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writefightandflightclub · 6 months

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Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Ten (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running?

Genre: a LOT of angst, (some) smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list).

Author’s note: Hope you like this next instalment! It’s a long one, and it’s a flashback, so it feels like a HUGE RISK to shove this in so far into the story. However, this memory of Santiago’s and reader’s is SO vivid in my mind I feel I could basically use it as a patronus charm. Therefore, if you’re at all invested in these two by now, I do feel like the payoff is worth it, and that it will set you up PERFECTLY for the next, concluding chapter! (Also: ooh, intrigue, as we get to see how they were with each other back in their youth, you know?). Anyway, as always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send my way. ILY :-*

P.s. there’s a timeline goof as a song mentioned in this, although recorded in ‘88, was not released until 2015. But we’re just gonna look past that, okay? 😝 In this world it was released early.

AND I have nothing against Philadelphia!

Word count: 16.6k for this part. (SORRY!)

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

Many years earlier

Santiago is tired. Ready to crawl into the cocoon of his bed and draw the covers over his head, refusing to surface again until he’s dragged feet first outta there. Unfortunately for him though, sleep is not on the cards.

Instead, he has a vitally important mission to attend to. And, in the face of a mission, this particular soldier never settles for anything less than completion. That doctrine is especially true - he has proven time and again - when it comes to taking care of you.

Tonight, Santiago is tasked with making your birthday a memorable one; or, as memorable as he can muster with the $40 he currently has to his name.

“Civilian aircraft, man. Where’s a goddamn helo when you need one?” you fruitlessly complain as he nods along in sympathy.

Evidently, sleep is the last thing on your mind. You’d been looking forward to cutting loose for weeks, with this night touted as “the birthday to end all birthdays”. Serendipitously, this was the first time your birthday had coincided with a period of leave since you signed up to serve and, thwarting all that, your connecting flight was grounded unexpectedly.

Santiago feels crushed - on your behalf - that the plans have gone so pear-shaped.

“One o’ these days, getting shot for the Motherland will gain me some fucking privileges, huh?”

Santiago flinches at that particular addition. He doesn’t like to think about that day. That day’d had him waking up in frequent cold sweats going on a year now. He’d put himself on the line countless times - no problem- but almost losing you had been decidedly different. Had been the single most terrifying moment of his career (and his life) to date, all told. Which sure was saying something considering the hairy situations he routinely found himself in.

Graciously, your present circumstances are considerably less dire. You’ve still been griping, of course. And, your complaints have not succeeded in changing a damn thing. It is now abundantly clear - if it wasn’t already - that the two of you are stranded for the night. So, here you are, holed up in a dingy and characterless airport motel in Philadelphia.

It beats enemy fire, for sure… but even so, Santiago is acutely aware of how much you’ve been looking forward to this. To the rare chance to catch-up with your far flung squad mates, scattered every which way across the globe since graduating basic. He knows too, that the anticipation of this reunion had acted as your glue - had held you together - through what had been a particularly brutal deployment.

“I haven’t seen Miller in months, man. I need to give that bastard some grief soon or I’m going to lose my damn mind.”

“We can call that pendejo tomorrow,” Santiago soothes, popping a stick of gum and beginning to chew obnoxiously. “Hey. We can even pool our insults, huh? Really get him going.”

You raise your palms, pressing the heels of your hands into your eye sockets. “Shit. I just miss the fucker, Santiago.” For the first time tonight he hears your voice break, your stoicism cracking apart and revealing your soft middle.

“I know. I know you do, sweetie.”

Santiago knows how crushed you are. And so, for whatever it’s worth, the man resolves to show you the best night he possibly can, all circumstances considered.

“Come on,” he encourages, kneeling before you as your lower lip quivers. He plants a hand on your thigh and jostles your leg gently. Meanwhile, you sit slumped on the long edge of the lumpy motel bed, beginning to feel rather more sorry for yourself. “You and me, baby. I’ll make this night special, I swear. Just give me a chance, huh?”

“How?” you sound, throwing your palms up and gesturing to your dismal surroundings. “This place is barely even a step-up from the barracks.” You eye a particularly suspect stain on the carpet with disdain. “Actually, I think it might even be a step down.”

Santiago’s face crumples obediently in a measured display of sympathy, but honestly, his first instinct is to chuckle. You look so forlorn in this moment, Santiago has to consciously suppress his smile. You are the most stubborn, ferocious, determined person he’s ever met. You are fucking tough. Hell, he’s seen Staff Sergeants buckle in a crisis before you’ve even come close to breaking - and yet here you are. Almost in tears because you can’t make your birthday party. It’s all a little incongruous to him that out of everything, this would be the thing to take you down.

At the same time though, of course. He understands it perfectly.

Santiago has understood for a long time now that you possess a (well-concealed) softer side. Knows it better than most others do, in fact. As you’ve gradually allowed him to sneak past your militia-guarded perimeter -only a soldier of his calibre capable of making it, he’d wager - he’s begun to catch more and more frequent glimpses of the achingly soft heart you guard within. If your tough exterior had initially magnetised him to you, it was your soft heart which ensured he’d stuck around.

Solemnly then, he pats your thigh in a consolatory gesture. Of course, Santiago gets it. He knows it isn’t the presents or the attention or fuss which you’ll miss tonight - though they would have gone over well too, he’s sure. He knows that it is your brothers (in arms, if not blood) that you are feeling the loss of. The squad mates you love dearly, and to whom you are loyal with a tenacity Santiago has rarely witnessed. A loyalty he too feels blessed -strictly in the lapsed Catholic sense - to be on the receiving end of.

Valiantly fighting back glassy tears, you pop your lower lip in a display of petulance as he rubs reassuring circles into your knee. “Philly sucks ass.”

This time, he can’t quite quash his smile all the way.

“Philly sucks ass, huh?” he repeats, buying himself time to think.

Santiago isn’t sure whether you know that for a fact. He isn’t even sure you’ve ever been to Philly before to assess how much ass it does or does not suck. But, he does know that, irregardless of facts, you seem altogether determined to wallow in your self-pity.

Santiago has noticed this about you. How you always developed an inalienable picture in your head of how you hope things will end up. It’s inspirational at times - your ability to visualise victory, for example, even in the most dire of circumstances, has held missions together. Has held him together. At other times though, it only set you up for disappointment. How could it not, when, through no fault of your own, you cannot reliably manifest the various futures you set your heart on.

It’s not as though you ever ask for a lot; but sometimes, in your profession, even asking for a little is asking far too much.

Still, it is brave, Santiago thinks, to hope for things. For his part, he has learned the hard way not to hope for anything much.

Your shoulders sag in time with his as he exhales a breath and, though your display is dejected, Santiago gathers a soft smile. You are stubborn, that’s for sure, but in him you’ve met your match - or so he likes to think. Santiago is perhaps the only person who could reasonably claim the title of being twice as stubborn as you are, and (while he realises deep down he probably shouldn’t wear that as a badge of honour) he has often pushed his theory to its limit. And so, stubbornly, refusing to give up, Santiago rises to standing. He fishes around in his jeans pocket, yanks out a fistful of dimes and small bills, and brandishes them victoriously.

He waves them enticingly in front of your face then, but you forlornly swat them -and him- away. However, he knows from the dull, reluctant spark in your eyes when he makes his pitch that he is finally on to something. “I saw some peanut butter cups in the hallway vending machine,” he sing-songs, with a hopeful raise of his eyebrows. He knows fine well they’re your favourite, and he can’t believe he’d forgotten his secret weapon: chocolate. “We can clean them out, take a cab, find some shitty ass dive bar, and have ourselves a sweet ol’ time. Whaddya say?”

Nothing else had worked, and so Santiago is eminently thankful when a smile finally twitches your mouth. Honestly, he’d been about one attempt away from offering to eat you out all night - and he hadn’t been sure whether that would’ve made you happy, or would’ve resulted in you verbally lambasting him.

On balance, he figured it was probably best that he didn’t risk either kind of tongue-wagging.

“Fine,” you concede whilst swallowing a mischievous grin, not at all eager to let on that Santiago has finally cracked you. “But don’t you be expecting to muscle in on my Reese’s, understood?”

Santiago chuckles warmly, slipping into Spanish. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Birthday Princess.”

You snort at your newly bestowed title, playfully adjusting an invisible crown on your head, and you extend your palm towards his to shake on it. The gesture, as Santiago’s palm over-enthusiastically clasps yours, causes dimes and bills to scatter chaotically to the floor. A shit-eating grin etches itself across his face and meanwhile, your boisterous laugh rings out through the tight space. “Shit, Pope. Don’t drop it on this grim-ass fucking carpet.”

“It’s been worse places, trust me.”

“Yeah. Your fucking pocket?”

“No shithead, I won it from Catfish.”

“And you don’t know where the hell he’s been?”

“The opposite. I shared a bunk with that hijo de puta, I know exactly where he’s been.”

With easy laughter eddying between you now, you both crouch, carefully gathering up the spoils of the latest Pope/Catfish wager to change hands.

“I really need to meet that guy.”

“Sweetie, you’ve met him.”

Your hand brushes Santiago’s as you transfer him a mess of coins, sending a trail of goosebumps shivering up his arm. It always surprises him how soft you feel to the touch, accustomed as he has become to his own calloused hands - and to those of even rougher men than him.

“Garcia. I swear to you I’ve never clapped eyes on the bastard.”

“You just don’t remember him.”

“Shit. Well maybe he’s not very fucking memorable. Jog my memory. What did we talk about?”

His shit-eating grin is back. “I dunno. But I bet you talked for the both of you.”

“Hey!” you protest, batting Santiago lightly -more or less- in the upper arm.

“I just mean he’s quiet. Takes a while to warm up, that’s all. But he’s a good guy. You’ll like him, I promise.”

“Okay.” You shove the remaining dime into Santiago’s palm.

“Okay?”

“He’s clearly special to you, so he’s special to me too. Introduce me to him. Again.”

Santiago smiles at you, gentle crinkles forming around his eyes. He’s already told Frankie so much about you, and he really thinks the two of you will get on. “Deal.” You both stand, and Santiago once again extends his cash-filled hand towards you.

With a cheeky grin you chide him, not eager for a repeat calamity, but your tone is fond. “Don’t you dare shake on it, idiota.”

Your smile digresses to your eyes. You extend your palm to pat him on his stubbled cheek - in a gesture weighing heavily with affection. Your lips animate, and Santiago wonders whether something sentimental might actually come to the fore.

You whisper, low. “You have thirty seconds to get me my peanut butter cups.”

He chortles and, for the first time (perhaps since imagining his head between your legs), Santiago is eminently excited to see where the night will lead him.

Safe to say, he might be dog-tired… but he finally feels like staying awake.

***

Despite your very vocal distaste for the music, and the clientele, and…well, just about everything in the first dive bar you and Santiago stumble across, the combination of cheap beers and even cheaper shots has succeeded in getting you efficiently merry. And, despite your earlier reticence, you now seem plenty eager to continue the party.

Considering he could only afford cab fare from the motel to a dead neighbourhood on the outskirts of the city, it wasn’t going too badly, he thought. Though, Santiago had hastily steered you outta the first joint when a group of creeps had started leching on you. He knows you can handle yourself and he wouldda been happy to back you; but tonight especially, conflict is the last thing he wants for you. He figures you’ve had more than enough of that to last a lifetime. That you finally deserve a little peace. So, instead, he links your arm in his to keep your tipsy ass steady as he steers you down the main drag, desperately searching his mind - and scanning the unfamiliar streets - for what to do next.

His mission, as it stands, is to satiate your threefold desire - for drinks, dancing, and good music. Tricky, given that he is already down to $10 dollars, give or take - and he’ll need that for the cab ride back to the crummy motel.

Truth is, as he ambles with you for a few blocks, he is running out of ideas for how to show you a good time. What’s more, ever since he first entertained the idea, in his desperation, all his dumb ass can come up with is to offer to eat you out until morning. It’s pretty much becoming an intrusive thought at this point and, as the sordid image of you spread out for him further invades his mind, he quickly tries to blink it away.

He doesn’t want to be that guy. You receive more than enough unwarranted attention as it is. And besides, Santiago would never want you to misinterpret that the reason he hangs around is to -eventually- get in your pants.

You are so much more than that to him. Sometimes, he even has to keep his distance, so that in moments of weakness he doesn’t forget it.

You’d held him at arms length for a while there too.

Soldiers; not friends.

He hadn’t won you over, he knew, because of his sparkling wit and charm. You’d been drawn to him because he was competent. Surprisingly level-headed for someone so baby-faced. You’d wanted people you could work with. People you could trust to get the job done; because you had to trust them with your life.

The two of you have some undeniable chemistry, that’s for sure. At least, on his end, he’d felt something fierce and magnetic right out of the gate. Even so, from the outset, and even as your friendship had deepened, the two of you had seemed to quickly forge a tacit agreement.

Friends; not lovers.

You had made the assessment quickly, jointly, unconsciously. After all, under the rather intense circumstances in which you’d met? You’d each needed a friend - a genuine friend - far more than you’d needed a lay. For you especially, as he understood it, the former had been far more difficult to secure than the latter, especially as a woman in a highly-charged cesspit of toxic masculinity. And for him? Well, as talented as Santiago is at gaining connections, he doesn’t find all too many people he is willing to go deep with. To trust - and he trusts you with his life.

When he’d found you then, he’d grabbed firmly on to you, and had resolved that nothing would get in the way of the friendship you’d forged. Not even - or perhaps especially not - his own… urges.

Still. It’s not like he’s never thought about it. Not like you’ve never gotten him a tad… flustered. Indeed, as the rhythm of your steps marching in time beside him lulls him into calmness, feeling safe, his mind wanders in precisely that direction.

So what though? He’s only human, right? Prone to fantasising; like he is now, he supposes, as he thinks vaguely about licking and kissing down your enticing, bare expanse of stomach. About popping the button on those low slung jeans. Shimmying them down over your hips just enough to sink his mouth over the mound of you and suck.

Fuck. Focus, pendejo. You need something.

He swallows then, feeling guilty for being such a horndog, and he turns to you. You seem to be perfectly content. To be enjoying the hit of fresh air, the apples of your cheeks sheened, with a subtle glow, from the exertion of your dance moves back in the dive bar. And honestly? Looking at you? As guilty as he feels for thinking about you like that, Santiago can’t muster a single better idea of what to do with you.

He pushes it down, of course. Chalks it up to being just a tad pent-up following a seemingly endless deployment. That’s all it is, right? His dick is just looking for a little relief, and you are the closest, attractive body capable of providing him a warm welcome?

Sure, he rationalises. That’s all it is. He can find a girl one night soon and take her home, like he’s done plenty of times before to work out his urges. Except for the fact that seeing you out of those (helpfully) modest fatigues is reminding him you are exactly his type.

“You’ve gone quiet, Pope,” you frown as he -no doubt- looks at you dopily. “What are you plotting?”

With your question, Santiago tears himself violently from his thoughts as you interrupt their increasingly feral trajectory. Still, in scrambling for a deflection, all he is able to land on is something else deep and wet. “The Mariana Trench,” he fumbles.

Hell. Maybe he isn’t quite as smart as he gives himself credit for. Or, maybe all the blood is simply rushing to his crotch instead of his brain - for some reason.

Even so. He urges himself to get his mind out of the gutter and to focus up. You deserve so much more than bearing the brunt of his accumulated sexual frustrations. So. Much. More.

You laugh at his response though, oblivious as you are to his inner monologue, even linking your arm into his more tightly - as though he isn’t a huge perv. Your bright, infectious, beer-addled laugh bounces off of the surrounding asphalt and concrete. And, whilst it ricochets off of everything else, it sinks into him, mixing just a little more of you into his generic, rapidly dissolving fantasy. It offers a luminous gilding around the edges of his hazy desire, stirring in a vivid and more golden want than he has strength in this moment to acknowledge - never mind name.

“Okay, weirdo. Sure. You’re thinking about the butt crack of the ocean? Miller been feeding you National Geographic documentaries again? You guys do know pay-per-view exists, right?”

“Fine. You got me,” he confesses, your paces slowing as you gradually halt by the crosswalk, the two of you realising you have no particular destination in mind. “That was bullshit. I was actually thinking about what the hell I’m gonna do with you next.”

Well… That isn’t a lie. Not exactly.

Santiago looks you up and down where you stand, out of habit more than anything - a result of that now familiar “buddy up” system soldiers make use of to check each other for injuries. Sometimes, with the adrenaline and the shock, you don’t even know you’re bleeding out. This time, thankfully, the only ailment Santiago notices is the goose flesh prickling your skin, and he wishes that he had a jacket to offer you to keep you warm.

“Oh?” You turn your body in to face him. Sway just a tad, eyes a little bleary, and Santiago instinctually plants his hands around your waist to keep you stable, touching on the smooth, bare skin where your ratty old band tee fails to meet your waistband - by approximately the width of four thick fingers. You shiver even though his touch must be warm. “Okay. Well what are you going to do with me, Santiago?”

You blink at him then, your eyes wide and - dare he say - hopeful, one eyebrow arcing in idle curiosity.

You are typically the decisive one. You are always clear on what you want. Tonight, however, it is evident that you are counting on him to lead you somewhere.

Even though he doubts his ability to take the lead, rather fortuitously, Santiago does (miraculously) manage to stumble upon one single idea outside of the realm of cunnilingus… “Hey, come here,” he coaxes, taking your hands in his. “Close your eyes.” You oblige him, folding your grip around him, firm and sure. His heart swells a little at the instant, implicit trust you exhibit - no hesitation. “Do you hear that?”

Santiago’s eyes remain open, observing you as your eyes blink clumsily shut. You slide your soft hands up his forearms, bracing yourself with a gentle “woah”, no doubt as the closing of your eyes makes your alcohol-saturated world sway and swirl just a little more intensely. “Listen, cariño,” he scolds good-naturedly, cupping his palms at your elbows. “Do you hear it?”

He can’t help but smile as your face scrunches in adorable contemplation. Then, he can’t help smiling even wider, as you begin to tap his arms and jump excitedly up and down on the spot. You hear it too then. The distant thud of music bouncing off of the tall buildings.

“Music!” you exclaim excitedly, opening your eyes and grinning at him, still bouncing on the spot like an excited kid.

The full beam of your unfiltered smile knocks him for six for second. It has been a while, honestly, since he’s seen it glow that bright. Turned all the way up. You’d gone through some shit on this deployment. Blood, horror, pain; rinse and repeat. Some of your spark had understandably dulled, and honestly, he had worried -in part, a little selfishly- that it might never come back to its full strength.

Boy. He’s glad to be proven wrong.

Santiago had quickly come to learn that you possess a singular combination of character traits - and not only the magical ability to piss him off more than anyone else could. No, in fact, he’d learned quickly that you possess a singular kind of zest for life. One which he’d feared was too pure to survive long in the dark. Honestly, he’d believed your optimism and your joy was naive at first. Something to be knocked out of you in boot camp. But he was wrong so far. At every turn you endure. At every turn, you shine. As he feels increasingly bogged down, saturated with inky, oily shadows, you are bright. His guiding light, always calling him home from the edge of the dark, shadow-coiled path he skirts.

“Do we follow it?” you ask excitedly, the glint of adventure in your bright eyes, and in that moment he could swear he’d follow you anywhere.

“Yeah. Of course we follow it. It’s our goddamn duty to follow it.” Santiago stomps his boot and waves his arm in a sloppy military salute - the kind that would earn him fifty push-ups back at base. You follow suit, even more sloppy, but entirely resolute in your faux seriousness.

“Tonight, I swear my oath and pledge my allegiance to music, so help me God.”

Santiago stomps emphatically again, for effect - an overblown, cheesy action-movie-style salute, his strong jaw set in an overly caricatured display. You beam again, a face-splitting grin, and he…

…realises he is having fun.

In this moment, you are giddy. You are bright. Full of life, and Santiago briefly wonders if this is how things could be. If it could be like this all the time if only you could get out. If you could leave the military behind. God. You are the last person he wants to lose from his side, but a knot twists in his stomach at the thought you should get out while you still can. Before it drags you down like it is him. Before he drags you down with him, since you’ve seemingly tied your fates to his with red bloodied ribbons, wound between your bones and his.

He doesn’t have much time to consider those things though. To let the blood seep into the edges like it always does; because you start running. You take Santiago’s hand in yours and run towards the distant thud of noise, leading him behind you and laughing and whooping as you do. Making a grey night in a grey part of town feel vibrant. Making him feel vibrant by association. He realises only then how numb he’s felt lately. How your buoyant smile had been the only thing to feed his own these past months.

You are so much more than a throwaway fantasy to him.

You truly are the friend he’s needed so desperately, and feels so, so lucky to have found.

He runs with you, and he hopes, silently, selfishly, somewhere in the pit of him, that your paths never wind in different directions.

He’ll follow you anywhere.

***

After a few, giddy, chaotic minutes of tracing the ricocheting sounds, you find yourselves in the lobby of a seedy hotel, breaths sawing in and out of your lungs and mirthful, intermittent giggles spilling out of you.

“I’m on the guest list!” you insist with a hiccough, trying your utmost to blag your way into the wedding party contained beyond the double doors; the established source of the music.

Your assertion is much to the chagrin of the teenaged, stoner-looking kid on the front desk, who is clearly milking his new-found authority for all it’s worth.

“Sure, lady. Then what’s your name?”

Santiago looks at you expectantly, his arm slung casually around your shoulders, his chest already shaking and nose scrunching with a mildly tipsy, sleep-deprived concoction of mischief.

“The name’s Trench,” you deadpan, and the poor fellow actually begins to skim his index finger down the alphabetised list. “Mariana Trench.”

Santiago eyeballs you. Honestly, half of him is awed by your balls, even as the other half is despairing of your chosen (and completely unnecessary) alias. Still, he sees the funny side, of course, and has to swallow a hearty laugh by faux coughing into his fist.

There are not many factors helping your case here; especially the fact your body is already unconsciously bopping along to the music. Santiago has to physically encourage you back to your spot with his arm around your middle, and, as the rhythm continually beckons you forth, he hastily tucks you into his side in a fruitless attempt to subdue you.

By the time Santiago’s gaze flicks back to the kid at the desk, he’s folded his arms over his chest like a stern math teacher, clearly enjoying his upper hand. “Dude,” the kid probes sceptically, perhaps sensing that Santiago is the more sensible (or at least more sober) of the two of you. “What are the names of the bride and groom?”

“Nicole and Dio,” Santiago fires off smugly, causing you to first gasp and - second - to gawk at him like a fish (which is funny, because for all you know he’s made those up too).

“How did you know that?” you hiss-whisper, thinking you are being oh so subtle, and Santiago elbows you discreetly in the ribs for your trouble. This time though, he is unable to stifle his laughter entirely, a throaty chuckle shaking out of him, and the crinkles around his eyes rehearsing deeper future furrows.

Meanwhile, whilst the kid at the desk continues to eye him sceptically, he cannot refute Santiago’s knowledge. The soldier silently praises his undeniable powers of observation - and the fact the kid seems to have entirely forgotten about the huge fuck-off sign standing in the entrance lobby.

“Yeah. Still no.” This kid is a tough nut.

“Shit,” you plead. “Well can I at least use the restroom?”

“I guess that’s fine,” the kid concedes with an eye roll, gesturing towards the left hand side of the lobby.

You saunter off, beelining towards the door with such ferocity that you whack your hip off of the doorframe on the way in there.

Santiago winces in time with your “ouch!”, but as you throw your arms in the air, triumphantly insisting you are fine, he turns his attention back to his mission; to get you whatever you want for your birthday.

Sporting the friendliest smile he can muster in the full knowledge this kid behind the desk hates him already, Santiago mosies up to the counter.

“Come on, buddy. Hook us up,” he reasons. “It’s a Tuesday night and everywhere else is closed by now.”

“Dude, your attempts to get laid are not my issue.”

“No. No, it’s… She’s my friend. It’s her birthday and-”

“-Then take her to a fucking Chilli’s, bro. Still not my problem.”

Santiago huffs, still trying to keep his face neutral. Non-threatening. He needs to step things up before you return from the restroom.

“Listen, buddy.” The kid scowls at him then as if to confirm - I’m emphatically not your buddy. “Do you know what it’s like to be shot in service of your country?”

“What?!”

He nods behind him, in your general direction, his eyebrows pumping up towards his hairline (and reaching for a hasty explanation before the kid presses the under-desk alarm button). “Because she does.” Santiago rests his folded arms up on the counter. Leaning-in. Going all out with the eye contact. “When I tell you she’s had a shitty time of it? Lying on the ground, bleeding out. So, look, man. I just want to give her a good time tonight, alright? Would you please help me out, man? She’s fucking earned this.”

A gulp trails down the kid’s neck, and he tucks his long, straight blonde hair behind his ears. “You’re intense, bro. Anyone ever told you that?”

Santiago opens his mouth again, wishing to further embellish his case; but before he can do so the kid caves, waving his palms in total surrender. “Fuck, man. Do what you want, but for the love of God, would you just stop talking to me?”

“Great. Thank you. I mean it.”

“Yep. Whatever. Don’t get paid enough for this shit, bro.”

Santiago hears the door swing behind him, and joins you just in time to lead you further into the building, pleased that he is able to report victory. He’s almost forgotten about the front desk already - until the kid calls after him, growing bolder the further you two retreat, apparently. “This is why I’m a pacifist, dude! You might wanna think about it.”

“Sure thing,” he calls back over his shoulder. “I’ll give it some consideration.”

Then, Santiago gently ushers you into the corridor leading towards the party, taking a moment to celebrate his “smooth-talking”. Before he can even think about bragging though, you throw your arms up in the air in a tada gesture and exclaim “you are welcome!”. He doesn’t have the heart to tell you you’d had no part in getting past the gate, and so instead, he opts to finally vent his quashed laughter. The fact you’d name-dropped Mariana Trench, specifically, supplies a giggle hearty enough that it makes his abs ache.

“Oh. By the way. How do I look?” you question, when the two of you are just shy of making an entrance to the main hall.

Santiago turns to you and looks you up and down. Notices the fresh application of smeared red over your plush mouth. Surveys your jeans and tee with approval, as though you are outfitted in a gown. “Good, chica.”

“Good!” You step forward then, towards him, and lay your palms flat on his upper chest. “Now. You know what I wanna do?” For a split second, with your proximity, and the husky thrall of your voice, Santiago finds himself imagining what you might want to do to him - if he should be so lucky. “I wanna dance. Will you dance with meeee, Santiaaaaggooo?”

Santiago feels a lump lodge itself in his throat. Tries hard to forget that… well… red lipstick and dancing? They are - more often than not - your highly decipherable code for being horny. Shit - he wonders if you are as pent up as he is.

“You got it!” he musters, getting himself quickly in check. Christ, he needs to prioritise getting laid - just as soon as he is no longer wholly dedicated to your birthday.

“Yay!”

You lead him by the hand and, once again, Santiago does not complain. Then, swinging open one of two double doors, plastered with unsightly fire regulations, you enter the fray.

The doors open on a busy room, bathed in beams of chaotic coloured light. In reality, the interior is drab. A sad, grey, carpeted room. A few busted ceiling tiles up top. The circular event tables are flanked by a sorry stage at one side - fronted by a sticky, modest square of dance floor - and a small bar at the other. Finally, the far wall is edged with a rather depleted buffet, and intermittent bowls of greying macaroni. Whilst the room itself is nothing to write home about, however, the jubilation inside makes it feel positively wonderful.

Santiago feels only for a split second like he is intruding. Within moments, he is all wrapped-up in the buzz. Enveloped by it. The band’s amps are turned up far too loud. The dance floor is awash with couples gyrating on each other and groups of singles circling each other, looking for an in. Throngs of friends and family are grouped throughout the room, laughing and chatting, taking photos on disposable cameras and clinking glasses, and when the two of you enter, matching smiles plastered on your faces, no-one even bats an eye.

“We’re really doing this?” Santiago raises his voice above the tremor of the music. “Crashing a fucking wedding?”

“Relax! It’s not the worst thing you’ve ever done, Garcia. It’s not even against the Geneva Convention.”

“Jesus! I’m not a fucking war criminal!”

“Relax, Santiago,” you encourage, tone soothing and your hands massaging into his shoulders; and, finally, he lets himself. For once, he lets his guard down. So, as you travel deeper into the room, Santiago begins to move a little less like a soldier on patrol, and allows his gait to loosen up. Allows himself to approach the room not as a soldier on high alert, but simply as some guy with his buddy, looking for a good time. “Attaboy,” you encourage, seeing him visibly unclench - a rare thing. “We’re good, alright? Hey. I’ll even leave a pack of Reese’s on the table. That way, we even brought a gift.”

“And you’ll keep a low profile, right?”

“Of course!” You flash him a faux innocent grin, which he sees right through.

Yeah, figures, he thinks. Honestly, he isn’t sure you are capable of blending in - stealth ops aside, of course. But here? Without your camo and a distinct lack of a gilly suit? Baby, look at you, you’re gonna be noticed.

“Alright. We dance. Just keep it low key or-“

“-Sure, sure,” you dismiss, waving your hand through the air as though to erase his plea. “But first, tequilaaaa!”

Evidently, you are ignoring him completely, and yet the beaming smile on your face is so utterly worth it that Santiago could care less. “Eh. Whatever you say, Princesa.”

You wink at him. “Now you’re getting the idea.”

Santiago watches you skip gracelessly over to the bar, making zero attempt to blend into the crowd (unsurprising). You order up two shots, downing one instantly and handing the other to him with a jubilant, mildly devilish grin. At this stage, Santiago is deliberately a few drinks behind you, having wanted to remain sober enough to take care of you. So, he figures he has a little wiggle room remaining before he reaches the point of no return. Egged on by your encouraging nods, he tips it down the hatch.

“Cheers!” you exclaim, clumsily clinking your little plastic shot glass against his. The remains of the amber liquid still glisten on your mouth, lending an appealing shine to your red lips. As you mop the drips away with the back of your hand, you slightly smear the shade towards your cheek.

Before Santiago can rectify the situation for you though, you’ve once again taken his hand and trailed him behind you, clumsily weaving through the crowd as he interjects “sorry!” each time you bash - either your body or his - into someone else’s. Before long though, the two of you are safely tucked right in the midst of it all, adding to the messy, merry throng on the compact dance floor. The amateurish but jubilantly played rock covers from the band began to vibrate all the way through his chest as you position right next to the speakers.

As the vibrations tickle through him, bass inflating like a balloon in his rib cage, drowning out his thoughts and his heartbeat, you dance. With his thoughts silenced - or, rather, out-volumed- he slips into his body as if it is his own again. As if it belongs to him, and not just to some notion of God and country.

You, for your part, dance as if compelled to. As though, after living for so long with your body following orders, exercising control, being disciplined, staying in line, you can finally let it be free. Can finally let it express itself.

You move well, Santiago notes as he allows his own body to limber, freeing up his arms and his hips and feeling the buzz of the music and the alcohol thrum pleasantly through his body. It all feels somewhat alien to him now, his body stiff and lacking muscle memory for such imprecise, unplanned movements. You though? You move with abandon. With joy, like you never forgot how to feel it, belting the lyrics right from your chest. Jumping and waving your arms when the guitar solo drops.

It makes him deeply happy to see you like this. What’s more, amidst the dance floor of preened, deliberate women encircling your space, their movements seemingly contrived to be appealing, alluring, sexual, your reckless expression is far sexier to him. You feel freed, wild - and it almost feels dangerous to him. This clear absence of regiments and rules and barriers feels dangerous, even the barriers between your body and his disintegrating as you dance closer, the beat shaking you together like sand on a drum skin.

Indeed, your bodies are pushed ever closer and closer as the surprisingly heaving crowd compresses you tighter and tighter in the minimal, sticky-floored maneuver room. And so, after you’ve suffered one too many bumps and restrictions from stray shoulders and elbows, you finally give in to it, looping your arms around his neck and choosing to dance with him.

Instinctually, automatically, Santiago’s hands fall to your hips, gripping you there as your body sways and rolls in time to the music, the raw, dirty hard rock vocals moving through you and bedding down into your body.

At first, when your body presses up against his and the hot breath of your laughter fans over his neck, Santiago thinks about adjusting. About sliding his hands back up to your waist, where -perhaps- the gesture may seem less intimate. May allow for a little more room and a little less contact.

It isn’t as though the two of you are strangers to touching. You are both tactile people, and besides, you’re often in close quarters. You’ve slammed each other to the mat plenty of times. He’s had your sweaty, writhing body all over his. Your grunts of submission sounding in his ear. Huffs of exertion fanning against his neck. Thighs locked with his. His hips pinning you. But this? This is a little different. It isn’t precise, technical touch. It isn’t objective-driven. There are no clear rules, besides friends not lovers, and even that distinction is starting to feel a little blurry.

No, this kinda touch is something else. It is raw. It is instinctual; and that scares him, in truth.

However, it doesn’t scare him nearly enough to want to stop.

He does not move his hands from your rolling, swaying hips. Can’t bring himself to. Instead, he gives in to it. To the music. To the feeling. To you. And, when does, he finds himself surprised by how fluidly your bodies move together. Symbiotically. Like a team. Like you do in battle, sure. In the field. Like it is the most natural thing in the world; but this time, your combining is not at all driven by survival. It is driven by living, and Santiago could swear, in this moment, that he has never felt quite so alive.

The room is getting hot. The undulating crowd of bodies surrounding you is only adding to it. Exertion is glowing on your skin. He can feel it up against him, your sweat bleeding through your damp t-shirt where your breasts press into him. Can feel it beneath his fingers, tacky and slick, as he wraps his hands around that bare flash of skin at your midriff. God, you are smooth, and soft, and slick, and he is momentarily transfixed by a bead of sweat sinking down the centre of your chest, disappearing beneath the “v” of your shirt.

Someone else’s body briefly presses up against his in the crush and he cringes away from the feel of their slick skin… but you? Yours? You feel good to him. He doesn’t mind it.

That scares him too; but still, not enough to stop.

With a joyous, unfettered laugh you claim back some space, spinning Santiago underneath your arm, your dance moves growing increasingly outlandish. Of course, Santiago follows your lead. Always does. And, before long, the two of you can barely dance from laughing and can barely laugh from your insistence to keep dancing.

It feels good. Good to push your respective bodies to their limit on your own terms for once. To be with each other, side by side, in a scenario which could not be further from life or death; but that feels a thousand times more vital and central to being alive.

Seeing your smile strobe as the blue party lights slip and flash over the planes of your face, the beats and riffs pulsing through his body, Santiago feels giddy and he feels bright. With laughter bobbing in his throat and aching in his sides, he feels goddamn luminescent, and so he can’t help but wonder. Can’t help but wonder if this is how he would feel all the time. If he got out. If the two of you could just be people, instead of soldiers.

Santiago holds on to it. He holds on to you. To the feeling of freedom. Of pure, unfettered joy. Of this strange peace amidst the blurry, heavy noise.

He holds on to it while he can. He smiles with you until his face hurts. Laughs with you until his breath wanes. Dances with you longer than he should, song after song. Dances until he is sweating through his t-shirt, a dark “v” of sweat trailing down his chest. Dances, long after that now familiar heat in his newly ailing knees has crossed into discomfort. Dances closer and closer to the speaker until the music is indistinguishable from him, beating through his chest and down into his bones, and still; the two of you move your bodies. The two of you cling to each other like your life depends on it - and perhaps, precisely because of all the times it has.

When you lean forward, cupping his ear, your lips almost pressed right to his skin to be heard over the din, a warm snake travels down his spine. “See! We still haven’t been found out!” You draw back to flash him a mischievous grin, your eyes glinting with a spark far more warming than the heat which already slickens his skin.

You are most definitely up to something. You dip forward again as he strains to hear you. “Wanna be a little bolder?” There is a dark and delicious lilt in your voice. A tempting thing, enticing him into trouble - as per usual.

He does though. Wants to be a little bolder.

He wants to kiss you, in fact. To test the limits of just how well your bodies can move together. But… just like all the other times tonight he lets that desire atrophy. Pushes it outside of his body. You are so much more to him than the tingle in his dick. Offer him so much more than whatever parts of you he could seek out with his hands and his mouth, skin finding skin, finding deep, dark wetness.

If you wanted it, hey, it’s not like he would say no. He isn’t that strong; but he’d decided long ago that when it came to crossing that line, he would simply follow your lead.

“What did you have in mind?” Santiago asks, dipping his own lips towards your ear.

Your response is not quite what he expects. You simply throw both arms up into the air, your eyebrows jumping up with them. “Karaokeeee!”

It is a pleasant surprise, to be honest. He loves to see you like this. To see you have fun. Chasing your whims. Getting to be damn silly. For so long, everything has been so grim and so serious.

However, even if your suggestion - at first - inspires a broad, nose-crinkling smile, Santiago looks up at the freestanding mic in horror next - when he realises exactly what you are about to do. “Shit. Sweetie. It’s not-”

-It is already too late. You are already clambering up on stage and taking your position by the vacant mic spot. “…It’s not karaoke,” Santi mumbles under his breath, mentally readjusting his level on how wasted you are.

“Come with me, Pope!” you shout down to him, making grabby hands towards him. Next, you commandeer the mic pole as the frontman - who had simply stepped out for brief swig of water - looks on in confusion.

Santiago sighs and slides his palm over his face, for he knows, fine well, exactly what is about to go down. That, after all the times you’ve saved his skin, tended his wounds, and -damn- even been shot to keep him safe, he for sure isn’t about to let you make a fool of yourself. At least, not alone.

Cringing already from the forceful embarrassment of commandeering an entire stage at a wedding he’s just crashed, Santiago sets his jaw in resignation and hops semi-gracefully up there, rising to stand right next to you.

“What happens in Philadelphia…” he mumbles, before bracing himself and accepting his fate.

He raises his arm as a shield against the intense spotlight, and can suddenly see that the whole party is looking by now, heads whipping around following your triumphant “woop” into the microphone.

He makes a mental note to explain to you what the words “low profile” mean later, as clearly, you’ve completely failed to grasp that concept.

Santiago gulps as he looks out across the confused sea of faces, his mouth suddenly bone dry as he prays that no-one will actually yell “who the fuck are you?” Then, not for the first time this evening, he desperately attempts to conjure up a plan of action. Once again, he is pretty sure that cunnilingus won’t quite cut it here either.

His goal right now is two-fold. To enable you to sing on stage, like you want to, and to avoid being forcibly removed from the venue. It is unfortunate that the former goal seems to void the latter, but hey. He’s been in stickier situations. And, with luck, Santiago remembers one useful thing. The fact that -according to damn near everyone- he’s a charming little fucker. Now, he supposes, is as good a time as any to put that theory to the test.

“Nicole and Dio.” He gestures to the bride, and motions to gesture towards the groom too. That is, before realising he has no idea who “Dio” is in the crowd, so instead, he lets his arm flop uselessly back to his side. Next, he takes what he feels is a well-earned moment to let the feedback from the microphone die, wincing slightly at the noise, and becoming acutely aware of the sizzle of nervous sweat burning off of his forehead. “I think it’s safe to say,” he ventures with a little more confidence, straining to remember his cousin’s wedding and every platitude he might repeat, “that a love like yours comes around once in a lifetime. I know I speak for both of us when we say we’d like to wish you a lifetime of happiness together to enjoy it.” You helpfully lean forward in that moment and give another celebratory woop. “Thanks for that, sweetie,” he deadpans, wiping his brow just as urgently as he scans the room, searching for something -anything- he can pull from to meet his twinned objectives.

Suddenly though, against all odds, he actually spots his way out. Emphatically, triumphantly, he points towards the Irish flag proudly adorning the far wall, and dearly hopes he is on to something. “A million tiny things had to align for you two to come together. You could even say it was fate. So, in tribute to the miles travelled by your ancestors, here it is. This one is for the Irish-Americans in the house!” Firstly, he is relieved, to say the least, when that statement earns a hearty cheer from the crowd. “Let’s hear it for Metallica; Whiskey in the jar.” Secondly, he is relieved when that statement earns further cheers, particularly from you.

Next, Santiago looks confidently to the band, deciding he will simply stare at them pointedly until the drums kick in. “For Nicole and Dio!” he adds with a flourish after an uncomfortably long moment of inaction; and, as the crowd gets behind Santiago, who on earth are they to deny him?

“Everybody on the dance floor!” you add, with an enthusiasm so overblown it can’t fail to be infectious.

Still, when Santiago finally thinks he has it nailed, you turn to him with a sudden and pronounced wash of horror on your face. “Garcia. Shit. It’s not karaoke!”

“Princesa,” he soothes as the band kicks in, wrapping his arm firmly around your waist to avert your knees buckling in fright. “If it’s not karaoke, why the shit do I have a mic and a backing track, huh?” You still look unsure. “Come on, sing it with me. You’re hot as hell up here, don’t go shy on me.”

Santiago turns, forgetting the crowd entirely as his mission revolves wholly around you.

He begins to sing to you, gaze soft and encouraging until you relax back into it, your broad, electric smile returning. He tugs you closer into him, snug and safe until you grow bold enough to sing along with him into your one shared mic, gradually letting go and -bolstered by him- giving it increasing amounts of gusto.

The pool of guests at your feet are going surprisingly wild for it too, almost every one in the room having now descended on to the dance floor.

“Here,” he encourages, as soon as he feels you’re ready, handing the mic off to you for the remaining verses of the song. “You got this, sweetie.”

He lets you have your moment in the spotlight, cheering you on from the sidelines as you sing and air-guitar your way through the final chorus. You aren’t necessarily singing at your best after belting out lyrics at top volume, but what you lack in vocal ability you sure make up for in spirit. You have bags of that, and you perform it with plenty of showmanship, throwing yourself all over the stage and making Santiago’s face split with joy as he whoops along with you, fist-pumping enthusiastically.

You even end the song by taking a knee and exclaiming “Nicole and Dio!”, raising your mic arm triumphantly in the air like the rock star you are - which is a huge relief to Santiago, as it had looked for a moment like you were about to stage dive into the completely unsuspecting crowd.

You wrap it up to what Santiago will later describe as rapturous applause. You milk it for all it's worth, before relinquishing the mic to the actual band and skipping over to your biggest fan.

“Was I fucking amazing?” you ask, bundling him into an enclosing hug.

“Holy shit. Felt like I was watching Kerrang.”

You punch him playfully in the arm for his shit-eating grin. “Dickhead.”

“What’s next for the Birthday Princess?” Santi asks, hopping off of the stage and guiding you safely down too.

He’s secretly praying you’ll say “back to the motel”, but it doesn’t surprise him at all when you throw your arms jubilantly into the air and yell: “more dancing!”.

Santiago brings the pad of his thumb up to the corner of your mouth, finally smoothing away that damn lipstick smear he wishes he’d gotten to before your impromptu stage show. “Go for it, hermosa,” he insists fondly. “I’ll be with you in a sec, yeah? After pulling that shit, I don’t think we have long before we get busted. You gonna be ready to hustle soon?”

You nod, fist-bump him, and skitter off to the dance floor, your seemingly boundless energy carrying you right the way through towards dawn.

Santiago will give this track a miss, he thinks. His knees need a goddamn time-out; but his eyes still linger on you, shining fondly as you are folded into the crowd.

***

“Touching speech, lad,” a low-timbre voice sounds to Santiago’s left. “But who in the devil are ya?”

Santiago, who is sat blissfully nursing a glass of ice cold tap water, immediately swivels on his barstool. This puts him face-to-face with an older gentleman, of considerable stature.

The man’s crinkled, bushy-eyebrowed face is stern; but not unkind, even as his chin juts up in challenge. Santiago rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. There is no point trying to wriggle out of this one, and he’s already sure of it.

“Okay,” he responds, his voice slow and low and his palms raising defensively in the air. The man might be both older and frailer than Santiago, but he exudes a certain authority which trumps his own youthful confidence. In short, Santiago certainly doesn’t want to piss him off. “You got me. It’s a long story, and we weren’t technically invited… but we don’t mean any trouble, Sir. And, hey, we did bring a gift,” Santiago adds for good measure, not entirely convinced that the mushed up peanut butter cups in your jeans pocket will make any shade of difference now - but hoping.

The man presses his lips together and hums, as if mulling over the guilty party’s fate. After a moment of contemplation though, the older gentleman unceremoniously releases some of the rigidity from his body, slumping down into Santiago’s neighbouring bar stool with a sense of resolution. A gulp trails down Santiago’s neck all the same. “You a military pair, kid?” the man asks casually, making-out like he’s thoroughly absorbed in rolling his cigarette papers, but his sharp eyes still finding time to needle Santiago incisively. “I know the type.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmm. Well.” The man licks along the long edge of cigarette paper with the tip of his tongue. “You came clean, I’ll keep quiet. Besides commandeering the stage(!), you two don’t seem like too much trouble.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“I’m Colin, by the way. Nicole’s granddaddy.” The man extends a hand and Santiago shakes it.

“Santiago. And hey, congratulations.”

Santiago would’ve allowed some of the tension to seep out of his own rigid body by now; except for the fact he can sense the man is not quite finished with him. He lights the tip of his cigarette with a battered-looking, engraved lighter, smoke swirling around him and becoming one with his white-gray, thinning hair. “Since I’ve been so generous, lad, how’s about you explain to me the circumstances that brought you to crash my granddaughter’s wedding?”

From the man’s unwavering stare, Santiago knows fine well this is a demand and not a suggestion. He rubs his sweaty palms together, finding himself reluctant to spill but with little apparent choice in the matter. Still, as his gaze flicks back in the direction of you, he feels a softness overcome him. “It’s her birthday. We’re on leave. Had a big trip planned to reunite with some buddies but the airport-“

“-ah. All shut down.” Colin nods in partial understanding, taking a long drag on his smoke.

“Yes, sir. So I, uh. Well, I had to improvise.”

Colin’s eyes flutter briefly closed. Then, a small flicker of a smile appears, as he - apparently - achieves a fuller understanding than Santiago’s divulgence should have allowed. An understanding which Santiago isn’t sure he has attained himself, as it stands. Is he missing something? “I see. You wanted to show her a good time.”

“Yeah. Yessir.”

To Santiago’s utter surprise, the man’s hand clasps down on top of his closest shoulder, the cigarette still pinned precariously in between his forefingers, and the smoke tangling around Santiago’s curls like future grays attempting to stick. “What are you drinking, lad?”

“Uh. Water,” Santiago replies simply, recalling the glass sweating on the bar top.

“Not any more.” Colin signals the bartender with a barely perceptible raise of his chin, and manages to convey his order simply by raising two of his fingers in the air.

Santiago watches as a bottle, sporting an affixed yellow post-it note, is grabbed-up from its secret hiding spot under the counter. Must be the good stuff.

When served, Colin slides one glass over to Santiago with the back of his age-spotted palm. “You don’t have to drink it, o’ course - I’ll just think you’re a rude fecker if you don’t.”

“Thank you, sir.” The two men swivel on their stools to face the bar and Santiago takes a sip, doing his best to hide his reaction to the intensity of it.

Colin guffaws. “Yeah. That’ll put hairs on yer chest.”

Santiago splutters, attempting to quickly smooth himself. “Cheers. To Nicole.” He hoists his glass in the air.

“Aye. Here’s to that.”

Santiago smiles, clinking his glass with Colin’s and hoping against all odds that you might come and rescue him soon.

You don’t, but mercifully the chat is suspended for a moment as the man coiffs his cigarette and his drink, and Santiago even suspects he has been forgotten entirely as another guest draws Colin into niceties and conversation.

Therefore, after a few warming swigs have slipped down his throat, each one followed by a grimace, Santiago turns, realising it has been a minute since he’s had eyes on you. He quickly locates you on the dance floor, boogying with some tall, white guy. A guy who is - with your encouragement - getting rather handsy. Seeing this, all of Santiago’s muscles tighten and he feels the vague urge to leap up off of his bar stool - that is, until Colin interjects.

“Can I give you some advice?”

Santiago’s initial thought is “no”; but he has a feeling Coilin may offer his unsolicited advice regardless. “Don’t crash weddings?” he jests half-heartedly, the lion’s share of his attention still on you and that guy’s damn hands.

“Marry her.”

Santiago’s gaze flips immediately towards Colin, his face the picture of abject confusion. “Sorry. Who?”

Colin chuckles to himself, evidently quite tickled, and nods his head gently in your direction. “Your lady friend.”

Santiago saws his palm over the five-o-clock shadow adorning his jaw. A weak, throaty chuckle bobs in his throat. He finds it funny. Preposterous. “With respect, Sir. That’s not gonna happen.” It is knee-jerk. Santiago had sworn off marriage long ago. Had long ago given up on the prospect of any form of happy ending. Besides, you and him? He doesn’t think so.

“Oh. Boyo,” Colin begins, his tone juuuust condescending enough to make Santiago stiffen. “You find someone who makes you as happy as that, you marry her. Trust me, lad.”

Santiago purses his lips. Tightens them into a thin line. “We’re not… together.” Not that it’s any of this guy’s business what you are to him; but he’s just not getting it.

“You love her,” Colin says softly. Almost gently, as though he’s breaking bad news.

”What?” Santiago shakes his head incredulously, blinking several times in succession.

“I can barely see past my own arm these days, lad, but I can see that much.”

There is that hand, clasping his shoulder again. This time it feels different. “You love her.”

The first time Colin had spoken these words, Santiago had bristled. Felt provoked. He should feel similarly now too - he knows it - but upon hearing them for a second time, a sudden clarity settles over him. In fact, he’s never felt less confused by a statement in his life.

He feels his mouth go dry. A sudden ringing in his ears. He could’ve sworn he had hands and feet earlier in the evening, but right now he can’t feel them.

Of course he loves you, he thinks, reaching for logic. For rationalisations. But it’s not like that. That’s simply what happens when you go through so much together. You bond, intensely. That’s all it is. All it amounts to.

Colin has this all wrong.

Santiago looks at you then. Really looks at you, as you grab your dance partner by the shirt and shove your tongue in his mouth, pulling away from the kiss with a wolfish grin. Some kind of feeling he can’t hope to name tightens like a fist in his stomach when you do that. “She’s…” Santiago wants to protest. Wants to say that no, he doesn’t. But those aren’t quite the words which find their way out. Instead, he says quietly, like he’s delivering bad news now: “she’s my best friend.”

“Ah,” Colin breathes, in a fresh tone of relief. As if satisfied. As if he has now achieved full understanding - even if Santiago has not. The older man stubs out his cig and downs the dregs of his whiskey, cheersing Santiago once more with a clink of his empty glass. “There you go then. Isn’t that the same thing?”

Isn’t that the same thing?

It is a blur from there. A blur as Colin once again outstretches his hand and Santiago obliges by shaking it, his arm feeling limp and useless like a bag of cotton-wool. It is a blur as Colin wishes him well with a jolly “take care, lad,” sauntering away with no concern for the destruction left in his wake.

It is a blur as you sidle over, as though the volume in the room has been turned down all of a sudden. It becomes gradually louder again as you approach.

You.

“Fuck, you okay, Garcia? You look like you’re about to puke.”

There’s nothing here.

Nothing with you.

Nothing he could have with you. No way.

“Seriously! You look queasy as hell.” You place your hand across his brow to see if he’s burning up.

“No. ‘M good. Fine,” he says tightly.

You nod, still looking sceptical but opting to buy what he’s selling. “You just tired? Too much dancing?”

”Heh. Something like that.” It is a struggle to push the words out, but he surprises himself. Gradually sinks himself back into the room. Back into his body.

Santiago notices the brief spark of an idea fleet over your face as you regard him and, in the next moment, you dip forward to chastely kiss him on the cheek. He feels a deep, blooming heat develop under his skin, his cheeks darkening with a crimson flush, and he resists the urge to clamp his palm over the spot your lips touched. “What was that for?”

A delicate smile dances on your mouth. “Thank you, butthead. I’m having a good birthday.”

It’s what you don’t say. It’s what your eyes are telling him. Your body language. Your touch. You’re telling him things you’ve been saying for a long time now. Things which, thanks to Colin, beg a whole load of new questions.

You slip your hand down his arm, grasping his hand in yours. For a moment he just stares, looking down at your hands clasped there together. He is vaguely aware of the track switching in the background, to a slower, more heartfelt tune, and, by the time he drags his eyes back-up to yours, he figures he’s got a head start already on what you’re about to ask.

He makes it so you don’t even have to. “One more dance?”

He stands, capturing your waist with his wrapped arm, leading you back towards the dance floor. The surprise and relief and glee on your face as he preempts you is almost too bright for him to look at.

“You even know how to slow dance, Garcia?” you ask as he maneuvers the two of you into prime position, right in the beam of a sweeping purple spotlight, the dancefloor filling exclusively with swaying couples as the tender, swooping song resonates through the room.

“Haven’t slow danced since prom,” he admits. “But I’ll follow your lead, Princesa.”

“You a’ways do, asshat.”

“You know? You’re not wrong. Now, come here.”

He holds his arms out and you step into his sturdy circumference, no hesitation. Trust implicit, your bodies moving in sync. You drape the loop of your arms gently around his shoulders, your twined fingers brushing the nape of his neck, sending a warm shudder through him. His hands hover helplessly for a moment, but he eventually settles them on your hips, drawing your body closer, tightening the space between you as you each sway together, cheek to cheek.

“I - I can’t believe you did this for me, you know?” Your voice is lower, dropped in your throat. Heavy with solemnity as though you are thanking him for taking a bullet for you or something. “Tonight. The karaoke. Everything.”

“Well,” he dismisses, against the shell of your ear. It’s not nearly enough.“You got shot for me, so...”

Your light, lilting laugh fans across his check. It isn’t funny at all, wasn’t a joke; except that it’s so tragic it kinda has to come full-circle, he supposes. “Fine,” you offer. “Call it even?”

Even?

It could never get close to even.

Santiago feels a surge of emotion welling in him. Like suddenly there is a mechanism dredging all the settled silt back up to the surface. It rises all the way up - into his chest, into his throat. He pulls back slightly until you are face to face, his expression far more severe than the situation merits; but he can’t help it. It feels barbed, difficult, coming out of his mouth, but it needs to be said. “You have no idea what you’ve done for me, you know?” His eyes are glistening, a telltale softness nestled beneath his thick brows, and his thumbs unconsciously rubbing circles into the meat of your hips. “You’re…. I… I mean. You’re… my best friend.”

You gawp back at him for a moment, visibly caught off-guard by his emotional intensity. Then: “oh no,” you whisper-shout into the space between you, as though if you push too much sound out, the emotions might overspill along with it. “Don’t get all soppy on me, you hear? You’re the only fucker who knows I have emotions, and I damn sure wanna keep it that way.”

His gaze flits all over your face. “Secret’s safe with me, Princesa.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He smiles at you - a smile that only reaches his eyes.

You nestle yourself back into the crook of his shoulder, your body pressed right up against his. One hand grasping at his back. The fingers of the other clasping his shorn head, dancing over the prickled hair of his army-issue buzzcut.

He holds you, and in turn you hold him even tighter. You hold each other tightly until you are no longer even dancing. Until you are simply an island in a sea of undulating couples, holding on to each other for dear life.

It scares him.

It scares him to his depths that he never wants to let you go; but not enough to stop.

As he pulls you close to him, buries his face in your neck and embraces you tightly, he thinks about it. He thinks about whether he believes in happy endings. He thinks about whether his, if he could be so lucky, would involve you.

Those thoughts are interrupted when he feels a wetness bloom on his shoulder. Feels you jerking and sniffing against him, and he experiences your sudden outpouring of pain as acutely as though it is his own.

“Hey. Hey,” he soothes. “What is it?”

”I’m not sad, idiot.”

”No?”

”No. It’s…” You sniff. “It’s just been so hard lately. And, you know. Tonight has been so… It’s been so…”

He thinks he knows what you mean. Thinks he understands you completely. “Perfect?” he ventures.

“Yeah,” you exhale. “Perfect.”

He holds you as you cry. And there’s not a chance in hell he’s letting you go.

***

Considering your intoxication level, the sudden onset of tiredness, and your tears, Santiago figures it’s about time to head. He manages to get you in a cab back to the motel eventually - only after you’ve visited the ladies restroom, become fast friends with an equally drunken Nicole, bestowed her with peanut butter cups, and promised to meet-up next time you’re in the city. By this point, you are already dropping, and the soporific movements of the cab have you falling asleep draped over Santiago’s lap.

He pays the driver when you arrive, stirring you with a warm hand smoothing up and down your back. He tries to be calm. Soothes you with his voice; because he knows all too well that for someone in the military, a rude awakening is no small thing.

He walks you to the room and helps you sit down on the bed. Tugs your boots off for you as you opt to bury your nose deep in your own armpit and sniff.

“Ew. I need a fucking shower.”

“Fuck that. You can shower in the morning.”

“I stink.”

“Trust me. You’ve smelled much worse.” He smiles softly as his comment earns an indignant snort from you, but the ire in your face is quickly snuffed as he looks up to you a little too softly. “Let’s get you dressed for bed, alright, birthday girl?”

“Mmm hmm. Okay then.”

He swallows a smile at seeing you in this sleepy state. It’s not often that you allow anyone else to take care of you. In fact, Santiago feels a strange surge of honour - a glow within his chest - that tonight, he is the one who has the privilege.

You unabashedly begin to strip off your jeans and top next, and Santiago quickly scoops up an oversized t-shirt from the gaping mouth of your hold-all. “Here,” he says, swallowing the tremor in his voice as he gathers the fabric up and guides the garment gently over your head to cover you. Gingerly passes your arms through the right holes. “That’s it. Put this on, alright? Can you get your bra out from under there?”

You maneuver the clasp and straps beneath the cover of the shirt until you are pulling the bra out from the confines of your tee, triumphantly flinging it across the room with a soft “woo!”, to which Santiago’s lips twitch in silent amusement.

“Need to brush my teeth at least,” you argue, holding your arms up and out - making grabby hands to signal for his help.

“Alright. Sure. Let’s go together.” Santiago helps you stand. Maneuvers and encourages you onwards. He wraps his closest arm around your waist, and his other hand catches the arm you throw out to him so he can keep you steady. Then, steps in sync, you pad the short distance to the bathroom, Santiago lightly directing you away from bumping your hip on the doorframe (again) as you pass through it. “That’s it. Little off course there,” he chuckles. “Almost as bad as Ironhead’s God-awful driving.”

You turn your head over your shoulder and scold him good-naturedly. “Ouch. Don’t remind me.”

“Yikes, sorry. Too soon?” You’d teased Will for the unfortunate humvee training exercise that had put you in med bay, but Santiago guesses you aren’t quite ready to have him joke about it yet.

“Never getting back in a car with that bastard in the driver’s seat, trust me. Fella takes off-road a little too literally, you know? Still have that goddamn tweak in my back too to prove it.”

“You do, huh?” Shit, you’ve certainly hidden it well enough - had insisted you were unscathed, in fact, when sober - and so Santiago mentally logs that information for later.

With a little bit of wriggling around, you squeeze into the tight bathroom space. When you reach the bathroom sink, Santiago is still behind you, his hands now clamped on your hips and keeping you steady. When you turn on the faucet and bend enthusiastically towards the stream of water however - hinging at the hips and dipping to splash your face with cold water - Santi punches out a strangled note. Which is natural, he thinks, given that your panty-clad, half-bare ass is thrust further into his hands (and his crotch), with decidedly no room in the cramped space for him to back-up. “Woah, Jesus. Keep it vertical, would you?”

“Shit, sorry. Liked that did you?” you mock, with a dirty, chaotic snigger.

“I’m only a man, Princesa.”

With a nervous twist in his belly, Santiago flees to the more expansive space of the bedroom, leaving you to complete your task. Feeling somewhat claustrophobic, he throws open the window, thankful when the relative cool of the night air kisses his skin. The room has grown hot and sticky all of a sudden. Too close. Lord knows why.

He perches himself inside the opened wooden square then, the flung-open frame an awkward perch. He rests with one leg hiked up on the ‘sill and one foot bracing him on the floor, his back reclining against the biting vertical edge.

Only when you reenter does he reluctantly drag his eyes away from the black night and into the soft, shadowed shell of the dreary room. Despite this dimness, he can barely bring himself to look at you in this moment. It is as though you are too bright for him, and so he quickly -and uncharacteristically- averts his eyes.

Still, you’re like a magnet, and his gaze quickly relocates you without much trouble.

“Feel like staying awake a little longer?”

Despite looking bleary-eyed - dead on your feet, even - you nod in response to his proposition and, much unlike earlier, Santiago suddenly feels he wouldn’t dream of sleeping. You perch yourself on the edge of the bed and flick on the lamp, casting a sallow glow throughout the room. It makes you look at once dream-like and infinitely more real to him, as the glare highlights the goose flesh trailing up your arms and thighs. The tired circles under your eyes. He doesn’t know how you make such details attractive, but as far as he is concerned, there is no bad light to cast you in.

You lay down, legs stretched out on the scratchy comforter, and torso propped against the stiff, unforgiving pillows. You make space for him to lie down alongside you, and yet Santiago opts to hover, not ready to relinquish his window seat. It’s as uncomfortable as it probably looks, however, and so he fumbles in his pocket for a smoke, figuring it as good an excuse as any to be sitting up there - instead of lying next to you. He stares out into the blackened parking lot with enough vigour to convince an onlooker it is entirely compelling - instead of looking at you.

You are quiet for a moment following and Santiago lets it hang, exhaling twists of smoke from his mouth to the window. Flicking his spent ash down onto the asphalt below. Then, you expel a blustery sigh.

“Shit,” you grumble. You click your tongue. Santiago turns to see you lying flat on your back now, staring contemplatively up at the dusty, motionless ceiling fan, arms folded behind your head. “That guy I made out with.”

Santiago takes an even deeper drag on his smoke; perhaps unconsciously hoping that if he is occupied long enough, he won’t be required to respond at all.

Your head lollops to the side, your gaze finding his. “Do me a favour and don’t tell Tommy I did that, okay?”

Fuck.

“Wait. Tommy?! You and Tommy?” The words are expelled faster than he would’ve wanted, almost making him choke on a cloak of hot smoke. “Tommy fucking Nelson?”

“Yeahhh. We’ve, um, sorta… been hooking-up lately.”

Santiago quickly inhales another drag, smoke seething out of his nostrils as he flicks the used cigarette butt down to the asphalt below. He is grateful that the lungful gives him a second to think before he speaks - yet apparently, it is not quite long enough. “Shit. The guy’s so stacked I swear he must have abs on his dick.”

You laugh; and Santiago decides that, based on the beauteous sound of it alone, Tommy fucking Nelson doesn’t even remotely deserve you.

“I dunno about abs on his dick… but he’s got enough to work with, know what I mean?”

Santiago continues to peer out of the window, and so you don’t see his face crumple with a frown. “So he’s good, huh?”

You scoff to yourself. “Oh. Fuck. Not really. He doesn’t do much of the work…” Your dirty laugh sounds out. “Fortunately, I’m a goddamn miracle worker when it comes to getting myself off.”

Strike two. Tommy Nelson definitely doesn’t deserve you.

You giggle. Giggle like this is a girls’ fucking sleepover. Like you are revealing some - far more innocent - secret to a best friend.

But… of course. Because that’s precisely what he is to you, right? Nothing more, nothing less. And that’s never bothered him before. Has never bothered him until precisely now.

What exactly has gotten into him tonight, then? Why does some old guy have his head in a spin? Why is he delaying crawling onto his side of the bed? Why can’t he look at you?

Further delaying the inevitable, Santiago pats down his pockets, hoping for another cigarette with which to prolong his diversion by the window. However, he comes up short. Has no other recourse left besides brushing his teeth, kicking off his shoes, stripping down to his boxers, and laying his body out alongside yours. The mattress dips as he settles on top of the covers, and you swivel on to your side to face him.

“Hey.” You prod him in the pec. “What about you anyway?”

“What about me?”

You reach down. Snap the elastic hem of his boxers until it pings back against his toned stomach. “Been getting any lately?”

He makes a vague, non-committal sound, hoping it will be enough; but, of course, you don’t stop there.

“Your dream girl… Let’s see.” Your eyes spark, far too animated considering such a long night. “Wait. Don’t tell me. She’s… nude. Huge breasts.” Santiago had wanted to roll his eyes at you, honestly, but he finds he can’t quite quash his smile. “She’s… I know… draped in the American Flag.” His face splits with mirth. “Reciting the Fifth Amendment.” You prod him emphatically in the pec. “Plus she plays bass in a Pearl Jam cover band and gives next-level blow jobs.” His gaze sweeps over your shit-eating grin like a paintbrush over a canvas. Like fingers down a guitar fret. Like it belongs there. Like he belongs here. “Well?” you’d needled. “Am I warm yet?”

“Wait, I think I know her.” Santiago snaps his fingers. “Hey. Yeah. Didn’t she hook-up with Benny last week?”

You twist as chaotic laugh spills out of you, throwing your arm over him and dipping your head towards his bare chest. It is a small thing. A minute, unconscious action. A brief touch. A single moment. Except… the way it makes his stomach lurch makes it completely undeniable to him. Undeniable that the only girl doing it for him is you.

He realises it all now though, as he looks at you. Realises he’s been seeing you in pieces. In fragments; because of course he has. Of course, because he’s been trying to survive, and if he’d dared to think, instead, about living? Well, then he’d have far too much to lose.

“Come onnn,” you purr, jutting out your bottom lip, entirely oblivious to the way the ground is disappearing from beneath him as you remain curled into his side. “Give me some gossip. It’s my birthday!”

He swallows. Tries to pull himself together. Tries to be exactly what you need him to be.

“Christ.” He nervously scratches at the stubble sprouting along his jaw. “Well. Let’s see. First of all, I’ve spent so long without any action but my own goddamn fist that even Morales is starting to look appealing.”

“Well? Do you think he’d be down?”

“He should be so lucky. Anyway. He’s got a girl back home. High school kinda sweetheart deal.”

You scoff. “What? For real?”

“Mm hmm. He’s in it too. His eyes mightta wandered occasionally - but as far as I know his dick never has.”

You pump your eyebrows like that surprises you. “Good for him.” And then: “It won’t last though.”

“Christ. You’re really that cynical already?”

“Something like that,” you smirk. “Guess it comes with the old age.”

“Oh yeah. Speaking of birthdays…” Santiago pushes off his elbow and swivels, reaching to fumble a tiny, square parcel from his jeans pocket. He settles back into position with a grin on his face, extending his gift toward you. You eye it sceptically, but with casual intrigue.

“Fuck me. Something else from your trousers that’s been manhandled to death, Santiago? You know how to treat a lady.”

He can’t explain why he feels nervous as you weigh the package in your palm. “It’s… for protection.”

“A fucking condom?”

“Ay, dios. Just open it, would you?”

You rise up, settling cross-legged on top of the covers, and Santiago shifts to mirror you, with a lopsided, self-conscious smile. You pause, looking between him and the package with a gentle, subdued glee. You gingerly peel the red tissue paper away, revealing the gift nestled within. As soon as you observe what is inside, however, the glee evaporates from your face. You look down at it, for once rendered speechless before you say his name, the sound as thin as the wisps of smoke still eddying up on the ceiling. “Santiago.”

He swallows. Saws his hand across his stubble, suddenly worried that the gesture is all off. “It’s-”

Your eyes snap up to his, your expression raw and soft. “-I know what it is.”

You look back down to the gift now, warmly. Lift them up, a string of black rosary beads unfurling. The beads his mom had gifted him for protection the day before he’d shipped out, clamping her hands over his and reciting a prayer he didn’t believe in, but which he’d felt all the way down to his marrow. The beads that he’d kept on him ever since, usually nestled in the pocket of his tac vest. The beads which his mother had prayed would keep him safe. Would protect him, when it had turned out to be you who had answered her prayer. You who had protected him, at whatever cost.

“But I can’t-“

Stupid. You’re stupid. Of course you can.

“It’s no big deal. I’m just a cheapskate,” he minimises.

You inhale, about to launch a protest, but you must read something altogether too earnest in his face, since any such argument is subdued as soon as you look at him. Instead then, you hold them up once more, your eyes glistening as you admire the cheap, plastic beads for far more than they are worth.

“But won’t your mom-“

“Be mad I gave them away?” You let the beads pool in one palm, the red tissue paper now strewn over your lap like swatches of blood. Santiago clamps his hands over yours, nestling the beads safely within, in a gesture which mirrors his mother’s own plea a little too closely. He empathises with her then. With her fear of being left behind. With her fear for his soul and its fate. “Are you shitting me? You saved her angelito. She’d probably sign the goddamn house over to you. I mean, shit - she’s already been bugging me to bring her new hija over for tamales.”

He hasn’t ever told you that before. Maybe that’s why you do it. Why you gently cup his face and dip to render a light, chaste kiss on the corner of his lips. When you draw back from him, you look almost as surprised by the gesture as he is.

“Santiago.” Your eyes well-up. “It really means a lot.”

He doesn’t have words for a moment. It does. It means a lot to him, and he’s struck with sentimentality when he realises that it means something to you too. He nods once, gaze gently dancing over your face.

“I mean it,” you squeeze out through welling tears. “This is the sweetest thing-“

“-Shh. Oh no. No, no, no,” he captures your tears with the crook of his forefinger just as they spill over, motioning as though he is attempting to restore them to whence they came, a soft yet playful concern dancing over his face. “Quick sharp. Put these back,” he whisper-shouts, faux urgently. “No-one can know you feel things.”

His remark causes you to laugh through your tears, as you hastily lift a balled fist to scrub them away. The sounds dissolve into a pleasant yet taut silence, leaving the two of you simply looking into each other’s eyes.

You are the first to break it, dropping your gaze down towards your lap.

“Listen. Thank you.”

“It’s the least I could do.“

Your expression grows more troubled then, a divot notching in your brow and your head shaking softly side to side. “Santiago. I need to say this. You… you don’t owe me any debt. Okay? And… and don’t you even think -ever- about trying to repay it. You hear me?”

He owes you everything, and he’ll repay it however he can; but he isn’t about to argue with you. Instead, he simply nods. Forces an even, concessionary smile, leaning into a swift topic change. “You tired yet?”

“Yeah. Exhausted.”

“Let’s lie down then, alright?”

“Mmm.” You set the beads down so carefully on your nightstand that it constricts his chest, arranging them in a nest of tissue paper. “It’s just… I…”

“What?”

He flicks off the lamp and you lay down on your back, staring up at the ceiling fan, the room now illuminated only by the distant glow of the motel’s neon sign across the lot. It bathes the room in a purple-tinged dark. When your voice comes back, it is small. “It’s just that I… I don’t want this night to end.”

Santiago lays himself out, right next to you. “Then let’s try and stay awake, huh?”

“Yeah. Let’s do that.” You shiver; then, instead of crawling beneath the scratchy comforter like he expects, you curl into his side. Rest your head against his chest. Santiago’s arms hover over you for a moment, as though he doesn’t know what to do. In actual fact though, it comes far too naturally to him.

He wraps you in his arms, and begins to smooth one hand up and down your back - of course, being careful not to venture too low, even as you torque your body into his touch.

You exhale against him. Hum, up against his bare, tan skin. Drape your arm over him, and, reliably, there is that knot again. That fist, tightening inside his chest.

“Hey,” he croaks, voice smaller than it needs to be. “Birthday princess?”

“Mmm.”

“Do you…?”

“Do I what?”

He hesitates. Stares coldly and contemplatively up at the ceiling fan himself now even as he bundles the warmth of you in his arms. “Do you believe in happy endings?”

He feels your breathy expletive fan over his chest. “Fuck. That’s a big one.”

“Sorry. Forget it, you don’t have to-“

“-No. I do,” you say with certainty. “I do believe in them.”

Santiago hopes that you can’t feel his heart thundering beneath the shell of your ear. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Except… not for people like us.”

His brow tightens, mouth turning down at the corners. “Why not?”

“Well,” you muse, wriggling pointedly until his hand - stopped dead with suspense - resumes its ministrations over your back, his fingers obediently seeking out the knots and notches until your airy hum sounds again. “Because our hands are too bloody now to build anything good. Right?”

It’s strange because, right now, caressing you like this, he could almost forget that his hands are blood-soaked. Your touch is the only reminder he’s had in some time that his hands can indeed be loving. In fact, the whole concept of war feels so entirely incongruous to him while he’s holding you. Like it could not be further away, even though -in your lives- it is only ever around the corner. He pushes his response out from the depths of his chest. “Don’t you think that’s just a little bleak?”

“I dunno.” You shrug, and he doesn’t enjoy how sad your voice grows . How old you somehow sound all of a sudden. “It’s just… They told us we’d be heroes, Santi. But… When was the last time you felt like one?”

You’re my hero, he thinks loudly, in the achingly quiet room; but, he catches the words before they make it out of his throat. In the end, nothing more than a small, reined-in grunt manages to escape.

“Why do you ask, anyway?”

Because you deserve one. More so than anyone he’s ever met, you deserve one.

His fingers and the heel of his hand continue to massage the dink in your back, rooting out every source of tension. Learning how to take the pain apart for you like a weapon in his palm. “Dunno,” he lies. “The wedding. All that.”

“Pfft. I give ‘em a month.”

“You’re fucking brutal, you know that?”

“And you’re hilarious. Shit. Happy fucking endings? Man. At this point, I think I’d settle for a happy middle, you know? Before I go down in my inevitable blaze of glory.”

“Don’t say that,” Santiago scolds, his voice taut. “I hate when you talk like that.”

He doesn’t blame you. For being cynical or pessimistic - not really. Doesn’t blame you one bit. Not after you’d legitimately looked death in the face. He understands well enough what that can do to a person. How it can change them. How, even someone like you, who always saw a clear, bright path ahead, could begin to doubt the clarity of that vision.

Absent-mindedly, you circle the pad of your forefinger in the valley of his pecs. “What about you, then? Do you believe in all that stuff? Marriage? Happy endings?”

“Meh. Not so much,” he answers honestly, fissures in his voice. Maybe it is his ingrained Catholic guilt talking, but he certainly doesn’t feel like he deserves a happy ending. Not after the things he’s done. Not after all that blood.

“Then how about this, Santiago Garcia,” you begin, tone much more playful, like you’ve had a bright idea. “Would you settle for a lifetime of trouble-making with your ride or die?”

You extend your pinky towards him for the most sacred of all vows, and he curls his own little finger around yours.

He intends his response to feel light-hearted. Equally playful. He really does. But, when the words escape his lips they are heavy. Dripping and weighed with sentimentality. “With you, honestly, it doesn’t really feel like settling.” He suddenly feels like someone is sitting on his chest. Like the air is scarce and sharp with some incendiary cloud - about to ignite and burn everything he’s known to the ground.

“Kiss ass,” you poke lightly, and a wistful smile briefly dances across his features.

“It’s only what you’re due.”

“Oh?! A thorough ass-kissing?”

“Sure. Maybe you can get Tommy-abs-on-his-dick-Nelson right on that.”

You snicker chaotically. “Huh. Maybe.”

Santiago jostles you gently in his embrace. “Hey. Speaking of. Sorry you got lumbered with the sideshow tonight, by the way.”

“Fuck off, Pope,” you huff, like he’s just said something which causes deep offence. “Of all the chumps I couldda been stuck with, I’m glad it was you.” Santiago’s heart flutters, his chest blooming with a hazy, metered-out warmth when he hears you say those words. “Now. Wish me happy birthday one more time, and then sing me a damn lullaby, would you?”

Santiago crushes his chin down to his chest to get a better look at you, having decided that you must surely be joking. “Huh?!”

“We all knew about your guitar skills but you have a beautiful set of pipes too? Been holding out on me, Pope. Now, sing!”

“Jesus. You’re demanding, Princesa.”

“It’s only what I’m due, right? Come on, I haven’t got all night, asshat!” Somehow, the derogatory term sounds imbued with a deep fondness somehow, and it blooms through him.

“Alright. Alright. Keep your panties on.” Shit - you had better.

“Thank you.”

Santiago dips his chin so he can reach your hairline. Settles a chaste kiss there, which lingers a touch too long - but which he can’t possibly cut any shorter, his eyes closing as his lips brush your skin. “Happy birthday,” he breathes, completing part one of your demand. With any luck, he thinks, you might fall straight to sleep like this - before he even has to serenade you.

He stills as your eyes flutter closed, listening out for the slowed pace of your breathing. That is, until you open one eye and whisper-hiss up at him. “Sing.”

A resigned amusement twitches his plush lips and he finally obliges you. He begins softly speak-singing, hoping his soporific and sandy tones will lull you towards sweet dreams, his broad palm still sweeping up and down your back.

“She gives me everything

And tenderly…”

A soft smile graces your features as you note his song choice. “Cobain? You’re such an angsty little gremlin, you know that?”

“I can stop at any time,” he threatens, teasingly.

“No. No, please.”

He clears his throat. Lets his voice grow a touch more full and resonant, despite it being scuffed by tiredness and smoke.

“The kiss my lover brings,

She brings to me-ee,

And I love her.”

It is a little funny, at first. A little awkward; until suddenly, it isn’t . Until, suddenly, a weight settles in your brow. Until his voice begins to falter, cracking apart with emotion.

He hadn’t been able to say it. Clearly not even to acknowledge it.

He hadn’t been able to find the words to tell you what you mean to him. To explain the pit in him which had opened up when he’d almost lost you. Didn’t have the words to tell you you were the reason he’d prayed for the first time in ten years, pledging loyalty to a God he hadn’t believed in -hadn’t needed - until he was begging Him not to take you. He didn’t know how to describe the way it had felt for him to kneel by your bedside, his mother’s rosary beads clutched in his palm so tightly the cross has drawn blood - even as he’d openly cursed them for protecting him and not you, and had cursed you for the same.

He swallows the hard, tight knot which has gnarled in his throat. Wonders if maybe he can stop, because singing feels like purging himself of far too much of the pain and love he has buried, and fuck, it hurts on the way out.

He does consider stopping. That is, until your small, grief-laden voice sounds out as though it hurts you too; but that you need to hear what he is finally telling you. “Please. Don’t stop?”

It is a question, this time, not a demand; and yet, Santiago couldn’t dream of denying you.

And so, with a weight in his brow, he keeps on singing.

“Bright are the stars that shine,

Dark is the sky.

I know this love of mine,

Will never die.”

It is at this point his voice cracks wide open. It is at this point a single tear slips across the bridge of his nose as he sings it out loud. Something he’d known for a long time, in truth, but hadn’t quite found the words for:

“And I love her.”

The room seems eerily still as you each hold your breath. He doesn’t know where to go from here - but luckily, you always seem to know the way forward.

“You know,” you say softly, voice wet with emotion. “It’s a real shame. Because if you did believe in happy endings?”

“Yeah?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“You’d look pretty good as somebody’s endgame, butthead.”

An emotion Santiago can’t name twists through his middle, like he is being wrung out. Like his blood-soaked soul is finally being purged. It is no wonder then, that his words come out dripping red. Soaked in cynicism. With a disbelief that anything good -for him - is deserved. “Let’s get each other through the happy middle first,” he says, as hidden tears glitter on his long lashes. “Then maybe we’ll see about endings, huh?”

You don’t speak for a moment. Simply swallow in the near-dark. But, it is not lost on him that you hold him just a shade tighter. Then, when he hears a gentle intake of breath from you, he knows your request before you even utter it.

Please.

He resumes his singing. Slower, more off tempo. Begins to repeat the lines, over and over, softer and softer, until your breathing is deep and soporific. Until your weight on him is heavier. Heavier from sleep, and heavier from this new knowledge he has gained.

And, there it is. The end of the night, and yet Santiago cannot dream of sleeping. Not yet. Can only watch you, hold you, listen to your soft breathing, his heart full with a new understanding. And understanding he didn’t invite, but a welcome guest all the same.

He resolves it then. Resolves that, even if he doesn’t deserve a happy ending, he will do everything in his power to make sure you get yours…

Even if that means letting all hope of you -for him- go.

So, as he cradles you in his arms and stares unsleeping up at the ugly ceiling fan, Santiago contemplates it.

Contemplates in great detail the four days with you that irrevocably changed the course of his life.

The day he met you.

The day he almost lost you.

The day he realised he was in love with you.

And the day he started running from that.

The first day had been two years ago, the second had been five months ago, the third had been today, and the fourth?

The fourth will be tomorrow.

Tomorrow, he will start running, because his feelings for you are far too deep and huge for him to handle.

He doesn’t even pause to wonder whether he’ll ever allow himself to stop. After all, once Santiago Garcia has a mission, he accepts nothing less than completion.

Maybe he’s no hero; but he always gets the job done.

#ride or die series #santiago pope garcia x reader #triple frontier #santiago garcia #oscar isaac #santiago pope garcia

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deceptive-daydreams · 10 months

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Smoke Signals

Chapter Eleven - Hoedown

W/C: 8K

Eddie x Fem reader - Grumpy!Bartender!Eddie x Shy!Reader

"Got love-struck, went straight to my head."

"Slut!" - T.S.

A/N: it's been a while...

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The air smells of cinnamon and caramel corn, arguably the smell of Fall though if anyone were to ask you, you’d say Fall smelled of spice and smoke from the chimneys of your neighbors. The caramel corn was a tad overpowering, a huge batch being stirred back in the kitchen, courtesy of Donnie’s secret recipe. Her loving husband, Nathan was doing the heavy lifting, clearing the room so that the center allowed for a dance floor despite Eddie’s protests. Tables covered with checkered tablecloths along with chairs were set around the edges of the room and the boys had lugged in the hay bales that were stacked out back and set them where you and Donnie had instructed around the bar, the theme of the night coming together before your eyes.

Nancy was gently tossing the apples into one of the barrels in preparation for apple bobbing while Robin was organizing the table that had been designated for the pie eating contest, ensuring that they had all the pies queued up, ready to be devoured for the prize of free drinks the rest of the night. It wasn’t very logical, filling someone up with pie only for them to be rewarded with endless drinks and most definitely puke everything up, but you weren’t going to strike down the idea after Nathan insisted it would draw people in, that “they’d pay to see that kind of shit”.

Finishing off a quick makeshift arrangement of sunflowers and filler leaves in a mason jar, you set it among one of the tables proudly. It was simple but it did the job. Satisfied with your work, you continue placing the remaining flowers on each table. Nancy had assisted in putting them together, doing her part as you both sat at the bar earlier in the afternoon, chatting and giggling, squealing even, whenever you made a joke about Steve falling asleep again the second they got him in the door the previous morning at Eddie’s house.

It took a village, some would say, to get the man settled in his drunken haze. Steve had been babbling about how he could walk, meanwhile he would nearly crumble into himself the second anyone let go, his head going falling back and limbs going limp. Nancy insisted that you didn’t need to assist any further, that you should go get some sleep, but you didn’t want the night to end yet, you didn’t want to go home.

“Sunflowers.” Eddie mutters, his eyes glued to the arrangements. He stops what he’s doing, apparently searching for something behind the bar. There’s a twinkle in his eyes and the softest smile on his lips, lights creating a glow around him that leaves you in awe.

“Yeah, do they look okay?”

Suddenly, it was so easy to be insecure, even in the presence of a man who proved time and time again that you didn’t need to be. The people pleaser lurking within you had been awakened once again and it was targeting your downfall, plotting your demise. If there’s even a hint of displeasure in Eddie’s face, it would surely feed on it, ripping you apart bit by bit, declaring that nothing you ever did would be good enough for anyone ever again.

He’s lost in thought again, eyes glazed over with some kind of appreciation as he taps his ringed knuckles against the bar. He almost resembles a kid in a candy store yet you nearly take it as pity, that vengeful little monster within you ready to pounce on its prey and feast on you for the remainder of the night.

“Yeah.” He exhales. “Yeah, they’re perfect.” It’s said in a whisper, as if he had only wanted you to hear him although no one else was close enough to hear.

“Are you sure?” You ask, hands placed atop the bar as you lean closer to him, worry etched into your features. “Cause I can–”

“They’re perfect.” He affirms, louder this time. His gaze finds yours, huge chocolate buttons so filled with such adoration you become overwhelmed, palms turning clammy. The monster inside of you has been smothered for the time being.

“Yeah, yeah, the flowers are gorgeous, where do you want this?” Steve interrupts, carrying in another hay bale, gesturing to it with a nod of his head.

Before you can scan the room and provide him an answer, Nancy is pushing behind him, guiding him away as she instructs him where to set it before sending you a knowing glance.

Knowing what exactly, you weren’t sure.

–

Sparkly plastic jewels adorn the hatband of the once standard black cowboy hat. You’d catered it exactly to Eddie’s style, opting to only glue tiny silver jewels and graciously leaving out the little tassels you had so desperately wanted to add on. Then you decided, too flashy. This way, he could remain in all black and still have a little wow factor. He was the owner after all, he needed to make a statement.

What really made it scream “Eddie” though, was the bandana adorned in skulls and crossbones wrapped around the hatband just under the jewels. It was certain to gain his approval, being ‘metal enough’ and all, as he would say. You’d worked on it for hours before tonight, meticulously placing each jewel and criticizing your own work countless times. It hadn’t been easy sneaking one his bandanas away from him either although you were able to snag it from his back pocket one night and he still hasn’t seemed to notice. That, or he just hasn’t said anything.

“As promised, I have your final accessory.” You state proudly, standing in front of the desk of the tiny office, Eddie raising a curious brow at you from his seat.

You hold the hat behind your back, almost too giddy to continue hiding it from him but refraining from showing it to him a second too soon. He had changed his clothes since you’d last seen him about an hour ago after finishing up the final touches for Hoedown Night. By that point everyone was running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Now it was the calm before the storm, before patrons were let into the bar, before anyone could determine whether or not tonight would be successful or not, whether or not enough people would even show up.

From what you could see, Eddie wore his signature black jeans but rather than a regular black shirt or a faded band shirt, he wore a black button up that was slightly wrinkled and creased where it had obviously been folded previously. He had it tucked into his jeans just right and though the creases should ruin the look, it only elevates it.

“Yeah?”

His hesitation almost worries you although the slight purse of his lips and a raise of his brow indicate that he was more curious than anything. A darling expression that could’ve gotten him anything he wanted should he ask.

“Mhm.” Biting your lip in instant insecurity, you debate trashing the hat completely.

He’s going to hate it.

It’s ugly.

He’s going to laugh.

“Wait…” He interrupts your bombarding thoughts.

Oh god.

“Don’t tell me you got me a hat–”

“I didn’t!” You chirp, a lie clearly detected as you shut your eyes tight, the corners crinkling.

“You did.”

Opening your eyes only means being faced with the utter humiliation you’d brought upon yourself. Why would you decorate a hat just for him? You didn’t offer such courtesy to anyone else, he was going to think you were even weirder than you’d already lead on. What started out as a nice gesture has suddenly turned into some kind of stalkerish behavior, your mind blurring the reality of the actual situation.

Except when you chance a peek, a nosy squint, all you can determine is that he was wearing a shit-eating grin. Not the kind that was warning you that in seconds he would be poking fun at your little surprise. But if not that kind then you were clueless as to what to expect. No one sports a shit-eating grin without some kind of humor behind it, some kind of motive.

“That’s why you stole my bandana isn’t it?”

The tension in your neck releases, muscles relaxing though you hadn’t even realized they were straining until now. You should be tense and stressed at the soft accusation but it just further pushes you gently into familiar territory. The teasing tenderness between two complicated individuals who only seem to understand each other.

“I-” You choke out a laugh.

“You did steal it!” Eddie points an accusatory finger your way, that big stupid grin still adorning his face.

“You weren’t supposed to know!” You defend. “It’s a surprise!”

“You’re not a very good thief y’know.”

It’s not unlike you to shy away from someone’s gaze but the way he saunters out from behind his desk and towers over you causes your eyes to catch the ugly gray carpet. Large brown irises were only going to force your honesty to display itself across your face like a giant billboard advertisement; honesty that even you yourself hadn’t even taken the time to address.

“I don’t tend to steal.” You mutter bashfully.

A disapproving click of his tongue is all you can make out without viewing his face.

“No.” He says sarcastically, maybe with a dramatic eye roll although you’re not brave enough to glance up yet. “A shy little thing like you?”

You can’t help the tug at the corner of your lips, his perception of you somehow becoming so endearing despite your years of self loathing solely based on your timid nature and mumbled sentences. At the moment, being shy didn't seem to be such an…inconvenience. It didn’t seem so unattractive and repelling and moreso drew him in, it wasn’t a luxury you were often offered. “Shy little thing” would usually constitute as insulting but when it rolls off his tongue, all you can feel is accepted as you are. It didn’t secretly say “you need to get out of your shell more”, it stated “I like you as is.”

“I’m sorry!” You whine, arms dropping to your sides and in the process, you’d long forgotten about the very hat you set out to hide and planned a grand reveal for.

“Don’t apologize.” He gingerly grabs the hat, studying it from what you can see out of the corner of your eye.

Then it hits you.

“Hey!” You snap your attention to his face, catching a smug smile from him as he twirls the hat in calloused hands.

On instinct, you attempt to snatch it out of his reach, failing miserably as he extends it upward in the air, almost like a school bully would. Your hands continue swatting at the air as if it will grant you any success in retrieving it but to no avail. Once dull embers erupt into passionate flames within his eyes, something you haven’t quite witnessed yet, a playful and energetic aura haloing him effortlessly, like it had always belonged there.

“Whoa there, squirt.” He jokes, waving your greedy hands away.

“Just–just tell me you don’t like it so I can go fix it or–or something.” You demand with a childish stomp of your foot.

His features fall, gaze shifting between you and the hat in thought. You’re in crisis mode though you can’t stop thinking about how good he looks with his button down, the top few buttons undone and showing off a portion of his pale chest, faded tattoos peeking out.

“What?” He shakes his head in confusion. “Don’t like it?”

“Eddie, just hand me the–”

“I think it’s perfect.” He decides, plopping the hat on top of his frizzy curls.

There’s that word again.

Perfect.

–

The Bourbon had never been so alive-at least not in the past few months you’d become acquainted with it; in fact the closest it had been to being this animated was on Wednesday bingo nights. Dusty corners that had never been touched prior were now spotless and though no one else in their right mind would care to inspect such corners, you took pride in playing a part in sprucing up the aging building. The twang of a banjo and the squeal of a fiddle backed up by a cowbell filled the room, played by none other than Knife’s Edge famous trio, The Scott Brothers, also known as Donnie and Nathan’s lovely sons who had been musically inclined from a very young age, the band forming back in elementary school as Donnie explained. They specialized in family gatherings and local events, a rowdy bunch that kept the pulse of any party going.

Now you were witnessing it in real time, local superstars riling up the crowd that had accumulated in their best country attire, flannels and cowboy boots galore. The pie eating contest was just about to begin, a group of burly men accepting the first challenge, hopefully encouraging others to participate in the next round. Robin perched herself atop one of the haybales with her handy timer, a straw hat tossed over her dirty blond hair and a pale blue denim long-sleeve tucked into her high-waisted blue jeans.

Jett had been in better spirits than you’d recently seen him in, a win in your book. With a dramatic show of the boysenberry pies balanced in his hands, he made a point to “accidentally” stumble and nearly let the desserts fall face first onto the hay covered floor but managed to save them and earn himself a cheer from the crowd before setting them in front of the contestants. You were just content that he wasn’t pouting anymore.

“You gonna give it a try?”

His voice pipes up next to you, hands resting atop his flashy belt buckle as he nods to the commotion. He reminded you of an oversized toddler, his boots a size or two too large for his feet that had been trudging around all evening and his hat lopsided on flattened hair.

“What?” You cross your arms in a self-soothing manner, the act of becoming the center of attention inducing nausea in the pit of your stomach, blood pressure most likely spiking at the mere idea. “N-no, I’m okay.”

“C’mon, why not?” Jett shrugs. “Live a little, Bambi.” He chuckles.

It should have been harmless, though the name fell from his mouth and all you could detect was something vengeful within his intention. It was unknown what exactly happened between him and Eddie besides Jett coming off as jealous and the metalhead not taking well to the younger man’s attitude. Other than that, there was no determining what stirred up the disagreement in the first place and it only created more confusion in your swirling mind, why Jett felt some kind of possession over you.

“That’s not my name.”

You avoid his eyes, only gauging his reaction out of the very tiny window of sight in your peripheral. The goal was to set a very clear boundary however the task was proving difficult, confrontation never being your strong suit. A human doormat was usually the role you slouched into at the first indication of discomfort in any conflict.

His shoulders stiffen, head tilting in your direction as he ponders your response. You could just about choke on your breath, the air getting lodged in your throat as you held onto it in anticipation. You only wish you could scramble over to where Dustin had been cracking peanuts and shoveling them into his mouth like he was an addict. You didn’t even like peanuts.

“Not your name?” Jett questions with a scoff. “You sure about that?”

There’s no intimidation, only slight annoyance written across his face which was far better considering that you were expecting an outburst. Jett was still a stranger in a sense, he didn’t put any effort into really getting to know you and yet he had this sense of entitlement about him. He was only a few years younger and it only got you thinking, were you so blissfully ignorant just years ago?

“Mhm.” You begin fidgeting with your fingernail.

“Alright.” He shows you his hands in surrender, the sentiment only being drowned out by the way his face contorts into a cocky expression. “What are you being so short with me for?” He asks, a humorless grin on his face.

“Excuse me?” Your voice is smaller than you’d hoped for it to be. Realistically you had no bite to your bark and really, the most you had was a pathetic yelp if anything. “I-I don’t…Jett you’re the one–”

“Did Munson go off and start rumors about me?” He laughs though you’re certain he finds nothing funny.

Robin shifts her attention to the current conversation from her perch on the haybale a few feet over, confusion taking over her freckled face. You can barely make out “what the fuck” on her stained red lips, cherry pie most definitely that she had snuck more than a taste test of. Your eyes widen, communicating almost telepathically, a silent alarm.

“Why–I’m not understanding.”

“You can tell me.”

He’s no longer that sweet kid you’d met a few months ago, his words were like darts targeting you and you almost felt the need to squeeze your eyes shut so you could brace for the impact. He was calm but not civil, venom spilling from every syllable. And you’d never once been involved in the quarrel he created in his brain, it wasn’t fair.

“Tell you what!?” You manage to snap, desperately attempting to stand your ground and not scamper away like a wounded puppy.

“Bambi...” Jett singsongs condescendingly.

“Stop!” With clenched fists at your sides, you huff out a frustrated breath, no longer tiptoeing timidly around him. “Stop…stop calling me that.” Your warning tone has his facade faltering slightly, worry pressing into the lines forming between his eyebrows.

Robin makes her move the second your chest begins to heave and she can’t quite tell if it’s from panic or anger although she wasn’t going to wait around to find out as she throws a friendly arm around you to steer you anywhere else Jett was not, insisting that she needed your opinion on something.

Everything felt hot, your cheeks were scorched and your veins were burning with embarrassment and undeniable betrayal at the hands of someone who was practically a stranger berating you over nothing in public. Reality settled back in the moment Robin sat you down at one of the vacant bar stools, her shaky hands resting atop your shoulders. It was obvious the two of you had been riddled with anxiety.

“I-um, I didn’t know what to do and you were just–you were giving me that look. Y’know, that look.” She begins to ramble, big blue eyes darting around the room as if searching for her own reasons. “The kinda look that’s, like, screaming ‘help’. Like, get me the fuck out of here but also I tend to read things wrong so now I’m thinking I just booted you out of a conversation…” She glances across the room over at Jett and then back at you. “Oh god, did I–did I interrupt something–”

“No!” You blurt out, grabbing onto her wrists as a means to soothe her jumbled thoughts. “No, no, you did good, Robin. Promise.” A reassuring nod lets her know you’re sincere, her demeanor immediately relaxing. “I don’t know what that was, honestly. All I know is that I kinda feel like a piece of meat?”

Robin nods in agreement, some kind of panic settling back in her wide eyes which only further worries you. She had known Jett long before you afterall, maybe she knew something she wasn’t letting on.

“What–uh, what was he saying? I, um, I only caught some of it.” She questions with a nervous swallow.

“It…it’s stupid.” You whisper, gaze falling to the floor.

“Try me.” Her confidence momentarily overtakes her anxiety.

It was ridiculous. You felt ridiculous. The act of explaining why you didn’t take well to another guy calling you a certain nickname was the epitome of stupidity. And yet you spilled it all to Robin, voicing your distaste for the word falling from Jett’s lips while avoiding your mind screaming at you that only Eddie was allowed to use that name. Something told you Robin could read minds solely based off of the smirk she began to display amidst your ranting. You ignored it despite your face heating up and your palms becoming clammy at the mere thought of the doe-eyed man.

“Steve!” Nancy barrels out from the kitchen doors in her stylish checkered sweater tucked into the bluest of blue jeans. You wouldn’t know she was attempting a cowboy getup if it weren’t for her straw hat covering her perfectly permed curls. “Steve!” She grits, hot on the man’s trail.

Steve continues to nearly strut toward the crowd of people awaiting the bell to initiate the pie eating contest. Confidence drips from him, a cocky smirk painted on his face and a toothpick tucked in between his teeth as he rests his hands on his hips. Tassels hang from his tan jacket, a blue button down underneath and some insanely tight jeans fitting him in all the right places.

“Steve!” Nancy hisses again, gesturing down to her jeans, urging Steve to glance down as she widened her eyes at him.

“Alright, chill out, Nance.” He pays no mind to her, eyes scanning the room in wonder.

“Steve, your fly is down and your shirt is stuck in the zipper.”

His brown eyes nearly fall out of his head, hands rushing to cover the area as he rushes back toward the kitchen. You can’t help but snicker along with Robin, Nancy shaking her head at Steve’s negligence to his crotch.

“Whoa!” You hear a surprised Eddie, only eliciting more giggles from you and Robin.

“Steve, if you were happy to see me you could’ve just said so! No need to pull your dick out!”

Thankfully, no one else idled near the kitchen doors, unable to hear the sudden vulgar outburst. Covering your mouth and attempting to get a hold of your laughter, you rest your head on Robin’s shoulder in defeat, your body shaking with giggles while she almost squeals. Nancy attempts to shush you both although she can’t contain her own laughter, her hand pressed into your arm as she lowers her head.

“S-stop.” She gasps for air. “It’s, it’s not funny! Stop, he’s gonna be so embarrassed.” She finally gets out, the corners of her mouth almost appearing to be permanently upturned.

“What’s so funny?”

Steve stands behind Nancy with furrowed brows and cherry red cheeks, hands resting on his hips in his standard pose. Offense lingers in his voice, the kind that bantering friends exhibit only spurring the three of you on.

“Oh–oh c’mon!” He throws his arms up, shaking his head in disappointment. “You too?” He looks at you with a hint of a smile. “You already corrupted her into joining your little ‘mess with Steve’ club.” A harsh finger jabs against Robin’s shoulder, sending her stumbling back.

“I tried to tell you!” Nancy shoves his arm with a large grin. “You didn’t listen!”

“Not cool, Harrington.” Eddie emerges from the kitchen, the perfect image of a bandit in an old western with his all black getup. “You ever take a girl out before trying to get to third base?” He jokes, throwing an arm around Steve.

This was the first time this evening you’d seen him in his full outfit, hat and everything. You weren’t usually into cowboys but he made it look good. The hat was worn pridefully on top of his wild curls and he’d accessorized with his signature handcuff belt. The one thing you couldn’t convince him to do was wear actual cowboy boots, the man instead insisting that he would only be wearing combat boots but you weren’t complaining, especially not now as you witnessed the final product.

“Shut up.” Steve mumbles.

Eddie steals Steve’s hat with his free hand, ruffling his hair, no doubt messing it up in retaliation. Steve swats at Eddie’s hand, shoving him off and grabbing his hat back with a fond smile pulling at his lips, his stubborn act disintegrating.

“Buy me a drink first.” Eddie winks, only pulling more laughter from you.

“Very funny.” Steve says blandly, eyes squinting. “But I’ve actually got my eyes on that blonde over there. And I’m gonna ask her to dance.” He says matter of factly.

Eddie bows dramatically and gestures toward the dance floor, the center of the room covered in a healthy layer of hay. As if he couldn’t put on more of a show, he removes his hat and places it over his chest.

“Your maiden awaits.”

With a playful shove to Eddie’s chest, Steve makes his way across the room. You can vaguely make out Dustin’s voice amongst the loud cowbell and shouting, excitement bubbling out of him as he cheers on the contestant he bet on. A familiar tune begins to consume the room, each individual glancing to their peers in recognition.

Robin and Nancy begin to drift off into the center of the room, bouncing to the beat. The smile on your face physically hurts but you aren't complaining, you couldn’t remember the last time you smiled so big and uncontrollably. You couldn’t even remember the last time you’d connected so well with a group of people, if ever.

You were perfectly content, for once. A social setting that would normally have you chewing your lips to shreds and nervously rubbing up and down your arms was actually proving to be…fun. Observing from your stool, you didn’t even feel left out as you usually would under any other circumstances. You can’t quite recall a reason for your anxiety laying so low though you suppose it has something to do with the acceptance everyone had granted you. Nancy and Robin being so kind and taking you in right away, Steve and Dustin already treating you like a sibling amongst their little group. You didn’t know what you did to deserve such treatment but it’s apparent you had done something right if for only once in your life.

Tearing your eyes away from the scene playing out before you, several pairs dancing about the room without a care in the world, your gaze catches an awkward Eddie leaning against the bar just inches away. One of his curls twists around his finger, a nervous habit you’d picked up on. The room erupts into a collective, tipsy, rendition of Take Me Home, Country Roads. Loud clapping and hoots and hollers echo off the walls, and everyone sings.

You knew Eddie has always been considered an outcast throughout his entire life based on what he’d shared with you but you never would have imagined him looking as bashful as he did now, a true wallflower just like yourself. Though, while you were content in just observing, he seemed more uncomfortable, more lonely.

Glancing back to the dance floor, Donnie sways to the music with her husband, lovingly holding onto each other in a drunken haze. Every so often he jokingly spins her and dips her, something you’re finding yourself envious of but quickly swallow back the feeling. Anyone in their right mind would want to be treated like the sun.

Dustin makes his way over to Nancy and Robin, Robin making a scene by initiating that one dumb lasso dance move and pulling him in, earning them several cheers which only created bigger smiles among their faces. You’re sure you could just saunter over and fit right in. But it didn’t feel right, leaving Eddie to be a wallflower on his own. Especially since he didn’t seem too sure of himself, his teeth now chewing on his nail while his deep brown eyes surveyed the room.

“Wanna dance?”

It’s uncertain when exactly Steve made his way back over to you, it seemed like he had just appeared out of thin air but you could probably blame it on the fact that you were too enamored with the energy of the room. His hand extends itself toward you, his shoulders shrugging as if to say ‘got anything better to do?’.

“What happened to your blonde maiden?” You ask, hoping Eddie would hear and maybe you’d earn at least a chuckle.

You didn’t, Eddie hadn’t even been listening, too busy in his head it would seem. Steve shoves his free hand into his pocket, shaking his head in disappointment as he retires his hat from his sweaty head, abandoning it on top of the bar.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” He frowns. “Just need my friends.” A sincere smile tugs at his lips, his eyebrows knit together in that way that he almost looks worried though you know it’s his empathy coming through.

You nod, offering him a close mouthed smile as you hop off the stool and grab his hand, dragging him toward the crowd. Taking both his hands in yours, you start to sway to the song, playfully singing to each other in an overdone country accent. Steve assists you in spinning, getting more and more into the song with each passing second, his hair bouncing with every movement.

“I dunno how to dance.” You giggle, accidentally stepping on his foot.

“That’s okay!” He grins. “I’m not sure I do either.”

Amongst all the celebrating and the several toasts people are raising to each other, your eyes meet large round coffee colored irises, a certain sadness to them that was also diluted with a fond gaze. Over Steve’s shoulder, you watch Eddie, and he watches you. The biggest smile causes your cheeks to ache, your teeth on full display just for him. His shoulders shake with a laugh, a whiskey and coke now firmly grasped in his hand as he shyly looks down into the glass like it could give him some kind of advice.

As Steve leads you both in a circle of missteps and stumbling, he catches sight of what had made your face light up like a damn Christmas tree. It goes on for another minute or so, stolen glances between two pining individuals. He can see it, he knows it all too well. He’s worn that same look before. It’s too distinct to go unnoticed by him.

He used to look at Nancy like that.

“Hey, I think I want a drink.”

Steve wastes no time in dragging you behind him toward the bar. It takes you by surprise and in all honesty, you weren’t quite done dancing and at least would’ve liked to get to the end of the song before returning to your little stool of solitude. Steve calls for Jett’s attention behind the bar, ordering himself a vodka cranberry much to your surprise.

“I’m actually feeling a little queasy.” He grips his stomach, twisting his face in discomfort. “Think you could take over for me, Ed?”

Eddie nearly chokes on his drink, setting the glass down as he clears his throat repeatedly. He points to himself with a questioning look, knowing damn well that Steve knew he couldn’t dance. It was even more humiliating that he’d never danced with a girl before and Steve more than likely also knew that. Steve responds with a nod, his brow cocked, a look of urgency crossing his features.

“Steve, are you sure–” You attempt to chime in.

“Yes, go! I’ll be fine.” He shoos you toward the dancefloor, giving Eddie’s shoulder a rough push.

Eddie resembles a deer in headlights, ginormous eyes glued to you. His feet were stuck to the ground and as you tugged on his arm, he didn’t budge.

“C’mon!” You encourage him with a smile.

His mouth opens but words don’t form, a protest on the very tip of his tongue unwilling to make its way into your ears. He couldn’t say no to you but he also couldn’t dance.

“I don’t know how.” He manages to rush out.

Gently, you take his hand in yours, his calloused skin cold against your warmth. You haven’t had a sip of alcohol and yet your confidence was through the roof, only for him. You intertwine your fingers with his, his chunky rings giving you a challenge but you succeed.

“I don’t either.” You assure him with a squeeze to his hand, tugging him even further onto the crowded dance floor, much to his dismay.

The song continues, people bouncing around and getting bubblier by the minute which only seemed to overwhelm Eddie as his hand began to sweat. As a means to distract him, you pull his hat off of his head, his frizzy curls now exposed while you boldly fit the hat onto your head instead. His eyes shine but he remains stiff, not entirely convinced that he could freely move about the crowd.

“Let's learn together.” You speak softly, a stark contrast to the screeching fiddle being played loudly.

Without a second thought, your arms wrap around his shoulders, his whiskey coated breath fanning over your face. It’s evident that he’s unsure what to do with his hands, his arms limply hanging at his sides. Despite his anxious body language, his eyes give him away. He’s nervous but he’s giddy. Stars gleam and glimmer within his sweet and syrupy eyes, no longer sad pools of pity.

“Right here.” You guide him, using one hand to bring his touch to your waist. “Like that.” You whisper, unsure if even he heard you. “And like this.” You guide his other hand before resting yours around his neck once again.

“Like this?” He takes a shaky breath, a thumb swiping over your hip.

Humming in approval, you take the initiative to start swaying to the song, a temporary fear flashing in his eyes until he feels your fingers toying with the curls at the back of his head. He cutely stumbles every other step, suddenly becoming the equivalent of a baby deer though you don’t mind and actually prefer it, the image forever being burned into your brain, another moment for the wall you’d created in the depths of your mind.

You don’t know how, you don’t know when, but your hand lands on his chest-his bare chest where the buttons have been purposely undone as a small act of rebellion. His skin is warm and soft there, your fingertips gracefully tracing over a tattoo, skimming over the guitar pick necklace he always wore. As the chorus kicks back in, you peek up at him, finding heavy eyes staring right back at you in awe.

You start shouting along: country roads, take me home, to the place I belong. He remains silent, watching you like you hung the moon. You’re smiling, you’re happy, and god dammit he never knew he could be perfectly happy just watching someone else be happy but here he was. If he could personally give you the moon he would, he’s sure of it. He’d find a way.

An old memory resurfaces, one that usually only made him tear up out of sorrow but now, the perspective was shifting. In a simpler time, he is six years old, dancing on his mom’s feet to old Chicago Blues. He is young and innocent, full of life. He is naive and blissfully ignorant to the horrors of the world. And then in harder times…in current times, he is a Munson, a vessel for satan. A nearly bankrupt idiot who can’t keep up. A fuck up. But now…in this moment, he rekindles the same feeling he once felt with Momma, a sense of innocence that he hadn’t felt in years, innocence that had been snatched from him over and over. A warmth spreads throughout him, one that he thought was laid to rest when Momma passed. He was certain he had bid it goodbye forever.

Until now.

You make him lovesick. Utterly and purely lovesick. No doctor could ever cure him. Not that he’d even seek a cure. It scares him but he’d willingly die of a fever if it meant you’d keep looking up at him like he was someone. Like he was a man and not a menace. His legacy could end there with you, the girl that intruded on his life and made his stubborn ass soft. The shy girl who cries when she gets yelled at broke through Eddie Munson’s titanium walls and stole his heart.

You can feel him start to melt into you, his hands sliding around to the small of your back, his chest pressed into yours as he begins singing along, finally letting loose. Glancing over his shoulder at the feeling of a pair of eyes on you, you smile when Steve stares fondly, offering you a thumbs up.

The song ends though you yearn to continue holding onto him, afraid that letting go would mean losing the moment forever, your memory serving as the only souvenir. Before painfully parting, you glance up at him again, your nose accidentally brushing against his. The contact sends electricity racing through your body. It doesn’t help that he’s smiling so softly, so endearingly, his eyelids heavy and lazy. Even if it was a side effect of the whiskey, you still reveled in it.

“Sorry.” He whispers though you almost miss it as you study the crinkles at the corner of his eyes.

“Don’t worry about it.” You mumble, your voice now small.

The next song picks up, something slow and steady that had you both swaying without a second thought. You wanted to burrow into his chest, press your cheek into the skin and listen to his heartbeat. If only it were that simple.

“Thank you.” He speaks up again. “Y’know for…all this.”

A puzzled expression takes over your features, pulling back slightly to ponder his words.

“I-I just helped, Eddie. You should be thanking everyone else. They really pulled through for this place.” You remind him.

“I know, I know.” He suddenly seems insecure, his fingers grabbing at the material of your shirt ever so slightly. “I just mean–you didn’t have to get involved in any of this bullshit, my bullshit.”

“I mean…I kinda forced myself in didn’t I?”

He recalls the first evening you came into The Bourbon, the night you bargained with him, practically forcing him to hire you.

“I’m turning you away because you don’t belong in a place like this. Things can get rough and you’re…too dainty.”

God was he wrong. You were resilient. Tough. A badass.

“I’m glad you did.” His honesty surprises even him. He wasn’t big on getting mushy, never being offered the space to do so since his mom had passed. But he doesn’t regret speaking his truth.

“Yeah?”

Your lips are so perfectly pouty it devastates him, eyes so full of adoration that he wants to fall to his knees and officially devote himself to you even if you wouldn’t have him.

“Yeah–”

“Eddie!” Dustin screeches, hurling toward Eddie and eventually crashing into his side, eliciting a grunt from the two of you. “Sorry, sorry!” He breathes heavily. “Eddie, you’ve gotta see this.”

For a split second your heart drops, afraid that maybe something bad happened but you quickly backtrack those thoughts when you analyze Dustin’s grin. It was good news. It was definitely good news.

–

“Holy shit.” Eddie mumbles in disbelief.

“Holy shit indeed.” Dustin agrees.

You stare in awe at the piles of cash Dustin had counted in the back office, opting to act as The Bourbon’s temporary treasurer in the mission to save the place. According to the boy, there was enough to cover costs for the next three months if Eddie played his cards right. After that they hadn’t yet come up with a solution but it was something at the very least. It was hope.

“You keep hosting events like this every month and you should be able to keep things going.” Dustin advises, his mind quietly working out the logistics.

“Not only that.” Steve chimes in, leaning against the doorway to the office, the three of you glancing back at him. “What if I told you…that I know someone interested in investing?”

Your eyes catch Dustin’s then Eddie’s, an anxious fog overtaking the room.

“Who?” Eddie gulps, clearly nervous.

Steve only smirks, the anticipation building with every passing second. A flash of realization falls over Dustin’s face, his head shaking with a huge grin.

“No.” Dustin whispers.

“Yes.” Steve nods.

“Holy shit.”

“Do you mind letting me, the owner of said establishment that is being invested in, in on this big secret?” Eddie grumbles, his eyes narrowed at Steve.

“What do you think about being business partners?” Steve proposes, his eyes shining.

“W-what?” Eddie asks, almost choking on air.

“You know I’ve been working under my old man for however long now. Well I finally have my own startup and I didn’t wanna tell you, didn’t wanna say anything until I actually had the money.” Steve rambles. “And y’know, I always thought about investing. ‘S a great place. Would be a shame to let it fall apart.”

“What–what the fuck.” Is all Eddie can muster up in the moment.

“Also, I vote that we make Miss Bambi here the manager.” Steve snaps his fingers before pointing your direction. “Gotta trust the business in good hands and she’s definitely got a knack for running things efficiently. And putting you in your place.” He presses a finger into Eddie’s shoulder.

“I-I…” You were speechless.

“If you’ll have us, of course. Take some time to think about it.”

Glancing at Eddie, you can see the information still being processed, the gears turning in his brain. The state of shock leaves him blinking rapidly, unable to catch up to this moment in time. One second he was fighting for this business, expecting the worst case scenario and the next he was being offered an investment by his best friend.

“I knew there was a reason we kept you around.” Dustin makes his way toward the door, patting Steve on the back.

Steve playfully puts Dustin in a headlock, continuing on as if it were business as usual as the boy protests.

“So, how about it Munson?”

“Steve, I swear to god!” Dustin complains, making no progress in escaping the man’s hold.

“I dunno, depends.” Eddie clicks his tongue, seeming to finally fall back into his body as he stands. “I don’t like being told what to do.” Eddie begins. “And y’know I can’t have King Steve bossing me around, that won’t do…”

“C’mon man, you know I know nothing about running a bar.” Steve scoffs. “I’m just the sugar daddy here.”

“Steve!” Dustin gags.

You can’t help but giggle, beaming at Eddie as he grins.

“Alright then, we have a deal.” Eddie extends his hand toward Steve, making it official with a handshake before hugging him, a brotherly exchange that warmed your heart. In the midst of the hug, Dustin was released from Steve’s hold but somehow had gotten stuck in the middle of the embrace.

“I’m feeling the love and all but my neck is cramping.” The boy whines.

–

“To The Bourbon!” Eddie announces, standing proudly on top of the bar, tequila shot in hand as his closest friends raise their own shots in the air. “Grandpa Roy, may he rest in peace, would fuckin’ hate this whole Hoedown but in his defense he was a better business man than me and I’m the one who ran it into the ground.” Everyone laughs, smiling fondly. “I also wanted to thank all of you. If none of you cared this much we’d be fucked.” He grins. “In conclusion, you’re all stuck with Roy’s dickhead grandson for a long time to come, sorry.” Eddie shrugs, throwing his shot back.

The night had been more than a success. Customers had long gone home and there was still much to do in regards to cleanup but Eddie insisted that everyone call it a night, not without a celebratory shot though. Cheers and whistles fill the room as everyone takes their mandatory shot. Eddie hops off of the bar, earning himself several pats on the back as he insisted they give Steve the same praise. He was glowing.

Nancy and Robin rushed over, each of them linking an arm with him as they congratulated him. You’d never seen him so openly happy, so ecstatic. His grin was permanent for the remainder of the night, his cheeks must have burned from never relaxing his face.

And when all was said and done, when it was time to go home, it was your turn to congratulate him. You didn’t get much of a chance when the news first broke and now he was locking up the front as you waited patiently next to the bar. Steve insisted on taking Robin and Nancy home in Eddie’s truck since they had a few too many drinks. Dustin offered his assistance reluctantly after Steve sent him several expectant looks.

The bar was empty, completely trashed from the night’s activities though Eddie told you not to touch a thing, it was already nearing 3:00 AM. You just couldn’t help yourself, gathering glasses onto a tray and delivering them to the sink. A round of dishes wouldn’t kill you while you waited. At least this way you were occupied rather than just sitting around, waiting for him to lock up.

“What are you up to, trouble?” Eddie makes his way behind the bar to replace the cap on a bottle before returning it to its shelf.

“Trouble?” You smile, suds building up along your arms. Too much soap. “If you deem washing glasses as troublesome you’re really gonna hate that I take an extra minute on my breaks.”

You can hear him scoff from behind you, glass clinking as he tidies up, going against his own wishes.

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Thought you said no cleaning.” You utter under your breath.

His presence sneaks up on you, his quick hand suddenly snatching up a wet glass, drying it with a fresh rag, repeating the process with each one you’d just cleaned. Your nerves are on edge in the best way possible. The big lights had been shut off, only dim lighting encompassing you, creating a mellow atmosphere.

“Well some of us…” Eddie pinches the back of your arm. “...don’t listen, now do we?”

Something about the condescending nature of his words ignited a fire in between your legs. You knew very well that it wasn’t his intention although it didn’t stop you from releasing a shaky exhale. Goosebumps traveled up your spine, you were pathetic.

You hum in response, unable to trust your voice, the room becoming hot all too quickly. His gaze was trained on you, a hint of concern creasing his forehead. He was too handsome, his button down doing way too many favors for him.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice smaller than before.

“Yeah, yeah.” You manage to squeak out. “Just tired.”

Reaching over you, he shuts off the steaming water, tossing his rag onto the counter as he pulls you away by your arm. You want to whimper at the simple touch, every ounce of your body on fire, embarrassingly so.

“Let’s get out of here.” He sighs, clearly just as tired.

Guiding you out the back, he makes it a point to grab his hat that you had put so much thought into. Stepping outside, he locks the door while you admire the moonlight glazing over the parking lot. Everything is so…quiet. Snow flurries fall delicately from the sky, gracing your skin with tiny little ice crystals, intricate designs compacted into a singular art form now just melting with your body heat. It’s cold but you won’t complain. Not when Eddie is automatically draping his jacket over your shivering frame.

“Doors are locked, cash is locked up–”

“Eddie?” You call for his attention, big brown eyes immediately seeking yours like you’d just sent out a smoke signal.

When you don’t say anything, worry begins to settle into his features, the opposite of what you had intended.

“Yeah?” He asks hesitantly. “Did I forget to–”

The second your lips hover over his stubbly cheek he’s lost any and all thoughts. It happens in slow motion yet it’s over before he knows it. Your lips are so soft and delicate against his skin and he was finding himself wanting more, his selfish needs yearning to claw their way out of him.

“Congratulations.” You whisper, your breath tickling him before disappearing all too soon.

It lingers like a ghost, haunting him in the most breathtaking sense. You make your way to your car and he feels it, the apparition of your lips against his cold cheek. And he just knows. You hold the power to screw him up forever. You have his heart in your hands and god, he hopes you’re gentle with it.

~end~

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tags - @gravedigginbbydoll @ohauggieo @spicysix @lunatictardis @ali-r3n @batkin028 @mrsjellymunson @witchwolflea @emma77645 @emxxblog @eddiesxangel @angietherose @lottie-90 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @pullingattheroots @avalon-wolf @vintagehellfire @cryingglightningg @foreveranexpatsposts @winchester-angel @mmunson86 @witchwolflea @kurdtbean @micheledawn1975 @tlclick73 @erinekc @hazydespair @whenshelanded @corrodedcoffincumslut @ms1oftheboys @lma1986 @uglypastels @aysheashea @dashingdeb16

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fic #eddie x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem reader #eddie munson au #eddie munson imagine #stranger things fic #stranger things au #eddi munson x you #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x female reader

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seenoversundown · 2 months

Text

For Death Or Glory : Chapter Twelve

Jake x Charlotte (Fem OC)

Warnings: 18+ Smut !!! (Oral / Very suggestive language) mild anxiety, fluff, alcohol/drinking (it’s a bar, we know this) VERY brief themes with grief, silly banter, flirting, and Come On Eileen mentions.

Word Count: 4.1k

Summary: Charlotte thinks herself into a little spiral, landing her at the bar. Josh must have made her drink strong tonight, because she definitely made a choice!

Author's Note: Oh babies, I have been vibrating with excitement to post this chapter. We’ve made it through the dry-spell!! 🫡🫦 have fun!!

Talk (Unreleased) - Harry Styles "Don't ask me to talk about, I don't wanna talk at all."

“Maybe she was right. Maybe they were both right. I should just live a little,” I mutter to myself as I pace the house. You deserve to be happy; just let it happen.

Daydreaming about the precious long-haired boy who has my stomach in knots. The way I still can’t believe we kissed more than once. It was hard to deny how sweet he was. Always made sure I didn’t walk to my car alone at night. Asking me to text him when I make it home. Checking that it’s okay that he kissed me, even though I went for him first.

I’ve never met someone who had me so smitten so quickly. It would be a lie to say I’m not a little nervous, but I’m trying to do right by Cassie. She told me to stop thinking myself out of happiness and so .. I’m trying not to think too hard.

I wish I needed to be there today.

Mindlessly tidying up to try and keep myself distracted, I look through the handful of books sitting on the coffee table. For transparency’s sake, they are all romances. Maybe it’s because I just don’t have anything non-fiction on my to-be-read list or the fact that I feel like I’ve seemingly met a man written by a woman; the world will never know.

Flipping one of them over to read the summary on the back, in italics, reads ‘friends with benefits.’ It stops me in my tracks, metaphorically. ..That’s a bad idea.. Right? I shake my head, trying to rid the idea entirely. Tossing it back on the coffee table and staring at it like it just insulted me personally.

I pick up my phone, seeing the time, 4:03 pm, with an unread message from him.

Jacob: someone keeps queuing up the same song on the jukebox and I cant stop laughing

Jacob: idk how many times you can listen to Come On Eileen before you lose your mind but I have to be close to it

I laugh at the idea of him losing it while behind the bar, especially with how calm his demeanor is. I can’t picture him being distraught. What if I just went and got a drink? That wouldn’t be weird, right?

Me: Too many ‘too loo rye ay’s for you huh?

I mean, we are basically friends at this point and we’ve made out twice.. I don’t think me going to the bar for a drink would be .. wrong? Staring at my leggings and fuzzy socks, I get up and quickly walk into my bedroom. I stare at myself in the full-length mirror; my hair is still fairly curled from last night.

I pull out my olive cigarette pants, toss them onto my bed, and start digging through my closet. Finding an off-white sweater hiding in the back, I think I can make this cute. Changing into those and standing in front of the mirror, I tuck the bottom of the sweater up into the band on my bra, cropping it slightly.

“That feels better, I think,” I mumbled to myself. I slide my belt through the loops, pulling things together even more. Adjusting my necklace to sit on top of the sweater, moving the clasp back to it’s rightful place.

I grab my phone from the bed, take a picture in the mirror, pulling up the group chat;

The Laid-Ease 🤩

Me: [sends photo] is this cute?

Quinn: YES YES YES

Willa: very!!

Mel: Oooooo! Yes 😍

I smile at their responses, feeling a little more confident in my impulse decision. I sit in front of my mirror with all my makeup next to me. I take my time, making sure everything looks how I want it. I typically stick with natural-looking makeup because I’ve always liked my freckles and don’t want to hide them. The least I can do is feel cute if I’m going to go sit at the bar, you know, just in case.

Sufficiently killing enough time so that I didn’t get to the bar too early. Finding a parking spot proved to be a little more difficult tonight. But being further away, I was able to sit here for a minute before walking over.

Is this a dumb idea? No Char- you need to just go inside and get a drink. Josh is probably bartending anyway, so he’ll probably just talk to you.

Forcing myself out of the car, I slowly walk over to the bar, taking deeper breaths as I do, trying not to let anxiety win. I'm doing this for you, Cass. ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Luckily for me, I found a seat at the bar, and Josh is an angel. Bringing me a drink quickly and chatting with me for a few minutes before checking in on other customers.

I slide my book from my bag, making myself comfortable as I sip on my drink for a while. My thoughts get louder as the alcohol slowly hits me. Rereading the same page a few times before actually processing it.

You know he’s here–just go say hi. Shaking my head as I swallow the last sip of my drink. It’s very unlike me to let anything like this even remotely happen.

You’ve never caved in a work situation, it’s honestly shocking. Unprofessional if you ask me. Okay but to be fair– none of the people I've had to work with look like him. You really can’t blame me for having eyes.

Flipping the page of my book, I try to refocus. I wonder what he’s wearing today. Does he have his button up that he hardly buttons on? Jesus, what did Josh put in this drink?

Forcing myself to read a few more pages before moving my bookmark into its new home.

“Is Jacob in his office?” I ask Josh as he’s lingering close to where I’m sitting.

He nods quickly, “Where else would he be?” His eyebrows raise as he looks over at me, “I’m sure he’d be happy to see you.”

I slide out of my barstool, adjusting my pants quickly. His office isn’t far down the hall; as I round the corner into the door frame, I take him in for a second. He’s so pretty.

I gently knock to get his attention, watching his eyes light up as he sees me makes my stomach turn. Just go for it.

His sweet voice lingers in the room as he says, “I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”

I swallow my nerves and whisper, “I know.” Stepping further into the small space, pushing the door shut behind me. Everything feels like slow motion again.

Turning to him, I’m barely taller than him while he’s sitting; I grab the sides of his face as I lean in. The feeling of his lips against mine makes my heart beat harder. I have kissed my fair share of men in my life, but none compare to him. The way his lips are so soft and how he goes for my bottom lip makes me wonder if he would ever sink his teeth into it.

“Well, it’s nice to see you too,” he whispers through a small giggle, which makes me laugh with him. His hands gently rest on my waist. The way he looks at me, this man is going to be the death of me.

I lean back in; this time, I can’t stop how desperate I feel. My hands find the back of his neck; my fingertips pressed into him like I’m afraid he’s going to run away. His grip on me tightens, pulling me closer. My legs bump into his knees; well, there’s only one way to solve this.

Before I have time to think, I’m straddling his lap, his arms wrapped around me, my hands sliding up into his hair. Oh my god. My breath hitches as he lightly dances his tongue against my lip, and who would I be to deny him that? Goosebumps flood my body as he deepens the kiss, his grip on my shirt getting tighter, pulling me against him harder. I let my teeth grab his bottom lip, barely enough pressure to gently pull it back, when the sweetest little moan escapes him.

The sound alone was enough to get a girl wet, but then he smiled. And dear god– isn’t his smile gorgeous? A little pink staining his cheeks, we quietly laughed together as I tucked my face into his neck. I breathed him in for a moment, feeling his hands slide up and down my sides. I felt him shift a bit before he pressed a kiss into the base of my neck, sending chills through my body.

He continues to litter slow kisses up my neck and under my jaw as I sit back up. He takes his time, barely lifting up when he moves so I can feel his breath as he inches his way up. Nobody had ever taken the time he had with me; it felt like he was savoring every kiss.

My hands timidly moved from his neck down to his chest. If we weren’t here, I would be pulling this shirt off of him. Thankfully, his button-up shirts didn’t leave much to the imagination; I gently tugged on one side, revealing his collarbone that I let my fingertips graze.

He hums against my skin before moving to press a kiss just under my ear.

“Mmm,” he rasps quietly, “I could stay here all night.” His low voice sends shivers down my spine and makes my heart throb. I need him.

I stand up, grabbing his hands from my waist.

“Stand up for me?” I ask quietly, and he doesn’t hesitate to follow through. He leans against his desk as I lean into him. It’s my turn to have some fun.

I kiss down his jawline as my hands find his hips. Tracing along the top of his belt, I move my lips to his neck; his skin is so warm. Deciding to take my chance, I slide his belt over, starting to undo it.

“Charlotte,” he whispers, “what are you doing?”

I look up at him, stilling my hands, to ask, “Is this okay?”

His eyes meet mine, looking back and forth for a moment like he’s trying to make sense of what I’m doing. But honestly, I’m also trying to make sense of it.

“Of course, it’s okay. I just—“ he stumbles over his words before I cut him off with a kiss.

I mumble against his lips, “Let’s not talk about it right now.”

Quickly undoing his belt and popping the button on his jeans, my mouth is already watering. I drop down to my knees as I’m unzipping him, seeing his cock twitch as I do. He leans over me, flipping the lock on the office door.

I can’t help but press kisses into his stomach just above his boxers, watching the goosebumps flood his skin. Gently tugging the waistband down, letting him free. Holy shit. My hand immediately ran down his length as I glanced up at him.

“All for me, baby?” Slips out, and he just moans quietly in response. What is he doing to me? His face reddening at the pet name, and my heart is pounding at the soft sounds coming from him. Letting my tongue run up to the tip before sliding him into my mouth. I can barely see him gripping his desk, the veins in his hands popping out harder, which only sends another shock through my body.

Slowly taking more and more, I want to savor the moment. I’ve never wanted to be in this position more in my life. His little whimpers as I move closer to the base, making me throb. I pull my head back, stroking him for a second as I tease him more.

“Don’t be shy, I wanna hear you,” I tell him. A strained moan falls from his lips. Before going back in for more, I tuck some loose hair behind my ears. Feeling his hands carefully gather all my hair as he wraps it around his fist, he watches me as I move my head quicker. The moans falling from his lips get louder as I pick up speed.

Knowing he must be getting close, I say the one thing I know will get him going.

“Come on, Captain.”

His head drops back as his hand tightens its grip on my hair, he lets out a breathy, “Please.”

“Let me have it,” I whisper, plunging my head down his length, feeling his little trail of hair barely touch my nose. I bob my head a few times before using my hand to help get him there, feeling his muscles tense before he finally spits out any sort of warning.

“Charlotte- fuck,” is all he can get out before his orgasm hits him. Hearing him moan my name makes my heart flutter. He accidentally tugs harder on my hair, not that I mind. But lettting go to brush the little hairs away from my face as I pull back and tuck him back into his boxers.

I sat back on my feet, just admiring him in this state. His face was a little flushed, eyes still closed as a little smile crept onto his face. Finally looking down at me, he reached his hands out for me to take. Pulling me close to him as he kisses me, but I move my face back out of shock.

“But I just-“ I start; most men I have been with would never kiss me after I did that for them.

“Who cares?” He giggles, pecking my lips a few more times. “Don’t even mind the taste since it’s on your lips.”

“Oh,” is all I can muster. I was so severely unprepared for how secure he actually was in himself. Why is that so sexy? Have I really wasted that many times on guys who are just insecure? I truly didn’t think that something so simple would make him even more attractive, but here we are.

“Should I sneak back out there?” I ask as he fixes his belt.

“If you do, I’ll come out and keep you company,” he says, looking back up at me. He looks like he’s fighting a smile, which I can’t decide what option is cuter. I lean myself into him, pressing a few small kisses against his lips.

“Okay, I’ll see you in a few minutes,” I whisper, wiping my thumb across his lip gently. ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Sitting back in my seat at the bar, I watch as Josh makes my drink for me. I can’t believe I did that. My mind races with what just happened, the sounds he made, the way even just the thought makes me shift in my seat.

“Thank you,” I pipe up as Josh slides my drink over to me. He flashes me a toothy grin before hustling over to take someone’s order. I’m not even halfway through my sip when Jacob’s voice floods my ears.

“You doin’ alright?” his English accent slips out. He sneaks behind the bar but not too far from me.

“I’ve been waiting for you to show up,” I smirk, taking a sip of my drink. The corners of his mouth quirked. He grabbed the towel next to him before walking over to where I sat.

“Is that so?” He asks, cocking his eyebrow up. The way he’s looking at me like I’m the only person in the room makes my body warm. I’ve never had someone make me feel like this before. The way he’s standing in front of me, propping himself up against the bar. How his toned arms are lightly flexed, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look past how nice* his hands are.

“Maybe,” I squeak out, leaning into my hands to try and get a little closer to him. The grin plastered on my face was undeniable. Looking at him in front of me after what just happened makes my head feel dizzy, and I’ve only had one drink.

“Well, I’m very sorry, honey,” he says, just loud enough for me to hear. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and I’ll be damned; he’s good at it. “Rude of me to leave such a pretty girl like you waiting.” He thinks I’m pretty.

My mouth moves faster than my brain can when I respond with, “I’ll let it slide this time.” Letting my eyes wander all over him as if nobody could see me. Noticing the way he’s biting the inside of his lip, the little twitch in his hand as my eyes drop to them. The movement of his necklace when he leans forward only fills my head with horrible thoughts. The thought of them bouncing off his chest as he–

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, subtly biting his lip. “Promise.” The look he’s giving me makes my thighs clench together.

“Oh, I’ll be looking forward to that,” I try to hide how nervous that makes me. I haven’t done anything with someone for a while, let alone having someone … do something for me. Usually on my own for that.

He stares at me for another second before letting his head drop back a little. He stares at the ceiling before shaking it as he looks down. A soft little smile is on his lips. What is he thinking about that has him grinning like that?

I cave, “What’s that face for?”

He lets out a laugh, letting his smile grow, showing off his teeth now. His eyes rake over me again, his arms folded over his chest; he really is so cute.

“It’s nothing,” he finally spits out.

My eyebrows pull in, “I don’t buy that one bit.” Squinting at him as tries to do the same face back but not being able to hold it.

“I can’t say it right now,” he says, moving closer to the bar. He leans down, propping himself up with his elbows.

“Why not?” I don’t know what is in the air tonight, but I can’t stop myself from poking at him more and more.

“It’s not the right place,” he laughs, “people could hear me.”

“Just whisper it to me,” I excitedly spit out, “we can pretend it’s a secret.” I watch as he looks around the room, moves back, and mouths ‘hold on’ to me.

He pours two fresh beers from the tap, walks them over to a table, and grabs their empty glasses. He then wanders around the booths for a moment, making sure everybody is happy. I steal glances at him a few times, doing my best to not stare at him, but it’s hard. He’s a deceivingly intoxicating man; you’d never expect it because he’s so quiet at first.

How he’s gone this long without a girlfriend is beyond me. I guess it’s also something we’ve never really talked about, so maybe he just didn’t care? I can’t imagine girls not liking him. He’s so precious; how could you not develop a crush on him? Oh– I hadn’t thought that hard about that part of whatever this situation is. Do I have a crush on him? But I don’t live here, so that could make him not want to pursue anything– I don’t live that far, maybe he wouldn’t care. My thoughts race with questions of whether I’m making a mistake or not.

I don’t want to jump into a relationship this fast. I don’t want to waste more time, but I have to do something because I just know Cassie would punch me if I didn’t do this. Suddenly remembering the book that offended me earlier today, ‘Friends with benefits’ plays in my head. Maybe he would be okay with that..? That way I can make sure this is what I want to do. That sounds reasonable, right? I’d say we’re friends and who would say no to the benefits? He already promised me something, and I need to know what that is now.

I’m pulled from my thoughts when I feel someone gently place their hand on my back. I look over to see him setting a few glasses on the bar. He’s so close I can feel the warmth coming off of him and smell his cologne.

“Oh, sorry, excuse me,” he giggles quietly. Turning to leave, he stops, sliding his hand up to the base of my neck and lightly giving it a squeeze. He drops his head to whisper, “Was just thinking about how I can’t wait to hear your pretty voice moaning my name.”

My jaw falls open as he says it; looking up at him, his face is flushed like he’s embarrassed to admit it. He gives me a slow wink before sauntering off to talk to customers, leaving me to think about that. I definitely need to know what he plans on doing to make it up to me now.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Our nightly routine begins once more as we walk in comfortable silence to my car.

I quietly break the silence, letting out, “The sky looks so pretty tonight.”

His head tilts up quickly to take it in while I watch him. His eyes scanned all the stars and the light from the moon, illuminating him with no cloud in sight.

“She really is amazing, isn’t she?” he spoke so softly, looking over at me.

“Who..?”

“The moon,” he chokes back a little laugh. “She’s incredible.” He looks so happy as he looks back up at the sky. The chill of November made it so I could see his breath as we walked, but it also kept me closer to him in hopes of stealing some of his warmth.

Our hands timidly brush against each other a few times until he glances down, sliding his hand into mine. I just know Cassie is somewhere screaming over how I am with him. I just look at our hands intertwined, the way his thumb just runs over mine, and smile when he squeezes a little to make me look at him.

“Your chariot, madame,” he says, gesturing his free hand to my car.

“Oh, thank you, sir.” I try to play along, letting a small laugh slip partway through. We just stood there in comfortable silence for a second, still hand in hand.

“So,” he mumbles, “I’ll see you tomorrow?” I nod, fighting the urge to just stare at his mouth.

“Drive home safe. Text me when you make it. You know the drill at this point,” his sweet giggle lacing the latter half.

“Of course, mhm,” I tell him, moving a little closer to him, “I hope you have a good rest of your night, Jacob.” His eyes practically twinkling in the moonlight as I gaze at him. He leans in, his plump lips pressed into mine but backs up quickly with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Back to my full name already?” his smug little tone made me laugh. My hands grab the sides of his face, pulling him back in for another kiss.

“I didn’t think you’d want me to call you Captain in public after that,” I say against his lips; he lets out a small groan at the name.

“I’ll let it slide this time,” he mocks me, stepping back and grabbing my hands. He pulls them up, placing little kisses across my knuckles. How is he real? He reaches past me to open my car door.

“Now, get home before it’s too late.”

I toss my bag into the passenger seat before sitting down and starting it. Turning to him one more time, looking up at him, I can’t stop myself from smiling. I grab his shirt and tug him towards me. His hand holding onto the doorframe, leans down, hovering over my mouth until I finally cave.

“One more,” I mumble before closing the gap between us. He laughs into me, knowing I full well just stole his line.

“I’ll be waiting for your text,” he says, pointing at me with his eyebrows raised as he moves back to shut my door.

I sit there for a minute, just watching as he walks back towards the bar until he’s finally out of sight. I click on the address in my maps and set my phone in the cup holder. Looking back up at the moon, seeing how bright it is tonight. She is beautiful.

I can’t take my eyes away from it, feeling the tears settling in, and into the quiet of my car I whisper, “I hope you’re proud of me, and god, I wish I could call you right now.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Thirteen

FDOG Master Post | Masterlist | Playlist

Reply or fill out this form to be added to the taglist

Taglist:

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specialinterestshows · 3 months

Text

Celebrate with the Judgment Day in this latest chapter of my Rhea Ripley x lady!reader fic, Absolute Smokeshow.

Warnings for this section: Cannabis (weed), insecurity/self-doubt, parasocial interaction

Absolute Smokeshow (Part 75 of ?): Fast Feud

As soon as you sat in the car, JD said his goodbyes, looking away quickly when Finn locked lips with Damian and calling “take care” to the group as a whole before walking off. The joint you had lit made its way around the car once everyone was inside; Damian made sure all the windows were cracked open so he could continue driving and Finn refused more after his second hit left him coughing for a few minutes. As the joint was passed around the back seats, you were messaging Marisol and a few of your friends to try and relax. Still, Jacy’s words echoed in your mind:

“Rhea Ripley’s newest toy”

“Minion, distraction, press stunt”

“Pathetic”

“Right here!” Dom’s voice broke you out of your reverie as you watched him point excitedly to a fast food place at the next light.

“Tranquilo, campeón,” Damian chuckled before signaling as the car gradually slowed down.

“Everyone type out their order, I’m only doing this once,” Damian handed his phone to Finn first after he pulled into the mostly-empty parking lot. You took a long drag, looking at the handful of cars queued up at the drive-thru before passing the joint to Rhea. Carefully exhaling out the window, you watched out of the corner of your eye as Rhea took a hit, grabbed Dom by the jaw, and exhaled into his open mouth before popping the joint between his lips as well.

Your phone buzzed, lighting up with Mari’s response to you venting about your new insecurities.

“If it’s bugging you, you should talk to her about it. Even if it seems silly. Or you won’t stop wondering.”

You marveled at how she seemed to give you advice without any hint of jealousy. Yet, you still had the reassurance that she cared for you with the sincerity of her manner - not to mention the way she looked at you as if you were endlessly beautiful and fascinating.

You typed your response:

“Okay, but if it doesn’t go well, I’m blaming you”

Looking the message over, you tacked on a tongue-out emoji at the end before hitting send, your timing coinciding with Damian’s phone being handed to you for your order. Fumbling with the phone, you slowly typed in your order. The anxiety bubbling up about having a conversation with Rhea was making you clumsy, especially since you would likely have to wait until the two of you were alone.

Once Damian had his phone again, the car joined two others in the drive-thru. A minute later, Damian was speaking loudly and clearly in response to the tinny voice coming from the speakers beside the menu. Finn tapped his boyfriend’s shoulder urgently, asking upon receiving his attention: “Can I add five- SIX, six more things?” and was met with a sigh.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Rhea commented softly as Damian continued ordering, gesturing for Finn to message him the additions quickly, “What’s wrong, love?”

You knew Marisol was right: you had to say something. An opportunity might not present itself so easily later. So, you took a deep breath and made yourself whisper back:

“Do you really love me?”

“Of course I do!” the blue-eyed beauty seemed distressed that you were even asking, “I love you so much, babe. What- Do I not tell you enough?”

“No, it’s just… You never mentioned flirting with Cathy last night and-” you sighed, lowering your eyes and organizing your thoughts.

“…Do you know a wrestler named Jacy?”

“Sounds familiar, but I don’t think we’ve met,” Rhea muttered, brow furrowed.

“She said a lot of things that-“ you stopped yourself from letting the exact words take up any more space in your thoughts than they already had before continuing, “Things about me and you. Now I keep wondering if she’s right.”

Glancing back at your girlfriend, you saw a rising intensity as she took in your statement.

“Looks like I’ll have to see if I can get a match against her,” Rhea said between gritted teeth, visibly holding herself back from a more visceral reaction in such close quarters, “Teach her a lesson about lying to my girl.”

“Who are we fighting?” Dom asked as Damian pulled up to the first window.

“Doesn’t matter what her name is; no one is going to remember it after I’m done with her,” Rhea smirked. You could almost see the highlight reel of her future victory dancing behind her eyes.

“I’m more worried for her tag partner,” you admitted.

But before you could continue, a haggard-looking employee opened the sliding window and requested payment. You immediately dove for your bag, ready to look through your wallet, but Rhea put a firm, steady hand on your shoulder and pulled you back.

“If we need to split it, I’ll pay for yours,” she reassured you, demeanor softening, “Money isn’t something I want to add to your worries, love. Besides, I like getting you things.”

“I love you,” was all you could think to respond with.

Dom whispered “aww,” soon heavily eclipsed by Finn’s bellow of “GAAAAAAY.”

Rhea flipped Finn off, kissing you tenderly.

“Thanks, man,” Damian said, making you realize he had pulled up to the second window. Looking over, you saw Damian take some of the food and pass it back before hearing “Wait a minute!”

It was the person at the window, you saw when you leaned over curiously. They called back to the kitchen “Hey Jen! C’mere a minute!”

“What? What’s so-“ the approaching woman stopped talking the moment she peered into the car, suddenly speaking with a sense of reverence, “The Judgment Day! Oh man, I thought tonight was a bust because I had to work during your show, but you’re actually here!”

The man who had called her over handed her some of the rest of the food to give to Damian.

“Good to meet a fan,” Damian said as Finn tore through the bag he was handed, “You want spoilers or no?”

“Oh, I’m sure you guys won,” she replied, handing over the last batch of bags, “Just a second while we get your drinks.”

The window shut quickly and you faintly heard an excited, muffled squeal.

“I think we just made her night,” Damian grinned at Finn, whose face was already stuffed with food, “Got everything you wanted, mi amor?”

Finn shook his head in the affirmative, mouth clamped firmly around the bite he was currently working on.

“Here you go!” the excited woman was at the window again with two trays of drinks. After handing them over, she peered into the back. Upon seeing you, Dom, and Rhea, she gave a small wave before showing off the bi pride pin on her apron and smiling.

Looking over, you saw Dom smiling back awkwardly and Rhea beaming, giving the woman a thumbs up. You couldn’t help but grin, seeing how proud your girlfriend was of her sexuality.

Taking your drink from one of the trays, you pulled out your phone again to text Mari:

“Talking to her helped! Thank you for the push”

Your anxiety hadn’t entirely left, but you did feel like a weight had been lifted; it would be much easier to celebrate Dom’s win now.

[end part seventy-five of ?]

Part 76: https://www.tumblr.com/specialinterestshows/755752216664621056/absolute-smokeshow-part-76-of-dom-dom

Tag list (thank you!)

@littlemiss-fanficlover , @babybatlover , @girlofpink , @kagome2909 , @domripley , @wiccanpriestess , @falloutboy-lover , @aut0luminescence , @riverina69 , @itsrheasgirl , @1-800-sinister , @ripleylove , @beeposts

#wwe fanfiction #rhea ripley #rhea ripley x reader #the judgment day #dominik mysterio #rhea ripley x dominik mysterio #jd mcdonagh #damian priest #finn balor x damian priest #finn balor #lady!reader #weed #specialinterestshows presents #absolute smokeshow

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unpredictable-probabilities · 7 days

Text

Intertwining Symphonies || Chapter 1: Sunday at the Park with Robyn

Summary:

A small mishap at the park leads to new friendships and an invitation.

Note:

I originally wrote this as a gift to @patchyegg87 <3

I hope you like it, too!

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 1,293

Square/Prompt: B2 - Free Space | @dreamlingbingo

Ship(s): Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling

Additional Tags: Family, Family Fluff, Ice Cream, Friendship, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Kid Fic, Single Parents

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59036896

—

“Can I get both vanilla and chocolate?” Robyn was practically bouncing on his heels, barely holding himself still enough to stay in the queue with Hob.

“Of course, duck,” Hob smiled at the sight of his son still bursting at the seams with energy even after running around the park for almost an hour already.

Hob had packed the usual snacks for Robyn, but today an ice cream truck stopped by and his son practically dragged him over.

It was finally their turn to place their order, and Hob ordered a scoop of vanilla and a scoop of chocolate in the biggest cone size available.

As he got his wallet from his pocket, something blunt hit the back of his head.

“Ow!” Hob instinctively put a hand up to where the pain was beginning to sting and turned around to see what happened.

A man wearing a black shirt with the sleeves pulled up to his elbows was jogging towards them. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said in a voice deeper than Hob would have expected and picked up a blue plastic Frisbee from the ground. “My son and I had been playing. Please, let me pay for the ice cream,” he took his wallet out.

“What? No, that’s not necessary,” Hob quickly paid for it himself and handed the cone to Robyn.

“Are you okay, dad?” Robyn asked in concern as he took it.

“Yeah, no harm done,” Hob smiled at his son before turning to the man. “Really, it’s alright.”

Their small group moved to the side when other people queued up at the truck, then a boy with fair skin and raven hair ran up to the man and partially hid behind him, peeking up at Hob.

“I’m sorry, Mister,” he mumbled.

“This is my son,” the man put a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “It’s our first time playing Frisbee and I’m afraid we require much practice.”

“I didn’t mean to throw it so far,” the boy looked down at his shoes.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Hob said reassuringly. “My son hit me with a baseball once while we were playing. That’s just part of it.”

“Ooh! Can we play Frisbee with them, dad?” Robyn asked through a mouthful of chocolate ice cream. “We’ve never played that before.”

Hob looked at the man questioningly. Robyn had played with other kids at the park before, but none of them looked as shy as the boy did.

The man looked down at his son. “What do you say, dove? Would you like to play with them?”

The boy nodded with a small smile. “Yes. I would.”

“Yay!” Robyn cheered, raising his arms in the air.

“Hey, careful not to spill your ice cream,” Hob chided fondly.

“I’m Morpheus,” the man held out his hand. “This is my son Orpheus. And yes, I am aware of our awfully similar names,” he smiled.

Hob shook the man’s hand and returned the smile. “That just means it’ll be easier for me to remember. I’m Hob, and this is Robyn.”

“Robyn with a Y!” Robyn declared, already halfway through his ice cream cone. “I know a spot where we can have lots of room to play. Come on, before the other kids arrive!” He ran off towards a clearing in the park.

Orpheus looked up at his father questioningly, who smiled and nodded. Then the boy took off after Robyn.

“You’ve really never played Frisbee before with your son?” Morpheus asked as they followed their kids at a more leisurely place while keeping them in sight.

Hob shook his head. “Nope. We played catch and baseball, but we haven’t tried Frisbee yet. What games do you and Orpheus usually play?”

Morpheus fell silent for a moment, his long eyelashes catching the light of the sun as he blinked. “I have not had much opportunity to spend time with him. Until recently. All games are still new to us.”

Hob could sense that there was a story there, but he had no business prying so he just offered an encouraging smile. “Great, there’s a lot to discover. Let’s start with Frisbee.”

So they did; Hob and Robyn against Morpheus and Orpheus.

It seemed that Orpheus had already learned a great deal from his mistake earlier, as he was much better at it now and the disc rarely got too far away whenever it was his turn to throw.

Robyn was the better catcher. He had more than enough energy to dive and jump just to catch the disc, though he often got too excited whenever it was his turn to throw and his aim went wide.

Hob and Morpheus weren’t much good at either throwing or catching, but their children didn't mind and in fact even evidently enjoyed seeing their dads fumble.

Hob shared the biscuits and fruit juices that he packed, which kept up morale and started a conversation between Robyn and Orpheus about their favourite snacks.

Afterwards, Hob and Morpheus sat on a bench to catch their breaths while their children played with the others at the playground.

“I cannot remember the last time I ran around so much,” Morpheus said before taking a sip from a water bottle. “Children truly have an indefinite repository of energy.”

Hob chuckled, wiping sweat from his forehead with a hand towel that he always brought whenever going to the park. “You don’t need to tell me. I’m glad that those two are getting along well, though.”

Morpheus nodded. “Indeed. It is good to see Orpheus so cheerful.” A soft smile appeared on his face as he watched his son laugh brightly while on the seesaw with Robyn.

“He would remember this, you know,” Hob told him. “You brought him to this park. He would ask you again, and you’d have more time to spend together.”

“I certainly hope so. After the divorce, I got so caught up in my work that he often stayed with his mother. It’s only recently that I…” Morpheus trailed off, fidgeting with the bottle cap. “I apologise. I do not intend to spring this all upon you.”

“Nothing to apologise for,” Hob reassured him. “I’m divorced with Robyn’s mom too, and at first it was challenging to figure it all out. But you’ll get there.”

Morpheus looked at him, then at his backpack of provisions. “You seem to be rather well-adjusted now.”

Hob chuckled. “It just takes practice, my friend.”

Morpheus tilted his head slightly to the side. “We are… friends?”

“Um…” Hob blinked. “Yeah, if you want to?”

“Dad!” Robyn came running towards them, towing Orpheus in hand. “Can I invite Orpheus to my birthday next week? I wanna show him my comics!”

Morpheus turned to Hob in surprise, looking just as uncertain as Hob felt when Robyn asked if they could all play Frisbee.

“Of course you can, duck,” Hob smiled at his son and Morpheus. “Orpheus can bring anything he wants to show you, too.”

“Father!” Orpheus’ face brightened as he seemed to realise something. “I wish to have Robyn listen to our song! He said they have a piano!”

“Oh I can’t play it,” Hob quickly said, smiling sheepishly. “It’s my mum’s. We have it in our house because she was a pianist, and she still likes to play whenever she visits.”

Morpheus’ expression was fond. “I play the piano as well. If you would allow it, I can play Orpheus’ song so he may have Robyn listen to it.”

“Sure, no problem!” Hob said perhaps a little too enthusiastically. He loved music, and shared Robyn’s excitement with making new friends. “Um, should we exchange numbers, then? I’ll text you the address.”

“Of course,” Morpheus smiled as he took out his phone. “It’s what friends do, is it not?”

—

Note:

Probably the most chill Dreamling fic I've written so far. They deserve to relax and have fun every once in a while~

Chapter title is from the musical "Sunday at the Park with George".

—

(Dreamling Bingo Masterpost)

(Masterlist)

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wehangout · 1 month

Text

Another @shamelessdvdcommentary requested by the wonderful @suzy-queued with questions made by the amazing @callivich! This one is for Slick back My Hair (You know the Devil's in There)! These are a lot of fun, so hit me up if you want to see this for a different fic 😘

Give us some stats - (when you wrote it, word count, how long it took to finish, is it a one-shot/multi-chapter, etc)

Wrote it in 2015! It’s a long one-shot, and I think my second ever shameless big bang.

What was the initial inspiration for your story?

Okay. Took me a minute. I knew this was inspired by a one-shot I wrote for GW2015 that has since been taken down, but I also knew the one-shot was inspired by something and it took forever to go back and figure it out. Anyway, the initial one-shot was inspired by the Day 7 theme of “Imagine Your OTP – go to the website http://otpprompts.tumblr.com/ and choose a prompt!”. I don’t recall what the exact prompt was (I think digging a grave together), BUT apparently I still have the one-shot posted here on tumblr if you wanna read it! So, yeah, the Big Bang fic was inspired by this one-shot which was inspired by GW2015. Phew. That was a novel on its own

If the story is written from a character’s POV, why did you choose this character?

Mickey. Because I am me.

What was your favourite scene to write?

I’m not sure, but reading back, I really like the scenes with side characters as assasins. Sheila, Jimmy, and Angela. Fun stuff.

How did you come up with the title?

Ugh. This was back when iTunes was a thing lmao. I basically went through all my music, picking out songs I thought might fit the fic’s plot, then went through the lyrics.

Are there any little moments or references you hope readers will notice?

Two! I had fake IDs with the names John Foley and Axel McClane which is a reference to John McClane and Axel Foley – Die Hard and Beverly Hills Cop respectively. And I also had this line “Two inches to the right and it would’ve hit your fucking heart, Ian.” "Two inches to the left and it would have missed me completely” which was reference to The Mighty Ducks. Only one reader picked up on these lol.

Was there anything you struggled to write? If so, how did you overcome this?

The Terry fight scene. And, honestly, I just pushed through it.

Favourite line in the story?

Okay, the “My hero” continuation, but also, back in 2015, I wrote, word for word, “Knew you’d come.” I mean, it’s Ian saying it, but obvi why it’s a fave lmao

What are you most proud about in the story? (plot, characterisation, dialogue, twist/cliffhanger, etc)

I wouldn’t call them twists, but the little surprises that turn up along the way – Sheila being a badass, the texter being Mandy.

Are there any ‘behind the scenes’ info you’d like to share - e.g. what’s going on in a characters head in a certain scene or how you came to write a certain line?

At the end, where Mickey goes to save Ian. Ian’s “goodbye” is legit. Dude was sure they (at least he) was going to die.

Reading back the story now, is there anything you’d change or add?

It’s very quick. I’d probably add more depth to it. (also the title shh)

Would you ever write a sequel to this story?

I’ve considered it, but one half of the dynamic duo gets taken in this one. What other plot could there be?

Are there any ‘easter eggs’ in your story - e.g. references to other stories you’ve written, a trope you often use etc?

I think I did the big Oh moment in this, along with a few others. I think that’s about it.

If you’ve chosen your most popular story, are you surprised by the popularity?

This is definitely not my most popular, lol, but I appreciate the love it’s received!

Were you nervous or excited to post this story?

Oh, always excited

Did you have a beta or a friend who helped you as you wrote?

I did! Again, this was back in 2015 when my pal Ella @hubrisandwax was still around. We had similar time zones, so we’d Skype and write at night (poetry, bitch), and have our own little sprints. She was my cheerleader and beta!

Anything else you’d like the readers to know about the story?

I know this is an Ian and Mickey romance, but I actually preferred the scenes after Ian was taken. Getting into Mickey’s head when he’ll do literally anything to get Ian back? Including torture and murder his own brother? That shit was fun.

#fic commentary #ian and mickey #my fic #slick back my hair (you know the devil's in there)

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ma-lark-ey · 5 months

Text

Lark Liveblogs Literature: THE SUNSHINE COURT BABYYYYY LETS GO JEAN

to begin: THE COVER???

The fucking NARCISSUS/DAFFODIL. Stop stop stop. Nora stop. She said it wouldn’t be a sun but I WASNT READY.

RESILIENCE. FIRST BLOOM AT THE END OF WINTER. NEW BEGINNINGS AND REBIRTH.

warning in advance for how many reaction images will be in this post. Miss Nora Sakavic has a way of making me unable to verbalise how devistated I am so I turn to goofy photos.

Also, just so we’re all on the same page:

it’s 1:20 AM. My roommate IS asleep. I am fighting the demons (downloading this book) but i am winning (it is queued on my kindle)

ITS DOWNLOADED LETS GO

Okay so context is that my Kindle is at 10%

I tried to go to bed and read this in the morning but I am

SO NOW I HAVE FRANTICALLY FOUGHT A WAR (figured out how to get this book) AND I AM READY FOR BATTLE (to cry over Jean)

ONE, TWO, THREE, LETS GO BITCH!!

Also my kindle cord is too small for me to properly lay in bed so im literally about to lay on my stomach kicking my feet like a middle schooler WISH. ME. LUCK.

CHAPTER ONE:

oh we’re jumping right in okay. god. hi baby :((

OH. I am just adding onto my #1 Riko hater agenda right now.

“The golden rule— not where the public can see” DIE. LITERALLY DIE TETSUJI

“The lack of broken fingers this time” THIS TIME??? JEAN. JEAN.

im so.

RENEE!!!

“and he had wasted them texting Renee a heads-up.” Nora please we’re only four pages in bro

Renee i love you im marrying you please give me a kiss. Mwah Mwah Mwah. She said “Bitch. Lay back down.”

currently also reading a batshit raven!neil fic and just. on the ground. about all of this.

stop the way I literally went “who the fuck is Nathaniel” Im too transgender for this.

Me, seeing the Abby content we need in this world:

Jean dont call that hellscape home bbg

Renee beating self worth into this man. ily

“Jean couldnt remember the last time he was allowed to wear color” LITERALLY KILL ME

Nora I need you to be less good at describing pain please and thanks

NOT THE BITING

DADMACK DADMACK DADMACK DADMACK!!

he fr be moving this man like a doll. love you wymack

tied him up with racquet laces I. h. lays on floor softly crying.

NOT THE DADDY ISSUES

Jean fr out here plotting 50 ways to kill his brother. he fr though Neil was the problem. no girl Neil just has no tact and autism rizz. Kevins the fucking snitch

no one:

Jean @ the Moriyamas;

“that man is years overdue for a head-on high-speed collision” YOU TELL EM DADMACK

CHAPTER TWO:

Jean please just sleep like a normal human man. God.

Even Jean be out here like “Kevins a little Chihuahua ass drama queen. Bitchboy. Wet cat man.”

Kevin: look, bro, if the 5’3 twink with enough daddy issues to make riko blush and chugs ‘fuck around and find out’ juice for breakfast can escape the moriyamas and not die, so can you.

Testuji. Testuji when I catch you. Tetsuji

Jean what the fuck makes you think anyone but Andrew Minyard will ever tell Neil what to do. Girl.

“If I am not a Raven, who am I?” A MOTHERCUCKING TROJAN BABYYYY

“I have to go to my next class.” I forgot they were in college deadass. Neil is straight up my age im gonna throw up.

Okay. It is. *checks time* 3 AM. I cannot keep my eyes open, which means i must put Jean away for sleep.

ITS IS NOON THE FOLLOWING DAY. I HAVE SLEPT. I HAVE TAKEN MY MEDICATIONS. TIME TO HYPERFOCUS BABY.

KINDLE SAYS WE HAVE 8 hrs 27 mins LEFT IN THIS BOOK. IM SAYING GOODBYE TO MY FRIENDS AND FAMILY. I’LL SEE Y’ALL AT DINNEE TIME. ITS JEAN TIME.

Hiiiiiii Thea….

“Good morning, Paris.” Now, the average man will see this as a reference to his frenchness. but real ones know Paris is prince of Troy, the man who married Helen of Troy & started the Trojan war.

do y’all think Jean has a french accent wait wait wait. obviously itd be very slight at this point but is it there. necessary question.

Assessing Thea like a fucking state exam right now. Neil could not have cared less about your ass I am gaining so much information

Hate of my life Riko moriyama.

CHAPTER THREE:

JEREMY FUCKING KNOW HI BAYYYBY

the way I literally got up and had to pace and stim for a moment even though I fully expected this. autism. my roommate is concerned. not really. she’s used to this she watched me read TKM and dramatically reenact the Ichirou Car Talk.

wow??? AFTG team actually seems happy and well-adjusted and friendly with each other??

Random Note: I’m currently watching Blue Exorcist & one of the main characters is a girl name Moriyama and I’m literally just sitting here like “This girl is way to nice and innocent to have that name.” Because she literally is the nicest girl to ever exist. Why is she cursed with the same name as my mortal enemy (Testuji)

“Tonight’s experiment was the icing on the cake, an invaluable experience no matter how it ended.” Jeremy, my love.

He has empathy… Never before seen footage. Y’all get the cameras!!

He’s so shaken about Jean,,, holding you so gently Jeremy. Here as a guy who knows nothing at all about Jeremy since I’m. so new here. but god.

Jeremy: are you sure a Raven can abide by Troja—

Kevin: Bro Jean is so pathetic he’s a bottom fr. He never disobeys an order

Jeremy: I. Okay you didnt have to say it like that, bro.

I will literally never stop respecting the Trojans strat in the final they really said. “If these fucks can win the championships with nine players, surely we can.” and then willingly got their asses handed to them.

“Xavier stumbled when he got the next serve off, and the Fox guarding him gamely hauled him back upright before running for the ball. It was a simple gesture, but it endeared Jeremy to them” I dont remember if this bit was described in tkm so i’m going to guess that’s Nicky or Matt. Aaron would fucking never.

Nah because like. Yes this proved to the Trojans how resilient the Foxes were, but it was also a message to the audience, yk? Like we know the Foxes were getting shit for their quick rise to the top after they pulled their shit together, but I personally think that the Trojans did this both for their improvement & for Foxes’ publicity. This game proved to the public at large how devastatingly *good* the Foxes were, because of their small size. The second best team in the league crumbled playing the same conditions the Foxes did *every game* and got to championships with. They proved that Foxes were, in fact, a D1 team who earned their keep.

oh hes got daddy’s money. Well. not. officially. yo what I mean.

“it was always best to have a paper trail” Neil Josten would have an anuerysm hearing those words.

Bye Jeremy I’m. Love you so much. Why do you feel like a sixty year old man in your early twenties.

“between seven and twelve students.” yikes.

“unfamiliar and accented voice.” I WAS RIGHT I FUCKING CALLED IY HES GOT AN ACCENT BABY FUCK YEAH

“you ever feel like— like you’re making a choice you cant come back from? But even knowing everything could go completely sideways, you’d make that choice every time?” okay so coming out allegories i could make aside, Jeremy is so… where to start with him. He reminds me of Percy Jackson. Endlessly loyal and selfless to the point its a bit stupid but endearingly stupid.

CHAPTER FOUR:

Okay so we’re alresdy hateflirting. noted.

Its also extremely sunny today in Podunk Hicksville where I live so it feels very On Brand.

“Jean had seen that smile in a half-dozen broadcast… He could picture it too easily, and he dug his fingernails into his own face in vicious warning.” Awww you think you can best the gay worms in your brain. goodluck with that Johnny.

“isn’t that reason enough to keep living? To rediscover simple delight one moment at a time,” keeping this quote for eternity

“enough sunlight to chase away Evermore’s shadows. They are willing to take a chance on you. Aren’t you?”

Kevin Day autistic king. taking this hesdcannon to my grave .

“the conspiracy theorists were working overtime” no girl they just aint stupid.

THEY DESTROYED HIS POSTCARDS…

CHAPTER FIVE:

I want to start keeping record of all the times Jean is like “[name] wasn’t decent enough to [thing]” because its SO funny. We LOVE a petty king.

also keeping track of all the insults he throws at Neil.

Neil likes to think he’s SUUUUCH a loner boy no friends angsty “dont speak to me” resting bitch face ass motherfucker. In reality he is a jack russell terrier — ceritifed jack russell owner who’s dog thinks hes soooo big and bad but said dog literally cries when you dont let him in the bed or say hi to people on the street

Jean is SOOOOOO dramatic 😭😭

Jean: Why would you let Kevin do this.

Neil: let him?? He did that on his own.

Jean: you’re proud of him for being a problem, arent you?

Neil: oh you fucking know I am, bitchass

“but other than his outstanding murder charge there was nothing interesting about that Fox.” i’d consider that very interesting information, Jean. Youre just deranged

“with milk, juice, and vodka dominating one shelf” that’s Aaron, Nicky, Andrew/Kevin in order. Im correct.

“There was an entire drawer dedicated to cheese.” Yeah that sounds like Nicky.

“Half the drawer was full of mini candy bars. Jean threw them all into the trash” bro Andrew is going to kill you in cold blood and not even Neil can save you.

Jean is SO dramatic. Give him Kevin’s crown.

Jean @ Neil during the final: ARE YOU WITHOUT INTELLIGENCE????? ARE YOU STUPID??? DO YOU WANT TO DIE??

Seeing the media coverage of the championship is the food I needed thank you Nora for this. I am eating it up. om nom nom

The sportscasters referring to athletes with their first name is batshit. What. why. huh. Absolutely not.

CHAPTER SIX:

Renee protecting Jean from discovering Riko’s death through media & not through them…

Everytime boys start fistfighting in this series I hear Roxanne from Megamind. “Ladies, ladies, you’re BOTH pretty.”

a) Jeans reaction to finding out was exaclty what I expected

b) I’m FASCINATED to know who called campus security. Jeremy?? Renee?? Someone in Fox tower???

Neil was gentle with someone other than Andrew? I didnt know he knew how to do that…

NEIL. NEIL JOSTEN. YEAH BABY

HES ROOMING WITH CAT AND LAILA??? YES YEA YES YESY

the Jean-Renee dynamic is so fucking important to me. MLM/WLW solidarity. theyre besties.

THEYRE SO IMPORTANT TO ME BRO.

Literally snuggling Jeremy

Oh he’s got Fox potential. Hiiii Jeremy. Give me the traumadump bbg

THEY/THEM??? DO MY EYES DECEIVE ME OR IS THIS AN HONEST TO GOD THEY/THEM PLAYER OH ILL CRY. ILL CRU RIGHT NOW

CHAPTER SEVEN:

Oh Jean. you’re about to have such a gay awakening babe i can feel it in my bones.

A FUCKING YOYO??? I LOVE HIM

“A mite bit hecked up” PLEEEASE JUST SAY FUCK /ref

OH HE WAS IN LOVE WITH KEVIN. INTERESTING INTERESTING INTERESTING.

autism coded lookingg motherfucker (stares at Jean.)

The chaos of Cat and Laila’s house is so fucking cute. Its about to be two lesbians and their distrustful pitbull rescue in this bitch and im ready for it.

CHAPTER EIGHT:

watching normal people discover the cult that is Evermore. Finally someone having a normal response to that madness. What the FUCK.

wait theres actually a cardboard dog i thought it was fanon joke.

oh my god there is actually a fucking cardboard dog. i.

jeans brain just got actually shattered by this living room. he cannot comprehend this.

Cat & Jeremy, realizing the cult rumors are real: I THOUGHT YOU WERE KIDDING! I thought it was joke! I even wrote it down in my diary! “Kevin made a very funny joke today!” I laughed at it later that night!

Okay, last night; I went to bed at 2:30 AM 45% through (college my beloathed). we’re back in business.

Jeremy is so disturbed all of the time. goofy ass.

“Loving something is not enough,”

“When was the last time you enjoyed playing?”

“ Irrelevant.”

Whats his shirt look like Jeremy. Jeremy whats the shirt look like. Jeremy. Whats the shirt look like.

Okay so I’ve reached my image limit for this post and I dont have fun reaction images on my laptop. so now I will post this & reblog with the rest of this book.

#lark says #aftg #all for the game #the sunshine court #tsc #tsc spoilers #the sunshine court spoilers #In order of men: Jeremy Knox. Neil. EVERYONE ELSE. Riko….. Nathan— /ref

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idolatrybarbie · 1 year

Text

the world tipped on its side

chapter five - satellite

series masterlist | read on ao3

pairing: francisco "frankie" morales x f!reader

word count: 5.1k

rating & summary: explicit | you reflect on the concept of love.

warnings: smut, swallowing like a champ, references to past physical injury, reference to frigid parent dynamics, dead parents, reader has a disability, angst, hurt/comfort, pining, emotionssss, pathetic!frankie moments.

notes: @wannab-urs gin hurt my feelings so now everyone must suffer next chapter but enjoy this while we're here. i kind of think this is trash garbo but (at the time of queuing this) i'm in a weird headspace coming back home for the first time. also it's late and i've been traveling all day so i'm choosing to ignore myself. goodnight and enjoy.

Friendship. That’s what this is.

Friendship with a man who called you the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. Said that you’re so beautiful it’s scary. Who you had just sex with.

You don’t see much of Frankie on set, except for the few chaste and directive conversations between you, himself, and Ashton. In those moments, the very last thought on your mind is whatever is going on with you and him. It’s work, that’s the priority. Not that you give a shit about the movie, but it’d be nice if everyone wrapped and returned home in one piece.

Every time you try and talk to him, someone else pulls you away. This goes on for the first two days of filming in the woods. You don’t know what this is—this pull that keeps you circling him, even if you never quite seem to gain on Frankie in the chase. The sun and moon, bouncing light between each other at all times. You’re trying to figure out which role you are playing.

You catch him in a personal moment on day four, just getting off the phone with someone behind a production trailer. He looks momentarily startled, but not deterred by your presence. A good sign.

“Hey,” Frankie says. He sounds exactly like he did over the phone.

“Hi,” you return. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“Yeah. I figured,” he says. “I mean, me too. Just with the—” He’s motioning vaguely at the helicopter parked thirty feet from you.

“Yeah,” you nod. “I don’t want to do it here. Maybe you could come over, or…”

“I’ve got my daughter this week,” he says with a shake of his head.

“Oh, shit. Right. I’m sorry,” you say.

“Don’t be. Things are just really…tight right now. Time-wise.”

The pager at your hip buzzes. Ashton calling everyone back to set.

“I’ll call, okay? I promise,” Frankie says. The words make your chest cold and you hate it. This is selfish, surely. The man has a kid, for crying out loud. Who are you to deny or resent dad duty?

But you do. At this moment, you really do, wishing that the small being he has called his pride and joy would cease to exist for an evening. It’s horrible, so you nod and that's that. Back to work you go.

You wait until the end of the week. Frankie does not call. You hate, hate that you’ve been reduced to the girl in movies that would pine over the phone and wait for that special boy to call. Because really, are any of them all that special? Is Frankie?

Sure, he touched you and it felt like a match to your insides, but does that mean anything? You’re out of practice. He’s the first person to pay you any mind in that way since you became disabled. The more you think about it, really think about it, the more the argument for Frankie Morales falls apart.

Mia comes over on a night where missing Sam makes her heart ache a little too much to be alone, bringing with her a shitty bottle of rosé. You’re half a glass deep when she starts to ask that needling question, What’s wrong? And finishing the bottle by the time you sigh as an answer to her asking for the millionth time. You agreed to be open after the—spat? Blowup? Long overdue reuniting best friend fight?—but it still takes some time. She is prying open a mussel to find a very shitty prize.

“It’s stupid,” you say. “I’m stupid.”

“You’re not, and it isn’t,” Mia says, a frown on her face. Your lips stay sealed in a pout and she turns on those evil, adorable eyes. “Tell me.”

You hold out for about five minutes, some action flick moving quietly across your flat screen before you finally give in.

“Jesus! Fine,” you relent. “It’s like being waterboarded.”

Mia grins with satisfaction before her face snaps back to sober (as much as one can be after a whole bottle of wine) seriousness. “Spill.”

“You’re going to say it’s dumb,” you say.

“You’re projecting.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“I slept with Frankie.” A bomb explodes on screen, illustrating what is most certainly happening inside Mia’s skull at this very moment. “Yeah…”

“Was it good?”

“Mia!” you scold, swatting at her knee.

“Hey! You can’t blame me for asking. I love Sam but I have eyes,” she says. “He reminds me of all the guys we went to school with that have photos with fish on their Tinder profiles.”

“You’re terrible,” you sigh.

“You know it, baby,” she smiles. “So you slept together. What next?”

“We haven’t talked about it.”

Mia holds her tongue for a moment, trying to formulate this sentence in the least explosive way possible. “Do you want to?”

“Uh, yeah,” you say.

“I have to ask. You’re not exactly the talk it out type of person anymore,” Mia says.

Ignoring that, you say, “He’s busy. I’m busy. I hate it.”

“Call him,” Mia tries.

“Did that. Not really an over-the-phone kind of conversation,” you say.

Mia hums thoughtfully. “Okay, well. Try it out with me first.”

“What?”

“Whatever you’re going to say to him, say it to me. I know exactly where your mind is going with this—oh no, he has no time for me. Is it even worth discussing this matter that is very important to me if I project unimportance from the other party onto my feelings?"

You don’t say anything, willing another bottle of wine to appear next to the empty one on the coffee table.

“You can’t tell me I’m wrong. It’s what you do,” Mia says, confidence in the way she straightens up against the couch. And she isn’t wrong, but maybe you aren’t either. Frankie isn’t her. Frankie isn’t your best friend. He’s friendly, and you fucked.

“Okay, fine,” you say. You focus in on Mia’s eyes, imagining a different pair of them staring back at you. “I just—I want to tell you that what happened…was a first. In a long while. And I don’t know how to say it like a normal goddamn person, but—”

You can’t focus, words flying out of your mouth too fast for your tipsy brain to keep up. Your feelings are a jumble in your head, a vintage game of Scrabble lost to time. Mia’s not Frankie either. You’d have to explain it and provide all this context that you can’t even put words to for her to understand. For this to feel any ounce of real. Frankie would simply get it. But he won’t, because at this rate you’ll never get to tell him.

“I don’t know,” you sigh.

“Well I can’t make you do anything. I know you, and you’ll do what you think is best. Even if you know the alternative might be better,” Mia says. You can’t help but laugh. “I kind of get it, how your dad felt? When we were at school.”

The mood turns. Not sour, not quite the same. Your living room has a palpable edge ebbing through it now, carried through the occasional waft of alcohol between you, Mia, and the open, empty bottle.

“Do you remember him when we were in college?” you ask, voice quiet.

“Your dad? Of course. He was so, I don’t know—hands-on? He was around way more than my parents were,” Mia says.

He showed up every third weekend of the month with a few containers of leftovers; macaroni pie, frozen meatloaf and mashed potatoes, fresh tomatoes from his garden.

A man who only softened when you elected to up and leave. A man you resented until the day he died. A man you still resent, deep down in your soul. Yet you miss him.

The first time your heart’s been activated in years to throw you off assured feet and your first instinct is to run home to Dad. He lingers in your car, in the way you hold the gravy boat at Mia’s Thanksgiving dinners; his gloves are what you wore in the months of a tiresome film shoot amid an unending New York blizzard.

You hate him. He loved you. For the sixth time this week, you ponder driving home to clean up his grave. You can’t right now, because of work. Maybe when the summer’s over. The leaves will have started to fall. The headstone could use a good power wash.

“Where’d you go?” Mia asks.

“Hm?”

“You disappeared on me for a second,” she says.

“Thinking,” you say.

“Mm, don’t do too much of that. You’ll break your brain.”

“Already broken.”

“That’s too bad,” Mia smiles. “Had some pretty great thoughts sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“All the time,” she corrects. Mia gets off the couch, taking a minute to steady herself. “I’m calling a ride.”

“Excellent idea,” you nod. “See? Look at you. Responsible, quick-witted. You can do the thinking for the both of us.”

“Slow your roll, Romeo,” Mia cautions, staring into her phone. She looks up at you. “The night is still young. I’m only going home because you’re dry.”

“There’s a reason you keep alcohol at your place and I don’t,” you say. There have been some days, far behind you now, where you might’ve just drank the pain away. Certainly not the way to go.

She leaves you with another laugh and a smile, promising to text you when she gets home. The apartment stills as soon as the door shuts. You almost open it again, reaching for the knob to lean out into the hall and call Mia back. You don’t, instead letting the quiet envelope you. This doesn’t feel the same as the loneliness that would lurk in the shadowy corners of the room. Your lamps finally feel tall enough to reach those spots, dawning light on them and banishing the feeling.

You let yourself sit with it. Not lonely but alone. This isn’t permanent and it’s not a death sentence, as uncomfortable as it feels right now. Mia is there, along with an assortment of friends whose names you’ll have to dust the cobwebs off of soon. Even if Frankie never calls, you’ll be okay. A bittersweet realization for this dull and itching moment.

Catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror as you pass the bathroom, you pause. You watch yourself, not in judgment like the last time. Plain observation. You blink three times in one minute before moving on.

It’s odd, looking without really looking. You’ve oscillated between dissection and avoidance of yourself for the last handful of years. This is a new skill to build. Look, there she is. A blink in passing.

Wherever you go, there you are. Get used to it.

Back on the studio lot for the rest of the week, you don’t see Frankie. The occurrence becomes less and less significant as the days pass. You almost delete his number from your phone altogether. Almost.

At lunch, you go through your phone to his contact, finger hovering over the trash button. In the end, you decide against it. It’s a number you might need for work. It’d be a pain in the ass to have to go down to payroll for his contact information—like you don’t have the digits memorized. Mia joins you at some point, minutes blurring together as you eat in pleasant silence.

Shooting goes over almost two hours because of rain leaking through the roof onto a set piece. You get home close to midnight. The street lamps bathe everything in a warm glow. Puddles have collected in the divets of the road, water reflecting the artificial light alongside the cold moon.

The elevator ride up to your floor should be like any other. Your instincts know better. Watching the digital numbers change as the metal box ascends, your stomach flips in your gut. You’ve always been acutely aware of the environments you found yourself in, bullshit meter finely tuned to warn you when shit was about to hit the fan.

It’s an instinct your father grew and nurtured in childhood. Because of him, all hard edges and unreachable wells of emotion. He was iced over solid. You found yourself carefully skating over that surface, around and around again for years until you left.

When the elevator doors open, you half-expect to see him standing there. Risen from the grave like a corpse from your dreams. The wall of shiny metal parts into two, and you see someone. Not your father. The breath caught in your throat flashes from crisp to boiling, a tube of Icy Hot slathered across your lungs.

You’ve never told Frankie where you live. So what is he doing here?

Before you’ve even made it to your door, you ask him.

“Thought I’d missed you,” he supplies as an explanation. “Or that you were ignoring me from inside.”

“I can ignore you from outside, too,” you say, setting your bag down. Taking keys from your back pocket, you avert your eyes as you get a grasp on the one for your front door.

“Listen,” he begins, watching as you turn the lock. “I—”

“Look, Frankie. I don’t have time for this. Or you, or your games.” Turning the handle of the door and pushing it open, you grab your things and step inside your apartment. “You said you’d call. You didn’t. End of story.”

“The phone works both ways,” he says. You try not to be shocked at the audacity.

“Well this,” you say, pointing between the two of you, “doesn’t.”

You’re shutting the door when he gently rests a hand on the reinforced wood.

“Please just—let me explain?” Frankie asks. You don’t close the door but don’t open it any wider for him. At that, he says, “Thank you.”

Glancing behind you to find the living room clock, you say, “You’ve got two minutes.” Two minutes to midnight.

“I wanted to call, but I—” Frankie cuts himself off. “I was a coward and that’s not fair to you. I’m sorry. I don’t usually feel this way about people. Not in a long time.”

His words are scratching at your heart. You hold your steely gaze against him, ignoring your insides slowly melting behind the door.

“I really like you. More than I’ve liked anybody. More than I like myself most days. That night in Florida was confusing for me. You wanted me there, and I wanted you. And then you said it was scary and I realized just how terrifying it is. This is.” Frankie takes a breath. “I didn’t want this to be weird. Didn’t want to box you into a corner with all of this shit I’m feeling because that isn’t fair and—”

He’s been avoiding focusing on you, instead staring at the nice tile scuff between the doorway and his boot. Frankie looks up, words playing straight on his face. He looks like he’s seen a ghost when all he’s looking at is you.

“And now I’m some fucker on your doorstep begging you to listen to me tell my sob story.” From the sounds of it, that’s the last thing he wants.

“Sometimes things don’t work out. That’s life,” you say. You’re telling yourself that this is the smart decision. Ice him out and your heart stays safely in your chest. Close the door and he’ll forget all about you.

Frankie’s eyes are wide, expression raw. He isn’t observing or puzzling over you, he’s barely hiding anything on that face of his. Frankie is bleeding emotion all over your door. You want to take him in your hands and kiss it better. Lick the gore from his mouth, words crimson and dripping off his chin.

So you do.

Setting your bag down in the corner, you open the door wider to see all of him. He stands tall, all broad shoulders under his slubby blue button-down. You’re kissing Frankie before you can consider anything else. He takes ahold of the frilly sleeves of your blouse to pull you closer.

Licking at your teeth, Frankie walks you backward into the apartment. The door is still open. You maneuver around and press your back against it, closing with a thud. He breaks the kiss to murmur another apology against your cheek. You let him, pushing your tongue back into his mouth again.

Gripping the hair that sticks out at the nape of his neck, Frankie moans into the kiss.

“Are you—? Can we?” he asks, whisper-quiet. “Should we?”

No. Yes? You aren’t sure that it matters much anymore. “Do you want to?”

“Always.”

“Okay.”

The kiss is gentler from there on, moving through the front hall and living room with Frankie attached to your face. He almost trips himself taking his boots off. You both make it to the bed, thighs catching at the edge of the mattress. Lying down, he joins you. This is immediately better than that shitty motel, and you haven’t done anything yet.

Frankie moves onto his side, distracted by your lips as he works at the front zipper of your pants. You move your hand to join his, pulling the silver tab down over metal teeth like you’ve done a couple hundred times by now. He huffs in a wordless thanks, pushing your pants down until they are bunched at your ankles. You toe them off along with your socks, leaving you in nothing but underwear from the waist down.

He’s looking at you like an eclipse, utterly fascinated. You begin to shrink in on yourself under his gaze, but he gently runs the pads of his fingers over your cheek. You lean into the warm touch, three matches dragging against your skin to set your face alight.

Frankie kisses down your body, undoing a few of the buttons that sit over your chest. He doesn’t take the shirt off of you, instead pushing it up as his lips kiss over your stomach. You jerk, the soft feeling sending a jolt through your body.

“Please,” you whisper. “Please touch me.” You hate that you’re begging, but love to hear yourself do it.

Frankie does too, moving his mouth over you as he keeps your underwear on. He licks at you over the lycra material, soaking the already damp fabric where your clit sits beneath it. Dipping his tongue low against the gusset, he slips two fingers under your waistband and tugs it away from your skin. The panties peel off of you.

Frankie bunches them in his hand, leaving them beside him on the bed. Without warning, he’s on you again—really this time. He licks at your cunt fervently, like this is the last chance he’ll get to give head. You close your eyes and pull his head closer to your body, small moans slipping past your lips.

This is still a bit of an apology. The thought comes to you amidst your fuzzy haze as you drip onto his tongue. Frankie groans below you, taking your right thigh in one hand and hoisting it onto his shoulder. He’s attached to you again, a different set of lips.

Most of his attention is focused on your clit, his tongue swirling at it between moments when he presses it flat against the whole of you.

“You’re always so sweet for me,” Frankie mumbles. “Wet and pretty. D’you like it when I fuck you with my mouth?”

“Yes, fuck—always,” you sigh.

Dragging him up by the hair, you kiss him again. You need to before you say something stupid. One hand is held softly at your jaw while Frankie’s other hand works you over, pressing hard against your clit.

“God.” Your heart is racing underneath your skin, beating too fast to be quite comfortable.

Frankie’s so close and everything smells like him. Frankie and sex; two things this room has never been exposed to in your tenure here. You should make a candle.

You scratch at his chest, half-hoping to draw a bit of blood as you whine his name.

“Yeah honey? That good? Nice and slow, or—?”

You nod and he slips a finger inside of you, pressing against the front wall of your pelvis. This returns you to begging for more, for anything. For him.

At the edge of an orgasm, Frankie’s fingers leave you in search of a condom. You reach out to the drawer of your bedside table, yanking it forward. Amongst a stash of pens, sticky notes, and batteries is a handful of them. Frankie takes one and opens it up, sliding the latex over his cock. One day, you’ll get your mouth on that thing. Right now you both have other plans.

He works his hand over himself a couple of times before sinking onto the mattress with you. His arms cage you in at either side as he slides in slowly. He’s only halfway inside you when you nod to yourself, a hum barely audible.

“What?” he asks.

“Noting that you’re a missionary type of guy,” you say.

That pulls a laugh from him, morphing into a squeezed moan as you hook one leg over Frankie’s hip. He’s pushed the rest of the way inside of you, breathing heavily at the surprise.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

“Would that be so bad this way?” you ask. It’s hard to keep up the sarcastic banter when you’re so full of him.

Frankie sighs. “No.” The word is punctuated by a thrust of his hips, the force moving you up the bed half an inch.

What you would give to have him fuck you into the headboard; pound you into the mattress. He can’t, shouldn’t, and seems to know it already. Frankie grants you your wish of laying on you though. Just lightly, a feather of a man on top.

Frankie’s cock kisses the end of your cunt before he pulls out again. You hold onto him, pressing him closer as you keep your face in the shadow of his neck. Picturing the scene, pants off and shirts on, almost makes you laugh. Another punch of his hips fucks the thought from your head as you sink your teeth into his skin. Frankie hisses, losing his rhythm with a slight stutter.

“Do that again,” he says, waiting. You do, kissing at the tender skin of his throat this time before you bite him. The flesh between your teeth is soft and elastic, pulling away from his body.

In Frankie’s absence, your appetite has grown. Maybe that’s what it is: starvation. Waiting for days to get your fill once again. You need him inside you—in your cunt, under your skin, between your teeth. You would devour him if he’d let you.

“You feel so fucking good.” His words come slow, contrasting the small gasps he pulls from you on every thrust, leaving you breathless. Frankie is holding you in almost a cradle now. Claustrophobia settles between your bodies deliciously, the world shrinking down to a pinhole as he fucks you.

It doesn’t quite feel like fucking, though. The way Frankie touches you is too soft in some places, and the way he’s looking at you is killer. His eyes flash with that unexplainable thing, stirring your stomach as you feel your peak again. This is a murder. He’s returning the favour.

The next kiss Frankie gives you is bruising. The heat of your skin against his boils over, the oxygen blur caused by your faulty lungs and the slap of his hips against yours doing you in. You come with a groan, panting into his mouth as he continues to thrust into you.

“So pretty when you come,” he says beside your ear. “So pretty always, sweet thing.”

He pulls out of you, jerking himself off through the condom over your body. You shake your head, removing the thin piece of rubber. You pick up where he left off, spitting on him and stroking Frankie’s cock with the tight circle of your hand.

“Fuck,” he moans, long and loud. “Honey, slow down. Where do you want it?”

“In my mouth.” Testing, you give him a kitten lick at the tip of his dick.

“Oh god.”

You shake your head. “Just me.”

He comes with a few more strokes, striping your tongue, your lips, your chin. You let him go to gather it from your skin onto your fingers. It’s only a little shiny here in the half-dark. You can feel Frankie watching when you press your index past your lips, tasting more of him.

He groans. Again, he says, “You’re gonna kill me.”

Frankie lays down on the empty side of the bed. You brace for his after-sex questionnaire, but the conversation never comes. He rolls onto his side to face you, slipping his arms around your torso as you face away from him.

Eventually he asks, “You still like me being here? Now that it’s here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Florida, it’s a vacation. This is a little more…” Permanent. Memorable.

Whenever you went home for the summer, your childhood bedroom plagued you with thoughts and memories long buried of your amateur firsts. Your brain still sort of worked like that—you’re sure that if you went back to your old unit in California, the handful of PAs and dolly grips you spent nights with would be one of the first things on your mind.

“Yeah,” you say, answering the question. “This is better.”

“Better?”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you mumble into the pillow.

“Too late,” Frankie says.

You sigh. “How can you be the coolest guy ever and an absolute donut at the same time?”

“You think I’m cool?” he asks.

Unlike him, you’re honest. “Unfortunately.”

Frankie hums, the rumble of his chest sinking into the bones in your spine easily.

This is all easy. Listening to him breathe, letting him in your space, falling asleep against him. If you weren’t so thoroughly fucked and tired, the simplicity would freeze you, desperate to scramble away. All you can do is lay there, falling asleep in his arms.

When you wake up, Frankie’s gone. Again.

Something painful seizes your chest, an icy claw poking razor-sharp fingers through the slats in your ribs. The sheets on the empty side of the bed still have the faint glow of body heat. He must’ve left recently, or maybe he’s still up. You can catch him before he puts his boots on and walks out your front door—out of your apartment, out of your life.

Franke interrupts your thoughts when he returns to your room, a mug in his hand.

“Did I wake you?” he asks. His morning voice is low and gravelly. A feast for the ears.

“No,” you shake your head. “I thought you left.”

“Moved my boots. They were getting dirt on your nice carpet.” Right. You remember him leaving them somewhere in your apartment. “I made coffee.”

“I’m okay.” You let your breathing even out as he sits back down on the bed with you. “We should…talk.”

“That’s all we ever do,” Frankie says. “Well, that and…” The other thing you two are so proficient at these days.

“I mean really talk. About this,” you say.

“Right,” he nods. Frankie sets his mug down, steam rising from the top. “I guess I do owe you a secret.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that.”

“It doesn’t,” he agrees. “I want to tell you.”

When you told him about the accident, about everything that changed, you’d handed him this soft and precious thing of yours that no one else had ever seen. With the roles reversed, your palms itch. You can’t help but think that you’ll drop his.

“But you have to promise me something first,” Frankie says. “Don’t say anything until I’m done, okay? Please.”

“Okay.”

A long moment of silence draws on between the two of you as he stares at your bed sheets. Frankie’s mouth twitches, filtering through his vocabulary to find the right words. Then finally, he speaks.

He tells you about a region in South America called Tres Fronteras. About a phone call, a decision, a heist. The money, most of it lost to the unforgiving land and sea. Frankie lost a friend, a wife, and a life he was trying to carve out for himself. All for riches that were never going to be his.

“I killed people. I was good at it—that and flying planes. And then all of that ended with the service. For a while there I was…a bit of a trigger-happy coke head,” he says, almost rolling his eyes. Frankie can’t seem to look at you, the same way he couldn’t in the hall. “Took a long time to clean up my act.”

You understand what he meant on that beach, an apology waiting behind your teeth as you keep your eyes on him. You don’t verbalize it. Instead, you take his hand into yours. Gently, you squeeze.

“I guess you aren’t the only one squirrely about secrets,” Frankie whispers.

“Can you look at me? Please?”

Frankie surrenders, face drawn when he meets your eyes.

“That’s not the person you’ve shown me. It’s not the guy that I see. We change. For worse or for better.”

You would be lying if you said that his admissions don’t unsettle you; that this is an easy pill to swallow. But you know him. You want him. He and you are cut from the same cloth in the end. This changes nothing.

“Which one do you think you are?” he asks.

“Worse.” But that can change. Is changing, even as you sit here.

“And me?”

At that, you smile. “Better.”

You want to tell him that the promise of seeing him had been one of the only things getting you through the slow, thick haze of summer. That the thought of him never calling was a little devastating, no matter how sad that sounds. You miss his touch and want his eyes on you always. You’ve never had such a quick turnaround in opinion about anything. It’s selfish, really.

“I’m kind of a bad person,” he says slowly. It’s half warning, half realization.

“Good and bad are concepts from make-believe. I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”

“So what do you worry about?” Frankie asks.

“Reality,” you say. “My whole life is centered around making other people believe in something fake. Concentrating on what’s real? That’s been keeping me sane lately.”

Mia’s words. Frankie’s attention. That tangible feeling of warmth, different but the same, when you are around both of them.

“And you’re real,” you say before he can ask. “A bit of a fuck up, but so am I.”

“That must be why we get along,” Frankie says.

“Must be.”

You want to add you’ll be okay to that list of real things. You need it. You’d kill for it. Silently, with your head against the pillow, you make a decision.

tags: @wannab-urs / @anoverwhelmingdin / @iamskyereads / @for-a-longlongtime

#pedrostories #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales #triple frontier #pedro pascal fanfiction #fic: the world tipped on its side

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keep-the-wolves-close · 7 months

Text

Steady Heart

Chapter 28: Achilles Heel

* Pairing: Slow-burn Kayce Dutton x OFC Stella Daniels

* Rating: M? (Still figuring out the rating system) (might eventually be M anyhow)

* Warnings: language, angst

* Word count: 1,867ish

I would love to give credits to @dameronscopilot and @deanscroissant for being sounding boards for me during this whole process, giving outsider insight, being cheerleaders, and allowing me to screech at them about things that have happened during the writing process. I seriously couldn't have gotten this far without y'all

Author's note: Okay, I lied. One more because I have an uneven number queued. Then I’ll follow the rules. Scouts honor lol. 🤓 Things are starting to ramp up, Kayce and Stella are finally coming back to some kind of normalcy. It’s been rough, but we’ll get there. Also, this is shorter than normal, but it worked well for splitting these events up. I hope y’all don’t mind, I hope everyone is enjoying so far! I hope you love this chapter as well!

“What! You told me you ran into him!” Ryan cried out.

“Okay I bent the truth! I’m sorry. I knew if I told you that 30 minutes ago, you would have burnt the whole state of Montana to the ground!” She defended herself.

All the men moved closer to her instinctually. Rip started in on her hard. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me when I picked you up?!”

“Because I wanted to tell everyone all at once, Rip!” Was he even listening?

He came back at her even angrier. “Bullshit! Were you gonna say anything at all?!”

“Yes! My god! I’m here aren’t I?”

Kayce targeted her next. “You’re only here because your brother and I made sure you’d come talk to my dad.”

John interrupted. “All of you quit!” He locked in on Stella. “What did he want?”

“I asked him and he said something about liking my property, yadda yadda, and got insulted when I asked who he was again and told me I work for a ranch that has started to annoy people. Then read me like an open book almost to every little detail about my life.” Stella crossed her arms and shook her leg. The memory of Malcolm’s unnaturally blue eyes staring into hers as he recited her information sent a chill up her spine.

“I told him I wasn’t interested in anything he had to offer. He said I was a soft spot for people here, which I beg to differ,” she focused on the floor, “but whatever. Then he said he would be seein’ me real soon. Whatever that means.” She looked back up at John and shrugged.

“So long story short, what I wanted to say was, I’m not sure Jenkins is our culprit for those cows being dead. Somethin’ about Malcolm and his brother doesn’t sit straight with me. He was fishin’ for somethin’, but I don’t know what.” Her cheeks were flushed by the time she was finished. Stella felt like she was on trial. Especially with the way everyone just looked at her angrily and didn’t say anything. “You can choose to believe me, or not, but I’m tellin’ you right now somethin’ ain’t right.”

“Damn it.” John looked to his son. “Kayce, what did you find out from Jenkins?”

Kayce watched Stella, who focused on John. She turned her body to face the patriarch, trying to pretend she was anywhere but in the room with them. He announced. “Wasn’t Jenkins.”

Rip mumbled a cuss to himself. That meant they were dealing with a different player; and that player was bigger, and seemingly interested in Stella.

“How do we know it wasn’t him?” John asked.

“I looked him in the eye and it wasn’t him.” Kayce made direct eye contact with his dad.

“I can also attest that he wouldn’t know the first thing about cows or how to kill them.” Stella added.

She finally locked eyes with Kayce. He looked tired. “You okay?” Everyone could tell there was something deeper behind her question. Even though it seemed like she wanted to be out of any room Kayce was in.

“It went fine.”

Stella scowled at him for ignoring her actual question.

“Let me talk to my son please.” John excused the three of them. Stella wasn’t sure what was going on, but if it meant she could escape, she’d take it.

Kayce stayed behind to talk to his father. At first they talked about something Kayce had done in war that had changed him forever. His heart raced just reliving the memory. If he could go back and have it happen differently, he would in a heartbeat. Kayce wanted to leave, but John stopped him.

“What’s going on with you and Stella?”

Kayce sighed. “Nothing dad.”

“Her looking like she was about to claw her way out of the window to get away when you went in on her says otherwise.” John leaned back against his desk smugly. He was almost certain he knew what was coming.

“There is nothing going on between Stella and I. Nothing.” He tried to be stern in his answer to get his dad to stop asking. He was confused as to what was going on himself. He had fucked up. Simple as that.

John stayed quiet and examined his son. Kayce’s face was flushed, and his voice let John know he was confused. If he didn’t know any better, he would say Kayce looked like he was going to panic. He looked like he was in love. That’s how he had looked when he found Evelyn.

Kayce couldn’t take the silence any longer. “Okay fine! We slept together. So what?”

‘Ah. There it was.’ John thought to himself as he breathed out a chuckle. This wasn’t when or how he thought this conversation would come up, but he knew it would cross him one day. “And when was that?”

Kayce looked down. “A few days ago.” He refused to tell his father that it was more than once.

“And you just got back from visiting with Monica? Now I understand why she wanted to leave so badly.” John worked out. He watched as his son squirmed. “How did things go with Monica, by the way? Especially with this new,” there was no real way for him to say this delicately, “development.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it dad.”

“But you’re gonna have to sooner or later.”

“She wants a divorce.”

“What for?”

“A lot of things.”

John crossed his arms. “What are you gonna do, son? Because that woman out there has stood behind you through thick and thin. Even after you broke her, she still made sure you were okay. Didn’t like that you ignored her actual question, but she still did it.”

Kayce got frustrated and slammed his hand against the door. “I don’t know! On one hand Monica is my wife, the mother of my son, the lov—,” he stopped himself. He didn’t know if he was choked up, or if he couldn’t actually bring himself to say it.

“— But?” John interrupted.

“I don’t know, dad. I just — I don’t know.”

Making it to the door, Stella started to pick up her pace. She thought she was home free when her feet hit the porch. She would have been if Rip’s rough hand didn’t grab her elbow. Her shoulders sagged. “Listen I know you’re both angry I didn’t tell you right away, but can one more person not be mad at me today?” She looked down at the floor of the porch. “I have Ryan double mad at me, you, probably Mr. Dutton. Kayce and I are weird right now…,” she trailed off. The list could go if she thought about it hard enough.

“Yeah we noticed.” Ryan informed her crossing his arms.

Stella pulled her lips in. She hoped she had hidden it better than that. ‘Great.’

“Was it really that noticeable?”

Ryan scoffed. “You looked like you wanted to be anywhere but where Kayce was.”

“You didn’t wanna be around him the other night. You were upset about somethin’.” Rip started to put two and two together out loud for Ryan. He didn’t want to be the one to spill the beans. “Somethin’ about you broke your own heart.”

“I was really hoping that you wouldn’t have remembered that.”

“What happened between you two?” Ryan asked. Stella remained quiet with her lips pulled in. “C’mon Stell. You gotta lay it out there at some point.”

She looked out along the dark horizon line and wished she could shrink herself. It was embarrassing enough to have the thoughts run through her own head, let alone say them out loud. Especially to her brother and a man she considered a brother.

“I thought something might have changed between us, but it didn’t. I was just a hopelessly hopeless romantic caught up in my own delusion.” She moved her hands in a ‘giving up’ motion. Her voice came out more quietly than before. “It doesn’t matter.” She stepped toward the stairs. “Can we be done here? Please?”

Kayce came out of the house looking flustered. His gaze landed on Stella and both of them seemed to stop breathing. “Can I talk to you?”

Stella breathed in. “I mean, no,” she blew the breath out, “but you’re gonna keep tryin’ until I let you. So I guess.” She crossed her arms and looked at the other two men. “Can you guys give us a minute? I’ll be right behind you.”

Ryan stepped forward and Rip reached out to stop him from getting too close. He threatened the man responsible for hurting his sister. “You hurt her even more, and everything else you’re going through will be the least of your worries.” Rip grabbed his shoulder to direct him to the horses.

Stella watched them trot off. Ryan gave her one last look and she nodded to him. It was quiet behind her, and she was half expecting Kayce to be gone when she turned around. Holding her head as high as she could, she pivoted around to face him. She fixed her glasses and sniffed. “Well, let’s have it.”

Kayce got a good look at her face. She looked humiliated. He had hurt her badly. He was afraid it was past the point of repair. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too Kayce.” She looked down, sullen.

“I shouldn’t have come onto you like that. We shouldn’t have done it at all. I ruined a perfectly good friendship.”

“Yeah I know it was a mistake. Is that all you wanted to say? Because I could live without the embarrassment of hearing, let's just pretend this never happened.”

“No. I wanted to tell you Monica and I decided to co-parent, but we can’t go back to each other.”

“Okay that’s great, but now I feel dirty. Like I was just a distraction, which I mean I was. A distraction for you at my expense. I just don’t know if I can get past that.”

Unbeknownst to the two of them, John had snuck out onto his porch to hear how this would play out.

Kayce started, “I understand, but—,” and Stella interrupted him.

“— Do you really have any grounds to stand on to place a ‘but’ in there? I was blinded by the feelings I’ve had for you since we were kids and somehow, whether you realized it or not, you used it to your advantage.” Her eyes stung. “I thought I was always safe with you.” She said in a small voice. “And to find out I wasn’t, hurts. I let you past everything I had put up.” John tilted his head to the side. She had a point. “So I’m gonna go. I just wanna be left alone.” She spun around to make her way down to the bunkhouse.

Kayce stood there defeated. He knew he’d fucked up big time. If she ever talked to him again, he would be surprised. He heard footsteps on the porch. He turned and saw his dad.

“So how are you gonna make this right, son?”

“I’m gonna respect her and leave her be. I’ve already done enough damage.” He walked off and hopped in his truck.

#yellowstone #kayce dutton #yellowstonetv #luke grimes #ian bohen #ryan #kayce dutton fan fiction #yellowstone fanfic #yellowstone fanfiction #kayce dutton fanfic

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writefightandflightclub · 6 months

Text

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Seven (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Genre: a LOT of angst, (some) smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. Please note this series is 18+. Minors or ageless blocks interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list).

Author’s note: Phew! Well, the last couple of chapters were a lot, hey? I wonder what will happen next, tee hee! As always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send my way. You give me life! ILY :-*

Word count: 8.6k for this part.

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

“Hey,” you croak, as Frankie cracks the door to your room, finding you laying in the glum light. You’re on top of the covers and hugging your pillow to your chest, body curled around the white mass like you’re trying to form a human s’more.

Of course, you can’t sleep. You’re just slumped there, despondent, blinking into the crow black dark. Your tears have subsided, at least. But you feel sapped. Like you barely have any energy to feel anything anymore.

“Hey,” Frankie returns, dipping the mattress as he comes to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Benny send you?” You had insisted Benny go and get some shut eye, after comforting you for the better part of half an hour. There were hugs and warm tea and threats to handle Pope if he’d done something to deserve it. He hadn’t, you’d explained. He hadn’t done a damn thing worse than you, at least.

“Negative.”

You hum neutrally and scooch your body up so that you’re sitting with your back to the headboard, knees drawn up around the pillow you still cling to like a security blanket.

“I’m gonna say something, okay?” Frankie says firmly, and you brace, fully expecting to receive some tough love. You note with relief, however, that as the man turns his head towards you, his eyes are nothing but soft. “You and me. We’re going back to your sister’s tomorrow. Get you some space.”

Space from him. That much is implied.

“No, Frankie.” Your throat tightens. All you’ve had is space. For months. The last thing you need is more.

He places a hand on your knee, his tone firm and almost paternal. He’s going to make a damn good father, you think, with a swell of pride. “That’s what we’ll do. It’s not going to be like this anymore. We’re gonna stop taking chunks out of each other.”

All you had wanted to do was to be close again. You’d never meant-

“-Frankie.”

“Just think about it.”

You nod, and Frankie pats your knee. Stifles a yawn. Presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. He looks wiped. With a gust of breath he stands, preparing to leave. “G’night, chiquita. Get some rest, alright?”

“Yeah. And Frankie?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m sorry, by the way.”

“What for?”

You sweep your hand through the air. “For the drama. Et cetera.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Do you know…” You cast a sidelong glance towards the black pane of the window. “Is… he coming back?”

The man drags his tongue along his lip. He does that when he’s uncertain. “He’ll be back.”

“How do you know?” You don’t remember the last time you felt or sounded so small.

“Because he’s a fucking glutton for punishment,” Frankie attempts a lopsided smile, his cheek tugging on the corner of his mouth; but it drops when he realises his joke hasn’t landed. “Just… try to get some rest. Okay?”

You nod, and you watch Frankie leave, his face murky but kind through the shadows as he gently tugs your door closed behind him.

When he’s gone, you wait a moment for his footsteps to retreat and then you cross to the window, cracking it open far enough that you can hear the gentle shush of the waves. Far enough that you could hear either the sound of a truck pulling away in the dead of night, or the front door clicking gently closed, perhaps.

You lie back on top of the bed covers, flat on your back, and your limbs stretched out like a starfish. You lie with your eyes open, staring at the ceiling - exhausted, but wide awake.

And, after who knows how long like this, you hear footsteps tramping on to the porch. You hear the front door gently being latched, and the soft pad of someone travelling up the stairs. You hear the footsteps pause outside of your door for a moment and you hold your breath. You imagine an outstretched fist, primed to knock, but you dismiss this as wishful thinking. You’ve done a lot of that lately. Too much.

Then, finally, you hear him shuffle into his room, clicking the door shut behind him.

Only then - when you know he’s back - can you sleep.

And, as you drift off, your thoughts of him merge with the soporific sounds of the waves.

You’d doubt, with how much you’ve ached for him already, that you could hurt anymore, but you know fine well that it’s possible. After all, the waves break over and over, don’t they?

They break, and they break, and they break.

***

The following morning is an awkward affair. Everyone is tetchy, and even after a very necessary lie-in, residual grumpiness abounds.

It figures. A shouting match and a rude awakening will do that.

Still, the day must go on. You get knocked down? You keep moving.

Will, ever an early riser and a true hero, brews up the first pot of coffee. Starts cooking up some breakfast, and, one by one, you and the boys filter downstairs, chasing the scent of sustenance.

“Don’t even,” you say to Tom the moment he opens his mouth, the room falling silent as you waddle sleepily downstairs, gravitating straight towards the caffeine and the relative safety of Will. Frankie, Benny, and Tom are sat around the dining table, and, you note -because of course you do- that Santiago is glaringly absent.

Maybe Frankie advised him not to come downstairs just yet. Perhaps he’s simply sulking. Or sleeping. Or avoiding you. Perhaps, maybe, possibly a million and one things, which you’ll never know the reasoning behind.

It doesn’t even matter now.

You’re done trying to figure him out. Since when did that ever get you anywhere useful?

Instead then, you attempt to refocus. To divert your attention away from your sun, and towards the wider constellation of stars you are proud to call your squad. And, of course, to your plate of breakfast - that deserves attention too.

The one thing you refuse to focus on, for the moment, is the elephant in the room.

Still, you glance -briefly- towards the mouth of the stairs.

“What else is new with you then, Benny boy? Seeing anyone?” You reach for just about the only topic you hadn’t covered with him yesterday evening - when you had been trying ever so valiantly to distract yourself from Santiago and all that he entails.

In response, his baby blues dance with mischief and he grins, raising one arm to pop a bicep in celebration even as he shovels forkfuls of scrambled eggs into his mouth with the other. “I had myself a date the other night.” He probably flexes in his sleep, this man.

“She stay for breakfast, Benjamin?” Frankie interjects, finally managing to be vocal again now that he’s been provided with the sweet hit of his second mug of caffeine.

“‘Catfish. She was breakfast.”

You hear Will groan from over at the stove. “Too much information, Ben.”

Ben, meanwhile, looks entirely unapologetic.

“Whatever happened to being a gentleman, huh? The way your Granny raised you?” Tom enquires with a thin smile. “Thought gentlemen didn’t kiss and tell.”

“Oh, but I was a gentleman, Redfly. Let her finish first ‘n’ everythin’.” Benny offers a shit-eating grin, and you are once again grateful for the distraction as the room descends into fond bickering, the back-and-forth culminating in Will whipping his sibling with a rolled tea towel for continuing to overshare, accidentally catching Tom in the crossfire.

“Those dirty-minded individuals asked the questions, man,” Benny defends, jabbing his finger around in a circle at the rest of you in accusation. “They always wanna know what action I’m getting. Hell, no-one ever asks me what I’m readin’.”

You snicker.

You glance -briefly- towards the mouth of the stairs.

“Of course not. We’re trying to live vicariously through you, man,” Tom interjects. “We don’t want to vicariously read things.”

“Especially not the pretentious shit you read, Benjamin,” Frankie digs, before collecting up the plates and conveying them over to the sink. And, given a natural lull in the conversation, Benny takes the opportunity to grab your attention.

“You still up for training later, hon? I’m tabled for a beastly session this afternoon.”

It briefly crosses your mind to wonder where Benny gets his abundance of energy. You, on the other hand, can’t even be bothered to trace that train of thought through to completion. “Yeah. Maybe, Ben. I, uh, need to drive into town this morning though.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, with a mouthful of streaky bacon, swivelling his cap to sit backwards on his head as though that will help him pay better attention to you.

You glance once more -only briefly, of course- towards the mouth of the stairs.

“Mmm-hmm. Need to grab something from the pharmacy.” You blink, attempting to look as innocent as possible, but your face burns with a flare of heat, and you can’t help but scratch your nose self-consciously.

You feel as though they all know the purpose of your trip - somehow - even though that’s impossible. And, you pray that even if they do, that they will at least have the courtesy to let it slide.

Unfortunately though, you suddenly remember that Tom exists, and that therefore, you’re likely not getting away with it that easy.

“You and Pope all out of condoms or something?” he guffaws around the lip of his coffee mug as he takes a deep swig.

“Tom,” Frankie warns, subtly shaking his head as he comes to retake his seat by you.

Oddly though, Tom’s comment barely even manages to irk you. You pat your defender on the arm. “Frankie. I’m fine.”

He surveys you regardless, to be sure, and you are grateful for it. Frankie knows fine well that Tom has a talent for rubbing you up the wrong way. The two of you have never quite seen eye to eye.

“See, she can handle herself just fine,” Tom reminds him pointedly. He never did like the way the rest of the boys fussed so damn hard over you. His tone has the veneer of light-heartedness. “You can take a joke, right?”

Your lips twitch around some halfway cruel retort, but, turns out, you truly have no ire left today. You’re all out - and besides, you’re not looking to burn any more bridges than you have already on this trip.

“Listen,” you begin sincerely, cradling your mug of coffee between your palms. Deciding to nip this in the bud before it spirals. “Are we good, Tom? I was a little bit hot-tempered yesterday. I’m sorry.”

Once again, you glance towards the mouth of the stairs. Your gaze lingers a fraction longer this time, until it ticks back to Tom.

He looks at you levelly for a moment over the rim of his mug, before his brown eyes begin to shine with a dull, metered-out warmth. Nothing like the warmth of your sun, of course, but shining on your more brightly than Tom had deigned to in a long while, at least. “Sure we are. So long as you don’t wake me up in the middle of the night again. I need my beauty sleep.”

You hold your palms up in rare surrender. “You got it.”

“What was all that about, anyway?” Tom needles, shuffling forward in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. Beside you, you can sense Frankie and Benny ready to knock him back should he dare to overstep. You wonder suddenly if you’re too harsh on the guy. If you need to loosen off, be a little kinder.

You wrap both hands more tightly around your coffee now, letting the warmth bleed through into your interlaced fingertips and the steam rise under your chin. “The usual,” you dismiss, not wanting to go into specifics. That would involve replaying it all. Would call for a digging out of the shrapnel lodged in your chest - an activity far too involved to undertake alongside a lazy breakfast. “Sometimes a storm is what it takes to clear the air, right?”

“And?” Tom cranes forwards a little more. You clock Frankie’s nostrils flaring subtly in annoyance. “Is the air clear now?”

You know what Tom’s asking. Was anything resolved? Are you two done?

Is all this over?

Apparently curious, all three of the men direct their gaze toward you, keenly awaiting your answer. You even reach for one -an answer- but you come up lacking, and your uncertainty carves a notch into your brow. Makes your mouth go dry. Your gaze flicks to the mouth of the stairs, and this time, you can’t look away from it. “I…”

Thankfully, unfortunately, you are saved and damned all at once as Santiago finally appears. Emerging from the spot you’ve been glancing intermittently at all through breakfast.

All the faces in the kitchen turn abruptly towards him as his careless footfalls sound out, and suddenly his eager skip down the stairs entirely loses steam. His pace slows, dragging to a dead halt by the time he has reached the base of the stairs.

Your eyes go as wide as they can, through no fault of your own, and despite being the focus of the whole group’s attention, Santiago stares straight ahead at you. Of course he does. Only you, as though there is no-one else in the room to acknowledge.

“Morning,” he addresses, solely to you, his expression impassive, yes - but certainly not harsh. Not angry.

“Morning,“ you respond, as brightly as possible, your eyes still wide and unblinking, and it is a little unnerving as every other head in the room swivels simultaneously around to face you. Oh good. Because you’d worried this might be awkward. You unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth. “Will has bacon,” you offer stiffly, your whole body so full of tension it feels brittle; like it could snap.

As if the product of some hive mind, the heads swivel in unison back towards Santiago. He doesn’t drop his gaze from you, however. Doesn’t even blink - just looks between your left eye and right repeatedly. “Fabulous. Thanks.”

Sure. Okay. This is totally normal. Except… you don’t think you’ve ever heard Santiago describe something as “fabulous” in his life. But why not start now, hey? This is fine.

You watch him turn. Walk towards Will and the stove top, and when his gaze finally drops from yours it is like the taut line which was drawn across the room finally snaps, blissfully allowing some of the tension to sag with it.

“Good timing, Garcia. Here.” Will doesn’t miss a beat, transferring the spatula into Santiago’s hand and shuffling him seamlessly into his position before he can clock what’s happening. “I’m officially passing the torch of Breakfast Duty into your capable hands.“

“Uh. Sure,” Santiago obliges, obediently beginning to move the sizzling strips around the pan as Benny stands, already crowding him to jostle for seconds. Will slaps the waffled tea towel across Santiago’s shoulder for good measure too, and you die a little inside at how goddamn domestic he looks. Especially since he’s still wearing his fluffy sheepskin slippers. Rocking his bedhead of gently tousled, greying curls.

It makes you yearn.

“Want a ride into town, soldier?” Will calls to you across the space, jutting his chin up at you and snapping you from your stupor. Immediately, you scrape your chair back, the gentle throb of nerves making you eager to animate. Eager to jump on any excuse to get the hell out of there.

“Yes! Please!”

You scoop up your plate and cutlery, and you attempt to take Frankie’s to the sink too. That is, until he protectively winds his arm around it like a bear defending its cub and begins actively batting your hand away. You guess he wants second helpings too.

You sidle over to the stove then, where Santiago is dedicating himself to his latest occupation with vigour, Benny equally invested in hovering with his empty plate - and not above begging for scraps.

“Where to in town?” Santiago asks in a hushed voice, his thick eyebrow arcing. You dismiss your plate into the dish bowl to soak, and he pauses his spatula duties momentarily to await your response.

“Pharmacy.” You look at him pointedly.

His face crumples with something resembling apology. Or - perhaps more likely - regret. “Okay.”

Your eyes lock for a moment, and he looks so different to you this morning than he had in the dead of the night. It is more than the gentle morning sun giving a soft glow to his features, the dusting of late summer freckles on his nose popping in the light. It is more than the wholesome appearance of him cooking up breakfast. More than the hush in his tone, and the way his chin dips down, making his eyes look big and round and gentle as he looks at you from beneath his long sweep of lashes.

You suspect that he is purposefully making himself soft. Blunting his harsh edges so deliberately and so entirely that you fear he will sluice to the floor like the insides of a cracked egg. “You, uh… You need anything? Need me to…?”

Santiago. Honey. You’ve done quite enough already.

“No,” you say, but the word doesn’t audibly make it out the first time around. You clear your throat. “No. Thank you.”

“Okay.”

Your gaze dips to the dried, rogue fleck of toothpaste right on the corner of his mouth. You can’t explain why, but this tiny, human detail makes your chest ache. “Talk later?”

He forces his sober expression to twist into a halfway smile. His eyes grow big and earnest, that cup of coffee gaze gently warming you. “Okay.”

Don’t, you inwardly plead with him. Don’t give me hope. Don’t break me again, Santiago.

A niggle plays at your brow. It’s odd, really. You remember the words and venom spat from each of your mouths yesterday. Of course you do. But you can no longer feel the all-consuming ire that came along with them. That part -that feeling- is absent. Every scrap of anger consumed. It seems as alien to you as the raging storm must feel to the clear morning which follows.

And so, you can’t help it. Really can’t help it. You dip forwards to kiss Santiago, softly. Right on the point of his beautifully high cheekbone, giving his tea-towel adorned shoulder a light squeeze.

You leave, then, to the sight of that subtle crimson flush darkening his cheeks, your gesture evidently both confounding and flustering him.

You leave too, to the sound of Benny yelling “Look alive, Pope! Don’t burn my goddamn bacon!”. The spatula has gone limp in his hand as Santiago’s gaze trails after you, and the tension is once again pulled taut like a string across the room. You imagine a festival of blush red balloons tied all along it, rising and dancing like your hope.

You leave, with an answer to Tom’s question.

You and Santiago? Is it over?

No. It’s not done.

But you are done with being angry.

You’re done breaking, and no longer will you throw yourself against those rocks.

***

The time away from the house was useful, and the scenes of the open coast slipping by smoothed your roughened edges out like a tossed, worn pebble. The salt-saturated air humming through your wound-down window had you drinking in deep, energising lungfuls. Then, there was Will’s steady, reassuring drawl, and all the feelings of security that came along with it.

Steady, dependendable, straightforward Will. You always knew where you stood with him.

At least, that’s who he had always been to you. Not the volatile, ticking time bomb you’d heard he’d become since he’d gotten out. Since he’d almost choked a man out in the tinned produce aisle.

It was good to have time to talk with him. You were endlessly glad to hear the ways Will was moving forward. You were glad -first and foremost- for him, of course; but you couldn’t deny it bolstered your own hope too. To know that there was a route out? A path onward - even when some things attempted to drag you back? It felt good.

Speaking of things which dragged you to them, you were also grateful that Will didn’t press you (too much) on Santiago-shaped matters. In fairness, at this point the whole squad is probably sick to death of the topic. Regardless though, it was refreshing to talk about other things. About Will’s new life. His bizarro public speaking gig. His worry for Benny, as an unfailingly attentive and loyal big bro. His insistence that the “kid” is not living up to his full potential.

Benny’s doing fine, you had assured him. Benny’s… buoyant.

So, in sum, it was safe to say that despite everything, by the time you had arrived back to the house you’d felt decompressed. It made you wonder if - maybe - last night’s storm really had succeeded in clearing the air. Of course, that depended on Santiago too, and where he was at today. Whether he had any more drama brewing, up in that pretty head of his.

From his vibe this morning though? You had gotten the sense that he was oh so tired too.

It didn’t change anything of course. The fighting. The fucking. Not really. Not any of it. The anger, once given its release valve, had simply moved through you like weather. It had turned out, it was all mostly bluster. Ephemeral. Shifting. And it couldn’t touch the truth of things, could it? The permanence and depth of your love for him? Not really.

It did change something in you though, that unforgiving storm. If nothing else, it had made you acutely aware of how powerless you are. Your weather cannot move the mountains, and Santiago is as stubborn and immoveable as a wall of rock.

You’d believed, at one time, that perhaps you could succeed in shifting him. Encouraging him. Convincing him.

But now you know for sure.

The only way he’s running into your arms is of his own accord. In his own good time.

When he’s ready.

If he ever is, of course; ready. And on that topic, you’re less and less sure that he ever will be. That Santiago will ever be ready to be loved by you.

It’s sad in one way to realise that. But in another way, it’s freeing. To give up. To stop trying to shape things into what you’d hoped they could be, and to simply let things be whatever they are. To make peace with the truth of things. And peace? It may sound counterintuitive, but as a soldier, peace is all you’d ever really wanted.

Perhaps that’s why you feel calm as you pace down the track back to the house. Why there’s a spring in your step as you fix up a sandwich for yourself and Will, heading out across the dunes to where the boys laze by that frilled edge of ocean. Perhaps you feel calm because you really have exhausted all of your options.

Because there’s truly nothing else you can do.

Because it’s out of your control.

Because you cannot move mountains.

And so, when you join the group and Santiago flashes you a tentative and oh so pure smile? You return it easily this time.

You can’t change yourself and how you feel. You’ve tried that. You certainly can’t change him. You’ve tried that too.

And… why would you want to, anyway, huh? To change him? In so many ways, you think, as you watch his rich, scratchy laugh bob in his throat, and see those delicious crinkles radiate from around his eyes, he’s perfect exactly as he is.

After all, he’s your best friend.

And, for the remainder of the afternoon, you simply want to focus on that.

For today, you reckon you’ll simply have to try to see him in pieces. In fragments.

You don’t want to admit to yourself that’s the only way you can make it through, but when you do realise, it strikes you. If you too find it hard to reconcile who he’s always been to you with all that he could be, then maybe you and he never were so different after all.

He certainly could never grasp all of you at once, could he?

***

The rest of the day passes pleasantly - much to everyone’s relief, you suspect. After the card games wrap up, there is plenty more entertainment to be had. There is time whiled away goofing around with a football and a frisbee. There’s a grill session on the dunes and chilled beers and music. When the heat becomes too sticky, too intense, there are sea swims and splashing around in the waves and everyone trying to dunk Benny. There’s solitary time too. Time for sunbathing and reading and podcasting and naps; and, in between, there is the cyclical eruption and waning of amiable chatter - whenever someone sparks up with a talking point.

In sum, you all opt to just be with each other. No particular agenda in mind, and it feels good. Really good.

You’ve missed them all. Hell, even Tom, though you’d never tell him that to his face.

The stretch of beach you’ve claimed is stunning too. The sands are golden and fine-grained and the water is perfectly temperate; but, it’s a hidden gem, the patch not attracting a fraction of the stifling crowds you’d find along the main drag. Throughout the day, other people come and go, of course. There’s the family with the adorable little kids, for example. The little boy, in particular, who had seemed to take a real liking to Benny - and who’d even roped him into helping build sandcastles. You’d watched, fondly, as each of your squad’s faces had split with wholesome, eye-swallowing grins at the adorableness of it all. There was the lone woman who spent 45 minutes giving you evil eyes - apparently, you’d deducted, for daring to be surrounded by five attractive men. You’d even suspected she might march over and punch you at one point, judging from the hate seething in her eyes when Will had asked you to slather-up his milky-white back with his trusty factor 50.

Mostly though, it had stayed pretty quiet, and you and the boys had more or less had the beach all to yourselves.

Various members of the group would filter off every now and again, of course. To replenish supplies, grab a new book, or buy an ice cream from the truck which pulled up. But, there had always been a core contingent remaining, even as the intensity of the day’s heat had begun to burn off, replaced with a softer, gentler, and more oranged glow.

Perhaps that’s why you didn’t realise it, until it had already happened.

That by now, you and Santiago were alone.

You look up from your book and all of a sudden, you are the only one left lounging on the blankets. You look out to the water, and Santiago is the only figure to be found there too, currently floating on his back, bobbing over each gentle, orange-frilled wave which laps up to the shore.

Christ. When did it get so late?

Santiago must realise the predicament at a similar moment to you, you think, as by the time you have finished swivelling your head to scan the sands for signs of anyone else -finding no-one but a distant dog walker- he has already begun to wade out of the water.

It is something you have watched him do so many times today, but now that it is just the two of you, this time it hits just a little different. This time, you notice him. Really notice him. Can’t help it. You watch him rise out of the water in the golden glow of the descending sun, and shake the rivulets of water from his darkened, wetted curls. See his tan chest emerge first, the colour in his shoulders a deeper, richer brown already from a day soaking up the sun. That silver chain of his swinging and glinting in between his smooth, shapely pecs. And, you note the soft cushion of his tummy swelling over the waistband of his swim shorts, the garment sodden and clinging tightly to his ample hips and thighs. Even slipping down just a little as he wades from out of the water, revealing a hint of his happy trail as he beelines directly towards where you lay.

Your stomach twists with a deep, hot yearning, and you are grateful that you have at least a moment to compose yourself before he arrives, sea-shined and dripping, at your now deserted camp. You have the wherewithal, at least, to throw him a towel as he reaches you, trying not to stare (too much) as he begins to dry himself off.

“Thanks,” he offers, with a lazy flash of teeth, and you unconsciously rearrange yourself, very suddenly aware - now that you’re alone - that you are stripped right down to your flimsy bikini.

You see a swallow sink down Santi’s corded throat as his eyes skim down the length of you, but he is quick to obscure it. He’s still playing nice. Softening himself, you think.

With a laugh as roughly hewn as driftwood, he flicks some water at you after scrunching his hand through his sodden curls, spraying cold flecks across the bare expanse of your belly, causing you to tense and squeal. His shoulders shake with gentle mirth, and, once he’s towelled off and wrung out his shorts a little, he spreads his towel out next to you, parking his ample ass down.

“Didn’t feel like a swim? The water’s nice.”

“Nah.”

His head swivels about, eyes traversing the length of the beach. He scoops a hand around his stubble, and you hear it rasp like sand. “Where the shit did everybody go?”

You shrug with one shoulder. “Beats me. I was far too engrossed in my trashy novel to notice.” You dog-ear the page of said book and put it to one-side before leaning back, supporting your torso on bent elbows, legs still elongated before you and crossed neatly at the ankle. The position pushes your breasts out, and you swear Santiago tries valiantly to look just about anywhere else - more or less succeeding too.

“Then… I think we’re alone now.”

A mischievous smile catches the corners of your mouth. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone around.”

You turn your head towards him, to see if he’s picked up on your song-lyric-inspired choice of words, but the solemnity of his expression catches you off-guard. His brows are drawn down, the sockets of his eyes all shadowed despite the golden hour glow still pouring over the horizon, lighting the stark contours of him.

In unison, the two of you shift position, coming to sit cross-legged. Side-by-side, looking out over the ocean. It seems easier that way, you think. Not to face each other directly as you each say whatever it is you need to say.

You know that it’s come time to say it. That it’s overdue.

Besides, it’s undeniably beautiful, looking out across the view like this. Enjoying the lapping waves and the undulating, orange zest water stretched out below that burning sky. Now cooling, post-dip, Santiago reaches over for his trusty tartan blanket. Silently, he first tucks it around his shoulders, then he passes it around yours. It’s a stretch for the square of fabric, and so you huddle a little closer to one another, finding it is even more warming as your bodies press together. The wetness of his thigh, from those water-logged, sand-coated trunks contacts you too, but you make no effort to move away, instead resting your folded thigh just on top of his.

You can smell the ocean on him. Salt and sunshine and sunscreen. He smells like summer.

You look out across the landscape with renewed concentration as you wait for him to speak, not ready to face whatever expression his features may offer. You look outward with vigour while you wait for him to look inward, and you worry that his words - when they come - will surely be more ugly than the sight before you. Will be bitter and not sweet.

You even brace for it.

You’re so used to the storm.

Still, when he eventually speaks, you are surprised. Surprised that he is calm and steady. That his voice is like slow, warm sand pooling into your cupped hands. That his words are both bitter and sweet. “Hey. C’mere.” You link your arm into him. Lean your head onto his shoulder as his tone grows wistful. “Do you… Do you remember that night in Philadelphia?”

You smile immediately. There had been only one such night in Philadelphia.

It had been your birthday. You and Santiago had been catching a connecting flight, heading back from a deployment and en route to meet the boys off-base to celebrate. However, all the planes had been grounded due to some technical hitch with the tower. You’d been bummed that your plans had been ruined; but Santiago had come through. Had gifted you one of the best nights of your life. A very silly, drunken night, if you recall.

You cringe, hazy, smooth-edged memories flooding back. You clap a hand to your face with residual embarrassment. “Christ. The karaoke.”

Santiago chuckles warmly, and you feel his laugh reverberate through you. “It wasn’t karaoke! You hijacked the goddamn wedding band.”

Your hand clamps in dismay over your mouth now, and you lift your head from his shoulder to face him. “Oh my god. You’re right.”

Your laughs mingle together in the tight space between you, becoming indistinguishable, like the tide and the shore. “I still can’t believe you blagged our way into a wedding reception.”

“I can’t believe it took us so long to get rumbled,” his hand settles over yours, where your arm is still hooked into his.

You beam at him. “Thank God I’m stealthy.”

He pumps his eyebrows, entirely incredulous. “You? Yeah right.”

“I’m sure I must’ve helped, Pope.”

“No, cariño, no. You were not helping.” He scratches at his layer of scruff. “Shit. What was it… What did you tell the kid on the desk your name was, again?”

You try to recall, and when you remember you snort in a full-blown laugh. Your ensuing, chaotic giggle planes tears of joy out of the corners of your eyes. “Mariana Trench!”

“You’re fucking despicable. You know that?” Santiago laughs along with you, and God. It feels good. Really good. It feels effortless, your mirth sharing space like this instead of your anger. Your laughs mingle then dissipate, withdrawing gently like the retreat of a wave.

You lean your head back on to his shoulder, but your giggle fit is evidently not wholly through - not just yet. Your shoulders begin to shake up against him - gently at first, and then with a rising chuckle. “Whiskey in the jar-o,” you sing under your breath, wistfully recalling your drunken duet of choice. “Fuck, Santi. That was a good night.”

He rests his head on top of yours, the weight of it a comfort. “Yeah. Yeah it was,” he agrees. “Jesus, I’m telling you though. They were lucky we showed up. Before we livened things up? The dance floor was as dead as a battlefield after one of Redfly’s sweeps.”

You hum at the fond memory, a soft smile arcing over your face. He has you curious though. “What made you think of that night?” Why this memory, out of everything?

He stiffens noticeably up against you. Sits more upright. Presses his palms together. “That was, uh. That was the night that I-”

“-Vomited into a soup tureen?” You interject with a snort, as another random memory flashes back to you.

“No. Nope,” Santi counters decisively. “That was Cat’s Oma’s 80th.”

You giggle chaotically again. “Oh yeah. Shit.” You miss that lady. She was a sweetie.

“Hey. Listen,” Santiago begins with far more gravity. Enough gravity that you shift, turning your body as he draws your gaze to him. You had been waiting for this moment to arrive; but, now that it’s here, you wish you could cling on to the sweet things for a few moments longer. Still, you settle opposite him now, the two of you still cross-legged but positioned face to face. He adjusts the blanket around your shoulders, tugging on each corner. With a watery smile, you slide your palms on to his wrecked, perfect knees and give him a gentle squeeze there, seemingly pushing his croaked words out with the gesture too. “I want to say that I’m sorry.”

You have nothing for a moment. No words, at least. Nothing but the motion of your hands smoothing back and forth over his knees. Nothing but the pained expression as your eyes swim with an ocean of feeling, deep enough to rival the vast body of water before you.

You note that his eyes are wet too as he settles his own hands over yours, gathering them up into his grasp. He stares down intently at your hands, his brow notching with a deep frown. He drags in a slow breath and releases it. “This got so fucked up, and… that’s not it at all.” He looks back to you then, his umber eyes shining with remorse. Deep regret welling in his resonant tone. “That’s not how I want to show up for you.”

Your tongue, too, reaches for an apology as readily as your hands had reached out for him. “Fuck, Santiago. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry too.” You had never meant to hurt him. You had never wanted that.

He drops his gaze to your neat pairing of hands. Gingerly begins to smooth the rough, sea-pruned pads of his thumbs over your knuckles, your skin humming dully where he touches. “I mean it. I’m sorry for everything.” The tendons in his jaw clench, muscles slipping over bone. He drags your cupped hand into his lap, drawing an absent-minded spiral in your palm with the pad of his thumb. The sensation makes a pleasant tingle bed down beneath your skin. “I swear. I never meant for my bullshit to affect you. Christ - that was the whole fucking point. Thought the least I could do, after everything, was protect you from that.”

At his earnest words, your chest tightens, and you abruptly halt the dance of his fingers by clasping his hands, gathering them between your own palms like a prayer. Your voice cracks in half like a broken promise. “Santiago. For Christ’s sake. You think I need protecting?” The implication in his words cleaves your heart in two. “From you?”

He shrugs with one shoulder. Sniffs. The muscle in his cheek tugs up, and you feel his hands go clammy in your grasp.

He frees himself from your grip for a moment, before continuing to skim his fingers up and down your forearm arm in a gentle, tender dance. The lightness of his touch contrasts starkly with the heaviness settling into his brow, his wet, puppy dog eyes swimming beneath. “I dunno. I was always a better fucking soldier than I was a friend.” He swallows, his voice so soft you can barely hear him. “Than I was… anything else you might’ve needed me to be.”

“No. That’s not true,” you respond adamantly, your head shaking vigorously from side to side. “You’ve always been there for me.”

“Except when it counted.”

“No!” you emphasise, the thrust of your words carrying your whole body forward. You shift position, transferring on to folded knees, crouching before him in the sand. Reaching, to slip your palms up to each side of his face, and you hold him like a prayer now. “No, Santiago. Especially when it counted. Believe me.”

He tries to turn away from you - you see it. He tries to begin his retreat, like usual, but this time, you capture his roughened cheek with one palm and you hold his gaze with yours. You speak firmly, willing him to understand. “Santiago Garcia. Idiota. You’re my hero.”

He scoffs lightly. His face twitches with scepticism. With doubt. With this self-deprecation he always carries, usually so well concealed by his confidence and easy charm. And yet, as you caress his stubble-flecked cheek with your palm, he sinks gratefully into your touch. Leans against it, his eyes fanning closed and his long lashes splaying down towards his cheeks.

“God,” he breathes softly in Spanish, barely audible. “No-one has called me that in a long time." He lives in a world of aliases and nicknames, and you see the weight of his grief twist his face at hearing his name fall from your mouth.

“I mean it. Do you hear me?” you plead, snagging his eyes to yours as they drift open. “You have made my life more beautiful in a thousand ways. You’re not -and you never were- something I need protecting from.” You regard Santiago, and his pretty eyes glisten, wet with a well of scarcely contained emotion -starlight in his lashes. “I love you, Santiago. Whatever has happened. Whatever happens. I love you. Not when you’re this ‘perfect’ version of yourself you finally deem worthy of love.” You search his eyes “That’s bullshit. I love you. I love you now.”

Santiago slowly, gradually musters a nod, and you smooth your hands over him. Over his shoulders. the nape of his neck. His chest. Trying to plaster over the evident cracks as his emotion crashes like a wave against rocks. He scoops a hand around his stubble, his lower lip now downturned. Trembling with feeling. Fat, liquid tears shining in his eyes, threatening to overspill. “I love you too.”

What a terrible, sad thing, you think. That you love each other. That there’s such bounty and abundance, but that at the same time… it is never quite enough.

Maybe one day, it will be; enough.

For now though, it is still something which causes you pain. And, you can see -more clearly than ever now- that it hurts him too.

His eyes dance over everything but you. His face twists. Contorts and tightens as he wrestles with it, but he cannot hold back the tide a moment longer. Full, wet tears spill down Santiago’s cheeks, and he makes some attempt to fumble them away, until they grow too numerous. You reach for him instead, and for a moment he tries to gently bat your hand away. “Hey,” you scold, protest, smooth. “Santiago.” His eyes drop, and his gaze fixes intently on a spot in the sand as you gingerly scoop his tears away with your crooked forefinger. The finger you then trace lovingly along the length of his jaw. The finger you trace along his eyebrow. The point of his cheekbone. Every place the waning golden light paints him. Your eyes dance over him. Every contour. Every sharp angle and every hollow. Every soft, silver curl. And he stays perfectly still. Unmoving, as though he is afraid your touch will withdraw like a tide at any moment.

“I missed you,” you whisper, and it is at once bitter and sweet. “It hurts. It… hurts to be without you.”

For a stretched moment, you do not believe he will respond, the only sign of movement from him a lone tear sluicing down his sculpted cheek. But, eventually, his words come. “I know. I know, and I’m sorry. I just…”

“Just what?”

“I need to find a way it doesn’t hurt you to be with me.” You shake your head, a protest dying on your lips as Santiago drags your hands to him. “I know you won’t buy this. You don’t have to. But I do want out. I swear it’s just this one last job with Lorea. And then I can… Then maybe we can…”

He trails off, his words waning. Breaking on the rocks.

He never could articulate a future with you, could he? Never could seem to dream that up.

You could be angry about that, you suppose, but you truly have no more anger left to give. You could be sad instead but, turns out, you’re out of that feeling too. All you have left to offer in this moment, in fact, is a small, resigned smile.

“It’s okay,” you smooth, and what’s more, you mean it. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” Your fingers play over the leather and beads of his bracelets. Over the tendons in his wrist. The light hairs on his forearms.

You’re done with all of that now. Done trying to push him towards a future you’re not even sure he wants with you. Not sure he ever wanted. It’s funny almost, as you sit here, letting the future go. You sit here with him, so much history humming between you it’s like standing amidst ruins. Like you are two statues, memories and stories carved into your bodies. Sometimes, it feels like the past is all you have. But, you are thankful when the sinking, orange segment of sun draws you to it, reminding you there is one more thing you have. Something between the past and future.

You have the here and now.

You reach for it.

It’s all you’ve got. Might be all you ever have with him.

You twist your body, turning outward again, away from him. You fold your knees up to your chin and you loop your arms around them, fixing your eyes straight ahead on the undulating ocean.

“That’s one thing I always loved about you, you know,” you push out. “How you always live smack bang in the moment. I’m constantly wishing it all the fuck away, aren’t I? Always thinking fifty steps ahead.”

Santiago follows your lead, swivelling to face the sunset too. His body becomes all right angles as he plants his elbows on the points of his spread knees, his butt and the soles of his feet flat to the floor, his hands loosely laced together in the space between his legs. “You should. You should think about that stuff. You deserve all that. Everything you talked about last night.”

His words cause a tight lump to rise in your throat.

Do you?

Does he really believe that?

Because, if so, then why in the hell don’t you deserve him? Why can’t he be the one to give it to you?

You offer a theory.

“Does it bore you, or something? The thought of a future like that?” The question emerges tattered, torn on hooks in your throat which try to hold it back; but it’s something you’ve wondered for too long to suppress it any longer. You’ve wondered without ever wanting to push that thought too far - too afraid of the answer.

“Yeah,” he says levelly, not a hint of doubt in his voice, and you hold your breath. “With anyone else, yeah. But not with you.” You are relieved but that fades ever so quickly, your face crumpling into something halfway petulant.

“Then… why?”

Why is he still running?

Why is he running from the life you could offer him if it’s something he wants too?

You hear Santiago tug in and release a deep sigh. Out of the corner of your eye you see him lace his fingers together, soothing his thumb over his own hand like he’s retracing your comfort. “Because… I’m not brave like you.” His voice tips up at the end. Like a question. He reserves all of his doubt for himself, then? It’s not you he refuses to believe in?

“You’re ridiculous. You’re the bravest man I know.”

“Heh. Yeah,” he lifts a hand to self-consciously scratch at the bristle of hairs at the nape of his neck. You hug your knees more tightly to your chest. “Running into bullets. Eliminating threats, sure. But… running into safe hands? I’m a fucking coward.”

You hum, a neutral, bland sound which expresses neither agreement nor disagreement. Which takes you nowhere.

There’s nowhere left to go.

Perhaps the road ends here.

Dead end after dead end.

Only resignation.

“Maybe we were on the same path, once upon a time, huh?” You throw the statement out with little conviction. You’re giving up on the idea that your words or your actions can make the slightest bit of difference to what could be. For now, you simply wish to make sense of what is. “Maybe - I dunno. Maybe I just ran too far ahead. Racing towards this dream of the future, before you were ready to go there. Maybe I just created too much distance.”

Santiago hums now too. A tight, pensive sound. “Huh. Is that what you think happened?”

You rub your palms over your own face. Dig the heels of your hands into your eye sockets. You have as much energy as a spent wave. “Uch. I don’t know.” Wordlessly, tentatively, Santiago reaches, retucking the soft tartan blanket around your shoulders. You manage to smile softly at him, surprised that it does not feel at all forced. “Maybe we just forget all that now. Maybe we just… I dunno. Live in the moment?”

Santiago’s palm draws slow circles on your upper back. You shuffle a little closer to him. “Okay. Then what do you want?” he enquires. “Right now? In this moment?”

His arm weighs over your shoulder, huddling you closer. “Oh. I don’t know. What does it even matter?”

“We leave here tomorrow. So tell me. What do you want right now?”

You could imagine that you are tired of wanting. That all you want is a moment free of wanting anything at all. But that’s not true, is it? You want the very same thing you’ve craved for so long. You want him. Finally though, something in you has shifted. You find yourself able to envisage a future which is far more immediate. Something you can grasp now instead of distantly yearning for.

The words feel hard and tight in your chest, but by the time they reach your lips, they feel so very soft and loose. Easy to sound out. “I don’t want to fight anymore. I don’t want to hurt you. All this time I missed you so much.” Unconsciously, Santiago holds you just a little more tightly. “I just…”

“What?” he whispers.

“I want us to fall asleep together. I want to hold you. I just want us to have one moment like that, Santi. Peaceful, you know? After everything, don’t we at least deserve that?” You tug in a breath to launch your next words, your throat closing protectively around them. Making them sound small. “And… And maybe…”

“What? What else?”

“Can’t we just fuck and feel happy about it? Can’t we have just one fucking moment together that doesn’t feel like an ending?”

You wait, your raw-wound words laid out in a line on the sand. You brace. You brace for them to be washed away. To have the salt poured in.

“Okay.”

Your eyes snap to his in surprise, and you find his soft, ardent gaze dancing over your features. “Okay?”

Santiago’s fingers lace with yours, and he tugs you to standing. “Come with me. Come on.”

He gathers up the remaining supplies, slinging the filled beach bag over one shoulder. Then, he folds his other arm around your middle. Tucks you into him. You let him lead you to the house, and it’s nice. It’s nice that for once, you’re not begging him to follow.

You let him lead you up the dunes, back to the house, and up the stairs.

You leave the golden, sinking sun behind you, but with Santiago’s warm, molten gaze shining on you, you still feel the sun on your face.

#santiago pope garcia x reader #triple frontier #oscar isaac #santiago pope garcia #ride or die series

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guess-my-next-obsession · 1 year

Text

Meet Me In The Hallway, Chapter Eight:

pairing: frankie morales x f!oc (Dylan Jones)

rating: E (18+ only, oral (m&f rec), come play/eating?, unprotected piv but really just like c!warming?, mostly just a bunch of dad!frankie fluff)

wc: 3.3k

series masterlist | frankie masterlist

“I’m going to Disney, I’m going to Disney, I’m going to—“

“Drive me crazy,” Frankie mumbled under his breath as he carried his five year old on his hip out to the car, her sparkly pink Mickey ears already on.

“Can we stop at McDonald’s for breakfast, daddy?” Rina asked as Frankie set her in her booster seat and buckled her in as Dylan came outside and lugged her suitcase behind her.

“Sure,” he said, placing her favorite blanket over her lap before giving her his tablet in hopes of distracting her from the road-trip ahead of them.

“Frankie, could you—“

Frankie was over in an instant, taking Dylan’s suitcase from her so that he could lift it into the trunk of the SUV.

“Is that everything?” he asked, resting one hand on the opened latch of the trunk and the other on his hip.

“Think so,” she replied with a small smirk growing on her lips at the sight of him standing there in full dad-on-vacation mode. “I heard talk of McDonald’s?”

Frankie laughed and nodded, the two of them moving away from the car so that he could shut the door. Leading her over to the passenger side, he opened her door for her and watched her climb in, chancing a tap on her ass that was thankfully met with a giggle.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Morales,” she grinned, letting him close her door before walking around the hood to the driver’s side and hopping in.

“Alright, ladies. McDonald’s?” Frankie asked as he started the car and checked his rearview mirrors.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah—“ Rina went on with a new song to drive Frankie crazy with, his head shaking as Dylan turned to him with a laugh.

“Put some music on,” he commanded gently, showing her how to use his stereo’s bluetooth setup before backing out of the driveway. “Only way to shut her up for the next two hours.”

“Rina, what do you wanna hear?” Dylan asked, turning in her seat to talk to the little girl who was busy playing a game on her father’s tablet.

“Ummmmmmmm…Moana!” she decided, giving Dylan a bright smile.

“Coming right up.”

Frankie couldn’t help his smile as Dylan queued up half of the Moana soundtrack without a care in the world, the two of them singing “How Far I’ll Go” at the top of their lungs all the way to McDonald’s.

“Alright,” Frankie chuckled as he pulled into the drive-thru line, turning the dial to silence the music. “What do you beauties want?”

“I want a McGiggle,” Rina said. “And orange juice.”

“A McGiggle?” Frankie chuckled. “McGriddle, baby. And okay, do you want a hashbrown too?”

“Duh,” she said, earning another chuckle as Frankie turned to Dylan, his hand coming to rest on her thigh.

“What about you, baby?” Dylan flushed at the term of endearment and rested her hand on top of his.

“I’ll take a McGriddle and orange juice, too. No hashbrown, though.” Frankie gave her an offended look, tugging his hand dramatically from her to rest over his heart.

“How dare you?” Dylan laughed and reached for his hand, bringing it back to her lap. “This is a watershed moment for us. No hashbrown?”

“I just don’t like ‘em,” she giggled. “I like all other versions of potatoes—well, not tater tots—“

“Too close to a hashbrown,” he guessed and she nodded. “Well, I guess I can overlook this one flaw.”

After grabbing their food, the trio headed out onto the interstate with Disney music as the score for their journey. Dylan’s fingers were laced with his, his eyes constantly flickering to watch her as she sang along to the music, her eyes scanning their passing surroundings with a content smile. Unable to stop himself, he lifted their joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of hers just to watch her smile.

“This was a good idea,” he said softly, smiling at her. “Rina’s so happy, I’m so happy.”

“I’m so happy, too,” she cooed, running her free hand over his forearm. “Can’t wait to see her meet Mickey and Minnie. She couldn’t shut up about them last night.”

Frankie thought back to the night prior, the Disney movie marathon/slumber party Rina insisted on forcing the three of them to sleep on the sectional in the living room. Rina chose to cuddle up with Dylan rather than her father, but he wasn’t hurt by it in the slightest. In fact, the sight of the two of them snuggled up together actually almost brought him to tears.

Rina never had a mother, only a grandmother who tried her best to fulfill that spot, but now she had someone who was actively trying to be that for her even when Frankie never pressed for it.

“You guys were fucking adorable,” he said. “I took a picture of the two of you cuddled up and snoring without a care in the world for me.”

“You think you don’t snore?” she teased. “Please.”

“It’s charming when I do it,” he smirked. “There’s a certain grace to the way I snore—“

“Oh, shut up,” she laughed before turning the music down. “Ri, your dad said we were snoring last night.”

“Daddy, you snore! Not me,” she said, looking at the back of his head sternly.

“What about Dyllie?” he asked, looking into the rearview mirror.

“She snores too.” Frankie laughed and squeezed Dylan’s thigh until she was giggling and pushing his hand away.

“It’s fine,” he said, rubbing over her leggings to soothe his pinching. “We can snore together and be happy.”

“Sounds good, Morales.”

Rina hadn’t stopped squealing since they put the car in park at the Wilderness Lodge Resort, and for once, Frankie was cheering her excitement on, hoisting her onto his shoulders as they made their way up to the hotel room accompanied by the bellhop in charge of their luggage.

“Daddy, when can we go on rides?” she asked, drumming on her fathers hat.

“I don’t know. You didn’t take a nap on the way here so you might need one,” he said, glancing at Dylan as she walked beside them, the hope of getting her alone for just a minute outweighing his desire to head out to the park.

“I promise I won’t get grumpy, daddy,” she whined, hugging his head in hopes of charming him.

“How about you take a little, tiny nap and then we can go? Just thirty minutes,” he bargained, earning a defeated sigh.

“Fine.”

“Alright, here’s the suite,” Dylan said, pulling out the keycard to unlock the door before turning to the bellhop to give him a tip.

Frankie set Rina down and let her burn some energy out by running around the two-bedroom suite while he helped lug their bags into their respective rooms.

“Daddy, can I share a room with Dyllie?” Rina asked as she jumped on the sofa, making Frankie laugh.

“I don’t know, bebé. I thought me and Dyl would share a room.”

Dylan held in her laugh at the arguing that ensued over who she’d want to share a room with, Frankie’s mini me putting her hands on her hips just like her father always liked to do.

“Dyllie, how about you pick,” Rina said, full of sass.

“I did promise your dad I’d share a room with him,” she said, walking over to scoop her off the couch and onto her hip. “You know how he gets scared of the dark.”

“That’s true,” she sighed, tipping her head onto Dylan’s shoulder. “Okay, daddy. You can have Dyllie.”

Frankie smiled and walked over, stealing his daughter into his arms to carry her off to her bedroom with a kiss on her temple. “Thank you, bebé.”

After making sure Rina was changed into her PJ’s and tucked peacefully into bed with her favorite movie, Moana, playing in the background, Frankie made his way into the living area of the suite, finding Dylan in the other bedroom unpacking her bag onto the spare bed in the room. Walking up behind her, he slid his hands around her waist and hugged her tight to his body, his lips pressing against her shoulder.

“Hey, baby,” he mumbled against her skin.

“Hello,” she purred, reaching back to scratch at his curls. “Rina down?”

“Mmhm,” he hummed, letting his hands wander to her hips. “You wanna fool around?”

Dylan laughed, turning around in his arms.

“We don’t have very much time,” she warned with a smile, earning a shrug.

“Enough time to take care of you,” he said. “All I care about.”

“What if I wanted to take care of you?”

“We could do both,” he suggested, leaning in to kiss her softly. “A little 69.”

“Mmm,” she hummed against his lips and nodded, giggling as he pulled away to shut and lock the door. “Eager, are we?”

“You have no fuckin’ idea,” sighed, returning to her to practically pick her up over his shoulder and throw her onto the bed. Dylan was a giggling mess as he tugged her leggings and panties off and let them fly over his shoulder before stripping himself down. “Rina cockblocked me last night, I’m a desperate, desperate man, baby.”

“Well, come here,” she curled her finger at him, welcoming him between her thighs.

Frankie’s warmth covered her like a blanket, his arms slipping beneath the dip in her spine to hug her close to his chest as he kissed her languidly, his hips rocking slowly into hers. As she parted her lips to let out a moan, he slid his tongue over hers, tasting the sweetness he’d been dreaming about all night and morning.

“You taste so good, baby,” he mumbled against her cheek as his kisses trailed lower, her body covered in chills from the tickle of his beard against her neck.

“Roll over,” she demanded, pulling his face away from her neck to look into his lust drunken eyes. “We don’t have time for you to worship me right now.”

Frankie let out a breath of a laugh and nodded, rolling onto his back while she tugged her shirt over her head and let it drop onto the floor.

“Come have a seat,” he said, gesturing at his face. Dylan chuckled and obeyed, swinging her leg over his head to straddle it while her body draped over his, her cheek resting against the soft curve of his stomach. Frankie palmed the globes of her ass, spreading her open and groaning at the sight of her above him, his cock twitching as he pulled her down onto his tongue and tasted her.

“Fuck,” he mumbled against her heat, pulling a soft moan from her chest as the tip of his tongue made careful but firm circles around her swollen bud. “So sweet, baby.”

Gripping his throbbing length in her hand, she squeezed him at the base just to feel him moan against her, the sensation making her eyes roll back in her head.

“Jesus, Frankie,�� she sighed, warmth already spreading from her center down her thighs and up her spine. Stroking him, she lowered her tongue to collect the bead of arousal that leaked over his thick head, causing him to squeeze where he was gripping her ass, his hips bucking up to try and press into the warmth of her mouth. “Your dick is so fucking pretty, baby. Could have you in my mouth all day long.”

“Shit,” he groaned, pulling his mouth away from her to voice his plea. “Suck it, baby. Please.”

Dylan could feel herself weep onto his tongue at the desperation in his voice, a wanton moan slipping from her lips as she eagerly obeyed, taking him into her mouth.

Frankie groaned, his eyes fluttering closed as she worked her way deeper and deeper down his thick length until she was gagging on it and stroking what her mouth couldn’t reach. While some men might have been content to sit there and relish in the pleasure, her skill only made Frankie try even harder to bring her to the same heights she was bringing him, and judging by the way her thighs were shaking around his head it seemed as though his efforts were paying off.

Pulling off of him with a pop just to stroke his slick cock in her hand, Dylan’s hips started to grind down on their own accord, chasing the high that was right there.

“Frankie, baby,” she whined. “I’m so fucking close, don’t stop.”

“Me too,” he panted in between sucks to her clit.

Dylan lowered her lips back to his cock, sucking and stroking in tandem just to hear him whine beneath her.

“Baby—” he warned, cutting himself off by bringing his tongue back to her. Dylan felt her entire body tensing with her impending release and pulled off of him again with a whine.

“I’m gonna fucking cum,” she moaned, stroking him in her palm, the slick squelch of her palm against his thick shaft filling the room. Frankie’s toes started to curl and Dylan’s thighs attempted to clamp shut as they both reached their highs at the same time, trying to remain as quiet as possible. “Fuck, Frankie.”

She watched as his release poured over the head of his cock and onto her fist while she continued to pump him, her mouth watering at the sight. Lifting herself off of him and flipping herself around to face him, she lined him up with her entrance and surprised him by sinking down to his base and keeping him there while she licked her hand clean.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he panted, keeping his eyes locked on hers as she took each finger into her mouth and sucked off his release with a sinful smile, his cock throbbing inside of her as her walls twitched around him. “I think you just killed me.”

Dylan smiled, sated and completely relaxed as she leaned forward to lay her head against his chest while he drew lines up and down her back.

“You took the whole happiest place on earth thing literally,” he joked, earning a rumble of laughter.

“Had to start our first trip together off right,” she mumbled against his skin as she pressed soft kisses to his chest. “Do you think we were too loud?”

“Nah,” he said, breathing in a sharp breath as she lifted herself off of him and climbed off the bed. He watched her walk away to the en-suite, admiring the jiggle of her backside for a second before he was standing up and joining her in the bathroom.

“Quick shower then wake up the princess?” Dylan asked as she turned the water on, Frankie’s arms hugged her waist from behind while he nodded.

After the couple had showered off their romp, they woke Rina up and got her dressed in her first costume of the trip: a Belle dress with a matching tiara that her grandmother had bought for her just a few months before her passing. Frankie was choked up over the sentimental meaning of it, keeping his daughter in his arms or on his lap as they rode the Monorail from the hotel to the Magic Kingdom park.

Dylan couldn’t help but fill her camera roll with pictures of them smiling and laughing together or tender moments when Frankie couldn’t help but to kiss his daughter’s temple and squeeze her tight. Rina, oblivious to her father’s emotional state, eventually started to groan at his affection, and Frankie being the understanding man he was begrudgingly agreed to give her some space, letting her sit in her own seat to watch the passing sights while he leaned his head on Dylan’s shoulder with a childlike pout.

“My baby’s growing up,” he said, earning a coo and Dylan’s arms wrapped around him to console him. “She doesn’t want me to be all mushy anymore.”

“She’s just excited,” she reassured, kissing his forehead. “I’m sure tonight she’ll be climbing into bed to snuggle with you.”

“We’ll see,” he said, still frowning as he sat upright and turned to his daughter, her face alight at the world around her. “She’s just too cute. How am I supposed to not want to squish her little face?”

Dylan laughed and reached to hold his hand, her thumb rubbing gentle strokes against his skin. “She looks so happy.”

“I know,” he smiled, turning to his girlfriend. “I’m happy too. Being here with the two of you is the best vacation I could ask for, even if our wallets are going to be aching after this weekend.”

“I love you,” she cooed, leaning over to press a chaste kiss to his lips. “I’m more than happy to drain my bank account to be here with my favorite people in the world.”

After a long day of riding rides and staying late enough at the park to watch the fireworks, Dylan and Frankie found themselves slugging back to the hotel with Rina fast asleep in Dylan’s arms, her head nestled on her shoulder.

“I could take her,” Frankie offered as they walked through the lobby to the elevator. “I know she gets heavy when she sleeps.”

“No, I don’t wanna wake her up,” she said, giving him a sleepy but sincere smile. “She looks so peaceful.”

“She’s gonna sleep like a rock tonight,” he said, pressing the button to the elevator with the hand that wasn’t carrying the bag full of Rina’s new stuffed animals. “I don’t know about you but I’m fucking exhausted, baby.”

“I am too,” she yawned. “Maybe we can save our plans for the morning?”

“Or the middle of the night,” he winked.

“That works too,” she chuckled and leaned back against the wall of the elevator while Frankie’s phone chimed in his pocket. She watched him pull it out, read the message, and frown at whatever it said, piquing her concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Santi…texting me some bullshit about wasting money,” he sighed, locking his phone and stuffing it back into his pocket before letting his head fall back against the wall. “He thinks he’s my fucking dad.”

“Yeah, I don’t really know why he’s so concerned about what you’re doing with your life and your money and your family,” she said, trying to keep her voice soft so as to not disturb the sleeping angel in her arms.

“He just thinks I owe him what he deems success because he was there for me during the hard times,” he said. “But I’m not the same guy I was even a year ago, you know? I…have new dreams and plans and—I just wish he’d give me some fucking credit. I may not be where he wants me to be, but I’m doing okay.”

“And it’s not like he’s making six figures,” she added. “He manages a fucking body shop.”

Frankie let out a breath of a chuckle and nodded. “Don’t say that to him, you’ll bruise his ego.”

“Maybe it needs some bruising,” she shrugged. “I just don’t like that he’s on your ass like this when you’re doing fine. You pay all your bills, you take care of your daughter, who fucking cares if you take a little trip after the year you’ve had?”

Frankie gave her an adoring frown as the elevator reached their floor, wrapping his arm around her waist.

“I’m so glad you came into my life, Dylan,” he said, pressing his lips to her head. “Into our life.”

“I love being in your life. Both of you guys. I…it feels like I won the most insane and best prize in the world here,” she said, leaning against the doorframe of their room while Frankie unlocked it with a grin.

“We’re both winners,” he smiled, meeting her eyes. “I love you, Dylan.”

“I love you, Frankie.”

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal smut #frankie morales smut #frankie morales #frankie morales triple frontier #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x oc #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales fluff #mmith

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hb-writes · 11 months

Text

Ch. 9 - Choices

You always have a choice.

Charlie shuffled toward the car as Ray held the door open, an umbrella held over them both as she slipped into the backseat.

Ray leaned into the open door. “Ready to find out what’s next for our Zodiac friend?”

“Sure,” Charlie mumbled with a shrug as she focused on buckling her seatbelt. “Whatever you want.”

Ray leaned back and Charlie pulled the door shut before he could do so himself. She leaned her into her hand as she stared out the window, watching the rain as Ray put away the umbrella and settled in the front seat.

The car was quiet. Ray had the latest in a string of true crime podcasts and audiobooks they’d been devouring on their solo rides through Manhattan, something about the infamous Zodiac killer, already queued up, but he refrained from pressing play. Ray had picked this one, but Charlie had been eager to continue on with it. Most afternoons, they had found themselves taking the long way from Charlie’s school to the Pearson-Hardman office in order to finish a chapter, but Ray wondered if she’d even been listening the past few days. She hadn’t seemed to be following along.

Ray readied himself to pull into the throng of traffic in silence, but as his gaze caught Charlie in the rearview mirror, he put the car in park instead. She heaved a shaky breath, her forehead falling against the cool glass.

“Is everything okay, Charlie?” Ray asked.

Charlie’s eyes squeezed shut for a moment and Ray pursed his lips. Maybe it wasn’t his place. They hadn’t listened on the way to school this morning even though Harvey hadn’t been with them. Charlie had insisted on needing to be to school early to study for a test, so Harvey had gotten to the office on his own and Ray had noted that Charlie was even quieter than normal, her textbook open on her lap, though she wasn’t paying attention to that either. He’d excused her near silence that morning on the early hour, but it was Friday afternoon now. Ray had known Charlie long enough to know that something was wrong.

“I don’t want to overstep, but…”

Charlie pulled her gaze to Ray’s reflection in the mirror, her eyes just a little too wet. Ray turned in his seat to face her.

“Did something happen at school?”

Being a professional driver in New York, Ray had had his fair share of overly personal experiences with riders—tears included—and he dealt with it as a professional courtesy. It was different with the Specters though. It wasn't just about the pay or professional courtesy with them. It wasn’t quite friendship or family, but when you see the same people every day for years, you get attached.

Charlie took a deep breath and pushed the palms of her hands against her eyes to wipe the wetness away. She shook her head, though Ray knew nothing had happened at school. She had been quiet and distracted for days. And distant from her brother, too, though Ray had no intention of getting into the specifics of that. That really wasn’t his place.

“No,” Charlie said as Ray held out a tissue. Charlie took it, wiping at her face again. “Everything’s fine. I’m…I’m sorry about all this.” She waved a hand at herself, but Ray shook his head.

“No need to apologize,” he answered, still studying her. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Charlie nodded. It wasn’t the first time she’d cried in Ray’s car and she confided in him a fair bit, but this wasn’t something she would talk to him about. He observed so much of Harvey and Charlie’s lives as he drove them through the city. He knew things about them that they probably weren’t even aware of. And even though talking to him might’ve alleviated something in her, Charlie wouldn’t put Ray in that position.

“I’m fine,” she reiterated, nodding again. “Thank you, Ray. Do you have time to drop me off at home?”

“Home?” he asked, his eyes widening. “Are you trying to get me fired, Miss Charlie?” Ray shook his head. “I’ve got a family to feed, a big family. Little Ray is almost taller than his mother.”

Charlie had babysat Ray’s kids a handful of times. She doubted the seven-year-old was nearly taller than Ray’s wife, but Charlie let out a chuckle anyway, allowing him to try to lighten the mood.

“Please?” she asked. “I’ll tell him I forced you. I just want to go home.”

Ray sighed. “Why don’t you just call him and ask?”

Charlie snorted. Ray had more faith in her brother than she did. “Because it’s easier to ask for forgiveness.”

“Give him a chance.” Ray smirked, passing his phone back to her between the seats before pulling out into traffic.

As Charlie held the phone in her hand, Ray took them in the direction of the firm, clear that he wasn’t going to give in to her without Harvey’s go ahead. No matter how well they got along, no matter how sympathetic he was to her plea, Ray’s first loyalty was to Harvey, his employer.

She dialed the familiar number, closing her eyes as she waited for the call to connect.

“Hello, Charlie,” Donna said over the sound of her typing.

Charlie didn’t even ask how Donna knew it was her. Sure, the woman had caller ID, but she was on Ray’s phone.

“Can you put Harvey on?”

The typing on the other end stopped and Charlie bristled in the silence that stretched on the other end of the line.

“I think you meant to say Hello, Donna. How are you? Can you please put my brother on if he’s free?”

Silence stretched on once again and Charlie met Ray’s eye in the rearview mirror, an encouraging smile had her heaving a sigh.

“Fine. Fine,” Charlie said as the typing started up again on the other end of the line. “Hello, Donna. How are you? Can you please put my brother on if he’s free?”

“I’m fine,” Donna answered, “Wouldn’t say no to a coffee, but—” Charlie exhaled, not bothering to mask the sound. She didn’t have the patience for idle chit chat, for games and Donna seemed to sense that— “Your brother’s here, but what’s going on with you?”

Something was going on. Donna knew that much. Charlie and Harvey had both been a touch insufferable for days now. And now Charlie was staying silent on the other end of the line.

“You still there, little—?” Donna prompted, recoiling a bit when Charlie cut her off.

“Nothing’s going on,” Charlie said. She glanced at the passing street signs. Traffic was minimal, and Ray hadn’t taken the long way today. At this rate, they’d be to the office before Charlie even got her brother on the phone. “Can you just put him on?”

“Nothing’s going on?” Donna repeated. “You remember who you’re talking to, don’t you?”

Charlie groaned. “Can you just do your job and put Harvey on the phone? I need to talk to him.”

“Excuse me?”

Charlie pulled her eyes from Ray’s in the rearview mirror, her cheeks warming. She hadn’t meant it to come out like that and Charlie consciously shifted her tone.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it, but you’re just being—

“Fuck!” Charlie hissed when a click sounded on the other end of the line.

“Nice language,” Harvey said, “And hello to you, too.”

“Sorry,” Charlie scrambled, repositioning the phone she’d started to pull away from her ear. “I thought Donna hung up on me.”

Harvey hummed, half-distracted. “And why are you giving her a hard time?”

"More like the other way around," Charlie scoffed. "And I didn't have a choice. She was being, well, you know—Donna."

"You always have a choice, Charlie.”

His words sounded bored, but there was still a bite. Not enough time had passed between the click and Harvey picking up the phone that Donna could have told him much of anything, but he had an uncanny ability to sense things like that, rare as they were.

It wasn’t like Charlie to be rude to Donna. The two were usually so annoyingly in sync, frequently ganging up on him in a display of sisterly girl power. Donna insisted girl power had nothing to do with it. They were just awesome.

Whatever it was—girl power or some inherent awesomeness—Harvey was just glad he only had one sister. He didn’t think he could manage that type of thing 24 hours a day for the rest of his life. He got enough of it now.

And the only thing that was worse was when they weren’t getting along.

“Did you hear me?”

Harvey would’ve bet his sister was rolling her eyes. He could nearly hear it through the phone in the drawn out pause before she finally answered him.

“Yes, Harvey. You’ve told me a thousand times,” she answered.

“So did you not hear me those other 999 times or were you making a choice to ignore me?” Harvey glanced at Donna, her back to him as she sat at her desk. “Just like you made a choice to give Donna a hard time just now?”

Charlie didn't answer right away. She could have avoided talking with Harvey altogether if she had just gone to the office and hid out in the bullpen or the file room.

Harvey cleared his throat.

“She started it,” Charlie said before he could say anything more. If she heard choice come out of her brother’s mouth one more time, Charlie thought she might lose it. “You know how she can be. She—”

“Alright, enough,” Harvey snapped. “What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until you get here?”

Harvey allowed the silence on the other end of the line for just a few beats. “Charlotte, I've got a meeting to prepare for so—”

“I want to go home.”

Harvey laughed. “And I want a—”

Charlie groaned her brother’s name. She didn’t care to hear whatever smartass reply her brother was readying to sling at her. “Please, can I just go home?”

“You’re grounded, Charlie. You know the rules.”

Charlie leaned her head to rest on the window and she let out a long, frustrated exhale. "I knew you'd say no,” she said, her voice quiet as she glanced towards Ray out of the corner of her eye though he was focused on traffic.

Harvey shifted in his seat, noting something in his sister’s voice. Something in her silence. Something in the fact that she was being short with Donna.

"What is going on with you today?" he muttered, the words not a whisper, but certainly quieter— gentler and curious in the most genuine of ways.

And Charlie could’ve told him the truth. She could’ve told him what was going on. Why she wanted to go home. Why she wanted to be alone. She could’ve told him why she hadn’t been sleeping well—plagued by unnecessarily late nights and early mornings. Why she’d barely been talking to him…Charlie was certain if she told her brother the truth, he would let her go home. And she was certain he’d join her there to discuss it within the office.

But Charlie couldn’t fathom talking to him about it. Not now. Not when this conversation alone had made her so exhausted. So exhausted and disheartened and just heavy. Charlie’s chest tightened and her eyes stung with the faint mist of new tears.

"Please, Harvey?” Charlie tried again because she couldn’t imagine going into the office right now. She couldn’t imagine talking to security or seeing Donna or facing her brother. “Please just let me go home."

“Alright,” Harvey said, the word coming out of him almost like a reflex because there was something in Charlie’s voice that made him want to give in.

It had been a long couple of weeks for her. For both of them. All of Charlie’s free time had been passed by his side—at home or at the office. Work had been busy for him and school was busy for her. He knew she’d had a bunch of tests and papers due—she’d been going to school early for days now. She’d been moody, and maybe a little short with him because of it, but he couldn’t really blame her for that. He couldn’t really blame her for being moody. He couldn’t blame her for wanting to go straight home on a Friday afternoon. Harvey was eager to start the weekend himself.

“Have Ray drop you off at home,” he said. “And Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

“Be good.”

“Yeah,” she mumbled.

“I mean it, Charlie.”

“I know,” Charlie answered, ending the call quickly after that and passing the phone back to Ray as they approached a red light, not even bothering to tell him the outcome of the conversation. Either Ray had been listening to the conversation or he’d guessed Harvey would give in because he was already halfway to their apartment building, the next chapter of the audiobook starting before Ray hit the gas.

She tried to listen, tried to pay attention, but as she settled into the backseat, her mind was still on the letter. It was in her bag now, stashed amongst her books and school work, after she took it from her brother’s desk the night before.

She had spent the night thinking the situation over in her mind. Evan Marshall didn’t just want her to visit. He also had an upcoming parole hearing. And Charlie couldn’t quite sort out what the unsettled feeling in her stomach meant.

It was complicated. And she knew Harvey hadn't intended on hurting her by keeping it from her, but it hurt her all the same. And even if Charlie had gotten to the understanding that her brother’s omission had been well intentioned, she was still angry. The letter had been addressed to Charlie. It was from her father. Whether or not it was hard, she had the right to know.

After Ray dropped her off, Charlie holed up on the couch, pulling the blanket from the end of her bed and curling up in front of the television she wasn't even watching. Curled under the blanket with a frustrated stream of tears on her face, Charlie couldn't stop herself from contemplating what else Harvey was keeping from her, how many other letters he had stashed away over the years…

Harvey was a lawyer. An avid poker player. Surely, he wouldn't have difficulty lying to his little sister. Their father hadn't lied to her. He had always been open with her, but now Charlie questioned him, too. She questioned all of it.

——

Charlie didn't remember falling asleep, but the sound of clattering dishes and smooth jazz woke her, telling her that Harvey was already home. She rolled over, facing the back of the couch and hoping to fall back asleep.

“Enjoy your afternoon soaps?” Harvey asked, his voice carrying across the room.

The TV was off now, but Charlie knew now that she must have left it on. She pushed the blanket off as she sat up, feeling too warm and dazed, confused by the already setting sun streaming in through the windows. She glanced at her brother after running a hand down her face. It wasn’t even 6 pm, but he was already changed into jeans and a sweater, standing at the stove. Cooking, something that was a rare occurrence normally, but even more so the last few weeks.

Charlie dragged herself from the couch, bringing the blanket with her, wrapped around her shoulders. Harvey smirked as she approached. Charlie’s hair and school uniform were a mess, the blanket dragging behind her on the floor, and Harvey felt a wave of nostalgia seeing her like that, so overcome with sleep.

So overcome that she shuffled right past him, barely mumbling a goodnight as she headed towards the hallway.

“Hold up,” he said. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

Charlie glanced at her brother and then to the stove. There was one pot and two bowls set out beside the stove on the counter. All of the other dishes had already been washed and stacked neatly on the dishrack that usually lived under the counter. She idly wondered how he’d washed them all without waking her. How he’d made her favorite dish—an excessively garlicky mushroom risotto—without waking her.

“I’m tired, Harvey,” Charlie said even as her stomach ached, something in her calling for her to step forward and just peek into the pot.

“Well, you need to eat something,” he said, turning back to the stove for a moment, using a spoon to scoop and taste his creation. “And this mushroom risotto might just change your life.”

Charlie groaned her brother’s name and the grin on Harvey’s face slipped as he set the spoon aside. He rinsed and dried his hands, flinging the towel over his shoulder before beckoning her closer. Charlie held her ground though, making Harvey close the distance between them.

“You feeling okay?” he asked. He couldn’t deny that something looked off. Her skin was somehow both too pale and a little flushed, and she had dark, puffy circles under her glassy eyes.

Charlie pushed Harvey’s hand away before it made contact with her forehead. He frowned, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back against the counter.

"I'm fine.” Charlie hiked the blankets up over her shoulders. Despite her nap, she felt exhausted.

Harvey nodded, rolling his eyes as he turned back to the stove. “And I’m sure school was fine, too.”

Charlie nodded at his back, mumbling a quiet confirmation when he turned back to her again.

“Good,” Harvey said as he plated her dish and held it out to her. “Take this to the table then.”

Charlie’s shoulders slumped, but she took the plate Harvey held out to her before moving to the table and sitting down with the blanket still wrapped tightly around her.

Harvey joined her a moment later, both of them quiet as Harvey dug into his dinner and Charlie moved her food around the plate. She didn’t look up to him or even both to pretend to take a bite. So, she wasn’t sick and nothing had happened at school, but Harvey knew his sister wasn’t fine. He’d known when they talked on the phone earlier. He’d known when he came home to find her asleep on the couch.

He had left the office early, hoping to spend some time with her—hoping for an opportunity to talk to her about the letter, but Harvey had a feeling that tonight wasn’t going to be the right time. Not that there was a right time or a good time for something like that. Some part of Harvey knew that sort of reasoning was nothing more than a delaying tactic. It was why he still hadn’t told her about the letter hiding away in his desk. He didn’t want to have this conversation with her, didn’t want to have to have it.

Because in a perfect world, Evan Marshall would serve his full sentence. He wouldn’t have gotten their address. He wouldn’t have written the letter. He would have left things alone. He would have left Charlie alone.

If any of those things were true, maybe Harvey wouldn’t be sitting here listening to the solitary sound of utensils scraping on the plate, an internal war waging within him on whether or not to bring up the letter…

A particularly loud scrape against the plate had Harvey setting his own spoon down. “What’s wrong?”

Charlie’s eyes flicked up to Harvey’s for a moment before her focus turned back to moving a piece of mushroom in delicate circles. “Nothing.”

“You’re not eating.” His gaze hadn’t left the face she tried to shield from him, allowing her hair to fall down over her eyes. Charlie caught a mushroom in her spoon and brought it to her mouth, chewing a few times. She lifted her gaze to him as she swallowed.

“And you’re barely talking.”

How many words had she spared him since waking up from her nap? Harvey was pretty sure it was somewhere less than ten. And Charlie didn’t know how to argue with him on that point without actually speaking.

“Nothing to say.” Charlie shrugged, taking another bite of the risotto, a bit bigger this time, allowing her more time to chew…and not talk.

Harvey watched her diligently chewing her food, readying another spoonful to occupy her mouth with. “Since when?”

“Since I don’t feel like talking,” she answered, the next spoonful already half-way to her mouth.

“Is this about what happened with Donna earlier?”

Charlie’s chewing slowed and she bit her lip as she shifted her gaze to her brother. “Am I still going there tomorrow?”

Harvey frowned, his shoulders sagging a bit. “Of course you are. Why wouldn’t you be?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie mumbled, back to moving her risotto around the plate. “I pissed Donna off.”

Harvey snorted. “You piss me off all the time and I still keep you around.”

Charlie set down her spoon, pulling the blanket tight around her. She had chosen this topic. She had let her brother think this was why she was upset because talking about Donna was easier than talking about her father. The letter.

And she knew Harvey was just trying to make a joke, to lighten the mood. She should have let him, but Charlie couldn’t find it in herself to even spare him a smile. She could barely blink away the watering of her eyes.

“Hey, you mean a lot to Donna,” he said, resting his spoon on his plate and he reached across the corner of the table, squeezing her arm. “You know that.”

“I know.” Charlie nodded. “Can I go to bed?”

Harvey looked down at her half empty plate and reluctantly gave her a nod, watching as she scraped the leftovers into a container and placed it in the fridge. He half figured she would come for them later, sneaking back out to the kitchen after he’d gone to sleep.

Harvey poured himself a glass of whiskey and then returned to the table, remaining there for quite some time after Charlie retreated to her room. He would check on her in a little while, but for now the quiet pulled his mind towards the letter he had once again failed to discuss with Charlie.

Receiving the letter had thrown Harvey off a little more than he'd like to admit. Even before Charlie had come into his life, Harvey had hated the man—blamed him for ripping his family apart. Maybe if he hadn’t walked in on Marshall and his mother in his childhood home, things would’ve been different, but Harvey doubted it. Because he knew what Evan Marshall was—an adulterer. An alcoholic. A murderer.

And the fact that a man like that was getting a chance at release was enough to make him sick, but the fact that he was Charlie’s father, that a man like that would have a chance to mar her life in some way, it nearly blinded Harvey with rage.

Seeing the prison’s zip code had him, setting a white hot anger through him as he withdrew it from the rest of the pile, stashing it away to deal with later. Harvey didn’t even know how the bastard got their address, though he supposed property records were public record.

But Evan Marshall hadn’t contacted Charlie in years, not since before his father passed away. Harvey knew Marshall had written Charlie letters a few times before. Their father hadn't kept the letters from her. Harvey hadn’t intended on keeping it from her either, but the discussion about their father, about missing him, about the doubts Charlie held…all of that still seemed so fresh. It had seemed almost cruel to pile this on top of it, like it wasn’t the right time.

Not that there would ever be a right time to say, ‘Hey kid, your deadbeat dad wrote you a letter begging you to come visit, promising he's a changed man. If you agree to go see him, you'll be disappointed because he's a dirtbag. If you don't, then you'll live with infinite guilt because of some stupid social rules about blood.'

It seemed like an infinitely unfair dilemma, an unfair choice to put on Charlie and maybe that was part of why Harvey was delaying, but then again, who was he to make that decision for her? He just wanted to protect her.

By the time Harvey finally headed towards his bedroom, it was late. Hours had passed, but Charlie was still awake, curled up under the blankets, an envelope in her grasp. On hearing Harvey’s footsteps in the hall, Charlie shoved the envelope under the pillow as she turned from the door, steadying her breathing.

Charlie watched the sliver of light expand on the wall as Harvey opened her bedroom door. She closed her eyes as he stepped closer, his shadow on the wall growing larger within the light.

Growing up, it wasn’t so often that Harvey stayed with Charlie and their dad out in Riverside, but whenever he did, he always came to her room whenever he returned home from outings with friends, people he knew from high school. Charlie usually tried to wait up for him…to make sure her brother kept the promise he’d made to her when she couldn’t have been more than four or five. She had always pretended to be asleep back then and Harvey had always let her. Charlie wondered if Harvey knew she was pretending now, her heart pounding as he stood beside her bed.

"Love you, kid," Harvey whispered as he pulled the covers up though they were already settled above her shoulders.

Charlie remained still and quiet. She didn’t know why it all hurt so much, but it felt like her heart was caving in as silence consumed the space after Harvey’s words, the door clicking shut behind him as he left her alone. It made the voice in Charlie’s head—Charlie’s voice—so much louder as it whispered back through the night.

No you don’t.

—

LTLB Masterlist (Everything)

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Chapter 10

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