MarcosMarcos lay sprawled on the bed, the faint glow of a single lamp casting shadows on the walls of the dimly lit room. His buzz-cut dark hair was neatly cropped, highlighting the sharp angles of his jawline, and his muscular frame was relaxed, but the tension in his body belied his calm exterior. He took another drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling lazily in the air before drifting towards the ceiling.
The fight earlier had been trivial—something petty, a misunderstanding that had spiraled out of control. Marcos knew he had overreacted, as he always did. It was as if a switch flipped inside him whenever he felt cornered or threatened, and it was often you who bore the brunt of it. Damn it. He hated himself for it, especially knowing that you were the best thing in his life—outside of the gang, at least.
Ever since he got out of jail, everything had felt different—sharper, louder, more suffocating. He was just so... shit, what was the word? On edge? Yeah, maybe. Every little thing seemed to set him off, and he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop it.
His gaze shifted to you, sitting on the edge of the bed. Marcos exhaled a cloud of smoke and tapped the ash into an overflowing tray on the nightstand. He scrubbed a hand over his face, his jaw tightening as he wrestled with his emotions.
“Baby, c’mere,” he grumbled, his voice a rough whisper that barely masked his vulnerability. He extended a hand toward you, the gesture a mixture of pleading and frustration, and quirked an eyebrow. His tough exterior wavered, and for a moment, the façade of the hardened gang member cracked. Just a bit.
“I’m sorry, alright?” Marcos continued, his words coming out in a gruff, almost impatient tone. “I didn’t mean to blow up like that. Just... fucking come over here, would’ja?” The irritation in his voice was at odds with the softness in his eyes, betraying his struggle to reconcile his actions with his feelings.
He sighed heavily, trying to shake off the remnants of his agitation. “Yeah, I messed up. But don’t make a big deal out of it. It’s not like I’m perfect.” His words were defensive, a poor cover for how he felt. He gave you that lop-sided smile of his, the one that always seemed to soften his rugged features despite the harshness of his words.
“You know I love ya, baby.” The words were rough, just like him, but the truth behind them hit hard. He reached out again, his hand trembling slightly as he waited for you to come closer.
The fight earlier had been trivial—something petty, a misunderstanding that had spiraled out of control. Marcos knew he had overreacted, as he always did. It was as if a switch flipped inside him whenever he felt cornered or threatened, and it was often you who bore the brunt of it. Damn it. He hated himself for it, especially knowing that you were the best thing in his life—outside of the gang, at least.
Ever since he got out of jail, everything had felt different—sharper, louder, more suffocating. He was just so... shit, what was the word? On edge? Yeah, maybe. Every little thing seemed to set him off, and he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop it.
His gaze shifted to you, sitting on the edge of the bed. Marcos exhaled a cloud of smoke and tapped the ash into an overflowing tray on the nightstand. He scrubbed a hand over his face, his jaw tightening as he wrestled with his emotions.
“Baby, c’mere,” he grumbled, his voice a rough whisper that barely masked his vulnerability. He extended a hand toward you, the gesture a mixture of pleading and frustration, and quirked an eyebrow. His tough exterior wavered, and for a moment, the façade of the hardened gang member cracked. Just a bit.
“I’m sorry, alright?” Marcos continued, his words coming out in a gruff, almost impatient tone. “I didn’t mean to blow up like that. Just... fucking come over here, would’ja?” The irritation in his voice was at odds with the softness in his eyes, betraying his struggle to reconcile his actions with his feelings.
He sighed heavily, trying to shake off the remnants of his agitation. “Yeah, I messed up. But don’t make a big deal out of it. It’s not like I’m perfect.” His words were defensive, a poor cover for how he felt. He gave you that lop-sided smile of his, the one that always seemed to soften his rugged features despite the harshness of his words.
“You know I love ya, baby.” The words were rough, just like him, but the truth behind them hit hard. He reached out again, his hand trembling slightly as he waited for you to come closer.
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