just had a fight and you wanna kill me and I come knocking on your door and ask? Even that's fine with you?"

"I love you anyway-even if there isn't any me or any love or even any life- I love you."

"Huh?"

"Zelda Fitzgerald wrote that to her husband in a love letter. Their relationship was bad, super toxic, and just … not great. But at some point, she loved him so much. More than anything else. More than any materialistic possession. More than herself. More than life. That's the love I want. The love I think we have. It's enough for me, Angel. So yes. Even during a storm or after a fight. I love you anyway."

The first drop of rain falls onto Angel as he stands in the driveway of where her mustang used to sit just minutes ago. He knows what to do. This is the moment, he thinks, and the thunder roars in agreement.

There's a little White House with a powder blue door and a crooked number 3 made of brass hanging above it.

The raindrops beat against the windows like tiny bullets as Angel trudges up the driveway, water soaking through his shirt, his Jeans, and turning his hair into a wet mess.

He doesn't care. Not even a little bit.

He loves her more than any materialistic possession. More than himself. More than life itself and anything else in it.

He loves her anyway. Always.

His knocks sound through the night and through the storm and he's sure his heart is beating just as loudly. And when she opens the door, he's certain it stops beating for a second.

"Angel?"

"Remember when we were in high school and talked about the future? On your roof. With the liqueur."

"I do, yes. Hey come inside you're getting soaked."

He doesn't care. It doesn't matter. It never did. Only her. And him. Only them.

"You said I know when the moment is right. That you don't care if it storms or we had a fight. "

"Angel."

"Marry me. Please. I - I know the ring isn't much but it was Mom's and she loved it and I think if anyone she'd want you to have it. She loved you and I love you."

"Angel."

"You told me that quote about loving someone anyway. Even if there's nothing else left. I love you anyway even if everything else in my life seems to go wrong. I love you and I'm sorry. I love you and I never stopped. Marry me. "

She looks at him with those gentle eyes that he could get lost in forever and never even ask for his way back for this is where home is.

"You remember Zelda's letter?"

"I remember that that's the kind of love you want and I want to give it to you. I want to give you everything. I know it's not much but -"

Her lips are on his, silencing his doubts instantly. This is where he belongs. With her. Only her.

"You know what else she said?," (Y/N) asks as she pulls away. "Don’t ever think of the things you can’t give me. You’ve trusted me with the dearest heart of all and it’s so damn much more than anybody else in all the world has ever had."

"Is that a yes? Even in the storm?"

(Y/N) kisses him again. Once. Twice. Three times. And the rain-soaked them both. But it doesn't matter. Only their kiss. A kiss that is so much more than just a kiss. It's an I'm sorry. It's a promise. It's a lifetime of memories and another lifetime of memories yet to be made.

"That's a yes. In the storm, on a cloudy day, under a clear blue sky. Always."

He slips the ring onto her finger and with nothing but the lightning as their witness and the thunder as their choir they take a step into a future they thought they knew. One they lost sight of for a while.

A future that holds many uncertainties.

Except for one.

There will be love.

Always.

And yes there might be dark days ahead but like every storm, those too shall pass.

And when they do, the love will still be there. It prevails. It's permanent.

It's forever.

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