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#shades of red
qlqniel · 7 months
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A respite from the scorching sun
Altafulla, September 2022
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ghostsvacuumcleaner · 9 months
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Shades of Red - Chapter II | 4k
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chapter one | chapter two | chapter three ao3 | masterlist ✦ Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x civilian f! reader ✦ Summary: The sole survivor of a terrorist attack that killed over a hundred. The soldier responsible for saving her. He wants to help you, but his own trauma make him withdraw when he wants to get closer and intoxicate when he wants to remedy. He kisses your scars and hopes you’ll runaway. He wants you to run away. But you won’t. ✦ TW: NSFW, explicit, f!reader, little to none f! physical appearence descriptions, canon typical violence, mentions of abuse and trauma/PTSD, bit of gore, mental illness mentions, slowburn;
✦ Chapter TW: slightly obsessive behavior hehe.., just a hint yet; mentions of trauma and violence
A/N: Dropping chapter two because I'm excited to start the real deal of this story! Also, chapter three might take a little while to come out cause I'm working on a request I received; hope y'all enjoy! If anyone's interested in getting into a tagslist just lemme know!
Chapter 02 - Survivor
The hospital room you were in was pleasantly cozy. A large bed in the center, a considerably large television right in front of it and the big window to the left, whose blinds were closed for the time being. There were a few empty chairs next to the bed - you were sure that at some point in the last hours, someone was sitting there, as there was a small vase of flowers resting on one of the chairs. Although you could not see the world out there, you knew it was raining by the sound of the raindrops hitting the window; the sound echoed through your ears in an almost hypnotic intonation as you dissociated.
Your daydreaming was abruptly cut off when someone opened the door to your room. A lady, a nurse, whose name tag said Doris. You shook your head and quickly looked in her direction, your eyes no longer as confusing as before, but equally expressive.
“You’re awake, finally.” She pointed, as she approached her bed with some caution. “You’ve been sleeping for at least fifteen hours since you came here. I was starting to worry,” she said, sounding somewhat caring.
You raised your eyebrows briefly.
“Fifteen hours? Fuck my life…” You whispered, and her face turned into a little grimace in response.
“Language, lady.” she joked, as her hands caringly wrapped your nearest arm and began to remove the tapes that covered your venous access. “How are you feeling?” She asked in a murmur. “I don’t expect you to say ‘well,’ for God’s sake.” she pleaded.
“Well, I’m not feeling any pain at least.” you said. For the first time in those twenty-four hours in which you were silent, your mouth bitter in the metallic taste of blood and the horrible feeling of a cake in your throat, you began to speak. There was still a lot you wish you could say, but felt like you might never get to do it. You could never take the weight you felt on your back, the unsaid words, the pain that grew restless in your mind.
“That 's good. Means the medication is working; you hurt yourself pretty bad let me say,” she commented, still trying to sound as caring as possible. The care that emanated from her made you feel a little better, you had to admit. “but you will be fine. Can you move your leg?” She finally asked, finishing by skillfully exchanging your access without causing further pain.
You looked into your legs, and felt that bitter taste invading your mouth again. Fuck. You didn’t stop to think about it: that wound on your leg, previously partially buried by concrete, was well, very extensive. 
After breathing deeply, you concentrated your energies into the hurt leg. Your face shrugged in a strenuous expression, you were giving your best; your leg began to tremble and the rest of your body too, by the effort. It was as if that concrete block was still there, preventing its movement, causing you to suffer in stuckness.
“It’s okay, you can stop now.” she said, but you were negative and shaken your head with all the strength you could, small tears forming on your red face as you tried to move.
“No. I can do it.” you grumbled between your teeths and closed your eyes.
“Dear, no-” she tried to say, but nothing seemed to be able to change your mind right now.
A little move was all you got, and then the relief. Your breath accelerated, exasperated and relieved by victory, but still concerned by the fact that all you could achieve was almost equivalent to a spasm. Doris sighed.
“Why can’t I move straight?” You asked, your eyes ran into hers with some despair and impatience. "Will I lose my leg’s movements? Will I need to amputate?” You asked anxiously.
“God, girl. No!” She assured you, striking with her head and placing a new tape on your arm. Doris then walked to the end of your bed. “No one will amputate anything. Just see, well,” she started, and pulled the blankets that covered you from the waist down. 
Your expression relaxed, perplexed as you looked at the scarring on your leg. Almost like a crack, in your thigh — it started near your hip, and went up to almost half your thigh in a diagonal angle. It was a red, ugly wound, a crack in your now imperfected shell. It was sewn with the help of so many stitches that you could barely count. “you hit a nerve. It didn’t break, of course, or could barely move this leg, but it hurt and badly. It will take some time for you to recover from it. But you will.” she said.
“It’s horrible,” you whispered, your eyebrows scratched in a sad expression. “I’m horrible.”
Doris looked at you, to the tears that formed in your tired eyes. Her lips were compressed in a line.
“Oh, dear... You’d never be awful, don’t say that,” she whispered. “A scar won’t make you any less beautiful. Got it? It’s your survival mark.” she said, trying to encourage you a little.
You wanted to curse her. You felt angry at the kindness she offered you, for trying to make everything seem less heavy than it really was, but it didn’t seem fair. You knew that this should be some reaction of your mind poisoned by the depression you felt now. 
It would not be fair to discount your frustrations on the only person who had offered you some comfort so far, would it?
No.
Your face formed a smile so weak that maybe it only made her more worried than she was already, but that was all you could do for now. Doris covered you again, fitting the blankets around your body in a very comfortable way.
“I’ll bring your lunch. You’ll need to eat enough to get some energy for your recovery now.” she commented quietly by changing the IV from the support over you. Your eyes followed the whole process attentively.
Although you were grateful for the treatment you were receiving from the hospital, there was only one thing surrounding your mind. The Ghost.
The man in the skull mask who had saved your life. He was nowhere to be seen, you knew that you might possibly never see him again, but the idea that you didn’t even have time to thank him correctly tormented your mind. He was in your dreams while you were unconscious, standing there looking at you, glaring at you with those dark eyes of his. The curiosity of what was hidden behind the mask was hitting you hard this time, the need to see something human in him; the way his eyes seemed to present him as nothing but a machine. He seemed unbeatable, but when he took you in his arms, gently as he could be, like he was holding porcelain - you could only see a human being. And you wanted to see it, you craved for confirmation, that there was a human beneath the mask and that this human was just the way you pictured him to be. Or perhaps the complete opposite. You liked surprises, and fairly - you just wanted to see him.
“Where are the soldiers? You know, those who took me out of the building.” You curiously asked, cleaning your throat. The nurse's eyes wandered around the room in search of the small window that turned out to the hallway, she could not see anyone there, a confirmation that they might have been there before but not anymore at the moment. “I didn’t have time to thank him.” you whispered.
“Ah yes. Of course. Captain Price said he would call you when you were feeling a little better. Do you want me to give  them a call?” Doris asked kindly.
“Yes, please,” you agreed.
━ ⟡ ━
Soap was watching the news on TV in the town hall of the headquarters. His eyes were attentive, his ears well opened; he heard the television reciting for the thirteenth time that day those words that echoed in his mind, "hundred and two dead." The news anchor was saying something about the intelligence’s inability to detect the terrorist threat before the bombing occurred. Massive criticism of the military staff responsible for national security; people were in panic. How would you feel safe after that?
After the 141 left the building back to the headquarters, the British intelligence team searched the ruins of the disaster looking for any indication of association of some terrorist group known to the incident. At first, nothing. Bombers usually leave no traces but a blast of blood and human flesh everywhere.
But then, an agent left the building with a piece of semi-destructed cloth in his hands. It was almost incomprehensible but soon they discovered a symbol in it. And to the most absolute disappointment of all, no soul even recognized the symbol in question. A new terrorist group.
Fuck.
While the population was hiding in fear, the press was rendering a disgrace to society and introducing even more chaos by spreading information that should be confidential. Soap was too distracted with their babbling to even listen to Price and Ghost’s conversation in the background. 
“She will need physiotherapy, and a good time to recover.” said the captain, releasing some smoke from his cigarette into the air. “She apparently suffered a nerve injury.” 
Ghost had his arms crossed, resting on the wall behind himself, facing Price. His eyes were fixed on the ground, as if he was thinking of something.
“I can imagine.” he whispered, with a head nod. “I hope it goes well. What these guys did there...” he closed his eyes and snorted, seeming nervous.
“Yeah... The press won’t give anyone no peace now. I get nervous just to think.” he grumbled as he threw his cigarette butt into the ashes. Ghost only shook his head negatively, in disapproval; in accordance with the captain’s speech. 
The silence that followed Price’s last words did not last more than five seconds before he spoke again.
“She asked about you.” he said, raising his eyes to Ghost. He was looking back at him this time. It was as if his words had caught his attention now. “Said she wanted to thank you personally.”
“She doesn’t need to. I just did my job.” he argued, pulling his back off  the wall and pulling one of the available chairs around. As he sat down, he grabbed a piece of a disassembled rifle that rested on the table, and went on with his work to clean it.
“I know that, but work sometimes involves accepting a bit of gratitude from other people for what you did for them, Riley. In this situation specifically.” Price raised his eyebrows, and watched the gun as Ghost cleaned it, his concentration quickly diverted from the conversation to the work he was doing. “You should go see her.”
“With all due respect, captain, I think the job of talking to the victims is anyone else's but mine.” he replied almost instantly.
“Maybe, maybe. But she wants to talk to you.” Price insisted.
Ghost released an annoyed, almost annoyed breath. 
“She doesn’t have to thank me. I know she’s grateful,” he tried to argue again, but the captain seemed irreducible for the moment. “Bloody hell, Price, hire a psychologist for once. She needs help, not to talk to me.” he continued, receiving nothing but silence in response.
“She wants you.” Price said, simply, unfazed by his upset behavior.
Ghost immediately stopped what he was doing and left the gun aside, the hand
supported on his knee, once again an uncomfortable breathing leaving his nostrils in a surely irritated mood now.
They would not understand. It wasn’t that he didn’t like you; there would be no reason for it, no. Ghost didn’t want to see you again. He followed the whole moment the ambulance left you in the hospital along with the rest of his crew, was informed of your situation, and like all other soldiers, he was discharged after that.
His job was to rescue the victims who survived the attack. Not to talk to a victim, sketch some sort of feeling – even if it is false. He would need to say something, comfort you, or at least try to look positive. He would have to face the idea that getting in touch with your trauma could remind him some more of himself, could bring back past memories he wanted to bury. There was no good in it, no. He wasn’t a therapist, wasn’t built for it.
Although he wanted to, he couldn’t feel compassion for you. He couldn’t feel sorry – He thought it was an extremely illegitimating, invalid feeling. Affirming that someone was worthy of pity was almost like treating someone like garbage, no; he would rather die than have others pitying him, why would it be different with the people around him? He wasn’t the right person for that.
As if the universe laughed at his face, the moment the conversation between the two became silent and he raised his eyes to the television, the image of the building's debris was replaced by one of the only survivor of the attack; a recent photo you had taken in London, two months ago. You were smiling, you could still do that at that time. The screen displayed your name, while the reporter was now talking about you.
“It’s her; poor girl.” Soap said, turning a little to observe them, and turned up the volume. The news said something about your success in keeping yourself alive: you were treated as a great achievement, called a ‘miracle girl'; they were talking about you as a poor little girl, about how clever you were, in college studying to become a prestigious doctor. Ghost squeezed his jaw, his teeth gritted in a bitter taste inside his mouth. There was no miracle in what happened to you.
You were lucky. You were in the right place, at the right time. 
Two hundred people did not have the same luck.
A hundred and two people, men, women and children, were now dead. You had eternal marks engraved on your skin and soul. A miracle? He felt offended as if he were with himself — as if they were calling him a miracle for having survived all the painful events he had experienced so far.
“How dare they say this kind of thing?” he grumbled lowly. The other two shrugged their heads in denial, in disagreement.
“Fucking vultures.” it was Price’s turn to complain.
━ ⟡ ━
You had turned off the TV the moment you heard your own name. There was no reason you’d want to know, to to hear what they had to say about you. You didn’t want to hear them treat you as a mere victim of an incident, acting as if that disaster was all about you that mattered. You hated the way everything seemed to be reduced to that now: the attack.
The survivor. The only survivor. Your name didn’t matter anymore – you had become a martyr, and everyone treated you with caution, as if you were made of glass, as though it was impossible to get close to you without the risk of breaking it.
Since the silence established itself in the environment when you turned off the TV, all you heard was the static silence floating in the air, sound of little drops that flowed through your veins. Your mind had become vague, your thoughts made room for your imagination, you slowly fell asleep. There was a long time after you felt unconscious - you weren’t sure of how much exactly. Maybe two, maybe three hours. You had asked Doris to open the window before she let you rest alone in your room, and the wind was hitting your skin, still sensitive due to the excess of meds; the subtle cold you were feeling was making you feel alive.
The lights were off, and as soon as it became dark, the lights of the city reflecting through the window were no longer enough to light up the room belongings.
In that intense darkness and in the most absolute silence possible, the ghost that haunted your dreams was standing, tall as always, at the end of your bed. Haunting you. Silent like a snake approaching a possible victim, even his breath seemed to be controlled enough not to make a noise. His eyes, behind the mask, fixed on you; you slept quietly in a heavy sleep that was obviously the result of the strong medicines you were taking. He approached the bed a little, your hand was laying in your body side by the bed. So small.
Drop.
Drop.
The sound of the drops of IV falling through the bag invaded the environment as if it were the sounds of a giant walking. The big night silence had this effect on small sounds – it enlarged them. You heard the sound of the window closing inside your dreams, but that didn’t seem to wake you up. The cold wind no longer hit your skin, and you began to warm up.
How long has passed since the sound of the curtains closed you could not say; but what awakened you knew: it was the sounds of the door opening. You instinctively frightened and adjusted your posture in bed a bit abruptly, until you realized that the man who was entering — now unarmed though still dressed in his combat suit — was him. The Ghost.
He watched you in silence for a few seconds before shaking his head.
“Did I wake you?” He asked, the same serious and rough voice, the loaded British accent, different from your American one. “Forgive me.”
“You’re all right.” was all you could think of answering in the first moments. His eyes looked at you altogether; he was so tall that only his presence there made you feel intimidated, even if that was not his goal. “Don’t you want to sit?”
“I don’t intend to delay myself much.” He responded quickly, getting a little closer to the bed and sitting on one of the chairs next to him just to match your heights a little, imagining it should be uncomfortable for you, bending your neck to look at him standing. “Do you need something?”
“No. I’m fine now,” you whispered, sitting down. “I just wanted to thank you personally. I didn’t have time before, I- I just don’t think I was in good senses for it.” you admitted, holding your hands together on your lap.
“I just did my job.” he nodded, a serious air to his words. Ghost seemed like a man of few words, of few feelings too. His tone was monotone, always serious, seemingly stern sometimes. Made you feel like it was perhaps due to his habit of giving orders; he was a tenant, as Price told you. You knew little about the military hierarchy you had to admit, but the little knowledge was enough for you to know he did give orders. 
“I know, but... What you call ‘job’, to me was saving my life.” you seemed to try to remind him as if it was something obvious. “If I have any way to reward you for that, please tell me.”
Ghost closed his eyes for a moment and stretched his neck, shooking negatively.
“Again, I just did my job. You don’t have to reward me for that.” he said, looking at the flower vase that rested on the headboard table for a moment.
Simon noted that although there were thousands of gifts and tickets on the outside, sent by ordinary citizens in support of your situation - there were no balloons or any indication of a family or friendly gift inside your room. Only those flowers.
They were addressed to Anthony Miller. He assumed it would be your boyfriend.
“You don’t get it, Ghost. It’s not  about needing, it’s just something I want to do. It doesn’t have to be right now, you can tell me in the future if you need a favor or something like that.” 
“I don’t usually need favors.” he assured, snorting at your insistence, but trying to stay as polite and friendly as possible. He didn’t want to end up making you worse, did he? You were already sad enough. 
“Everyone needs favors. I also used to not need many before yesterday’s events.” You admitted, raising your eyebrows quickly and turning your gaze away.
“I didn’t do you a favor. I helped you, those are completely different things.” He shook negatively, irreducibly. “Any other decent soldier would do the same. You owe me nothing.” 
“Yes, but it was you. If it had been someone else then I’d like to thank this person.” you argued, and your stubbornness began to irritate him; he gave in compassion to your state and only sighed deeply.
“That’s all you have to treat with me, miss?” He asked, turning his head a little, and you corrected him; do not call me lady, you murmured, and instructed him to call you by your name.
You watched him in silence for a few seconds, before breathing deeply.
“Actually no. I have a request.” you said, in a whisper, and he shrugged his head as if giving you a positive one. “Can I see the face behind your mask?” You asked curiously.
“Negative.” He answered, almost immediately, without even giving you a chance to try to refute or argue. “I can’t show my face, and if it relieves you if anything, it’s not a nice image to look at,” he continued, rising up.
You were a little desperate for his sudden rising, hoping he would stay a little longer. Of all those people with whom you had talked so far — Price, Doris; he remained the one who seemed to please you into a conversation the most. You wanted to talk to him, because, unlike others, Ghost did not treat you like a porcelain doll.
He was treating you like any other person. 
“No, wait — you think you’re ugly, is that so? I don’t care.” you assured. “I doubt you’re ugly, to be honest.”
“I didn’t say that,” he raised an eyebrow, seeming to have your commentary somewhat amusing. You raised an eyebrow in response and laid your body on the pillows behind you.
“Wouldn’t you open an exception for me?” You asked, and he shook negatively. You closed your eyes, in a frustrated but accepting sigh.
“Well- you get well soon. Hear me, girl?” Ghost gently said, and walked a little further to the door, and stopped in his steps before leaving. He looked at you for a moment. “Are you here alone?”
“Yeah, I am. Why is it?” You asked curiously.
“Because your IV is running out, and without those pain meds, let me tell you...” he raised his eyebrows quickly. “Should I call your boyfriend or a nurse?” He asked, glaring at  you.
“Wait- my boyfriend?” You asked, furrowing your eyebrows for a moment, and he remained silent. His hand stood up and pointed to the flowers next to the bed, as if he mentioned that the person who sent them should be your boyfriend. You eyed the flowers and let out a soft laugh.
“Ah, that... No, it’s not from a boyfriend.” You explained.
“Well, I’ll call some nurse then.” he said, his hand leaned on the door knocker and his fingers danced in unison, in a thoughtful expression. He looked at you again. “Stay safe.” he said, before his huge, broad figure disappeared through the door and the long hallway of the hospital leaving you once again lost to your thoughts, and alone.
Your eyes looked at your own hands for a few seconds, and you realized that they were pleasantly warm. You looked out the window, closed.
How strange was the fact that you didn’t remember having closed the window, thought to yourself. 
It could have been Doris. But your intuition said no.
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cherrygazette · 18 days
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oh honey. we aren't the same.
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miqojak · 1 month
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A Jackal always collects its due.
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that-gay-jedi · 1 month
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A whole section of my brain is reserved solely for when there's a sunset that turns the ocean a deep garnet red, either directly observed or represented in art, at which point it's like "THAT'S THE FUCKIN' WINE-DARK SEA!! ARE YOU SEEING THIS SHIT??! LIVID PURPLISH RED AND IT SURE IS DARK!! LIKE STARING INTO A GLASS OF MY FAVOURITE WINE!! THE WINE-DARK SEA IS REAL!!" and then quiets down and lets me look at the ocean in peace until the next time.
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harlowcomehome · 2 months
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eraserhappy · 3 months
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Took a screen shot of this gif that was on a post by@ineffablerainstorm I’ve seen posts and mentions about this red streak in Crowley’s hair, but no posts as to why it could be there.
If I may: isn’t that streak the same shade as Angel!Crowley’s hair?! So what I’m trying to allude to is that Angel!Crowley’s wings started to darken/grey as he began to question God’s plan. Soooo….Crowley is already reinstating themselves to angelic status without knowing it?! Or because he didn’t really fall as so much as sauntered vaguely downwards?! Something something “former” demon…something something having an imagination and being able to make things happen by just thinking it…
Shades of grey? More like shades of red.
This is not to take away from who Crowley has made themselves into or to say that he’s detransitioning (as a lot of us see Crowley’s fall and renaming as a trans allegory). He may not be becoming an angel again but this could be something of a clue to memory regaining (if we’re in the camp of Crowley having memories erased). It could be a sign of being somewhere between Heaven & Hell and it’s merely a symbol of Crowley’s niceness and his capacity to love (Aziraphale, humanity, the world,….ducks) like we assume Angels would be into doing.
I’m not a meta writer so I know this is all jumbled nonsense but I think it’s a Clue or nod to Angel!Crowley and the implications of that can be discussed by others far more succinct than myself.
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brokentrafficknight · 3 months
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Gen 3
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mias-playground · 3 months
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Street Style
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chaotic-clueless · 7 months
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Watch my blanket grow!
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I’ll talk more about the meaning once it gets larger, all I’ll say now is that this represents the month of January.
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zsorosebudphoto · 1 year
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Jardim de Santa Barbara, Braga, 12/10/22
Garden of Santa Barbara, Braga, 12/10/22
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lalunight · 2 years
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Shades of Red (Part 3) | Santiago Garcia x Reader
PART TWO
Worth an Oscar | Masterlist
Context: Walking up in your bed room after that vague recollection from the night before, you made your way to your phone and made an important life-changing call.
Warning: Sexual Insinuation, Vulgar Words
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"Good morning, lovely lady," Santi whispered as he gently moved strands of your hair away from your face. "Had a good night's sleep?" A mischievous smirk appeared on his face, along with his taunting sleepy eyes. Despite the fact that he already knew your response, he still asked to tease you. You tittered as you moved closer to his chest, still clutching the scarlet comforter that covered your naked body up to your chest.
"I don't know, just how well did you think I slept, Pope?" you asked, raising an eyebrow and smirking at him, who laughed in response. Santiago moved his body slowly, causing the sheets to rustle. His dog tags dangled from his neck as his soft hands parted your legs before settling between them and laying on your chest. Santi grinned "Too well that you even slept through your alarm," glancing at the alarm clock you'd set on your nightstand before returning his hooded gaze to you.
Your playful smile faded, and your eyes widened to the point where your lids hurt. Your head jerked to the right, where your alarm clock sat, and you groaned as you checked the time. It was after noon at 1:32pm, and you had only just awoken! You always set your alarm and never let it ring twice, and you're wondering how this happened. Your eyes narrowed as the realization hit you, and you slowly turned your head back to Santi, who was resting his chin on your chest, smiling like a little child proud of what he'd accomplished.
"Pope!" you yelled, abruptly pushing him off of you, causing him to stumble back onto the bed. "We were supposed to do something!" you exclaimed as you quickly scooched over the edge of the mattress, reaching for your almost-drained phone and turning it on to check for notifications. "That hurts," Santi mumbled as he palmed his nose and massaged it before returning his gaze to you. "Well, you deserve it, We were supposed to go to a wedding!" You glared at him over your shoulder before violently pulling the comforter and standing up to wrap it around your body.
"Baby wait—ah shit—" Santi yelped as you carelessly pulled the sheet that was underneath him. You stormed out of his bedroom and marched to the bathroom, ignoring the ache in your legs. You winced with each step, wanting to sit down but knowing that if you did, you'd be even later to the wedding.
The wedding began at 12 p.m., and you knew you'd only make it in time for the reception, but you'd be too ashamed to go because you'd missed half of it. It was your friend's wedding, as well as Santi's, and you couldn't figure out why he hadn't woken you up. You just wish Frankie wouldn't explode knowing why you were late; the wedding was Almira's, Frankie's cousin.
<What the hell happened to you and Pope? Don't tell me you went on a fucking honeymoon even before the bride and groom.>
Tom's message caused you to close your eyes in frustration and curse under your breath. You and Santi are completely screwed. You can't possibly give a valid reason for why you and Santiago are unreachable, and by the way the markings on your body don't seem to want to fade away, the guys will definitely know the truth.
It was a good thing you weren't the Maid of Honor.
You frustratingly kicked the bathroom door open, causing Santi to visibly flinch behind you after almost tripping over your bra on the floor. "Don't worry, I'll get us there in time for the reception!" he groaned, his knees aching from his carelessness and sudden movements. "I'm sorry, baby."
"Just get ready, Santiago," you grumbled, peering over your shoulder briefly before feeling another vibration on your left hand, which held your phone. You knit your brows and look to see who messaged you. It was Benny, and it wasn't a private message; it was in your guy's group chat, the group chat he made when you were all drunk.
<Probably time to untangle now, don't ya think? Miss Saint? Pope? >
This made you yell even louder, jumping and harshly slamming your pone down on the vanity counter, and you swear you heard it crack. Santiago followed quickly, but he kept a slight distance, fearful that you'd throw your phone at him, if not, the entire vanity.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry, did I mention that I'm sorry? Sooooorry." Santiago pressed his palms together and brought them up to his face, as if pleading with you not to blow up on him. You've always had a temper, Santi knows it, and you're not sure why he'd do things like this if he knew it could drive you insane. In an attempt to calm down, you roughly ran your hands down your face before closing your eyes.
When it came to Santiago, keeping your breath steady was not a problem. For some reason, you'd find yourself calming down a only few minutes later if it always included him. You exhaled sharply, resting your hands on your hips before opening your eyes to face him. Santi's fearful expression as he awaited your response almost made you laugh. He still had his hands clasped together and his frantic eyes were staring at you; it was only now that you noticed that he, too, was wearing only a bed sheet from the waist down.
When Santiago felt he could approach you, he took slow, deliberate steps and held out both his hands in front of you, as if he were approaching an alert animal. "I promise you, we'd get there in time for the reception and—and you can leave the explanation to me, baby," he explained quickly, grabbing one of your hands and encasing it in his larger ones.
Santiago means it when he says he'll explain everything; he doesn't know how, but he figures he'll figure it out. He just hopes he's still alive to make an excuse to the guys because he really screwed up by messing up your schedule. To be honest, Santiago preferred staying in with you over attending the wedding he didn't want to participate. Not that Almira and Santiago didn't get along; he just loses interest in everything else when he's with the love of his life.
You sighed and lowered your shoulders, nodding at him before returning your attention to your phone, which buzzed again. You tilted your head to see it properly, and Santi craning his neck to read it as well. "Who's it from?" he wondered as he struggled to read the small letters. Another sigh left you, followed by a chuckle, and as you returned to face Santi, you face palmed. "It's from Benny...that asshole," you snickered at the end.
Santi raised an eyebrow at you, curious as to what he messaged you and why you referred to him as that. You dragged your hand down your face before grabbing your phone and handing it to Santi so he could read it for himself. Santi squinted and leaned in, his mouth parting as he mouthed the words he read.
<Are you guys so horny that even responding back is hard? >
Santiago laughed as he read the message and looked at you to see how you reacted. Benny wasn't entirely wrong; you haven't responded to any of them since yesterday. And, despite the fact that they're wondering where you've been, they already knew the answer. You shook your head, biting your lower lip to keep from laughing, before taking your hand back and walking towards the shower. "I'm going to take a quick shower and you come after me," you said, unwrapping the comforter that was struggling to cover you completely.
Santiago lowered the phone back on the counter as he watched you enter the shower, the comforter that fell to the marbled floor revealing you to him, inspiring an astonished smile to form on his lips. He hadn't told you, but he never got used to seeing you naked; he always felt like he was seeing you for the first time.
"I have an idea."
"No."
"I haven't even said anything, baby," Santiago cackled as he approached you, removing the sheet from his waist. You turned on the shower, glaring at him and raising an eyebrow because you knew what he was about to say. "I need to shower and that's what got us late in the first place," you warned, tilting your head at him.
As the water droplets hit your heated skin, a relaxing sensation washed over you, easing your slightly tense state. After an exhausting escapade with Santi, the sensation of being drenched by warm water was all you needed. As Santi entered the shower, you chewed the inside of your lip, his deep gaze fixed on yours, allowing the water to perfectly hit and cover his entire body.
"Don't worry, I'm not going to do anything stupid, hm?" he said, cupping your face gently to bring you closer to him. You held his hands softly and closed your eyes, relaxed by both Santi and the running water. You wished you could both enjoy this for a longer period of time, but you knew you had to hurry because you were running out of time. And because Santi said he'd join you so it wouldn't take too long, you chose to believe him when he said he wouldn't do anything moronic.
But Santiago is Santiago, and he did in fact, did something stupid.
...
The morning heat was unusually soothing, and the sun's rays slipped perfectly through the navy blinds, creating an atmosphere you'd want to be in all the time. There were no cars outside, no noisy neighbors, no teenagers, just the sound of rustling bed sheets and the AC running in the background.
You opened your eyes slowly, laying comfortably on your stomach, your hair strewn across your face. It was a rare opportunity for you to have a morning of silence. You languidly pulled the comforter over your head, relieved to be covered and not blinded by the ray of light that had gotten through the blinds. The scent of new bed sheets and the silence were almost enough to lull you back to sleep.
But then,
With a skip of your heart's beat, you sat upright, frozen alone in your bedroom. Your chest was heaving, eyes widened and you had to turn away from the window to avoid being blinded by the light. All the exhaustion left you once you began to scrutinize your surroundings, completely perplexed as to how you got here. 
Bedroom. You were in your bedroom despite having no recollection of returning home and changing into more comfortable clothing. As you gently tugged on the hem of your oversized shirt, you looked down at yourself. "How..." Your face contorted in confusion as you looked around the room once more before staring off into space.
"How did I get here?" you blinked, running your hand over your head and turning to check the time on your nightstand. Sierra's party, Frankie's brotherly talk, you screaming your lungs out at Santiago, and just wandering around the neighborhood were all things you remembered from the previous night. But you were certain that more things had occurred, or else you wouldn't be in your bed right now.
But before you could look at the bedside clock, your gaze was drawn to a piece of paper resting beside the rose that came from Santiago days before. You stared at the paper for a few moments, as if looking at it would cause it to move and come to you. Swiftly, you crawled to the nightstand and took the folded paper in your hands, unfolding it as you crisscrossed on the bed's edge.
You irritably removed a strand of hair from the side of your mouth with your index finger before reading what appeared to be a letter. "Alright, what's this?" you asked no one in particular, beginning to read what was written in a familiar penmanship.
"Good morning, lovely lady, 
First and foremost, I hope you slept well. I apologize for coming in uninvited, but I needed to bring you home. Second, I apologize for rushing through your belongings, I swear I didn't mess anything up or did anything stupid. And lastly, I know you told me to stay but I had to go, though, I did stay, but I had to leave because Fish requested something urgent. I'm sorry for everything. I don't expect you to forgive me, and you don't have to, so I won't contact you unless you want me to.
I made breakfast downstairs, you can eat it or throw it out if you want. In case you get a headache, there's medicine on the kitchen island.
Love, your Pope"
After reading the letter, your gaze returned to the section that drew your full attention. "I know you told me to stay," you kept re-reading it, hoping you misread it. You requested that he stay? Did something happen between you two? Did you do something stupid? You closed your eyes, embarrassed even before recalling what happened the night before. Your grip on the paper tightened, causing it to crumple slightly as you lowered your head, causing your forehead to make contact with the paper.
You prayed to every God hoping that you didn't do anything stupid. Opening your eyes, you irritatingly folded the paper and placed it back on your nightstand before dropping your back on the mattress. "I hate myself." You grumbled, palming your face in shame. 
You couldn't believe you asked him to stay....Although, there was a hint that you remembered, it was strange but you can remember a vague scene from the night before.
Santiago was gently laying you down and covering you with the comforter you had chosen. When you remembered that you desperately grabbed his arm despite having no energy left, your cheeks uncontrollably heated up. That's all you remembered from the previous night, and worst-case scenario, Santiago made up an excuse to leave because you did something stupid.
You whined loudly, pressing your palms further against your face as you rolled sideways like a child who isn't allowed to do what they want. You wanted to remember everything, but now you think it's best if you don't because you'll die in shame if what you thought you did was true.
Sighing in defeat, you sat up languidly and messily tied your hair with hair tie you found on your nightstand. Complaining about something you don't even remember is pointless, so just move on. You returned your gaze to the letter before standing up to go downstairs, debating whether to keep it or throw it away.
Many thoughts fought inside your head, but in the end, you took the paper and shoved it inside the drawer, not looking back as you walked out of your bedroom door. You hurriedly descended the stairs and scanned your living room for any flaws, but to your surprise, everything was in its proper place. It's a good thing Santi didn't destroy anything while he was here.
"I made breakfast downstairs,"
Remembering what Santi said, you looked around the dining area, where a cloche was placed in the center of the table. You made your way to the table, your stomach grumbling, to see what he had made. Santiago frequently cooks for you whenever the two of you are together, and for the first time in three years, you are slightly nostalgic that he bothered to prepare a meal for you.
But before you could even pick up the cloche, there was a small pink note stuck to it, and you found yourself stupidly smiling as you read it what was on it. 
"Huevos rancheros, exactly how you like it :)"
You took the sticky note, leaning against the table with one hand, and stared into it for an unusual amount of time. Giddily chewing on the inside of your lip, you pulled a chair for yourself and sat down, picking the cloche up and placing it elsewhere. The sight of the food made your mouth water, and just inhaling the aroma reminded you of the times when Santi would gladly make these for you.
There was also another note once you picked up the plate and placed it in front of you, and you looked quickly to see what it said.
"Please don't skip me. It's important to eat breakfast!"
You chuckled and rolled your eyes as you remembered Santi always forcing you to eat even a small amount of breakfast because you frequently skip it. Biting your lower lip, you placed the note beside the other one and returned to picking up your utensils. It's a shame you weren't able to thank him for this, but.... You turned your head towards the telephone on the wall as you chewed on the fork's tip. Maybe you can call him and thank him for his kind, friendly actions.
And, speaking of phone calls, you should probably call about your reenlistment as well.
But you shrugged it off and concentrated on the delicious food in front of you, not wanting to waste another second by making it wait.
...
Hours have passed and all you've done is stare at your phone while relentlessly chewing on your nails. You were supposed to call someone to reenlist, but you are now hesitant to do so. You thought you had made up your mind, but something inside your head was warning you that it wasn't a good idea.
Why was it a bad idea? You'd be back in the line of duty, far away from the problems you can't escape. But is that what you really want? Do you truly want to be separated from Santi? To vanish from everyone's eyes?
Or do you simply want to be found?
Regardless, that wasn't your only issue; you still haven't messaged or called Santi. After you managed to remember a little bit, you wanted to thank him for taking you home after that embarrassing situation.
But it was as if your fingers had forgotten how to type his name because you just couldn't call him. You grumbled as you lay on your stomach on your bed, your face pressed against the pillows. "Fuck me for being such a coward," you cursed, your voice muffled by the thick pillows. Even if you were to reenlist, you'd want to say goodbye to Santi first, so you mustered the courage to take your phone and confidently press the call button on Santi's profile.
A proper closure, perhaps?
When the other line began to ring, your eyes widened as you realized you were now calling him and had no idea where your sudden confidence had come from. You desperately wanted to press the end call button so you could cower again, but you silently groaned in defeat when you finally heard his voice.
[H-Hello?]
You closed your eyes, hesitant to speak, but Santiago spoke with a hopeful tone in his voice. You sighed deeply before clutching the sheet beneath you for support. "Hi, Santiago."
[Hey, Y/N. I'm glad you called.] Without even a second's hesitation, Santiago responded, huffing in relief that you decided to call him. You smiled, even though he couldn't see it. Despite the alarms that had been going off inside your head, you still chose to reenlist. "Can we talk?" you asked quietly, wanting to talk to Santi about a few more things before leaving...properly this time.
[Sure, of course.]
"I mean, not on the phone...I was thinking about meeting up," you said, indicating that you didn't want to talk on the phone. You didn't just make up an excuse to see him, did you? However, you want this farewell to be formal and mutual.
When the other line went quiet for a while, you started thinking about your decision. Your grip on your bedsheet tightened, and you began to explain to him, "W-Well, if that's okay with you. It's just a friendly talk, I swear and—" But before you could finish your pathetic rambling, Santi cut you off.
[No, I'd love to see you. I—uh...When?]
Santiago huffed a nervous chuckle, letting you know he didn't disagree. You lowered your head and unconsciously traced his full name instead of gripping the crumpled sheets. "Maybe Friday or whenever you're available. Just dinner at Therese's." You licked your lips in anticipation, internally laughing as if you were some girl asking their crush out on a date. However, this was not a date. No no.
[I won't be here tomorrow...maybe the day after? ]
"Yeah, that's fine, but where are you going?" you asked instinctively, pursing your lips. It wasn't your concern anymore, but you still inquired as to what he was up to, such a moron. You regrettably palmed your face, trying not to be too loud but still rough enough to hurt you.
[I'm going to go with Camila to look for better houses now that Sierra is getting older.]
You nodded and hummed in agreement. Although you're relieved that they are moving on, you're saddened that they will be leaving the house that holds so many memories.
[Don't worry, I'm buying the house after they move.] As if Santi had read your mind, he replied in a reassuring voice, and you could tell he was smiling on the other end of the line. That he's buying it for himself made you smile as well. "That's great," you said, chuckling.
Santi hummed, and there was some clanking in the background. Curiosity creased your brows, and you bit your lower lip as you lay back on the cold mattress. "You're cooking?" you inquired, now hearing him open the stove and place what appears to be a pan.
[Yep, just a small dinner because I don't have the time to prepare meals for myself.]
Santi finished the word 'yep' with a pop, and you can now hear him open his fridge. You looked up at the ceiling, recalling his kind gesture to you earlier in the day. "Uhm, thank you for the meal earlier....for everything you did." You tried to calm yourself by playing with your hair, even though you didn't know why you were nervous in the first place.
Santi remained silent for a few seconds before clearing his throat. [That was nothing, I'm glad you liked it.] He chuckled, and his sweet baritone voice lingered in your ears, making you bite your lip in nostalgia. "I loved it," you admitted, not to please him, but because you genuinely enjoyed the food he prepared.
Santiago simply chuckled, unable to respond because he is too flustered to speak. You checked the time on your phone after a few seconds of silence and noticed it was getting late. "Santi, I'll see you at Therese's, okay? 7pm." you said, now massaging your strained eyes. Santi sighed and nodded, [Of course, I won't be late. Have a nice night.]
You rolled to your side, foolishly smiling, and gazed at the rose you had placed in a vase that now rested on your nightstand. The red petals and emerald stem were still fresh like how it arrived, and you wondered where he got it and wanted to buy more yourself.
You reached over and gently stroked the smooth petals, feeling the texture tickle your skin slightly. You lowered your gaze and shifted to lay on your back. "Night night, Pope."
Unbeknownst to you, calling him that again made him happy in a variety of ways. And because he was having a bad day, you were exactly what he needed, and you just happened to arrive at the right time. He wasn't supposed to eat because he lost his appetite while running a stressful errand with Fish, but the fact that you called was enough to get him motivated for the rest of the night. 
Santi smiled broadly as he placed his phone on the kitchen counter after finishing the call and staring at your still-unchanged contact number. He leaned forward, both palms on the counters, lowering his head and closing his eyes in gratitude. Such a silly child, acting as if he'd just been noticed by his most adored idol. 
"Fuck yes," Santi swore under his breath triumphantly after finally having a proper conversation with you after those unintended arguments. 
"I'd love to see you, Y/N. Muah, muah." Not far away, a mocking voice erupted.
Santi jerked his head in the direction of the living room, where a peering Fish was tauntingly oscillating his brows. Santiago rolled his eyes at him before returning to his cooking. He completely forgot Fish was here, owing to his preoccupation with your voice. "Man, I swear you just said you were moving on from her earlier this day," Fish teased, crossing his arms across his chest and smirking at Santi, who had his back to him. "Cállate, I never said any of that," he grumbled before hurling a used onion at Fish, who dodged it and laughed.
"Oh right, faithful to tu amor, " Fish couldn't stop giggling as he walked past Santi, patting him on the back and heading for the fridge. Santi just shook his head, chuckling to himself as he tried to concentrate on his cooking rather than your earlier conversation.
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lovemyjeansofficial · 2 years
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My shades of Red set is on fireeeee! <3 
Watch this and 200+ more amazing jeans videos now - patreon.com/lovemyjeans
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miqojak · 9 months
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When I walk up in the piece I ain't gotta even speak
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I'm a bad mamajama goddammit motherfucker
You ain't gotta like me
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(- Gossip Folks, Missy Elliott )
I made myself finally hit max level on monk, and celebrated with the new crafted set, and some pics! The poses are just base monk abilities... with the tail maneuvered a little for a more dynamic shot! Canonically, Jak can be considered both a monk, and a DRK - though I don't think I consider her to have a soul crystal for monk. It's just a combat style - though I've considered having her look deeper into the monk arts as they pertain to chi... and learning to, effectively, chi-block casters in a fight.
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septembergold · 1 month
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"Esther Ofarim Rose"
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hubbleming · 2 months
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Yeji(Itzy) - Maroon layout
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