#post where i mention the pope

[pasdeloup]

If I was a more civilized

I’ve been using a good old fashion drip coffee maker for a while now, one of the birthday gifts I bought myself. At first it was weird not getting up and doing fucking science, which is okay because that’s so much work. There’s ratios, scales, grams, all I can think of when I’m sipping on a coffee that I know could come out better is, this is what Walter White felt like and then that narcocorrido…

[softspiderling]

think you're a genius (you drive me up the wall) | r.c.

summary: it wouldn't be an outer banks party if there wasn't at least one fist fight. also, rafe is trying to turn over a new leaf.

pairing: rafe cameron x reader

word count: 3,8k

warning: mention of blood, violence (reader gets punched in the face, but there are no graphic details), shitty topper (sorry top)

author's note: long awaited (at least by me) rafe fic, whoop whoop!!! no usage of Y/N, happy reading, don't forget to reblog!!! also tagging @sunderlust bc i borrowed some of our conversation in this fic😘love you sol

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“Since when do you drink beer?”

Barely pausing at the words, you continued to stack cold beer cans in your arms, the condensation dripping onto your skin. You didn’t have to turn around to know who the voice belonged to, having heard it so many times. And this was his house after all.

“Wasn’t aware you kept track of my drink of choice,” you retorted, turning around to face him, while simultaneously trying to balance the cans.

Rafe raised an eyebrow at you before his gaze lowered to the beer in your arms. “… You trying to tell me that all that beer’s for you?”

“You calling me a lightweight?”

The corner of Rafe’s mouth ticked up and he took a sip from his drink, the ice clinking in the glass.

“I think we both know I’m not.”

If someone had told you that one day you’d be standing in the parlor of Tannyhill, having a mostly civil conversation with Rafe you’d have them institutionalized. But things have changed. When Sarah returned with the news that Ward has died protecting Sarah, Rafe imploded at first. Blaming her for his death, the downfall of their family and generally being ungrateful for Ward’s love for her.

Everyone avoided the Cameron estate for a while, hearing stuff crash and yells from a mile away. No one dared to step close. A few days after, the disturbances stopped, being replaced with complete silence.

It was so silent, you actually grew concerned until Rafe turned up at Heyward’s setting up a weekly grocery delivery. Pope had dumped the stuff he was holding as soon as Rafe had stepped into the store, storming outside, with Cleo hot on his heels, leaving you to set up the standing order.

“Can you tell Sarah I’m sorry?”

“What?”

You looked up from the register and Rafe clenched his jaw, giving you a look.

“You really gon’ make me say it again?”

“How about you call her yourself instead of making me deliver your message like a post boy?”

Rafe exhaled deeply, knitting his eyebrows together like he was really trying not to explode and honestly, you had to respect him for that. You know how impatient he could be.

“I tried, okay? Don’t you think I’ve tried? I’ve tried to call her, she’s not picking up. Fuck, I don’t even know if she still has the same phone number,” he said, like the words physically pained him. “I don’t even know where she’s staying. Is it at John B’s new place?”

Somewhere between his words, Rafe had started pacing up and down the stairs, making you antsy.

“Hey,” you said, coming around to slowly, carefully - like you were trying to pet a stray cat - curl your hand around his wrist. Rafe immediately stopped, eyeing his wrist where you were touching him.

“Sorry, I’ll take my hand off,” you quickly said, but before you could, Rafe stopped you.

“’s fine,” he muttered, meeting your eyes for a second before looking away again. “Physical touch grounds me… Y’know… When my thoughts get too… Much.”

You swallowed thickly, nodding at him and staying in place, for god knew how long, until Rafe had seemed to calm down.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

You drew your hand back, crossing your arms over your chest and leaned against the counter to put some distance between you and him, wildly overwhelmed with this situation. Rafe didn’t seem like he knew what to do either, turning his ring on his finger, his eyes cast on the floor.

“If you really want to apologize to Sarah,” you started, making him look up. “Maybe I can talk to her. Ask her if she’s willing to meet up with you.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow at you, clearly surprised. “You’d do that for me?”

“Don’t let it get to your head. I’m mostly doing it for Sarah,” you scoffed and Rafe only smirked, shaking his head.

“Sure, tough girl. Gonna ring me up now or what?”

Rolling your eyes at him, you returned to the cash register, finishing up his order. You still felt his eyes on you as you worked away.

“Thanks,” he finally said, and you lifted your head, briefly meeting his eyes.

“Don’t mention it.”

And he never did.

Miraculously, you had managed to get Sarah to agree to talk to Rafe and while you had accompanied her to the beach, where she had met up with Rafe, you stayed behind to give them privacy. You weren’t sure what they had talked about, but you didn’t press her about it either when she came stomping back to you with tearstained cheeks. Whatever they have talked about must have helped though, because even though Sarah still stayed with John B of the the times, she went home every odd night, returning with sandwiches and drinks the next day like a soccer mom. It went unsaid that Rafe had provided her with everything and Sarah avoided talking about him, mostly because Pope still got that distant look in his eyes whenever she mentioned her brother. Which is why you were surprised that he was the first one to agree to go to a party Rafe had invited Sarah to, forwarding the invite to her friends.

“What?” Pope had said everyone gave him an odd look. “He stole a family heirloom of mine. The least he can do is invite us to a party of his.”

“Okay then,” JJ jeered, beating on Pope’s back with his opens palms. “Let’s go to a Kook party.”

You had to admit that it was nice to see that the two tribes of the island coming together. The fact that Pogues were invited to a party on Figure 8 was huge. Granted, it was just you and your friends, but still. It was a start.

Loud cheering from outside brought you out of your thoughts, you and Rafe both looking towards the dimly lit backyard, where the main attraction of the party took place.

“JJ and John B are destroying a group of Kooks at Rage Cage right now,” you then explained, lifting the beer in your arms. “Hence... You know.”

“Right right, I was starting the wonder what all that yelling was about,” Rafe mused.

“So how come you’re not out there?”

Rafe shrugged. “Needed some quiet.”

“What, you having your private party in here?” you teased and Rafe smirked, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Why? You jealous?”

You rolled your eyes, shifting the beer cans in your arms, the weight slowly getting to you.

“In your dreams, Rafe,” you scoffed. “I got to go, get these beers to the boys before they’ll get warm. You should come down, when you’re done brooding and shit.”

Throwing your last words over your shoulder, you returned to your friends, being welcomed with loud cheers as the empty cups get filled rather quickly. You dropped down into your empty chair, taking your drink from Kiara who had been holding onto it during your absence.

“Pope was about to send a search party because you were taking so long,” she said and you gave Pope a look over the brim of your cup.

“You’re such a mother hen. I was talking to Rafe.”

“Why the hell were you talking to Rafe?”

“You talked to Rafe?”

“Jesus, guys relax,” you groaned, leaning your head back. “He’s fine. He didn’t even do anything. We just talked.”

“It’s never just anything with Rafe,” Pope muttered.

“I get that,” Sarah started, rolling her empty cup in her hand. “But he’s different.Like… He regrets a lot of the thing’s he’s done and trying really hard to make up for his mistakes,” she paused, pressing her lips together tightly. “I’d be the last person to defend him, but I feel like he’s trying to turn over a new leaf.”

Before Pope was able to list all of the bad things that Rafe has done in the past, your conversation was interrupted, angry yells ringing over the music.

“So now you’re just all buddy buddy hanging out here, huh?”

The new voice wasn’t really new and everyone looked at Sarah, who paled, slowly pushing herself up from her chair, looking towards the disturbance, the rest of the group following her.

“Shit. What the hell is Topper doing here?”

The sudden intrusion of a rather inebriated Topper had immediately tanked the relaxed and laid back atmosphere; suddenly, everyone was tense, not daring to make a move in fear of making the wrong one.

“What? Aren’t we here to party?” Topper cajoled, waving a half empty bottle of whiskey around. “Let’s get rid of these Pogues and party!”

The rest of the Kooks looked between themselves, not really wanting to follow Topper’s request but also not wanting to defend your friends. Even if they just had fun together, the Kooks wouldn't go as far as openly defend Pogues, you knew that.

“You should leave, Topper,” John B said, his hands curling at his sides, which was fair, honestly. Even though you had rebuilt the Chateau, bigger, better and most importantly more fire resistant, Topper burnt down John B’s home. His safe space. Topper only widened his eyes at John B comically, snorting.

“Who are you to tell me to leave?”

Sarah pushed herself to the front, pressing herself to John B’s side, which was probably not the smartest thing she could have done, as it only aggravated Topper even more to see her next to John B. You and the others stood right behind her, ready to step in as soon as it escalated.

“Leave, Topper,” Sarah snapped at him. “Nobody invited you.”

“Yeah, as far as I know, you don’t even live here anymore, Sarah,” Topper said, spitting out her name like it was venom in his mouth.

“I didn’t invite you.”

You hadn’t even noticed Rafe having joined you, not really standing on your side, but not on Topper's side either. Suddenly, the tension had grown even thicker and by now, you realized this could go wrong in about a 100 ways.

Topper stared at his friend, mouth agape, before he collected himself, pulling a face.

“Seriously, Rafe? Weren’t you the one who told me that I’m better off without your bitch of a sister and now you’re taking her side?”

“Watch it, Top,” Rafe only said, not even moving an inch.

Not that he had to. Everyone knew what Rafe was capable of, if he was angry enough. Topper only narrowed his eyes at his friend, weighing his options.

“Topper, just go,” Sarah yelled, walking towards him for good measure, trying to offer some sort of olive branch, but Topper only pushed Sarah roughly, causing her to stumble to the ground.

“Jesus, fuck, Topper,” you snapped, rushing to get Sarah back on her feet again, making the fatal mistake of getting between him and John B, as you received a sickening punch to the side of your face.

“Fuck!”

“Holy shit, Topper are you insane?”

You had toppled over your feet to the grass, not having expected the punch at all. Disoriented, you touched your throbbing cheek, your fingers stained red when you looked at them.

“Fuck,” you moaned, feeling like you were about to pass out. Your friends quickly crowded around you, helping you up.

“Shit, girl, you alright?” Cleo asked, carefully pushing your hair to the side to assess the damage.

“Is Sarah okay?” you only asked, pausing to spit out some blood, leaning on Cleo, your legs still shaking.

“Dude, I’m fine!” Sarah said, wrapping an arm around you, still shaking herself.

Your vision was still dizzy, and the voices were not helping, but it seemed like most of the party goers had dissipated as the argument had started. As your eyes adjusted, you could just see Rafe holding Topper by the collar of his shirt and saying something you couldn’t quite understand, before he tossed his friend on the ground. Topper didn’t take long to get back to his feet, fleeing from the scene.

Rafe turned around, his eyes scanning over you before turning to Sarah.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just a bruise,” Sarah said, her eyes fixated on you. “But you should definitely get checked out. I can't believe Topper punched you."

“Come on, I got a first aid kit upstairs and some ice for the swelling.”

Rafe reached out to grab you under the arms, but Cleo was reluctant to let you go.

“Maybe I should help.”

“Seriously?” Rafe asked, incredulously and you only watched with narrowed eyes, your reaction time still limited.

“We should just take her home,” Pope chimed in, grabbing you by the shoulder gently, jostling you around.

“Guys, I’m gonna be sick if you keep handing me around like a joint,” you groaned, shutting your eyes, in the hopes of making the dizziness better.

“Pope, it’s fine. Rafe’s not going to hurt her. And he knows a thing or two about patching up wounds,” Sarah said, Pope’s grip on you loosening.

“Fine. But you even look at our girl funny, and you got another thing coming, you hear me, Rafe?”

“Yeah yeah, I got it,” Rafe grunted.

You peeked an eye open, when your friends let go of you, Rafe looping his arm around your shoulder, pausing to look at John B. “You got Sarah, right?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about her.”

Rafe nodded his head in thanks, before leading you towards the house.

"Hey, just call if you need anything!" Kiara called after you, which you only replied with a weak "Okay!", your focus on putting one foot after the other. Rafe had his arm around your waist, taking most of your weight.

“Can you walk alright or do you need me to carry you?”

“If you pick me up right now, I will vomit on you,” you moaned and Rafe snorted.

“Right, and neither of us want that.”

It took you guys an embarrassing amount of time until you reached the house, since you kept making Rafe stop because you thought you were going to throw up. When you finally walked inside, Rafe lead you upstairs, instead of steering you towards the living room.

“Where are you taking me?”

“First aid kit is in my bathroom,” Rafe replied, mostly supporting your weight as you climbed the stairs.

“Ugh, your bathroom? Am I gonna get infected with herpes or something?”

“Is it the smartest idea to insult me in your position right now?” he asked dryly, and you almost sighed in relief when you reached the second floor.

“Just take me to your bedroom Rafe.”

“Alright, Princess,” Rafe sighed, a hint of exasperation in his voice as he guided you to his bedroom, carefully depositing you on the bed. While he went to the bathroom to fetch the first aid kit, you took a second to catch your breath, hoping the world would stop spinning.

Rafe returned with the first aid kit, moving slowly so as not to startle you. He set it down on the bed and then looked at you, concern flickering in his eyes. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you mumbled, pressing a hand to your throbbing cheek. "Just a little dizzy."

"Right." Rafe opened the kit and began to rifle through it, pulling out a bottle of disinfectant and some cotton pads. “This is probably gonna sting,” he warned you.

“Do your worst.”

You managed to flinch only slightly as the cool, yet burning liquid hit your skin, with Rafe’s surprising gentle touch as he cleaned your wound. He put a small bandage on the cut, before sitting back to inspect his handiwork.

“I’ll go grab you some ice for the swelling,” Rafe then said, standing up. “No dozing off, though, a’ight?”

Without waiting for an answer, Rafe left the room, leaving you by yourself yet again. Even though he explicitly told you not to doze off, you laid down on the bed, figuring that it might make the pain a little less bad. As soon as your head hit the pillow, Rafe’s scent engulfed you, and you weren’t sure if you lying down in his bed was too... Intimate? Then again, he was the one who had left you in his bedroom by himself. Before you could sit up again, Rafe reappeared in the room, holding a bag of in his hand, an unreadable expression on his face as he took you in on his bed.

“Sure, go ahead and make yourself at home,” he huffed, but you could see the frown on his face. Rafe sat down on the bed next to you, carefully wrapping the ice bag in a small towel and pressing it against your bruise, his other hand cradling your face. Despite the ice on your skin, you felt your cheeks heating up.

It was odd. You’d never have expected that Rafe could be able to be so gentle, so caring, and you suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to kiss him.

“What’d you say to Topper?” you blurted out instead, breaking the silence. You reached up to hold the ice bag, and Rafe pulled his hands back, raising an eyebrow at you.

“What?”

“After he hit me. What did you tell him to make you leave?”

Rafe sighed, leaning back a bit, staring at the wall as his eyes hardened. “I reminded him of what he did to me when I… Hurt Sarah. Asked him if he was willing to beat me to a pulp for my sister, what he thought I’d do to him for hurting her.”

His eyes flickered back to you.

And you.

You let out a breath at the pregnant pause, scared he’d say something he couldn’t take back. Something real. Maye you had been flirting with him, but so what? There was no harm, they were just words. Right? But admitting something real? That was a whole other story.

“Who would’ve thought Rafe Cameron could be so nice?” You said instead, a teasing lilt in your voice.

Rafe snorted, shaking his head with a laugh, the moment dissipating. “Yeah yeah, don’t get used to it. It was a one time thing.”

“Right, right, we wouldn’t want people to think that Rafe the Kook prince actually has a heart.”

“Does that make you the Pogue Princess then?”

“What?” you asked, flushing. “Where’d you get that idea? That’s obviously Kie.”

“Come on,” Rafe huffed, rolling his eyes. “Kie’s half Kook. And don't even start with my sister. Sarah’s… Half and half, at least.”

You eyed him in amusement. It was clear that he’d spent a good amount of time on that analogy.

“What about Cleo?” you asked, humoring him.

“Ehh. She would’ve made a good Pogue princess, too bad you’ve already taken the spot,” Rafe said with a shrug. “Pogue Princess. Flirts with everyone, heart of gold, never hesitates to get right between a brawl to help out a friend and to call people out on their bullshit…. Should I continue?”

“Please don’t,” you laughed, pressing the ice bag to your cheek. “You’re talking shit out of your ass right now.”

“I’m talking shit out of my ass? You’re the one saying everything that comes to your mind to stop yourself from kissing me right now.”

What?

“What?”

You never thought he’d actually say it out loud. Mention the elephant in the room. The tension you had been trying to ignore all this time. The silence that followed was deafening as you tried to find the right words, your heart beating in your chest.

“In your dreams,” you muttered hotly, repeating your words from earlier in the evening, looking everywhere but at him. It didn’t take long for Rafe to grab you by the chin gently, forcing you to look at him, his eyes piercing yours.

“In my dreams, yes,” he said quietly, inching so close that his warm breath was fanning across your face. “What about yours, princess?”

Gaping at him, speechless, you knew you didn’t have long until Rafe would take your silence as rejection. Your mind was racing, but ultimately, you leaned in, closing the gap and finally kissed him. Rafe let out a soft grunt, dropping his hand from your chin and cupping the back of your head instead to press even closer to you. The kiss deepened, becoming more passionate, as you finally admitted the attraction you felt to another, but you pulled away, when you felt a tad too dizzy.

“Right, shit,” Rafe cursed, knitting his brows together, examining your cheek. “Got too carried away.”

You flushed, handing him the small ice bag, that was more or less a bag of water now. Rafe dumped it in the trash next to the nightstand, before turning back to you with a smirk.

“Took you long enough.”

“Shut up,” you huffed and Rafe only grinned, pushing your hair out of your face, where it stuck to your wet cheek. You leaned in for another kiss, only for Rafe to stop you, holding you back.

“Nuh-uh. You get better first. Next time, I want you to get dizzy because of my mouth and not because you just got punched in the face.”

“You sound real confident there will be a next time,” you pointed out.

Rafe sighed, faux-exasperation. “Princess, don’t act dumb, it doesn’t suit you. You really think I’ll let you go after you’ve professed your love for me?”

“After I did what?” you shrieked in laughter, and Rafe only laughed. It was nice seeing him laugh for real for once, not the smarmy, smirk he used to do. After your laughter subsided, your pursed your lips, serious.

“You know my friends won’t take this well, right? Especially Pope.”

Rafe ran his hand over his buzzed hair, exhaling softly. “I know. But I won you over, didn’t I? Rest will be a piece of cake.”

“I’m serious, Rafe.”

You gave him a look and he leaned down, clasping his hands in his. “So am I. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have been trying to make things up to him, to Sarah. To everyone. It might take a while… And I don’t blame him.”

“As long as you’re aware…. Now, can we get back to kissing?”

“Didn’t you just hear what I said?”

Pushing your lower lip forward, you pouted at him. “One kiss.”

Rafe stared at you for a hot second, frowning. “Fine. One.”

But when he leaned down to give you a chaste kiss true to his words, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down on top of you.

"Jesus, are you trying to kill yourself?" Rafe hissed, but you only cackled, almost taking your bandage off in the process.

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author's note: pls leave a comment/reblog/like if you liked it🥹

[maybankswhore]

𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍.

SUMMARY: jj sees you wearing a necklace he got you when the two of you were kids and it stirs up some feelings he thought he forgotten about. ( inspired by @anawritez-posts theodore’s nott fic called ‘the necklace. )

PAIRING: jj maybank x fem!reader.

WARNINGS: mentions of weed & alcohol. minimal cursing.

JJ’s eyes immediately found it as soon as you rushed into the Chateau all bright eyed and bushy tailed. Your cheeks were a bashful pink , your hair pulled back in a high ponytail that had fallen just a bit with a few loose strands of hair framing your face. The gold chain shimmered underneath the light that had hit it when the screen door opened , and the familiar seashell necklace captured his attention almost instantly.

“Sorry I’m late!” You rushed out. With nothing but jean shorts and a bikini for a day out on the boat before the annual boneyard party , you stood in front of the Pogue’s with a sheepish smile. “My alarm didn’t go off.”

“No worries , Kiara burnt breakfast.” John B brushed off her worries and glared at Kiara who sent him the same expression back.

“Not my fault that you and JJ were causing trouble while I was trying to scramble the eggs.” Kiara defended.

“Yeah well it’s gonna take all day for the smell to air out of here.” Pope added with a wrinle of his nose.

You only laughed at your friends before looking towards JJ with the tilt of your head. His eyes had been trained on you and his usual loud and obnoxious banter was unusually absent. “What?”

JJ’s eyes snapped towards yours before he shook his head. Clearing his throat before muttering, “nothing.”

“Okay well Pope’s right it does smell bad in here.” You chuckled. “You guys ready?”

A few mumbles of ‘yes’ buzzed throughout the group as they all dispersed to make sure everything was packed and ready to go. You grabbed your bag that held all your stuff and headed outside to wait for him.

“Y/N! Wait!”

JJ rushed behind you , opening the door as the two of you walked towards the boat together. “Yeah?”

JJ swallowed nervously. A weird bubbling feeling began washing up in his stomach. Something that made him feel oddly warm but nauseous at the same time. “I didn’t think you still had it.”

You looked up at him confused before realizing he was staring at your neck again , where the seashell rested on your collarbones. You grinned and nodded , remembering when you first received it. “I saw it hanging in my jewelry box and I haven’t worn it in awhile—” you shrugged. “I used to wear everyday! And it went well with todays outfit.”

The sentiment of the necklace seemed to sway JJ’s mind. He remembered saving up every penny to get it for your thirteenth birthday. He didn’t even think you still had it since that had been years ago. JJ remembered exactly what you looked like wearing it as a girl. Innocent big eyes and dirt covered cheeks. Seeing it on you now as a woman— the woman he had unknowingly grown to adore all of these years , it just seemed to plant something in JJ’s chest. His heart growing three sizes at the thought.

“I can’t believe you still have it.” JJ said softly. Reaching out to grab your wrist and stop you from walking.

You ignored how your skin burned at his fingertips. Pushing down the way your cheeks wanted the flush and your eyelashes wanted to bat. Instead you only smiled at him warmly. “Why wouldn’t I?”

JJ shrugged. Hesitantly reaching out to touch the metal. You couldn’t deny the way your heart beat faster at that. Your chest rising and falling at a pace that you weren’t used to. Watching his every move. “Didn’t think it meant that much.”

His words weighed heavily in the air. You had to swallow the lump in your throat to respond. “It meant everything to me.” You told him truthfully. JJ had been the only person who had gotten you a gift that year. Your parents had been broke , and couldn’t afford anything more than your mother making you a cake from a box. And your friends were all young without jobs. You hadn’t expected anything and you were okay with it then , but when JJ had pulled you aside and gave it to you— that memory had become your favorite.

It was always there between the two of you when you looked back on it. It was always there but unspoken. There was alot of fear not just from you , but from JJ as well. The two of you shared a special connection that not even the Pogue’s could begin to understand.

It was unspoken. But it was there. Hovering over the two of you wherever you went. Holding eachother there in a scared place that neither of you had been ready to visit.

But as JJ looked up and noticed how your eyes glistened. How you glowed so beautifully underneath the sunlight , and how delicate you seemed to be— he was beginning to walk into that place and welcome it for the first time.

And he only hoped that you wearing the necklace meant that you were , too.

[loveharlow]

SEVEN [SEASON 2] - 002 (PART 2)

PAIRING ‧₊˚ JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader

SYNOPSIS‧₊˚[5.9k] Trying to lay-low in Kildare doesn't go over too well and just when things were looking up, it all comes crumbling down.

WARNING(S)‧₊˚ swearing, mentions of death, gun violence, mild animal cruelty, general angst

NOW PLAYING‧₊˚

A/N‧₊˚ if you didn't wanna report my blog from part 1, you're gonna want too after this also im posting this NOW because of the whole explicit blog situation🙄 i think we all deserve a little reward. THIS SONG IS ☺️🥹😖😫 "DID YOUUUUU TAAAAKE MY LOVVE AWAYY FROM MEEEEEE?"

˗ˏˋ series masterlist ˎˊ˗

IT TOOK ALMOST ALL NIGHT TO SAIL BACK TO KILDARE, the sun just rising once again when the six of you arrived at the edge of The Marsh at the crack of dawn. You were tired and starving, the guys and girls splitting off into two separate groups to go look for food.

You, Kie, and Sarah had found some watermelons just as the sun’s heat started to break through the Kildare clouds. You and Sarah were sitting in the grass while Kie took up the space on a metal bench, each of you munching on your respective melons, fingers stained pink.

Kiara was quick to urge Sarah to catch her up on what happened, the blonde girl spilling every detail about what happened from the moment John B and her disappeared.

“The boat tipped and I honestly thought that was it, I thought that was the end. Next thing I know, we’re waking up on a boat headed to The Bahamas…” She recounted. She told you everything, from finding the gold again at Ward’s vacation home to getting shot by Rafe, to…

“I’m sorry, you got married?” Kiara exclaimed, her eyes wide as her hand paused from where it was digging into the fruit. Sarah just had a sheepish smile on her face, chewing as she nodded.

“It’s not exactly legal, but…” She trailed off, throwing a chunk of the melon into her mouth and looking at both of you. “Yeah, we did.” She admitted, smiling and chuckling in Kie’s direction before she seemed to conjure up another thought. “And *gulp* Am I crazy, or is there something going on between you and Pope?” She spoke, mouth full of watermelon.

Kiara smiled and shrugged, avoiding eye contact with the Cameron girl. “Maybe...” She said, squinting her eyes as she looked out in front of her. “I’ve come to a couple of…realizations, recently, I guess.” She said under her breath, eyes peering at you for the shortest of moments, so swiftly that Sarah didn’t catch it and you barely did yourself.

“That’s not a no.” Sarah egged on, still eating. The three of you fell into silence for a few passing moments, the only sounds being the birds flying by and the chewing of fruit before Sarah spoke up once more, this time her questions aimed at you. “You okay? You’ve been kinda quiet.” She asked, her wide eyes peering at you.

You just shrugged, looking down at your lap as you spoke. “‘M fine. It’s all just a little surreal, y’know? Up until a couple of hours ago, I really thought you and John B were dead.” You said, building the courage to meet her eyes. “It’s honestly the biggest blessing that you guys aren’t but... a lot happened while you two were away. That’s all.” You assured her, sending her a tight-lipped smile and returning to eating.

“...It was really hard to find a a way to contact you guys. And we didn’t want to risk someone tipping off my dad or the police just yet. It’s gonna be a shit show when we get back to the island, that’s for sure.” Sarah scoffed, raking her fingers through her hair.

“...Sarah?” You piped up, the girl humming response. “It’s good to have you back.”

She smiled happily in response, her teeth showing as her cheeks reddened. “It’s good to be back.”

JOHN B DOCKED THE DRUTHERS TOO AT THE CHATEAU WITH LITTLE HESITATION, A familiar bundle of golden fur running towards him and jumping on him the second he was off the boat. 

“Woah, hey, hey…” He cooed, petting Marley softly as she pawed at his thighs and torso.

“Sorry about that,” You said, shielding your eyes from the sun. “We’ve been crashin’ here since…” You trailed off, shrugging as John B looked up at The Chateau, jutting his bottom lip out and shrugging one shoulder.

“The place looks great, actually.” He said, directing his gaze to the grass, looking side to side. “The weeds are gone and there aren’t any beer cans in the grass.” He laughed out.

“That would be courtesy of me.” JJ bowed dramatically. “Mowed the lawn and threw in a little extra service.” John B rolled his eyes playfully and walked towards the entrance of the home, the five of you following behind him. 

“Not to bring the mood down or anything but I’m not exactly looking forward to a check-in at home…” Kiara announced, walking at the very back of the group. “My parents have probably already arranged my funeral.”

“Same. I predict unpleasantries at the Heyward household after I left the truck in Charleston.” Pope cringed at the thought, holding the straps of his backpack. 

“...No one knows we’re here, right?” JJ threw out, deep in thought judging from the look on his face. “And you two-” He pointed at Kiara and Pope. “-aren’t gonna get in anymore trouble for showing up twelve hours later. Am I right or am I right?”

“You’re not wrong…” Pope seemed to contemplate.

“So that means we have twelve hours to do whatever we want.” JJ smiled, clapping his hands together. “A little pogue fellowship, how does that sound? Let the shit hit the fan tomorrow.”

“The cops are looking for us. It just seems really stupid…” Sarah reminded, a look of worry on her features.

“Sarah Cameron,” JJ approached the girl sitting on the rail of The Chateau stairs. “You’ve heard of my philosophy, right?”

“No.”

“Stupid things have good outcomes all the time.” JJ spoke as you and John B mocked him, sending a smile in each other’s direction as you tried not to laugh. The blonde boy turned around, clapping his hands. “Who’s with me? Let’s go get some beer!”

KIARA HAD MANAGED TO STEAL SOME BEERS FROM THE WRECK, SEEMINGLY WITHOUT BEING NOTICED. By the time Sarah and JB had showered and JJ and Pope set up the lights and hot-tub, the sun had fallen again. The pit in your stomach had started to settle, allowing you to actually enjoy the fact that your friends were alive and well and back where they belonged. Although other events were still swirling in your mind and dampening your mood, you wouldn’t let it show.

The six of you crowded the hot-tub, shotgunning beers as music played faintly from a speaker plugged in near the porch. JJ and John B had some impromptu dance battle while Pope started freestyling out of nowhere, the remaining three of you watching it all like a comedy show from the comfort of the hot tub.

At some point , JJ rolled a joint that made it’s way through the group in record time. You currently had the object clutched between your fingers, laying on your back in the grass near the oak tree with Marley next to you as JJ and Pope wrestled in the grass. 

“Single-leg sweep!” John B cheered, watching Pope pin JJ to the ground — JB, Sarah, and Kie sitting and watching around a bonfire. 

Pope got up triumphantly, hands in the air as JJ got up and dusted himself off. He and JJ shook hands with lazy smiles on their faces before Pope snatched up his beach towel and turned around in the direction of The Marsh. “I’m done!” He called over his shoulder. “I’m outta here…”

“You want a round two?” JJ called in his direction, cupping his hands around his mouth.

Pope chuckled and waved him off without a glance back. “Yeah, I think I’ll take my losses.” The group’s attention was stolen by Kiara who grabbed her shirt from the lawn chair she was on, getting up and following Pope. 

You just scoffed and took another hit of your joint, watching from a few feet away as Sarah’s jaw dropped while John B and JJ cheered. “Really?” Sarah exclaimed. 

“Way to be discreet!” JJ called after the two.

“I leave and this is what happens.” John B sighed in mock disappointment, slapping his hands against his knees as he rose from his seat. “Your boy’s out.” He shook the red cup in his hand. “Beer time.” He told the two blondes before walking in your direction, your splayed figure going unnoticed in the dark of night as JB reached into the cooler to grab a fresh beer, his eyes landing on the art piece the four of you had engraved into the tree.

You watched as he slowly paused, his eyes glossing over as the boy attempted to suppress his emotions. 

“You better cry.” You spoke up, speech mildly slurred from your tipsiness. “It took me two hours to carve your long ass name into that...big ass tree.” John B looked around startled for a moment before looking at down at you laid out in the grass like a snow angel. You smiled and waved lazily at your friend.

He rolled his eyes and laughed, cracking open the canned drink in his hand. “You scared the shit out of me, little weirdo.” He said, taking a small sip. “I forget you’re a lightweight. You need a water or somethin’?”

You simply pursed your lips and waved him off. “Pfft. I am fine. And I’ll have you know I am not drunk or high, just…thinking.” The Routledge boy cocked an eyebrow at you, JJ and Sarah’s mindless banter filling the silence. “I’m serious!” You chuckled out. “I’m not, I swear. I just needed some time to think for a little bit…”

“About?”

“...Are you kidding?” You asked incredulously, lifting yourself up to lean on one arm. “John B, you came back from the dead. And believe me, I am so glad that you and Sarah are back but I’m scared for you guys. Sooner or later, someone is gonna find out you guys are back on the island and when they do?…”

He simply nodded. “That's fair." He sighed. "We tried to get through to you guys for weeks before we were able to send that message.” You hummed in response before yawning. “And even though you haven’t said it yet, I missed you too.” He winked at you.

You flipped the boy off and plopped back down into the grass as the footsteps of someone else appeared.

“What’s happenin’ over here?” He asked cheerfully, slapping a hand on John B’s shoulder. He met your eyes but you looked away. You still didn’t want to talk to him. 

John B looked between the two of you skeptically before letting whatever thought he had go, pointing at the tree in front of him. “This cute little art project.” He told the blonde, referring once more to the memorial carving. “Killed the tree, though.”

JJ laughed, bowing his head down. “Probably, yeah…” He said, sniffing before looking at JB. “I fuckin’ missed you, man.” He said seriously, pulling John B into a tight hug. They buried their heads into each other’s shoulder, embracing one another as tight as possible.

“Kind of lonely over here!” Sarah called out, the two boys releasing one another as she waved the three of you over. The slapped each other on the shoulder and began walking back over to the bonfire, you getting up and whistling for Marley to do the same, the golden retriever standing up slowly and shaking herself off before following you. 

“Aww, look.” The blonde girl cooed from her place on a log, staring ahead as the three of you followed her gaze to find Kie and Pope sailing away on the HMS Pogue. 

“There he goes.” JJ cheered, sending a thumbs up to the couple on the boat. “He jacked your boat, dude.” He said to John B.

“Pope’s poking on the Pogue.” He replied with little emotion, staring out like he couldn’t believe it while Sarah wolf-whistled in their direction. Through her cheering and whistling, you thought you heard something in the distance, prompting you to turn around with a look of confusion etched across your face.

“Hold on,” You spoke up, the remaining pogues attention turning to you. “Did any of you hear that?”

“The chickens?” JJ threw out a possible solution, you shook your head.

“No, I heard something. Like a car door shutting…” You said confidently, eyes trained on the trees in front of you trying to see through them.

After a few moments of squinting, you managed to make out two figures creeping through the bushes and if you weren’t mistaken, they were both armed. “...There’s people in the woods. They have guns.” You said, a hard expression settling on your face as you quickly took hold of Marley’s collar.

“Wha- are you sure?” Sarah asked panicked, standing up from the log she was perched on and edging closer to John B.

“Yes, I’m sure.” You replied quickly. “Hide. Hide somewhere, anywhere but in the house.” You instructed, the three of them just staring blankly at one another. You looked at them stupidly, snapping your fingers to gain their attention. “Hello? Earth to Powerpuff Girls? Unless your wanna play bullet-tag with the strangers in the woods, I suggest you hide!” You whisper-shouted, guiding Marley into the chicken coop by her collar as your three friends seemed to silently decide on hiding in the large oak tree, not before John B put out the bonfire and followed JJ and Sarah who were scattering and climbing up the trunk of the tree one by one.

There was more than enough space for you to hide Marley in the coop, pushing her inside as quietly as possible as she started to whine lowly. You brought a finger to your lips, shushing the animal as you gently pet the top of her head. “It’s okay.” You assured, pushing her a little further in as the sound of leaves ruffling got closer. “Just sit and stay. Okay?” You instructed as you stood up and made a b-line for the tree, climbing up as quickly and quietly as possible, taking the hand that was offered to you and planting yourself on top of one of the thick branches.

Through the leaves and branches, you saw the two figures emerge into the lights of the backyard. 

It was no one other than Rafe and Barry.

There was no way they found out about Sarah and John B that fast.

Barry crept up the side steps to the front door, gun held in front of him as Rafe wandered through the backyard, right under your noses. He stopped in front of the freshly blown out bonfire as Barry threw open the door to The Chateau, creeping inside. 

“Where the hell are you?...” Rafe asked mainly to himself, eyes wandering from the smoking wooden planks. Just then, the sound of glass breaking came from inside the house, followed by the sound of Barry groaning in frustration just before the man in question came barrelling out of The Chateau. 

“Ain’t shit in there!” He shouted, jogging down the small staircase. 

“Nothing?” Rafe asked, his tone calm in contrast to the drug dealer’s.

“No, nothing, Rafe.” Barry spat. It seemed as if Barry’s frustration began to rub off on the Cameron boy.

“They were obviously just here based off the smoke, man.” Rafe reprimanded, voice raising slightly as he threw a hand out in the direction of the smoking pit. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Barry ignored him. “Great observation, Boy Scout.”

“They gotta be around here somewhere...” Rafe reminded, Barry rolling his eyes and began kicking things around in the yard as Rafe turned around, staring viciously at the length of the tree. 

“P.4.L.” Barry mocked the words carved into the wood, Rafe looking back and laughing with the man, the gun in his hand pointed directly at the carving. 

“Well, shit…” The Cameron boy chuckled breathily.

“So, your sister’s a ‘Pogue For Life’ now, huh?” Barry taunted, watching as the lazy smile on Rafe’s face dropped as he looked back at the tree. His eyes started twitching as he gnawed on the inside of his cheek, his nostrils flaring out too. You were no stranger to that look on his face — he was losing it…

“...Shit!” He hollered like a madman, the loud reverberation of his voice causing you and Sarah to flinch violently. Even Barry flinched behind the boy. Within seconds, Rafe had cocked the gun back and fired off several shots, the four of you ducking behind the branches as bullets flew. Barry, who tried to take the gun from his hand, ended up forcing the guns aim upwards, the four of you just narrowly missing being shot. 

“Rafe, chill!” Barry scolded, snatching the gun from the boy’s hands. “You gon' get our asses busted!” 

The silence that occurred after Barry’s warning was what allowed the duo to hear a faint whine coming from somewhere in the yard. Your hands clawed at the wood of the tree, your nails splintering under the force.

You prayed they would ignore it. That they would leave her alone.

But you knew that wasn’t going to happen the second Rafe rotated his whole body in the direction of the chicken coop, his face twisting as he walked towards it. Bending down in front of the small opening, he scoffed, running a hand down his face.

“Would you look at that?” He laughed, eyeing Barry before looking inside of the coop once more. The whining never stopped. “They left the damn dog.” He told him, voice raspy. He snapped his fingers and whistled, trying to get Marley to obey. “C’mere girl.” He tried, but she wouldn’t budge.

“The fuck…just leave it, man. What the hell you gon do with a dog?” Barry tried, annoyed at this point.

For what it was worth, your dog had a very good judgment of character. But you guessed that trait didn’t make Rafe too happy. It was like something in him snapped, shooting a hand out and grabbing Marley by the collar, dragging her out the pen when she wouldn’t listen.

She whined and barked, trying her best to resist his pull as her paws slid across the dirt. 

“No, no, no…” You muttered under your breath, moving to climb down the tree when a forceful hand wrapped itself around your arm, your eyes meeting JJ’s. “Let go. What are you-”

“You can’t go down there, are you crazy. He will hurt you.” JJ told you seriously, his eyebrows setting into a straight line. 

“The hell I can’t.” You spat back, trying to wiggle your arm out his grip to no avail. “If I don't go down there, he’s gonna hurt her.” You told the blonde in hushed tone. You hated how shaky and sad your voice sounded.

“We’ll get her back.” He told you, his grip tightening lightly in reassurance. “I promise you.” You shook your head at his words, swallowing harshly as your teary gaze went back to where Rafe was manhandling Marley. She wouldn’t stop crying out and it broke your heart.

“Jesus, you gon have to get a muzzle for that bitch.” Barry groaned. “And what you gon do when daddy asks where the mutt came from, huh, Country Club? ‘Cause you already know Snoozie’s gonna be looking up and down the island for her, missin’ posters ‘n shit gon be up before you make it back to Figure Eight.”

Rafe just licked his lips, positioned slightly bent down to keep a good grip on your dog. “Trust me, she knows where she is. They’re here, I know that for a fact.” He told Barry, his eyes wandering the seemingly empty yard. “You want your dog back?!” He shouted out into the empty yard space. “Looks like you're gonna have to put on your big girl pants and come and get her!”

That was the last thing you all heard before the two men were leaving, dragging a hysterical Marley behind them. Most dogs would bite when threatened. But Marley wasn’t a violent dog. That was one of the many things you loved about her. But in this moment you hated it.

BY THE TIME KIARA AND POPE HAD RETURNED WITH THE BOAT THE FOUR OF YOU NEEDED TO LEAVE, THE SUN HAD RISEN SIGNALING A NEW DAY. You were all silently petrified and hadn’t said more than five words in the last, what you guessed was, six hours or so. JJ perked up when he spotted his two friends in the small boat, slinging his backpack up on his shoulder and heading towards the two as the remaining three of you followed silently.

“Yo, don’t tie up yet!” He called out, skipping down the pier just as Pope was about to tie up the boat.

“What?” Kiara replied back, squinting her eyes from the sun.

“We’re dippin'.” The blonde told the girl, jogging towards the boat and coming to a stop in front of the two, throwing his bag into the boat.

“Wait, why?” Pope piped up.

“We gotta get the hell outta here.” John B said urgently, getting into the boat right after JJ, you helping Sarah down into the vehicle as JB held a hand out for her, the girl still limping mildly due to her injury.

“Rafe knows we’re here so we have to leave, like, now.” She panted out, sitting down in the boat as you climbed in after her, not saying a word.

“Okay, okay…” Pope spoke absentmindedly, hurrying to un-tie the portion of the rope he did secure, tossing it into the boat. “Wait, what about the dog? Where’s Marley?” Sarah, John B, and JJ all looked at each other then at you, prompting Kie and Pope to share a look before doing the same.

“...We’ll explain everything later.” John B threw out, caressing Sarah’s back. You didn’t protest or say anything, you were too angry to do anything. The pair of them glanced at you once more before getting into the boat themselves.

“We’ll sail a few miles out, find somewhere to camp out for a bit.” Pope announced, getting behind the wheel and starting the engine. "Then, you have to tell us what the hell is going on."

“LOOK, IF RAFE AND BARRY KNOW, IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE EVERYONE KNOWS.” John B started, hands on his head as he paced back in forth in the grass. The group had found an empty clearing a few miles away from The Chateau, an open field near The Marsh.

JJ scoffed, shaking his head. “I told you. We should’ve gone south, man.” He added. “Why does no one ever listen?”

The rest of you sat in the grass not talking. You were sitting criss-crossed, plucking individual strands of grass. 

“...I have an idea.” Sarah croaked, swallowing harshly as she stared down at her shoes. “With me back, my dad’s going to have to choose between me and Rafe.” You paused in your grass plucking, peering up at the girl. 

“Sarah-” John B started only to be cut off.

“He’s gonna choose me.” She said confidently, looking at John B. 

“Just please listen.” Her boyfriend pleaded, holding a hand out in her direction to let him speak. “Ward keeps lying to you, Sarah.”

“No,I…I know it sounds crazy-”

“Yeah, it does.” Kiara told her bluntly. 

“I know.” Sarah defended herself, biting her bottom lip and looking around at the five of you. “But he’s my dad. And I know him, and I know he loves me.” She pleaded with the group, rubbing her hands nervously against her thighs. “I’m just asking for two hours.” She concluded, eyes wide and begging for you all to understand.

You simply shook your head, looking out at the water in front of you. If Sarah believed that her father would choose her, who were you to disagree? You had your doubts but you kept them quiet. If you learned anything in the past month or so, it’s that you have to let people see who others really are for themselves, otherwise they'll never believe it.

Without any more objections, Sarah tucked her hair behind her ears and stood up, looking at the group of you one last time before walking off.

SARAH HAD BEEN GONE FOR NEARLY AN HOUR, THE FIVE OF YOU WANDERING OFF AWAY FROM ONE ANOTHER. Pope and John B were at the edge of water talking, Kiara was laying in the grass plucking flowers, and you were leaning on a nearby tree. 

You got the urge to look up from where you were digging the toe of your shoe into the dirt when the sunlight was no longer beaming on you, coming face to face with possibly one of the last people you wanted to talk to.

You sighed, crossing your arms. “What part of leave me alone do you not understand?”

The blonde scratched the back of his head, looking side to side before shoving his hands in the pockets of his shorts. “Look, I don’t know what I did to make you this mad at me. And even though I would really like to know and won’t stop bothering you until I find out, I promise I didn’t come over here to press you about it right now.”

“Then what are you over here for?”

“I wanted to make sure you were doing okay.” He said, eyes roaming your face as you looked away for a brief second. “You may hate my guts right now but we’re still pogues. And you know how I feel about you...” His voice lowered to a whisper as he leaned in closer. "That doesn't change just because you're pissed at me."

“I don’t hate you.” You didn’t mean to say it. You planned to let him talk to himself while you didn’t respond but something about JJ thinking you hated him really made your stomach turn. Sure, you felt betrayed and led on, but you didn’t hate him. You don't think you ever could.

It would take forces between the heavens and the earth before you would ever even come close to hating JJ.

“...And no. I’m not okay.” You said bluntly, straightening your posture. “I am angrier than I have ever been in my entire life and I can’t do shit about it, JJ.” You groaned, rubbing the back of your neck. “I don’t have any parental figure left, some psychopathic rapist who has an obsession with trying to ruin our lives just kidnapped my fucking dog, my best friend just came back from the dead and the only evidence we have to clear his name and keep him out of jail for a crime he didn’t even commit is being withheld by some batshit crazy woman who lives on a former slave plantation and has a live-in bodyguard, and you...” You ranted all in one breath, stopping yourself right before you went too far. 

JJ just nodded, rolling his lips in on themselves as he gave you a moment to collect yourself and catch your breath before speaking. “Yeah…yeah, that about covers it.” He said, the unhelpful statement causing you to roll your eyes. You don’t know if you purposefully left out the part about him and Kie or if it was a subconscious thing. You figured that would’ve been the best time, if any, to bring it up. But it also seemed like the most miniscule on your list of problems at the moment.

“Well…what about the box?”

“The what?” You said exhaustedly, squinting your eyes as he shifted his weight, allowing the sun to beam on your face. You were too blinded by the golden ray of light to notice how the blonde got distracted by you — the way the sun illuminated everything about you. It made the naturally lighter pieces of your hair more visible, it made your eyes a shade brighter, made your eyelashes more visible, and casted a heavenly glow across your skin. Deep down, he really wanted to get to the bottom of whatever he did to put you off from him this badly because the idea of having you in his life as more than a best friend was looking more appealing every second he looked at you.

Snapping himself out of it, he replied. “The, uh, the box of shit you stole from your mom’s office? That’s, like, hardcore evidence, right?” You pondered on the boy’s statement for a moment. It wasn’t like you’d forgotten about the evidence, it crossed your mind ever since John B’s text came through. But your biggest problem was Shoupe — you didn’t trust him. And you weren't sure if a couple of tapes would be any help.

“Ward has Shoupe and the entire Sheriff’s Department wrapped around his finger. If I hand over the only evidence we have and Shoupe chooses Ward over his oath as an officer, we lose everything.”

“But you don’t think it’s worth the risk if it can clear Bree?” He cocked an eyebrow, clearly questioning your judgment.

You bit your lip in contemplation, shaking your head. “...I’ll sort through everything and see what we can possibly bring to Shoupe. If things go south with JB and this whole key that Pope keeps talking about, I turn it all over to the police. Deal?”

JJ nodded his head, glancing back at his two friends at the edge of the water. “Deal.”

“In the meantime?” You threw out, pushing yourself off of the tree and adjusting yourself. “I’m gonna figure out how to get my damn dog back.” Just then, you saw the HMS Pogue coming towards the shore, Sarah perched on the edge.

The five of you stood up, approaching the edge of the water and watching as the girl let the engine die and the boat come to a halt. The guys moved forward to pull the boat up onto the sand, the girl taking the hand John B offered to assist her out of the boat.

“So, how’d it go?” He asked, hair blowing in the wind as you all crowded each other. Sarah looked to her feet, shaking her head.

“You guys were right.” She sniffled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It didn’t work.”

Everyone nodded despondently, expecting nothing more or less but still disappointed by the outcome. Despite you and JJ’s separate conversation, the pogues weren’t completely aware of the evidence you were holding onto. You figured they'd forgotten. You didn’t want John B and Sarah to have run again, but you needed some time to get what you needed to at least attempt to clear their names without backfire.

“We still have one more opt-”

“What’s that?” Kiara interrupted you, looking petrified at the water ahead of her. You all followed her gaze, finding a fleet of boats with flashing lights sailing directly towards the six of you. 

“How’d the cops find us?” Pope added, taking a weary step back as the boats got closer. 

“They must’ve followed you here.” John B told his girlfriend. “It had to have been Ward.” He spoke rather calmly. 

“Stay on the beach with your hands in the air!” One of the officers commanded through a megaphone. But since when were any of you known to follow rules?

A shared look amongst the group had you all bolting in the opposite direction within seconds, almost tripping over one another in the process. Running on sand was a harder task than you ever imagined, the ground feeling as if it was slipping underneath your feet.

One quick glance behind you and the officers were hopping off their boats, chasing after you all. Your shoes were submerged when you had to run through a shallow bank of salt water to get to the other side of the beach, hoping the trees would hide you. 

Sarah started to slow down, the running causing a strain on her side. John B was quick to scoop her up, throwing an arm around her torso and slinging one of her own over his shoulders. Tree branches and bushes nipped at your calves but you paid no mind to it. 

You could hear the heavy footsteps and radio chatter of the officers behind you all, scattered in the woods, trying to find you all from any and every angle. Reaching the edge of a pond surrounded by weeds, you all let John B help Sarah in first before following, the water going above your knees. 

The further in you waded, the deeper it got until you all had to literally swim across the body of water, Sarah at the tail end of the group. The murky water splashed into your mouth and in your eyes but you kept going. 

The sound of splashing and yelling behind you signaled that you’d been spotted just as you reached the other side, you being the first one out of the water. With no where else to go, you all hid behind the largest tree in sight, the object able to conceal the half dozen of you.

Sirens blared in the distance, your heads snapping behind you to find two police cars flying down the dirt road.

“We’re trapped.” Pope panted, crouching behind the tree. “They got us surrounded. What do we do?”

“We’re not getting out of this.” JJ said, blonde strands soaked, his shirt sticking to his body as he rang out a bandana. “We gotta make a stand.” Pulling the infamous gun from his waistband and wiping it off. You looked at him crazy, snatching the object from his hand before he had a chance to react. Your own hair was sticking to your face, the damp feeling of your clothes making you uncomfy,

“That’s the complete opposite of solving the problem.” You told him as he absentmindedly reached for the weapon. You held it out of his reach, oblivious to John B watching the entire interaction occur.

He was grateful that he had friends willing to get into this kind of trouble for him. But his heart wouldn’t allow any of you to go down with him. Unbeknownst to you, JB had climbed down from the tree, taking hold of your wrist of the arm that held the gun.

Your eyes met his as he slowly took the weapon from your grasp, letting it fall to the ground. Your eyebrows furrowed as he looked at each and every one of you with the most detached look on his face. Smiling at you all, he spoke.

“It’s gonna be all right.” He choked out, gently letting your wrist fall. It was then that you knew — he was surrendering. He took slow, backwards steps away from you all kicking a pile of dirt and leaves over the gun to conceal it.

Just then, Shoupe arrived, wasting no time in drawing his gun in your friend’s direction. “John B! Step out into the clearing!” He hollered, officers surrounding you all from every direction and every single one of them armed. 

“I’m surrendering!” He told the man, hands in the air. 

“Aye, the rest of y’all stay right where ya are, keep your hands where I can see 'em.” Shoupe told the five of you behind JB, all of your hands going in the air slowly. 

“Hey, listen Shoupe, I wanna testify!” John B cut in, eyes red and teary. 

“It’s ‘bout time.” The man said, approaching the boy with two officers trailing behind him. All three of them pointing pistols at you all. “Get down, do not move a muscle. Everybody else, don’t move!”

Shoupe directed one of his deputies to detain John B, the man storming over as he holstered his weapon. He pat JB down quickly before snatching the boy up into a chokehold, clearly out of anger and not protocol. 

“Are you serious?!” JJ was the first to call out, voice echoing throughout the woods.

“Hey, what the fuck?!” You shouted yourself, taking one small step forward but the female officer that chased the car a month ago, Deputy Plumb, was quick to stop you, pointing her pistol right in between your eyes.

“Stay where you are!” She instructed firmly, her eyebrows setting into a fine line. 

You and your friends were forced to watch as the officer arresting John B, who Shoupe referred to as Deputy Thomas, slammed your friend onto his back into the grass and beat on him. You were all shouting and screaming but anytime you took a step, there was officer in your face with a fully loaded pistol or an assault rifle. And these people looked too trigger happy to be arresting a teenager.

Shoupe finally stepped in when Thomas had John B by the collar of his shirt. The man in charge attempted to pull his deranged officer off of your friend but he was pushed back as the man faced John B once more, nostrils flared as he held the boy mid-air.

“...This is for Peterkin.”

And with an uppercut, John B was out cold.

feedback is appreciated! thanks for reading.

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[laiiaaa]

THE PART WHERE YOU KISS ME — JJ MAYBANK

summary: You're stuck with the job of getting a very drunk, very lovesick JJ into bed.

length: 2.4k

contains: tooth-rotting fluff, obsessed boyfriend JJ, soooo touchy he can't keep his hands off of you (can you tell my love language is physical touch lmfao???), mentions of heavy drinking of course, zero plot, he's a flirty little freak and i hate him

note: Not the happiest with this but I haven't posted in a week and I'm in the middle of writing three other pieces right now...so take this as an apology gift for not having the GFAW chapter out yet <3

Driving to the Chateau this late is never ideal, especially when you’re tired and ticked off from a busy shift. Your feet and back ache, your head could use a few Advil, and you would be perfectly happy to stay home and sleep for twelve hours. 

But when Kie calls you, groaning and saying Your boyfriend is wasted and won’t shut up about you and you need to come pull him to bed, you go. It’s as simple as that, really. Partially because JJ is already painfully stubborn when sober and only gets worse as the night goes on (code for: he won’t listen to anyone but you), and partly because you get a sweet kick out of his clinginess and extra loving.

So when you finally pull up and hop out of your car, the sound of Pope sighing Finally doesn’t surprise nor offend you.  Kie and Sarah scurry over, welcoming you with hugs and jokes about how sorry they are they had to call you while John B and Pope still tend to the drunken blonde.

“It’s alright,” you assure them, “I don’t mind.” And you really don’t, not at all, not when he acts all the more helplessly in love with you.

The bonfire still burns on, red-hot embers breaking off into the midnight sky. Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon plays from a speaker nearby, and beer bottles litter the ground as you approach. The fire’s warmth wraps around you, a handle of Tito’s—only half full—entering your field of vision as you find JJ reclined back on the ground, an arm thrown over his eyes while his other hand taps along to the song. You crouch down next to him and hear him hum in tune.

John B stands behind you, feeling a little helpless. “He’s been talking about you nonstop since he got, like, three shots deep.”

“And as much as we love you guys together,” Sarah adds, leaning into the boy’s side, “He doesn’t listen very well once he gets started.”

You shoot them a smile over your shoulder. “It’s okay, I get it. You guys can head in if you want, this might take a while.” The two lovebirds wave you goodnight as they walk back inside with Kie and Pope, and you turn your attention back to your exceptionally troublesome boy. “JJ? Time to go to bed.”

He grumbles without moving an inch. “I told you to fuck off, Sarah, I just wanna see my girl.”

Your heart flutters at the name—his girl. You’ve never heard him call you that. Does he seriously think you’re Sarah? “Your girl?”

“Yeah, you know the gorgeous one?”

“Might ring a bell.”

“Yeah, well, she’s the most…the most beautiful person in the history of…of forever, and she’s mine, so get outta here n’…go flirt with John B or somethin’.” He lazily waves you off, mumbling something you don’t quite hear.

A smile fights its way to the surface, and you gently place your hand on the smooth plane of his shoulder. “Oh, but I wanted to flirt with you instead. How’s that sound, hm?”

He quickly pushes your touch away. “It sounds like my girl’s gonna kill you any second now, so watch it, Blondie.” He slurs his words as he speaks, pulling giggles from your lips. You gently take his wrist in your hand to remove his arm from his eyes and press a kiss where your fingertips touch him. His eyes stay closed, and he juts his chin in the opposite direction in protest.

“Jay, baby, I’m not killing anyone anytime soon,” you coo, leaning over his chest and face while running a hand through his hair. 

He opens one eye, suspicious of your claims, but quickly realizes it’s you, and turns to look at you like he’ll never get the chance to do it again, his expression swallowed by a smile. “When did you get here, baby?”

“Oh, just now,” you answer, laughter lacing your words, “Kie called me over.” You press a kiss to his forehead before sitting back up, your hand quickly taken by his.

“You should’ve come sooner.” His other hand makes its way to your thigh, smoothing over your skin. “I was waiting for you, all by myself, and—” he abruptly sits up— “there’s something I have to tell you,” he whispers. He casts a glance to the Chateau. “It’s top secret.”

With him this close, you can smell the vodka on his breath. “Yeah? What is it?” You loop your arms around his neck and scratch at the nape of his neck, to which he instinctively responds by wrapping his arms around your waist and rubbing the palms of his hands along your back.

“This is top secret, classified information, princess, you can’t just get it for free. Everything comes with a price.” A sly little grin comes over him, tugging you a little closer.

Knowing JJ, you already know where this is headed. You decide to play along anyway: “Name it, then. I’m sure we can strike a deal somehow.”

He mulls over his words before saying, “Hear me out.”

“I’m listening.”

“You—” he points at your chest— “give me three—no, five kisses for the info up front.” When you raise your eyebrows in suspicion, he continues, “And every follow up question is worth another kiss.”

“This must be very important information.”

“Very.” His hands, still soaking in the feeling of you beneath them, start to play with the hem of your tank top, fingertips slipping beneath the fabric to feel skin. “Better pay up soon.”

You feign a look of shock and place a hand on his chest. “I didn’t even agree yet, don’t get too excited.” 

He pouts with furrowed brows, convinced his offer would be impossible to resist. “Why? Baby, come on,” he urges, holding you tighter, “This is the part where you kiss me.” His eyelids droop with drunkenness and fatigue as he presses his lips to your neck, but you quickly take his jaw in your hand and pull him away. 

“Ah ah ah,” you tease. “You come to bed first, then I’ll give you kisses for your secrets.”

“But I don’t wanna go to bed.” His hands work their way from your waist down to your hips again, soon grazing your thighs the way he knows erupts butterflies in your stomach. “I wanna stay here with you…have you boss me around. You’re very sexy when you do it.” He smirks while looking up at you, and you know for a fact he’s just trying to push your buttons.

You roll your eyes and push his face away as you start to stand up. “You’re a pain in the ass, I hope you know that.” As bitter as you try to sound, you’ll always have a soft spot for him the way he does for you, especially when your bitterness is met with that beautiful smile of his. You hold out both hands, towering over him and urging him to stand. “C’mon, Jay.”

He leans his weight onto his hands, stubborn as always. “Will you stay the night?”

“Not if you keep this up, I won’t.” You lend him a condescending smile. 

“But Baby,” he groans, finally complying now that the stakes have been raised. “I haven’t seen you all day, and I miss you.” He starts to shuffle where he sits, taking hold of your hands as you pull him up, dizziness causing him to stumble into your arms. “Can’t a boy just get some love from his girl?” 

There he goes again—his girl. 

You loop his arm over your shoulder and wrap yours around his waist as you lead him into the Chateau, surrounded by his warmth and the smell that’s so distinctly him: a bit of beachiness, mandarin and musky from his body wash, a hint of marijuana.

“You’re very kind,” he rambles on, “for coming here so late. I missed you.”

“I know, baby. You told me.”

He makes his way up the steps with you, following as you open the door. “Well, I’m making sure you’re sure.”

“I’m sure, love.” You smile to yourself, a little caught off guard with how open he’s become.

“I still have to tell you that top secret information,” he whispers, leaning down to your ear-level. His body wraps around you as you stand in front of him to open the door to his bedroom, his arms start to wrap around your waist again. “And you still owe me kisses for it.”

You usher him into his room, shutting the door behind you. “C’mon, let’s get into bed. That was the rule.”

He does as you wish without complaint for once, though when he does sit at the edge of his bed, he also pulls you to stand in between his legs. “I’m in bed now.”

“I can see that,” you giggle, hands massaging his neck and shoulders.

“Does this mean you’ll give me a kiss now?”

“Not yet.” You tug at the fabric of his shirt. “Take this off, please?” You don’t think much when you say it, but once the words slip out and you see JJ’s brows raise as a cocky smirk crosses his face, you realize you need to cover your tracks.

He bites his tongue to oblige, nabbing the back of his tee before pulling it over his head. Revealed to you are his broad shoulders, his chest, those toned arms that are, admittedly, to die for, though you’d never tell him that directly. 

“You’re trying to undress me, baby?” he asks, too quick for you to correct yourself. His hands take purchase of your hips before taking up your thighs, his hands molding to your curves and getting treacherously close to your inner thighs.

Your face goes hot—why is he so good at this?—but you keep a straight face and grab his face, one hand cupping his jaw while the other supports the back of his head. “Do you want your kiss or not?” 

“Yes ma’am,” he responds, almost immediately. His eyes glaze over, entranced by everything you are. A drunk smile is sent your way, and he can’t really tell whether the tingling all over his body is just from the vodka, or if it’s your hands on his body, your snippy tone that he knows is full of love. He’s sure that no matter how flustered he can make you, it’ll never compare to how you make him feel with even the slightest of touches.

Your grip goes soft, and you rake your hand through his hair, his eyes falling shut and his head gone slack into your hands. “You’re beyond wasted, aren't you?”

He laughs heartily now, eyes still shut as he nods his head. “I can’t keep my eyes open any longer, princess.” Giggles line his words and his face scrunches in a smile, dimple on display.

“How much did you drink?”

“A few beers.”

“And?” You tug lightly on his hair.

“Mm, some vodka, maybe. A few shots.” His hands drag from the backs of your thighs, to your hips, to your waist.

“JJ.” You stare down at his clearly vodka-dazed face. “How many is a few?”

He hums to himself, as deep in thought one can be when wasted. “Maybe seven…or nine…don’t remember,” he mumbles.

You sigh to yourself, not surprised by his recklessness but still not all too happy with it. 

But before you can formulate a single thought, a single articulated response, he starts to pout—eyes still closed of course, because your boy is nothing if not a truth-teller. “You sound mad.” Even when wasted he knows you so well.

“I’m not,” you fib a little, for his own sake. You kiss his forehead, then his cheek before letting go of him entirely to pull back the covers for him. “Come on, time to sleep, yeah?” You give a soft tug on his hand as his body goes pliant.

He slowly but surely crawls properly into bed, giving you a show of his back muscles flexing and relaxing before falling face-first into his pillow with a hmph. You lay down next to him as he lifts his arm with all his might, slowly turning onto his side to make space for you. Legs intertwine without words, the warmth of his body blankets your senses, his weight grounds you.

“You need to hurry, princess. I need to…need to give you the information.” The words are half-muffled by his pillow, and his eyes are still shut. 

“Oh. We’re still doing that?” You’re surprised he even remembers the information at this point—whatever it might be. 

He squeezes you tighter into his body, pulling a smile from you as he groans. “Yes, we’re still doing that…it’s important. You need three more…”

“Okay, okay,” you soothe, and you press a kiss to his shoulder. “Does that count?”

“Mhm, two more.” A stupid, drunk, terribly charming grin crosses his face, and it feels like you’re falling for him all over again, teetering at the edge of a cliff. His arm, still heavy on your waist, shifts a little, and his fingers dance along your back and light fires where they touch.

You curl your hand, gently, along the crook of his neck and kiss his jaw. “And that counts as well?”

With the way you’re whispering your words into his neck, JJ swears he could die happily. “Mm, sure does.”

For the fifth and final kiss, the corner of his mouth. It curls into your kiss like he knew it was coming, and you give him one more just for good measure—and, maybe, because seeing him smile is worth his weight in gold. You brush your hand through his hair before hugging him a little tighter towards your chest, all too aware now that you won’t be getting any information out of him the rest of the night. This minor inconvenience, however, doesn’t seem to compare to having him in your arms, his breath against your neck, his arm wrapped around you to tell you he’s there, and he’s there to stay, and he wants to be there more than anywhere else.

You think that you could play this game a million times over. The part where you kiss him—that is, when his lovely, sweet little smile peeks through that rough shell—will never get old enough to retire.

(But for tonight, you can live without more of his drunken teasing. Just for tonight.)

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Grays II

Frankie Morales x f!reader

{ Grays - Part I | Grays Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E (18+ only)

Summary: Leaning in close, you hiss in his ear, ‘You’re getting laid tonight if it kills me, Morales.’

Warnings: Insecure Frankie in need of self-love comes with his own warning, Reader is a hairstylist and has a related nickname, matchmaking elements, meddlesome mother, lots of teasing, not-quite-friends to lovers dynamics, mentions of hair, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, oral sex (F and M receiving), protected sex, dirty talk.

Word count: 8.5k

Notes: It's here - 4 months later! First of all, thank you so much for the love for Grays Part I. I still can't quite believe the reaction to Frankie and Shiv, you guys sure know how to make a writer feel special 🥰 This one was so much fun to write, and nervous as I am posting this follow-up, I'm telling myself to let go of my insecurities and just enjoy it because that's what it's all about. I hope y'all will have a good time at this wedding with the gang 😘

Francisco Morales likes to think of himself as a reasonably competent man. 

He can pilot a helicopter under intense enemy fire. He can take out a target from miles away in the tightest of spots. 

But he can’t do his fucking hair.

He glares at himself in the mirror. He can’t put his finger on it, it just doesn’t look like how you did it. He’s already washed it out and started over twice, and for a second, he considers driving to your salon. A quick glance at his watch tells him it’s far too late for that now.

Leaning over the sink, he says to his reflection, ‘Focus, pendejo. You can do it.’

He’s a pilot for fuck’s sake. He’s a man of procedure, he can follow steps. He just needs to break it down.

Hair half-dry - check.

Hair mousse applied - check.

Now he just needs to dry his hair all the way and style it - but the how is where it gets hazy. 

Frankie closes his eyes and casts his mind back to your salon. He’s sitting in the chair and you’re standing behind him. He wills himself to recall what you were doing with your hands, but all he remembers is the scrape of your of your fingertips on his scalp, the ghost of your breath on the back of his neck, and then -

Don’t be gentle, Francisco. C’mon, harder, deeper - don’t hold back.

He scrubs a frustrated palm down his face when his cock twitches in his haphazardly ironed dress pants, not for the first time… hell, not even the fourth time since he left your salon on Wednesday afternoon.

‘Goddamnit,’ he bites out, dropping the hairdryer with a clunk and grips the porcelain sink. He needs to calm the fuck down. 

He didn’t ask for - this, whatever this is. You’re you. You’re Shiv. The loudmouth with the wild hair he’s known since fifth grade. The fourth wheel at guys’ drinks when Will can’t make it. A relentless tease on a good day, and downright insufferable when you get enough tequila in you.

And quite possibly, the only person who’s ever driven him to the brink of unconsciousness with just the touch of their bare hands.

Frankie pinches the bridge of his nose. Maybe you’re right. It has been a while since he’s been with a woman. He just needs to get laid at the wedding, get this weird tension out of his system. And then hopefully, he’ll be able to go to sleep without being kept up by you telling him to go harder, deeper -

By the time he gets his head out of his ass, it’s too late for second-guessing. He rakes his fingers through his hair, sets it with hairspray, and quickly rubs the beard oil he bought in town yesterday into his whiskers. He takes a moment to look himself over while he clumsily does up the tie he borrowed from Pope.

This is as good as it’s gonna get.

He’s the designated driver tonight. By some miracle, he’s only five minutes late when he cruises into Pope’s driveway, where all three of the boys are waiting and sipping on beers.

‘Damn Fish, you look good,’ crows Santi as he climbs into the passenger seat, patting him on the shoulder. ‘You should get your hair cut at Shiv’s from now on.’

‘Only if you keep paying for it,’ retorts Frankie while he backs out of the driveway. He pauses as he changes gears, and adds in a grumble. ‘She’s making me use shampoo and conditioner.’

Pope barks in laughter, twisting in his seat to give Benny a knowing grin. ‘Someone had to, you caveman.’

The younger Miller brother ribs good-naturedly, ‘You ready for some action tonight, Fish? I brought some extra rubbers just in case.’

Meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror, Frankie rips into him mercilessly. ‘You know your small ass condoms don’t fit me, Benjamin.’ 

The car erupts with playful jeers, and the corner of his mouth lifts into a crooked smile as he palms the steering wheel.

‘That’s some fighting talk, Fish!’ goads Santi, punching him on the arm.

Will joins in the banter. ‘You better watch out, little bro. Big Dick Morales came out swinging tonight.’

Benny grins. ‘Ok, I see how it is. Let’s make it interesting, Fish. Whoever picks up a one night stand first wins a hundred bucks.’

Frankie shrugs in mock nonchalance and quips, ‘I mean, I can use the cash. Shampoo ain’t cheap.’

Benny chuckles and clasps his shoulder. ‘You’re on, man.’

It’s eight on the dot when you lock up the salon. While you did RSVP for wedding drinks - opting out of the sit-down dinner earlier in the evening - you hadn’t planned on actually going. But it seems like the whole town did, you’ve barely had two customers walk through the door all afternoon. 

So you let Ashton go home early, and after a quick snack, you take your time getting ready. Might as well have a Saturday night out - your first in many months.

The hotel is just a short Uber ride away. When you climb out of the car, you bite your bottom lip at the unfamiliar tension humming under your skin.

Nerves.

You’re nervous.

And worse, you know exactly what you’re nervous about. 

Or more precisely - who.

‘Pull it together, Shiv,’ you mutter under your breath. Steeling yourself, you stride into the hotel.

From his vantage point at the bar, Benny watches in amusement as Frankie glances towards the doors of the reception hall yet again. He doubts the pilot even knows he’s doing it, or at the very least, he doesn’t think that anyone would notice.

Grabbing his beer, Benny sidles up to his friend. ‘Looking for something, Fish?’

Frankie takes a sip of his Coke and feigns nonchalance. ‘Yeah, looking to win that hundred bucks from you.’

‘Dunno ‘bout that. I don’t see you trying very hard.’

‘Biding my time, Miller. Just make sure you have enough cash to -’ 

When Frankie breaks off in the middle of his sentence, Benny doesn’t need to look to wager a guess what caught his attention.

Turning around as you approach, he flings his arms out to give you a hug, eyeing you up and down appreciatively. ‘Babe, look at you all dressed up! Doesn’t she look nice, Fish?’

In lieu of an answer, Frankie stares intently at some invisible spot over your shoulder until Benny elbows him right in his stomach, jerking him out of his trance. ‘Fish?’

Frankie clears his throat and stutters. ‘Um. I - I don’t know.’

You arch an eyebrow at him. ‘You don’t know if I look nice?’

Benny has to stopper his mouth with beer so he doesn’t laugh out loud at the panic on Frankie’s face as he fumbles for a response. ‘I mean. Um, nice… pants?’

‘It’s a jumpsuit, Morales. Try to keep up,’ you reply and take two steps towards him, which has him backpedalling so fast that he upsets the table behind him, sending half-empty glasses spilling wine all over the white tablecloth.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he growls at you like a cornered stray.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you pull him upright by his tie. ‘Is he ok, Ben? He’s even jumpier than usual.’

‘Well, it’s a funny night for him. Watching his ex get married and all.’

‘I swear to God, Benjamin Miller, if you don’t shut the fuck up -’ 

‘Pipe down, Morales, we’re just messing with you,’ you shush him, tugging on his slightly skewed shirt collar to set it straight. ‘Can’t believe you own a tie.’

‘Borrowed it from Pope,’ he grunts without making eye contact.

Smoothing the lapels of his slightly crumpled suit jacket, you probe, ‘You’ve been using shampoo and conditioner like I asked?’

Frankie huffs a dry laugh. ‘I don’t remember you asking.’

‘Someone’s mouthy tonight,’ you tease. ‘And the beard oil?’

He concedes with a sigh. ‘Yes, Shiv.’

‘You look good, Francisco,’ you grin and reach up to push his curls back from his eyes.

He looks away as he admits, ‘Took three fucking tries.’

At least he holds still when you make small adjustments to his hair, shoulders stiff with hands stuffed deep into his pockets. You catch yourself missing the way he leaned into your touch in your salon, and you have to forcefully push that thought away as you push your fingers through the roots to boost the volume. His curls feel softer already than you remember them, with a noticeably healthier sheen. 

After a final rustle to loosen up his fringe, you wink at him. ‘Mark my words, the bride will rue the day she dumped your ass when she sees you.’

A voice from behind you interrupts. ‘It’s a bit too late for that now, isn’t it?’

Trading a look with Frankie, who gives you a sarcastic thumbs up, you put on a smile and turn on your heels. ‘Mrs. Morales, it’s been too long!’

‘I see you haven’t dyed my son’s hair like I requested,’ she says by way of a greeting, drawing you into an embrace.

Frankie’s taunt is so quiet that you nearly miss it. ‘Told you she’d come after you.’

Without skipping a beat, you elbow him in the ribs, ignoring his pained oomph from behind you. ‘You look wonderful tonight, ma’am.’ 

‘You can’t sweet talk your way out of my question, young lady.’

You cross your arms with a sigh. ‘I didn’t dye it because he looks good with the grays.’ 

‘Well, I don’t think so.’

‘In my professional opinion, he does,’ you retort pointedly.

‘If he looks so good, why is he still single?’

Frankie throws his hands up in exasperation. ‘Gee, thanks a lot ma.’

You turn to Benny, who has been silently watching you two spar. ‘What do you think, Miller?’

He dithers, eyes darting around in desperation until he spots Santi and his older brother coming back from the bar. ‘Look! Here are the guys, let’s ask them!’

‘Ask us what?’ asks Santi, giving you a kiss on the cheek and a glass of bubbly.

‘Do you think my son looks good with the grays?’

Your eyebrow twitches when Mrs. Morales carelessly ruffles his hair to emphasise her point. To your surprise, Frankie bats her away with an irritated ma!, before hastily rearranging it.

‘Your honest opinion, if you please,’ you add.

The boys hum and haw, sipping their beers and shooting uncertain looks between you and Mrs. Morales, clearly uncomfortable being caught in the middle. Upping the heat, you narrow your eyes at them, and Will folds first. 

‘Yeah, I mean - he looks good,’ he mumbles, avoiding the Morales matriarch's glare.

‘Pope?’ you prompt.

‘Cabrón rocking those grays,’ he nods supportively.

‘Ben?’

‘Uh huh,’ he replies vaguely, but at your menacing glare, clarifies, ‘Yes, I meant - yes, ma’am.’

Mrs. Morales scoffs. ‘They’re men, what do they know! I don’t see him catching any girls’ attention.’

Ah, that’s the easy part. You look around, scanning the crowds - and bingo, you see a brunette staring openly from across the dance floor. You hold up a finger for dramatic effect. ‘Excuse me for one second.’

Frankie looks ready for the earth to swallow him whole by the time you return with the said woman in tow. Pointing straight at him, you ask, ‘Lucy, this is Frankie. Do you think he’s hot with the grays?’

To her credit, she’s a good sport, and plays along with a cheeky wink. ‘Yeah, he is. You wanna dance, handsome?’

‘Yes, he absolutely does!’ you answer quickly before he can get a word in.

‘What the fuck, Shiv?’ Frankie seethes through clenched teeth, literally digging his heels in, but to his despair, his shoes skid uselessly on the tiled surface as you push him towards the dancefloor with this complete stranger. 

Leaning in close, you hiss in his ear, ‘You’re getting laid tonight if it kills me, Morales.’

‘Have fun, Fish!’ calls out Pope impishly, which earns him an emphatic middle finger. 

You beam at Mrs. Morales smugly. ‘And that’s how it’s done.’

‘You better keep it up, young lady,’ she says over her shoulder as she turns to leave.

You raise your drink. ‘Don’t you worry, Mrs M. I promise you - he’ll be leaving with his future wife tonight!’

Santi is minding his own business, sipping on his beer as he stakes out the ladies, when a hand shoots out from nowhere and snatches the bottle from him.

‘What the fuck, man?!’ he bristles indignantly.

Frankie polishes off the drink in one mouthful, before slamming it onto the table and demanding, ‘Where’s Shiv? I’m done. I’m not fucking dancing with anyone else.’

Pope jerks his thumb to the other side of the room. ‘She’s arguing with your mother.’

Frankie flops into a chair, the dress shoes that he never wears are pinching his feet and he fights the urge to kick them off. He folds his arms across his chest petulantly, one palm over his mouth as his eyes wander across the hall to you, where you’re gesturing madly at his ma, embroiled in an impassioned discussion, probably still about his damn hair.

You’re all dressed up tonight, which is new to him - he’s only ever seen you in jeans when you go out drinking with them, and he’s certainly never seen so much of you. The ‘jumpsuit’ (he learns something new every day) is black and cut low both front and back, and fuck, all he sees is soft skin and the dip of your curves and red lipstick -

Pope must have nipped to the bar while he wasn’t looking, and a fresh bottle of beer appears under his nose. Glancing up at his best friend, Frankie mutters, ‘Thanks.’

‘You can’t marry her, Fish.’

He chokes violently at the casual non-sequitur, spraying beer everywhere. ‘What the fuck, Pope.’

Santi beams. ‘You got that look on your face, man. I’ve seen that look before.’

‘I don’t have a look on my face.’

He chuckles, mostly to himself. 'Damn, I really should've seen this coming.'

‘What are you even on about -’ Looking up, Frankie spots you making your way over and panics. ‘Shut the fuck up, pendejo.’

‘Why aren’t you dancing, my little debutante?’ you ask when you come within earshot.

Santi chortles and takes his leave, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Good luck, Fish.’

You sink into the empty seat next to him and he deliberately twists his body away from you, drinking deeply from his bottle to drown out Santi’s words ringing in his ears. 

‘So, I heard you have a bet going on with Benny. I want splitsies if you win.’

Frankie rolls his eyes, staring resolutely anywhere but at the swell of your cleavage. ‘No.’

‘40/60.’

‘Fuck off, Shiv.’

‘30/70?’ you counter-offer.

He sighs. ‘You’re impossible.’

Ignoring him, you jump up with a happy squeak when someone Frankie vaguely recognises as a girl who used to be in your class approaches with a shy smile. You pull her close by the crook of her arm and ask, ‘Morales, you remember Sadie?’

He tries not to scowl too openly as he too gets on his feet. ‘Sure, hi Sadie.’

Herding them towards the dancefloor, you grin, ‘Go dance, get reacquainted.’

As he passes by you, Frankie grits his teeth and curls his fingers into the meat of his palms to crush the urge to reach out and touch you. 

But it’s easier to fall into your well-rehearsed roles, to toe the line that has been drawn in the sand since you were teenagers. And easier is certainly the safer option when it comes to you.

So he throws you a deliberate glare over his shoulder, with a deadpanned, ‘I hate you.’

You blow him a kiss and grin wider.

Frankie can’t hold back a relieved sigh when the interminably long song finally ends, and the woman he’s dancing with - he won’t even pretend he remembers her name - tucks his phone back into the pocket of his jacket after tapping in her number. ‘Call me, gorgeous.’

He stopped counting after the eighth woman you shepherded his way. This is it. He’s not above hiding in the toilets if that’s what it takes to make this stop.

Except he’s not quick enough. He spots you out of the corner of his eye, marching straight towards him with a fresh glass of water and a look of purpose on your face.

He doesn’t exactly know what came over him. He could probably blame it on the one and a half beers that he downed, or being pushed to the end of his tether. Whatever it is, there’s something he has to say to you, and it can’t wait.

You push the glass into his grasp. ‘Here, hydrate.’

‘Shiv -’

You’ve already swivelled around, your focus somewhere else. ‘Where is she? She was literally just behind me -’

‘Shiv -’

‘Mind you, she’s a sweet girl, but clearly not the brightest tool in the -’

His patience snaps, and he barks, ‘Shiv!’

You spin around, brow furrowed in confusion, and snarl back, ‘What?’

Frankie pauses, and you blink as his warm eyes hold yours. On an exhale, he says, ‘You look nice tonight.’

You’re vaguely aware that your jaw has gone slack, but only because his eyes follow the movement, dropping to your mouth. He considers you for a moment, head tipping just slightly to the side as he watches you. Then, satisfied that he has your attention, he brings the glass of water to his lips, throwing his head back as he drinks. 

Your breath catches in your throat when his Adam’s apple bobs with his swallow, before he leisurely swipes his lips with the back of his hand.

Except in your mind, it’s not water that he’s wiping from his mouth.

In a perfectly mirrored imitation of what transpired between you earlier in the evening, he takes two measured steps forward, prompting you to back up against the table behind you. The tinkle of glasses falling over hardly registers in the back of your mind. 

The fabric of his suit is cool on your skin, brushing your bare arm as he looms over you, so broad and warm. Though his front barely makes contact, your peripheral vision gives and all you can see is him.

‘What are you doing?’ you croak the same words back at him, hating the way your voice shakes.

Frankie smiles - really smiles at you, with no colour of the usual irony or sarcasm. Warmth settles into the creases in the corners of his eyes as he holds up the empty glass. ‘Just putting my glass away,’ he says coolly, an edge of cockiness at your tragically obvious reaction to him.

You feel your cheeks heat up as he does just that - the back of his hand bumping into your forearm as he moves, the breadth of him pinning you against the table. He doesn’t pull away, clearly basking in the way the tables have well and truly turned -

‘Hi! You must be Frankie, I’m Jan.’

Frankie squeezes his eyes shut in irritation at the voice behind him, nostrils flaring as he collects himself. A resigned smile tugs at his lips, and he tips forward, his words grazing your ear. ‘Catch you later, Shiv.’

You only let your knees buckle when he’s safely out of sight.

You’ve barely stepped back into the reception hall from a much needed bathroom break to clear your head when someone grabs you by the arm, tugging you onto the dancefloor.

‘Benny!’ You reprimand, stumbling over your feet. ‘I’m busy.’

‘Relax, Shiv. Frankie can survive on his own for a second.’

‘You’re just jealous that he’s hogging all the ladies’ attention.’

He scoffs, palms on your waist as he sways to the music. ‘He has an unfair advantage, ok? How do I compete with the bride’s ex?’

Clasping your hands around Benny’s neck, you catch Frankie’s eye over his shoulder. You wink at him casually, having somewhat recovered your bravado - it’s easier to pretend from a distance anyway. He rolls his eyes at you over Jan’s head, but he doesn’t look away, watching you with a hint of something you can’t quite make out.

Glancing up at Benny, you ask a tad bashfully, ‘I know we give Frankie a hard time about all this, but is he - ok?’

‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

You hesitate. ‘Well, we’re not exactly that kind of friends.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know, the kind who sit around having heart-to-hearts and painting their nails.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘What kind of friends are you, then?’ 

‘I don’t know, he probably doesn’t even count me as one,’ you admit. ‘He barely tolerates me on a good day.’

Benny shoots you a cryptic look, but before you can quiz him on it, he changes the subject abruptly. ‘Can I swing by the salon tomorrow morning? I have a promotional shoot at half past eleven.’

‘As long as you bring donuts and coffee.’

He twirls you around. ‘Deal.’

Frankie slinks out of the hotel, somehow managing to dodge both you and his mother on his way out, which he takes as a win.

It’s cold outside. He inhales deeply and feels it burn down his throat. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he watches his breath mist in front of his face, savouring the quiet.

‘Hey.’

His shoulders stiffen. He knows he should’ve been the bigger man. Should’ve sought her out first, to congratulate her.

Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.

When he turns around eventually, she smiles brightly at him, her engagement ring catching the lights.

Closing the space between them, he presses a kiss to her cheek. ‘Congratulations. You look beautiful.’

‘Thank you,’ she replies. ‘I’m glad you came. Your mum too - it was a long way to travel.’

His gaze falls to his shoes. ‘Yeah, well. You know she loves you.’

‘How are you?’ she presses on, always one for polite conversation. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’

Frankie shrugs but doesn’t answer.

‘Just because it didn’t work between us doesn’t mean I want you to be happy.’

He nods slowly. ‘I appreciate that.’

She points behind her. ‘Well, I should go back inside.’

‘Of course. I’m happy for you,’ he says. And he means it.

The hotel doors swing open, and Frankie looks up at the sharp clack of heels on the concrete. You pause at the sight of them by the curb.

‘Are you leaving, Shiv?’ the bride laments as you walk over to give her a hug.

‘I am, I’m afraid, gotta open up shop early tomorrow,’ you pull back. ‘Come by the salon any time, my treat.’

Once the bride is out of earshot, you turn to Frankie, hands on hips. ‘Alright, no more shirking, Morales. Get your ass back in there, your mother is on my case again.’

He folds his arms across his chest. ‘Oh no, I’m not going back in there without you.’

You sigh dramatically. ‘Am I the only one in this town who’s not scared of your mother?’

‘You should be,’ he snorts, then nods towards the parking lot. ‘C’mon, I’ll give you a lift.’

Taken aback by his offer, you hesitate. ‘Um - I thought you were the designated driver for the guys tonight.’

He brushes off your concerns with an easy shrug. ‘I’ll come back to get them after I drop you off.’ 

Typical Frankie - he walks off without even glancing back to see if you’re coming with him.

You smile to yourself and follow.

You must be drunker than you realised, because you’re staring. Again. For what must be the fifth time in the ten-minute drive.

It’s a lot of staring, even for you.

His jacket lies abandoned in the backseat, his tie jostled loose and the top two buttons of his shirt unfastened, sleeves bunched up to his elbows. You watch from the corner of your eye as his left hand grips the top of the steering wheel steady, fingers flexing every now and then on straight stretches of road.

As if you’re not already discreetly squeezing your thighs together, he’s also rubbing his right palm idly on his leg, the innocent rustle of fabric against skin getting you far too hot and bothered under the metaphorical collar. 

And then - your eyes trail higher - settling on the heavy bulge at the top of his spread thighs.

Fuck. You’re definitely drunk.

You mull silently to yourself that you actually prefer him in his beat-up jeans and threadbare t-shirts before catching yourself. You weren’t aware you had any preferences when it comes to Frankie Morales. And you have no business doing so.

Clearing your throat, you break the tense silence. Well, tense for you, anyway. He seems completely oblivious to your inner strife.

‘I’m sorry you didn’t win the bet.’

His lips quirk, but he keeps his eyes on the road.

‘I had another five girls lined up for you, you know.’

He scoffs. ‘No, thank you.’

You reach over to punch him on the arm playfully. ‘C’mon, you know you enjoyed the attention, Morales.’

‘You don’t know me very well, do you?’ he peers at you.

You make a face of disbelief. ‘If you hated it that much, why did you go along with it?’

Cruising into your street, his truck rolls to a smooth stop outside your salon. Frankie kills the ignition, then turns towards you. His answer is simple, and hits you right between the ribs. 

‘Because you wanted me to.’

You force a chuckle in a weak attempt to lighten the mood. ‘Since when did you care about what I wanted?’

He smooths his palm over the steering wheel and holds your gaze. ‘Sometime when I wasn’t looking.’

It would be simpler to pretend you didn’t understand what he means. To brush off this pull between you as a champagne-induced episode that you could sleep off. If you did, you could still show up at Tuesday nights drinks next week as if nothing has changed, and carry on.

It would be simpler. So you ask -

‘Do you want to come in for a nightcap?’

Frankie follows two steps behind you as you grapple with the keys on the doorstep. Once inside, the salon is quiet, and you strategically turn on the lights by the backwash, the semi-darkness making it more homey than it would have been if fully lit up. 

‘I would invite you upstairs -’ you pause and add hastily, ‘I don’t mean upstairs like, upstairs in that way - it’s just that my apartment is tiny, and the backwash is the closest thing I have to a couch. Are you okay with beer?’

‘Beer’s good, thanks,’ he answers. ‘Need a hand?’

You shake your head vehemently. ‘Oh god, please no - it’s a disaster upstairs. I’ll be right back.’

The rickety stairs creak loudly under your heels, and once you let yourself into your studio, you fall back heavily on the door, taking a second to catch your breath.

You invited him inside. 

He said yes.

You leap into action, shoving all your dirty laundry into the already full hamper. You try not to think too hard about why you’re cleaning up, you just hope you’re not making too much of a ruckus while you’re at it - because you have a boy waiting for you downstairs. 

Francisco Morales, of all people.

Despite having been in each other’s lives since high school, you’re pretty sure you’ve never been alone with him. Not even once. There’s always a buffer with Pope on his side, Benny on yours, and Will in the middle. And while some find Frankie hard to read, you’ve always known exactly how to act around him. You have an unwritten playbook - you bait him with cheap jokes, more often than not joining forces with Benny to gang up on him. He rolls his eyes and snaps at you to shut up. It’s the longest running show in town.

But this? Alone, after his ex’s wedding, in your salon? You’re going off-script and off-piste. Dangerous enough on a good day; outright stupid after a night of drinking.

Frankie is quick to help when you reappear, armed with beer and a bag of ice, using the backwash sink as a makeshift cooler. Your shoes clatter onto the floor as you settle in the chair next to his. Hugging your knees, you hold out your bottle, which he clinks with his.

‘Did you have fun tonight?’ you ask, rather mundanely.

‘As much fun as one is expected to have at an ex’s wedding,’ he answers with a sardonic smile. Taking a sip of beer, he adds, ‘Gotta admit, you winding up my ma pretty much made up for it.’

‘That never gets old,’ you smirk. ‘Although, I promised your mother you’d leave with your future wife tonight - so that’s a bust.’

You startle when Frankie chokes on his beer, his eyes visibly watering as he thumps a fist on his chest. When you ask if he’s ok, he won’t meet your gaze, downing more of his beer.

Not thinking anything of it, you move on. ‘You know, she sent a bunch of customers my way when I first opened up the salon.’

His voice is still a bit tight from his coughing fit. ‘And I’m sure she’ll deny it till the day she dies.’

‘I can’t figure her out,’ you admit. ‘I can’t decide if she hates me or not.’

‘She doesn’t hate you. She just doesn’t understand you.’

You hum, unconvinced.

He nudges your knee with his. ‘She was really proud of you when you opened the salon, you know.’

You toss him a sidelong glance. ‘You talk to your mum about me?’

He’s ambiguous in his answer. ‘She asks after you sometimes.’

‘And how would you have anything to say to her? We’re not exactly bosom buddies.’

Frankie concedes with a wry smile, ‘Benny talks.’

‘Ha!’ you laugh, echoing his words from a few days ago back at him. ‘Benjamin fucking Miller.’

He goes quiet for a second, looking around your salon as if taking stock. ‘It’s pretty amazing that you’ve built all this.’

The unexpected compliment catches you blindsided. You reply diplomatically, ‘Ashton helps me loads.’

Frankie’s eyes widen in feigned surprise. ‘Are you going humble on me now? What have you done to Shiv?’

‘Shut up,’ you grumble good-naturedly, adding, ‘Ben tells me you’re doing really well yourself.’

‘Yeah. I got promoted at work last month, and I’m saving up for a house,’ he replies, a hint of pride in his voice. ‘Things are looking up.’

‘You’re actually acknowledging your achievements?’ you gasp in mock outrage. ‘What have you done to Francisco Morales?’

With a shrug, he leans forward to put his empty beer bottle in the sink, but he doesn’t sit back. Instead, he sways even closer, one palm landing on the leather of your seat next to your knee, eyes darting to your lips. His voice is deep as he rasps, ‘Can I kiss you?’

It would be so easy to say yes, but when have you ever made things easy for yourself? 

Instead, you blurt out, ‘Why?’

Frankie looks amused, like he expected this from you. Slowly, not wanting to spook you, he gently plucks the beer that you’ve barely drunk from your grasp.

‘Because all fucking night, while you were throwing woman after woman at me, I just wanted to have a drink with you.’

He leans in close. 

You stop breathing.

‘Because since Wednesday, every time I wash my hair, I get hard thinking of you touching me.’

Closer still.

Your lungs ache.

‘And because when you told me to go harder, deeper - I nearly lost my fucking mind.’

He’s hovering over you now, and you can almost taste the bitter sweetness of the beer on his breath. He smirks at you, but there’s only warmth and mischief in it when he teases, ‘Speechless for once?’

‘Shut up, Morales,’ you breathe and grab him by the collar of his shirt.

And then you’re kissing him. You’re kissing Frankie, and he’s kissing you back.

It’s messy, and disorientating, and you clumsily fumble over each other until he’s sitting up in one of the chairs, with your thighs on either side of his narrow hips as you straddle him. He’s licking up into your mouth, sucking on your bottom lip, his hands gripping your sides almost painfully hard.

‘Is this really happening?’ you garble into his lips, ripping off his tie and undoing his shirt buttons as fast as your shaking fingers allow you to.

‘If you want it,’ he mumbles back, loath to pull back from you even for a second to shuck off his shirt. ‘If you want me.’

He kisses you wet and insistent, but he doesn’t push you, waiting for you to make up your mind. Reaching behind you, you tug on the tie that holds your jumpsuit together with a decisive pull, letting the fabric ripple down your bare front and pool around your waist.

Frankie bites his bottom lip so hard it goes white. ‘Fuck,’ he cusses, his grip on your hips twitching as he stares at your tits. ‘Can I, please -?’

‘Touch me, Francisco.’

Your poor second-hand Ikea bed that Benny helped set up when you moved in was not made for this.

This being the way Frankie effortlessly tosses you onto the mattress, his arms flexing with an easy strength that goes straight to your head, as you stare giddily up at him.

His hair - your handiwork - has been well and truly undone, errant strands falling over his eyes as he watches you, his broad frame looming over the foot of the bed. He pulls at his belt, which falls open with a careless clink, and he makes quick work of his now crumpled trousers, kicking them off impatiently.

Your head is swimming, yet somehow, you muster the strength to shuffle towards the edge of the bed, rearranging yourself to sit on your haunches, knees folded neatly beneath you. Boldly, you reach out to slide his dark boxers down his hips, and they fall around his knees and onto the floor. His cock springs free, half-hard and heavy, and Frankie swallows thickly as you tilt your face towards him.

‘I want to suck your cock.’

His eyes close as if he’s in pain, nostrils flaring at your words. Taking advantage of his distraction, you wrap one careful hand around his length, and he jerks violently at the first velvety slide of your palm against him. 

‘Fuck, Shiv -’ he chokes, eyes flying open at the contact, pupils completely blown. He protests weakly, ‘No, stop, need to get you off first -’

You shoot him a lopsided smile, pumping him slowly, your pulse racing at the way you feel him swell in your grasp. ‘Can we not argue this one time?’

You lean forward and, holding his gaze, flatten your tongue and lick your way up the underside of his cock. His breath stutters, one big hand moving to cradle the back of your head, his eyes wide and almost frantic as you press open-mouthed kisses on his sensitive flesh.

With an insolent grin, you tease, ‘You’re a big boy, aren’t you, Morales?’

He whimpers, and you know you have him.

His size is obvious by sight, but you really feel it in the pressure bearing down on the hinge of your jaw as you sink down on his cock, fighting to squeeze the girth of him into your mouth. The guttural groan from Frankie makes your pussy clench, and he tastes like he looks - clean, and all man. 

There’s no way you can take all of him, but you’ll be damned if you don’t try. He’s hot under your touch, muscles pulled taut with tension that you can feel thrumming under his skin as you take your time with him. Focusing on your breathing and relaxing your throat, you bob patiently up and down on him, slicking up his length with your spit, working him slightly deeper with every stroke - until you’re so full of him that you gag, hard.

Frankie is slack-jawed when you release him with an obscenely wet pop, spit trailing from your lips to the swollen tip of his cock, eyes wild as swipes his thumb across your puffy bottom lip. 

‘You’re beautiful,’ he declares, almost solemnly.

Slinking down his front, one hand securely around the base of his cock, you take him between your lips again, moaning at the salty taste of his precum, which makes him quake above you. As you swallow his length and pump your fist in tandem, your spit wetting your fingers, you peer up at him through your lashes - nothing could’ve prepared you for the utter wreckage that you find on his face. 

His lips are pulled back, baring his tidy teeth into a snarl as he very clearly struggles to hold himself back from fucking your mouth. You feel every bump and vein in his cock with each descent, the wet squelches filling in the gaps of his low grunts and moans. His grip in your hair stings as he starts panting in earnest above you, and somehow he gets even harder on your tongue, making it harder to breathe - 

‘Stop, stop,’ he wheezes suddenly, pulling back in a hasty retreat that has you whining at the sudden loss of him. ‘C’mere.’

He practically hauls you up against him, kissing you deeply, delving into your mouth to taste the bitterness of himself on your tongue. The world tilts on its axis when he tips you back onto the bed, and holding himself above you, he peels the jumpsuit off, leaving you in just your panties.

‘Gonna eat you out, baby,’ he drawls by your ear, trailing one palm up your body, which stops at your tits and squeezes. ‘Get you good and ready to take my big cock. How does that sound?’

‘Fuck, yes, Frankie, please,’ you beg.

There’s no shyness when he pushes your legs up and apart, and instead of taking your panties off, he hooks a finger under the thin fabric and pulls it to the side, his eyes darkening as he stares down at you.

‘So pretty,’ he praises you lowly. Holding your breath as he sinks onto his front, you breathe heavily in anticipation as his shoulders slot neatly underneath your legs. ‘Look at how wet you are for me. All this from sucking my cock?’

You nod frantically. ‘Frankie -’

Straight to the point as always, he ducks his dark head and drags the broad of his tongue over your clit - and you’re gone.

Admittedly, you have not had the best experiences with your exes. There was always too much gratuitous moaning and too little finesse, and afterwards, they always act like they deserve a medal for failing to get you off. But even if your past lovers had been more adequate in the field, you’re sure it still wouldn’t have prepared you for this. 

Frankie goes about it with a quiet focus that veers on reverential, the intensity in his dark eyes watching you makes your knees weak. He’s obviously picking up signs and reactions from you and adjusting his game plan accordingly, the pilot in him clearly in the driver’s seat. 

Not that he’s silent - far from it, you feel the reverberation in your core with every satisfied  hum deep in his chest, and the occasional, muttered fuck, so wet, want more in between licks and groans. But there’s nothing performative or showy about it, just a forthright competency that has you hurtling towards a toe-curling orgasm.

‘Frankie,’ you whine when you feel it about to hit. ‘Frankie Frankie Frankie -’

‘Eyes on me,’ he slurs against your sopping folds, and you listen - for once - watching him watch you fall apart on his tongue, thrashing in his hold as he grips you harder to keep you in place while he laps you up, until the burn of his patchy beard on your inner thighs makes you arch away from him from overstimulation.

Your pussy is still fluttering when he sinks two thick fingers into you, and he hisses at the way it clenches around him as he fucks you, leaving his digits slicked and slippery.

‘So tight, baby,’ he declares through gritted teeth, working you open for him. ‘Gonna feel so fucking good on my cock.’

You point towards the nightstand. ‘First drawer,’ you pant.

Needing no further prompting, Frankie yanks your panties off and flings the soaked scrap of fabric over his shoulder, then lunges at the cupboard where the condoms are. You scrape your nails over his thighs as he kneels over you, his usually steady hands visibly trembling as he tears into the wrapper and rolls the rubber over his heavy cock. He watches you with hooded eyes and settles between your legs, kissing you desperately as the swollen tip of him nudges at your entrance.

‘Ready?’ he asks, nose skimming yours sweetly.

You wind your arms around his neck, holding him close. ‘Fuck me, Frankie.’

The first push is a tight squeeze, and you can’t help the wince at the slight pinch as he sinks into you slowly. With a grunt of effort, he buries face into the slope of your neck and breathes, ‘Fuuuuck. You ok?’

‘Give me a second,’ you gasp, feeling your walls throb tightly around his length. ‘You’re so big, Frankie.’

He tangles his tongue with yours lazily in a deep kiss, before brushing his way down your throat and sucking on one nipple, making you cry out. He murmurs against your skin, ‘I know, but you’re doing so well for me, baby.’

Shifting your hips, Frankie groans when you slide him in deeper, the friction making you quiver beneath him. ‘Move, Frankie, please.’

He starts carefully, his strokes measured and deliberate, making sure you feel every inch of him as he draws back then sinks back in, exhaling shakily. ‘You feel so fucking good.’

‘Harder,’ you demand when you feel your pussy relax around him. ‘Fuck me harder.’

‘Shit,’ he growls and snaps his hips, drawing a squeal from you as he hits somewhere deep inside. You wrap your legs around his waist, bracing yourself as he drives into you again and again and again, the bedframe hitting the wall with each thrust.

‘So good, Frankie,’ you plead in between hard pants. ‘Keep going. Don’t stop -’

Looking up at him, you admire the way his hair falls over his eyes, swaying with his movement. Absent-mindedly, your fingers wander into his curls and his reaction is instant - he cries out, arching into your touch, his hips faltering as he seems to lose his rhythm. ‘Oh fuck, baby, been thinking about those hands all fucking week, just wanted to feel you touch me again -’

As wrecked as you are on his cock, you smile at his confession and slide your hands languidly in his locks, dragging your nails on his scalp, your chest swelling with pride when you watch his face - dazed and completely wrecked - fucking you so hard that you’re sure the bed is about to break.

When he finds his voice again, it’s your real name that slips past his lips. ‘Gonna cum so hard, oh fuck - I’m gonna -’

Frankie’s thrusting frantically into you, eyes screwed shut until his hips stutter and then - after one perfect moment of stillness suspended in time - shudder after shudder thunder through his body, your name a broken record as he spills into the condom, his scratchy baritone moaning into your neck as the frenzied energy bleeds out of him.

His weight pins you to the bed as he catches his breath, and you play with his curls gently, basking in the rumbling purr in his chest as you run the strands between your fingers. Eventually, gathering himself, he rolls off you to let you breathe, tying the condom neatly and tossing it into the trash can.

For a second, Frankie lies on his side, watching you quietly. You watch him back, casting your gaze over the curls stuck to his sweaty forehead and his broad outline backlit by your nightstand light. Before self-consciousness can settle into the small distance between you, he cracks a smile and quips, ‘You did say I’d get laid even if it killed you.’

You laugh, which makes him grin. One strong arm reaches out to tuck you into his side, securely beneath the duvet. You hum at the tickle of his beard on the back of your neck and the steady rise and fall of his chest behind you.

Right on the cusp of sleep, you sass, ‘Guess you’ll have to split the winnings with me after all.’

Any other day, you would’ve woken up if you heard someone on the stairwell. Hell, you’d hear if they were knocking on the salon door downstairs.

When you’re rudely shaken awake by frantic knocking on the studio door, you realise it’s because your hearing has been impaired by the side of a very warm body smooshed into your ear.

‘Shiv! Open up! I need to leave in fifteen minutes for my photoshoot!’

‘Shit,’ you croak, throat dry, limbs flailing as you try to sit up. ‘I forgot about Benny.’

‘Fuck him’, grouses Frankie, pulling you back into his arms, eyes still closed.

‘I can’t, I promised to help him with his hair. Fuck, do we need to hide you, or -’

‘The door’s thin, Shiv, I can hear him. And we put two and two together when you guys disappeared last night. We're pretty, but we ain't dumb!’

Frankie lets you go with a grumbled Benjamin fucking Miller under his breath, but he visibly perks up when you stumble out of bed naked.

You half-jokingly shield your boobs from his view. ‘Are you perving on me, Morales?’

He smirks, leaning back into the pillows with his hands folded behind his head while he eyes you appreciatively. It’s not fair how his triceps flex deliciously with the movement. ‘Why bother covering up? I’ve seen everything already.’

Trying - and failing - to shoot him a stern scowl, you pull on a robe and yank the door open, nearly careening backwards at the sight of Benny’s grinning face right in the doorway. 

‘Since when did you bang paying customers?’ he demands in lieu of a good morning.

You roll your eyes and usher him downstairs. ‘He’s not a paying customer. He’s on Pope’s tab.’

Benny flops into his usual chair, making it squeak, one eyebrow up as he does the air quotes. ‘Well, I guess we now know what kind of friends you guys are.’

‘Shut up, Miller,’ you gripe, but your mouth twists into a grin, giving you away as you set up.

‘Damn, that good, huh?’ he laughs. ‘I mean, Fish does have a rep, but I've never had insider confirmation.’

You point your styling scissors at him menacingly. ‘Shut up, or I won’t be held responsible if my hands slip by accident.’

Benny feeds you a sugar donut while you work quickly, trimming the ends before styling it, going for a tousled bed head look. You hear the water pipes run upstairs and the carpeted floors creak when Frankie gets up. Trying to play it cool, you only briefly glance up, catching a glimpse of him in the mirror as he makes his way down the stairs in his rumpled shirt and trousers, zipping up the fly when he reaches the bottom.

‘Morning, stud,’ sing-songs Benny, which earns him a slap on the head. ‘Ow! What the fuck, Shiv!’

Frankie loiters behind you for a second, scratching the back of his neck, before pulling you to one side. Not that it affords you much privacy anyway, with Benny wriggling his eyebrows impertinently at the two of you in the mirror.

‘I - uh -,’ he starts haltingly, one hand rubbing at the silver patch in his beard sheepishly. ‘I had a really good time last night.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ you smile.

His voice dipping lower, he asks, ‘Can I take you out to dinner sometime?’

Benny, being the shithead that he is, interjects loudly. ‘Hey lovebirds, I’m kind of on the clock here, if you don’t mind -’

‘She’ll get to you when she gets to you, Benjamin,’ snaps Frankie, one hand on his hip and the other pointing a stern finger at him.

Something about him being so assertive sends heat running up and down your spine. Stepping into his space - beaming when he doesn’t back away - you smooth a palm over the front of his shirt, unintentionally catching the rabbiting of his heart underneath.

‘I don’t know,’ you shrug nonchalantly. ‘Do you intend to come back as a cash-paying customer?’

His eyes flash with want, one hand closing around your hip and he leans down to let his heated words brush by your ear. ‘Not if I can keep paying in other ways.’

Reaching up, you run a hand through his curls, preening at the way he closes his eyes at your touch. ‘Alright then, take me to dinner, Francisco.’

Peering around you, Frankie barks, ‘Miller, I’m cashing in on our bet.’

‘Fuck’s sake. I was hoping you’d forgotten about that,’ he gripes, digging into his wallet reluctantly.

Swiping the bill from Benny, Frankie winks at you before pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth - chaste, but charged with meaning. ‘Looks like you paid for your own dinner, Shiv.’

With a roll of your eyes, you shake your head and playfully push him towards the door. ‘Get outta here before I change my mind!’

‘Yeah right - as if you would now that you know what you’ll be missing.’

You’re not sure which makes your jaw drop - his cocksure declaration or the roguish confidence with which he walks out the door. In either case, Benny howls with laughter as you struggle to stay on your feet, your kneecaps having been rendered completely useless.

Just as Frankie climbs into his truck, Ashton whistles to a stop outside the salon on his wheels. Jaw dropping at the sight of the disheveled pilot nodding at him through the windscreen, he abandons his bike right on the curb and dashes into the salon, the door banging against the wall as he rushes in.

‘Excuse me - what the fuck did I just miss?’ he demands frantically.

You roll your eyes. ‘Calm down, Ashton, it’s not what it looks like -’

‘It’s exactly what it looks like,’ interrupts Benny as he starts singing. ‘Shiv and Frankie sitting in a tree, F-U-C-K-I-’

He breaks off with a yelp when you stuff a donut into his mouth to shut him up, sugar flying everywhere as Ashton picks you up and spins you around, squealing like a banshee the entire time.

‘You guys are the fucking worst,’ you laugh, out of breath by the time Ashton lets you go.

Glancing outside, where Frankie is still parked watching the whole embarrassing episode, he gives you one last wink and an amused grin before he pulls away from the curb.

In an almost exact repeat of the scene from a few days ago, Ashton joins you at the window, and the two of you watch, shoulder to shoulder, as Frankie smoothly steers his truck out of your street.

‘He even drives sexy,’ sighs Ashton dreamily. Nudging you in the side, he adds slyly, ‘You’re in so much trouble, Shiv.’

You grin. You know you are - and luckily, it’s not a spot of bother that you’ll be in a hurry getting out of anytime soon.

Notes: I'm so excited to have finally completed this little two-shot. The two of them have been hanging out in my head all these months, it feels amazing to finally yeet this part into the world! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you had as much fun as I did with these two 🥰 Reblogs and comments are always greatly appreciated ❤️

Now that I've got you here, if you want more of Shiv, I wrote some silly little drabbles of her hair appointments with our handsome Pedro boys for a recent milestone celebration. There are also some fun thoughts that came out of an impromptu Grays sleepover we had last week 🤍

I'm sure we'll see more of Shiv and Frankie somewhere down the line. For now, thank you again, I love you all so much ❤️

[cath-lic]

Hello, I was wondering if you believe non-Christians can be saved? I know many Catholics believe everyone that doesn't accept Jesus will go to hell. Personally, I find this outlook very sad and I was curious on other points of view so please anyone respond with their own opinions. I mean to ask you this: If God is love and is forgiving of our sins, why would he send everyone to hell simply because they could not find their way to him?

hi!! YES absolutely everyone is saved!! now, everyone and their brother has a conflicting opinion on this, but i’ll throw in my two cents.

my first, more concrete point: john 3:16. the everyman’s verse!!

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

okay, but what if someone doesn’t believeth? vatican ii’s lumen gentium, no. 16, also covers this. (italics added by me)

Those also can attain to everlasting salvation who through no fault of their own do not know the gospel of Christ or his Church, yet sincerely seek God and, moved by grace, strive by their deeds to do his will as it is known to them through the dictates of conscience. Nor does divine Providence deny the help necessary for salvation to those who, without blame on their part, have not yet arrived at an explicit knowledge of God, but who strive to live a good life, thanks to his grace.

however, it’s important to note LG no. 14. bear with me here.

Whosoever knowing that the Catholic Church was made necessary by God through Jesus Christ would refuse to enter her or to remain in her could not be saved.

i’m not a theologian, i’m just joe off the street—so i may be taking things out of context. forgive me!

however—as much as i am catholic, i believe that this is putting WAY too much importance on the catholic church as we know it today. it is far, far different than the original organization founded upon the rock of st. peter, and i believe that there are many things that god takes issue with in the catholic church (notoriously, jesus criticized large institutions like these). therefore, i don’t know how much i believe that the catholic church today, nor as a whole, was made necessary by god through christ.

my second point: my most fervent belief is that god is love. pretty much all of my friends are atheists, and they are kind and caring and loving people. it is, therefore, impossible for me to believe that they are not saved.

my second-and-a-half point: i take a little bit of issue with your phrasing of “send” to hell.

personally, i believe that hell is not necessarily Dante’s inferno, but a place of complete and total separation from god. i also believe that hell is not a place you are sent to, but rather a place you send yourself.

i mentioned purgatory in my earlier answer to a different anon; this is where that comes in. i generally concur with pope francis when he says that he likes to think of hell as empty (note: he was not issuing doctrine here). i believe that in purgatory, 99.999% (you get it) of people, if not 100%, are able to reconcile with god and see the consequences of their decisions, good and bad, throughout their life.

you know when you tell someone something that is true, but they keep on rejecting it, no matter what evidence you show them? that’s what i imagine is happening to the other .001%.

god is endlessly patient; he doesn’t mind spending eons trying to convince others to have empathy for their fellow man. however, humans are not as patient. they get fed up and walk away—and this is my (limited) understanding of the process of going to hell.

i’ll be honest, i don’t know if hell is permanent, temporary, etc. i’m not sure how helpful it is to debate it, either. but what i do know is very helpfully summarized in this post by the lovely hymnsofheresy.

whenever i have doubts about some aspect of what i believe being incorrect, i remind myself that god is love. he loves us more than anything in the world, and nothing we can do will ever change that. he doesn’t look for reasons for you to go to hell; he wants to be with us all the time.

thank you for sending in this ask, and i hope it helped ❤️❤️❤️

[mysticheathenn]

Your Ideal Person VS Who your Soulmate is

Hi, Hexlings!

This pick-a-card is all about how you see yourself versus how others see you. This is a Patreon exclusive for all tiers.

Remember to take what resonates and leave what does not. This reading does not supplement your need to seek professional help.

Take your time when choosing your pile. Ask yourself the question and choose the picture that you can’t stop looking at. Listen to your intuition.

The Patreon Reading includes:

Who is your Ideal Person? (What do you want to attract)

What will your person be like? (The "One" / Soulmate")

Extra Messages

Patreon Link

YouTube Link

Ko-Fi Donations

Pile l:

What type do you typically go for? (Who do you keep attracting) Tarot: 6 of Pentacles (Reversed), Justice, The Emperor (reversed), 6 of Cups (reversed), The Sun.

Two words: Losers & Pretenders. The song Pretenders by Foo Fighters popped into my head as soon as the Sun card came out to tie the pile together pile l. The type of person you typically go for are those who appeal to be one way but show up as something completely different. Similar to the song Stranger by Hilary Duff where she mentions in front of everyone you are the perfect person but behind closed doors you're nothing but a lie, a con artist, a loser. Your type possibly approached you with love bombing where they fed you a lot with false hope, and promises, saying that you deserve the world but their actions never back it up and it typically takes you a while for you to catch on but when you do you find it hard to leave because wanting to give this person the benefit of the doubt. For some of you, it's not even that, you're just d*ck or p*ssy whipped and can't let go of that. Your type isn't very generous even though they can be, just not towards you. They may come off as toxic masculine or even appear as masculine but again behind closed doors they are not that. The vibe I'm getting from your pile is you may have a thing for Alpha podcasters or pick-me podcasters. Those who claim they lay down the law when in reality they just transmute bullshit, manipulation, toxicity, etc. Remember energy has nothing to do with gender so this can go for anyone.

Patreon Post Link

Pile ll:

What type do you typically go for? (What do you keep attracting) Tarot: The Emperor, Judgement, 8 of Cups, Ace of Cups, King of Wands, 6 of Swords (reversed)

Two words Pile ll: Toxic and Passion. Two songs popped into my head, Fetish by Selena Gomez and Toxic by Kehlani. A popular Tv couple also sprung into my head and it's Olivia Pope and Fitzgerald Grant from Scandal and in the words of our girl Olivia Pope: "I want that painful, difficult, devastating, life-changing, extraordinary love."You love your relatiponships toxic where you break up and make up agai with classic make up sex. Might I add kinky, rough, and passionate sex..I feel some of you like to be twisted like a pretzel, ahaha. No kink shaming here, lord knows I like it too. Another song came through it's by Beyonce Up All Night.

" So many people that I know, they just tryna touch ya Kiss up, and rub up, and feel up Kiss up, and rub up, and feel up on ya Give you some time to prove that I can trust you again I'm gonna kiss up, and rub up, and feel up Kiss up, and rub up, and feel up on ya"

Some of you keep going back to a cheater. If not a cheater maybe you are a side chick, mistress, maybe even sex worker for some of you, but overall the people you love to attract just aren't shit. But you can't help but keep falling for them because they fill some sort of emotional and sometimes even physical need that you feel you can't find anywhere else. This reminds me of when SZA mentioned her ex-fiance and how no one competes to the connection that they had. You may feel this way about the kind of people you attract romantically pile ll. You can't seem to let them go sometimes until you feel it's too much but then you are right back at it again with this person in the same cycle never wanting it to end. Hoping that what you guys do share is enough. I can tell this question "Is it enough?" may keep you up at night sometimes. Some of you the type you attract support you financially, some physically, others, emotionally.

Patreon Post Link

Pile lll: (I teared up at your reading on Patreon)

What type do you typically go for? (Who do you keep attracting?) Tarot: Queen of Cups, 3 of Swords, King of Swords (reversed), 7 of Pentacles (reversed), The Chariot (reversed)

Two Words: Maneater & Manipulator. Maneater by Nelly Furtado is playing in my head as I look at your cards pile ll. You love to go for the bad boy/Girl/person type pile lll. Some of you keep dealing with heartbreak when it comes to the people who you keep attracting. They come in as a smooth talker and then leave you high and dry after they get what they wanted out of you. Whatever that is some of you it's sex, some it's money, your time. your beauty, or just for you to be their emotional dump. You may also be the type of person who when someone leaves you they find their person right afterwards. This is only for a select few of you. Overall you never get anywhere with your type because when you think things are going good things take a wild turn and you're left in confusion as to what happened. Why again are you going through people who don't truly want to deal with you but what you can give them. Culture Club "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me:

"Do you really want to hurt me? Do you really want to make me cry? Precious kisses, words that burn me Lovers never ask you why In my heart, the fire's burning"

You are tired, lonely, and worn out by the people who come into your life. You just want someone genuine I feel.

Patreon Post Link

Thank you for liking and reblogging my readings. I always appreciate you guys on here and on Patreon. I hope you guys love this reading as much as I do. It was fun doing it, especially piles 2 and 3.

Stay safe and be blessed

[featherandferns]

daylight - epilogue

jj maybank x fem!reader | the final part of the daylight series | read part 12 here

content warnings: mentions of sex; alcohol

word count: 1.6k.

blurb: life is pretty beautiful in Kildare but nothing comes anywhere close to the beauty of your boyfriend.

An arm loops over your shoulder. You jolt, caught by surprise, and come close to dropping your camera. Thank God for neck straps. You’re so used to the feel of JJ around you that you don’t need the smell of his cologne to identify him. 

“Hey you,” you say, smiling up at him. 

“Hey,” he replies, smiling just the same. “Pretty good turn-out, huh?”

“I know,” you beam, looking around. 

With some help from the Pogues, you’d managed to organise a fundraiser for Barry’s garage. It came following the photos you’d posted on your Instagram gaining traction in the local community. They were shared in Facebook groups and around group chats, with people rallying to help Barry’s struggling business. It seemed the garage had been a staple in Kildare County for as long as most people could remember. Kiara was more than happy to organise the bulk of the fundraiser, having done her fair share for environmental clean-ups, and Pope had managed to rally his dad to provide food, free of charge. John B and JJ did most heavy lifting: they assembled stalls and tables and seating; strung lights and bunting; hung up balloons and signs; and carried crate after crate of soft drinks and beers. 

Your eyes fall on Barry, laughing with a local who you’d seen working at the docks. It makes you smile. For once, it seems he’s at ease. 

“This is a real nice thing you did for him,” JJ gently says. 

“Well, he’s a real nice guy,” you reply. 

JJ leans down and plants a kiss to your forehead. It feels nice, having him do it in front of others: even if nobody is looking. He’s unashamed to show you off and to show his affection for you. Interlocking your fingers with his, he guides you towards Barry. 

“Let’s go say hi,” he says as he leads the way. 

As you pass a group of local teens, JJ shares a quick word, accepting a bro-hug from one, but his hand never strays from yours. Perfectly timed, the fisherman who was talking to Barry departs towards Heyward’s stall just as you and JJ arrive. Barry turns to find you both and grins. 

“You kids having fun?” he asks. 

“Yes, sir,” JJ replies. 

Barry brings his beer can to his lips slowly, making a show to glance down at your interlocked hands. “See things are going good still.”

“I guess they are,” you return with a sheepish smile. 

Since the day at the Chateau, you and JJ no longer held back. There was no need to, the fear of being too much now gone. Movie nights were a weekly staple, with half of the film ignored as the focus switched to each other’s bodies. Hang-outs with the Pogues were riddled with teasing and berating from the group from the smallest signs of P.D.A. At work, JJ distracted you, finding any excuse to approach. Drives home were lengthened by sloppy make-outs and take-out stop offs. Mimsy was used to JJ’s company despite being back in Vancouver, thanks to him lying in your bed or lounging on the couch whenever you’d facetime. She’d once remarked ‘you might not be at the wedding, but I will’ in a gentle threat to remind JJ where he stood in the hierarchy of your affections. But you knew it was tongue-and-cheek. Thanks to Mimsy, he too had been educated on the serial killers and stalkers of America. What took you by surprise was how invested JJ was in it. 

You’re happy, though. JJ made you feel held, just like you’d asked and just like you’d always wanted. 

The squeeze of JJ’s palm against yours pulls you back to the conversation. 

“You enjoying yourself, Bar?” JJ asks.

“Hell yeah,” Barry jovially replies, making you both laugh. Tipping his beer can to you in thanks, he says, “your friend Kie really knows her stuff.”

“She’s pretty great,” you hum in agreement. 

“Your old man didn’t show up, I see,” Barry says to JJ. 

“He, uh, got wrapped up in something. He’d probably just cause a scene anyway, right?” JJ lightly says. 

Since starting your official relationship with JJ, you’d spent more time at his house. You’d gotten to know his history the same way he had yours, and you knew about his absent mother and nightmarish father. He’d got himself in trouble with prescription fraud and was serving a short stint in prison. JJ hauntingly joked that it was his ‘second home’. You’d held him all that night to help him fall asleep. 

“You know how much you’ve raised so far?” you ask, diverting the topic. 

“I’m told it’s somewhere around seven grand, so far,” Barry replies. “Shit. That’s enough to fix that damn roof.”

“That’ll save you a job after the next hurricane, then,” JJ notes. Hurricane Agatha had been building gradually. Everyone was preparing for her arrival in the near future, summer now in full swing. 

“Damn straight. Look, you kids go enjoy yourself. You don’t wanna be trapped with an old dog like me,” Barry urges with a tired smile. 

You roll your eyes. “I like being trapped with an old dog like you.”

He was used to your company at the garage. Surprisingly, you’d taken to learning some handy work in mechanics. Even more surprisingly, you weren’t half bad at it. JJ had also picked up extra shifts at the garage. You don’t think Barry liked when the two of you were there together though: the amount of work that got done seriously depleted. 

“Let me get a photo of you two, at least,” you add, lifting your camera. 

JJ sighs like it’s a burden but you know how much he likes being in front of the lens. Your memory cards were saturated with photos of the blonde haired boy, as was your pinboard and Instagram. He’d claimed the polaroid photos of you and shamelessly kept them by his bed, as well as a framed photo of you and JJ from the beach that Kie had taken with your camera. It was of the two of you, wading in the low waves, the mid-day sun high in the background, casting shadows on your frames. He was splashing you and you were screaming with laughter, trying to dart out the way. The moment JJ spotted it as you flicked through your gallery after a day at work, he’d begged for you to print it. Now it stood by his bed, proudly displayed like a Van Gogh original. 

JJ settles beside Barry and hooks an arm over Barry’s broad shoulders. The two of them smile - JJ’s brighter and beaming - and you snap several shots. Barry holds out his hand for your camera. 

“Let me get one of the love birds,” he gruffly says. 

You comply with a small roll of your eyes. JJ takes his spot by your side, his arm comfortably sitting around your waist. One of his calloused hands plants firmly at the top of your hip. You lean into his hold slightly, eased in his company like a reflex, and the two of you smile at the camera, squinting through the sunlight. As you go to move away and retrieve your camera, JJ’s spinning you around and dipping his head, planting a chaste kiss to your lips. Your eyes close on reflex, smile easily, and you hear your camera shutter click. 

Later that night, after the fundraising is long over, you and JJ are lounging on his sofa. He said something the other day about being home alone and how much he disliked it, when his dad wasn’t around. It was strange to you that he felt that way given the hell his dad brought, but then you’d remembered Barry’s comments from what felt like a lifetime ago. How JJ was loyal to the bone, even when it might not be in his favour. You suppose love is never lost when perspective is earned. So, instead of questioning it, you’d decided to stay with JJ. It was nice anyway, playing house. 

Your feet are in his lap, back lent against the arm rest, and one of JJ’s hands absentmindedly rubs at the palm of your foot. His other hand nurses a bottle of beer and his eyes are trained to the grainy TV. Every now and then he laughs, engrossed in a rerun of an old episode of The Simpsons. As you flick through the photos you’d taken that day, one makes you pause. A smile creeps onto your face. It’s one Barry had taken: JJ’s head dipped as he kisses you. You hold the camera out for JJ to see. 

“JayJ,” you mumble. 

He reluctantly pulls his gaze from the TV. “Yeah?”

“Look.”

He does as you ask, eyes flitting down to the camera. Taking it from you to see it better, his smile mirrors yours. 

“Cute, right?”

JJ nods, almost bashful, and passes you back the camera. 

“Send me that,” he says, looking back to the screen.  

“Why?”

“I wanna post it,” he shrugs, as if the answer is obvious. Your giddy smile that follows makes you drive your teeth into your lower lip. Nodding, you go about transferring the photo to your phone. Placing your camera on the dusty coffee table, you shift so you can cuddle into your boyfriend’s side. He gladly makes room for you, tucking you into his body, and you steal his beer for a sip. 

“Quiet you fool, it can be yours,” Homer’s inner thoughts say.

As JJ chuckles, his body shakes against yours. You look up at him, smiling to yourself at his beauty. Eventually he catches on to your staring. Looking down at you, his eyebrows raise. 

“What’s up?”

“Nothing,” you mumble, “you’re just really fucking pretty.”

Chuckling almost soundless, JJ smiles down at you. Then he’s closing the gap, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss.

Two.

One more and - yes, perfect. 

The End

taglist:

@princessuki21 | @psyches-reid | @heybank | @avengersgirllorianna | @rrosiitas | @yourmumstoy | @jjsfavgirl | @void21 | @fictionalcomforts | @gsp420 | @redhead1180 | @wearemadeofstardust0 | @mrs-jjmaybank | @ifilwtmfc | @heybank | @lilyw1235 | @belle101200 | @maybankskiss | @lillell467 | please tell me if any tags aren't working - I've never done taglists before!

[writefightandflightclub]

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. 

You. 

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. 

[jjmaybankshousekeeping]

i need your touch || JJ MAYBANK

summary - jj and yn got into a fight, but due to the current storm, neither of them can leave the château, so they’ll be stuck together, which would be especially difficult for jj since he craves yn’s touch, something he can’t have.

warnings - angst?, fluff.

word count - 407

a/n - thank you for the request :) sorry it took me so long to answer, i haven’t really been on tumblr in quite a while. i do believe this was a request but it took me so long to finish it that the request has somehow disappeared lol.

post number - 6

reader - she/her.

add yourself to my taglist here

“do you fucking mind?” jj spat towards his girlfriend.

she snarled back, “what?”

“stop looking at me. it’s fucking annoying.”

y/n chuckled, “all right then, big man.”

y/n walked away, going to get herself a drink, as john b and pope walked over to the blonde boy.

“woah!” john b raised his eyebrows, “trouble in paradise?”

“oh, don’t even ask. i don’t even know what’s going on. i just know that we’re really mad at each other for some reason.”

pope was confused, “you’re mad at each other, even though neither of you know what for, but you’re still continuing to be mad at her?”

he thought for a moment, “uh, yeah. that’s about right.”

jj explained when this all started and how neither of them knew what for. he mentioned how difficult it was for him to not go and lie down in bed for him, and go cuddle with y/n like they always did during storms.

after about an hour, he’d had enough and went to go lie down; however, his girlfriend already beat him to it.

“bro.”

“what?”

“i basically live in this room and i can’t even come in here now.”

“nobody said you can’t.” she pointed out, “literally nobody is stopping you.”

jj thought, “oh, yeah.”

he went and sat down on the bed, opposite side of the bed from where y/n was relaxing, trying to keep as much distance as possible.

he tried to get comfortable, but with the loud thunder going on outside, it took him a while, and the cravings for y/n’s touch grew.

“baby.” he whispered softly. no reply.

“baby.” he repeated.

she looked at him, “what?”

“please can we cuddle? i don’t even know what we’re arguing about and it’s getting ridiculous now.” he spoke softly, “i love you so much, and i’m sorry if i did something wrong, but it’s too much. i can’t pretend to be mad at you for so long. and i know you’re struggling to do that too.”

she smiled sheepishly, before practically diving at jj, “it took you long enough! i’ve been waiting, i was not going to cave in first.”

he let y/n straddle him and snuggle into his chest as his whole body immediately relaxed, before gently pressing a kiss to her forehead.

they both fell asleep together without even saying another word to one another, just listening to the sounds of each others breathing, heartbeats, rain and thunder.

[tieronecrush]

all i need to hear

frankie morales x f!reader

rating: M

word count: 5.1k

summary: part II to 102 -- frankie lies to you to get out of your weekly meetings when he needs space. when you confront him after finding out, everything comes to a head.

warnings: no use of Y/N, post-film timeline, au where frankie doesn’t have a kid, use of pet names (solecita, mi mejor, osito), use of spanish, unrequited love, self deprecation, alcohol use, triple frontier boys teasing you, lying/deception, mentions of substance abuse

a/n: thank you everyone who wanted a part 2, and thank you to the lovely @cannolighost for beta reading <3

Frankie runs his thumb and index finger through the condensation on his glass, the foamy amber liquid downed halfway despite only getting it dropped off at the table a couple of minutes ago. His leg bounces under the table, half listening to the conversation happening around him at the round booth. Pope, Will, and Benny sit around the table, all with drinks of their own and chatting about Benny’s fight last week. His leg bounces under the table, but he keeps his eyes on the area of the table to attempt to tune into his friends around him. He can’t focus on what they're saying, hearing the words and not connecting them into sentences, and his mind races as he glances at the front door of the bar & restaurant. He can swear he feels the tick of his watch against his wrist, in time with his pulse. A hand lifts his cap off his head, running his fingers through his hair from front to back three times.

The doors moving in his periphery catch his attention. He stands when he sees you, raising his arm halfway in a short wave when you look around the bar for the group.

When you notice him, that sanguine grin of yours stretches across your face and crinkles the skin next to your sparkling eyes. His palms get sweaty at the sight of you nearly gliding through the restaurant, noticing people’s stares being drawn to you. You always managed to brighten every room you occupied effortlessly; he’s watched people sink at ease around your presence, just like you do for him every time he sees you or hears your voice, or feels the warmth radiating off your body and your smile.

The complete opposite of his shy diffidence.

A positive attraction to his negative.

Like those magnets on the North Pole and the South Pole that create a magnetic field, the energy between you two is constantly charged. At least to Frankie, it was; he couldn’t pull himself too far away when you were around.

He grins back at you, one side of his mouth reaching higher as you approach the booth. Your hand reaches up to tug a loose hair behind your ear and Frankie’s fingers itch to do the same on the other side.

“Hey, Osito,” you giggle as he rolls his eyes, trying and failing to hold back a grin at the nickname you’ve dubbed him with since you were teenagers.

“Hi Solecita,” he draws you in with an arm around your shoulders, yours snaking around his waist to squeeze you against his torso before pulling away. The other guys greet you, half hugs leaning over the table and Pope giving you a kiss on the cheek like he always does. He’s teased Frankie about it before, and it used to annoy him, but now he sees it as a sign that you, his best friend from before, have been fully integrated into his found family.

Frankie gestures for you to climb into the booth first, everyone cheating around the round table to make room. It’s a bit of a tighter squeeze with five people, so when Frankie sits down, his knee rests against yours.

He relishes in the contact, resting his hand on the leg closest to you. Silent short inhales fill his lungs every time you shift slightly, the comfort between you two over the years making you completely ignore the seemingly accidental touches. They’re no accident to Frankie — his hand is glued at the spot on his thigh, the other hand around his glass squeezing it tighter with each brush of your jeans.

Conversation turns to making plans to go see some new blockbuster comedy, all of the guys agree to a showing on Monday night. Santiago extends the invitation to you, and Frankie turns his head as everyone waits for your answer.

“I actually can’t make it, I’m sorry guys. You’ll have to tell me how it is.”

“Well, Miss Popular, where are you gonna be?” Benny asks, a corner of his mouth kicked up and a wink sent your way. Frankie turns, rolling his eyes to himself as he takes a swig of his second beer.

“Um, I’ve got a date, actually,” you admit slowly, and as each word leaves your mouth, Frankie feels his body temperature increase. With his glass still as his lips, he downs the rest of his drink and gingerly sets down the empty cup. Pope eyes him with a sympathetic gaze directly across from him.

“A date? Damn, Sol, who’s the lucky guy?” Benny grins at you and Frankie tenses, shifting to sit up straighter on the leather bench. Heat burns at the nape of his neck from Benny’s casual use of the nickname he gave you years ago; it’s become your call sign for the group, but he can’t help the flickering flames of jealousy every time he hears it. They’re only brighter from the mention of your date; it’s like gasoline poured over the fire, a burst of blazing warmth rising up his throat to blister his esophagus.

“His name’s Tristan. We’ve gone on like four dates so far?” You glance around the table as silence falls over the guys. With one look Frankie can tell what they’re all thinking, an involuntary chuckle slipping from his lips and shaking his shoulders. Your head immediately turns to him, confusion clear on your face.

“What? What am I missing?” You snap back to look at each of the other men, a disbelieving laugh escaping you, trying to play into whatever the unspoken joke is.

“Tristan? That’s really his name?” Benny asks with a baffled smirk on his face, eyebrows raised. Santiago explodes in laughter, the infectious sound roping in the rest of the guys. Frankie joins in quietly, glancing over at you and biting his laughter back when he sees your adorable pouty expression.

With a huff you cross your arms over your chest, rolling your eyes. “Y’all are a bunch of dicks.”

“Oh, c’mon, Sol. You have to give us some slack, the guy’s name is Tristan. What kind of name is that? He sounds like he’s like a personal trainer that creeps on women in the gym.” Santi says through his wide smile, shaking his head.

Benny gets even more of a kick out of Pope’s joke, adding to it, “Or sounds like he should be rolling up on a skateboard and asking if you want sativa or indica.”

A guttural groan comes from you and Frankie smiles softly as you bend forward to rest your elbows on the surface and bury your head in your hands.

He’s living for the guys ragging on this dude, but a larger part of him wants to make sure you know it’s only teasing.

“Alright, alright, give it a rest, pendejos.”

He lays a hand between your shoulder blades and rubs a slow circle, giving you an empathetic, tight smile when you raise your head. Frankie’s eyes drop to where you’ve placed your hand on his knee, patting twice before laying it back in your lap. Your touch has eased the burn of jealousy in him like a cold bucket of water thrown over his head and shocking his system.

“Frankie’s right, we shouldn’t be so judgmental just from his name. Even if it’s a little ridiculous,” Pope grins and Will shakes his head, cutting him off before he can attempt to crack any more jokes.

“Just tell them to shut the fuck up whenever you want to, Sol. They’ll actually listen to you, not Fish,” he nods and grins at Frankie, turning his gaze back to you, “So what’s this Tristan like?”

It’s been a few more hours, and you have not stopped bringing up Tristan at every chance you get now that the news was broken to the guys. Little things like Santi ordering a new beer from some local place, “I just went to that brewery with Tristan”, to something that Frankie certainly didn’t need, and desperately didn’t want, to know. Benny being Benny had brought up the third date rule, citing some conversation he had with some girls who work at the gym where he asked if girls have the same thought about the third date as guys. The younger Miller had turned the question to you, asking if you’d followed the third date rule with the new dude. Immediately flustered, you scrambled and Will stepped in, smacking his brother over the head in reprimand.

“Can’t just ask someone shit like that, Benjamin. God, you’re getting more clueless the older you get, I swear.”

It’s dropped after that, but Frankie is stewing inside over the fact that you hesitated. Being friends for years, he knows you would have shut Ben down immediately if nothing happened between you and Tristan.

He checks the time on his phone, thankful for the excuse he has to get an early night. Gently hitting his fist against the table, he grabs everyone’s attention and moves to stand from the booth.

“Gonna head out, got that early morning meeting for my hearing shit tomorrow.”

“Oh, wait! Do you mind giving me a ride? Sorry, I meant to ask earlier and totally spaced,” you smile sweetly at him, the look in your eyes saying ‘I love these guys but please don’t leave me here alone with them’.

Screaming at him, the voice inside his head tells him to say no, that he will just end up feeling worse than he already does if you bring up the other guy with no one else around to listen for him, but when he looks at that face that seems to always melt his resistance, his lips stretch into the softhearted smile that he reserves for you.

“Don’t mind at all, Solecita. C’mon,” he reaches a hand out, grasping yours when you take the offering, sliding out of the booth and turning to say your goodbyes to his friends still sitting. Frankie sends them each a nod goodbye, the lazy raise of his hand in a wave. He clocks the look that Pope gives him, his eyes saying wordlessly, “Do it, cabrón.”

Frankie strides next to you, walking a step ahead to his truck. You catch up with him at the passenger door, a light laugh breathed out as you speak.

“Geez, Frankie, you’re walking like your ass is on fire.”

He mumbles an apology, opening the car door for you and helping you up with a hand. It’s quiet on the road, the low hum of the radio filling the dead space. Franke’s suddenly the poster child for proper driving, sitting up rigidly straight, both hands on the wheel at ten and two, and eyes trained at the road in front of him, only flickering to check his mirrors.

He doesn’t dare look at you when you adjust in the seat, the swoop of movement in his periphery. Never thought it would happen, but he is incredibly grateful for his interrogation training, being able to sit in droning silence without succumbing to the need to break it. You, however, don’t have the same steal as him and decide to fill the pin-drop quiet with your plans for the weekend. Including seeing Tristan.

No physical reactions give him away, but the thought he has makes his insides roll like the barrel of a wave, crashing over and dissipating nervous energy throughout the rest of his body. 

Your voice fades into the background of the buzzing in his ears as he pulls up to your house, his eyes flay from the reach of the headlights in front of the truck and he looks over at you with a rosy, cushioned smile that he wants to fall into.

“Thanks for the ride, Osito,” your hand reaches across the center console, knuckle of your index finger lightly knocking against the stubble of his chin, “See you Sunday?”

The skin there burns reddened, hidden by the darkness of the car. All his frustration, at himself, at the situation, at you (albeit, misplaced, but still there), sits in his chest, fueling his spiraling thoughts that corkscrew into one decision. The words spill from his mouth before he can fully think about them.

“I can’t make it on Sundays anymore, or at least for a while. My, um, my NA meetings that I go to, y’know the ones closest to my place that are run by my sponsor? They got moved to Sunday mornings cause some church group needs the hall on Thursday nights now.” Eyes averted from you, he only glances lightning quick to see you visibly deflate in your seat. Guilt creeps across his skin, the disappointment evident in your face but you stay silent in your feelings, never going to ask him to do anything that would possibly affect his sobriety.

“Well, maybe we can chat next week and figure out another day that could work?” Moon-eyed with a stunted, mirthless quirk of your lips.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you later this week, Solecita.”

“Alright, um, probably should head into bed. Night, Osito. Text me when you get home, yeah?”

“Will do. Night, mi mejor.”

He sends you as loose of a smile as he can muster, idling at the curb to make sure you get inside your door. The engine revs when he pulls away, letting out a large exhale that he was holding in.

Maybe with some space, he can finally move on.

TO: Frankie 🧸

Hey, any chance you have a few minutes to talk? Got a little bit of time on my lunch left.

Can’t, sorry Sol. At work, don’t have lunch for another 1.5 hrs.

No worries! Call me when you’re off?

FROM: Frankie 🧸

Sorry I missed your call

About to go into another meeting with my lawyer, talk later?

Sounds good! Call me whenever

Hey, how’d the meeting go? Have time to chat?

TO: Frankie 🧸

Sorry to bother, do you have a couple minutes to talk? Just feeling a little meh after work today

Fuck

Sorry I missed this Sol

Guys dragged me out to celebrate my hearing getting scheduled for next month

FROM: Frankie 🧸

Hey Sol

Guess what

Did something you’re gonna hate

Francisco what have you done??

Got a haircut for my hearing

I THOUGHT SOMETHING WAS ACTUALLY WRONG

God, you’re such a dork

I forgive you for cutting your hair, it’ll grow back

How’s the license stuff going by the way? Haven’t gotten to hear about it from you!

TO: Frankie ​​🧸

Ran into Ben and Will at the grocery store

They said you need some character witnesses for your hearing?

I’d do it for you Osito

TO: Frankie 🧸

Everything okay? We haven’t talked in a while

Just wanted to check in with you 🩵

I miss you

It’s been an adjustment to have Sunday mornings free.

Normally you’d sleep until the last minute before you needed to get out the door, throwing on whatever clothes are clean and cozy, stopping for coffee on your way over to the park to meet Frankie. It was always early enough that there weren’t too many people, but consistently late enough to not be caught by a creeping dawn. Some of your favorite mornings with Frankie had been the ones where both of you still met in the pouring rain, parking right next to each other and him running out of his car and quickly over to the passenger seat of yours.

These days, your Sunday mornings have been quiet. Slow. No scramble to get out of bed on time. No feeling of warmth radiating off of Frankie. No sunlight wrapping you two in its embrace. No smell of Irish Spring soap, mint toothpaste, or his cologne you’d helped him pick out before a date years ago — notes of black currant, bergamot, patchouli, and birch that waft from his sweatshirt and tickle your nose, placating any anxious thoughts with one hit.

No, Sundays now are waiting. Waiting for the morning to be over to move on from the ache in your heart. Waiting for a message or a phone call from Frankie. Waiting for the word that his NA meetings have been moved back and your sacred routine can begin again. Waiting for the day that you don’t have to miss him anymore.

This week, you decide not to wallow at home. It will be a productive morning or at least a distracting morning; there’s a bookstore on the other side of town from you, close to Frankie’s, that you have been meaning to make a return at. You thought you would do it the next time you were on your way to his house, but with the way things have been, that day is further and further away. And you only have another week left, according to your receipt.

Rubber soles of your sneakers shuffle against the pavement as you walk down the street, taking in one of your favorite areas of the city that you haven’t visited in a while. You cross your arms over your chest, pulling the flannel jacket you’re wearing tighter to you to block out a chilled autumn breeze. The sun is shining, and it hasn’t quite dropped to an uncomfortable cold, so there are still tons of people milling about along the street. The cafe next to the bookstore even has outdoor tables arranged, and as you approach, the sight at one of them stops your feet from moving and glues your eyes to the spot.

Frankie is sitting in the sunshine, coffee in front of him, and Santiago across from him. He hasn’t seen you yet, and you check the time to make sure you weren’t off in your thoughts.

Yep, definitely should be in his meeting.

God, if only the sidewalk could swallow you up, leaving you to never have to face this. Why isn’t he in his meetings? He should be showing up to everything he can to prove that he’s sober for his license hearing. He would be a fucking idiot to mess that up.

Another thought crosses your mind, bubbling in your stomach and sending bilic, steamy breath to burn your throat as your newfound rage cooks you from the inside out.

Does he even have meetings on Sundays? Was he avoiding you? Lying to you?

Frankie would never do that to you. He couldn’t. He was your best friend. Your Osito. You were in lo—

No. No spiraling. No wasting any more energy on chasing your tail about him, feeling like a lost puppy begging for attention.

Instead, your anger forces your feet forward before your brain catches up, crossing the yard-width sidewalk and standing right in view of Frankie, next to Santiago’s chair. He looks away from Pope, the grin on his face dropping as soon as his eyes register that it was you. Mouth ajar, grip on his coffee cup tighter, and eyes wide —  embarrassed and apologetic.

“Are you skipping out on meetings or did you not want to hang out with me anymore?” Your eyebrows raise, glance darting to the side to see Santi sink in his chair. Frankie blubbers his lips, living up to his call sign as he gasps for air under your blazing vexation, “Y’know what, it doesn’t even matter, cause either way I can’t believe you. I’m so pissed at you. I thought you were better than this.”

“Solecita, wait.” He stands from the table and follows you as you walk away, tears stinging your eyes. You can’t even face him anymore, the fury inside ashing as it fades into icy dejection.

“No, Frankie, I can’t talk about this right now. I really don't even want to look at you right now,” he catches his hand on your bicep, turning you to face him as you stumble. He steadies you with a hand on your waist, the apologetic look in his watery brown eyes and the smolder of his touch making you step back breathlessly.

“I’m sorry, mi mejor. I really am, it’s just— you wouldn’t understand, I’m—”

You hold a hand up to stop him, shaking your head and attempting to cover the emotion in your voice, failing miserably when you open your mouth.

“Please, Frankie, I can’t,” you lock your eyes on your sneakers, blinking back your tears, “I need to go.”

Frankie doesn’t protest again, standing frozen on the sidewalk and watching as you walk past the table. Pope’s eyes flick up from his phone that he pulled out to keep his attention away from the private conversation. When you disappear around a street corner, his limbs loosen from their marbleized rigidity, sulking over to the small bistro table and sitting down in silence.

One of his hands drags down his face, his mind is willing away the tears threatening the corners of his eyes. Santiago looks at him with a grievance, clearing his throat and speaking bluntly.

“That was fucked up lying to her about that, Fish.”

Frankie glares, rancor jagged in his voice, “Obviously I know that. But I couldn’t sit there every week and listen to her brag about this guy…I want her to be bragging about me to her other friends. It’s not fucking fair.”

“You’re the one who stopped yourself from taking the chance to tell her how you feel. And you’re still doing it.”

“She’s probably in a relationship by now, I can’t just dump all my shit on her.”

“Well, you wouldn’t know if she’s even still dating the dude 'cause you’ve been avoiding her!”

That shuts Frankie up and makes him even more annoyed — mostly because Pope is right. And he fucking hates when that happens.

He stews for a taciturn minute; thoughts hastened in plotting. He runs a palm flat against the stubble dotting his chin, working his jaw side to side.

“I’ve gotta go,” he says it as almost a question before his brain is yelling at him to move, “I gotta go find her. Do you think she’s in her car yet? Fuck, I don’t even know where that is. Should I go to her house and wait if she’s not home? Do I drive around the city to find her?”

Pope chuckles to himself, shaking his head as he stands and claps a hand on Frankie’s shoulder.

“I think you know exactly where she’s gonna be.”

It’s nearly midday now, the blinding autumnal sun casting short shadows in the trees as he jogs from the parking lot along the paved trails. It’s busy — way busier than when he usually comes here on Sundays. He’s dodging strollers, slipping sideways between groups of friends and families, juking with runners in the middle of their workouts. When he almost reaches you, he nearly misses his foot getting caught in the slack of a dog lead, lifting it in a skip as he calls out an apology behind him, either to the dog or owner, he doesn’t really care who hears it.

 Darting his eyes around the field, his ears are filled with the sound of his thumping pulse, blood rushing as loud as waves. He’s standing in the middle of the path, getting dirty looks and passive-aggressive comments, but it all falls away when he sees you. Sitting on the usual rock, arms hugging your knees to your chest and head bent to rest against the joints there. Inside of his chest, his heart is squeezed to mush, seeping into the deepest ache he’s felt between his ribs and down his vertebrae.

Never, in all your years as friends, did he ever hurt you like this.

And with what he has to tell you, there’s a possibility that he’ll never be able to make it up to you. That you’ll never want to see him again.

In spite of it, his legs drag him forward, paying no mind to those around him having to stop in their tracks or swerve to avoid him. He’s chartered on a course directly to you, climbing onto the stone quietly until a scrap of his sneaker catches your attention and lifts your head to look at him.

Fuck, you were crying. All because he was a fucking stupid coward.

No sound breaks between you two as Frankie sits next to you, a foot of space separating you. He picks up a small pebble that’s broken off the larger boulder, rolling it with his fingers before tossing it into the water and watching the ripple form and dissipate. After another beat, his head turns to you, your own stuck straight ahead.

“I’m sorry, mi mejor. I am so fucking sorry that I lied to you. My meetings didn’t move. And—and I promise I’m still going on Thursday nights. Still sober. Nothing like that has changed. I wouldn’t do that to you—I wouldn’t put myself back in that place after all the help you’ve given me to get my life back…”

Your voice is thick with sadness when you respond, eyes trained ahead on the water, “So, why did you do it? Why did you lie? Why didn’t you want to see me anymore? I’ve been trying to think of something that happened, something I did. What did I do to drive you away?”

“No. Please don’t think like that. You did nothing, Solecita. Nothing. It was something I didn’t do that made me put space between us. It was a selfish thing to do, and I am so sorry that I did it.”

“What didn’t you do? I can’t think of anything I expected of you. Well, besides our Sundays and being my best friend. You’ve been doing both of those for years.”

“It wasn’t…It wasn’t anything you asked of me, Sol. It was something I’ve been needing to do for years,” he swallows hard and sits up, squinting in the sunlight reflecting off of the rippling pond.

“I understand if you need some space for real after this. Or if you’re angry, or if you wanna just get up and leave. I’ll understand.”

“Frankie, you’re kind of scaring me. Just tell me,” you rest a hand on his arm laying on his propped knee, tender eyes melting his heart, “Always here. Always, Osito.”

He takes a deep breath, nerves haywire, and shakes jolting energy throughout his body. He trains his eyes on his shoes as he begins the confession he’s held in for nearly as long as he’s known you.

“I’m…Sol—Fuck. I’m sorry. I want to tell you, I do, but the words are really not coming to me how I want them to.”

“Francisco Pedro Morales, just tell me. Whatever words are in your head are the right ones,” you lean closer to him, reaching a hand up to brush the hairs at his forehead that stick out from his cap.

His eyes close for a long minute, attempting to relax his galloping heart.

With no luck in calming down, he opens his eyes and turns his head to you, stare locking at yours as a meek voice leaves his mouth.

“I love you.”

You’re perplexed for a moment, eyebrows pinching together before a faint laugh slips out, “I love you too, Frankie. But…you’ve said that to me before. Like many times.”

“No, no I don’t mean — I’m in love with you, Solecita. I have been since…well, since about a month after I met you. You’re this—this radiant, lustrous, fucking dazzling, gentle, and gracious presence in my life that I can never stop thinking about. All I want is to see you smile, and hear your laugh…I want to make you proud of me. I would kill to protect you, even from myself, and stupid shit I do that hurts you. I want to be able to look at you when you walk into a room, and I see everyone fucking glued to you because you’re so shining and joyful and know that you’re mine. That anyone else could try, but I would know that you’re coming home with me, that you chose me. I would fucking worship the ground you walk on, cause I already do. Your word is like gospel to me. It’s like…you’re my true North in life, I just point myself toward you to be able to find my bearings and keep moving…I just, I fucking love you. Te amo infinitamente, con todo en mi. (I love you infinitely, with everything in me.)”

“And I know you’re with Tristan now, so I get it if you can’t—”

“I’m not.”

“Not what?”

“I’m not with Tristan. We broke things off weeks ago. I broke things off weeks ago — when we weren’t keeping up with each other because I realized — I realized that I didn’t want him. He was a placeholder. And he could never live up to the person whose place he was holding.”

“Who’s that?” he says defensively, a puff of air leaving his lips in frustration that there’s yet another guy he needs to compete with.

“Que tonto, Francisco. (What a fool, Francisco.)” You shake your head with a creeping grin, the corners of your mouth slowly rising as your eyes sparkle in the sunlight. His own brow furrows in confusion until it clicks a moment later. His own smile matches yours, sheepishly hanging his head before he turns back to you.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, 'Oh.'” The trill of your laughter knocks up his spine and he rolls his eyes playfully, scooting closer on the cool stone.

“So…is this other guy you’ve been waiting around for just like, wickedly handsome? Es él todo lo que soñaste? El tipo de chico con el que te gustaría montar en la puesta de sol? (Is he everything you dreamed of? The type of guy you'd want to ride into the sunset with?)” He smirks, wagging his eyebrows as his eyes flicker to your lips. His pulse races with the real possibility that he’s finally going to get to kiss you, after all of this time and after imagining it in countless daydreams.

“Can’t say I’ve thought about riding into the sunset with him…but I have thought about flying into the sunset with him. Tiene alas para llevarme (He has wings to carry me). Anywhere.”

“Anywhere for you. Te llevaría a cualquier parte, amor (I would take you anywhere, love.)”

Frankie closes the gap between you two, one of his hands reaching up and holding your cheek in his palm. His lips press delicately, featherlight to yours as if he’s scared of breaking the spell with his touch on your skin.

You, always the more assured and decided, hold onto Frankie’s wrist near your face, deepening the kiss. It knocks the air from his lungs, every ounce of his breath is given to you as his lips begin to ebb with yours, tilting your head back to slant his mouth down. You pull away first, his head chasing after you. His mouth hangs open as he looks at you with a gentle smile, eyes twinkling with the dwindling sunlight. A silent laugh is shared between the two of you, a giddy, boyish grin on his face as his heart continues to race.

It’s you who speaks first, voice no louder than a whisper, as if you couldn’t dare share this moment with anyone else around you.

“I love you, Frankie. Always.”

“Siempre, mi amor. Siempre.”

tags: @beskarandblasters @swiftispunk @joelsversion @lunapascal @addictedtotlou @deathwife @johnwatsn @pedgeitopascal @pedrospartner @atinylittlepain @soaringcloud @wannab-urs @javiscigarette @yazsos @northernwindd @pr0ximamidnight @theelishad @scrambledslut @thetriumphantpanda @dinsdjrn @midnightswithdearkatytspb @ladamedusoif @meveispunk @bitchwitch1981 @marisemonteiroo @brittmb115 @axshadows @cannolighost @titabel @the-wrong-providence @wretchedmo

[hyperpotamianarch]

All right. So, first: if you are either Jewish, like His Dark Materials, or both, please reblog. If you aren't any of those but know someone who is - please share it with them. I want to get as many thoughts on this as possible.

In essence, I just want to ask two simple questions. I have the beginnings of answers for myself, but Judaism is nothing if not full of discourse and many opinions on one topic. So, again: reblog. Share your thoughts and opinions. Hopefully, it will give us a wide variety of possibilities and answers.

The two questions are: where are Jews in Lyra's world? And what are the theological and Halachic concequences of having dæmons?

I intend to share my opinions in two separate reblogs, but please share your thoughts even if you don't see mine. The short version is that I looked about events in Jewish history around John Calvin's time for the first question (pope John Calvin being the major alternation of history in HDM). As for the second question - I have some thoughts relating to the Chabad thought stream. Elaborations, again, going in reblogs.

Thank you in advance!

(PS, question number 1 was handled once by the sadly deactivvated user the Tea Detective, though their full post disappeared. Link to a reblogging of the first half: here. Note, another reblog mentions other religions - feel free to discuss them, I'm focusing on Judaism because I'm Jewish. Another post asking this question was posted here, so have fun with it. Meanwhile, this post is about dæmons and religions in general and lightly touches Judaism.)

[jjtheresidentbaby]

hi hi <3 hope you're doing okay :) can u do a cg!rafe cameron x little!reader where reader gets minorly wounded, like after falling from their bike or something, and rafe patches them up? thank you <3

˚. ❝₊˚ sunburnt ❞ ˚₊·

» rafe cameron x reader

» a/n: I have an extremely bad sunburn rn so that’s what I went with hope you don’t mind

» warnings: rafe is rubbing product on reader’s back while they’re shirtless but it’s in no way nsfw, talk of the pogues watching over reader, little!sarah mentioned, cg!kie & cg!pope mentioned, cg!barry mentioned, post canon, pet names

You wince as Rafe helps pull your shirt over your head, revealing the worst sunburn Rafe has seen since Sarah got near second degree burns when they were kids, he winces right alongside you. Given for different reasons; you hate the feeling of the material sticking your your skin and causing even more pain to the tight skin, and Rafe because seeing just how bad things have gotten without him around pulls on his heart strings.

It was only a week. One week with the pogues, Sarah acting as your main caregiver but having to have Kie take over when Sarah slipped halfway through the trip you guys took to the mainland. It was- an eventful week, to say the least. Kie and Pope stepped up and were much better at applying sunblock regularly than Sarah in her own regressed state, but the damage was already done and both Kie and Pope looked more than worried when they handed you off to Rafe two days ago. You’re a little surprised he didn’t go off on them then and there.

“Hurts.” You mutter when Rafe runs his hands gently over your back, the way your skin is hot to the touch cause even more worry in Rafe’s mind. He really doesn’t want to have to take you to the hospital.

“I know baby, I’m sorry. I’m gonna apply some coconut oil and then we can go lay back down.” You’ve found the coconut oil works better than the aloe as it leaves your skin moisturized for longer.

“M’kay, can we watch a movie?” That’s all the two of you have been doing for the past two days.

By the time you were driving back to Rafe’s after being away from him for a week you were so homesick Jj had to keep his legs thrown atop yours so you wouldn’t try and climb to the front of the van to get John B to drive faster- it’d be an embarrassing moment to think of if it wasn’t all worth it when Rafe came into view as you rounded the corner to Tannyhill and saw Rafe sitting on the porch waiting for you. The house is technically his and Sarah’s but with Sarah spending almost all her time at the rebuilt chateau, it’s basically just Rafe’s place that acts as storage for some of Sarah’s stuff.

“Course, what do you wanna watch?” Rafe asks and rubs some more oil onto your bare back, making sure that he’s being as careful and soft with his touch as he can be.

“Moana?” A small smile creeps onto Rafe’s lips as he nods along.

“Didn’t we watch that yesterday?” You shrug.

“I like it. Can we ask Barry to come over and watch it with us?” Rafe is obviously your favorite person while you’re regressed but Barry is a close second, and the both of them together is perfect to you. They never fail to make you laugh just by the way they interact with each other and the sidebar jokes Barry shoots your way as Rafe tries to dismiss every word he says.

“Sure, sweet thing. Do you need him to pick up anything before he comes over?” You shake your head and lift your arms when Rafe comes to slip your shirt back on, it’s actually his own but it’s loose and cotton so it’s more comfortable on your skin.

“Not even some fries from The Wreck?” A quirked brow gets sent your way and you quickly scramble to climb into Rafe’s lap before he can pick up the phone to call Barry.

“Wait- wait, yeah fries, get fries.” You plead and Rafe hums along with an arm slipped around your waist to make sure you won’t fall off his lap.

“You sure? You just said you didn’t want anything… Barry will be here quicker if he doesn’t stop-.” You cut Rafe off with a serious look on your face that he finds undeniably cute.

“I lied, I want fries. I don’t care if Barry takes ten hours to get here, I want those fries.” It’ll really only add ten minutes to the route for Barry to go into The Wreck and order some food to-go.

“Okay, okay, I’ll make the call.” He soothes and grabs his phone as you lean back into his chest with a content sigh. Your back doesn’t hurt as bad as it did when you first came home and spending the day with your favorite people will help you forget just how much you missed Rafe in the first place.

[rafecameronsslutt]

Toxic Possessive! Rafe x Carrera Fem! Reader

↳⇁ You Can't Seem To Escape Toxic a Relationship, With Rafe.

Warnings! Rafe being Aggressive and Possessive Reader wanting to Leave.

You Were Finally able to do good for yourself. Without Rafe knowing You Only Wanted a peaceful life without the constant Thought of Rafe arguing with you over some stupid shit. You hated when he took control of your own life, as in: what you could wear, Where you could go. or who you could talk to you.

Rafe Even hated your friends which were. Pouge's Except for one and that was your sister Kiara Carrera she tried numerus times to help you leave Rafe but what ever you tried to do always failed miserable being caught and trapped in his arms once again for the last time.

You Loved Rafe, But his ways made you want to hide and run away forever but the consequences of that sudden action would cost you maybe even your life if you weren't careful enough the constant bickering of Rafe telling you if you ever try to leave him he would hunt you down if he has to caused you to be slightly afraid and began to overthink a little bit.

but he could be just saying that to make you stay Right? or so you thought. You were hanging out with Kie and Sarah at your place your parents were home they wouldn't be back until summer break was over they left a spear key just in case you and Kie needed anything or for Emergencies.

''were are they boys?' you asked Kie You haven't seen JJ, Pope or John B since earlier today they were out getting snacks and drinks to celebrate summer break with each other while waiting you and the girls decided to take some funny pictures with each other.

'' omg you should def post that!'' Sarah said in an excited Tone. Even when You were dating her brother you didn't really mind Hanging with Sarah she was anything like her brother Rafe it was like you could tell her any and everything.

''I'll be right back guys I'm going to go use the bathroom'' they nodded understanding You took your phone with you just in case mom and dad had called you. You soon felt the vibration of your phone. it was Rafe calling you. with slight hesitation you answered putting the phone on speaker.

"hey baby what's Up?'' you asked as you pretended to fix your hair in the mirror Rafe only started at you with a smirk attached to his face.

''Nothing much, What are you doing?'' You shrugged mentioning how you were hanging out with Sarah and your sister. right along with the others would swing by.

you would see the way you mentioned. Pope, JJ and john B coming over Rafe Didn't like that you would always hang around them he came quite Possessive when you were around them not caring if they were your friends or not.

''Y/n you know I don't like when their around you I want you to come stay with me tonight'' You rolled your eyes this was the night you had free time away from Rafe and you of course wasn't going to let him spoil it nor ruin it for you.

''Rafe no tonight is special and I can't just up and leave them'' Hoping he would at least give in you had pleaded.

''Y/n Don't start with your fucking stubbornness okay do as I asked you to'' his voice stern and deep with command.

"No Rafe I'll Call You when I'm done and then come over right now I wanna enjoy my time with my friends'' With that you didn't give him enough time to respond once you clicked the red button hanging up in his face which you wouldn't suspect would be a problem later on.

once you made it back to the living room you saw that they had started without you.

''there she is our favorite kook'' JJ yelled you gave him a unsatisfactory look of unprovable.

"eww Shut up JJ I rather be with the Pouge's because I Love you guys so much'' Sarah awed as she laid her head on your shoulder.

"says the one dating a kook aka being Sarah's brother'' Pope says smartly causing you to roll your eyes at him directly.

''shut up at least I'm still not a fucking virgin'' JJ and John B snickered trying to hold back a laugh which they failed at.

"okay that's fair'' pope pouted feeling defeated which he was.

A couple of hours had passed, and you couldn't fight the feeling of Rafe Being angry at you You had goosebumps maybe he wouldn't be too made right?

You Knew Rafe hated when you would also disobey him but you couldn't help but wanting to be with your friends and enjoying the laughter of each other it made you feel good inside.

''you guys we should play truth or dare'' Sarah mentioned and suggested you nodded in agreement and amusement. JJ lifted his eyebrows In a questioning manner.

"I'll play only if it's spicy'' John B added Kie simply rolled her eyes but agreed to play anyways because she was only bored.

''I'll go first truth or dare JJ?'' Sarah asked JJ thought for a moment before going a simple Truth.

''alright is it true that you and Kie got down and dirty in Y/n's room'' JJ and Kie both Looked at each other before turning there gaze towards you you looked at both of them disgusted.

"WHAT THE FUCK THAT'S DISGUSTING'' you yelled.

" i promise it was just on the floor and plus my room was flooded and mom and dad were in the house and your room is soundproof'' Kie says.

"says the kook who fucked her boyfriend in the back yard of John B's house'' you flicked JJ off.

"okay Pope Truth or dare'' Pope right away chose dare in his own Amusement because he wasn't a pussy like anyone else or so he would say.

''I dare you to make out with Y/n'' you and pope gasped you were really close friends but you never imagined kissing him before and the same with pope to you. but it was only a dare no feelings attached what so ever.

''are you sure you want to?'' Pope asked wanting your full consent before caring on with the stupid dare. you nodded only wanting to get this over with, Pope scoots closer towards you before grabbing the side of your face attaching his lips with yours.

''THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!'' the sudden sound of your boyfriends deep booming voice echoed causing you to jump and pull away from pope with a harsh shove. you felt the harsh tug of rafe yanking you up dragging you outside to his truck.

"ow Rafe the hell Let me Go!'' you yelled he slams your back against his truck causing you to wince out in pain.

''YOUR SUCH A FUCKING SLUT YOU KNOW THAT, FIRST YOU WANNA HANG UP ON ME TWO DISOBEY ME AND THREE KISS THAT LOW DOWN FUCKING POUGE YOUR THAT FUCKING DICK HUNGRY HUH? Rafe grabs your face squeezing tightly you clawed at his hand as tears peaked from your eyes.

"Rafe Let me Go Your Hurting me!'' You Yelled Out. Rafe didn't even think twice as he continued to yell in your face.

''WHEN WE GET HOME YOUR FUCKING OVER DO YOU UNDERSTANND ME THIS WILL BE THE FINALE TIME YOU FUCKING FUCK ME OVER!' Rafe then opens the truck door roughly shoving you inside. without even saying anything to your sister or your friends guess you would have to text kie later. because Rafe wasn't gonna let you out of his sight.

[ctheathy]

Seduction and hate-flirting w/ Yandere Popee

Popee x Reader

Yandere+NSFW Headcanons

Short Concept

Author's note: my yan. Popee is an absolute punchable disgrace to deal with, but even he is not unbreakable. It's time to watch him crumble~

The separate headcanons for Yandere Popee will get more into detail about his bad behaviour and torment towards the Reader. So these might lack context for the most part.

[Gender-neutral Darling|Female Darling|Male Darling]

Popee/Reader [Romantic Tendencies]

Potential ⚠️TWs⚠️ :

Both reader+character are of legal age or aged-up for obvious reasons in this post!

These are partly smut headcanons, read at own risk. dom!Reader+sub!Popee • Manipulative Reader • Reader 100% has a sadistic streak • Unhealthy power dynamic • Toxic influence • Abusive+Destructive behaviour • Seduction • Sexual fantasies • Brainwashing(?) • Obsession • Masochism • Degradation • Swearing • Harassment • Invasion of privacy • Anger issues/Pent up lust • Assault • Tongue making out • Dirty talk • Climax mentioned • But it never actually leads to intercourse

This would certainly make for quite the dynamic. Popee, despite having an obsessive mentality driven by pure desire towards you, has been known to cause immense distress and discontent on your part. Purposely overstepping your boundaries, inflicting anguish and trying to put you in a bad light. Hating on you because you awakened these unknown emotions in him ...So much so that it would likely cause you to hold quite some resentment towards the boy with the bunny suit. Resentment you try releasing through some good old hate-flirting. You'd feel yourself craving more and more to bring out the worst in him, all the things that he's hiding and secretly feels ashamed of. And for someone like Popee with an ego the size of the Milky Way, that just makes the challenge extra irresistible to work on. While you can all imagine his reaction and denial as he’s forced to admit to himself that the one person he despises is the person he wants so badly.

You could literally destroy him from his heart, to his mind and it would cause him to become even more of a snobby bastard in general. Where he becomes even quicker to explode with his outbursts and lash out at Kedamono if he were to get that attached to you. Usually he’s such a loudmouth and he thinks he can never be phased with anything, he thinks he’s too powerful to be affected by anything. But you have the ability to absolutely break him, making him feel things beyond just anger from the power struggle and how you love to see him struggle to maintain control over you.

He 100% has a hate boner for you AND you 100% get off on teasing him. Just picture the mental gymnastics Popee would go through in his head as he desperately tries to convince himself that he hates this person while you can just have a ball teasing him and ruining his already broken ego. Which begs the question... for how long Popee could hold it together before he finally loses his cool and absolutely explodes on you. He has so much pent up anger in general and I feel like you could definitely be the one to set off the ticking time bomb inside of him.

Despite the tough exterior Popee wants to uphold, he is so goddamn sensitive and you could easily figure out that his tolerance for sexual activities is extremely low. He’d be so turned on the moment you even touch him in any way, if you even accidentally brushed against him a certain way he’d start getting hard. And when your clothes get all clingy from the practice sweat, he wouldn’t even be able to stand a chance. You could absolutely be feasting on his desperation and anger. You'd have this huge mountain of a man reduced to such an emotional and sexual mess that can’t think of anything but YOU.

You should absolutely go as far to try and make him moan in public. Just a scenario of him rudely bossing his assistants around, before you just go upfront, all personal and touchy with him as you egg him on. You'd have him making all kinds of noises that a man shouldn’t be making out in the open, you'd know how to push his buttons and you should not be afraid to do it either. The more he’s left broken and frustrated, the more he wants you. The more he denies his feelings, the harder he falls. He absolutely loathes the fact that he needs you, that he craves you in such manners. He might still act arrogant and prideful towards you but you just know he still contains those wet dreams that take him right back to square one.

You'd have the ability of being so very influential on him, he would be at the point where you would be able to make him do anything for you. Getting him all worked up and then leaving him to cool off by himself, before the cycle repeats itself. He would be cursing your name over and over in that tent, wishing that you were there to finish what you started. The thought of his quiet, furious little yells and moans of frustration from his tent would absolutely manage to crack you up, the way he would be so damn upset but so incredibly turned on at the same time. Because that’s direct proof of just how bad he really wants you, he wants you so bad that he actually tears up over it while actively touching himself. He would absolutely be sobbing softly in his pillow after the entire ordeal is done, but deep down he wants it.

You can twist his hatred towards you into the most raging, uncontrollable amount of desire for you. And at some point he would absolutely lose it and end up begging you to use him. Just pure sin. Both of your relationship would most likely get so incredibly bad that just the idea of you spitting in his mouth when he did something you didn't like, hurting him or stepping on him and just placing your full weight on top of him would leave him feeling moist and sweaty. He’d act like the idea of you stepping on him, sitting on his face, literally spitting on him, would be the most horrible thing imaginable... but the most embarrassing part would be how much he’d enjoy it deep down.

The more you humiliated him and treated him like garbage, the more he would begin to crave it. The more he would want you to degrade him, that would be the thing that would destroy who he is as a person. He would literally be your lapdog, but he wouldn’t even realize that he was. Basically Popee would become a full blown masochist for you, yet refuses to acknowledge the fact that he's submitted to you completely and is practically begging on his knees to be used and broken by you.

There have definitely been countless of instances where he'd get in your tent uninvited in the middle of the night, either wanting to vent out his frustrations to you or insult you to make you feel bad. To which I imagine you would start make some subtle, teasing comments but they gradually get more suggestive and flirty; mentioning how suspicious it is to show up at somebody else's bed, alone, at night, when everybody's asleep and are less capable of hearing their surroundings. And when he finally catches on to your intentions, his confidence starts to drain and gets replaced by feeling more flustered and embarrassed as he desperately tries to hide the growing bulge in his suit, feeling his arousal grow with every word and tease that leaves your mouth. He would be trying so hard to ignore you, but you can see right through his desperate little attempts and just make further moves on him.

He's in your territory now.

But all of his efforts go right out of the window as soon as you get up close to him. Freezing up as soon as your hand reaches out to touch his jawline and before he knows it ...with your lips pressed against his. It would be such a satisfying yet unexpected moment as soon as your tongue slides in to tease the insides of his mouth, an activity Popee just wouldn't be able to reject. Which is a moment where Popee would immediately lose all of his self control and start groaning, fighting tooth and nail to keep his vocal chords as quiet as he can. The moment that your tongue touches him he would just become a little drooling, submissive, desperate wreck of a person. He'd even forget that he hates you in the heat of the moment. Hell, if it went on long enough, it would likely evolve into pleas to keep going, be rougher with him and go faster. Pleas to just absolutely go out on him.

His brain would be too overwhelmed and overloaded from all the intense feeling and sensations and pleasure that he just wouldn’t be able to even think at all. He’d be too busy focusing all that energy in trying not to moan and cry out for you, he would absolutely feel like he was being assaulted with how it’s almost too much for him. You would be so talented at making him struggle and squirm. And there’s absolutely nothing he can do against you, as that tongue alone is enough to make him fall back in love with you. As soon as you pull back only to plunge it back in he would be completely disoriented, his eyes rolling back while he’s still moaning and barely able to even support himself. Which is something you shouldn't even be satisfied with at all, taste everything that big mouth of his has to offer and just keep on going until he’s a wet, messy, overstimulated little bitch.

You'd get him so deep into the rabbit hole that he would practically be begging on the ground for you, just for you to ignore him. You could be teasing him with your mouth, kissing him, biting him and just being absolutely filthy with him. And once he’s begging you to not stop, you should give him the most pathetic, pitiful, short little kiss on the forehead and just dismiss him like he’s nothing. You'd make him feel so dirty that as soon as you turn on that sadistic streak, he's basically your little plaything. The way that you would mock and tease him would make him want it so badly. Especially when being literal the reason that he ends up having such... unholy dreams with you in them. You would be the one to completely wreck him, all sense of pride and his dignity.

Which would be the best part honestly, seeing him absolutely breaking down and revealing his true feelings through his body language and physical responses. He’d be so much more sensitive and weak during his intimate moments. His lips would become more plush and his body would look more fragile than normal. The way he moves would turn into something more meek and shy, similar to his mirror counterpart, Eepop. His breathing would become heavier as his eyes and tail would droop, he would completely become a different man when you're together in that sense. Because unlike his other companions who try their best staying on his good side, you're not at all afraid to call him out on his bluff. You know what he wants and you're not stepping back from mentioning his not-so-pure fantasies and mocking him for it.

It’s such a humiliating thing for him to hear, that you would act so disgusted by the very thought of him wanting to breed you. Your dirty words would be sending red-hot shocks of pleasure through his body, making his entire body shake. Popee would just be so flustered, so utterly horny that he could barely even keep it together. And then his own fantasies start to make it even better... as his genitalia begins to drip in response to those very thoughts, thoughts that he’s so desperately trying to get rid of. This is exactly the type of humiliation that Popee would not be able to control at all. His legs would begin to twitch and his body would spasm with ecstasy, he’s desperate for so much more but he’s trying so hard to resist. Which is something that would infuriate him so badly.

Because even when looking at alternative options for release, a toy really isn’t really going to get the job done either. He wants someone to actually dominate him, he wants to feel helpless, he wants to be put in his place. He wants to scream out your name and have no control over it. Something that isn’t the real deal won’t quite work for him. Not to mention the fact that he isn’t able to actually ask you for anything even remotely suggestive, but the fact that he’s begging you silently makes him feel beyond pathetic.

And honestly, this just sounds like an exact scenario where Popee would give up and start begging you to just take him already. His entire face would be red as a tomato at this point, there would be no more of that smestering contempt or smug smile on his face, just pure, raw, desperation. All of his pent up rage at you for your antics would just turn into complete lust and need. If you play along with his deeply hidden fantasies, you'd have him at your feet. You'd have him sobbing on all fours, just whining out for you to make those imaginations a reality for him.

Something you obviously won't comply with, atleast not yet... As you instead continue teasing him with the very dreams he thirsts after, emphasizing it in an unnecessary amount of detail and mentioning the empty what ifs if you were to allow him to go a step further with you. Getting him so unimaginably riled up that it reaches a moment with him begging and pleading for you to let him have a second to calm down and stop playing into his fantasies, to give him any semblance of relief. Popee would so desperately try to hide himself with his hands as his pre would slowly leak out of him, feeling so very shameful about it. But no matter what he did, he’s going to let some out eventually. He just wouldn’t last, especially not with you baiting his constant arousal. If he began behaving like that, you would totally have to come up to him from behind and place your hands on his shoulders, pressing your body against his back all while while digging your fingers into his shuddering shoulders. But all it takes is just one single perverted whisper...

“You don't last long, do you...~?”

You just know Popee would be putty in your hands if you did that. He’d be breathing faster and faster and would likely be squeezing his own arm or something to try hard not to cum on the spot. His back would arch and his stomach would start clenching, he’d be making some cute, girly little sounds as you're all up close from behind. The desperation becoming more noticeable as you press yourself up against him even more and get a good view of his rear end from the position you are in. He would start to squirm and let out pathetic whimpers as he tries to hide exactly how much it’s affecting him. The things you can whisper in his ear would be the most intoxicating and humiliating things he’s ever heard in his entire existence. But even with his efforts, Popee just doesn’t have the self-control to hold back.

He would totally throw his head back into your shoulder as his load dripped and leaked all over his legs. Where he would release so much it would just be pouring down his leg and onto the ground. His eyes would start rolling as he releases those gaspy moans in a heavy, quick manner while he trembles. All while you would just look at him with a bitchy smirk as he completely ruins his suit for you once again... just being the most embarrassing little thing around you. Even if you gave him permission to feel you up for being such a good boy for you, he would still be too much of a loser to do it right, in which you should totally just smack his hand away and reply with a “bad boy~”

It also just adds extra fuel to the fire that you're not the type to physically harm him at all, with your antics all just being teasing and immense mind games. The most aggressively physical you've ever gotten with him being by grabbing his chin to make him look at you, not able to recall any moment where you've actually caused him serious pain, with his experiences with you being pleasurable more than anything... Which really keep him on edge as you continue using your own little methods to make him impatient, giving these teeny tiny scraps of backhanded affection while he's basically dying from touch starving deprivation.

But you wouldn’t even need to use any physical violence on him for him to break down and get what you want, you can just use every single dirty trick in the book and play him like a fiddle. You'd have him begging for punishment to the point where you wouldn’t even have to lift a single finger, he would want it. I can imagine him finally giving in to you at some point, just falling into your charms and letting out those loud, desperate, begging moans for you. He would absolutely hate that he’s letting you do this to him, he would HATE the fact that you've turned him into your desperate, hormonal little slut.

Where he's gotten to a point where he would just willingly let you do all of that to him with no resistance because you've already broken him so badly mentally that nothing else could even break him further. He’d already be so broken down that you stepping on him would be an absolute pleasure for him and his fragile mind. You could literally do whatever you please and he would accept it with open arms. His whole mind is already completely brainwashed and warped up in his own sick and twisted desires.

And there’s no way he’d have the mental fortitude to do any stunt after realising what addictive hell he's brought upon himself.

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