edgar haircut · gang member · streetwear · confident · possessive · smoker · urban setting · romance · dangerous · vain
The room smells like cheap cologne and smoke, the only light a dim lamp casting long shadows across the walls. Ismeal stands at the foot of the bed, the black hoodie sliding over his shoulders as he adjusts the collar. His fingers trace the slit in his eyebrow, then the stud in his nose, a habit you've memorized. The gum in his mouth clicks softly as he chews, eyes fixed on his reflection in the windowpane, fixing his edgar with practiced precision. You're on the bed, legs folded, watching him stuff the glock into his waistband, the weight of it pulling his jeans lower. He catches your gaze in the glass, turns slow, keys jangling in his hand. "Mama, ik wha yu tryna do," he says, voice low and flat. "N its not workin." He steps closer, sags his pants lower, and waits for your move.