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ctl-yuejie · 1 year ago

Text

thoughts before you are getting into the thick of it

it is the episode i have been waiting for! ahahaha. cannot wait to hear what you are going to bite into with only friends. excited that you will get into chueam, because her character felt the most gimicky out of all the supposedly main characters

I fully forgot we had all these references to queer media canon in the beginning....thank you for reminding me that despite it being somewhat muddled as to how deep the makers wanted this series to be, there was actually the beginnig of stylistic choices. I am cleaning up this text after listening to the whole episode and while all of you have your own point where you think the show lost itself, I do think it does say something that stylistic choices were made and then dropped to not come up again. particularly with things like the sign and bff coming out which might have their own hick-ups, I think some of the lingering disappointment I had is that they didn't try to experiment more in this series (with the format, the shots etc.). There are good and interesting things in here but I just wish they had went a mile further (which fair enough, might not have been possible schedule-wise etc).

cackling at Ben saying the show was "limp"

I don't exactly remember where on the "masterpiece of intricate inter-personal relationships" to "the biggest gayest mess" I was on in terms of expectations but since - as you return to it over the course of the podcast - there is a clear vision missing this show really can land very very differently on expectations alone.

It is interesting that David enjoyed Boeing this much. So far I have only seen people enjoy him as a sort of story device or a caricature, but I really vibe with recognizing yourself in one of these characters and just getting lost in analyzing the horrible little things they get up to. I can really respect that.

Glad Nini wrote all those lines about Top in her rankings. I don't even think she got proven wrong by the series. You also mention it in your finishing remarks, but Top read to me very similarly which actually made him an interesting character to me. Really makes you want to root for them digging more into the characters towards the end to play with the idea of having the branded pairs end up together but it not feeling like a good outcome. Which also would tie in with the character development Ben misses in the show. If you make Sand and Ray ending up together not a necessarily happy ending, it makes sense that Sand is still the way his mother describes him "self-sacrificing to his own detriment". take the money Sand And everything from him dreaming about going to music concerts and putting this much energy into his gigs and music despite it not coming from a passion to actually be a musician or even play those concerts abroad tie in much more neatly. On the other hand, knowing that MewTop were inspired by a real life couple the producers know that it would make that choice probably awkward. But what Nini said ("they didn't let the audience feel safe about top"), is something I felt strongly. To a degree that I thought that this was actually what Force's performance was leaning into.

I don't have any professional insight or behind the scenes knowledge, but I do not think the show would've been that different if Jojo et al had free reign. It is quite close to the novel version of the premise, so while obviously gmmtv production etc might have had a say on some things, I don't think the issues I had with the show stemmed from any creative interference

the class dynamics not getting explored more as well as the inter-friendship dynamics just strengthens my opinion that they could've done without a lot of scenes that could've left more screen time to what made the show interesting (MewTops dates and parent shopping got stretched out unnecessarily, SandRay having coffee and donuts as well as the whole community service kids scenes....I was annoyed watching it thinking of what other things they could've done during that time).

Chueam

I can't lie. I agree with Ben that she was mean and everything Jojo tweeted about her and Boston was confusing. I get that lesbians (on average) might vibe differently, but in order to laud her as the glue of the friend group, the level-headed one that has minor drama and then saves the gays? feels very surface level observations on what supposedly is a main character as well as being seemingly unaware of how shitty she is. Then again, there definitely is some tomboy coding going on with her character (the way she behaves and talks), so it might also be a disconnect with how she is perceived by an international audience (before anyone questions the tomboy read: the actress Mild talked about how she is seen as a tomboy - particularly in Kiss the series - which immediatly will make you think about the good place tomboy meme. but i do think it is important to recognize that gender roles and the subversion of them exists in many places but the look might differ. see also silvy talking about casting big girls for tv shows and it getting discussed also in character in the warp effect for molly when by my local standards silvy wouldn't be considered fat and/or big at all. which obviously doesn't negate her experience in thailand).

Mew

Mew really is so so mean. Thank you for really wrapping up in a bow all the steps he took to really twist the knife. I do like this vindictive Mew, but it was curious that his characters was read very differently across the audience. Him somewhat calling a truce by threatening Boston with the revenge porn clip, then being delighted at him getting falsy accused of SA (I am not giving Ray the grace you are giving him. He clearly wasn't there to defend Atom or help Chueam, he was there for the drama and just seemed a but unsure whether he liked how intense it got in the end), only to really drive it home by offering another truce in the kitchen on New Years to then publicly cut Boston out of his life (I think it is good for him to cut Boston off but the way he went about it was something else). And I wanted to see more of this Mew having friction with Top. And the Kick into the pool was peak drama but "you deserve to die" was a pretty good indicator on how ruthless Mew can be.

"the beef predates top but the show makes the beef about top"

this is a brilliant summariziation of why the dynamics felt off more and more towards the end. not sure whether I'd agree on the BostonMew feeling both repelled and attracted to each other part, but something more on their relationship - also with Ray - would have made the Top fallout so much more intricate and complicated.

"we can fill it with meaning but what is the intention?!"

back to back great thoughts. this one really struck me, because while I am aware that this was purely my interpretation, I thought I had a solid read on some characters and enjoyed what I thought it was what they were doing in the show. But in the end, if the intent on part of the makers is this unclear, it really gets close to wishful thinking/ fanfiction territory. which is not necessarily what an original show should feel like. Diving more into the self image theme might have been a good anchor point for the Boston and Mew dynamic, but alas.

There was some talk about Jojo et al not wanting to send a specific message but...that certainly wasn't the message they sent so...

bottom dementia

another banger concept and the rightful title of the episode. I am shaking hands with David anonymously. the dick can be that good sometimes.

It seems like good advice to watch this show for pure entertainment. personally, i latched onto the characters very early on, so that option was off the tables once it felt like the characters were let down by the writing.

nevertheless, thank you for tackling the show in a dedicated episode, cannot believe that after reading and writing so much about it there still was new food for thought in there <3

I understand that Ben is missing Sand and the bat. I am missing BostonNick fucking on the pool table.

Bottom Dementia: The Only Friends Episode.

Kicking things off for year 2 of The Conversation is our Only Friends episode. We brought back a friend of the podcast, David (@yankeebastard), to discuss the various cases of bottom dementia in this show, our thoughts on the sexual and social politics of the show, and how shipping and fandom culture complicated the entire experience our watches.

We'll end this episode with @ginnymoonbeam returning with us months later to see how we still felt about the show

Timestamps

The timestamps will now correspond with chapters on Spotify for easier navigation.

0:00 - Introduction 1:20 - Only Friends and What We Liked 13:47 - What We Wanted from the Show 26:40 - Where the Story Breaks Down 38:40 - Bottom Dementia™ 47:38 - Do Not Take Only Friends Seriously 51:00 - Final Thoughts (Two Months Later)

The Conversation Transcripts!

Thanks to the continued efforts of @ginnymoonbeam as transcriber, and @lurkingshan as an editor and proofreader, we are able to bring you transcripts of the episodes.

We will endeavor to make the transcripts available when the episodes launch, and it is our goal to make them available for past episodes (Coming soon thanks to @wen-kexing-apologist). When transcripts are available, we will attach them to the episode post (like this one) and put the transcript behind a Read More cut to cut down on scrolling.

Please send our volunteers your thanks!

0:00 - Introduction

NiNi

Welcome to The Conversation About BL, aka The Brown Liquor Podcast.

Ben

And there it is. I’m Ben.

NiNi

I’m NiNi.

Ben

And we’re you’re drunk Caribbean uncle and auntie here sitting on the porch in the rocking chairs.

NiNi

Four times a year we pop in to talk about what’s going on in the BL world.

Ben

We shoot the shit about stories and all the drama going into them. I review from a queer media lens.

NiNi

And I review from a romance and drama lens.

Ben

So if you like cracked-out takes and really intense emotional analysis…

NiNi

If you like talking about artistry, industry, and the discourse…

Ben

And if you generally just love simping…

NiNi

There is a lot of simping on this podcast…

Ben

We are the show for you!

1:20 Only Friends And What We Liked

Ben

And we're baaaack!

NiNi

Welcome, welcome to our winter series. It is so nice to be back with y'all—I'm saying back, but we're literally recording this on the day the Fall Lagniappe went up, because this is how we do it on this podcast.

This is the Bottom Dementia episode.

David

Oh my.

NiNi

[laughs] You can hear our special guest, say hi David!

David

Hiii!

NiNi

David is back with us!

Ben

You are literally back by popular demand, David, the people were like, when is he coming back?

[everyone laughs]

David

I need to stop fucking around with my Tumblr and just be on there.

NiNi

I'm not sure you want to be on there, like legit, but—[laughs]

We are here to talk about Only Friends! We're here to talk about the high highs, the low lows—and they were some lows for sure. I’m gonna let Ben do what he do.

So Ben: What is Only Friends about?

Ben

Oh man. How do I describe Only Friends now? So much of how I feel about it has been clouded by how it ended. Only Friends is a messy drama about a gay friend group nearing the end of college, as they deal with some of their… issues with sex and romance? At least that's how it felt at the beginning? Only Friends has this group of homos who hang out at their local gay bar. You've got Mew the virgin, Boston the slut, Ray the drunk, and Cheum who is sort of like the lesbian wrangler of their group.

Boston introduces this guy named Top to their group to flirt with Mew. Mew falls for Top—Boston was not expecting this, because he was just trying to smash with Top again. He causes a bunch of problems, but ends up in his own side romance with a very weird but kind of sweet boy who does not understand healthy boundaries, especially when it comes to digital space?

David

Oh lord.

Ben

Ray ends up involved with the singer at the bar—who can't sing that great, sorry First.

NiNi

God it was bad.

Ben

It harkens back to the kind of dramas that were happening around twenty-odd years ago, like Queer As Folk, Noah's Ark, and some other shows that Jojo referenced, some of which I haven't seen. But it struggles for me, because while all of those were fairly episodic in nature, this one decided to be a serial, and concerns related to the actor pairs and the economic viability of said actor pairs, I really feel muddled the waters on the back half? And so while there were a lot of really great stylistic moments in this, it ends up feeling kind of limp at the end, in a way that was very unsexy for me.

David and I watched it together, it was one of our Saturday shows. David, it's been a while since we had you on the show: why don't you give us some of your reactions, thoughts, and feelings about Only Friends?

David

Hm, let me see. Only Friends can best be described, in my personal opinion, as a ledger against the evils of monogamy… how unhinged gayness serves really only ever one person and that's the unhinged gay themselves—but hey, it's entertaining!... the apparent gay police state we live in, where if you do anything and it gets recorded, it becomes a psychodrama later… In short, I thought I would only end up not liking one person at the end of Only Friends? But the entire show can go through a recycler for me. That's where I am with it.

NiNi

So we've got Ben sort of general wet floppiness of it all, David saying ‘fuck them’ at the end. [laughs]

David

Yeah.

NiNi

[laughs] Let's see, where did I land on it? I had an incredibly cynical read on this show, and one of the reasons that I had a cynical read on this show is A) it was just fun; B) Ben, you talked a little bit about this hearkening back to some of the queer shows of the early 2000s. And that made sense for me, because the characters are of the here and now, but the creators, Jojo and Ninew and them, they’re my age. Well, slightly younger than me, but around that 40-year-old mark, elder millennials, so to speak. So that's the stuff that they were watching when they were the age that these characters are now. So it has like a weird juxtaposition, the show, where it's of the moment but also deeply nostalgic in some ways? So it was a very interesting experience for me watching it.

Like I said, I enjoyed being real cynical about the show, my reads on Top clearly got people mad pissed. [laughs] I was enjoying the show on the ‘everybody is awful’ tip, and then like one or two characters surprised me at the end by being not so awful… but I was having a good time right up until the end.

Ben

So why don't you go through the things that you enjoyed in the show then, since you came out of it less ambivalent than the rest of us.

NiNi

Less ambivalent is the word, because I was having a good time and then I was pissed. [laughs] There was no in between. So it was not really an ambivalent feeling, it was like a high high and then a crash.

Some of the things that I enjoyed, let's see. I enjoyed, low-key how terrible everybody was. So much of BL tries to make characters really likable. I'm not sure if the show was trying to make the characters likable—if it did, it failed, which was great for me because I didn't really like any of them [laughs]. Except for at the end, I liked Boston and I liked Nick, but other than that, I was just like ‘oh these people are terrible, yes, inject it into my veins!’ So I had a good time with that. I had a really good time with all the aesthetics, the style of the show, like you said throwing back to that early 2000s late 90s kind of vibe in terms of the set dressing and the set design, in the way that everybody's wardrobe played out, and just the entire vibe of the thing. Very Jojo, thoroughly enjoyed that.

I really enjoyed the acting. As much as coming down towards the end I didn't really enjoy the writing, the acting I thought was incredibly solid across the board. Not even so much the big acting, because there were like a lot of these big emotional moments, there was a lot of crying—I mean, First and Khaotung were in this, there's gonna be crying—but that's not the stuff that I was enjoying, it was the little subtle details. Like Khaotung’s playing Ray, Ray is an unrepentant drunk, and Khaotung really sold Ray being drunk all the time. It was like, little things that he was doing, it wasn't anything big, that really sold me on the fact that hey, this dude is not ever sober, and you can tell. I liked Book in this a lot. Which is weird, because I hated his character, I hated Mew so much. But I thought that Book really sold this kind of sanctimonious priggish character really really well, I actually really enjoyed that. And then of course Neo Trai and Mark Pakin, just, *mwah* chef’s kiss, fantastic acting work.

I think in terms of the enjoyment levels, that's where I landed. Everything else I'm a little bit more, hmm, okay, there's a positive and a negative about, but those were the things that I really really enjoyed.

Ben

David, before we get big into tearing this thing up, why don't you tell us the things you did enjoy along the way?

David

I actually did like the Melrose Place 90s aesthetic that was going on with the show.

NiNi

Yeessss, Melrose Place, that was it!

David

There is no way that anyone is going to tell me that these two people did not watch Melrose Place. Even some of their shots were very Melrose Place, Beverly Hills 90210-ish. Their little main area, where they would have the drama explosions were always at the bar, that was very much a Melrose Place thing. I enjoy unhinged—I'm trying not to say the other word—

Ben

Just go ahead and say it. You know you need to.

David

I enjoy a healthy dose of unhinged fa**otry. I live for it. More than likely, my second or third favorite performance in any show will be the show's most unhinged fa**ot I will love him. He could be evil, he could be killing people, but I'm gonna find something to love about him.

Ben

And who is that for you this time?

David

Oh Lord! Look: I love Boeing. Boeing was completely unhinged, I saw too much of myself in that boy. Unhinged. Sir you cannot hop like this. I need you to calm down. He completely sold that whole… soulless, like sort of just, gross performance. I love Boeing.

Ben

Mond Tanutchai was a gift that we were not expecting.

David

And that show did not deserve.

I thought the show was beautiful, it was colorful—me and Ben have had this conversation before, how since Vice Versa I've noticed that more. We don’t have this cream, beige, taupey writing-out of color, we've returned to this really rich tapestry, and I felt the show did that, which was also, I didn't realize, very 90s. So the color of the show, the way it was filmed, how it was produced, was great. And like NiNi said, it was great acting.

Ben

For posterity: David has caught up with BL very aggressively in the last year and a half. Thailand has been reintroducing rich color into their shows since the post ITSAY wave began, with You’re My Sky. Vice Versa does not get credit as the show that introduced color into this shit.

David

Fine.

NiNi

[laughs] Ben's like, fuck Vice Versa, fuck it forever.

David

I can’t even defend it.

Ben

That’s not me digging at you, just, for the people who've been following the timeline of BL, that does not go to Vice Versa. Absolutely the fuck not.

NiNi

Ben says no, you don't get to have this! You don't get to take this—[laughs]

David

That's fine, that's fair. But there are a few things that I thought were things I liked about the show, that, when I thought about, I went, ‘I did not like this as much as I thought I did.’ And the only character I liked at the end of this was the one who ended up being the unredeemable one to me. Because I kept thinking about it, and I got a lot of what he was going through. I thought he totally got vixen vamped by the weird, shitty, forced monogamy thing that the show was beating everyone up the head with, while at the same time simultaneously showing everyone how none of these characters are making it work.

Ben

Are you talking about Boston? Just for the sake of the listeners?

David

Yes, Boston.

NiNi

It was so weird to feel that coming off the show, but it wasn't coming off the show from the beginning.

David

Mhm.

NiNi

Somewhere like, into the third act is when that whiff, that eau de straightness started coming off the show. [laughs] Everybody started feeling the weird shift, they were like, ‘what is this? Are they—but they're not, Jojo wouldn't.’ You know what it feels like, it feels network-interferencey? That's genuinely how it feels. Because the front half of the show is so tight. It does not feel like the back half of this show. The back half of the show feels like somebody came in and said, ‘Nope you can't do this, do something else!’ and then they scrambled and tried to do something else that sort of lined up with what they had done before.

David

Yep, I completely agree.

13:47 What We Wanted from the Show

Ben

Before we talk about the weird shift that happens, let's talk a little bit about what we hoped from the show on the front end. Like when we sat down to watch the show, we were all coming at it from different places, what were we hoping for? Let’s start with you, NiNi, because you were dealing with a lot of other shit at the beginning of this show, so you weren't maybe watching it as intensely as you were by the time we got to the end.

NiNi

Oh no, I was fully here for a messy mess, that was all I was hoping for. Like David, I wanted to see some unhinged gays. I wanted something like Cruel Intentions or, like a Wild Thing. I wanted to have a good time. I didn't want to think too much, you know, that was my mantra for [laughs] a lot of this year, I don't want to think too much. And then I wind up thinking too much.

But that's what I was aiming for, I was aiming to have a good time, I was aiming to cackle. I was aiming to gasp. Before the show made the weird switch, I had thoroughly enjoyed being right about every character, but wrong about the narrative. [laughs] That was the thing that I really came to it for. I came here, I perched my little feet up on a pouf, I hit the button on the remote, and I was like, okay, show me the mess. And they started to, and then they pulled back from it.

Ben

What about you David? What were you hoping to get out of Only Friends?

David

I was expecting we were going to get way more of an adult, complicated thing about people's feelings and how sex played into it… Maybe we're gonna get a multi-couple, and this show was gonna do some stuff that no one else had done before. And at some point that collapsed.

Because I could see the ways that they could have pulled this off with certain characters, and showed some characters empowered to be that? But the full tilt boogie of Mew becoming the most sanctimonious, boring fucking part of this show and Top having the personality of cardboard, and Ray just being a drunk who clearly is never gonna learn his lesson, and Sand being a simp—what started out as being sort of complex characterizations, when we got to the very end, I was just sitting there like, what the fuck?

Ben

All right, I'm gonna be mean.

NiNi

Go for it!

Ben

I really hoped that this would be Jojo and them’s attempt to get less focused in their whole serial soap opera style dynamic, and I was really excited about the title cards early on, that they were going to have really strong internal arcs for each of these episodes? And that's not what we got. We got just an ongoing stream of mess from a bunch of maladjusted young people. I really hoped that some of the class things would play out because there were differing levels of wealth, and they did very little with that. I really hoped that a lot of these actors would get to play against their type for once, and do some really interesting stuff, and they did not. While some of these GMMTV boys are good, we have seen their body of work, and they are basically doing the same goddamn thing every motherfucking show.

David

Well! Go on, pastor!

Ben

First has only ever been a grumpy simp, in every fucking show he's in. Like, we love the boy! He's very expressive. He can be very funny. And it's kind of annoying that he has played like five different goddam versions of the sad sack simp now. I was really hoping that we were going to get to see him do something interesting with the fucking baseball bat, which implied that his character was going to make an active choice for once. That's the crux of the missing baseball bat stuff: the bitch who picks up a baseball bat? She's over it! She's going to smash something. She is committed to a choice, and destruction is the only thing that will sate her blood lust at this point.

[NiNi laughs]

And we never got that! Like, we literally end on First’s character calling himself a dog happy that he has a nice owner. What the absolute fuck was that?

Khaotung always plays the super-cute provocateur. They just made him super rich this time and let him be drunk all the time. Khaotung plays it well, but like we’ve seen basically this out of Khaotung repeatedly. I’m kinda over it.

And then poor Force. I think this show did a genuine disservice to Force. He does so much good work playing Top. Like, he fully committed. I understand the show’s choice to make him enigmatic because we were primarily reliant upon Mew’s POV, and because Mew could never feel secure in his connection to Top, they did not let the audience feel secure about Top. That is not a bad choice from an editing or directing standpoint, but it means that Top is so empty of a character. He only represents status to Mew.

I think Book is a fairly limited actor, and I think Jojo and them used him well as the sanctimonious bitch of this group. That was really cool in the front half. The fucking virgin who reads too many fucking books playing games they ain’t ready for and then winning stupid prizes as a result. That was fucking great, but it feels like the show wanted us to take the drama, as it happened from Mew's perspective, super seriously. But I cannot take a character like Mew seriously.

I don't think Lookjun was treated well in the show because Cheum is a goddamn mess of a character. Jojo was tweeting about her in a way that seems like she's supposed to be the lesbian wrangler saving these gays, but she is so mean to them.

And you get Boston. Boston did deserve some of the Ls he took, like when he got kicked in the chest and thrown into the pool with Mew jumping behind him trying to drown that motherfucker? He deserved that. That was some bullshit, you should have known better. However! Did Boston deserve to be the victim of revenge porn and blackmail three times? No. No he did not. I feel some kinda way about the way the back half of this show is just everybody saying ‘at least you're not as bad as Boston’ as everybody is doing nasty shit to each other.

David

In the name of the god of monogamy.

Ben

I'm like, goddamn, where is all of this fucking moral superiority coming from because Boston likes to get his dick sucked? What the fuck is wrong with the rest of you?

David

He never lied to anyone that he was having sex with; he told them, “Look, I don’t want shit. There's other people. This is what's going on.” And I felt like he was put on this pyre to monogamy that didn't even function—as a matter of fact, it was made even more glaring that it wasn't even working for the other characters because by the end of the show, they're all together—but barely. The fucking show ends with Mew flirting with another fucking dude in front of Top.

NiNi

Here's the thing for me. I see a way that this show carries all of the same narrative beats, but changes the tone, and works so much better for me. I don't actually have a problem with the couples ending up together. If you're aiming for a messy story where people end up in relationships with people who are the worst people for them, or they end up in a relationship where as we say in Trinidad, “Every bread have their cheese.” Jamaicans say, “Every pot have a cover,” you know what I mean?

[David laughs]

My favorite version of the MewTop relationship is Mew putting Top through hell because he's a piece of shit. Every time I got even a hint of Top being miserable—but still being there—and Mew deciding that he was gonna put Top’s balls in his purse and carry them around; I enjoyed that! I really enjoyed that ‘cause that's not a relationship dynamic you get to see in TV, but is incredibly realistic. There are so many, so many couples I know that are just like that and it's horrible to be around, but it's low key entertaining.

If the show had leaned into that, that would have been, strangely enough, more enjoyable, cause I don't need to believe that these characters [cutesy voice] ~are in love and they're going to be together forever~. I don’t need to believe that. I need to believe that they make sense with each other. And them making sense with each other is not a question of them being nice people or good people or being good for each other. It just seems that the way those two puzzle pieces fit together is great because they ain’t making nobody else miserable along the way.

Even the stuff that you were saying, Ben, about Sand being a simp and, as I said, having a humiliation kink. I have seen so many Sands and Rays end up together. It's exhausting to watch it happen because they get into a cycle and keep doing it over and over. But I mean, if we're only going through one iteration of the cycle, it could have been entertaining because we're not gonna have to see them doing the same shit over and over. We just see the disaster once and then we're like, “Ooh, child. Glad that's not me.”

That's where I wanted to land on this show, because that's where I thought they were going in the beginning. And then at the end, for it to descend into this kind of sappy, lovey-dovey, aren't-they-cute-and-sweet shit. That was the tragedy for me. That was what pissed me off. Not that they ended up together. The ship, couple, pair-branding, ship, whatever. I didn't care about any of that ‘cause as far as I'm concerned, I could see ways for those particular characters in those particular couples to end up together. But it felt so inauthentic. It felt unreal. It felt uncanny valley. It felt Stepford. I did not like it.

Ben

Exactly. The inauthenticity and the unearned feeling of it all is really what pissed me off. So when Mix’s character appears at the end and drops the line that Top said to Mew: “Can I be your friend, too?”

NiNi

And Top’s soul leaves his body? [laughs]

Ben

Like that would have landed if Top felt like a real person to me, but the show never gave us interiority for him in a way for me to care about how he feels in that moment. The show spent so much time its finale punching down on Boston for being disloyal sexually with people. And then like there's this goofy-ass victory lap. “Look at all these couples together!” Sand literally says, “I don't even know why I'm here.” Then Mix’s character walks in and it's like, oh, oh, there's trouble in paradise. I was like, “What the absolute fuck is the show?”

How do we spend so many episodes castigating Boston for enjoying sex, and then we end on this nonsense? It was so shitty and I'm still not over the way they ended things for Boston and Nick. I don't think Boston and Nick should have ended up together, but I really hate that they don't get a poignant ending that owns the complex incompatibility that is going to keep them from working out. Instead, we end on a final shot of Boston, alone and dejected on the side of a nondescript street. [big sigh]

26:40 Where the Story Breaks Down

Ben

Boston is not an ethical slut. He introduced a guy to his friends to fuck with his friends. He brought Top around just to fuck with Ray. And then he got pissed because Top got serious about Mew, and he didn't care about Mew or respect Mew, and so that's why he fucked Top.

But they don't really build into whatever the real beef is between Boston and Mew. We can project things into it. We can sit here and try to come up with meaning for why these people are together. Best I had was you just don't have a lot of options when you're homos. These are your friends. You stumble into a group of gays and you deal with it. That could be fine, but I really wish for all of the talk that this show was “only friends” that we really understood the function of this friend group and the nature of betrayal here, other than, “You fucked my boyfriend. Blah blah blah.”

NiNi

The back half of the show was missing a really good bitch. The front end of the show, Boston is the one out there pushing people's faces in their shit, and then the back half of the show he's like a little kicked dog. Boston is fucking terrible, but he was the truth teller, and that's what I was looking for, I guess, in the back half of this. And I hoped that Boeing would be that character and then that fizzled out.

David

I can tell you when I think the narrative shift actually happened, and I've thought about this. I feel like three or four characters did things that seemed wildly out of place for their character. Even though we knew that that recording was going to get out somehow—that was a foregone conclusion. It being Sand…did not feel right at all. Ray finding out about the recording, and releasing it, was totally where I saw that coming from. But Sand being the one that did it is when it had a narrative shift to me that did not make sense.

Ben

You know what? I think it is that episode, because the way Boston responded to being confronted by Ray.

David

Right! I was going to say that next.

Ben

Where did that demon in him come from? Why does he feel so strongly about Ray like that?

David

Right! The more I thought about it, that is the episode something happened, some conversation in the writers room. Something happened somewhere. I firmly believe when they originally wrote that somehow Ray got ahold of the recording, and he directly took that recording to Mew. It does not make narrative sense to me in the way that they've presented Sand that he would have done it.

And that whole episode and the episode after were people doing things that didn't make any sense for what we knew about the character up until then. Like when Boston loses his shit on Ray—didn't make any sense within the context of what was going on. Had he unloaded on Mew? Totally would have made sense.

Ben

That's what I wanted to see. I really wanted to see the crux of the differences between Mew and Boston really come to a head properly, and instead we get Boston yelling at Ray, “You're no better than me!” and then Mew decks Ray so that he can do his own ‘gotcha bitch’ moment with Top.

That was incredibly unhinged. I liked the follow up for that where Mew was like I'm gonna get all of these bitches, and then he concocts his plan to get Boston’s sex tape just to be morally superior to him. That tracked completely for me. [laughs]

David

Oh oh yeah.

Ben

But like that's also sort of where the huge breakdowns occur because they make that confrontation primarily about Mew getting one up on Boston and making Boston grovel, but I just feel like we never really understood what the deal was with the two of them, because clearly they both felt some kind of way about the other but they never really express it to the camera.

NiNi

That's the problem for all the fights that there were between Mew and Boston, I still don't have any sense of why they don't like each other.

David

The thing that bothered me the most about this? My favorite part of most of the shows is friend groups that are ride-or-die for one another. You don't fuck with them. That's my girl. That's my boy. We gonna help you creep to him, but there gotta be rules. Unhinged friend groups that are down for one another like Secret Crush [On You]. Those kids sincerely fucking loved one another. We've seen good friend groups.

This friend group. Why the fuck are y'all around one another? Mew doesn't respect Boston. Boston can't stand Mew. And at some point, you think they would have explained it. Like, maybe there was some guy that Mew liked that Boston fucked. I could see that in such a way that Boston doesn't even remember what dude it was.

NiNi

I could even see just Mew hating Boston because Mew thinks he's a hoe, and Boston responding to that. But that doesn't even become part of the conversation. They're in this friend group together, but they hate each other. Okay. I can see that happening, especially when you're in college. You end up hanging out with a bunch of people, including this one bitch you can't stand. That's a thing. It occurs.

Ben

I wish we had really gotten at the envy that Mew definitely felt about Boston.

NiNi

Yes! There's like a seething envy between the two of them, and not just on Mew’s side, on Boston’s side as well. What I thought it was going in was that there was this weird kind of love/hate where they're mad jealous of each other, but they're also mad judgy about each other.

Ben

If this were like an American show, where we thought we might be getting more seasons, the two of them would definitely have the weirdest raunchiest sex scene at like the 60% mark of a second season.

[NiNi laughs]

NiNi

Their beef predates Top, but the show made their beef about Top.

David

I feel like Boston has actually wanted to fuck Mew for awhile. I think, too, that he knows he can't get Mew; that's never gonna happen. Conversely, I think Mew wants to fuck Boston and cannot handle or deal with that, because he's created a veil around himself that is so righteous, so sanctimonious, that to even do that would shatter everyone's notions of who he is, and I think he turns that annoyance and anger about that situation towards Boston.

I think they both want to fuck each other and the other one doesn't realize that the other one wants to fuck them. But if you look at it from that viewpoint, everything else makes sense. That they are fucking attracted to one another and Mew can't let it happen because of the picture he has painted of himself, and Boston can't look like he wants it because he knows he can't get Mew.

NiNI

This is some of the stuff that I thought the show was playing with: self-image and our ideas about ourselves, and the way that we want to project certain things and maybe hide in our hearts what we really want. That's one of the things that I definitely thought the show was doing with Mew. Maybe Mew’s a hoe at heart, maybe he wants to be everything that Boston is, maybe he wants to fuck Boston. It's this weird thing, but it just never gets addressed. And then it gets glossed over entirely in favor of this being somehow about Top.

This shit ain’t about Top!

David

Oh no! Top is definitely an ambulatory penis.

[NiNi laughs]

As a great philosopher named Benjamin Tiberius once said: Dick is abundant [NiNi in unison] and low in value. This could have literally been any other dude. The primary powerful personalities in this friend group are Mew and Boston, and they are such strong personalities at opposing poles that they are constantly fracturing that group. Those other personalities in that group are not strong enough to counteract that.

Ben

Speaking of other personalities in that group, let's talk about Cheum and how much I fucking despise her.

NiNi

Do we have to talk about her? [laughs]

Ben

Oh yes we do!

David

I was ready to defend Cheum until Ben turns around and goes, “But she's, like, mean.” She's consistently mean. And she gets away with it because she's the girl of the group. And in a lot of ways, she's as much of a status hopper as fucking Mew is.

NiNi

She is the one who started pushing Mew towards Top. Boston brought him around, but she was the one who was like, “Don't you wanna sleep with a top-tier dude?”

David

Yup! Yup!

NiNi

Girl, you, what? At one point in time, I thought that she was the shipper analog in this show because she is treating these boys like her Ken dolls that she's leaving around on the lot. Girl, go fuck your girlfriend and leave these boys alone. That's how I felt about it at one point in time. And then when she's sitting crying on the couch because the police have busted up her little party because Ray loved that booger sugar.

Ben

As her friends are being literally arrested by the cops, she takes that moment to go the fuck off on Ray.

NiNi

She makes that whole moment about her.

David

Yup.

Ben

That was so gross. And then she tried to weirdly play solidarity with Boston at that moment? “You don't care about me and Boston.” Me and Boston!

NiNi

There's a you and Boston?

Ben

I wish Boston had been fucking Atom at that exact moment and looked up like, “Who said my name?”

[David and NiNi laugh]

David

You imagine Boston just looking up and going, “I felt a baleful presence. What the fuck was that?”

NiNi

[laughs]Oh my God.

Ben

It was so ridiculous. And she's like, “Oh, boohoo. These boys were mean to me.” Like, you are a lesbian crying on your girlfriend's shoulder because gay boys were mean to you? You ain’t strong enough. Get out of here.

David

And let's all talk about that. Now, bitch, don't pretend like you didn't know that Ray was basically Guns ‘N Roses in your goddamn party. Bitch, don't play with me. You lie to God. Don't lie to me. There ain't no way you didn't know that boy had pockets full of booger sugar, booze, ketamine. Don't play in my face like this, please.

Ben

Ray is also so embarrassing. You really wanted Mew that bad that you let him use you just to piss off Top. And then you spend half your time running around calling Sand a whore? Fuck Ray for always calling Sand a whore.

NiNi

And also, if he's gonna call you a whore, and you're gonna be okay with that because Sand is always somehow forgiving of that, then at least take the motherfucking money.

Ben

He did deserve financial compensation for having to put up with that entire friend group.

38:40 Bottom Dementia™

Ben

David, let's talk about Boston and how his bottom dementia drove him insane and that's why he had to fuck Top so bad.

[NiNi laughs]

David

I was the first one to use bottom dementia, because I said, “Look, sometimes if you are a primary top and you find someone who makes you want to bottom, that bottom dementia make you go crazy.”

He ain't going crazy over no bottom like this. This is a top who put it down good one time, and this boy is willing to risk it all. Friends, career, school. He just want the dick! Bottom Dementia is a real problem and affects 6 in every 10 gay men.

[NiNi laughs]

What do you think poor Nick was going through? He had Nick turnt. Nick was bugging cars because the dick turned him so good. Do you know what kind of bottom dementia you gotta be going through to bug someone’s car and just be casual about it?

Ben

Not only did he casually bug the car.

David

Girl, he listened. He watched.

Ben

And then recorded the encounter. He then edited the clip so that he could listen to it just to hurt himself.

David

Bottom dementia! It is trademarked. I want my coins, and I am open for TED talks on bottom dementia. I've had one case of bottom dementia in my life. I know what it looks like. I went halfway across the country because of bottom dementia. I knew it when I saw Boston. I was like, “Oh, that's bottom dementia right there, girl. That's all that is.” I was like, I understand him though, like my sis is going through it right now. Y'all gotta let bottom dementia play out. It's like a sleepwalker. You can't just jostle them out of it. [NiNi laughs] Like, if you see someone going through bottom dementia, what you do is you make sure they're not thirsty and they've eaten—or maybe not eaten, depending on what stage of the bottom dimension they’re in.

Ben

Gurl.

[NiNi laughs harder]

David

You know, you just be there for them, because they're gonna come up out that fugue, and they're gonna be like, “Bitch!” And then you go, “Bitch…”

Ben

I almost understood it when they were in that car and Top's like, “Fine, I'm gonna do it,” and then tried to send that man into orbit.

[NiNi laughs]

Aight, bro. Shit!

David

Let me tell you! That was not good for poor Boston, ‘cause that made the bottom dementia a lil crazier. So when he rejected homeboy—and that's how you cure bottom dementia. You just get rejected, or you get common sense.

[Ben and NiNi laugh]

Like in my own case, it came when I was on the plane. I was like, “Am I really flying halfway across the country for dick? [NiNi laughs] Is your girl really sitting in coach class for dick? Did I not get my snack for dick? [Ben laughs] What is happening? Wait, wait, wait. Am I on Spirit Airlines for dick?”

NiNi

[laughs] I’m choking…

David

Girl! I—look! Man, I got off the plane, I called my girlfriend, I was like, “Let me tell you something, bitch.”

She was like, “Mm-hmm.”

I was like, “Girl, I'm on Spirit.”

She's like, “Mhmm. Right!”

“In coach.”

“Mm-hmm. Yup.”

“Halfway across the country.”

“Mhmm, right again.”

“For dick?”

She was like, “Sir. Ma'am, my sister in Christ.”

Now I went and got that dick because, at that point, I mean I'm already there, you know, but, like… bottom dementia is a real thing, okay? Let me tell you, like, whether it's you realizing that you are in the throes of it in coach on Spirit Airlines [Ben and NiNi laugh] on a one o’clock flight—Bitch, it was one in the morning. What is my life choices?

Ben

You caught a red eye??

[NiNi continues laughing]

David

Girl! Ben, for dick, girl, bottom dementia.

Ben

Speaking of bottom dementia, let's talk about Atom

David

Gurl…

NiNi

Woo. Jesus, fix it. Fix it, Jesus.

David

Jesus, take the wheel, take the axle, take the car, like. Lord.

Ben

I don't mind the plot line. Atom being like, “Give me that dick. I want it.” Fine. Whatever. We've seen like three different cases of bottom dementia in this show now. You got Boston's for Top, Nick’s for Boston, and now Atom’s for Boston. And then there's also Sand for Ray—oh my God.

David

Girl! [Ben sighs]

NiNi

That ain’t bottom dementia. That’s something else entirely.

Ben

That's true. And so, it was expected. Cheum storming over there and whooping Boston's ass ‘cause she thought he laid hands on her brother, but not calling the cops on him? That was her being nice. I don't blame her for being as live as she was, but I do blame Mew. Because Mew was supposed to be smart—and definitely knew better—and just wanted to see Boston punished.

And for as smart as he is, as much as he reads, choosing to let Boston go down that way is fucked up in ways that I just can't properly articulate, because there's no way you think it's okay for Boston—after you've helped him get out from under some sexual blackmail—would think that he would do that to somebody else. Let alone, Cheum’s brother. And letting that go down the way he did was, for me, the kind of unforgivable shit that a character can do.

It tracks with the character because Mew is a mean bitch, but was too fucking far from Mew.

Ray! Ray is drunk. I don't care about Ray.

David

Girl, Ray didn't know where he was. They said get in the car, we rolling. And Ray was like, okay. He put his flask in his pocket with his booger sugar and he got in the car. Ray barely knew what day it was.

Ben

But Mew definitely knew that Boston didn't do that to Atom, and he still let that go down. That was gross for me, and I hated the little perfunctory apology she gives Boston about that whole situation and then two scenes later it's like, “Okay, time for you to apologize to everybody for all the shit you did.” I'm like, “[scoffs] is? Is that how this is going down?

NiNi

No, you see. You ain't got smoke for Cheum over how that shit went down with Boston over at him, but I got smoke for that bitch, and here's why. It is one thing to be live about somebody you think did something to your little brother. Be live about that. 100%. But the way she was live? The shit that she said?

“Oh, my brother was straight before. What did you do to him?” Come the fuck on?

David

Her whole verbiage of that… as one of the gay men near her, I would have been like, “Bitch, what is that supposed to mean? Ain't nobody gonna check this bitch about what she just said?”

NiNi

That scene was when I was over Mew. I was over Cheum. Them two were completely out of control.

David

Because of another little BL group I'm in, I started doing all this research on… trigger warning guys, sexual assault and date rap drugs and all that… and it's like a major issue there. And I thought the way that this show touched on that did everyone involved a disservice.

Cheum, when her brother said he lied, she should have beat his ass in the middle of the kitchen. Why would you lie about something like that? Do you know the consequences of that kind of lie? You, identifying as a straight man, told me that one of my gay friends raped you.

Ben

I really hate that she reassured her brother.

David

When he lied, I decided, “Oh no, Atom is done.” We don't lie about that. I don't care what the fuck his reasons are. That shit was foul.

Ben

I do not like Cheum. I do not like Atom. I do not like Mew. I don't like any of these bitches! I was watching this like I was an older patron at Yo's bar. “What’s going on with the twinks these days?”

“Oooh, girl, let me tell you…”

“Oh, Lord. And then he did what?”

“Girl, he punched his own friend in the bar so he couldn't out that man, just so he could go fuck him up at home.”

“Damn, that bitch is crazy.”

That's how I was watching this whole show.

47:38 Do Not Take Only Friends Seriously

Ben

The thing here is, the show was just meant as entertainment. Do not take this show seriously. A lot of us like to write meta. We like to really engage with the stories and stuff. But, as David and I are fond of saying to all of the gays around us when they ask us for help and then don't do what we tell them they need to do to get out of their situation: “I can't want more for you than you want for yourself.”

This show does not want a lot for itself. I'm not going to pretend like this show was deeper than it was. This was a fun romp where a bunch of the BL boys got to cut loose for a little bit and have a good time, and that's totally fine. If you watch it as just the BL boys and some of their friends got to do a cracked-out, messy gay show, and we got to have some fun moments, it's fine.

Are we going to want to engage with this more seriously as a lens into queer life? I don't know. Like, there are some things to talk about, and I think there's some great shit to talk about with Nick and Boston. But overall? Mmmm…It’s fine. It's fun while you're watching it. There is no need to return to it.

NiNi

I just wish, and this is the thing that I try not to do with shows, but I think in this case it's justified. I just wish it was something else. For whatever reason, it's very clear that something in this show got changed during its run, and I just wish that they had been able to make the show that they clearly envisioned at the start.

Ben

I think we thought the show was going to be broader than it was, in terms of interacting with the queer experience. And it's fine if that's not what the creators intended. I feel like that's something we wanted from it. I don't think it's something that was necessarily promised to us. The only thing that was promised to us that we didn't get was Sand and his motherfucking bat.

NiNi

Now, you know how I feel about pilot trailers, Ben. I do not trust them.

Ben

It's less about that he didn't actually wield the bat. It's that the character pitched out there seemingly had a stronger sense of self than Sand ended up having in the final, and that irks me. Where is the version of Sand that was mad as hell and took a bat clearly about to go break something? Bring him back!

David

The whole narrative shift is so weird and awful, and Sand and Boston are probably the two biggest victims of it.

Ben

When did the show shift for me? The moment Sand called Ray his 25th hour. I was like, “Oh, what the fuck just happened??”

NiNi

Eww….

Ben

We don't have to wring meaning out of this experience. Like, we had a good time. We got some laughs. Mond kissed all of the boys. Whatever.

51:00 Final Thoughts (Two Months Later)

Ben

Hello again, folks. We apologize for the abrupt end to the last section. When we were recording this with David, we ran into an unfortunate hour and a half long string of technical difficulties, and some of the recording was lost, and we do not have the capacity in us to try and rebuild the end of that segment.

So, couple of months away from Only Friends, NiNi and I are back together, and we brought another guest with us, and we're going to wrap this up. So, everyone welcome Ginny back to this side of the podcast, Ginny, say “hello.”

Ginny

Hey!

Ben

What I kind of want to talk about now, a couple of months away from the show, what from Only Friends, if anything, sticks with you at this point?

Ginny

Disappointment. [laughs] Really, Boston and Nick as characters and, what I hoped, and was ultimately frustrated by in their stories. But I did, really, love so much of what was done with their characters, and when I think about the show, it's mostly the two of them—both separately and together—that I think about.

Ben

What about you, NiNi? You had an ongoing rankings board for 12 weeks on this show. What sticks with you from it at this point?

NiNi

Definitely Boston. That's been haunting me for a while, but it also, oddly enough, Top. Because I feel like my conception of Top was more interesting than what the show gave us, and so I've been stuck with a lot of Top headcanons, which is a weird place for me to be in. They missed a trick, I think, when it came to Top, and the whole TopMew dynamic.

Ben

For me, nothing about the show itself sticks. Only thing that I think of when I think about Only Friends was Neo did a really good job, and I really liked Mark. And that's not great.

I think whether it was spoken or not, a lot of us hoped that this show would join the gay canon, and it doesn't. The way this show lets down its audience on the sexual politics towards the end is truly unforgivable and it has made me think less of Jojo. I don't know how much of this is him, or how much of this is the powers that be at GMMTV, but it was kind of weird, with as online as Jojo is, just sort of laughing about how Boston's a fugly slut. And that's where, sort of being where the show ends, being really surprising for me from him, ‘cause I thought he had a stronger grasp on his characters.

I really hate that one of the shows we were most anticipating ends up being barely worth mentioning? It sucks, because, I think, a lot of the talent in this really put themselves out there and pushed themselves beyond their comfort zones. It really sucks how flat Only Friends feels by the end, because the early parts of watching this were just so fun. The need to make bolder and more risque or more interesting storytelling seems to be at odds with whoever has the final say on what goes into these stories, and Only Friends seems to be a very obvious victim of that.

NiNi

It's a show that should have been fun. In the end, it was not fun. I would give this show seven and a half, and the half point is for the stylistic elements. I'm sad to be rating Only Friends a seven and a half because up to episode 6 this was probably like a 9.5 show for me.

Ben

Ginny, what about you?

Ginny

I still have to think about my final rating. Because yeah, the first half and a bit—fully 9.5. And then by the end I want to put it down in the 7 zone. I think at the moment it's sitting at 8.5 on my MyDramaList, but as time has passed and I haven't gotten over the things that made me sad about it, I think it's going down to at least an 8, and it may sink further as time passes and my bitterness pickles.

Ben

Pickles is a good term for it. It's a 7. It is not an easy show to recommend. It is a show, that if you're going to tell someone to watch it, you have to give caveats for. You have to explain that something is going on politically with this show in terms of what it was allowed to do, and how that seriously impacts the end. Anytime you have to recommend a show with a pamphlet explaining things, or learning people about things, it lowers for me immediately.

If this was any other creator, they should have gotten a 5, because I was Gay Mad about this show.

Ginny

Yep.

Ben

I was not expecting to be Gay Mad at Jojo. The fact that this is Jojo and NiNew, and I liked the cast, and it feels like meddling and not necessarily the creators per se, is the only reason this gets a 7.

NiNi

7, 7.5, 8, so that's an average of a. 7.5.

Ben

You know what it is? It's a chop!

NiNi

It's a chop, and I am so sad to be saying that about this show, about a Jojo show. So sad, but that's where we are.

Ben

And on that note, we will see you all in the next episode—which one is it, NiNi?

NiNi

I don't know. Whatever ends up happening ends up happening.

Ben

Oh, God, the next episode is Swoon.

[NiNi laughs]

We will see you next week for I Feel You Linger in the Air.

NiNi

It might be the same week! You don't know when things are going up. My calendar is a little wonky, right now.

Ben

We will see you in a few days [laughs] for I Feel You Linger in the Air. The Swoon episode.

NiNi

We out. Say “bye” to the people, Ginny.

Ginny

Bye-bye.

NiNi

Say bye to the people, Ben.

Ben

Peace!

#ben and nini's conversations #only friends the series #ctlyuejie writes #long post #my god....so many typos to fix

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lolita-lollipop · 3 years ago

Note

Hizashi and Aizawa kidnapping a young teenage girl, and her bonding and quickly finding comfort with Hizashi, leaving Aizawa to awkwardly attempt at being super soft and all the more gentle to his sensitive little girl, his heart panging with pain every time she flinches or cowers away from him. “You don’t need to be scared of me, kitten.. please”

your little acts of favoritism weren’t necessarily intentional, you hated both of them. they were your brothers teachers, and whoop dee doo, they kidnapped you. but... you liked hizashi more.

it was just something about him that made you believe he was some form of comfort item, probably because he wasnt brooding, and didnt have a mean face, and he was the first human yud ever seen in this place, that all combined into one and he became your rock, your shoulder to cry on. he was just... so nice, although his quirk was loud, somehow he managed to speak softly with you. it was such a bright contrast to at home where two firey blondes always scream at each other, and your father tries to calm it down.

on your first night ever here, you had tried to jump out the window, and were captured by the thick scarves you once admired, hed lectured you, yelled at yiuu even, all you could see were those red eyes of his, and hear his voice. and he scared you, he scared you so much. i guess it justtranslates to now, first impressions are everything, and to you, he looked like a big scary man who would yell at you.

eventually, you stopped caring about how you hated him, or how you wanted to leave, as you clearly never were. so, instead of glaring at them, or crying, you accepted the fact that he was taking care of you. hizashi, hizashi was taking care of you... aizawa though? no way in hell, he was just so... you'd never seen him with a smile, he never tried to talk to you, he just kinda watched you, and it freaked you out, at some point you started believing he was trying to kill you, don't even ask how you came up with that conclusion.

you just couldn't manage to warm up to hi as you'd done so quickly with hizashi, and it showed. you were always tense when alone with him, like he was going to jump out at you any second and stab you, you didnt talk to him , sometimes you felt so anxious around him that you would outright start crying, shaking in some form of fear, or hide yourself under a blanket. although hizashi was proud that you loved him so much, he knew that this was hurting his husband, that his own little girl was scared of him.

so he would always try to coax you into doing things with him, saying things like "can your papa come and help" or "how about we have papa do this with you while I make lunch?", just trying to get him included so you would feel just as comfortable around him as you were with his own self. Sometimes he just left the room to let you have alone time with him. He’d even lectured his husband about how he always looked angry, and that he has to smile form time to time, and not the creepy “I’m gonna kill a villain” smile.

And so Aizawa started trying, not trying to be like hizashi, even that was too much for him, but trying to be nicer, he was a gentle person when he wanted to be, so this came with ease for him, he would tuck you in at night, read you stories, hold you if you cried, feed you, help you bathe (which you usually liked hizashi to do, and in general, inserted himself as a gentle roger in your life. You would expect taht this would work, that because he was so nice to you, because he was so sweet like hizashi, you would accept him as your father.

But nope! Again, first impressions are everything to you, and now, he was written off as the villain of you story, now, you jsut ran off to papa whenever he was around, and didn’t even give him the chance to hang around you, it just made it worse honestly, because now, not only did he look scary, but he also looked fake, which is never good. Every time he would try to if you, you would clutch onto hizashi for dear life, acting like his hand would do nothing but burn you.

Tears would cloud your vision, and he would pulle back, not wanting to cause you any more pain, and jsut stare in. Pure jealousy at his husband, who cooed and gave you a hug.and guess what? You hugged him back, and hid yourself in his chest, willingly, without a fight, without a tear, instead with a smile, most of the times mic wouldn’t interfere, wbatigg ns this to everyone a safe space for you, a place where you should naturally do things, but sometimes, he would give you little bushes int he right direction. Like disappearing completely for my he house so you’ll be forced to talk to Aizawa.

This is one of those times.

Yo been wandering the house for about ten minutes now, waking up form a nap, to find mic absent from his usual place in the rocking chair at your bedside. It was a little after lunchtime, and they’d only given you a small cup of fruit for breakfast (intentional, from mic), you were fairly hungry, and usually he was there to give you food, but you had no idea where he was, you had heard the… other one on the phone in their shared office, but you did not want to talk to him right now.

Aizawa could tell you were awake by the fact that all of the cats were meowing like crazy, and little pattering footsteps had followed his hearing around, mic had left abruptly, probably some little plan of mischief again, he was hizashi after all. He was just waiting for you to either 1: go back to bed, or 2: come to him for help. Mic had specifically told him to follow these rules for after nap time, so he did. And grew progressively more worried as over twenty minutes, trying to read through his students grading work, too distracted by the urge to go find you to accomplish anything.

His worries dissipated though when he saw your little head poking through the door, cat in hand, confused and tired looking, small tears beginning to prick th corners of your eyes, little sniffling sounds left you. His wha specked up form the desk, you’d given up walking around the whole house, your restarting had slowly pent up, you couldn’t manage to find him, and you were so hungry.

“Oh- hey honey, I didn’t know you were up. Do you need something?” He questioned, smiling intently at you, you just inched back into the door frame, breathing heavier by the moment, your hands shook and your head felt like it was going to explode at any point. Youbcontenoajted runnign back to your room and waiting till mic came out where you could hear him, but your stomach grumbled, reminding you how hungry you really are.

“I’m- im looking for daddy. Where is he.” You spoke, a very hushed tone overtook your words, making them almost inaudible for him. His face sunk slowly, he tougher you were actually gonna come for him, but the he remembered taht patience is key, and that he shouldn’t get mad, because it is t your fault taht you’re just a little sensitive, too fragile to handle more than one attachment, he gets it. He jsut at least wanted you to look at him, instead did your little feet, I’m Ayer if you could meet his eyes the. You would see how much he loves you.

“Oh, he left a. Little while ago. Is there something you need from him? Your papa can give him a call if you want, you could even talk to him!” He exclaimed excitedly, plastering that happy smile across his face to seem more inviting, liek mic had told him to do. He stood out of his chair, rounding up the papers and putting them in his file folders.you tried to sink back furthers, almost disappearing behind the doorway, you shook your head aggressively, almost running off, then yet again, your stomach made another noise, and forced you to stay.

“I- no. I’m- im hungry-“ you spluttered, not caring if it was embarrassing that you were stuttering so much, you just wanted food. And calling mic would just get you a lecture on how you could’ve just asked your papa, the same thing would happen whenever you went to uncnecesary lengths to avoid the man, your daddy would make sure you knew that it made him feel bad, while you’d at there bored. Not caring, at all.

“Oh- well you should’ve told me sooner kitten, if I’d known I would be up already. Cmon, let’s go to the kitchen, your daddy made you some food earlier” he spoke, rising from his chair slowly, you cowered slightly as he walked over, clutching the little kitten right to you for comfort, he mewed and snuggled closer, completely asleep. The man sighed when he saw you backing away from his grasp, he knew you were still scared. But he was just so impatient… he was tired of waiting, he wanted to hold you, even if it was jsut foena few minutes. He needed it feel you there with him.

Is he acted quickly, moving in a matter of seconds, he swooped his arm under your leg, and hooked his other around your torso, pulling you straight up into his grasp. Youu huh froze, his hands felt cold as ice on your skin, like they were burning you, immediately after he started walking, it snapped you out of it and you threw a fit. You dig your fingernails into his skin, and kicked and flailed in a panic, still trying to keep the little kitten in your lap safe. A full blown panic washed over you, clogging all your senses.

The dam holding back tears form your eyes crashed, and immediately you were sobbing, biting at his shoulder to let you go, he tried to rub your back to calm you down a bit, but just made it worse, as his hands felt like living anxiety creeping up and down your spine. He didn’t know what to do, let you ride it out, andkk no possibly have you get sick because of how much your crying in an empty stomach? Or let you down and go straight back to square one.

Your veined felt like pure ice had flooded in them, and it felt liek someone was repeatedly jabbing you in the head with tiny needes, fear was jsut so prominent in your sense, it overcame you, and made you whimper and scream.

“Whoah, breath for me alright? I just want to hold you. I’m not going to hurt you okay? I would never hurt you. Kitten… you don’t have to be scared of me” he spoke, trying to keep a proper computers, he wanted to cry with you, he wasn’t a very soft or emotional man but honestly, he was so upset with himself already, this was jsut pushing him for the edge. You cried, and cried, at some point you weren’t even crying and screaming at him, more with him. He held you close, you’d stopped the struggle almost five minutes ago, letting him hold you. It was odd. It almost felt… nice.

“I-I’m sorry. I’m being stupid again” You alien through your remaining little hiccups, shove my your face into his shirt, smelling the woody scent he carried around with him. He cooed, letting you hide yourself from him, savouring this soft moment was of top priorirty in his head… you jsut looked so sweet, so different from those harsh cries that would sound usually whenever he came around.

Who would think, shouts aizawas hand couldn’t feel nice? The same ones that had just been burning you, the ones that made you scream, felt like a breeze on a spring day, he actually felt warm, he felt like happiness, like contentment.

“No hon, it’s not stupid. Your scared. I know that, we all get scared and it’s not a bad thing, I love you, I really, really love you kitten. Just know that” he continued on with his little speech, leaving down to kiss you in the forehead, Jsut to be suprised when you didn’t flinfh, you were too tired to be scared; and too hungry, plus, he was really warm, the cat had pretty much snuggled up to him already, who says you shouldn’t.

“I- um- I love you… to?” You spoke, more of a question than anything, you’d spent so long Harding him that you didn’t know if you even could love him, it didn’t even feel possible, then again, you litterally cling to hizashi like a koala, and your mental state has relaly said “swoopity swoop” and scattered itself everywhere. Maybe having two comfort items was actually better than one… huh.

“Well, let’s go eat then. All taht crying probably made you tired, I’ll let you watch a movie in my office, you can watch pinto again, I know you love taht one. Cmon, let’s go” he spoke, and started walking again, you cuddled closer to him as he did, smiling slightly at the warmth. Hizashi was very extravagant, exiting, and hyper, this man felt very cool, calm, it was such a dark contrast, but it worked so well. You jsut… you Jsut liked it.

Well… now we’ll just have to wait and see who’s the favorite

———————————————————————————————————

Thank you for requesting! It was super fun to write and had me feeling super happy when I finished :)

I’m thinking about doing yandere todoroki family asks, because I’m litterally in love with @i-cant-sing one… so, requests are open for those if you want to put them in (please do I’m begging)

Anywho, have the most wonderful to days today! Goodbye!

#platonic obsession #platonic yandere #soft yandere #yandere my hero academia #yandere platonic #yandere #yandere poly #yandere erasermic #yandere Aizawa #yandere hizashi #yandere hizashi yamada #yandere shouta aizawa #yandere present mic #yandere eraserhead #yandere x reader

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thegeminisage · 4 years ago

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john abused both dean AND sam, just differently. in this essay i will

prove that the abuse manifested in different ways for each of them because that’s how abuse works in real life. this is based on the fact that john saw dean as mary’s surrogate but once he found out about the deal and sam having demon blood he blamed sam for her death. ok let’s fucking go

dean as mary’s surrogate

there are loads of parallels made between dean and mary in early season spn and late season spn. in season 12 dean directly calls himself sam’s mother, but even earlier than that we see him doing the cooking and child rearing. compare that to all the parallels made between sam and john (both of them losing their blonde woman significant others in a ceiling fire) and it’s clear that dean was meant to more resemble mary. it’s not a stretch to say that if we can see it as viewers this is how john saw it in his actual life. i do think john loves dean for being dean but he loves him more for being mary.

sam as the reason behind mary’s death

i think once john learned that sam had demon blood, some part of him must have always been waiting for the other shoe to drop with sam, not ever fully believing this kid was human, and maybe not even knowing if this kid was HIS. a popular theory back in the day was that YED fathered sam (something they had to actually address in season 4 to stop the speculation), and if WE speculated that hard, surely john must have too. i’m sure he loves sam as an extension of mary, and keeps and raises and protects him BECAUSE he’s mary’s, but similarly (or maybe inverse) to dean, i don’t know if he ever fully gave himself permission to love sam for being sam. in fact, i imagine john harbors a lot of self-loathing for failing to save mary. if we directly parallel john and sam, that means by some extent he would also hate sam.

john trusted dean with far too much, and sam with far too little

dean knew about monsters; sam didn’t. dean had memories of their mother and the night she died, and shared that trauma of watching her die with john; sam didn’t. dean knew when john was supposed to be home and who to call if he wasn’t; sam didn’t. dean was given the money and the guns and the CAR ITSELF; sam wasn’t. dean was taught to drive; SAM WASN’T.

dean was expected to do everything john was supposed to have been doing in his absence - he was to be a mother and father to sam, he was supposed to protect sam from evil, he was supposed to see to sam’s meals and homework and getting to school on time. and he was put under an EXTRAORDINARY amount of pressure not to screw this up even a little bit, despite the fact that he was only a kid. sam on the other hand was kept on a strict need-to-know basis for his entire life, right up until season 1 when they reunite at last. john didn’t trust sam with ANYTHING, and sam knew it. this contributed to his lifelong anger issues because he didn’t DO anything to warrant that kind of mistrust and probably got gaslit about it a lot of times either by john himself or dean (unknowingly, by parroting/believing the things john said). even in the pilot sam says very casually of his mother “she’s gone,” because her memory doesn’t hold the same place of reverence for him - best guess is that john didn’t talk about her much to sam because he didn’t trust sam with emotional stuff either. in s14 we learn that dean was the one who told sam stories about mary, including her terrible casserole - and their attempt at recreating it infuriated john to the point of him throwing the entire concoction in the trash.

john relied on dean for everything, and refused to rely on sam for anything

canonically dean was the one who comforted john after a bad hunt, looked after and fed his brother when john wasn’t around. dean knew how to use a shotgun; sam didn’t. dean knew who to call in an emergency; sam didn’t. dean knew about monsters; sam didn’t. this was done under the guise of “protection for sammy” but turn it around and it’s also protection FROM sammy. think of how angry john gets when he learns sam has been having psychic visions. he’s not just angry that dean didn’t report it to him, he’s angry that the demon’s plans for sam are coming to pass, and that sam is becoming less human. again, he can’t TRUST sam if sam’s not human, and it proves to john that he was right all along to keep sam in the dark as much as possible.

john gave dean too much freedom, and sam no freedom at all

“watch out for sammy.” sam was under constant supervision by either dean or john; john made sure of it. again, it’s protection FOR sam but also protection FROM him, in case he did something inhuman or evil. dean on the other hand was left alone without any supervision at all for days or even weeks at a time - he resorts to stealing bread and peanut butter and (according to jackles) turning tricks for money. he had to make it work and got up to whatever the fuck he wanted when john wasn’t looking. sam had to LITERALLY run away from home before he got the simple pleasure of eating pizza and having a dog by himself, independently. dean was given too much independence and freedom but sam was kept on such a short leash he had none at all.

john made dean feel unworthy, and he made sam feel unclean

when dean fails to protect sam from the shtriga in the season 1 flashbacks, he says his dad looked at him differently after. he also implies that john physically beat him when sam ran away in flagstaff. whether he meant to or not, john made it abundantly clear that his love for dean was not unconditional; it depended very much on how well dean performed the multitude of tasks john assigned him. dean grew up believing that his only worth was in what he could do for other people. he demonstrates this an an adult over and over and over, from letting his possessed family members beat him up to refusing to take care of his own needs, emotional and otherwise, and snapping at people who try to talk to him about his own feelings.

on the other hand, sam talks in season 8 about how even at a very young age he felt impure and unclean, even before he knew that he had demon blood, even before he knew that there was any such thing as monsters. kids aren’t stupid, and sam picked up on the vibes john was putting off - that john didn’t trust him, might not have loved him, and might not have considered him human or even his own child. without even knowing why, he spent his entire life feeling unclean and inhuman, not worth of being loved by his own family. even dean, who we all know loves sam unconditionally, admits in season 14 that he often took dad’s side on arguments because he had “his own stuff,” further leading to the alienation that was sam’s constant companion growing up.

AND, MOST IMPORTANTLY:

JOHN’S ABUSE PITTED SAM AND DEAN AGAINST EACH OTHER

john saved dean after their shared trauma of mary’s death. dean says in season 1 that the reason he stopped talking was that he was scared. iirc john’s journal implies he was mute for over a year, and dean in season 2 says that when he was 6 or 7 his dad took him shooting for the first time. if mary died just before dean’s fifth birthday, the timeline works out to dean talking again because john took him shooting. i believe that dean hero worships his father because after mary’s death, and dealing with the terror that something like that could come in and take his family away by killing them horribly at any time without any warning, john learning to fight back against the darkness - and teaching dean to do the same - is what gave dean his voice again. BOTH of them saw and carried the memory of mary burning on the ceiling for the rest of their lives. “watch out for sammy” and “get the thing that killed mom” were dean’s reasons to get up in the morning, because they were john’s reasons to get up in the morning. these things were LITERALLY his reasons for living. john gave dean a way to fight back against fear and gave him a cause to keep him going. abuse or not, dean never stopped being grateful for that, and he was the only other person in the whole world who understood the unique horror of what john went through that night. even all the way into season 10, he tells other people that john did right by him. it’s borderline brainwashing. part of dean’s self-worth will always be based on how good of a son he was to john.

on the other hand, knowingly or not, john did everything possible to alienate sam. he kept him on a short leash while also keeping him at arm’s distance. he didn’t trust sam with emotional things like the memory of mary, he didn’t trust sam with the truth about monsters and what they did for a living, he didn’t trust sam with his plans, he didn’t trust sam with the truth about demon blood. canon STRONGLY suggests john knew YED bled in sam’s mouth as a baby, but instead of telling sam or even dean about that, sam had to learn about it in a horrible flashback recreated by YED himself. when sam wanted to go to school, john told him no, and when he left anyway, john told him not to come back.

this is an equal but opposite kind of abuse. john totally fucked up BOTH his kids in complete inversions to each other.

which means that, no matter what john did, it caused sam and dean to fight. this isn’t an interpretation. this is straight up canon.

again, dean says in s14 that he frequently took dad’s side in arguments because he had his own stuff to deal with, and he was trying to keep the peace. dean, a victim of emotional (and implied sometimes physical) abuse himself, was not able to shield sam from all of john’s bullshit. he could stop sam from getting hit and having to see john during the worst of his drunken rages, but he couldn’t trick sam into thinking john loved him unconditionally, because john didn’t love either of his kids unconditionally.

when john acted in a way that was not befitting of a parent, sam rightfully took exception, which forced dean (who was ALSO BEING ABUSED, almost brainwashed) to jump to his defense. that led to john getting to do whatever the hell he wanted and sam and dean arguing about the effects. when sam ran away in flagstaff, DEAN was punished, leading dean to resenting sam for that incursion, even though sam was perfectly right to want to get away from an abusive household. when sam did a normal thing wanting to leave for college at age 18, he left, and dean resented him for that because that meant he was alone to bear the brunt of john’s anger.

sam repeatedly made logical, emotionally healthy choices in attempting to break the family dynamic, but because of JOHN’S BEHAVIOR, not sam’s, those choices wound up causing dean harm. JOHN HIMSELF was the ultimate wedge between sam and dean growing up and beyond.

and let’s not forget the biggest sin - john spent 22 years impressing upon dean that taking care of sammy was EVERYTHING, and then without any explanation at all, he asked dean to kill him, and then he DIED, which meant dean had to carry that weight by himself (because again, he’s been trained not to trust sam with things). like of COURSE sam got angry when he found out - that’s fucking fucked up! once again sam is being treated like a ticking time bomb for absolutely no reason - he didn’t ask to have demon blood or psychic visions or a dead mom or an abusive father. nor did dean ask to be saddled with the upbringing of an entire human at four years old who he then might have to kill. because dean will always feel gratitude towards john, and sam will always feel resentment, and because based on john’s treatment of them BOTH OF THESE FEELINGS ARE JUSTIFIED, john continues to cause fights between sam and dean long after he’s dead and gone, and that will never change.

on a final note: i’d like to bring this around to season 13.

after cas, mary, kelly, and crowley all die (or are presumed dead in mary’s case) in the season 12 finale, season 13 opens with nobody but sam and dean and jack. dean directly blames jack for these deaths. he says so multiple times. he says where jack can hear him that he knows jack is evil and impure and cannot be saved and calls jack a freak. when jack tries repeatedly to kill himself dean says to jack’s face not to bother, because WHEN jack does go bad, dean will be the one to kill him. dean does NOT see jack as castiel’s child - he sees jack as someone who brainwashed cas and kelly both and got them killed. dean does not even see jack as a human person worthy of life. from the get-go, all he wants is to put jack down. jack is born into a world shaped by pain and grief and anger, where people hate him simply for what he is and who died to get him here.

and again, sam identifies hard with jack. he justifiably protests dean’s treatment of him. jack is a kid and didn’t ask for any of this. jack is terrified of dean. sam reminds dean that john said all these things about sam that dean is saying about jack. john is still causing a rift between his sons over a decade after his death.

eventually, after jack uses his powers and brings back cas from the empty, dean pulls his head out of his ass and admits that he was wrong. he calls jack his kid more than once, and jack refers to dean as one of his dads. but the damage has already been done. jack struggles multiple times with his powers, accidentally hurting people and then wishing himself dead after. he also struggles without them; even when using his powers means using up pieces of his soul, he does it, because dean taught him that he’s only worthy of being loved and trusted if he’s “good.” even when he has NO SOUL, when jack does something bad he panics about it and seeks to undo it at any cost. that’s how deep the damage runs.

i see a lot of people remarking that in the arc of 13.01-13.05, dean became john, and i agree that he did. but dean didn’t do to jack what john did to him. dean did to jack what john did to SAM.

[spn masterpost]

#supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester #john winchester #jack kline #liz watches spn #liz's meta #liz's spn stuff #YES YOU CAN REBLOG THIS PLS DO I WORKED HARD ON IT.#WHEW. glad i got that off my chest #this is why u can't call it the widow arc #sam revisited a WHOLE childhood of trauma here #the arc is about all of them!!!!!#backtagging to add #broken road #brcu

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emeraldiis · 3 years ago

Text

Double Vision

A/N: this is so self indulgent i should be ashamed of myself

AO3 Link

Pairing: Loki x Reader, President Loki x Reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Summary: You and your boyfriend, 2012 Loki, are trapped at the end of time. But you're not alone. President Loki just got two new toys to play with.

Warnings: threesome, DUBIOUS CONSENT, dom/sub, sub!Loki, bondage, name calling, rough sex, mild knife play

You had been pruned seconds after Loki had in the battle in the TVA’s headquarters. Strangely, it didn’t hurt like you had expected. Just a faint sensation of completely and utter emptiness, and then everything went dark. Just like falling asleep. When you came back to your senses, it was just as gentle. You awoke in a bed of grass, staring up at a cloudy sky. A wave of relief calmed the rising panic in your veins when you turned to see Loki lying next to you.

You took in your surroundings slowly. The clouds looming above you looked threatening, like an impending storm, and far off in the distance was what looked like a ruined city. Crumbling skyscrapers pierced the horizon like jagged teeth. Heart speeding up in fear, you quickly shook Loki awake. “Wake up,” you hissed. “I have no idea where the hell we are.”

Loki grumbled and raised a disoriented hand to bat yours away, but still cracked open his hazy eyes to squint at you. A smile lit up his face when he saw you staring back at him, and you’d have been touched if it wasn’t important that he wake up right now. Upon seeing the anxiety written clearly on your face, he furrowed his brows and sat up, shaking his head to chase away the lingering confusion. You could tell the moment he realized something was very...wrong with the realm you found yourselves in, as his eyes widened and he was instantly on guard.

A deafening roar shook the ground, alerting the both of you to a looming danger, and you turned around to see a purple mass bearing down on you. You’d seen your fair share of fucked up things to know that this was not something you wanted to stick around for. Around you, small, bird-like creatures fled from the shadowy monster. In a flash, you were on your feet, tugging on Loki’s arm to pull him up with you. “Come on,” you yelled, raising your voice to be heard over the wind that had suddenly picked up speed.

Loki whipped his head around, desperately searching for shelter, then pointed at the city. “There, run!” He took off in a sprint towards the buildings, with you stumbling along behind him. The head start you got seemed to be enough to out run whatever was chasing you, but you didn’t dare slow down as you ran full tilt to safety. As the city drew closer, a sense of dread crept into your limbs, but you pushed it down. Better to race towards the unknown when the known was actively trying to kill you.

Your legs burned and your lungs were screaming out in protest, but Loki’s panted encouragements kept you on your feet and moving long enough to reach what looked like a half-collapsed hotel. Loki rushed inside the dilapidated building, holding the door open for you to scramble inside before slamming it shut. Another roar made the building tremble, and you bit your lip. As the ceiling shook and spat dust into your hair, you prayed that it would hold. Out of the frying pan, you thought to yourself.

Fortunately, it seemed as if the monster had moved on in search of easier prey, and you took the moment of fragile peace to sink against the wall and finally catch your breath. You dropped your head into your hands, trying to force your breathing back into a normal rhythm and figure out what the hell was happening. You’d just about calmed down when you heard Loki chuckle. “What’s so fu-funny?” You asked, still panting.

“That wasn’t me.”

“Huh?” You looked up, then felt your newly regained breath leave your lungs as another Loki emerged from the darkened hallway. He was dressed in what looked like a suit tailored after your Loki’s Asgardian armor, and he wore his horns proudly. A “Vote Loki,” pin sat crooked on his suit jacket. The flickering lights above him illuminated his grin, making him look like, well, a villain.

“You’re a variant,” your Loki said, stepping in front of you and eyeing his twin warily. The only ever Loki variant you had encountered was Sylvie, and she was questionable at the best of times. Loki was right to be on guard.

“I suppose you could call me that,” President Loki drawled, tracing a finger along the dusty wall as he stalked towards you. It left tracks on the wallpaper. He leaned to the side to peer around you Loki, and you felt naked under his predatory gaze. You shrank further behind your boyfriend.

“My, what do you have here?” He asked, eyes lighting up in a way that made your hair stand on end. “What a pretty toy, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if I had a turn?”

Your Loki groweld protectively, and he took a step forward. “Do not lay a finger on her.”

President Loki frowned. “That’s no way to treat the superior version of yourself.” He continued his march forward, then slowed to a stop inches from your Loki’s defensive frame. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen a beautiful woman.”

You were horrified to find a confusing sort of arousal settling into your stomach. This was, after all, just another version of Loki, the man who’d spent so many nights taking you apart and putting you back together again. You’d seen those same hooded eyes so many times, seen that same smile as Loki made you squirm. Despite trying your hardest to fight it, you could feel a dampness soak into your panties, making you shift uncomfortably.

Just as perceptive as your own Loki, President Loki seemed to sense your growing interest. His frown broke out into a wide smile. “Oh, you want it, don’t you? Go on, tell your guard dog to back down, so we can play.” He nodded towards your Loki, who had turned around to look at you with perplexed, hurt eyes.

“Really?” He asked, flicking his gaze from the blush on your face towards your tensing thighs. He instantly recognized the arousal he’d seen so many times before, and his expression grew bewildered.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whimpered, trying to defend yourself. “He looks just like you, I mean, he is you, and I…” you squeezed your eyes shut. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

This was all so fucked. Just minutes ago you were running for your life in a strange new world, and now all that adrenaline had shifted into a violent desire to be broken to pieces. Just so you didn’t have to think about the horror that was your current situation. President Loki was still staring at you, pupils now blown and tongue running across his bottom lip in blatant want.

“Oh, love. There’s nothing wrong with you,” the variant purred. His voice was a bit deeper than your Loki’s, but it still had that velvet smoothness that always made you weak in the knees. A bright flash of green shot out from his fingertips, ensnaring your Loki in glowing rope.

He gasped in surprise, and immediately began to struggle against the magic, but it was in vain. You cried out and reached for him, but President Loki was faster. He grabbed your Loki’s arm, then began to drag him away from you and down the hallway. With a sharp whistle, he motioned his head for you to follow, and found yourself standing and trailing behind the two Lokis like an obedient dog.

President Loki pulled yours into the depths of the hotel, you following anxiously. Your Loki shouted threats and harsh words, but the magic bonds kept him nearly immobile as he was guided by President Loki. You didn’t dare try anything stupid; you weren’t a fighter, and you suspected that this variant far outmatched both you and your lover in combat. All you could do was obey and hope he showed mercy.

You were led into a suite that seemed more put together than the rest of the hotel. Everything looked much cleaner, especially the bed, and most of the walls appeared to be stable. President Loki shoved your Loki into an armchair at the back wall of the room, and then positioned it so that it was facing the bed. “Well?” He asked, lazily gesturing towards the bed.

A gush of wetness seeped from your core at the same time as fear gripped your chest. Two conflicting emotions warred within you, and you felt hot tears stinging your eyes at the confusion of it all. On one hand, you loved your Loki. There was not telling how trustworthy this variant was, if he was going to hurt you or your boyfriend. On the other, this was the once in a lifetime chance to experience a threesome with only Loki. A fantasy that most likely no other person had gotten the chance to experience outside of their dreams.

You cast a helpless glance over at your Loki. When you weren’t looking, President Loki must have gagged him, because there was now an emerald piece of fabric stuffed between his lips. Your pussy throbbed in appreciation at the sight while your heart ached at the terror in his eyes.

President Loki rolled his eyes. “I can’t say I’ve ever met a version of me quite this soft,” he said, walking to his clone’s chair. “Let me help you relax.” President Loki straddled your Loki, chuckling at the muffled whimper that spilled from behind the gag. The variant brought his head down to bite at Loki's neck, and your mouth dropped open.

To your surprise--and hesitant delight--your Loki seemed to be almost enjoying the treatment. His head had fallen back against the chair, and he was breathing in that strained way that he did when he was turned on and trying to hide it. Kinky bastard, you thought to yourself.

President Loki paused his assault on your Loki’s neck to look back at you. “See? He likes it, dear. Now be a good girl and get on the bed,” he commanded. The growl in his voice let you know that he would not tolerate being disobeyed again, so you nodded and clambered on top of the bed.

Sliding off Loki’s lap, the variant gave him a quick pat on the head and then made his way over to you. “Mmmf!” Loki mumbled, earning a sharp look from President Loki.

“I won’t hurt her. If you stay quiet like a good boy, I may let you have a turn.”

That sent chills down your spine. The thought of both of the Lokis having their way with you was almost too much, and your shaking knees finally gave out to send you sprawling onto your back against the pillows. Seemingly amused, President Loki snickered and crawled onto the bed. He crept forward until he was hovering over you, dark blue eyes raking across your trembling form.

You squirmed under his piercing gaze. The shivers making their way up and down your spine were unrelenting, no matter how hard you tried to keep still and quiet. “What happens now?” You squeaked out.

President Loki’s mouth opened in a wide green, revealing stark white teeth that almost looked sharp. “Now, we play.” Green light appeared at his fingertips again, and your hands shot up uncontrollably. You yelped in surprise and tugged on the rope that had appeared on your wrists. You were bound to the headboard, completely at the mercy of this variant. And fuck, it was exciting and terrifying and arousing all at the same time. What a mess.

There was that green light again. This time, it revolved around itself until it took the shape of a jet black dagger. President Loki ran his thumb along the handle, eyes leaving you to gaze lovingly at the knife. Your breath quickened in fear. “Stay still,” he purred. With deft fingers, President Loki raked the tip of the dagger down your shirt, cutting it open at the front. You let out an embarrassingly high pitched squeal as cold metal came in contact with your bare skin. But, as he promised, the variant did not hurt you. He made quick work of your pants as well, abandoning the knife in favor of simply yanking them down your legs along with your panties.

The cold air hitting your bare skin made you gasp. You tugged uselessly at your wrists, wanting to cover yourself in embarrassment at your sudden nakedness. Your frantic squirming made President Loki chuckle, and he leaned down to nip at your ear. “Don’t worry, sweet thing. I’ll warm you up.” His hot breath against your ear sent shivers of pleasure down your spine, and you couldn’t suppress a soft moan.

Suddenly remembering your restrained boyfriend, you managed to peer around President Loki to make sure he was alright. Your Loki was still bound and gagged, but now his face was alight with a crimson blush. Your eyes drifted downwards to the prominent bulge in his pants. When he caught you staring, Loki dropped his gaze away from yours, ashamed.

President Loki watched the silent conversation, amused. He trailed a thin finger up your thigh, then sat back to straddle your hips. “He’s enjoying himself,” the variant said confidently. He grinned at you. “I know because he’s me, and he likes what I like.”

All you could do was stare up at him with wide eyes, naked and defenseless underneath his weight.

“Oh? Surprised, are we?” President Loki drawled as he waved his hand casually. His suit faded away with his gesture, leaving him bare as well. His long cock mirrored your boyfriend’s, and it was swollen and dripping. You licked your lips. “I’ll take it you two haven’t fully...explored his interests. Us Lokis crave dominance, to be left at the mercy of a pretty thing like you.”

“So why aren’t you-”

He cut you off with a gentle slap to your inner thigh. When you sucked in a harsh breath, he chuckled. “Because there’s something else we love. Power.” WIth that, President Loki moved to place his legs on either side of you. He grabbed your ankles roughly and pressed your legs back until they sat atop his shoulders. You groaned at the stretch, then sighed heavily as he titled his head to the side to mouth at your ankle. “Ready, slut?” He growled.

You didn’t get a chance to answer. The air was stolen from your lungs as the variant plunged his hard cock into you, the stretch burning. You screamed out in pleasure and pain, listening to what sounded like both Lokis moaning in unison. The version that was currently buried deep inside of your heat rolled his eyes back in pleasure at the feeling of your pussy flexing around him.

“Oh, it’s been so long,” the variant moaned. “I want to make this last.” He began thrusting his hips lazily, more grinding into you than anything. You whimpered as you got used to the size of him. It felt like you were dreaming with how overwhelming it all was. Your core throbbed again and again as new gushes of arousal spilled from your cunt, and your head was spinning with the knowledge that just feet from you, your boyfriend was being forced to watch another version of himself tear you apart. And he loved every second of it.

From behind President Loki, your Loki whined, and you could just barely see him twitching his hips up into nothing. “Please,” he begged, and you noticed that he had managed to slip the gag from his mouth. You weren’t sure what he was begging for. To be touched, to touch you. Probably both.

President Loki looked at you with lidded eyes, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth as he ground his cock deep inside of you. “Should we let him play, too?” He asked, voice ragged.

You nodded frantically. Words escaped you, but you desperately wanted your boyfriend here. You longed for his touch, wanting to feel them both. President Loki nodded and waved his hand back towards the chair. Loki’s bonds vanished, and he was scrambling onto the bed as soon as he was free.

He crawled up to the top of the bed, hands outstretched to grab your face and pull you in for a kiss. Your Loki gasped desperately as President Loki grabbed him by the hair, pulling hard so that he stopped just short of reaching your lips. Your Loki whimpered and went nearly limp in submission.

The variant let go of Loki’s hair, tsking at him like he was scolding a child. “You may not touch her without my permission.” His voice was surprisingly even, given how he was still thrusting into you. “Are we clear?”

Your Loki opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it and nodded obediently. President Loki grinned wolfishly. “Good boy. You may kiss her.”

In a flash, your lover was leaning over you, pressing his mouth clumsily to yours. His tongue sought entry, and you let him in enthusiastically. You could practically feel the desperation seeping from his every pore. You’d never seen him this worked up, and silently wished you had discovered this kink of his a little sooner. “You look beautiful like this,” he panted into your mouth.

When you began to reply, it was cut short by a yelp as President Loki’s hand dropped down to play with your clit. Your Loki kissed you again, drinking in all of your moans as his variant brought you higher and higher with those deft fingers. With a growl, President Loki snatched your Loki’s hair again and dragged him away from your lips. Loki’s pitiful whine matched yours as you both gasped for air.

“Fuck her mouth,” President Loki commanded, increasing the pace of his thrusts with a growl of pleasure. His fingers kept up their assault on your clit, and you fought to crane your neck up and open your mouth to be ready for your boyfriend’s cock.

Loki hastily yanked off his pants and pulled out his weeping dick. He shuffled over to you, then leaned forward until he was close enough to guide himself onto your tongue. This was familiar, the heavy weight of Loki’s erection stretching your jaw. You closed your lips around him and began to suck, gritting your teeth against the cries of pleasure that threatened to break free from your throat.

President Loki let go of the other Loki’s hair and instead gripped your hip roughly as he began fucking you an earnest. “So tight,” he hissed. “Cum for me, little slut. Cum for your god.”

Helpless to do anything but obey, you felt your back arch up as your entire body convulsed. Pleasure ripped through you and left you a whimpering mess, drooling around you Loki’s cock. Your boyfriend cursed at the sight of you cumming, and began to pump himself in and out of your mouth. “I-I can’t help, fuck, help myself, darling. Ah, oh gods.”

“Such a good girl,” President Loki praised. He groaned at the tightening of your walls, then removed his hand from your clit to wrap a long arm around your Loki’s neck. Your Loki was forced to lean back against President Loki’s chest, only able to keep his cock in your mouth because of his lanky body.

Your Loki cried out, the sound broken up by his variant cutting off his oxygen. His hips stuttered violently, and you felt thick cum spurt into your throat. Somehow, you were able to force it down instead of choking, and you heard Loki whimper at the feel of his sensitive length being constricted by your throat. “Love, fuck,” he keened.

Seeing the two of you cum proved to be too much for the variant. “Oh, Norns, I can’t,” he groaned out harshly, then slammed himself into you and held his hips there as his cock pulsed within you. As he came, the magic binding your wrists dissipated, and you brought your arms down to rub at the sore muscles. Hot seed spilled out of you, running down to your ass. President Loki watched his cum drip from your swollen pussy in appreciation, panting softly.

Your Loki had collapsed next to you, and was now snuggled up against your side. The variant frowned at the sight, and you could almost detect a rueful look on his face. You hissed in a pained breath as President Loki slowly lowered your aching legs from his shoulders. He sighed as he pulled out of you, a rush of liquid gushing out and wetting the bed. Most of the dominance gone from his demeanor, he shifted awkwardly, as if he wasn’t sure where he fit in this dynamic.

His sudden insecurity didn’t surprise you. After all, he was a Loki, and they were notorious for their false confidence. It tracked. After a moment’s hesitation, you reached up and grabbed his arm to pull him to lay down next to you. He stared at you in slight confusion, but obliged, leaving you sandwiched between the two Lokis. You turned to your boyfriend, who was already drifting off, too fucked out to keep his eyes open. With a soft smile, you pressed a kiss to his forehead.

President Loki cleared his throat, catching your attention. “I, uh. It’s a bit sad. Seeing what I could’ve had. I can’t help but be envious.” He chewed on his bottom lip and looked away, bravado completely gone.

You rolled your eyes and threw a tired arm around him, feeling a rush of satisfaction when he purred happily and cuddled against you. “I think I have room in my life for more than one Loki,” you whispered. And it was true. If Loki was born to be a villain in every timeline, then you were born to love each one of them.

#loki x reader #loki smut #imagine #fanfic #my writing #president loki #loki series #mcu #marvel #tva

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rae-gar-targaryen · 4 years ago

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read part one here.

---

It doesn't snow in Santo Padre.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That had gone famously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I care, Frida.”

“... and if I wanted you back?”

“Please, querida.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bleeding hearts on a very crisp sleeve.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was he fucking serious?

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

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

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

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

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

You weren’t about to cave so easily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. And you were doing so well.

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel was silent for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are something, Frida.”

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded toward Angel’s arm once more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How could something about you not be beautiful?"

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She had outdone herself. You felt gorgeous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If he only knew.

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

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

And he saw you, too.

Oh fuck.

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

He fucking wouldn’t.

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

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

Fuck, you were hot when you were mad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was he … drunk?

Fuck this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel flinched.

“I deserve that,” he said.

Strike two. Too little, too late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strike. Fucking. Three.

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

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

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

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

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

Ice cold.

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus fuck!” Angel yelped.

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shook your head.

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

Well, shit.

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

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

Not much got past Johnny “Coco” Cruz.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel ignored his question.

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

“No hug for me, jaina?”

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

You recovered quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coco snorted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who says I want anything,” EZ asked?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel sighed before he spoke again,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know that,” Angel snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

Huh. Unexpected Should you open it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well.

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

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

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

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

There. Short, sweet, and to the point.

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

"Gracias, Frida."

"Don't thank me yet."

You put your phone down flat on the counter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If Angel noticed, he hadn't said anything.

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

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

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

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

You shrugged. "Suit yourself."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You decided to take conversational mercy on him,

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

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

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

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

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

You sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I really ain’t,” he said. “And you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At Angel’s puzzled look, you carried on,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what a question it was.

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

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

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

"Ever the poet, Frida."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this moment? This was about you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, querida?”

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Say something, Frida.”

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

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

"I don't know, dulce."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know."

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

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

You hadn’t thought to return it.

---

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

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

Your one o'clock was right on time.

And you were greeted with the sight of Angel striding in with two cups of caffeine, offering one two you as he rested his ringed hand on the counter.

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

Since Angel had departed your place in the middle of the night a week ago, the words between the two of you having had time to simmer and settle, allowing you to process the weight of it all.

For his part, Angel had given you space. Hadn’t said anything past texting you to tell you he had made it home safely.

In the days that had followed, you had cautiously cracked the ice between the two of you, hoping to assuage any awkwardness and rebuild some kind of friendly connection removed from the physical. It was probably better that way. Messaging him idly to ask about his day. Not that you had shared with Angel, but you were also texting Christopher.

Angel had called the shop, asking if you were available to help him with something he’d wanted to do. Something special, he’d said.

“Something for Ezekiel,” Angel told you. “He’s been through alot lately, with Gaby and the club and everything … been through alot with me lately. Now feels like the right time”

You had, of course, readily agreed. Eager and honored to help Angel with a tribute to his brother. The texts between the two of you changed to exchanges of ideas, you sending him screenshots of your sketches before the two of you had decided on a design that fit.

You accepted the cup of coffee from Angel gratefully and with a gentle smile, beckoning him behind the counter. Coffee truly was a love language.

“You can sit in the chair and lean forward, or you can lie on the table. Both are clean. Dealer’s choice,” you said between sips.

Angel nodded, slugging the last of his coffee and placing the cup down before slipping his shirt over his torso, baring his back to you as he sat in the chair, leaning forward and twisting his abdomen to bare his shoulder blade to you.

The tawny patch of skin on his shoulder, above the large Mayans tribute that covered the expanse of his back, seemed like the perfect place for something for EZ, the angel (ha ha) on his shoulder and guiding influence in one another’s lives.

You cleaned and bic’d the area, stenciling your design into the space and getting your kit ready to begin.

Angel watched what he could of you from the corner of his eye, a resonant ache blooming through his chest at the familiarity of this scene. Of you, all business, touching his skin, preparing to impart a piece of yourself that he would wear on his body for the rest of his days.

You queued up your playlist, the sounds of motown flowing through the shop as you hummed along idly.

In this moment, Angel knew … he was still in love with you. Likely always would be. You had been far too gracious with him, as you always were -- in the way you had treated him the other night. No mention of your “almost” encounter, for which he was grateful. And he knew he was correct in his assessment of you when you had first started dating -- it was in your nature.

“You mind?” Angel broke the comfortable silence between the two of you, gesturing at the journal-like sketchbook you had left near your station.

You shook your head in acquiescence, “No. But it’s kind of a mess in there lately,” you acknowledged. “Shit poet, and all.”

“You’re never gonna let that go, are you?” Angel barked a laugh. “I didn’t insult your poetry, Frida, you did.”

“Ever the self-deprecating, starving artist,” you sighed dramatically.

Angel took that as his cue, flipping through the pages of your book. One page felt particularly heavy beneath his fingers. He flipped to it, to be met with dried, pressed flowers that had been delicately glued to the pages, the page covered in a plastic slipsheet -- the dried, dusky pink of peony petals were affixed to the page next to a swath of a white, lacy-looking bloom.

Around the flowers were sketches of hands that looked suspiciously like Angel’s own, down to the tattoos, and idle lines of poetry.

Angel furrowed his brows as he glanced at the flowers again.

“You got those flowers for me,” you acknowledged, looking over his shoulder to see the page of your book he had settled on. “One of our first dates, when we went to the park. I’m not sure if you remember.”

Angel’s throat caught in a way that both annoyed and unsettled him. How were you always doing this to him?

“Recuerdo, Frida,” he breathed. “Lo recuerdo todo.”

You patted his arm gently, resuming your work.

“I like pressing flowers. It takes a while, but the end result is worth it.”

You pinched your brows in concentration as you drew along the stenciled lines you’d previously etched into Angel’s shoulder blade, gun buzzing. You began to fill in the minimalist rising sun that was now filling the shoulder blade, stippling the interior as you went, the effect giving the sun an almost stucco-like finish that looked breathtaking against Angel’s golden skin.

Angel allowed you to continue you work in silence, the weight of the past few days with you settling into his bones. He had pleaded with you, endeared himself to you so much that he had lost his voice. His bones filling with the words he wished he could verbalize.

He was slowly arriving at that place of acceptance -- Santo Padre was a small town. He would see you. And it appeared that you could now stomach his presence, but he wouldn’t push his luck. Seeing you alone. Hell, even seeing you with someone else, was better than not seeing you at all.

But once thing was clear -- you were someone who would always be in his life, his memories, his heart.

Angel was lost in his thoughts; you were focused on your work. The only thing that gave any indication as to the passage of time in the room where you two found yourselves was the evolution of your playlist passing through tracks.

Isn’t that how it always was with Angel? Time stood still.

As you finished his tattoo, you snapped a quick pic for your work Insta -- and maybe, selfishly, for yourself, to admire, too. It’s true, what you had felt all those months ago, and again a week ago -- Angel Reyes was your muse.

Made to be admired in perpetuity.

You cleaned and wrapped it, pushing back wordlessly from your seat and making your way to the front as Angel gingerly tugged his shirt back over his head. Quoting the rate over your shoulder, you put Angel's aftercare bag together. But not before slipping the lime sticky in.

“Is that it?” Angel asked, arriving at the front counter, kutte once again in place..

“C’mon, Angelito, you know you get the friends-and-family rate,” you shrugged.

"And is that what we are, querida? Friends?” Angel's voice had none of the bravado it held when he had first spoken these words to you the day you'd met. Now it was cotton soft and carefully tinged with hope. He leaned over the counter.

You shrugged again.

"I guess we'll see, won't we?" You tilted the corner of your lips in a gentle, wan half-smile.

"One day with you, and already friends again?” Angel breezed. You shrugged lightly in response, as he continued, “Or maybe the day after that? A man can hope, Frida."

“You know what they say, Angelito,” your voice was soft, but he’d recognize the teasing lilt anywhere. He’d heard it so often at the breaking dawn of your relationship. Kindness, with a hint of subtle flirtation. It was just how you were. “Hope springs eternal.”

Angel nodded, tossing a few bills on the counter and gently rapping his ringed-knuckles against the counter, a he was wont to do. He smiled gently at you, all glimmering white teeth and high cheeks.

As Angel walked away, head down and focused on his phone now as he headed out the door and toward his bike, you watched him leave. Your elbow on the counter and head propped in your hand.

You wondered when Angel would discover the sticky, recalling the words you had written on it.

my stark moments of clarity between hazy and woebegone memory (thanks to spilled red wine) -- are still marked by the firm hand of your bruising ardor.

Your phone buzzed, breaking you from your reverie as you looked down at the name flashing on the screen, an easy grin blooming across your features.

“Well, hey,” you greeted. Unable to keep the happy chirp from your voice at hearing from him again so soon.

“Hey, mama,” he greeted in that smooth, throaty rasp of his you adored. “You busy later?”

---

Tagging: @cinewhore @superhoeva @blessedboo @rebeccasficrecs @themarcusmoreno @joannasteez @justanotherblonde23 @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @huliabitch @ifimayhaveaword @flightlessangelwings @phoenixhalliwell @aerolanya @djvrins @jenrebloggingfics @steeeeeeeviebb @ciriswife @witching-hour @lo-la-bu-ro @doloreschanal @rosieposie0624 @diaryofkali @skyesthebomb @artsymaddie @helli4nthus @xonickibaby @melancholyy-hill @jeonsblackgf-writes @dyke--grayson @pettyprocrastination @moonlight-prose @velvetmel0n @luckyharley1903 @miss-nori85 @ticosas @withmyteeth @chibsytelford @whatupitshuff @themusingofagothicsoul @the-purity-pen @belowva @mayansxlover @emmaveale123 @maddie-georges @kijahslove @supertiffybee @jettia @spnaquakindgdom @abysshaven @starrynite7114 @thesandbeneathmytoes @cyarikashakira @calif0rnia-lovers

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eternally-writing · 3 years ago

Text

just right | jjk.

pairing: Jungkook x reader

genre: angst, fluff

theme: established relationship!au , idol!au

rating: PG

warnings: themes of struggling with self-worth, reader has body image issues

word count: 1.6k

synopsis: Because when you can’t see for yourself how beautiful you are, Jungkook wants to remind you how you’re Just Right.

Banner by me! In case you can’t tell, this fic is inspired by GOT7’s Just Right, one of my favorite k-pop songs <3

--♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡--

A lot of girlfriends of idols tried not to watch their boyfriends on stage.You had never shared the same sentiment, wanting to support your boyfriend however you could, but as you watched your boyfriend, Jungkook, stand next to so many beautiful female idols, all of whom ARMYs were shipping with him, you couldn’t help but feel inadequate.

And you mean, you couldn’t blame them. Jungkook was something of a Greek god pretty much - tall, chiseled, and handsome. He was the perfect guy, a golden boy if you will. Taking in your form on the couch - sweatpants and one of Jungkook’s old tshirts on your body (it wasn’t as loose on you as you hoped it would be), the difference between you too became painfully apparent. You hugged your mug of hot chocolate chooser to your chest to calm the feeling that was taking over your body.

You knew you would only be hurt by looking at twitter, but you couldn’t help but pull out your phone and open your burner account. As the hateful comments continued on and on across your screen, you couldn’t hold back the tears that were clouding your vision from overflowing. What were just ideas in your head had manifested on your social media. Burying your head in between your knees you left them all flow, knowing that the moment Jungkook came back you would have to turn your feelings off since you didn’t want to burden him.

At the end of the day, you couldn’t see how they could possibly be not right. I mean just looking at Jungkook and looking at you would easily show the differences between you two. Frankly, you had never imagined dating an idol - the journey for you and Jungkook getting together had been laden with challenges, and honestly if you didn’t love him so much you would’ve given up a long time ago.

But sometimes, is love not enough?

——

Too caught up in your emotions, you didn’t even recognize the sound of your apartment door opening. Jungkook was also too caught up in his excitement at finally getting to rest after a long day of filming, and it was only after he put his keys down and stepped into the living room did he notice your sobbing form on the couch. He couldn’t help but let out a silent gasp at the sight, shocked at seeing you so emotional and helpless. Rushing to you, he knelt down in front of you on the couch, taking your head into his hands and trying to wipe as many stray tears as he could as they fell continuously.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” whispered Jungkook, trying to speak softly so as to not startle you.

Trying to control your sobs, you still ended up gasping between words trying to keep your composure. “I just, I can’t do this Kook, I can’t do this anymore.”

Jungkook’s eyebrows furrowed. “No, no, what are you talking about?”

Tryin again in a more composed manner, you repeated your words back to him

Jungkook shook his head again, tension building in his body. “No this can’t be it, this doesn’t make sense. Did I do something? Did I say something? Is this something I didn’t do?”. He grabbed your hands in his and clutched them in his grasp, afraid that if he let go that you would drift away from him. “There must be something I can do. Baby, I’d crawl to the ends of the Earth for you, you know that. Please.” He pleaded.

You knew Jungkook, you knew him so well that there was nothing that you could say that could convince him otherwise. Well, nothing except this.

“I don’t love you anymore.”

The words spilling out of your mouth caught both of you offguard. And the way Jungkook’s composure shattered in front of you made you almost regret lying to him. Even as the tears started spilling his eyes, you didn’t say anything more, trying to keep your composure. Jungkook wiped his tears as quickly as they fell, his sadness quickly turning into a different emotion.

“Bullshit. I don’t believe you. Look me in the eyes and say it Y/N, because I can’t wrap my head around this.”

And you tried, you tried to look right at him and say it. But you had never lied to Jungkook before, so it sure as hell was almost impossible to start now. Every time you met his gaze, you felt your entire relationship flash through your mind. And how could you lie to the guy who supported you though your hardest? Who made you who you are today? You sighed and slumped back on the couch, unable to maintain your facade anymore.

“Oh baby… come here.” Said Jungkook as he opened his arms, letting you fall into them as the sobs wracked your body.

“I just… I… you deserve better Kook , someone famous and pretty. I’m just not good enough for you.” You whispered into his chest, embarrassed with your confession.

Jungkook immediately started shaking his head no, his heart breaking at the words coming out of your mouth. Pressing his forehead against yours, he took a deep breath to stop himself from getting emotional as he talked to you.

“Y/N, why do you even think this? I - ”… Jungkook felt himself at a loss for words.

His eyes drifted to your phone open with twitter next to you as he felt his eyes flare with anger. He had always told you to stay away from social media sites so you had expected him to berate you for your actions, but Jungkook couldn’t possibly be mad at you given your current state. Instead, he simply moved the phone away from your reach and turned it off, as if that could provide any additional comfort for you. He then touched your shoulders and gestured for you to face him, gently tilting up your head to look him in the eye.

“Look baby, you’re perfect to me - you make me a better person and you make me the happiest person on Earth. I don’t care what any tweet or news article says, I love you and you’re the one for me.”

“But Jungkook - “

“No, no but’s. I love you, that’s it. I will yell that to the whole world, even post it every day if that will make you feel better.”

You felt like crying even harder now, not at your own insecurities anymore, but instead at how sweet Jungkook was. On any other night you would’ve been able to wipe your tears away yourself, but today, just this once, you wanted to be comforted by your boyfriend. You let your body fall against him, taking refuge in his warm embrace.

“I think I know exactly what you need, baby..”

Instantly, Jungkook went to work, tracking down a speaker in your apartment and pushing some of your lighter furniture out of the way. Before you could even ask what Jungkook was doing, he pressed play on his phone and the familiar tone of GOT7’s Just Right filled the room. At the same time, he assumed the beginning position of the choreography, ready to tackle all 7 members’ parts at once.

“Baby, you are, just… just right”

It was honestly so impressive that Jungkook knew all the lyrics and the choreography to the song (you can only imagine that he learned it from his bestie Yugyeom), and the way that he sang so sincerely to you couldn’t help but bring a smile to your face.

Mirror, mirror please tell her

Scale, please tell her too

That she doesn’t need to change anything

That she’s pretty and perfect just as she is right now

He made sure to serenade you, dancing around your kitchen and picking the flowers (and some chopsticks accidentally) to hand to you as a sweet gift. Slowly, you felt the tightness in your chest fade away as Jungkook continued his performance, and the tears that were once covering your face were now replaced by a big smile.

Everything about you is just right

So relax, stop worrying

You can believe what I’m saying 100%

So you can erase all of your worries 100%

As the song came to a close, you cheered for your boyfriend as he took a dramatic bow. It really felt like the air felt lighter in your apartment, the storm cloud previously lingering over your mood suddenly washed away.

Jungkook plopped down next to you on the couch, pulling you closer into his hold and resting his chin on your shoulder. He instinctively reached out to twirl your hair between his fingers.

“So… how do you feel now?”

You had to give Jungkook a smile for that. Wiping away the last of your tears and trying to sniffle away the last of the snot in your nose, you leaned further into him, eliciting a forehead kiss from your man.

“Much, much better now Kook, thank you.”

You don’t know how long you both stayed thee like that, but you wish that you cold just feeze that moment and stay in it forever. Jungkook’s voice was the last thing you heard before you went to sleep...

“I wish that you could see what I see, babygirl. The way your presence lights up a room, the way you look so beautiful even when you just wake up in the morning, the way you make my heart stop whenever you smile. You’re so perfect, Y/N, and I’m going to try my best to show you that… because you, my love, are just right”.

--♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡--

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this please let me know - Emily♡

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ayamturd · 4 years ago

Text

end│dreamwastaken

summary: dream was once your everything that you would do anything for; what happens when you finally confront the reality of his manipulation and sadistic destruction?

prompt: “we’re both at fault here, and now we both have to pay the price.”

warnings: descriptive manipulation, a single curse word, angst

pairing: in-game c!dream

a/n: this is my entry for @sleepysoupi‘s 1.8k event! it goes without saying how late i am considering she’s currently working on her 2.0k event, but still a huge congratulatory to her amazing success and obvious, well deserved recognition <33 we love soupi in this household, nothing less of the fact *^*

also i know the prison doesn’t work exactly like how i wrote it, but let’s pretend for the sake of this fic

wc: (1.6k) - m.list

“Don’t do this, y/n.”

The air was sticky and heavy. As the lava bubbled behind you, it felt as if the heat could reach out and smother you entirely; the subtle warmth that felt insufferably suffocating in the tight space was a large contrast to the dark, opaque walls.

Although you stood in front of him by your own desire, habits quickly fell to place as he stood proudly above you. Chin raised, Dream’s shoulders were relaxed while he spoke to you. His words were firm, and with clenched fists, you swallowed harshly from his mocking tone.

You could practically hear his condescending grin without looking in how belittling he addressed you, and you hated how familiar the speech was.

“After all I’ve done for you, and you want to throw it all away?”

Despite all attempts, you unconsciously bowed your head down. Whether in unjustified guilt or the internal rage from his lies, you couldn’t say yourself. He noticed nonetheless, and played into your vulnerability further.

He was the one defenseless in this scenario, yet he held all the power in the small cage between the two of you.

“We made promises! ‘Till the very end, right?!” He began to raise his voice and feigned some form of heartbreak, taking a step dangerously closer to you while you stood there in frozen fear.

Staring harshly down at your feet, the weight of gravity pulled at your tears as they trickled down sparsely. This was different than when you originally confronted him mere hours ago. Here, you were alone and with no backing, no one to reassure you that you did the right thing. That he was a monster that had you blinded for so long.

That you were justified for betraying Dream.

“Don’t play stupid with me now. You can’t act like I did this all alone. That I’m not the only sick fuck in the room who enjoys the-”

“Stop it,” you whispered with closed eyes. While your voice was small, it echoed so loudly and threw Dream off guard. He shook his head and with a dark chuckle, sneered disparagingly.

“You really th-”

Your eyes opened as you unexpectedly interrupted him.

“No. For once in my life, I mean it. Shut your egotistical mouth for one goddamn second.”

Everything was in a frozen stand still as you snapped.

Course tears ran steadily down your cheeks, yet your eyes held more strength than Dream could had ever perceived in that moment. It had been so long since you had lost your voice. Lost your confidence, your fire that drew him in in the first place. It had been so long since you felt like yourself again, the person you once were before he teared you down completely to his mercy.

You swallowed sternly in exposed anxiety; when was the last time you saw his face like this? Saw his face at all, at that.

The molten lava radiated the room, it being the main source of light in contrast to the faint glow of the lanterns built into the walls. When you had originally requested to see him one final time before he was officially locked away for good, you had no idea what you expected to see. You didn’t see anything, actually, since you couldn’t bring yourself to try and meet his eye line the entire time.

Until now.

As the magma shaded the room in a warm shine, his dull eyes gleamed a faded hue of ash green. His dirty blond hair was visible without his signature hoodie, his previous clothes stripped away and replaced with an attired uniform instead. He hid behind a mask for so long, it was surreal to see him as something so mundane and human.

Your mouth felt so dry from seeing him again. He almost looked like when you first laid eyes on him, that beautiful day when you thought you had fallen in love. How nice the sun felt, and how crisp the wind blew. The summer day was fresh and the sweet smell of honey pervaded the air. To think it was by mere chance he approached you in the white flower field, hidden in the depths of the forest with a charming smile and gentle hand.

How cruel reality liked to play with you and give you false hope that such love could truly exist.

The memory brought a smoldering rage that made your heart race in return. Back straight, you dared a step towards him with a quiet, yet firm declaration.

“I’m done making excuses for your lies. For your actions, for the hurt you cause, for you.”

Dream could barely register your words as you continued in growing fury. It was like the floodgates were open and you felt free to speak your truth.

You were riding this new found wave and would hold nothing back anymore.

“I let you get away with so much because I truly believed that I loved you. That my love could fix you, or change what you are.”

You stepped forward again, your finger shakily pointed at him. His mouth opened to respond but you spoke before he could try. You weren’t going to give him anything, you thought, he doesn’t deserve your silence.

“I went against everything I believed!” you suddenly yelled, “everything I stood for, everything I thought because of you!”

Your vision was a blur as your raw emotions came loose. You screamed from the top of your lungs to the point where your voice cracked with a head lifted high.

“I let people get hurt! People I love and care for because I prioritized you over everything I had!”

Another step forward, your voice shook with quivered lips as a result of an ached and long scorned heart.

“To think I used to be so proud to say it, to say you were my everything and my world.” With a trembled exhale, you gathered yourself before finishing your thought. “Maybe I am stupid, but trust me when I say my ignorance was your freedom and my considered love a blind devotion.”

Dream’s face softened considerably, for he was at a loss for words and didn’t have anything to probe at anymore. It was his turn to suffer in a lost acceptance.

“I…”

Shaking your head, you scoffed with your head tilted in disbelief. Smiling darkly, you knew then and there you regained the power of the room and your self-assurance over him. How the turn tables.

“Funny how things change when you have no where to run. When you’re the one helpless and reliant.”

Standing strong with your arms crossed, you stared at him with such distaste. Dream’s brows furrowed with a clench jaw as he stepped even closer to you. He was now mere inches away and glared down at you from his given height. Even then, you wouldn’t back down any longer.

“I do love you, y/n. Everything I did, I did for us. You can’t leave me like this.” He gazed down with such intensity that your past you would have wanted to say something just to appease him entirely; you weren’t that person anymore, and you wouldn’t let him drag you down more than he already has.

Dropping yours arms before stepping back, you messaged Sam without wavering your eye contact from him.

“We’re both at fault here, and now we both have to pay the price of it alone.”

The sounded mechanics from outside the box indicated the lava dropping, signifying the end of your visit. Dream grew agitated at the thought of you leaving and dropped his eyes down in resent, a huge contrast to your relaxed and calm state.

You moved backwards until your back threatened to be burned by the heat.

“Here’s to loosing all those attachments you mentioned.”

Dream’s head snapped up from your words, but before he could attempt anything further, the Netherite divider rose and separated you both. The lava parted as you approached the platform, Sam visible from across the entrapping moat. He watched closely in regard to your safety and anything Dream might try with your back currently turned.

Approaching the stone platform once deemed safe, you turned to face him a final time as the contraption slowly pulled you away. Your chin was raised, and your tears were dry in satisfaction to your found closure.

“You were right,” you affirmed, “we did make promises, and this is our end.”

Bonus:

Tommy had been tormenting Dream for the past few minutes or so, his obnoxious taunts a sign of recovery from all the trauma he had dealt with from his young age. He hid behind his humor, but was strong when confronting his abuser with no uncertainty then.

“Who do you miss the most?”

Dream paused from fiddling with the leather of the book covers from the simple question. His hand began to curl around the thick material, and he drowned out Tommy’s rambling from behind him.

A familiar scent filled his senses, an old and precious memory uncovered from the oppressed depths of his mind. He pulled the book in hand open to a random, but intentional page, his callous fingers tracing over the stained ink.

He wasn’t an artist, and it easily would have been passed for messy, nonsense doodles, yet the drawing practically burned the paper as a reminder of his failed objectives.

The innocent azure bluets insulted him despite being his own creation.

Dream was done playing into Tommy’s confidence, and spoke lowly as his head turned further away from the boy.

“… I think you should go, Tommy."

#dream smp x reader #dream smp x you #dreamwastaken x reader #dreamwastaken x you #dream x reader #dream x you #dream x gn!reader #mcyt x reader #mcyt x you #dreamwastaken x gn!reader #dreamwastaken imagine #dsmp x reader #sleepysoupi 1.8k writing event

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kyunniebuns · 4 years ago

Note

Hello! Can I request for Childe with pregnant reader? I'd like to see his doting and protective side

A/N: EEEEE CHILDE DOTING PREGNANT READER I LOVE THIS IDEAAAAA!!!!

ℂ𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕕𝕖! x 𝙶𝙽! 𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝! ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕣!

. 　﹢　˖ 　✦ ¸ .　﹢　 ° 　¸. ° ˖ ･ ·̩　　｡　☆　　　ﾟ＊　｡　☆ ✦˖

The moment you told him the news of your pregnancy- Your precious ginger man was beaming with joy.

Being a father was one of the few things the harbinger hoped for. But of course, since he was too busy working to serve his lady Tsaritsa, he sorta forgot that wish he had.

However, you? Telling him you have a growing child inside you? And that baby is his? Childe couldn't even wipe of the huge grin on his face.

Tartaglia smiled so much that his cheeks hurt. He couldnt stop himself, he was going to be a father!

Excitement rushed inside his veins and the ginger man went out on a complete shopping spree.

Cribs, toys, clothes, bottles- Every essential his baby needs is on the cart!

You had to stop him of course, Childe was way too excited for this. The baby didn't even have a gender yet! Your man has to chill!

Well, it's not like you disagree with him on wanting to give your child's essentials beforehand BUT! You absolutely need to be the calm one here. The harbinger might end up emptying out every baby store there is so yeah, you need to calm him down.

During your pregnancy, I see Childe telling you that he will shoulder all the heavy work. You just need to focus on your pregnancy.

He pays more attention to you than ever. You honestly thought his clingy self was already at its peak but no, that's not half the clingyness he's doing right now.

Tartaglia even went so far as to finish his fatui job in a flash. He was that desperate and determined to be with you during this.

He knows a few things about pregnancy so helping you out was easy. Childe also provides you with every little or big thing you require.

After all, it's not just you he's cherishing right now. There's now two of you. Inside your stomach is a growing child, and that child is his and yours.

He became more doting, always right there when your morning sickness kicks in. Childe would lean down and rub your back softly wholst pulling your hair back.

If your mood swings decide to take a toll, he knows how to deal with them. Tartaglia is a very patient one, it is after all, for you and the baby.

Maybe your craving something? That's fine, he'll personally cook for you. He'll even feed you, teasing; "Mn? But isn't it normal for daddy to treat my babies like this?"

But then again, Snezhnaya's darker side decides to pile up on him and give him more work. Maybe he'll even feel a bit annoyed about it.

Having no choice, Childe will obey his orders and leave you to his sibling's care.

Once he comes back from his work, expect him to be very touchy. His hands will wonder to your stomach, caressing it softly. A warm smile will make it to his face and he'll start pecking your cheek then your stomach.

His kisses were so feathery, especially when Childe pays attention to your stomach.

Tartaglia will whisper sweet nothings to the baby inside you, cooing the baby ridiculous stuff even. (Please smack him, he says silly things about you too)

He's very gentle when it come to holding you too, intertwining fingers with you while the other lurks in yohr belly.

It just felt so right, being able to rest this peacefully with your pregnant state. What further joy will overwhelm him once the baby is in your arms? Childe's mind goes in a full daydream about it, making his heart flutter in bliss.

He no longer feels so alone, he no longer feels incomplete. As if a puzzle going together piece by piece, he felt that way. Soon, everything will be picture perfect. Everything will be alright.

Childe just cant wait until the baby comes out, he'll protect you and his family with everything he can. His life is blessed no matter how deep his connections are with the Fatui. Nothing can change, and if someone dares to even harm you all- He wont spare them. Not ever.

Being a warrior doesnt just mean fighting wars after all, it also means to protect those who are dear to him.

Ajax is glad he is given his vision. No longer will he just grow strong alone- He'll grow strong in order to protect his family.

#genshin scenarios #genshin #genshin comfort #genshin headcanons #genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin childe #childe comfort #childe x reader #genshin tartaglia #tartaglia #tartaglia x reader #childe headcanons #childe imagines

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strangunddurm · 3 years ago

Text

The Cabin

Masterlist

Pairing: Clyde Logan x fem!reader

Word Count: 6.8k

Warnings: PinV sex, unprotected sex, self pleasure, fingering, masturbation, alcohol consumption.

Please accept my offering of my vision of mountain man Clyde.

A hike in the woods was meant to calm your mind and let you focus on yourself for a while; a sort of cheap alternative to going to a spa. However, you were anything but relaxed, and focused on everything except just yourself.

You were lost. Despite spending hours on YouTube trying to learn how to navigate, you had still taken the wrong turn and didn’t notice until it was too late. Thankfully it was the beginning of autumn, so it was still warm outside, and you didn’t need to start worrying about getting cold just yet, despite the sun slowly descending across the horizon.

The crappy phone which you had insisted didn’t need replacing had died long before you realized just how lost you were. You had a particularly bad habit of never charging your phone and it was coming back to bite you in the ass.

You had taken a, supposedly, easy trail. ‘Beginner friendly’ was the description your friend had given you when you asked for tips. You were cursing them mentally in your mind now, their definition of ‘beginner friendly’ was obviously vastly different from yours.

It had been hours, or at least it felt like it. You were steadily making your way through the granola bars you had packed. Your version of survivor mode consisted of trying to eat everything you could see due to anxiety, instead of saving it in case you’d be out here for hours.

It was the same rock you had passed a while back, you were sure of it, convinced that you were officially just walking in one big circle.

You hadn’t seen anyone else out on the trails which were surprising.; you figured trails were usually always packed with curious adventurers.

The snap of a branch pulled you out of your inner monologue, causing you to freeze and your heart to painfully contract in fear. You were sure that this was the moment you would die; a rabid coyote was surely bound to attack you at any moment. Were there even coyotes in West Virginia? You didn’t want to find out.

Turning around to see what it was that had made the sound wasn’t an option in your mind, it really wasn’t. Turning around would, in your mind, mean that you were accepting being mauled to death and despite your sometimes negative output you wanted to live for a while longer.

“Please, please, please don’t be a coyote… pleas-“ You let out a loud scream as a hand grabbed onto your shoulder, instinctively jabbing your elbow back to connect with the somewhat soft stomach of someone who was very much not a wild and crazed animal.

Whoever was behind you let out a low ‘ouff’ sound from your attack but did not seem overly affected otherwise.

“Sorry!” It was a man’s voice, judging from the deep tone of it. You whirled around whilst simultaneously attempting to take a step backwards, resulting in you falling to the ground ungracefully. There was definitely no chance you could run away from him now if he turned out to be less than friendly.

“Who are you?” You shuffled back against the ground, trying to put some distance between the two of you in naïve hope. The stranger, noticing your distress, put his hands out in front of him whilst taking a few steps back, increasing the distance between the two of you.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare ye.” You surveyed him sceptically as he apologized. He looked like he was a nice person, but that only went so far, anyone had the ability to look nice. He blended into your surroundings, lacking the bright colours you were wearing; it was obvious that he did not share in your desire to want to be seen. He also looked like he was much more used to the woods than you were (not that it was hard).

“Are ye okay?” His question made you realize that you hadn’t replied, and you were still lying there like a seal on the ground. You stumbled up onto your feet with a huff, grabbing a stick that was laying by your hand just as you thrust yourself up.

It was a small stick, definitely incapable of causing serious bodily harm but you hoped that if you were desperate enough, it could poke out an eye. Or at least scratch it.

You held it out in front of you, wielding it like a sword. It was hard not to miss the smile that flew across the stranger’s face. You were most likely a funny sight, a flustered and oblivious city girl waving a twig. But you felt like King Arthur waving Excalibur and that was all that mattered. One lonely girl pumped full of adrenaline could do a lot of damage with a twig and a mean right hook.

“What do you want?” You spat. A tiny voice inside of you told you that you were being ridiculous. Here he was, a nice man probably just concerned over seeing you wander through the woods, obviously lost, so close to nightfall. But the devil on your other shoulder told you to trust no man, to kick him where the sun doesn’t shine and take off like a bat out of hell.

“I just wanted to see if ye were okay; it gets cold out here at night.” He still had his hands up like he was getting arrested. You considered his words carefully. You weren’t okay, you hadn’t planned on staying out until nightfall. All you were going to do was hike to the top of the mountain and go back down, but apparently, you were too incompetent to even perform that simple task.

“I called out a couple of times, but ye didn’t seem to hear me.”

“Oh,” You dropped the twig at the revelation. It explained a lot; you were after all notorious for getting lost in your thoughts and turning deaf.

“Sorry.” You said sheepishly as you lowered the stick to your side but still grasped it tightly (just in case). You sent him a small apologetic smile even though you didn’t owe him one.

“So, do ye need help?”

“Hmm…” Did you need help? You glanced around you, surveying your surroundings again. It was a lot closer to dark than you were comfortable with. The granola bars were all gone, you didn’t have anything warmer on than the fleece jacket you had dug out from the back of your closet. You had no way of contacting anyone and you were not competent enough to build anything close to a working shelter for the night.

You eyed him again as you thought over your answer. He seemed nice enough, he reminded you slightly of a big, burly bear. He was a behemoth of a man, standing tall and wide with dark hair and eyes, but there was some kindness there that made you feel as if you could trust him.

The thing that eventually won you over was his hand, it was obviously a prosthetic now that you were focusing on him. You hoped that a prosthetic hand meant that it was much less likely that he could grab a firm hold on you.

Clyde Logan wasn’t a very talkative man. If you were to google ‘mountain man’ he would pop up as one of the image results. The modern version of course, accompanied by the usual camo gear. You had always had a weakness for the lumberjack flannels and the thick moustache that tickled his lips had you wondering what it would look like drenched in your juices.

But it would be stupid attempting to seduce the grumpy man that had saved you from certain death, right?

He knew so much about the woods and the dangers that were surrounding you, making you realize just how stupid you were to be out there alone. But of course, he didn’t offer you all of this information on his own. No, you had to practically force the words out of his mouth, but thankfully you were the Master of Babble, and he was eventually forced to answer if he ever wanted you to shut up.

You were making your way to his cabin that was apparently just over a mile away. Clyde was leading the way with you practically walking on his heels trying to keep up with his long strides and sneaking looks over your shoulder in paranoia to see if anyone was following the two of you.

Clyde had said that it was too late to return to your car seeing how late it was. Apparently, you had walked in the completely wrong direction from the start and were now a couple of miles away from civilization. He had graciously offered you a sleeping spot in his cabin over the night with a promise to help you back first thing in the morning.

It was picturesque, Clyde’s cabin. Nothing less than what you expected of the man, and surprisingly a lot cleaner than what you had assumed from stereotyping.

“This is so cute!” You admired, sending a small smile up to Clyde with a tilt of your head. He almost looked embarrassed over your praise, only responding with a small huff as he took his shoes off and walking toward the kitchen area.

It was a studio type of situation. Everything was in one room: the small kitchenette, tv-area, and makeshift bedroom. Clyde had flipped a switch which turned on a light that illuminated the entire cabin in a soft glow.

“There’s a bathroom over there.” Clyde gestured to a door on the left, and you couldn’t help peaking in. You hadn’t expected a fully functional bathroom at all, seeing how you were in the middle of nowhere but here it was. And you were so grateful. Going potty in the woods was not on your bucket list.

“Are ye hungry? It’s nothin’ much but I have some sandwiches that we can eat.” Clyde ran his fingers through his hair as he asked the question nervously when you came over after your brief tour of the cabin.

“A sandwich would be great, thank you!” You took it gratefully from his hand as he offered it to you before plopping down on the couch.

You were a lot hungrier than you had though. Your stomach rumbled loudly as you unwrapped the sandwich and taking a bite.

“Have you had this for long?” You said after you had finished chewing your first bite, gesturing with your hand wildly to the cabin.

“Couple of years.” Clyde didn’t look at you as he responded, focused intently on his own sandwich.

He left it at that, not elaborating any further and you didn’t want to cross the obvious boundary he had drawn, so you stayed quiet.

You were never good with silence and awkward situations. When others were perfectly comfortable with silence you just had to talk. Googled had diagnosed it as a symptom of anxiety but you had never actually built enough courage up to actually have a evaluation.

“Do you like to read?” You had taken notice of the overflowing bookcase he had. It was hard not to, it was perhaps the biggest piece of furniture he had, spanning the length of an entire wall.

“Mhmm” Honestly, the hums he would do to answer your questions made you soaked.

“What’s your favourite?” He looked as if he was considering your question, leaning back into his seat and looking up at the ceiling for a moment.

“It would have to be In Search for Lost Time by Marcel Proust.”

“I love that book.”

“Is that so?” You nodded your head with wide eyes, happy to have found a subject to talk about. You loved books, yes, but to be honest you had never read that book. But you were hoping you could wing it enough so that Clyde wouldn’t notice.

“What’s your favourite part?” Okay, so maybe you hadn’t thought it through. You couldn’t hide the small wince you did at his question.

It would’ve been better to have said nothing at all, you just really wanted Clyde to like you. You didn’t know why; it wasn’t like you were ever going to see him again. It was just that there was something about him that made you want to kneel and say, ‘please daddy’ and you didn’t know how to get there with someone so reluctant to talk.

“Ye tryin’ to impress me?” He must be a mind reader.

“Oh, no I just-“ You trailed off, unsure over what to say that would not make you seem as desperate.

He stood up, watching you as he made his way around the room, but he wasn’t moving toward you; instead, he disappeared through the front door without a word.

You deflated like a balloon as the door shut behind him, sinking into the cushions and cursing yourself. Why were you so desperate to impress people? The answer was simple because you were you and you had an irrational need for people having to like you.

Clyde wasn’t gone for long. He had simply gone out to fill up on the firewood for the fireplace that you had neglected to notice before.

“It’s supposed to get below 30 here tonight.” Was it rude to say that you were impressed with how easily he did things despite only having one hand? It wasn’t that you expected him to not be able to function at all, it’s just that you were barely functioning yourself with two hands.

It had already started getting just a tiny bit colder, enough for you to have curled your legs onto the couch, leaning on the armrest with a blanket thrown over you. The cold was a fiend that you would never get along with.

“I’m sorry.”

“What are ye sorry for?” He looked truly bewildered over your words, stopping what he was doing and looking up at you from his crouched position.

“I shouldn’t have lied.”

“’S okay.” He continued with starting a fire. “We’ve all told a white lie.”

“That’s true, but I’m usually better at playing it off.” You joked and he shared a chuckle with you.

It was cozy once Clyde got the fire started. He turned off the lamp in the ceiling, muttering something about preserving a battery, opting to turn on another by the bed and then settled back down. He was sitting next to you this time, not across from you in the chair as previously. You could practically feel the heat radiating from his skin, he was so close. The couch was small, only a two-seater, but you suppose that he didn’t need much more seeing how he was only one person.

Clyde crowded your personal space. It felt like he was everywhere around you, suffocating you (but in the best way). He slung his arm over the back of the couch, just barely grazing your back. You were surprised with how forward he was being but decided not to question it too much, figuring he might take it wrong and shy away.

“Yer not from ‘round here are ye?”

“Is it so obvious?” Of course, it was obvious. You told him where you lived and there seemed to be a small glint of recognition in his eyes.

“Ye should get a guide next time, one of the rangers will take ye for free.” It was surprising how caring he seemed to be.

“One of the rangers?” You didn’t want a ranger to show you around the next time.

“Mhmm”

“Can’t you take me?” You diverted your eyes from his face as you asked the question, feigning being shy. You let them trace down his sculptured-by-God body, double-checking for a ring on one of his fingers. There was none, or well you assumed that it wasn't a wedding ring. It didn't look like one, it had more of a class ring vibe to it.

Clyde didn’t respond immediately. He was studying you, analyzing every crevice of your face it seemed like.

It was impossible not to get lost in his eyes. You tried really hard not to at first but gave up way too quickly. You wondered if he knew just how attractive he was. He had to have several ladies running after him, desperate for a getaway in his cabin in the woods.

“Do ye want me to?” He finally asked. It was obvious that he had tensed up at your question. His back was rigid, he was sitting as straight as you had ever seen a person sit.

“Maybe…” You were subconsciously leaning closer toward him, inhaling as much of his sent as you could discreetly. It was very vampire-like of you.

He smelled just as you thought he would. Like pine trees. There was just the smallest undertone of sweat and it drove you wild. It wasn’t usually your scent of choice for obvious reasons but on Clyde… On Clyde it was as if he had been doused in some kind of pheromones that made you completely drenched and mad with want.

You thankfully stopped yourself before you could release the moan that was bubbling in your throat. Who in their right mind moaned to a stranger that they hadn’t even touched over the way they smelled? (Only counting people that weren’t high or drunk, of course).

It was a battle getting you to lean away from Clyde again, but the rational part of your brain thankfully won. You had to dig your nails into your thighs, trying to pinch yourself through the fabric of your pants to bring you back to reality and gain some self-control.

“I’ll take you.” He promised with a nod, looking as serious as always. You wondered if he always wore that expression with everyone. You hadn’t been able to coax a lot of smiles out of him, despite categorizing yourself as a fairly hilarious person and having cracked some jokes on the walk to the cabin.

You sent him a small smile in response, feeling relieved not to have been rejected. That would’ve been embarrassing.

He surveyed you for a while more before finally asking if you wanted a drink.

The makeshift bar cabinet that he had was surprisingly well-stocked. Too well-stocked for him to be a raging alcoholic. You questioned him curiously about it. Finding out that he was a bartender was a welcomed surprise. You challenged him to make a drink you had never heard of, and he was quick to deliver.

It was delicious, making it easy to pay him compliments over his talent.

“I own a bar, ‘s called Duck Tape.” It was clear that he was proud over his business, with the way his chest seemed to almost swell with his words.

You told him about your own job, not exactly sharing the same enthusiasm seeing how your job was one of the main reasons for why you needed a stress-relieving hike in the first place.

You’d always been a lightweight. It was no secret; you had an uncanny ability to be able to get hammered on one glass of alcohol. Google told you that it could have something to do with your liver, but you did not want to go to the hospital to find out.

You neglected to think about this small fact when you asked Clyde to make you a drink and you were now suffering the consequences. You were drunk, or at least somewhere over the border of tipsy.

Clyde seemed to have relaxed from the alcohol as well. He was much freer in letting a laugh leave his body which had caused you to jump at first in surprise at the boisterous sound.

He had shuffled closer to you, or was it you that had shuffled closer to him? It had happened without either of the two of you noticing but you didn’t try to move away once you did.

You didn’t speak about anything of significance, not really. It was all nonsense, but you never wanted it to stop. Eventually, you mutually decided that sleep was a necessity if you were going to have the energy to get back to your car in the morning.

“Ye can take the bed if ye want.” Clyde motioned over the back of the couch toward the bed in the corner of the room. You glanced over at it, gnawing at your lip as you considered his proposal. Would it be inappropriate to say that you wanted him to share the bed with you?

The bed was too small for it to be shared in any way that wasn’t intimate which was exactly what you wanted.

You assumed that Clyde was as interested in you as you were of him. His hand was dangerously close to your knee as it sat on the seat of the sofa; if he moved his finger less than an inch it would graze your skin.

“Where would you sleep?” You feigned innocent.

“I’ll take the couch.” He knew what you were doing; you could see it in his eyes. They had grown even darker than before and were hooded as they watched you. It was easy to get lost in them, they were the most expressive eyes you had ever seen.

Both of you knew that neither of you would sleep on the couch that night.

There was a flurry of hands and all of a sudden you were in his lap, grinding down, lips connected to one another.

Clyde was a great kisser. Scratch that. He was amazing. He knew exactly how to make you completely drenched from just a few nibbles and strokes of his tongue against your own. He was a natural (Or a player, but you somehow got the impression that he didn’t lure innocent people to his cabin on the regular for a quick lay).

You could feel how hard he was despite the layers separating his bulge from your core. Hard and large and it made you dizzy to think about.

Clyde was taking his time running his hands up and down your waist, his right hand grabbing here and there, never moving under your shirt despite your obvious eagerness. A roll of his hips elicited a moan from you.

Your own hands weren’t shy in their movements; they were grasping onto his broad shoulders, holding on to the fabric as you tried to pull him closer to you.

He separated his lips from yours with a chuckle.

“Eager, are we?” His crooked grin was panty-dropping worthy.

He trailed his lips down your neck before you could reply, suckling gently over your pulse point.

The moan he pulled from you echoed around the room as you tilted your head to the side, allowing him more room to roam.

Your hands tighten their hold on his shoulders. You had always been extra sensitive around the neck and the combination of his lips and the tickle from his moustache was enough to send you into overdrive.

“Clyde…” You breathed out his name shakily, feeling tingles start to travel from your hands and up your arms from the excitement.

He hoisted you up surprisingly quickly from the sofa, causing you to let out a shriek in surprise.

He was strong. Of course, he was strong, you shouldn’t have expected anything else but still…

He carried you toward the bed, setting you down unceremoniously on the edge. You had to grab a hold of the sheet so as not to fall over.

“I want you to strip.” There was no room for arguing in his voice, and it was exactly what you needed. You didn’t want to have to think about your actions.

He was watching you intently, waiting for you to do as you were told, causing you to frantically reach for the zip of your fleece, pulling it down your arms and then throwing it mindlessly away from you.

Your shirt was the next thing that came off. Clyde’s gaze followed as your shirt revealed more and more skin. You didn’t miss the way he bit his lip hungrily.

Your bra wasn’t perhaps the sexiest thing you owned but you weren’t exactly expecting to be in the situation you were when you headed out that morning.

The bra joined the other items a bit slower. You wanted to drag it out; was it mean that you wanted him to have to suffer just a tiny bit?

You were basking in his obvious admiration of your body as you slowly slid the pants down and stepped out of them, leaving you in just your socks and underwear.

Perhaps it wasn’t the sexiest you had ever looked, but it was the sexiest you had ever felt, and that was the important part.

“Panties too.” He had started palming himself through his pants, huffing out small groans of satisfaction here and there. It had made you drenched and you did not doubt that it was obvious to him just how aroused you were.

You were finally standing there in front of him, completely bare, socks and panties having been removed. His eyes ran over every inch and crevice of you that was visible in the low light.

He was still fully dressed, having just unbuttoned his pants so that he could force his hand down to tug at himself.

“I want you to lay down and touch yourself.” Touch yourself? Couldn’t he do it? You opened your mouth to argue but one look from Clyde made you snap your mouth shut again.

The comforter was soft against your skin as you laid down on your back. You were shy as you separated your legs just enough so that you could slip your hand in between your legs.

The first touch was electric. You had never felt such a reaction from simply touching yourself. Sure, you were an expert in getting yourself off, but it never felt quite like this, not this good from so little.

You circled your bud, applying just the right pleasure that caused you to moan. Your eyes fluttered shut involuntarily, getting lost in the feeling building in your belly.

“Open yer eyes.” He had moved closer, a lot closer, with surprising stealth as you hadn’t heard even a low scuffle of feet. His eyes were commanding the attention of your own as he scolded you.

You withdrew your hand automatically from yourself, moving it up to rest on your belly, thinking that he must want you to stop. You were wrong, however, for his eyes snapped down to watch it and he scolded you once again.

“I didn’t tell ye to stop.” He only moved away once more when he was satisfied with your continued movements.

He walked over to the single chair by the living room table, dragging it with him back over to the bed, placing it by the end where he would get just the right view of you working yourself.

He pulled his pants down before sitting down with a huff. He had gone commando. You let out a whimper of need at the sight.

Clyde Logan was the owner of the most perfect cock you had ever seen. It was so heavy that it had barely been able to bob against his stomach, despite his sitting position.

You arched your neck, trying to get a closer look. It was swollen and huge and pink at the tip. His thumb was working over the head, smearing the precum that had leaked out.

“Ye stopped.” It was a statement, and he didn’t need to give you further instructions for you to once again start moving your hand between your legs.

You let it travel further down this time, to collect some of your wetness with two fingers before bringing it up to your mouth and tasting yourself. Sweet and tangy.

Clyde didn’t make a single sound to let you know if he was affected by your actions, so all you could do was assume that he was, and that was enough to spur you on.

You brought your hand back down, inserting a finger slowly, testing the waters. You were more than ready, your walls giving way easily to the intrusion.

A second soon joined the first and you set a steady rhythm, pumping them in and out with a squelch as your walls clenched around your digits. Your other palm came up to massage at your breast, twisting the nipple between your fingertips.

Your chest heaved with your moans that were penetrating the air. It was hard keeping your eyes open with the overwhelming pleasure you were feeling but you had to stay focus, you didn’t want to miss a second of seeing Clyde slumped from the pleasure of his touch as he fucked into his hand.

“I want ye to make yerself cum.” You were more than happy to give in to this demand. Your fingers were moving urgently inside of you, and your other hand moved on from your breast, coming down to pinch at your clit and then rub tight small circles over it.

The heat that had been steadily building inside of you, blossoming in your stomach, was slowly taking over your entire body now. Your toes were beginning to curl, and you were fighting your eyes from rolling backwards in your head.

And then, it all became too much for you and you let go and the best part of it all rolled over you like tidal waves, washing through you, soaking you with that post-orgasmic glow.

You let your fingers slowly slip out of you, letting your arms fall to your sides as you watched Clyde get up. You didn’t know if he had come, having been too focused on yourself, but it didn’t matter, he still stood at full attention.

Your mouth practically frothed at the sight of him, you could turn rabid from the need that you had for him. A whine slipped out of your mouth, an arm lifting up to reach out for him, needing to touch him.

He came close enough so that your fingers could just barely brush against the fabric of his pants that he still insisted on having on.

Rage took over your body. It was an irrational rage, why did he still have them on? You wanted them off and you wanted them off now. You had to see him, all of him, before you went insane from the deprivation. Was it even possible? To lose your mind over not getting to see another person naked? You certainly thought so.

You sat up, leaning on one of your shoulders as you looked up at him with a glare on your face.

“Take them off.” He was thoroughly amused by your attempt at a demand. You didn’t achieve quite the same rumble in your tone that he had which left no room for arguing, but still, he conceded and pushed the pants down his legs until they were low enough to be kicked off.

His shirt followed soon after, almost hitting you in the face as he threw it carelessly toward the corner of the bed.

You couldn’t help but admire him. A work of art, good enough to be hung in the Met, that was for sure.

You got on your knees in front of him, the height from the bed aiding you in being just tall enough so that you could place kisses on his chest- You placed the first one in the middle, right over his sternum whilst looking up at him.

Your eyes stayed locked as you planted another kiss over his heart, the next on his right pec, and so forth. They circled around one of his nipples, letting your teeth give it a small nibble before pulling it with you just a bit before releasing it and letting it revert to its original state, hard as a rock.

It was starting to get more and more obvious just how affected Clyde was getting, his arousal much more prominent, if that was even possible. You could feel it against your skin, you didn’t want to touch it just yet, dragging it out for as long as you could.

You enjoyed watching him become more and more flustered by your actions. His chest was heavy with each audible breath, cock tapping against your lower stomach, begging to be touched, but you kept your hands away. They were holding on to his thighs, caressing them in small movements that were making their way toward his cock at snail pace.

“Ye gon’ tease me all night?” You let out a laugh at the ridiculous accusation. If anybody had been the one to tease, it was Clyde.

“Are you going to tease me all night?” You threw the question back at him, biting your lip with an innocent smile.

He growled. He actually growled and you could feel how it caused a trickle to roll down your leg.

“Didn’t yer mammy or daddy ever teach ye not to talk back?”

“They didn’t actually” His eyes had steadily grown darker and darker as the evening progressed and were now on the border of black.

He smashed your lips together, grabbing a hold of your face with his right hand with a bruising grip. He kissed and nipped at your lips before pulling back and pushing you back onto the bed.

He was quick to follow you onto the bed as he guided you to lay on your back, spread eagle, with him kneeling between your legs. His hands were on his hips as he watched you. You squirmed under his gaze, trying to create some type of friction anywhere that would aid in bringing you closer to another release.

His kisses started on your inner knee, building their way up at a torturous pace. He didn’t leave a kiss between your legs; instead, he just hovered there so you could feel his hot breath tickle you before continuing.

You were practically sobbing for more when he finally made it to your lips.

“Please, you have to…”

“I have t’ what?” He looked completely serious as he looked down at you, balanced on one hand. He was expecting an answer from you, and you didn’t know what to say. You obviously wanted him to fuck you but for some reason, you were too shy to say it.

“Mhm… thought so,” He hummed before dropping down to his elbows pressing his entire body onto you.

You could feel all of him. His skin was electric against your own and you could feel his length brushing over your clit. He rolled his hips in a small wave and you arched your back from the moan that escaped you.

It had all built up so much that the smallest touch from him could cause you to completely fall apart, despite the orgasm you had had. It was because it was different when Clyde was the one that touched you; your own touch was nowhere near adequate in comparison.

He rolled his hips again, this time applying just a bit more pressure and you couldn’t help but to widen and draw up your legs slightly, wanting to give him easier access.

“I didn’t tell ye tha’ ye could move.” You were trembling from need at his words. You needed more; couldn’t he understand that?

You were reluctant as you started to bring your legs back down, but he (thankfully) hooked his left arm around your leg, stopping its descent. He hoisted it up to rest by the side of his hip as he simultaneously sat back upon his haunches.

“Do ye need me inside of ye?” Your head had started nodding before he could even finish the sentence, causing a wicked smile to spread across his face.

“I need t’ be inside of ye too.” They were the most glorious words you had ever heard.

His right hand gave a tug at his cock, but it didn’t need any more preparation. It was hard and as ready for you as you were him. He grabbed a hold of base, stabilizing it as he dragged it through your sweet and slickened folds before slowly slipping inside.

Your walls easily gave way for him as he finally pushed in due to your overflowing arousal. He stretched you as wide as you would go with little pain and raw pleasure. You were clenched tightly around him, walls squeezing him in a vice grip, trying to draw him in even deeper.

You could feel yourself grow more and more manic in your need as he sunk deeper and deeper into you. It was as if all other senses had disappeared and all you could focus on was his powerful thrusts that were drilling into you.

He kept your right leg at his hips, whilst his other hand was hoisting your left over his shoulder after just a few deep thrusts.

You choked from the warmth that spread through your body from this position. He was deeper than you even knew you could take him. The head of his cock tapping at your cervix with every drilling thrust but there was no pain, only excruciating pleasure that made tears leak from your eyes from happiness.

The carnal need was as fervent within Clyde as it was you. He couldn’t take it slow; his thrusts were forceful and intent on driving you to your next orgasm as quickly as he could.

“Fuck, ye feel good.” Clyde hissed. “Such a sweet an’ tight little pussy.”

Your eyes could barely focus on him, only catching small glimpses of him with his hair plastered to his forehead from the moisture that was collected there. Your hands were grasping onto the duvet, needing something to hold onto in desperation.

His thrusts were precise and well calculated; he hit that spot inside of you over and over again that made you let out guttural moans.

But he enjoyed torturing you and he suddenly came to a halt, retracting from you completely.

“Move over.” He helped to guide you in your haze. Your own movements were thankfully still quick despite your barely lucid mind as you shuffled to the side, and he laid down on the bed.

Clyde’s hand was supporting his base, helping it stand tall, ready for you to penetrate yourself onto it. You threw your leg over his hips to straddle him. You hovered over his cock, looking down to see how you were dripping on to him.

You didn’t stay there for too long before mounting yourself onto it, dropping down with a pant as you engulfed him within you.

The pace you set was frantic, chasing climax. Your hands came down to rest on his chest to better help you push yourself up and down his cock. The sound of your skin slapping against his echoed around the room, driving your wild.

He was a sight for sore eyes underneath you. Lost in the madness and wild from it all. His desire and pleasure were so clear on his face from the way his mouth was parted and the way his eyes admired you, following your every movement.

He used his right hand to help you ram down onto him again and again.

You got on your feet, gaining better leverage than you had had before on your knees, bouncing up and down. You were so, so close; you could feel your orgasm simmering there underneath the surface, you just needed a small push to get there. And Clyde delivered that small push.

“Yer such a good girl, takin’ me so well. You just love bein’ fucked, don’t ye?”

Your walls clamped down on him, legs shaking as you came to a stop, being unable to continue as you fell forward onto his chest, overwhelmed by the pleasure that filled your body.

He received you in his arms, letting his hand caress over your spine as you continued to slightly convulse from your orgasm.

“Such a good girl” He crooned in your ear with a kiss and tug on your lobe.

Clyde wasn’t as sweet when he pinned both your arms to your sides with one of his, holding you in place as he started slamming his hips up into you, chasing his own pleasure.

The sounds that came out of your as he rammed himself in over and over again were indistinguishable. You were gushing around him, your entire body vibrating from another orgasm, but he still didn’t let up. His hips were starting to stutter, however, thrusts being off-pace as he pounded into you.

And then a sharp thrust was accompanied by a husky cry as he ejected deep inside of you. He managed to pump into you a few more times as your walls milked him, your mixed climaxes collecting at his base.

You were exhausted, unable to move so he stayed there, deep inside of you as he grew flaccid.

You thought it was a fuck for the history books.

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