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secondbeatsongs · 2 years

Note

Hello! I'm Julie from Cariona and I just want to ask if you're interested in doing ads/promotions here on Tumblr? If yes, how much do you charge per reblog?

For proof of legitimate promotions, you can check @catchymemes, @sulfatto, @isnt, and many others.

Website for reference: http://cariona.com Over 200 five star Facebook reviews: https://www.facebook.com/carionaproducts/reviews

Please feel free to respond here or reach out to us on [email protected] for more details! Thank you once again and have a great week!

absolutely fascinating that you decided to send this as an ask, when you also DM'd me. unfortunately, you may realize that this was a mistake - you see, asks can be responded to publicly.

so, allow me to respond:

hi, Julie! I'd never heard about Cariona before, so I decided to go poking around, and I learned something!

well, I learned a few things, actually. from your site, Cariona seems to be a small business that sells reusable menstrual products. and while I will never advertise a product that I haven't used, there's nothing wrong with wanting people to promote your company.

I have, however, found a few problems.

the first thing I found was this post by @crafiet from May 12th of last year, saying that shortly after making a purchase on your website, her debit card info was leaked, and used to make facebook ad purchases.

it seems that at least back then, your payment system was insecure. I'm really hoping you've fixed that, because. yikes.

and when I messaged crafiet to ask if it was okay if I linked to her post, she also mentioned that even though your website says you ship from Georgia, her package came shipped from China, and took a long time to arrive.

that's pretty sketchy.

the next thing I found was some folks talking about receiving cards with their orders that have a QR code on them with the words "Scan For God's Message To You", and that on the other side, have this bible verse:

O God, thou art my God; early will I seek thee: my soul thirsteth for thee, my flesh longeth for thee in a dry and thirsty land, where no water is. Psalm 63:1

fun fact! that's from the King James Version (which I have a lot of thoughts about, but I'm not going to get into that right now).

additional fun fact! that particular psalm is from that time David fled to the wilderness because Jonathan's dad was trying to kill him.

and that's why I have to talk about the verses that follow it:

(ID in alt text; link to the NIV version if you want it)

so...are we like 100% sure it's god that David is thinking about here? because...I mean...that's pretty horny, right? and all of this while on the run from his boyfriend's dad?

I'm not saying anything, but like...¯\_(ツ)_/¯

it's a weird verse to choose for this, that's all.

anyway, back to you, Cariona: after seeing people talking about the bible verse cards, I decided to poke around your website more, and allll the way at the bottom of it, finally found your "About Us" page, which ends with this:

...look. there's nothing inherently wrong with being christian. but to say "we do not wish to impose any beliefs on our customers", and to then put bible verse cards in people's orders? that's sneaky, and I don't like it.

I also think it's a bit sneaky that you've flagged your tumblr account as pro-trans on shinigami eyes. at least, I assume you flagged it yourselves, because I didn't find a single post on your blog that mentions trans issues.

(though you have, entertainingly, reblogged some stranger things fanart, and a castiel cat cosplay)

and while your website uses very gender-neutral language, your "About Us" page doesn't say anything about being inclusive of trans people, just that you don't "discriminate against anyone who has a different belief than ours."

unfortunately, that's not good enough for me. I have this sneaking suspicion that "trans people are the gender they say they are" counts as a "different belief".

lastly, since you say on your website that people can message you asking about your faith, I had a friend do that!

baptists. you're baptists, which is a pretty conservative denomination.

and according to you, part of that 10% you donate goes to your local churches, and some missionaries. who are also probably baptists.

so.

in the end, I just...don't trust you? I don't trust that the 10% you're donating is going to organizations that aren't homophobic or transphobic. I don't believe that you're not trying to impose your beliefs on others, because that's what you're obviously doing. I mean, your "About Me" says that one of the reasons you built this company is to spread the gospel.

and I especially don't like it that you reached out to me (an openly queer person) for promotion without mentioning that you're an evangelical company.

so to answer your question, Julie: no. I am not interested in doing ads or promotions for you on tumblr. and honestly, you probably picked the wrong website for this kind of thing.

#asks #carionausa #cariona #additional info for the record:#my friend told me they did say they donate to some environmental stuff #like maybe wwf they thought?#but from the wording they weren't sure #and also another charity called #Connecticut Quest for Peace #which I couldn't find out much about #it doesn't have a rating on charity navigator #but the posts I found about it on tumblr are all...mmm #very religious in nature #and no judgement if that's your jam #but it's not my kind of thing #so #no thanks #I don't like the idea of promoting a company that gives money to the baptist church and other religious organizations #I just don't #sbs rambles #and I couldn't even find much information about cariona besides this #no business registered in georgia under that name so #who knows #I wonder...hmm #if I was just looking at this information #with no other context #with the errors on the website #and the shipping from china #...I wonder where Cariona _is_ based.#or if it is in georgia - what name is it registered under?

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kaiasky · 2 years

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3am silly ask game: is your username sage like the plant or sage like the 4chan thing that doesn't bump a post or sage like...?

or have i been reading it wrong and it's "kaia's age"

i was never much of a 4channer and am only vaguely aware of those sage connotations. sage is like the plant or the wise wisardly fucker or whatever.

#there's an additional layer of hidden info to this dm me if you want #like I'm fine saying it to anyone this ask could conceivably be i just don't want as searchable records for doxxing

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yeoldenews · 3 months

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While we’re on the subject of names, is there an explanation for how traditional nicknames came about that are seemingly unrelated to, or have little in common with, the original name?

ie- John/Jack, Richard/Dick, Henry/Harry/Hank, Charles/Chuck, Margaret/Peggy/Daisy, Sarah/Sally, Mary/Molly, Anne/Nan, etc

I am actually over a week into researching a huge follow-up post (probably more than one if I’m being honest) about the history of nickname usage, so I will be going into this in much, much more detail at a hopefully not-so-later date - if I have not lost my mind. (Two days ago I spent three hours chasing down a source lead that turned out to be a typographical error from 1727 that was then quoted in source after source for the next 150 years.)

As a preview though, here’s some info about the names you mentioned:

The origins of a good portion of common English nicknames come down to the simple fact that people really, really like rhyming things. Will 🠞Bill, Rob🠞Bob, Rick🠞Dick, Meg🠞Peg.

It may seem like a weird reason, but how many of you have known an Anna/Hannah-Banana? I exclusively refer to my Mom’s cat as Toes even though her name is Moe (Moesie-Toesies 🠞 Toesies 🠞 Toes).

Jack likely evolved from the use of the Middle English diminutive suffix “-chen” - pronounced (and often spelled) “-kyn” or “kin”. The use of -chen as a diminutive suffix still endures in modern German - as in “liebchen” = sweetheart (lieb “love” + -chen).

John (Jan) 🠞 Jankin 🠞 Jackin 🠞 Jack.

Hank was also originally a nickname for John from the same source. I and J were not distinct letters in English until the 17th Century. “Iankin” would have been nearly indistinguishable in pronunciation from “Hankin” due to H-dropping. It’s believed to have switched over to being a nickname for Henry in early Colonial America due to the English being exposed to the Dutch nickname for Henrik - “Henk”.

Harry is thought to be a remnant of how Henry was pronounced up until the early modern era. The name was introduced to England during the Norman conquest as the French Henri (On-REE). The already muted nasal n was dropped in the English pronunciation. With a lack of standardized spelling, the two names were used interchangeably in records throughout the middle ages. So all the early English King Henrys would have written their name Henry and pronounced it Harry.

Sally and Molly likely developed simply because little kids can’t say R’s or L’s. Mary 🠞 Mawy 🠞 Molly. Sary 🠞 Sawy 🠞 Sally.

Daisy became a nickname for Margaret because in French garden daisies are called marguerites.

Nan for Anne is an example of a very cool linguistic process called rebracketing, where two words that are often said/written together transfer letters/morphemes over time. The English use of “an” instead of “a” before words beginning with vowels is a common cause of rebracketing. For example: the Middle English “an eute” became “a newt”, and “a napron” became “an apron”. In the case of nicknames the use of the archaic possessive “mine” is often the culprit. “Mine Anne” over time became “My Nan” as “mine” fell out of use. Ned and Nell have the same origin.

Oddly enough the word “nickname” is itself a result of rebracketing, from the Middle English “an eke (meaning additional) name”.

I realized earlier this week that my cat (Toe’s sister) also has a rebracketing nickname. Her name is Mina, but I call her Nom Nom - formed by me being very annoying and saying her name a bunch of time in a row - miNAMiNAMiNAM.

Chuck is a very modern (20th century) nickname which I’ll have to get back to you on as I started my research in the 16th century and am only up to the 1810s so far lol.

#names #nicknames #onomastics #history #asks #nicknames are really hard to research you guys #there is so much info out there and it's almost all nonsense #and I'm talking academic books with listed sources not buzzfeed listicles #some guy in the 18th century forgetting to mention Bill on a list of common nicknames does not mean it wasn't in use at the time ma dude #i've had to get very creative with sources #god bless word for word murder trial testimony

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elyserie · 9 months

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Fate's Refusal to Honour (or at least properly research) Depictions of Non-Japanese Figures 2: Electric Bogaloo ft. Wandjina from the Current JP Summer Event

Disclaimer: While I am an Australian, I am NOT of Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander descent. Therefore, I am coming at this issue from an outsider's perspective. If there is an Aboriginal person, or more specifically of the Mowanjum people from the Kimberly regions, please PLEASE correct me if I am wrong on any front.

The culprit behind the events of the current Summer story in the JP servers has recently been revealed to be Wandjina, a creator Dreamtime figure from the Mowanjum people's culture.

In any other context, I would be thrilled to have an Australian figure in FGO, but the problem here is the figure they use.

Wandjina are sacred to the Mowanjum people, and therefore one needs to go through Aboriginal Law to obtain the right to use the Wandjina's image.

In Australia, this resulted in an actual conflict between a non-indigenous artist and aboriginals. You can read more here, but one quote to note is from an Aboriginal man of the Darug people, Chris Tobin: "Aboriginal law is very specific on what you can and can't do with wan[d]jinas." Another quote on this topic is made by the owner of an Aboriginal art gallery, Adrian Newstead: "Only a few Aboriginal artists ever win the right to depict wan[d]jina, and only then after years of initiations and ceremonies..."

I am NOT attaching an image of FGO's iteration of Wandjina due to this. Not only is her appearance only Aboriginal on a surface-level with her 'dot art' aesthetic (dot art* is only a recent addition to Aboriginal culture, created back in the 1970s), having no resemblance to an Aboriginal person (note, that while many Aboriginal people are white/pale, FGO continually chooses to depict people of colour as light skinned as possible. And yes, I know she's blue, not white. There is literally no records of her being blue skinned; is this because Wandjina's are associated with rain????) but she is also not very Wandjina looking? These figures do not have mouths, have large eyes meant to resemble the eye of a storm and are typically depicted with elaborate headdresses. That little glowing boomerang on her head is not exactly elaborate. And WHY does she have a boomerang??? Because she's Australian???? By that logic, every Japanese figure needs to have a katana. #GiveMurasakiaKatana2023.

There is also the issue of Cnoc na Riabh. While it is funny to think that she's a foreigner because of an Australian influence, Yaraan-doo is also another Aboriginal figure. And it is slapped onto a white girl for a fan service event. I'd just rather Fate leave Aboriginal culture alone and just do, like, Ned Kelly or something if they're going to continue like this.

More resources and info under the read more!

You'll have noted in the quotes that I've edited an 'n' into wanjinas. This is so I didn't confuse anyone: both can be the correct spelling! I just stuck to what I thought FGO was using for their Wandjina.

Here's an overview of what wandjinas are and their inappropriate use in art: https://www.creativespirits.info/aboriginalculture/arts/what-are-wandjinas

Here's another page about an inappropriate use of Wandjinas (note: it's only a short synopsis about a documentary that covered the incident, I'm uncertain if you would be able to get access to the documentary outside of Australia): https://www.creativespirits.info/resources/movies/who-paintin-dis-wandjina

It should also be noted that the two websites I've linked above are from the website Creative Spirits. While it is run by a non-Indigenous person, the person behind it is currently transitioning it to be an Aboriginal owned and run resource. You can read more about how this site is run in his About page.

*If you want to know about dot art's origin, here and here are some resources on them. However, this article brings up something interesting that I would like to bring back to FGO Wandjina's dot art aesthetic. It notes that "the term 'dot painting' stems from what the Western eye sees when faced with contemporary Aboriginal acrylic paintings" (emphasis mine). All three articles note that dots were used to obfuscate sacred symbols and artifacts so that those who were not initiated into their cultures could not see what these figures were. In that case, what the hell is the dot art seen on Fate's Wandjina supposed to represent? In this article, it talks about the symbolism in Indigenous art. Fate's Wandjina has none.

#fgo #fate grand order #fate #fate wandjina #fgo wandjina #no one tell me if she turns out to be an alien or something because that a whole other can of worms #*sobbing* neither of my parents are even Australian I have very little exposure to Aboriginal cultures #and I take after my father so I am very white I hope making this post I was respectful? aaaaaaaaaaaaa #I got way too into making this post I forgot to take my shower and now its bedtime whoops #anyway when will nasu's sinful hands stop #own ramblings

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gloomy-angel-ing · 5 months

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Decrypting the fragmented messages from Martyn‘s PiratesSMP finale (I‘m back with lore brainrot yay!)

———

In his stream there‘s 6 messages he gets with only parts revealed. The rest looks like this with the strange symbols always changing.

(example)

So here’s all the timestamps for the messages & what I’ve been able to get from them. I can‘t ensure they are correct. (The text in italics is stuff that I‘m still unsure about & the rows of 5s are the words I haven‘t been able to decrypt. I‘ll explain why that is below.)

- - 1:15:21 - -

Martyn!?

- - 1:38:48 - -

That has to be you? What took you so long to get out here?

- - 1:46:38 - - (message confirmed by martyn)

There isn‘t much time left! You‘ll be alright so long as you hurry.

- - 1:47:43 - -

C.H.E.S.T have taken an invention/infection and tweaked it. The world got locked in. Iris 5555 failsafe 555 di5 t5e5 5i555.

Edit: You could get locked in. is another solution I found. I think this might fit better.

- - 1:59:47 - -

The portal is close. We can‘t risk them seeing it. 55 5555 a distraction so you can slip away.

- - 2:13:05 - -

Be swift, keep calm & remember your training. Ill only be able to keep it open n for a few more minutes then I‘d have to quarantine this world.

———

I‘ll try my best to explain how I got to these results now (I hope this explanation makes sense to someone lol)

Firstly I looked at all these messages, screen recorded them and then did some research on how to even make them look like this. I found a tutorial and during this video I noticed that not every fragmented letters looks the same. They are based on the width of the original text. An i is a very slim letter so the fragmented (or as it is apparently called, obfuscated) text would be slim as well. The opposite goes for a wide letter like w and d which will result in a wide fragmented character.

With this info and the example message Martyn revealed I was able to test and confirm this. Every fragmented symbol has a set width, reaching from 1 to 5 pixels. The fragmented characters constantly change, but they always stay the same size. So all I had to do now was skip through my recordings of the messages and find frames where the I can count the pixels of every missing character and write the number down. It took very long and I had to check several times because I kept making mistakes and miscounting. But I got these results:

- Message 2: 5553 has 35 55 you! 5553 3554 you 55 2555 to 553 553 here?

- Message 4: C.H.E.S.T 5555 2545n 55 155e53155 555 3w5545d 131 555 5o525 553 25c455 151 3515 5555 failsafe 555 di5 35e5 515551

- Message 5: 555 555352 15 52o551 55 55523 r154 t555 555155 131 55 5555 5 51535a53155 55 555 555 5l15 away.

- Message 6: 55 s51431 k555 5525 5 55555555 55u5 355151551 3ll 5525 55 5525 35 4555 i3 5555 n 455 5 few 5555 min5355 5he5 325 5555 35 quarantine 3515 55525111

(didn’t do 1 & 3 because 1 was kinda obvious and 3 was already revealed. )

Now I know the amount of missing characters & how many pixels wide they are. In the minecraft text font almost all characters are five pixels wide, as you see above. But there are a few outliers:

4 pixels: lowercase k & f

3 pixels: lowercase t and uppercase i

2 pixels: lowercase L and apostrophes (there is also a 1 pixel apostrophe but it doesn‘t seem like it‘s used here)

1 pixel: lower i as well as dots, exclamation marks and commas

With this I was able to read some of the missing letters. The rest was guessing. Or I guess using wordle solvers and other websites to find fitting words. That’s how I got to the results above.

———

Additional notes on the messages:

— I don‘t know if the word in message 4 for is invention or infection. I think both would work. Infection could mean some kind of virus?

— Iris is the only word I could find that would fit with a capital i (and make sense in the context of pirates) but I haven‘t been able to form a logical sentence with it. I‘m assuming it is a capital letter because it‘s a new sentence. But it could technically be a t. (if anyone has ideas on this pls tell me..)

— Don‘t know what the missing words in message 5 are. I don‘t think they would change the meaning greatly though. (make doesn‘t work bc k is 4 pixels)

— The italics words in message 6 I‘m still a bit unsure about. There is some other word groups that could fit, but none of them made much sense in the whole sentence. I do think it’s possible that I‘m wrong there.

— Edit, bc I forgot to add this. But I don‘t know why there is a singular n in message 6. It is either a strange way to shorten and which would not match the rest of the writing style at all or it is a typo which I don‘t think is that unlikely tbh. I think the way the message would have to be written (with commands I assume) would make it easy to make a mistake there, so maybe it is just the n from open.

— Edit 2: Missing part in message 5 might be "We need a distraction …" (suggestion from @.ilexdiapason)

———

I am honestly very surprised that I got this far. Not what I was expecting when I started this. Obviously these messages weren‘t intended to be decrypted like his — which is why I don‘t think I will ever figure out the full messages — but I wanted to try anyway. Martyn has said he‘ll reveal them at some point so I guess I‘ll find out how correct I am. I definitely had my fun with this, also big thanks to the two people (once and percival) in Martyns discord that were replying to my messages while I was doing this lol <3

#inthelittlewood #itlw #itlwlore #pirates smp #martyn inthelittlewood

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 6 days

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Gently: the "touch some grass" post is exactly why I have anon enabled on this blog and encourage people to use it. Like I do expect y'all to not harass people if they DO submit using their blogs (and to the best of my knowledge no one has, just stating for the record), but if you submit anonymously and use a throwaway for any additional info you add then it's just not a problem to begin with!

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amazinglyspicy · 1 year

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PIRATE SAFELY!! But pirate ;)

Hello! I’ve gotten a flood of new followers thanks to an addition I made about NOT torrenting from the Pirate Bay, so I want to address it better.

If you’ve come to check my blog for more piracy resources, advice, guides, etc, then check out some of the links in this pinned!

First and Foremost, Do not do Anything without an adblocker. Ublock Origin is the best.

Resources/Wikis: 🌟Top recommendation is the Free Media Heck Yeah Wiki, frequently updated, maintained, and transparent, as well as has a welcoming community behind it if you have questions. The rest are for redundancy's sake and for anything not found in FMHY, though most Wikis on this topic tend to repeat the same info. 🌟

VPN Comparison Chart - General Rule of Thumb, DO NOT use any VPN recommended by Youtubers, influencers, or any other shill with a profit motive. Large marketing budget does not equal good privacy practices. Do your own research.

-Since both Mullvad VPN and IVPN are planned to now suspend port forwarding support, the next best choices for torrenting though a VPN seem to be AirVPN and ProtonVPN.

HOWEVER, AirVPN has no evidence of a no logging policy (aka there’s a chance they keep records of what you do on their service) and ProtonVPN has no method of anonymously signing up and use a subscription model instead of a preferable pay-as-you-go model. So take that as you will.

(NOTE: You do not need to pay for a VPN if you are only directly downloading from a server or streaming off of websites! But it’s probably a good idea for privacy reasons anyways.)

A very good Comprehensive Torrenting Guide! -eye strain warning

And another one!

-If you torrent you need a VPN depending on how strict your government is on copyright laws. This works on a case by case basis, so I recommend looking up your own country's laws on the matter. Generally speaking, use a VPN to torrent if your country falls under The 14 Eyes Surveillance Alliance. More info on what that is Here.

A Note about Antivirus: - If you're using trusted websites, and not clicking on any ad links/fake download ads (Should be blocked by ublock), then you don't necessarily need any antivirus. Common Sense and Windows Defender should be enough to get you by. If you would like to be certain on what you are downloading is legitimate, then run your file through a virus scanner like VirusTotal. Keep in mind that when scanning cracked software some scans may flag “false positives” as the injectors used to crack the software look like malware to these scanners. Once again, the best way to avoid malware is to use trusted sites listed here and use an adblocker at all times.

If you have any questions on anything posted, need help finding things, or just need some clarification on any terms used, shoot me an ask or message! I've got a few years experience with not paying for anything I want, and LOVE to help others with this kind of stuff. But if you don't trust me, since I am a random stranger on the internet, that's fine (I wont be offended promise)! Do your own research!

INFORMATION SHOULD BE FREE!

Last updated: February 16th 2024

#piracy #torrenting #vpn #pirating #media preservation #warez

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atinyniki · 4 months

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Hihihi<3 I was thinking of Seungmin or Lee know (you can chose) with a idol!Gf that gets hurt during a award show.. maybe falling off a wobbly platform 8ft in the air? (We don’t brear our back). What would his reaction be? I know it’s kinda cruel but Its been on my mind for a week.. if it makes u uncomfy ignore this and forget u ever read it<3 Ty in advance<333

i'll take care of you.

group: stray kids !

pairing: idol!kim seungmin x idol f!reader

genre: hurt/comfort, angst, fluff

warnings + additional info: reader is referred to as y/n, crying, reader fractures her ankle, kissing, play fighting, seungmin wants to murder someone, reader falls from a platform, lots of petnames, just rlly cute and fluffy at the end, seungmin is really scared, injuries, established relationships, munhee is a member of y/ns gg.

authors note: ik this was supposed to be more angsty but im literally head over heels for softie seungmin so here you go :P thank you for the ask annonie !! this is also not proofread. english is not my first language, so please excuse any grammatical or spelling errors. happy reading :)

wc: 1344

“hey hey hey, don’t be nervous my love… you’ll do amazing, i know it.”

“i’ve never done this in front of such a crowd before… what if they don’t like me, min?”

“oh baby… they’ll love you, i promise. and if anything happens on stage, your members will be there to back you up, yeah?”

you give him a hug, he always knew how to calm you down in moments like these. you suppose it’s because of his own experiences, especially considering the amount of award shows he’s been at.

“i love you, seungminnie…”

“i love you too, baby. now go! you don’t wanna miss your cue. i’ll be in the audience, i promise.”

you give him a quick kiss, shooting up from the seat to go meet your members. seungmin leaves too, sitting down at stray kids’ respective table.

“excited?”, jeongin asks from beside him.

“of course i am! i’m so proud of her…”

his eyes stay fixed on the stage, waiting for your performance to start. the lights dim, and he sits up straight. it’s time for your performance.

there’s no point in recording, he knows they’ll have a fancam. right now, he just wants to watch his baby shine.

and you do. you look absolutely gorgeous on stage, the lights hitting you at the perfect angles. the track starts, and the crowd starts cheering.

so many people, just for five girls performing. the first song is a ballad, something slow to set the mood. it’s one of your favorite songs from the comeback.

though munhee wrote the song due to her own experiences, your voice carries the same amount of emotion hers does, and it makes the lyrics sound so much more authentic.

seungmin watches from the crowd, he truly thinks he might cry. the rest of the boys are in awe too, some members of gidle clasping their hands over their mouths in surprise.

everyone is used to you doing intricate dances with upbeat music, and they’ve truly never been able to appreciate your vocals.

then it hits the climax of the song, ending with a high note you must complete. as scared you are of heights, you know it’s inevitable. the platforms will go up, whether you like it or not.

its a small space that you have to maintain, but you try your best to focus on the song. and now, you have to sing.

you close your eyes, letting out your voice, and it sounds absolutely angelic. and then you open them again once you hear the low whirring of the platforms.

they all go up.

except for yours.

nonetheless, you continue singing, determined to keep your professionalism throughout the entire bridge. and then the song ends. the platforms finally lower back down, and all of you wait for your cues to leave.

once you see it, you take a step.

you shouldn’t have.

all of a sudden, your platform shoots all the way up. eight feet in the air. before you have time to process, it wobbles side to side and you fall off.

thud.

seungmin stands up instantly, rushing to get backstage. he doesn’t care how many people hes pushed and shoved, but he needs to know that you’re okay.

and then a shrill scream fills the air, and his heart stops. it feels like your entire foot is about to fall off, the pressure from your fall crushing it under your weight.

he continues running as fast as he can, getting backstage before you can even blink. “baby? oh my god…”

you’re still crying from the pain, being set onto a stretcher for your leg. “it hurts…”

“i know baby… i know. you’ll be okay…”

they finally get you onto a comfortable bed, evaluating the damage to your ankle. luckily there’s no blood, the medics assume that it’s broken.

“seungmin… you’re on soon.”

“i’m not performing. jeongin’s filling in for me today.”

“what? but you practiced…”

“please… let me stay. i just want to help you feel better…”

you grab onto his hand, trying your best to reassure him that you’re okay. he doesn’t budge, so you just give up on it.

“you did amazing, angel.”

“thank you…”

“no, really. i mean it. you kept it incredibly professional out there. plus the song was way outside your comfort zone, it was just amazing to hear you sing like that.”

“seungmin…”

“i’m going to kill whoever fucking did that to you. normally they’re more careful with these things… i should’ve had them double check or something. i’m sorry”

“hey, it’s not your fault. please don’t worry… it’s just my ankle. i’ll be fine, really.”

“but you’re hurt. if we had done a test before to check… maybe you wouldn’t have to be here…”

you smile, grabbing onto his hand and bringing it up to your lips to plant a small kiss over his wrist. “it was just a malfunction. it was out of our control, min.”

he clutches onto your hand tighter, his heart fluttering when he looks at you again. the black lightning-like streaks paint your face, eyes still slightly glossed over and nose red.

you’re so worn down, but you still look beautiful as ever. he prefers you like this, natural and authentic. you still look just as beautiful, but the black streaks have his heart clenching.

suddenly, he gets up, picking you up and moving you to the side a little. he’s extra careful not to apply any pressure to your ankle. he knows you’re in enough pain already.

he sits down in the empty space next to you, pulling your head to his chest. “you promise you’re okay? no discomfort?”

“it hurts of course, but other than that, no.”

“i’m so sorry…”

“baby, it’s really not your fault.”

he rubs up and down your arms, more so to soothe himself rather than you, and you smile up at him. you place a small kiss on the corner of his lips, as far as you can reach without moving your legs.

“i’m okay…”

“i love you, gorgeous.”

“i love you too, minnie.”

the medics finally come back, telling you that it’s only a fracture. you’re lucky you don’t need a cast, but you still need to heal for a little while.

“thank god you’re okay…”

“seungmin—“

“you’re not going anywhere without me for the next couple days, okay? i’ll take care of you, i promise…”

“seungmin, you really don’t have to—“

he cuts you off again.

“but i want to.”

you giggle again, you didn’t think he’d react this way. but of course he was going to be overprotective, what did you expect?

you lean over to plant one more kiss onto his jaw, and he pulls you onto his lap. “seungmin, i think you’re more upset about this than me…”

“of course i’m upset! they hurt my baby…”

“it doesn’t even hurt that bad anymore… im fine. you don’t have to worry about me.”

he pulls you flush against his chest, nuzzling his face into your neck. you giggle at him, a little confused as to why he’s licking you, but you stop once you realize that it’s not saliva.

they’re tears.

“it could have been so much worse…”

you wipe the tears from his face, smiling once you see him clearly again. “why are you crying?”

he sighs lightly, giggling when he realizes how he’s acting. “nothing, i’m just… glad you’re okay.”

you smile at him, holding his hand again and trying to sit up. it doesn’t work of course, seungmins arms are wrapped tightly around your waist.

“let me go!”

you thrash around in his arms, but he only holds onto you tighter, giggling as he watches.

“seungmin!”, you whine.

“they said you needed rest!”

“that doesn’t mean you have to be completely attached to me!”

he rolls his eyes playfully, planting a kiss onto the top of your head. “actually, thats exactly what it means.”

“i hate you, kim seungmin.”, you grumble. you turn to look at him, scoffing once you see him wink.

“love you too, babe.”

#atinyniki #from: annonie <3 #skz #skz x reader #stray kids #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #stray kids fluff #stray kids angst #stray kids x reader #kim seungmin #seungmin #seungmin x reader #seungmin x y/n #seungmin x you #seungmin angst #seungmin fluff #kim seungmin angst #kim seungmin fluff

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writefightandflightclub · 29 days

Text

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

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

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

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here.

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

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

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

AND I have nothing against Philadelphia!

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

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

Many years earlier

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know. I know you do, sweetie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s been worse places, trust me.”

“Yeah. Your fucking pocket?”

“No shithead, I won it from Catfish.”

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

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

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

“I really need to meet that guy.”

“Sweetie, you’ve met him.”

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

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

“You just don’t remember him.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soldiers; not friends.

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

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

Friends; not lovers.

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

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

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

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

Fuck. Focus, pendejo. You need something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well… That isn’t a lie. Not exactly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boy. He’s glad to be proven wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

…realises he is having fun.

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

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

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

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

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

He’ll follow you anywhere.

***

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

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

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

“Sure, lady. Then what’s your name?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?!”

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

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

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

“Great. Thank you. I mean it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yay!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does though. Wants to be a little bolder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

“Thank you, Sir.”

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

“Santiago. And hey, congratulations.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Yessir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye. Here’s to that.”

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

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

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

“Can I give you some advice?”

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

“Marry her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Colin has this all wrong.

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

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

Isn’t that the same thing?

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

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

You.

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

There’s nothing here.

Nothing with you.

Nothing he could have with you. No way.

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

“No. ‘M good. Fine,” he says tightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You a’ways do, asshat.”

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

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

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

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

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

Even?

It could never get close to even.

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

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

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

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

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

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

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

It scares him.

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

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

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

“Hey. Hey,” he soothes. “What is it?”

”I’m not sad, idiot.”

”No?”

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

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

“Yeah,” you exhale. “Perfect.”

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

***

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

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

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

“Ew. I need a fucking shower.”

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

“I stink.”

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

“Mmm hmm. Okay then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m only a man, Princesa.”

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

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

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

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

“Feel like staying awake a little longer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well? Do you think he’d be down?”

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

You scoff. “What? For real?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A fucking condom?”

“Ay, dios. Just open it, would you?”

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

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

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

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

“But I can’t-“

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

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

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

“But won’t your mom-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Listen. Thank you.”

“It’s the least I could do.“

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

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

“Yeah. Exhausted.”

“Let’s lie down then, alright?”

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmm.”

“Do you…?”

“Do I what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you ask, anyway?”

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

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

“Pfft. I give ‘em a month.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s only what you’re due.”

“Oh?! A thorough ass-kissing?”

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

You snicker chaotically. “Huh. Maybe.”

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

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

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

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

“Jesus. You’re demanding, Princesa.”

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

“She gives me everything

And tenderly…”

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

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

“No. No, please.”

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

“The kiss my lover brings,

She brings to me-ee,

And I love her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bright are the stars that shine,

Dark is the sky.

I know this love of mine,

Will never die.”

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

“And I love her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The day he met you.

The day he almost lost you.

The day he realised he was in love with you.

And the day he started running from that.

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

The fourth will be tomorrow.

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

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

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

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

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fluentmoviequoter · 2 months

Text

Because of My Family

Requested Here!

Pairing: David "Deacon" Kay x fem!wife!Street!reader (Street's sister)

Summary: When you return to S.W.A.T. after having your fourth child, you are fatally injured. Your family gives you a reason to fight.

Warnings: angst to fluff, depiction of gunshot wound (r is shot), 20-David is the best group of men in the world

Word Count: 4.0k+ words

Picture from Pinterest

Masterlist Directory | Deacon Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

“Hey, sleepyhead, you’re not on vacation anymore. We gotta get up.”

You sigh and roll closer to Deacon as you argue, “Maternity leave is not vacation. And I’ll remind you that it’s your fault.”

Deacon chuckles as he pushes your hair out of your face and kisses your forehead. “Your brother will kill me if you don’t come in with me.”

“You can take Jim,” you murmur as you press your face against Deacon’s chest. “Do I really have to get up right now?”

“Five minutes,” Deacon answers. “Or I’m pulling you out of bed.”

“I’m sure that was supposed to be a threat, but it didn’t sound like one.”

The baby monitor beside your bed crackles before you hear your family’s newest addition whine. Deacon pats your hip and reminds you to get up as he goes to check on his youngest child. You stand, too, and answer your phone when it rings.

“Good morning,” you greet as you walk to the bathroom to get ready. “And before you ask, yes, I’m up.”

“Whoa, take it easy. I’m just excited to have you back at work,” your brother Street replies. “You plan on being this grumpy all day?”

You chuckle at Street and smile when you hear Deacon having a one-sided conversation.

“Are you nervous?” Street asks.

“No, I’m actually really excited. I’ve loved being home with the kids, but I miss it.”

“You mean you miss me.”

“You’ve been here every single day, Jim. I wish I could miss you, but you don’t let me.”

“You love me.”

“Luckily for you,” you tease.

“How’s Deac? Nervous for you?”

You glance toward the nursery and lower your voice to say, “If he is, he isn’t showing it.”

Street hums before he says, “I’ll see you at HQ. Love you.”

“I love you, too. See you in a bit.”

You get ready quickly, growing more excited to get back to work. You love your family, but S.W.A.T. has been part of your life for a long time, and you missed it during maternity leave. While you anticipate what your first day may be like, Deacon lets your sitter into the house. When it’s time to leave, Deacon takes your hand and walks you to the car, promising to be by your side at work just as he is at home.

✯✯✯✯✯

“There they are!” Hondo yells when you and Deacon walk into S.W.A.T. HQ.

“So glad to see you,” Luca says. He smiles, hugs you, and whispers, “You look amazing.”

“Thanks, Luca,” you respond. “Thank you, all of you, for everything over the past few months.”

“She’s mostly talking to me,” Street interjects.

“You didn’t do it alone, Street,” Deacon argues.

“Okay,” you call, raising your hands. “Thank you Deacon and Street for single-handedly getting me physically ready to come back to work.”

Street smiles as he says, “You’re welcome.”

“Not like I’m the one who had a baby and then beat my PFQ records or anything.”

“No way!” Luca exclaims. “New records?”

“Shaved five seconds off my run time and got another pull-up. That obstacle course seemed pretty easy after dealing with four kids, too,” you answer.

“Congratulations.”

Hondo is smiling but looking at you a bit too intently.

“What?” you ask.

“I’m just wondering if we should apologize in advance,” he explains. “We’re going to be more protective than ever.”

“More than these two?” you ask as you point at Deacon and Street.

“Well, there’s more of us now. We just need to make sure you go home to all those babies every night.”

“I appreciate it, Hondo. And, trust me, I remember last time, so I’m prepared for the helicoptering.”

“20-David!” Hicks yells. “50 squad needs backup at a barricade in Norwalk.”

“Let’s roll!” Hondo adds.

Hicks smiles when he sees you, and when Street and Deacon arrange themselves on either side of you, he shakes his head. Whatever level of protectiveness you expect is underestimating how much your team cares about you.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Rocker said they were called to a noise disturbance after the suspect barricaded himself in the house and opened fire on the responding patrol officers. Apparently he winged one of them, and they can’t track him in the house,” Hondo explains.

“What’s the plan?” Luca asks from Black Betty’s driver seat.

“50-David tried breaching, but the house has reinforced steel beams, and the pulls didn’t work. They suspect that he has more weaponry, so they don’t want to get too close.”

“What’s behind the house?” you ask.

“Uh, a tiny yard that backs up to an alley,” Street answers, looking at a satellite view of the area. "It has an Abingdon Street address, but there’s an alley between it and the house it backs to on Excelsior Drive.”

“Black Betty can’t pull from an alley, but we can hop a fence,” you suggest.

Hondo nods, flipping the map to find an approach route.

“Three side on the back… If we approach on foot from the other side of the alley, Grayland Avenue, he shouldn’t see us coming,” he says. “Let’s do it. Luca, you’re with me, we’ll join Rocker at Elaine and Abingdon. Street, you and Deacon lead the approach from the back.”

You nod when Hondo tells you to go with Deacon and Street. When Luca turns on to Grayland, you jump out of the back of Black Betty and move down the alley.

“Go inside,” you whisper to a child playing in an unfenced backyard.

Deacon raises a hand and signals for you to stop. Street stops directly to your left and waits for more information from Deacon.

“This is 30-David, I have visual of the house from the back alley. There’s a camera on the opposite corner from my location. Do we know if his surveillance works?” Deacon radios.

“One second, 30-David,” a tech back at HQ replies. “I’ll check.”

“This is a boring story,” Street whispers. “Your first call is a noise complaint gone wrong.”

“The automatic weapon adds a bit of suspense,” you reply with a smile.

“30-David, the camera is a fake. Clear to continue,” the tech alerts.

Deacon gestures for you to follow him in a single-file formation, and you end up in the middle. As you approach the fence, Deacon looks through the boards to see the back of the house and shakes his head.

“The windows are blacked out on this side, too. Except for one in the corner.”

“Then that’s the one we need,” Street replies.

Deacon jumps the fence and raises his weapon to cover the backyard while you and Street join him. He extends an arm toward you quickly when you land but moves it back when you nod.

“30-David, approaching the southeast window,” Deacon radios.

Before you take a step, the window slides open, and the barrel of an automatic rifle comes out.

“Go, go, go!” Deacon yells, shooting a nonlethal round into the window.

The suspect inside opens fire as the beanbag enters; the firing is unplanned and erratic. You duck toward the ground and follow Deacon toward the opposite side of the house to exfil.

“Deac, where are those shots coming from?” Hondo demands.

“Southeast window!” Deacon answers. “We’re moving to the west side.”

“Deac!” you call, watching as a matching window on the west side comes into view.

“Hondo, we’re stuck in a corner,” Street says. “Now would be a great time to say you have a plan!”

“We’re working on something, hold tight.”

“Kind of hard to do with someone shooting at us,” you mutter.

“Where’d he go?” Street asks.

“Both windows are closed now,” Deacon answers. “Maybe he saw the cops out front.”

You shake your head and point to a window further up. It’s blacked out but slightly ajar, so you suspect he’s still on this side of the house.

“Hondo,” Deacon radios. “Get a plan.”

“We’re trying, Deac,” Hondo answers.

“Try faster,” you add.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Luca, how would you feel about running Black Betty into the front of the house?” Hondo asks.

“What? Why?” Luca asks.

“They’re trapped at one of the back corners. Can’t get out without taking more fire,” Hondo says quietly, not wanting to concern the other police officers waiting nearby.

Deacon radios about getting a plan before Luca can answer. Hondo looks toward the house and doesn’t have time to reply to you before the suspect opens fire again.

The shots are concentrated at the back of the house, and Hondo rushes toward the front door and kicks it in while the shots are still ringing through the air. He takes careful turns as he moves toward the back corner. When the suspect comes into view, Hondo fires a beanbag round into his leg, knocking him to the ground.

“You’re under arrest,” Hondo says, kneeling beside the man as he handcuffs him.

“Deac, Street, someone give me an update!” Luca radios, moving toward the gate entrance at the side of the house.

“Suspect in custody,” Hondo alerts. “Deacon!”

✯✯✯✯✯

When the bullets begin ripping through the stucco on the exterior of the house, you, Deacon, and Street fall to the ground and cover your heads. Your adrenaline spikes as the shots continue. When they stop abruptly, you wait a moment before raising your head. The shots were close, so your ears ring as you move to your hands and knees.

“You okay?” Street asks though it’s muffled.

Luca asks something through the radio, but you can’t tell what he’s saying either. You drop your head and notice a growing puddle of blood underneath you. When you try to lift a hand to find the source, everything goes dark as you fall onto the concrete.

✯✯✯✯✯

Street yells your name when you tip forward, drawing Deacon’s attention.

“No, no, no,” Deacon repeats as he carefully turns you onto your back.

They see the blood pooling under you and have to fight not to panic. Deacon finds the hole in your vest and pulls his hand back up, swallowing as he sees your blood covering his hand. He moves out from under you to put pressure on the wound.

“Take her vest off and then go get the med bag from Betty,” Deacon tells Street.

Your brother freezes, and Deacon repeats himself. Street nods before he carefully removes your bulletproof vest, exhaling sharply at the sigh of the clean hole through the Kevlar. Deacon lifts you gently so Street can pull the vest from behind your back and checks for an exit wound, but as he suspected, there isn’t one.

“Med bag,” Deacon reminds Street.

As Street stands, Deacon realizes he can’t feel your heartbeat below his hands anymore. He moves one hand up to your neck, but as he leaves stains on your skin, he can’t find any sign of a heartbeat.

“Street!” he yells.

At Deacon’s pained yell, Street immediately turns back and rushes to your side.

“Keep pressure on this,” Deacon demands.

Street kneels over your thighs and presses both hands against your side as Deacon moves forward. It isn’t until Deacon begins chest compressions that Street realizes you’re gone.

“Tell… Hondo,” Deacon grunts between compressions.

“Hondo,” Street radios. “We need an R/A.”

“What happened, kid? We can’t get to the backyard from the front or through the house, so we’re coming around the back. You and Deac stopped respo- who’s hit?” Hondo interrupts himself when he realizes that he didn’t get a response because someone couldn’t respond.

Street says your name as he watches Deacon begin mouth to mouth.

“Hondo, get somebody to pass the med bag over the west fence,” Street adds.

Deacon hears Hondo yelling orders in the front yard, but his complete attention is on you. He tells Street to apply more pressure to stop the bleeding, and he begins another round of chest compressions. When he breathes into your mouth this time, you cough before gasping.

“Street!” Luca yells from the other side of the fence. “I’ve got the med bag.”

Deacon stands and pulls himself onto the top of the fence, taking it from Luca. When Luca sees the blood covering Deacon’s hands and smeared across his chest, he fears the worst.

“Pull this fence down if you have to, Luca. We have to get her out of here right now,” Deacon explains before jumping back down to help you. “Street, we’re packing the wound. She’s losing too much blood.”

“Deac,” you whimper.

“I got you, sweetheart. We’re not leaving you,” he promises.

Deacon nods at Street, and Street trades places with him. You stretch your hand out toward Street, and he takes your hand in his. When you notice that his hand is covered in your blood, you whisper a thank you for all they are doing to save you.

“I can’t breathe,” you pant.

Deacon looks up from your side and watches you take short, fast breaths. He asks Street to check your heart rate, and Street gives him an elevated number.

“Luca!” Deacon yells.

“Yeah, Deac?” Luca replies.

“Where’s the ambulance?”

“A minute out.”

Deacon licks his lips and turns back to packing your wound.

“Elevate her legs, Street. Twelve inches off the ground,” Deacon says. “Sweetheart, this is going to hurt. I’m sorry.”

You release a muffled scream as Deacon wraps a bandage around your torso and pulls it tightly to keep pressure on the wound. Sirens sound as the ambulance approaches, but there is no way to get you out of the backyard safely.

“Deac,” Hondo says, raising himself over the fence. He stops for a moment when he sees you, and Street and Deacon are covered in your blood, which doesn’t help his concern any. “We’re pulling the fence down right now.”

“Thanks, Hondo,” Deacon replies.

Deacon situates himself between you and the fence and keeps a hand pressed to your pulse point. When your elevated heart rate suddenly plummets, Deacon says your name. You don’t reply, and Deacon apologizes before he puts more pressure on the wound. The resulting adrenaline spike brings you back, and Deacon closes his eyes when you yell in pain. The fence comes down harshly and loudly, but you don’t react to any of it.

“Oh, no,” Luca mumbles when he sees you, Deacon, and Street.

“What’ve we got here?” the first EMT asks as he runs over the destroyed fence.

“GSW to the lower right abdomen and possible hemorrhagic shock.” Deacon lowers his voice to add, “Her heart stopped twice already and she’s still losing blood.”

“Know her blood type?”

Deacon nods and tells him your blood type. Two more EMTs join the first with a gurney, and Deacon has to pull Street away so they can move you onto it.

“Go with her,” Hondo says. “We’ll be by later.”

Deacon and Street climb into the ambulance and sit beside you. The EMTs work quickly, leaving Deacon’s makeshift tourniquet in place.

“Heart rate and BP are plummeting,” one of the EMTs alerts.

Deacon and Street can only watch, helpless, as the EMTs prepare the equipment to shock your heart back into a normal rhythm.

“Is she going to make it?” Street whispers.

“I- she’s a fighter, but I really don’t know, Street,” Deacon answers honestly.

✯✯✯✯✯

Hondo and Luca are waiting impatiently at S.W.A.T. HQ when Deacon finally calls.

“Deac, tell me you have good news,” Hondo answers.

“She- she’s in emergency surgery and they had some trouble finding all of the bullet fragments. Doc said she should be out in about twenty minutes, though, and her heart rate has been stable,” Deacon replies.

“Has been stable?” Luca repeats. “Was it not before?”

“Her heart stopped once in the backyard, and nearly stopped twice more while I was with her. Apparently there were a few more close calls when they first started the surgery.”

“Do they know if she’ll recover?” Hondo asks.

“They don’t know anything for sure. Just, uh, if you want to come down now, you can.”

“We’ll be there, Deac,” Luca replies. “Need anything?”

“No. Thanks, though, for everything.”

✯✯✯✯✯

As Deacon ends the call with Hondo, he gets another call from Hicks.

“Commander,” Deacon greets, hoping he won’t have to leave you.

“Deacon, I just wanted to tell you that I’ve taken 20-David off call, so you’re all free to stay with her unless there’s some kind of emergency,” Hicks says.

“I appreciate that, sir.”

“Just make sure she’s alright, Deac.”

A few minutes later, Hondo and Luca rush into the waiting room. Street and Deacon have changed out of the blood-soaked clothes from earlier and removed your blood from their skin, but they can still feel it.

“Deac,” Hondo sighs as he pulls him into a quick hug. “I’m so sorry.”

“Tell me what you need,” Luca offers.

“I already called our sitter, and she’s going to stay the night,” Deacon replies. “I don’t know what else I need to do.”

“You need to be here for her,” Hondo answers.

Luca moves to Street’s side to check on him as Deacon and Hondo sit down. Deacon recounts what happened, how one of the windows was open before the shots came through the wall.

Nearly an hour later, the doctor finally returns and says your name. Every waiting member of 20-David stands, eager to hear how you are.

“How is she?” Deacon asks.

“She is stable and in a room. She owes her life to your team, gentlemen. The first aid you performed and the speed with which you got her here is the only reason she’s still alive,” the doctor answers. “I can only let family come back at the moment, but I’ll ensure she knows you’re all here for her.”

Deacon and Street follow him into your room, and they’re both surprised to see you are conscious. You smile at them when they enter, and they rush to either side of your bed to hug you.

“The bullet damaged an artery in her torso, which we’ve repaired, and there was no other internal damage,” the doctor adds. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Where are the kids?” you ask Deacon. “The sitter-“

“Is staying the night. I called a while ago and told her what happened, and she was happy to stay with them,” Deacon assures you.

“And I can go stay with them after, for as long as you need,” Street offers.

You can tell that they’re upset, but you are too. Lying in your own blood like that and not knowing if you’d get to see your babies again was terrifying, yet there are only two things you want to do: hug your kids and go back to work.

“How long do you think I’ll be benched?” you ask.

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Street responds as he rolls his eyes. “I’m considering quitting and you’re ready to go back?”

“Are you really?”

“I don’t know,” he admits while taking your offered hand. “That was terrifying, and I don’t want to think about losing anyone else.”

“Jim, you saved my life. And I will never leave you, okay?”

Street nods, and you squeeze his hand to remind him that you’re still beside him.

“Can I get some comfort now? Because I was covered in your blood earlier and just want a hug,” Deacon interjects.

You turn toward him and raise your other arm. Deacon hugs you, mindful of your side, and sighs against your neck.

“I love you,” Deacon whispers.

“I love you,” you reply. “And thanks for saving my life.”

“I didn’t-“

“I remember more than you think,” you argue with a smile. “Hey, is everyone here?”

“We’re family and you want Hondo and Luca?” Street asks obnoxiously.

You nod, and Street sighs as he pulls his hand away to get them for you.

“I need to hug our kids as soon as possible,” you tell Deacon.

Deacon smiles as he moves closer to you. “Soon,” he promises.

“Now that just ain’t fair,” Hondo says as he walks inside. “You still look like that after everything you’ve been through?”

“Don’t flirt with my wife, Hondo,” Deacon replies jokingly.

“I don’t know, I kind of like the attention,” you add. “Maybe we should do this more often.”

“Don’t ever say that again,” Luca demands as he lays a kind hand on your shoulder. “Glad you’re feeling good enough to make fun of us and our worry though.”

“Speaking of worry,” Hondo begins. “Street tells us you want to come back to work?”

You nod, and Hondo continues, “Then we will be with you through it all. Recovery, training, we got your back.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “Seriously. I know I’ve been joking, mostly to distract myself, but I wouldn’t even be here without all of you, and I can’t thank you enough for that. My- our kids wouldn’t have me anymore, and there’s nothing I can say to make you understand what all of you mean to me and how much I appreciate what you did for me today – and do for me every day.”

“Did your family grow while I was away?” the doctor asks as he returns.

“No, it’s always been this big,” you reply. “Ask them, they love me.”

The guys nod, and the doctor shakes his head before telling you and your visitors you should be healthy again in just a few weeks. Then he says that visiting hours are over and politely asks everyone to leave.

“I’m her husband,” Deacon offers.

“Oh, my apologies. You’re free to stay for the night,” the doctor replies.

“I’m her brother,” Street adds.

“Would you like me to gather cots for everyone, ma’am?”

“We’re heading out,” Hondo says with a chuckle. “We’ll be back by in the morning. Have a good night and call if you need anything.”

“Seriously,” Luca adds. “I live closer than Hondo, so call me first, though.”

Hondo and Luca argue as they leave, and you smile. The doctor talks for a while, but you focus on Deacon’s hand in yours. He cleaned his ring at some point because it is no longer covered in your blood. Your wedding ring is at home, but the silicone ring you wear at work was taken off when you got to the hospital. As you slide Deacon’s wedding ring off, he glances at you but continues listening to the doctor. With Deacon’s ring on your finger, you feel more complete, even if you are in pain and miss your kids.

“I’m going to go find some food,” Street says after the doctor leaves. “You want anything?”

You smile, and Street sighs as he agrees to find your favorite food.

“You’re the best brother ever!” you call after him. “I love you!”

“Luckily for you I love you too,” he replies with a wide smile.

When it’s only you and Deacon, you slide over and pat the bed, asking him to join you. He smiles at the sight of his ring on your finger as he sits, letting you lean against his side.

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” you whisper. “But I’m glad you were with me.”

“I am too,” Deacon replies. “But when you’re released, we’re going home and sitting with all of the kids for as long as possible.”

“That sounds perfect. I love you, Deacon, and you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

“I love you,” Deacon replies, kissing your cheek.

Street returns faster than expected, and when he pushes the door open and says, “I can’t believe I said your first day back was going to be boring,” you can’t help but laugh, even though it hurts your side.

You are alive because of your family, both your real family and your work family, though those lines blur more each day. There is nothing you wouldn’t do for all of them, and you know the opposite is true; they will be with you through everything, just as they promised. While you sit between your husband and brother, you know that you owe more than your heartbeat to your family.

#hanna writes✯#david deacon kay x reader #deacon kay x reader #david kay x reader #david deacon kay #deacon kay #swat cbs #requests #fem!reader #tw: injury

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carrrrino · 6 months

Note

HELLO I am very excited for this project! I wanted to express a concern though…it’s rather hard to find the any info on the project aside from what’s on the blog (which isn’t…very much information wise) I’m not sure if that’s an intentional decision…

I know when I first found the info I….kind of didn’t believe this?? That sounds odd. I suppose what I mean is, it didn’t seem the most legit. I did digging through the blog, read all the links, searched for a Twitter and YouTube accounts and had a hard time doing that as well…Simply because there is very little information on it. Which there’s nothing wrong with…I was wanting to suggest (as an outsider) that you and your team put more announcements/ marketing into this…?

I REALLY hope to see this project grow, it’s absolutely deserved, and very few people seem to know about it. I’d hate that to be something people miss out on. I don’t really expect an answer on this but I thought I should share the concern as an outside perspective. 💛

I really hope this project is going well for you and that it gets the deserved recognition as it’s coming out!!! So excited!!!

I'm so happy that people share the same excitement and concern for the series. Also, the fact that you guys think it's worthy of success Is truly inspiring! I think it's time I SAY something though about my current situation.

TL;DR - Our team basically went inactive after the summer; everyone returned to their lives and I'm the only one who can keep up with the project unconditionally. I didn't mean to dishearten you guys! It's a pain in the ass to work alone - excluding voice actors and SFX producers. The OUTBREAK blog will change entirely, it will be used for info and marketing. This blog will just be general art created by me (&no-namestuff). I will continue to work on the series independently, but I'll definitely give out more info as requested and make things more legit whenever I can!

Over the summer, a group of us began working on the project together, but as most of my friends returned to school and their regular lives, it became almost impossible to keep going. Currently, only a few are available to help, but they're too busy.

I didn't want to worry anyone by saying that it's basically just me working on the project; it's tough to balance animating, scripting, marketing, planning, publishing, AND funding by myself. Over time it (advertising and insightful communication) just became indifferent to me, I even considered going silent for a while until I had a mother-load of progress, but that's really not fair.

The project was a bit of a mess when we started. We didn't plan on making it a big deal, my animations were half-assed and incomprehensible; I barely knew how to work Adobe and could barely even pay it off, the sound was going to be recorded via iPhone, the script wasn't even halfway done, and voice actors weren't thought of until the Prologue. After more than six months of work, Verse 1-4 (or 6?) was deleted because of issues with the file.. this really drew the line for everyone.

So here I am, despite everything; I revised the script, which is barely halfway done, redesigned the characters, read more into the multiversal conundrums of AUs and UNDERTALE, built a portfolio, studied poses for the action scenes — and there’s still a lot that I have to learn. I'm working on Q&As, asks, and the teaser / test / project animations. I don't want people to be confused or hesitant, so I appreciate you a lot for reminding me of this. As requested, I will provide additional details about the project too :) !

No-Name's theme is in progress (thanks to Synth Mints), I've invested heavily in software for good quality animations, talented voice actors from this fandom (some you might even know) have agreed to voice for me - I'm extremely grateful for their help. Even if it takes years to release an episode or pilot, I'm still excited about the outcome. Who knows, I might even have a genuine team by then! :D

aw geez sorry for the whole bit-life story, I'm just trying to shed some light on the situation for you all. I do care, I want everyone to know that, it's just hard work.

Until the next teaser animation, please have these lil' pieces of teasers / lore as an apology!

SD by @/galacii ERROR by @/loverofpiggies / CrayonQueen

LASTLY today is my birthday yayyy 🥳🎂

#wish me luck #next anim is way longer than 5 seconds #I hope this sums things up #outbreak #shattered dream sans #no name sans

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abybweisse · 3 months

Text

Ch209 (p4), The queen of tragedy

⚠️ Long post ⚠️

You might be wondering where that heading comes from. I'll get to that in a bit....

So, we are back to recent events, where Finny and Doll fight over Snake, each one claiming the other is the enemy. Both parties are involved in deception; he wonders why they helped him but lied the entire time. Out of the circus troupe, he seems to have been closest to Doll, and she never told him the truth about the circus. He also becomes particularly close to Finny, who immediately likes his snakes, but Finny doesn't inform him about the true fates of his circus friends. Then there're our earl and Sebastian, who lead him to believe the circus members are still alive and just on the lamb.

Why would the people closest to him all lie to him?

Then we get a couple scenes before his and Finny's assignment begins.

But this flashback switches from what Snake is recalling... to what a reaper is reviewing. Born March 15 -- the Ides of March -- to an actress named Sarah Kemble. More on her at the end. Death on December 9, 1889, from blood loss.

The expression on this (new to us!) reaper's face makes me wonder what he's thinking. He says "no additional remarks", but I believe he's thinking some additional thoughts.

He must realize there's something odd about Doll, who is holding Snake's body and grieving over him. Doesn't he realize she's a bizarre doll? Has he not taken note of the blood transfusion equipment in the room down the hall? What about all the veins popping up all over her body? Hasn't he been informed about the search for Undertaker and his moving corpses?

Does he not yet have info from Othello regarding Layla/Al? We have to keep in mind that this is all probably happening around the same time that Ronald and William are taking Layla/Al into custody, so this reaper might not be fully informed and so might not know what all signs to look for.

Besides, Ronald is sent to Norfolk ahead of the impending deaths, because there was word a bizarre doll is stationed there. He just has to figure out which person it is. Ronald can't tell who the bizarre doll is just by looking, so he has to wait and see who starts acting like one.

This reaper apparently isn't sent to investigate FOL Orphanage, suggesting HQ didn't have similar intelligence regarding a bizarre doll there. If he's not looking for one, he might not bother to take much notice of Doll's appearance or the medical equipment.

Everything is happening at about the same time:

Mey-Rin and Ran-Mao are heading to their next meeting spot while Polaris makes his report to real Ciel and Undertaker. Heathfield is arrested, and the legal investigation there is still underway.

Ronald and William are dealing with Layla/Al, with the intention of taking her back to HQ for examination. Baldo, Lau, and the others are still planning their getaway; they have not yet escaped the sanatorium.

Othello is probably at HQ, working out the finer details of the transfusion machine he has just recently confiscated from the underground facility at Bath. Beyond that, the dove he sent back to HQ might be the only call for help he's requested to deal with Undertaker.

And this reaper is (as far as I can tell) just responding to the assigned task of collecting souls from Snake, Susan, and the head matron. He really might not be in the loop about Undertaker and his moving corpses... just yet.

This gives an easy setup for him to go about business as usual and leave Doll to her grieving. If he doesn't confront her and just leaves, she can ask Undertaker to turn Snake into a bizarre doll -- even if it's just to be her companion. Undertaker would see old goals of revenge in Snake's cinematic records and could potentially turn him against the Phantomhives, through creation of his "episodes" by cherry-picking the memories and goals that would compel him to seek that revenge again. If that happens, we could get Snake confronting our earl and Sebastian... where Sebastian fulfills the implied threat he makes (to Baldo, about any servant who turns against their master) in ch51.

So, there's that.

Then we have a couple other things to discuss: the current date and Snake's mother.

It's December 9, 1889. This works great with my Mother3 theory, which states the contract should end before our earl is officially 14 years old. December 13, 1889 is the eve of that birthday, and it's also a Friday the 13th. This is highly symbolic because of when his father is born and when his paternal grandmother dies. I'm sure there are absolutely zero coincidences in this.

We will go back a few days (again) for the start of our earl's and Sebastian's assignment in Brighton, then we will catch up to December 9th with them. During this time and soon after, they will receive word about the other three assignments, as word trickles in. Or perhaps they are bombarded with all the reports in quick succession. Then we've got another four days for them to finish not just their own assignment but also their contract. Perhaps their assignment finishes around the same time as the others. If so, they have three or four more days to address whatever they have learned.

Now onto Snake's mother. She's based on a real person, or a combination of a few people in a notable family. My own initial research pulled up a Fanny Kemble, who was a British actress who lived in this time period but was too old to be Snake's mother. She bore a daughter named Sarah (Kemble) Butler, but Sarah wasn't an actress. Fanny was well known as a former actress and an abolitionist -- who separated from her husband (Butler), partly over disagreement about slavery -- and returned to the stage, where she renewed her focus on the works of William Shakespeare... performing public readings of his plays.

Discussing the chapter in Discord, I got word -- from @mjmj2994 -- about a Sarah (Kemble) Siddons who was an actress, though she was from the mid-18th to early 19th century. Her mother was also a Sarah Kemble. Turns out that Sarah Siddons (née and a.k.a. Sarah Kemble) was an aunt to the Fanny Kemble I'd found! Small world, eh? Anyway, Sarah Kemble/Siddons (wiki article here) became known as the "queen of tragedy" for her portrayal of Lady Macbeth and other Shakespearean tragic characters -- including numerous cross-dress performances as Hamlet himself. Even though Yana-san would have to change the timeline to fit our Sarah Kemble, this is most likely the historical reference for her. Here's more information about the Kemble family line and their extensive involvement with the acting industry.

Our Snake comes from an esteemed family of actors, and I suppose we are to assume he's an issue who was so quickly covered up and forgotten that he was perhaps never even named. Who was his true father? And how did he come to have such strong snake-like traits? We might never know.

Now we wait to see if this reaper does anything about Doll. And then onto our earl and Sebastian in Brighton!

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int-writersmind · 5 months

Text

Hanging On The Telephone

Pairing: Peter Parker x Gn!Reader

Sequel to Potential Customer (but could be read as a stand-alone)

Summary: After lending Peter your favorite vinyl, you wonder when you'll see him again...to get your record back of course! No other reason...

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 2.8k

Author's Note: I imagine the album that Reader gives to Peter as Parallel Lines by Blondie but it's neutral enough to be whatever you want it be. The opening track is Hanging on the Telephone so use that info to your discretion.

Also I'm buzzed on two glasses of rosé editing this so bare with me lol.

It had been a week since that day at So-So Records, a few days since you met Peter Parker, a few days since you lent him that album. You try to not be glued to your phone, anxiously waiting for a response like a desperate thirteen-year-old, but still you wonder when he’ll reply.

It was early one morning when the text finally came. You, in your apartment’s kitchen, sipping on your favorite hot beverage startling when your phone chimes.

I think I’ve found my new favorite album, read the text, This is Peter by the way. Peter Parker?

You respond: I had a feeling, You know, I don’t lend my albums out to just anyone.

Then I must be special.

You smile to yourself, covering your face when you realize what you are doing.

“Are you smiling at your phone?” Your roommate says, coming out from her bedroom. “Funny video, or that guy from the store?”

“Uh, the latter, he finally got back to me.”

“Ooh, so what’s next?” Your roommate goes to pour a glass of juice from the refrigerator, you turn in your chair to face her.

“I guess I'll get my record back.”

“Boo! That’s so boring! Make it interesting, call him and set up a meeting or something.”

You roll your eyes, “Calling? What am I? Fifty?”

“I think there’s something classic about calling, much more personal than texting.” Your roommate plucks your phone from your hand. You reach for it but your roommate pushes you back with great ease. “It’s easy, I’ll do it for you.”

“No! Don’t you dare!”

Ring ring!

“Hello?” You hear Peter’s voice faintly from your phone’s speaker. Your eyes go wide in fear, your roommate tosses your phone back to you, and you almost drop it like it was a game of hot potato and the spud was literally burning your skin. You suck in a deep breath before–

“Hey-Hi Peter…ugh so sorry I must have ah–misclick–”

You hang up instantly, much to the shock of your roommate. “What-Why the hell did you do that?!?”

“I don't know! I got nervous!” You start to pace back and forth. “Shit, I-I got to call him back.”

“Yeah, duh.” You throw a pillow from the couch at her on your way back to your room.

With the click of the door, you let yourself lean and slowly slid down onto the floor. Phone in hand you stare at the call screen, fingers hesitating on Peter’s number. You take a deep breath before finally pressing Call.

“Hello…”

“Hey, everything ok?” Even through the phone, Peter’s kindness shines through, like you can almost hear his smile through the phone. You kinda feel like a dick for panicking and hanging up on him earlier.

“Yeah, yeah, I was just…being stupid.” You shake your head and cover your eyes with one of your eyes.

“No, don’t say that.”

“It’s fine,” You go to change the subject, “So, the album, any standouts.”

“Well, I would definitely say that opening track has to be my favorite. Every time it ended I just wanted to restart it. A definite addition to my playlist.”

“Hmmm, that’s something I would like to listen to.”

“I’ll show you sometime,” You try and fail to suppress a smile, “Though it’s pretty much one giant mashup of styles and genres.”

“The playlist of a madman.” You joke.

As you listen in, you can hear wind passing by on Peter’s end. “More like the playlist of someone horribly unorganized.”

“Ha, wish I could relate, but I’m much too anal to let that happen.” You move your hand away from your face, letting your head fall against the door. “I know this is gonna sound crazy but what are you doing…I mean because, I like, hear the wind passing by and...”

“Uh, er, I’m running…yeah a nice little run.”

“Oh let me leave you to your run.” You say, “We can always talk again later.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Police sirens go on by on the other end, “Ah, I think I should hang up now, don't want to run into something crazy.”

“I get it, text me some time?”

“Will do.”

“Oh and Peter,” You say. “We should set up and time and place so you can give me back my record.”

“Just when I get use to playing it all the time,” Peter responds sarcastically, “I’m kidding, I’ll let you know when I can.”

At work, you couldn't help but sneak glances at your phone, one part hoping another text would come through, another part hoping that it wouldn’t.

On your lunch break you had an extra few minutes left before clocking back in, you decide to visit your store’s listening room. Well it was more like the back of the store where there was a wall cut-out, curtain, and small table with a record player and a two pairs of headphones. You pick up a small selection of 7 inch singles, trying to figure out what kind of mood you were in. you pull the curtain close to give a smidgen of privacy, picking up one of the headphones your co-worker swore he cleaned.

Halfway through one 7 inch, when you decided that you were in a different mood, you feel the curtain move, you look up to see–

“Hope you don’t mind,” Peter, in the flesh, fully cements himself inside the admittedly tight space. “Your co-worker said I would find you here.”

“And found me you have,” You switch the 7 inch to something else, a song that Peter might know. “Have some time to spare?”

“For you, of course.”

You look away, trying to hide your blush under the guise that you were reaching for the other pair of headphones. Peter graciously accepts, placing them atop of his head, as you set the record player to start.

As the track starts, you sideways glance at Peter and he does the same to you. You laugh it off as the opening notes begin to go through your ears.

It takes Peter a beat before he notices what song is playing–the opening song from the album you lent him. You sheepishly smile at his recognition before slowly moving to the music, a basic shimmy, then a head bob, then as the song reaches the first chorus, mouthing the words. Peter just smiles at you, and gives a modest head bob to the song the whole way through.

As the song fades out, ending you and Peter’s private little listening party, you both take off your headphones and just stare at one another for a moment. “You know…I would love to keep playing music but…”

“Oh yeah… I was just in the area and I just–decided to pop in.”

“Without my record?” You say sarcastically.

Peter shuts his eyes in embarrassment. “Oh yeah…it’s just..um…god I honestly just forgot it–”

You place a hand on Peter’s arm to stop him from going on, before quickly removing it. “Don’t worry about it…” You pull the curtain just slightly back, glancing at your co-worker who was glancing at his watch repeatedly. “You can always just…return it to me at…my place...Oh my god, that was so forward–”

“No! I mean yes? Uh…yeah I can definitely return your record to your place.” Peter stumbles out, “I mean I already know where you live.” Peter’s eyes go wide in shock, his face turning red.

You just chuckle to defuse the situation, at least you weren't the only one who felt so awkward in this situation. Your skin felt warm, your heart was beating so fast it felt like it would drill straight through your ribs.

Is this what it felt like to have a crush? Oh my god, did you actually just say crush? But, you didn’t know what else to call this feeling you had towards Peter. Hell, you barely knew the dude, only sharing a few things with one another, but at the end of each encounter, you were just itching for more. It was kind of embarrassing but honestly, who cares.

“How about you come over to my place around 8:30-ish? My roommate’s working the nightshift.”

“I can make that work.”

“Cool” You say. “Plus, I promise to tell you exciting little factoids about the album and others if you let me.”

“Oh please do so,” Peter leans in close, quite close actually, “It would make little nerd me so excited.”

For just a split second you think about leaning in, closing the gap between the two of you with your lips– Now that was too far, crazy talk.

You settle for a quick glance at his lips before looking at his eyes, clearing your throat before turning to leave the listening area.

You lead Peter to the front of the store, hands wringing in front of you, as you turn and face Peter.

“I’ll text you my apartment number, 8:30?”

“8:30-ish” Peter responds with a finger snap. You do the same with a nod of your head, as you watch Peter leave.

Why did you agree to meet at your place?

You think about what you proposed at the record store, standing alone in the middle of the living room in your apartment. You didn’t know whether or not to dress up so you settled for what you wore at work today with a long cardigan to cozy it up.

You pace back and forth, chewing on your fingernails on one hand, admittedly, overstressing about tonight. Was this like a casual drinks thing? A nice meal paired with casual drinks? Or was it really just a simple handoff and ‘Thanks for lending me the record, I never want to see you again, buh-bye!”

You stop short, pushing all those thoughts and then-some out. You decide to go simple and order a New York delicacy–pizza. If this was something then it would be fun, casual. If it was a simple handoff then, well, more pizza for you. A win-win honestly. But as you place the order, deep down you knew, you just knew that this wasn’t gonna be a simple handout.

Knock-Knock

Man that pizza delivery guy definitely deserves a great tip for speed, efficiency–

“I assume this is for you?” As you open the door there’s Peter, pizza in one hand, record in the other. “Or I just paid and stole someone' else's dinner.”

“Our pizza if you’ll indulge me?” You take the pizza from Peter, and with your other hand you gesture for him to come inside. “Oh, how much do I own you? Since the pizza was my idea and all.”

“Don’t worry about it,” As you close the door behind you, Peter does a quick 360 of your cozy shared space. “This is–”

“Small?”

“Nice. I was gonna say nice,” You walk the pizza over to the wall that served as the kitchen, getting your finest paper plates. “It would be more strange if you lived in some Friends level apartment.”

You notice Peter walking to another section of your living room, where your music set-up was, a fine turntable and modestly priced speakers. Which all sat upon a piece from IKEA that held you and your roommates record collection.

“You ok with soda?” You call out.

“If that’s what you're drinking,” Peter glances at you, “Then that’s what I’ll be drinking.”

You nod as you prepare a pair of pizza on separate plates and pour your favorite soda into slightly dusty glasses.

As you make your way to the main area of the living room, you set everything on the coffee table before standing next to Peter. “And to think I thought you weren’t a serious record collector.”

Your lips form a straight line, nodding your head, “If I let the wrong people know I secretly love collecting vinyls, they’ll never leave me alone.” You joke.

“Your secret is safe with me.”

Peter hands you the borrowed record, which you take from him. You squat down, looking for the right place to put it, Peter follows you downward.

“While we're here…maybe I can show you something else?”

“Hmm, some music that will change my life?”

You roll your eyes, “No, just my personal faves.”

Your fingers skim over a few titles, before you select one, some indie, folky singer you actually saw in person. “But only if you wow me with some factoids, as promised.”

“Of course, I never break a promise”

A third record plays as Peter and you are lost in conversation, the scraps of pizza lying on the coffee table. The two of you are close to one another on the couch. You with your head resting on one hand, elbow resting on the back of the couch, Peter holding his glass in front of him.

“...And once I had the record in hand it made the long lines and freezing temperatures worth it.” You turn and hide your face in your hand. “God, I just realized how crazy that sounded.”

“No,no, that was a great story,” Peter lightly places a hand on your leg. “I can tell you're very passionate about this and I bet,” Peter scoots in close, “You really love working at So-So.”

You glance away before facing Peter’s smirking face again. That smirk that makes your stomach tie up in knots. “I mean why else would I work long hours for shit pay. But meeting certain customers also makes it worthwhile.”

“Like clueless customers who come in for some obscure album from the 70s that he doesn’t even bother to buy?”

“Yeah, even customers like that,” You remove your other hand from your head to rest on Peter’s, trying to ignore the burning sensation inside of you telling you to stop. “I know this is stupid but…I’m glad you walked into So-So.”

“Can I say something stupider?” Peter makes a face that makes you laugh. “What I meant to say,” Peter takes your hand, “I’m also glad I walked into So-So.”

The two of you just stare at one another, and it’s like you can almost feel a magnetic pull towards him. Like when the two of you were leaning on that wall at So-So, or when he walked you home and his fingers brushed your thigh, or in the listening room when you just wanted to seal the deal. You had so many thoughts racing through your mind it was hard to focus on the moment.

Peter leans in closer, bringing you right back into the now, You close your eyes as his lips ghost over yours, his breath falling over your lips–the record stops, end of the side.

“Leave it.” Peter whispers before pressing his lips to yours.

The kiss was messy, a little hungry, as if each other's lips were the only way to satiate each other’s appetite. Peter places his cup on the coffee table as he brings one of his hands to cup your face.

His lips, god his lips, were coated in the artificially sweet taste of the soda, making him even more irresistible. You couldn’t help but let your hands wander up his chest, your fingers playing with the top button of his shirt, the closest to his neck, wandering fingers pushing themselves inside, feeling warm skin.

Great minds think alike as one of Peter’s hands goes to your waist, his long, slender fingers, going up your shirt, pressing lightly on the skin. You can’t help but sigh at his touch, as his hand slowly travels upward. You swing one leg over both of his, so that you’re basically straddling him, letting your hands go to his neck, as both of his hands fall to your waist.

Ending the moment too soon, Peter pulls away from you, letting his forehead rest against yours, but casting his gaze downwards as to not look at you. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Now why would you say that?” With one of your hands, you use your thumb and pointer finger to gently push Peter’s face upwards by his chin, causing him to look you right in your eyes. “I wanted you to kiss me. Hell, I've wanted to kiss you since you walked me home.”

“It’s…it’s not that I regret kissing you, I’ll never regret that…it’s just…” Peter sighs, “I don’t know what this, the two of us, can be after tonight. I don’t know if I’m in a position right now for something…something more serious.”

You chuckle a little, “Bold of you to assume I wanted to ask you to be my boyfriend right now.” You say with a smile, you let your finger flick down his bottom lip. “I can do causal, Peter Parker.” You lean in close, your thumb blocking your lips from his, your voice lowering, “Can you?”

Peter sighs into your mouth, a smirk forming on his lips, “I can, but can I ask you one thing?” You nod your head, “Can I borrow some more of your records? I think your taste is starting to rub off on me.”

“Only if you promise to return them to me.”

“If this is what a return looks like…then count me in.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Read Part 3-> Fragile (warning includes smut!)

Thanks for reading! Ah, I can't believe I finally did the sequel to Potential Customer, I already have the last two parts written (since I wrote them in tandem with the og) so expect those soon, but this one was strangely difficult to write. Anyway...anyone want some smut w/ this pairing? That's coming soon, since my fever dream venom peter smut post got so many notes so quickly, lol. Anyway bye void!

masterlist

#peter parker x reader #peter parker #insomniac spider man #insomniac peter parker x reader #spiderman #spiderman x reader #spiderman x y/n #peter parker x y/n #ps4!Peter Parker x reader #spider man 2 ps5 #ps5!peter parker x reader #spiderman remastered #peter parker fluff #insomniac!Peter Parker #insomniac!peter parker x reader #Spotify

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