#triple frontier series

[perotovar]

into the beat of the night (ch 8) "deeper and deeper"

moodboard by me

pairing: frankie morales/oc!river price (they/them) rating: E (18+) content: pegging, unprotected (fake) p in a, fingering, use of plugs, lots of lube, male masturbation, one (1) handjob, (brief) oral (m receiving), D/s dynamics, dom!river, sub!frankie, petnames (baby, good boy, honey, etc), aftercare, if i missed anything else lmk! word count: 5.7k dividers by @saradika-graphics beta: @scenaaario (ily ♥)

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It’s 9pm and the sound of Phil Collins’ voice is just loud enough for Frankie to hear in the mostly-empty grocery store. It sort of drove him nuts because he liked this song, but it wasn’t loud enough for him to truly appreciate it.

He ignored it in favor of looking over the list of things River asked him to get.

– cat litter

– jonsey’s food

– long grain rice

– tea

pick up a snack for yourself, too, handsome!  ♥

He smiled at River’s handwriting and thought back to the first time he saw it. He still has that note that reads “Text me?”  hidden away somewhere. 

Things have been… really good lately. Despite the Event at the mall, and what transpired afterwards, Frankie and River have been really comfortable. River’s even taken to working out more to get their mind off of things. Frankie’s been reaping the benefits, and he’s having a hell of a time keeping his hands off their newly defined physique. Not that River is complaining, of course.

The only problem is that Frankie’s been craving something… specific. And River isn’t exactly… equipped for what he wants.

Standing in the middle of the aisle of cat food, with Genesis playing faintly somewhere behind him, Frankie stared at the different cans all promising to have different health benefits for your furry friend. He doesn’t know how long he’s been zoned out, thinking about a dick in his ass, until someone, probably the only other customer in the store, sped by him with their cart and startled him out of his thoughts.

Frankie cleared his throat, cheeks flushed, and looked back at River’s list. He double checked the correct brand of food and tossed a few cans into his shopping basket. He tried to shake himself off as he walked further down the aisle to get some litter, as well.

When he made it to the self-checkout, he rang up his items as quickly as he could. The bored teenager keeping watch of the registers barely realized he was there until the rhythmic beeping started. While the ancient self-checkout system crawled to the payment screen, his eyes drifted to the magazines next to him. His eyes landed on a celebrity he can’t remember the name of right now and felt a flush creep up his neck.

The man was gorgeous, an actor he thinks, with chiseled features and a thick beard. He sighed and shut his eyes briefly. The register finally beeped and he snatched his receipt from the printer, grabbing his bags and quickly left the store.

The entire drive back to River’s apartment he tried to calm his dick down.

He’s very happy in his relationship. Very secure. He loves River, and doesn’t want anyone else in his life.

But god dammit, he wants someone inside him.

Jonsey chirped below him as he boiled some noodles on River’s stovetop. He looked down and smiled, the fluffy cat rubbing his body against Frankie’s pajama-covered leg. “Hey,” he cooed quietly, crouching down to scritch at Jonsey’s face. Jonsey purred happily and got comfy on the kitchen floor behind him.

Frankie snorted and turned back to his noodles boiling in the pot. River was hanging out with a few friends at The Night Owl tonight. Frankie wanted them to go have fun with their friends because they deserved it. They’d been going through a lot and deserved to get their mind off things.

His phone lit up on the counter next to him, the sight of River sticking their pierced tongue out at him making him smile. He set his chopsticks down and rinsed his hands before picking up his phone

made it! anya hasn’t shut up about benny once, pls help 😩

Frankie laughed and started typing back.

Change the subject ?

i wish. ray has been flirting with everyone he talks to. says he’s looking for “the one” lol

Ray was another close friend of River’s. He was tall, had dark skin, and short cropped hair. Frankie saw three dots, and then a selfie of the three of them smiling with their drinks appeared.

Frankie’s face softened at how happy River looked with their friends. He exhaled a heavy breath, feeling a little bad for his earlier thoughts. Ever since She Who Shall Not Be Named showed up, every time they’ve gotten intimate, Frankie’s been putting all his focus on River and their needs.

He’s more than happy to do so, that’s not the problem.

He’s just got an itch that needs scratching.

He set his phone down so he could stop his noodles from burning and drained out the water. Once he was sitting back on the couch, his bowl of ramen in his lap, and Jonsey napping on the couch next to him, he started typing back to River.

He’ll find them, I’m sure. Now, go have fun, ok ?

yes sir :p love you

Frankie smiled like a fucking dork at his phone and quickly typed up a response.

Love you too, mi rio 😍

Ever since River “accidentally” let that slip, they’ve been saying it more and Frankie got butterflies every time. He’d never gotten that way with Jackson. At least, not to this level, anyway.

It didn't take long for Frankie to finish up his dinner and clean up his dishes, so he grabbed his laptop from his bag. Jonsey was passed out on the couch, curled up in a weird position, and it made Frankie snort at the sight.

With Jonsey’s food set for the night, Frankie made his way into River’s bedroom and got comfy. Stripped down to his boxer briefs, he started typing in the name for his favorite porn site for this particular craving he’d been having: Love Bites. It was the only site that had his favorite actor, this gruff guy that always played construction workers or plumbers. It was a cliche, but it worked for him.

Seeing that a new video was posted for him, Frankie got excited, already feeling his cock start to twitch in his underwear. And it was a long one, too. “Perfect,” he whispered, lying down on his back to get comfy.

With his laptop laying on the mattress next to him, he pressed play and groaned when he saw the gruff guy and the hot mustached one making out heavily on a couch, shirts in a heap on the floor. He yanked his underwear down and gripped his cock in a big hand, pumping slowly. It didn’t take long once he saw Mustache pull out the gruff guy’s cock and stroke him steadily. Frankie’s cock twitched in his palm, he matched his pace with the video.

His free hand traveled up his torso until his fingertips started tweaking a nipple, making him moan into the quiet room. The scent of River’s cologne; cloves, bergamot, and sandalwood, covered every inch of their bedsheets, and it went right to Frankie’s head. He sped up his hand a little, then stopped himself, squeezing the base of his cock. He wanted this to last as long as possible. 

One of the two men in the video moaned out loud, catching Frankie’s attention. He shivered as he watched the gruff guy grunt and groan into the other’s ass and slap the side of one of his thighs. He let go of his cock and let it throb between his legs, imagining himself in the mustached guy’s place, while he wet two of his fingers as liberally as possible.

He turned onto his side and circled his own puckered rim with his wet fingers and moaned weakly, gripping the base of his cock again. He watched the video closely and started fucking himself with his fingers at the same pace of the gruff guy’s hips as he fucked into the other man roughly.

“Oh, hello,” River smirked, crossing their arms over their chest as they stood in the doorway to the bedroom.

Frankie startled and moaned, looking at River with flushed cheeks.

“Explains why you didn’t get my text. Thought you were asleep, but this is much, much more interesting,” they purred, stalking over to Frankie in his vulnerable state. They ran painted fingernails over his flushed and sweaty skin with mock concern. Frankie looked up at them with glossy eyes, the filthy, obscene sounds of two men fucking almost too loud in the tense air. “Do you need help, my love?” River grinned wolfishly, running the fingers of their free hand through his messy curls.

Frankie gulped and nodded, body still contorted in an uncomfortable position. “P-please,” he breathed.

River hummed contentedly and crawled into the bed behind him. “Stay there,” they said softly and curled their fingers around his throbbing cock, rubbing the head with their thumb. “Very good.” The praise dripped out of them easily and it made Frankie blush even harder. River started stroking him in time with the rhythm of the video in front of them and punctuated each stroke with a kiss to his bare shoulder, or behind his ear, or on the side of his neck.

Frankie removed his fingers from his ass and gripped onto the sheets tightly. River always knew the perfect way to touch him and it never failed to make every thought leave his brain. He felt cock drunk, even if he hadn’t actually been fucked yet.

“Mmm, is that what you want, baby?” River asked, kissing him on the shoulder again. The current camera angle in the video was a closeup of the younger man’s ass spread over the gruff guy’s thick cock, heavy balls slapping against his own. “Want a big, thick cock to fuck you? Hm? How deep do you want it, baby? So deep you forget your own name?”

A strangled, broken moan fell from Frankie’s lips, as his cock twitched hard in River’s hand. He tucked his face against the inside of his bicep, suddenly bashful.

“Shh, it’s okay, baby,” River cooed, speeding up the pace of their hand. It was completely covered in pre-cum, easing the way for them. River teased him, twisting on the upstroke, covering the head with his foreskin and slowing down. Frankie groaned in frustration, his hips bucking impatiently. River released his cock briefly to slap his ass twice in quick succession, almost like a bee sting. The cool metal of River’s rings against his overheated skin startled Frankie. “Atta boy,” River grinned, curling their fingers back around his cock. With their free hand, they ran their fingers up the column of his neck and across his lips. When River pushed their fingers into his mouth, he whined around them, cock twitching in response.

“Shh…” River cooed, deftly circling the pads of their fingers over Frankie’s lubed hole. Frankie moaned and nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. “You look so good for me, baby. You want me to put my fingers into this tight little asshole? Yeah?” River goaded. Another whine escaped Frankie, and they slowly pushed two fingers into his tight heat.

“F-fuck!” 

River hummed and kissed along his shoulder and arm, fucking into him steadily. Frankie tipped his head back and rested it on River’s shoulder, moaning out loud. His breath hitched each time River’s fingertips brushed against his prostate. “That’s it,” River praised, stroking in time with each pump of their fingers.

Frankie’s balls started to draw up and heat flared at the base of his spine. “I’m– I’m gonna,” he panted, eyes half-lidded and mouth open obscenely. 

River rubbed their thumb over the slit of his cock, glancing at the video and watched as the two men were both nearing their end. “You wanna come with them? Go ahead baby, show them how good you are and come for me, huh?”

Frankie huffed out a whine and nodded, rolling his hips in time with River’s hands before he bucked with no rhythm and came hard in thick spurts over River’s fingers and their sheets. He groaned, the aftershocks making his body tremble against River’s. They milked everything out of him and hummed appreciatively at the thick, creamy spend on their fingers. They licked them clean and sighed happily at the taste, removing the two fingers from inside Frankie and rubbed his hip lovingly.

Frankie’s body was spent. He turned and looked behind himself, panting below them as he watched the filthy scene in front of him. River, fully dressed and with a full face of makeup, licking their come-covered fingers clean. His sensitive and overstimulated cock twitched weakly at the sight. 

“Stop, I can’t go again so soon,” he breathed, voice thick and wrecked. River smirked and leaned down to kiss him deeply, transferring the taste of him into his own mouth. Frankie moaned, cupping their face with one hand.

“Feeling better?” They asked against his lips, pushing the sweaty curls out of his eyes.

Frankie nodded, taking one last deep breath, and smiled shyly up at them. The video had long since ended and had reset to its thumbnail. 

It all hit Frankie at once, and his face burned at the realization of what he was just caught watching. He reached over and slammed his laptop shut, hiding his face in his hands and groaning.

“What’s wrong, honey?” River frowned, rubbing Frankie’s back comfortingly. “I’m the last person that’s going to judge you for the porn you watch. I was actually going to compliment it, because I love that site,” they chuckled, trying to make him feel better.

Frankie turned back to them and peaked out from behind his hands. “You… You’re not weirded out?”

River looked at him like he insulted their mother. “What? Why would I?” 

Frankie sighed and took his hands away from his face, turning to face them more comfortably. “Well, it’s… I was watching two men.”

River blinked, still lost.

“You’re not… worried?”

Just like that, it clicked for River. “Oh, honey,” they frowned, leaning over to kiss him deeply, holding the side of his face. “Of course not.”

Frankie didn’t look convinced, but nodded anyway.

“I mean it. I’m not, like, offended or anything,” River said softly. “Is this something you’d want to experiment with, maybe?”

Frankie looked back up at their face. “What are you saying?” He furrowed his brows in confusion. “I’m not sure I’d be into a threesome, or-or sharing–”

River giggled, face twisted into amusement. “I wasn’t suggesting a threesome,” they snorted. “Although, that’s good to know. No, baby,” they paused. “I mean, I have a strap, and well. I’ve got a few toys you can choose from,” River smiled.

Frankie blinked, realization washing over his features. Of course River had a strap. Why didn’t he think of that?

“Oh,” he mumbled, looking down.

River bit their lip and sat up. They kicked their platforms off their feet and sat cross-legged on the bed. “Frankie, look at me. Please? C’mere.”

He looked up, cheeks flushed, and nodded. He got comfy and sat up against the headboard, covering himself with the sheets. 

“Is there a reason you’re… embarrassed about this? You know you can tell me anything.”

Frankie sighed and nodded. “I know that. I just,” he gulped anxiously. “I felt bad,” he paused again, trying to find the words. “It felt like I was… I don’t know, betraying your trust? Like, if I thought about men or someone else in that way, then it would–”

“Like you didn’t want to be with me anymore?” They offered quietly, a little bit of nerves in their tone.

“Right. B-but I don’t! I love you, Río, very much,” he said pleadingly, his eyes big and round. “I love you so much it worries me sometimes.”

River smiled and looked down. “I know. I love you, too,” they said softly.

Frankie sighed in relief, and grabbed one of their hands in his own. “Good. I like making you feel good and I think maybe I…”

“Pushed your own desires to the side,” River finished. “You know you don’t have to do that with me. I love that you’ve been– well, making me feel good, but you feeling good makes me feel good, babe. I’d love to do this for you.”

“I know,” Frankie nodded. “It’s just. After, well, Her,” he grumbled bitterly. 

“Yeah,” River nodded back, ending that train of thought right there. “Here,” they started, getting up from the bed and walking over to their closet. “I want to do this for you, babe.”

Frankie smiled shyly and watched as they got undressed. He paid close attention to the little details revealed as they went; a ring placed delicately on the dresser, the black bralette with its web of criss-crossed straps dropped to the floor.

“Maybe we could do this tomorrow? After you’ve had a chance to rest? I’m pretty tired myself,” they chuckled sheepishly. They reached into a drawer of their dresser and came back with a small metal object.

They crawled into the bed with him and rested the plug on his lap. They kissed up and down his neck teasingly, whispering into his skin, “I want you to wear this for a couple of hours tomorrow, okay? Then you’ll have no choice but to think about what I’m going to do to you afterwards.”

Frankie shivered and moaned quietly, gripping the plug tightly in his fist. “Y-yes,” he nodded, eyes fluttering shut. His oversensitive cock twitched beneath the sheets before River turned his face to kiss him deeply. They hummed into it, before pulling away and pressing a small peck to his cheek. “I’m gonna go take my makeup off, and then we’re gonna go to sleep, okay?” River smirked, rubbing his flushed cheek with their thumb.

Frankie nodded obediently, face open and honest. He watched them leave the room and laid down on the pillow beneath him. 

He wasn’t getting any sleep tonight.

Frankie followed River’s instructions to the letter, the first couple of hours of the day spent with the plug tightly inside him. River had a meeting with a coworker in the morning, so they gave him express orders to not touch himself until they got back to the apartment.

He was good and listened, but it was agony. All of his focus was on the object in his ass and River was right, because all he could think about was what they would do to him when they got home.

Frankie was completely zoned out on the couch in River’s living room by the time they walked in the door. He startled out of his thoughts and turned to look at them and groaned at what he saw.

They looked incredible. They wore a sheer top underneath a cropped blazer, a short layered skirt with a sheer panel over top, and thick chunky platform shoes. River set their bag down and looked at the bulge at the front of Frankie’s jeans. They grinned and made their way over to him, holding out a hand.

“Come with me, baby boy.”

Frankie followed like an eager puppy.

River pushed him onto the mattress and climbed into his lap. They attached their mouth to his neck and grinded their hips against his own. River’s weight on his lap pressed the plug against his prostate in such a way that made his entire body shiver. He squeezed his grip on their hips, silently asking them to slow down so he wouldn’t come right away. His cock was hard and leaking already, just the thought of what River had planned for him made his head spin.

“Have you been good?” River breathed into his mouth, kissing him deeply. Frankie nodded dumbly, focused completely on their lips. River hummed happily and pushed him down onto his back, sitting on his stomach comfortably.

Slowly, River kissed down his neck, chest, and stomach until they were face to face with the front of his jeans. They sat on the floor between his spread legs, eyeing his cock beneath the tight denim, and teasingly undid them, pulling the material down his thighs. They grinned as it sprang back and quietly slapped against his lower tummy.

Frankie blushed, resting his head onto the pillow underneath him. He hadn’t used a plug in a long time. It was foreign, but it felt familiar, too. He was so hard, the throbbing of his cock distracted him from focusing on anything.

“Look at this,” River grinned, kissing up his inner thighs before taking the head of his cock into their mouth. They moaned at the taste and bobbed their head slowly, eyes shutting in bliss at the weight of him on their tongue.

“F-fuck,” Frankie whined, curling his fingers into the sheets tightly. He lifted his knees up, spreading his legs wider to show them the plug he was wearing. It had a clear gem at the base, making his hole look like a little present.

River lifted their mouth off of him, an obscene little suck seeming to echo in the quiet room. “Mmm,” they purred appreciatively. They stood, eyes locked between his lifted, spread thighs and confidently walked to the closet. 

Frankie’s heart was pounding, blood rushing in his ears as it traveled down to his cock. He waited patiently, a thin layer of perspiration dotting his hairline. When River came back into his periphery, they were completely naked save for the leather harness around their hips, a thick, average length cock attached at the front. He stared, eyes roving over the defined Adonis belt of their waist before traveling up their torso and landing on their face. 

River dug into the bedside table and grabbed a small bottle of lube before making their way back to the end of the bed between his legs. “Baby, look at me, please,” they smiled, gently rubbing his knee.

Blinking, Frankie released his legs and looked up at them while they coated their cock with a generous amount of lube. He didn’t look down, because they didn’t say he could yet, but just the image of River’s arm moving in such an obscene way, on themself, had him shivering. 

“Do you remember the rules, honey?”

Frankie nodded, gulping to himself. “G-green means go, yellow means slow down, and red means stop.”

“Good boy,” River grinned, two lube-covered fingers teasing the stretched rim around the plug he was wearing. Frankie gasped at the temperature difference, his cock twitching in anticipation. He wondered if he should shave a little before they did this, but River assured him that they liked him hairy. They would be gentle with him, and he knew that. “I’m going to remove it now, okay?”

Frankie nodded, watching as the fake cock swung between their legs. They looked so comfortable like this. If he didn’t know any better, he might have thought that they were actually born with one.

River tugged on the base of the plug gently, drizzling a little extra lube to ease the way. Frankie’s eyes rolled back at the feeling and arched his back off the mattress. “Oh, fuck,” he groaned, thighs trembling on either side of them.

“Shh,” River cooed, rubbing a smooth thigh as they removed the plug. They watched as a clear trickle of lube oozed out of his stretched hole, making them shiver in response. “Good boy.”

Frankie squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on his breathing. He’d come untouched exactly once before in his life and he was about twenty years younger with his first real girlfriend. Not that he thought River would be upset with him, but he wanted this to last. He’d been waiting too long for this to happen again.

Two of River’s fingers rubbed teasingly at his stretched rim before slowly entering him. He gasped out loud, eyes opening wide. “Too fast?” River asked, stopping midway.

“N-no, don’t stop, just–” he breathed, chuckling shyly. His cheeks flushed a deep red color as he made eye contact with them. “I don’t wanna come yet.”

River smiled wolfishly and set a slow, steady rhythm with their fingers. “And you think I’d be done with you after you came just once?” 

Frankie squeezed his eyes shut, clinging desperately to his last shred of composure. Their fingers felt so good, and he couldn’t wait any longer. “R-Riv, please,” he begged.

“Oh, alright,” River chuckled, crawling onto the bed between his legs. “We’ll start slow. And if you come, I’m certainly not going to complain.”

Frankie moaned, heart pounding steadily in his ears. “You’re going to kill me, you know.”

River kissed him lazily, feeling him relax. They curled their fingers around their fake cock and teased the head at his entrance, the lube squelching a little. Frankie shivered at the sound before he nodded against their lips, giving them his consent to continue.

The first push in made all the breath in Frankie’s lungs leave at once, forcing him to gasp against River’s mouth. It had been a long time since he was on the receiving end of this sort of thing and while River wouldn’t really feel it, he couldn’t help clenching down hard.

River cupped his face as they got up on their knees properly, slowly easing all the way in until their thighs were flush against the backs of his. Frankie breathed hard, back arched off the bed. 

“Y-yellow,” he panted, cock twitching and streaking pre-come down the side of his stomach.

They nodded and let him adjust.

“Hang on, I think--” Frankie groaned, shifting a little more. River smiled and rubbed his sides soothingly. 

“Will you fuck me from behind?” Frankie looked up at River, his eyes practically sparkling with need. His lips parted, chest heaving with the effort of already being on the edge, River would do anything he asked. 

They pulled out of him slowly, and Frankie rolled over, situating himself on hands and knees. River hummed appreciatively at the sight of Frankie’s cute little ass perked and ready for them. Just in case, they used a little more lube on the way in this time, holding Frankie’s hips steady.

“Color?” 

“Green,” Frankie breathed in relief, leaning over to rest on his elbows with his ass in the air. “Love you,” he mumbled into the sheets.

“And I you,” River smiled, pulling out slowly before pushing back in with enough force to jerk him forward a little. Frankie grunted, brows furrowed in concentration and lips parted obscenely.

They started off slow, but hard, for a bit and before either of them realized it, River had set a steady pace, properly fucking into him. “Such a good boy,” River panted with exertion, leaning over his sweaty back. “Asking so nicely to be fucked like this,” they punctuated their words with a particularly harsh thrust. Frankie moaned, face pressed into the bed, his fingers gripping the sheets like a lifeline.

“Say you’re a good boy, baby,” River ordered, kissing his shoulder blade.

“I’m–” Frankie whimpered, forcing his throbbing cock to calm down. 

“You can do it,” River encouraged, rubbing one of his hips comfortingly while the other hand curled around his cock. They started stroking him in time with their thrusts, the lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin and Frankie’s weak moans and whines filling the room. The air smelled like River’s cherry-flavored lube and sex and it went right to Frankie’s head.

“I’m– a good boy,” Frankie breathed, cheeks burning as he bit his lip. 

“Yes you are, baby,” River grinned, letting go of his cock to plant one foot onto the mattress and fuck into him deeper.

Frankie’s head hung low between his shoulders as his body jerked forward with each of River’s thrusts. The sensations were all-consuming, every nerve ending crackled with barely contained energy. His moans were ragged, and River’s fingers dug into his sweat-slick skin.  .

Suddenly, River hit somewhere inside him that made him see stars, making him throw his head back. “Fuck! Fuck,” he trembled. “Riv, I’m gonna–”

“Let go, baby,” River purred, gripping onto each side of his narrow waist as they drove into him. They watched the toy fucking into Frankie’s tight hole, the rim stretching obscenely. 

“W-wanna look at you,” Frankie breathed, turning his head back to try and see them.

River slowed down and pulled out gently. The air left Frankie’s lungs at the feeling, making his trembling body fall to the side. His cock was painfully hard, all red and leaking. “C’mere,” River soothed, turning him onto his back. He reached out for them, and River moved between his thighs, sliding back into him.

Frankie moaned happily, wrapping his legs around their trim waist. River kissed him deeply, picking back up where they left off, hitting his prostate on every other thrust. His short nails dug into River’s back, scratching in pleasure. Frankie was a mess, panting hotly into River’s mouth, eyes closed in bliss. 

“I’m gonna come,” Frankie whispered, eyes glazed over as he watched their focused face. He looked between their bodies, the steady rhythm of River’s hips hypnotizing him.

“Come for me,” River panted against Frankie’s cheek. It didn’t take much convincing after that, Frankie’s body jerking and trembling with his release. River matched the waves of his orgasm with slow thrusts, prolonging it just a little more for him.

The sounds leaving Frankie’s body sounded foreign to his own ears, but he felt so much lighter and every thought or doubt in his mind was gone. It was the same way he felt when he flew.

“Did so good, baby,” River praised, resting him gently onto his back as they pulled out. Frankie felt empty and clenched around nothing, his hole stretched and sensitive. He was sticky and hot and completely content.

Frankie hummed like a happy, purring cat, and grinned up at them as they smiled down at him. “You’re amazing,” he said drunkenly.

River snorted and leaned down to kiss him and nip at his chin a couple times. 

“Now you,” he said tiredly, but full of determination.

“No, you need a nap first,” River chuckled, crawling off the bed to unhook the harness. There were faint indents where the straps had been, and he watched them saunter into the bathroom.

When they came back, it was with a damp washcloth to clean him up. His body was too heavy and tired and sated for him to protest. His eyelids got heavier the longer he laid there and before he knew it, he was fast asleep.

Frankie woke to the sound of water running. His heavy eyelids drooped a few times before they opened to an empty bedroom. He frowned, blinking as he looked around for River.

He faintly heard the sounds of Tori Amos’ voice coming from the bathroom and smiled. His tired body moved slowly, but then he was leaning against the doorframe, watching as River cleaned the toy they’d used on him earlier.

“Hey, cutie,” River grinned. They were still naked, with their legs crossed over the closed toilet seat as they washed the dildo, long hair like a curtain on either side of their face. They motioned to their phone so Frankie could pause the music, which he did.

“Hey,” he smiled shyly. “How long was I out?”

“Only a few minutes. Do you need anything?”

Frankie shook his head. He was fine. “A bath might be nice, though.”

River laughed lightly and nodded in agreement. “I’ll fill the tub.”

“Do you wanna join me?”

River smiled as they turned the knob. “Of course.”

They both settled in the tub, after Frankie insisted that River sit between his legs so he could hold them. River grabbed one of his large hands and played with his fingers, comparing the size difference. Frankie’s hands were strong, with years of military training and calluses to prove it. River’s were thinner, with only a couple of calluses from their drawing tools.

“How are you feeling?” They asked softly.

Frankie hummed as he thought about it. “Sore,” he chuckled. “But good. Really good. Thank you.”

River smiled. “Anytime. And I mean it,” they rested their head on his chest, turning slightly so they could look at him. “Seriously. You can always tell me if you’re feeling like switching things up.”

Frankie laughed and kissed their cheek. “I’ll remember.”

“Good.”

Silence settled over them comfortably, the only sounds in the room from one of Frankie’s legs lifting out of the water to rest on the edge of the tub. He started kissing down the side of their neck tenderly, then latching onto an earlobe to nibble gently.

“You’re insatiable,” River giggled, feeling ticklish.

“Never got to repay the favor,” he grumbled low in his chest, one hand coming up to tweak one of their nipples while the other moved lower down their stomach.

“Frankie, you don’t–”

“Shh,” Frankie protested softly, his hand moving down between their legs to tease their clit. River’s legs fell open easily, a soft moan leaving their lips. His middle finger moved in gentle circles around the nub and they melted into his arms.

River’s eyes shut as they let him do what he wanted, their arousal still very much present from before. It didn’t take much for Frankie’s two middle fingers to make their way inside them, fucking steadily. The water splashed around the movement of his hand, making River shudder.

Frankie sucked a dark mark in an open spot around a tattoo on River’s shoulder as his thumb rubbed at their clit.

“Shit,” River gasped, blunt nails digging into Frankie’s thigh and the edge of the tub simultaneously. That was the only warning Frankie got before their body went taut as they came around his fingers, hips rolling with the waves of the water.

Frankie hummed appreciatively and removed his fingers as they came down. “Gorgeous,” he whispered, turning their face so he could kiss them properly. River exhaled into the kiss, melting.

“Sneaky,” they breathed against his lips, and Frankie laughed.

“I have my moments.”

When they pulled apart, River planted one more kiss on his cheek before cuddling close. The water was getting cold, but they didn’t want to move just yet.

Frankie massaged their hips where the harness had laid, making River smile.

“Y’know,” River started. “Might let you try that sometime.”

“Try what, Río?” He hummed, fingers soothing River’s tender flesh.

“Fucking my ass. It’s been a long time since someone did that.”

Frankie froze, hands gripped onto their hip bones. His exhausted cock gave a valiant twitch against their back.

River laughed lightly and shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. We’ll see.”

[penvisions]

one fish, two fish {series masterlist}

Fandom: Triple Frontier

Pairing: Local! Frankie Morales x Transplant! Reader

Summary: You've only had two encounters with the man, something you remind yourself as you stare at the number he scribbled down for you. But what could you possibly lose in texting him the second your new phone was set up? He had kissed you goodnight after all and maybe...maybe there was more there to be explored.

Word Count: undetermined

Warnings: canon typical language, adult language, canon typical violence, some events may occur, past use of recreational drugs, narcotics, past drug use, drugs used as a coping mechanism (in the past), recovery, both frankie and reader were honorably discharged, na meeting setting sprinkled in, deep talk, deep connection, misunderstandings, adult content, smut, piv, protected and then unprotected piv, oral (m and f receiving), masturbation, awkward interactions, quick feelings, parent! frankie, reader has some trauma (like frankie), they are so goofy with each other, fluff, more to be added as the story develops!

A/N: this started as a lil idea for a one shot based on the 1500 kisses challenge hosted by @janaispunk and it flourished into a series because these two characters have more to say and do and i am but a humble writer heeding their commands. excited to delve into another frankie fic!!

series teaser || chapter one || chapter two || chapter three

[pimosworld]

Read it again- part I

I wanted to start a list of recs that I find myself going back to when I’m happy or sad or just in need of something to distract me from the crazy world we live in. This will be multiple parts so consider this the first installment. These will be old/new/current wips and fics.

Please head the warnings in each fic or series.

Triple Frontier

The devils backbone- @ezrasbirdie

Feed your ego- @whatthefishh

War makes thieves and peace hangs them- @brandyllyn

Messy Pile of Affection Series- @flightlessangelwings

The homecoming series- @astroboots

Awakening Series- @romanarose

Switch to channel 2- @autumnleaves1991-blog

My best friends girl- @tropes-and-tales

Moon Knight

Prized possession- @melodygatesauthor

Third ones the charm-(part I, part II) @missdictatorme

Egg Fried Rice- @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

The Jake problem- (part I, part II) @bensolosbluesaber

For science- @projectionistwrites

Joel Miller

Pink- @netherfeildren

The checklist- @thetriumphantpanda

Trick or Treat- @morallyinept

Meet me in the back- @atticrissfinch

Honey do- @kiwisbell

Take care of you- @theidiotwhowritesthings

Javier Peña

It’s never too late- @javierpena-inatacvest

Paranoid heart- @goodwithcheese

Late night texts- @undercoverpena

D.I.Y.- @swiftispunk

Please comment and reblog the authors works that they pour their time, heart and soul into.

Feel free to leave a comment with your favorite re-read or message me directly to include in future installments.

[raspberrybesitos]

let’s get outta here, baby | frankies morales x f!reader

Valentine’s masterlist | Main masterlist | Palestine

Please take some time to go through the Palestine links. If you enjoy my writing, I ask you to help Palestine in any way you can.

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word count: ~2.5k

Summary: Frankie whisks you away on Valentine’s Day for a romantic evening secluded by the water.

Warnings: established relationship, exhibitionism, oral (f!receiving), face riding, unprotected PIV (wrap it up y’all), creampie, fluff, pet names (baby, hermosa, querida, amor) after care, reader has no description, no mention of hair type/body type/skin color, NO USE OF Y/N.

A/N: let’s try this again. happy frankie friday! oh how i missed my Frankie so much omg 😭 he and Javi are tied for my favorite Pedro boys tbh. i love love love him sm. anyway, i hope y’all enjoy!! as always, not beta’d - all mistakes are my own. 🏃‍♀️

Translations: Te amo = I love you

Divider by @saradika-graphics

“Come on, baby. Get dressed, we have plans,” he said.

“Where are we going, Frankie? I just got comfy, plus I thought we were gonna stay in and watch a movie or a few episodes of our show?” You pout, already snuggled in on the couch, lounging in your leggings and one of Frankie’s hoodies.

“I know, but I thought we could do something else tonight. And what you’re wearing is actually perfect, just throw on some comfy shoes. I promise it’s nothing crazy. Now come on. Let’s get outta here, baby,” he says, car keys in hand as he extends a hand to you.

That was 2 hours ago, his left hand drumming on the steering wheel to the music that plays throughout the speaker, his right hand resting on your thigh, giving it an occasional squeeze.

After the two of you worked crazy hours the past week, work had finally given you a deserved day off, and it just so happened to be Valentine’s Day. Frankie opted to use his sick hours, giving you two the whole day to yourselves. You’d craved to sit at home and wait for your boyfriend to get home to enjoy a romantic evening at home with him.

Frankie had other plans it seems.

Your hand rests atop his, fiddling with his fingers as you hum along to the music. The road winds along the coast, the rind of clouds floating in the tangerine sky. reflecting off the water. Traffic was a bit heavy, but Frankie said it didn’t matter what time you two made it to the location, that it’d be open. 

Pulling up to a hill, Frankie drives upwards. Your brows furrow in confusion, head snapping to gaze at your boyfriend. He pulls his hand from your thigh as he maneuvers the car up the hill, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Where are you taking me, Francisco?” You playfully question him. 

“I told you, it’s a surprise, baby. You’ll see,” he says smugly. Jokingly scrutinizing him, you cross your arms and hum. 

Soon enough, he pulls the car to a stop and cuts the engine. He’s parked on a cliff overlooking the coast, the waves crashing in the background. Crickets chirping and a brisk breeze blows through the air. Frankie rushes out of the car and to the trunk.

“Don’t look back here yet, querida!” He shouts. He’d told you the same thing before you’d left, covering your eyes as he helped you in the truck and blocking off the backseat with some blankets. You hear Frankie grunting and shuffling around the trunk, smiling softly to yourself at the thought of him all flustered. 

“Need any help, baby?” You yell over the commotion. You’re met with a few more grunts and can feel Frankie crawling in the trunk.

What the hell is he doing?

Popping up in your peripheral, you jump slightly as he stands there - his cheeks flushed as he takes off his cap and runs a hand through his hair before putting it back on.

“Come on, querida,” he says, his hand extended awaiting your grasp. A suspicious smirk tugs at your lips, brows scrunched in question. He leads you to the rear of the truck, the trunk door open. Pillows and blankets strewn about the truck bed, a cooler and his laptop lay on the floor.

Gasping at the sight in front of you, tears spring in your eyes. You whirl around, hands still entwined as a cheek-splitting smile crinkles your face.

“Frankie. You did all this for me?” You ask quietly, Frankie mirroring your smile. 

“Of course, querida. I know we said no gifts this year and we wanted to stay in with work being hectic for both of us, but you still deserve something.” His voice growing hushed and timid, his free hand fidgeting as his neck flushes red. Smiling even bigger, you throw your arms around his broad shoulders, looping them around his neck and crash your lips onto his. Frankie cups your cheeks as you two smile into each other, soft laughter bubbling from both of you.

“You are the sweetest man alive, Francisco Morales,” you whisper, disconnecting from him. His cheeks flush with heat. “I don’t know about all that, querida,” he rasps against your lips, grinning bashfully.

“You are, Frankie. This is perfect. Thank you for this, amor - for loving me. I love you,” you utter sweetly, threading your fingers through his curls and giving his head an affectionate, gentle scratch.

“No need to thank me, baby. Loving you is the best decision I’ve ever made. I love you - so much, hermosa,” he affirms, his voice growing huskier. He stealthily sneaks his hands down your back, resting them on the globes of your ass. He leans in, capturing your lips in another tender kiss.

The tenderness doesn’t last long though as the kiss blossoms into something hungrier, thick with lust. Frankie walks you backwards towards the truck bed, carefully helping you inside.

Only breaking for air to scoot back and settle into the makeshift mattress. He slowly settles you on your back against the plush padding of the blankets and pillows. Yanking him down for another hungry kiss, moans and sighs grow louder. The area is so secluded, no one is around to hear.

He slides his tongue into your mouth, tongues entangled and teeth clashing together. Moaning into him, he brings his rough, warm hands to cup your cheeks, sucking your bottom lip in between his teeth.

“Frankie,” you moan softly, parting from his lips, panting. Frankie suckles on your neck, moving his way to nip at your jaw. Kissing his way down your body, you moan quietly when he presses a kiss above your clothed mound.

“Can I take these off, hermosa?” He asks softly, toying with the hem of your leggings. You nod, whimpering as he slides them off, not wasting a second. Peppering kisses along your bare thighs, you squirm beneath him - desperate for his mouth.

“Need to taste you, baby,” he rasps, kissing your mound before slipping off your panties, tossing them to the side to join your leggings. You lift your hips, aiding him in the process and lay back down as he licks his lips. Eyes blown black and wild, eager and hungry for you. The feel of his lips against your bare sex earns him a whine, a desperate plea for more.

“I got you, querida,” he grits, diving in and licking a long, languid stripe between your folds, moaning into you as he savors the sweet, salty tang of your slick. Moaning at the feeling of his hot mouth on your aching core, you tug on his soft curls. Frankie grunts into you, always loving the way you grip his hair, holding onto him for purchase as he unravels you.

A wanton moan tumbles from your lips, slick endlessly streaming from your weeping cunt as Frankie slurps up every droplet. Your back arching further into the air as your head sinks deeper into the plush mountain of pillows and blankets on the truck bed.

“So fucking good, Frankie, fuck, yes, baby." Your moans bloom into a cry as Frankie abruptly stops, pulling away and sitting up. His cheeks sticky with your nectar, and his eyes black and wild - vehement. He sits up against the pillows, bringing you to sit up with him.

“Wh-what? No, Frankie, please why’d you st-,” you whine, until Frankie cuts you off with his rough grasp. He drags you up his chest, leaving a trail of slick on his belly and broad chest, before coming face-to-face with your dripping cunt - groaning at the sight of your swollen clit. Without a word, he forces you to sit on his face, his strong nose nudging at your clit as his tongue prods in and out of your entrance.

Sucking in a sharp gasp, you clutch his curls, the new position throwing you off-kilter. Gasps morph into uncontrollable moans as he grips your thighs tightly, your hips rocking into his face. His tongue flicks your precious pearl swirling frantic circles around your clit before wrapping his lips around your swollen bud.

“Oh my god, oh my fucking god, Frankie,” you keen, your orgasm rapidly approaching - taunting you on a precipice that’s just within reach. Frankie moaning below you, the vibrations sending jolts of electricity throughout your entire body. 

You glance down with glazed eyes, catching a glimpse of him drunk off your pussy. Eyes shut in bliss, cheeks flushed and shiny, his scruff burning your thighs, curls disheveled as he moans while working his skillful tongue. It pushes you further to the edge, wailing above him as you cant your hips harder into his face.

“Yes, yes, yes, Frankie! Oh fuck, Frankie! I’m gonna come, I’m gonna - oh fuck!”

Twitching and writhing above him, he releases your clit from his lips and licks another long stripe through your folds before relentlessly flicking at your precious swollen bud again.

“Frankie, oh fuck! Frankie, Frankie, Frankie!”

You crumble, your body nearly folding in on itself as your orgasm sets your body aflame, rutting your hips into your boyfriend’s face. Screaming his name as you ride out your orgasm. Your heartbeat thrumming in your ears like the waves crashing in the ocean nearby.

As the rush of your orgasm slows, Frankie wastes no time to slide you off his face, licking his lips and eyes wide and feral. Your legs tremble as he settles you atop his stomach. The trail of hair brushing against your sensitive clit, hissing at the sensation.

Frankie grunts with his bottom lip sucked in between his teeth as he hastily fiddles with his belt, unbuttoning his jeans and yanking his briefs and pants down in one go.

“Need to be inside you, querida,” he grits. You love seeing him so needy, desperate - so wild. He drags you down his stomach, his weeping cock brushes against your folds - guttural moans bouncing off the confines of the truck. He lifts your hips slightly, just enough to slide you down on his cock. Your mouth agape in a perfect O as you slowly sink onto his heavy, hard length. Filling you to the brim, fluttering around him as he twitches inside of you.

“Frankie, s-so full,” you whisper, voice pitchy and desperate. He groans as you clench around him. 

“Fuck, don’t do that, hermosa. Or else this’ll end before it starts.”

He slowly grinds his hips, pushing his cock deeper into you. Shuddering as he feels impossibly deep, taking him is never an easy feat, but the reward is priceless. The stretch aches deliciously as he splits you open.

You slowly grind your hips into his, meeting him with his thrusts. Moans stream from your lips, an endless river of Frankie Frankie Frankie. Your orgasm cresting, the sensitivity still prevalent from the one he gave you just minutes ago. Lifting off him with what little strength you have, you slam your hips back down onto him.

The stretch of his cock makes your eyes roll to the back of your head as you sink back down onto him. He hits that spot just right as he fucks up into you.

“Sweetest fucking pussy ever. Mine, it's all mine, huh, querida? Who does this pussy belong to?” He grits, his hips canting upwards, thrusts growing sloppier every time.

“Y-yours, Frankie! 'S all yours, I'm all yours,” you slur, vision growing spotty.

“‘S right, baby. You're mine. All fucking mine," he moans, his cock punching your g-spot hard, wailing at the feel of him.

“Frankie! Oh god, Frankie,” you keen, bracing yourself on his clothed chest as he fucks you as if his life depends on it.

“Come on, querida. Come for me, you’re so close. Squeezing me so goddamn tight. Let go, baby. Soak my cock, baby, need you to soak my cock, querida,” he babbles, fighting off his own orgasm as you reach the top of yours.

His words send you crashing into your second orgasm, screaming as he fucks you through it. His own resolve crumbles as he watches you squirm and feels you squeeze around him.

Your hearing muffled as your orgasm drags you under the waves, you hear Frankie shout strings of profanities as you feel his cum coat your fluttering walls. The two of you ride out your highs together.

Your vision hazy, covered in a thick fog of bliss as you float back to the surface of reality from the waves of your orgasm. You collapse on his chest, the two of you full clothed, save for your bottoms. Laying on him for a moment, silence hangs in the cool air as you two catch your breath.

He traces patterns on your lower back, huffing as he regains control of himself. His rapid heartbeat returns to a steady thrum, calming your senses. Sex and sweat coats your bodies and the air in the trunk.

Carefully flipping you onto your back, he slips out of you slowly, hissing in tandem at the loss. He grabs one of the extra blankets he packed from the floor and wipes off the combination of his cum and your slick between your thighs. He cleans himself up before tossing the blanket on the floor behind the passenger seat.

Sitting up, you slide your leggings back on, forgoing your panties. Frankie tosses his belt off to the side and pulls his jeans up, leaving the button undone.

“You okay, baby?” He asks, sitting beside you.

Always a gentleman, always checking in with you. 

Bringing a hand to his cheek, you smile at him with heavy eyes. 

“I’m good, baby. Thank you,” you whisper. He smiles, placing a tender kiss on your palm before he lays beside you. 

“I am a little hungry now though. You didn’t tell me we’d be on the road for so long and doing strenuous activities,” you joke. His chest rumbles while he chuckles heartily.

“I didn’t expect to be doing any strenuous activities either… well, at least not so soon into our date.”

“At least wine and dine me first, Morales,” you giggle. He nips at your neck, your giggles blossoming into a belly laugh.

“Come on, amor. Let’s eat. Gotta make sure my girl is ready for round two when we get home,” he says with a wink. He sits up, pulling you up with him. You rearrange the padding and pull up a movie on his laptop as he digs for something in the cooler. 

He pulls out two beers, his toothy grin making you smile. Cracking open two beers, he hands you one and settles back on the fort. He throws a blanket over you two as you snuggle into his side, clinking your bottles together in a silent toast, grinning from ear to ear.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, hermosa. Te amo, baby,” Frankie rasps against your head, pressing a soft kiss to your hairline. Gazing up at him, eyelids droopy with love and admiration. You capture his lips in a sweet, chaste kiss as he pulls you in closer, squeezing you tight.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, mi amor. Te amo también.”

tag list: @honeyedmiller @gracieheartspedro @nostalxgic @harriedandharassed @loliwrites @pedrostories

[writefightandflightclub]

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

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

Series genre: a LOT of tasty angst, tasty smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see series warnings, here. Please note this series is 18+ / NSFW / MDNI. Minors or ageless blocks interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. Posting schedule and series masterlist are here. 

Author’s note: Thank you SO much for the response to Chapter One! And if you're still with it, I hope you enjoy chapter 2! It has been a LOOONNNNGGG time coming! 😆 This one is slightly shorter, with a bit of exposition to bridge between the OG instalment and the meat of our newly embarked upon continuation! The next chapters are where things really kick-off, but I do hope you enjoy this stoking of some tension, and, of course, finally seeing Santiago again - for the first time since the jarring conclusion to chapter one!!!!!! 

Word count: 4.8k for this part 

“It’s okay,” Frankie rumbles, looking at you levelly. “You can ask me about him.” 

You sigh, squirming in place - on the rear porch steps of your sister’s home - as your game is finally unmasked. Your pretense dashed. 

The hubbub of the lazy, Sunday BBQ is nothing but background to you now as Frankie zones in on your true wants, rendering you as an observer - rather than a participant - in the annual gathering you usually draw an abundance of joy from. 

Not so today, despite your best efforts at going through the motions. At pretending like everything is fine. 

Up to now, chatting idly with your bud in this safe little bubble, you’ve cycled through a gazillion conversation starters; each to emphasise just how interested you are in Frankie, and Whatever He Has Going On. Clearly though, you have failed to convince. Your friend simply knows you too well. Knows your weaknesses. 

Your one true weakness. Santiago “Pope” Garcia. 

You look at kind-eyed Frankie apologetically from beneath your lashes, sorry that your flimsy chat has failed to mask your disinterest in... um, whatever it was he was saying. 

“Shit, I’m sorry, Cat.” Then, so help you, you ask the question you’ve actually been burning to ask all day. “How’s he doing, Frankie? Really?” 

Confirming the shift in tone, Frankie sets his plate of food aside and nestles his bottle of beer on the corner of the lowest porch step. Now you’re having a conversation. The pilot tents his fingers together in his lap, giving your question the full merit it deserves. “Pope?” 

Who else? 

“He’s… fine,” Frankie nods, studying your face as he says the words. Noticing -no doubt- the way you chew on your lip as your gaze wanders, fixing on the man in question. As you watch him mingle comfortably, effortlessly, amongst the throng of people on the lawn. Making connections, as per usual. 

Your stomach drops. An unease jostles in the pit of you. The niggle of regret. 

You shouldn’t have invited the guys here today. Shouldn’t have agreed to have them be present at your family gathering. Shouldn’t have agreed to follow-up it up with a squad weekend at the beach house - no matter that it’s tradition. But, then again, who were you to disrupt the usual way of things? And, more so, who were you to pretend that you didn’t want to see him again? After all this time? 

In truth, you had wanted nothing else but to see him again. That is, until you had laid eyes on him, and then, very quickly, you had pivoted. Wanted nothing more than to keep your distance. 

Why? 

Because by all accounts it’s true. 

Santiago is fine. 

Santiago certainly looks fine. He looks fine in all senses of the fucking word. He looks as though he’s thriving, in fact. 

Your face falls at the implication: that he’s thriving without you. 

With effort, you hum, schooling your expression into something neutral; however, Frankie’s already on to you. “Is that what you wanted to hear, chiquita?”

You turn your head towards your friend and exhale a small, pitiful laugh. Pondering Frankie’s question, you set your own plate and beer down too – a signal that shit’s getting real. 

Is it? 

Is that what you wanted to hear? 

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I wanted to hear, Cat.” With a dejected sigh, you lean your head on Frankie’s shoulder, hooking your arm into the crook of his elbow. “Does that make me cruel? If I don’t wanna hear that he’s happy?” 

Your buddy doesn’t answer rightaway, but he does rest a reassuring hand on your thigh in response, his plush bottom-lip protruding as he pouts – apparently mulling over whether or not to throw you a bone. “Okay. Look,” he begins  - always a soft-touch for you - and you instantly perk-up just a little. “He had a rough spell when you left and-” Frankie huffs out air, shaking his head as though he might have gone too far in divulging already “-fuck, actually, you don’t wanna know.” 

You head snaps up from Frankie’s shoulder as it begins to shake with mirth, your curiosity piqued. 

“What?” you probe, as Frankie turns his head to look at you, a smile cracking his sharp features. Apparently, Frankie has a small part of him which is cruel too. “We stumbled upon his heartbreak playlist. And it was not pretty.” 

“Come on now,” you protest, a little too defensively, your mouth suddenly dry.  “I hardly broke the fucker’s heart.” 

Frankie pumps his eyebrows. Shrugs his shoulders. Then, his bark-brown eyes mist over, just a little. “More likely than you think, chiquita.” 

With that, your eyes flick right back to Santiago’s figure on the other side of the yard, as if trying to reconcile Frankie’s assertion with the reality you see before you. After all, Santiago “Pope” Garcia looks fine. In all senses of the word. 

Right this second, for example, he’s engaged in a highly tactical water fight with your kid nephews. About to enter the killbox any moment, you wager, given that 5 and 7-year-olds don’t seem bound by those pesky rules of engagement. His cargo shorts are – naturally - far too tight, and he’s wearing his crisp blue shirt as though he forgot what buttons did half-way through getting dressed, the fabric split in a deep, plunging “V” across his tan chest. 

Despite all that, however, the thing which captures your attention most, is the beaming, wide-open grin he has painted on his face. 

He looks... 

...Happy.  

Genuinely happy. The bastard. 

This is the first time he’s seen you since he stormed out of your apartment all those months ago. The first chance he’s had to make things right - and he hasn’t spoken a word to you all day. Despite being in your family’s yard. Eating your sister’s food. Playing with your goddamn nephews. You broke his heart, apparently. So Frankie tells you. And yet this fucker dares to looks happy. 

So… Is that what you wanted? 

For him to be happy? 

Without you? 

Or… is a small part of you cruel? 

You’re not sure about the answer to that question, but you do know that your eyes turn mildly devilish as they flick back towards your buddy, your voice hushed and downright conspiratorial. All of a sudden, you’re not concerned with being the bigger person. 

You decide you’ll willingly catch that bone Frankie is throwing. “Tell me more about this playlist, Francisco.” 

You need this, you justify internally. You need something. Some sign that Santiago is hurting too. 

You’ve needed this for months, in fact; but, goddamn - you especially need this before you and the squad spends a whole weekend together up at the beach house. 

You need it badly.

Why? 

Because you’re not fine. 

Not fine at all. 

Not fine without him. 

This is your family's yard, and it’s your family’s  party, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him since he stormed out of your apartment all those months ago… and you’re emphatically not happy about it. Have found that, despite what you had hoped for, your reunion hasn’t solved a damn thing. Hasn’t eased the knot in your chest. Hasn’t allowed you to feel any sense of resolution.

“Fuck.” Your eyes brim over with the realisation, wet and glassy, and a tight lump balls in your throat. 

“Come on,” Frankie mutters - softly but urgently - as your eyes begin to swim with emotion. He nods up towards the interior of the house, and you are endlessly grateful when, with minimal spectacle, your buddy bundles you inside, his arm slung casually around your shoulder for comfort. 

You’re not the retreating type. At all. You have always been comfortable running headlong into things that scare you. Even so, it is a marked relief when you do slink inside. A relief that you were able to save face. Keep your pain hidden. But, most of all, it is a relief that you no longer need to suffer Santiago’s abject joy. 

It is a relief in the same way it is to retreat from the blazing sun, and you immediately find sanctuary in the cool, shaded interior of the house. 

Still, given the tumult of emotions inspired by his general proximity today, you are less and less sure that you can handle this trip. 

The only thing pushing you to go through with it, in fact, is the knowledge that there’s one thing harder than being close to Santiago… and that’s being apart from him. 

Perhaps Frankie’s wrong. Perhaps you didn’t break Santiago’s heart when you left. But, one thing’s for sure. Leaving him had certainly broken yours.

Truth be told, even after all this time, you’ve barely begun to put yourself back together. 

You’re in pieces; which - to be fair - is always how Santiago liked to see you, isn’t it? 

A friend. A soldier. A lover.  

That’s the only way you can stand to view him now. In mere fragments. In the shrapnel of stolen glances; because trying to see him all at once? That’s like trying to stare directly at the sun. 

He is too bright for you and it burns. Even with all this distance. 

***

You’re surrounded by laughter and chatter, yet you feel an unease. An unrest in the pit of you. 

Will’s ballcap is tugged down over your eyes under the guise of staying warm - a flimsy excuse, considering the raging fire pit in the centre of you all, acting as the warm sun to your orbits of beer, passed amiably around from hand to hand via the cooler at Will’s side. 

Naturally, the conversation has veered sharply towards the crude - it reliably does when you are and the boys are all together. 

“For real, Pope. Since we’re, uh, sharing,” Tom interjects, already looking far too pleased with himself. “Do you ever play up the knee thing to… encourage women to go on top?” Tom’s question earns shocked titters from Will and Frankie and, despite yourself, a softly exhaled laugh from you. 

“Why are you so obsessed with me?” Santiago asks Tom with an assured grin, and, upon being subject to the group’s attention, he leans forward in his camp chair. He drains the dregs of his beer and tosses the emptied bottle into the gathering pile in the sand, the label already peeled off by his nimble fingers.

Tom presses him for an answer, and you see Santiago’s pearly flash of teeth glinting in the firelight. “Play it up, buddy?” Santiago emits a deep, throaty chuckle which bobs in his corded neck. The sound is echoed by the other boys too, the threshold for laughter pleasantly lowered by the alcohol. 

Their movements are growing increasingly pack-like - a little less measured and a little more instinctual. Less individual and more unified. Moving as a team even as they sit still, with their spread legs and dropped shoulders and dipped chins. Alert eyes glinting in the dark with each lick of flame. Their energy would intimidate you, you think, if you didn’t know them. If you didn’t feel safer here than anywhere else in the world.

Still wearing that grin, Santiago scoops his hand over his stubble, his finger and thumb tracing around his mouth. “It’s practically a pick-up strategy.” His voice is warm sand and it scrapes you. Leaves a mark. 

Frankie titters off to Santiago’s side - a chaotic, beer-addled laugh. To his other side, Will grins too, his laughter striking a robust and deep note, even whilst shaking his head as though he’s somehow above it all. Together, their sounds form a cacophony you can feel deep in your chest - like the rumble of bass from a speaker, or the subdued roar of the ocean. 

If they are a pack, you - for once - are at odds. You feel it now more than ever, and it jars you. You are hyper-conscious that no display of mirth falls from you; and, in fact, the corners of your mouth turn down. 

Instead, you dwell on this roar - this rumble and hum under your skin. If you feel like the tide, like you are being swept up, Santiago is your shore. Everything about him draws you in, and you feel you could wash him away with the force of your need for him. 

Regardless of that, you continue to do precisely what you’ve been doing all night. You try to bury everything. To subdue your feelings. To calm this frenzy deep in the pit of you. In this moment, thinking about Santiago pursuing people other than you - listening to the damn stories - you take that urge quite literally, digging your bare toes deeply and intently into the sand as though you could disappear wholly into it. 

But; even that reminds you. 

Everything reminds you. 

Santiago. 

You’ve thought of nothing else all night. 

How could you? 

And, you feel the lack of him. 

The roughness of the sand against your smooth skin is a poor substitute for the rasp of his stubble. For the grit of his voice against your throat. The warmth of the curling, licking flame is a poor substitute for his body heat. His curling tongue. His fingers. The way you bury your feelings has nothing on how he buried himself in you. 

You fall into memories, tacky and hot, tumbling, and yet Will’s voice rips you abruptly back to the present. 

“How in the hell do you spin that one, man?” he asks Santiago with a genuine curiosity, his ice blue eyes dancing with amusement.  

Santiago risks a sheepish glance at you then, as though sensitive that his prowess with women might offend you in some way; but your eyes simply glance off of his like a flung spark from the fire pit, desperate to turn towards the dark and rid yourself of any heat which he may ignite. Desperate not to linger on the way the shadows and the light pool across the harsh planes of his face. The way his dark eyes are flickering and alive, and entirely capable of burning. 

And so, Santiago continues, relishing his moment. “Come on. It’s easy,” he breezes. He clears his throat, fully readying to inhabit his role. He shuffles in his chair and changes his demeanour, his body language, his voice. Shifting and contorting himself until he is layered with seduction. His frame even grows bigger, bolder, his legs spread. Chin raised and eyes hooded with a slow, sultry blink of those long lashes. 

Even this performance of heat hurts you; burns. Burns brightly enough that you have to look away from him before your skin is singed by it. “Hermosa,” he rasps, voice pleasantly scuffed by beer and smoke, the sound so rough and gritty you swear you can feel it scrape your skin. Your core clenches around the full, deep, dark tones of him, as though they alone could fill you.

The fire throws out careless sparks like cracked whips, and, like them, you cling to a dying heat. This vestige of the way he spoke to you in the dead, dark night at one time, your bodies all salt-slick skin. “You’re right,” he purrs, and you see that his body has shifted - angled towards Tom. 

You feel embarrassed. You feel alight, as though somehow, they could all find you out in this moment. Could sense the wet slick pooling between your legs. Smell it somehow. Like all of a sudden their eyes will converge on you and they will know - hear the flutter of your pulse in your throat. Sense the throb building in your core. Feel you barrelling from dull ache to desperation. 

“About what?” Tom asks, playing along as Santiago sneaks a hand up his thigh. 

Santiago’s smile is lopsided. Charming, but full of challenge. “Thinking that I’m a bad idea.” He’s hamming it up, for sure, but the syrup and grit in his voice is taking you right back there all the same. Right back to between those sheets, and a disobedient heat snakes down your back. 

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” 

“Well,” Santiago offers with faux regret, voice husky, and you can’t help but lift your eyes back to him. Can’t possibly look anywhere else now. Can’t help but observe the smirk twitching his appealing mouth and the way his thick brow arcs up. “‘Cause my knees are shot from years in the military, so I’m afraid you’ll have to get on top and ride me senseless.” 

God in heaven.  

Looking at him was a mistake, even like this. Even as he feigns seducing Tom, of all people. There’s just something about the rough edge layered into his voice right now. Something about the firelight painting his sharply-angled face with shadow. The flickers causing his smouldering eyes to glint with an echo of that formidable, latent heat. 

You feel this vestige of warmth in you ignite. Feel it begin to blaze and catch. You feel memories of him, his skin, his touch, amassing grain by grain. Ever so suddenly you are the shore now. Parched. A hot, baking expanse seeking its relieving tide. 

God, you want him. 

You feel your core shiver around the memory of him slipped into you, deep and dirty, teeth on your throat, and it’s almost too much to take. 

You need him, even though you’re still so damn angry with him. 

Or… no. No, that’s not it. Yes - you want him because of it. 

You need to fuck the residual anger from beneath your skin, for it has festered there for months now. Months, and you need it to move. Need it to give. Need it slaked and sated and gone. 

It’s not a healthy desire, you think, and you feel a little shame at that. You are grateful then - as Santiago effortlessly drags you back into the inescapable pit of him - that the boys’ laughter tears you abruptly from this impossible yearning. Gives you a lifeline. Reminds you where you are. How far you’ve come. 

You got out. And that meant leaving him behind too, didn’t it? 

“You’re such a fucking dog, man,” Will snickers. 

The chair over, Frankie’s shoulders are shaking with laughter too, his head tipped up to the sky and his eyes disappeared with it. You wish that you could laugh like that. That you could feel light, but instead you feel heavy and sick. 

“That works?” Tom asks incredulously, and you take another hasty swig of your beer, the froth hissing against your lips and a hoppy taste flooding your tongue. You briefly wish it was something stronger.

“Don’t go getting ideas, Tom,” Santiago says smugly, slapping his buddy emphatically on the thigh. “Works when I do it.” 

Oh, you bet it does. You bet it works. 

Tom throws Santiago a stink-eye then, before sitting slightly taller in his chair, his face contorting in a clear attempt to smoulder. “My knees are shot from years in the military...” Tom echoes, trying to inject a similar level of grit into his voice... and, the contrast? The failure? It is… an instant relief. 

Tom’s attempt is laughable, in fact. And so, when your favourite pilot’s dense, throaty chuckle sounds out to your side once more – this time, you can’t help but crack a smile too. Indeed, the laughter which spills out of you is a welcome vent, and so you reach for it wholeheartedly. 

There is an eruption of good-natured, teasing banter from the boys now - and Tom looks miffed that his attempt to tease Santiago has almost entirely backfired. Then, grasping for this welcome escape route a tad too eagerly, perhaps, you submit your own dig. “You might wanna run that script again. Give us a little less of that insurance infomercial vibe next time, buddy.” 

Frankie can barely breathe from laughing now, his hand coming to clutch his belly, and it’s pleasantly infectious. The atmosphere is safe and cocooning and familiar, and for the first time tonight you almost forget. You almost forget the thing that you haven’t been able to forget for months. That Santi isn’t touching you, and that, God; you need him to. 

But then, your relief is snatched from you all too suddenly. “Well sure,” Tom aims, his shot primed to land. “You would know how it goes, right? First hand? Did Pope use that line on you too, right before he and that guy from the bar practically double-dipped you?” 

The group fucking brace. 

You can feel it. 

It’s the exact same energy as when you’ve all grabbed for purchase in the helo or the humvee, right before a collision. The world seeming to flow in slow motion, your stomach being tossed up in the air and rolling as you lurch and sink.  

Most of the time, sure. You pride yourself for being able to take the boys’ banter on the chin. For having a thick skin. For being able to muster a scathing comeback, rolling off your tongue without a thought. 

But this? This has you beat for a second. This has a sinkhole opening up in your middle.

You meet Will’s eyes for a split second in desperation, but he looks at you helplessly, and you know. You know you need to say something. You know you need to, before they witness -before he witnesses- you falling apart. Before you let your silence reveal that you’re not over Santiago. That this hang isn’t ‘just like old times’. Not like ‘before’. That maybe, it can never be how it was again. 

Finally, something comes to you, and you grab for it; once again, a little too eagerly. “At least I got some, Tom. I doubt you could even seal the deal these days.” You push the words out and hope they sound light, even as you feel a tremor in your body. In your throat. Even as you feel Santiago’s eyes on you without looking. Can imagine them, dark and knowing, and worst of all… apologetic. Maybe even pitying. “Oh hey! Just like your ‘career’ in real estate!”

“Ohhhhh shiiittt,” is the prevailing sentiment from the group, hands flung up into the air as Tom realises he’s just been owned by your spectacular throwdown. 

Good, you think. Good. You’re glad the asshole’s getting his comeuppance but, even so, your petty victory does little to fill the hole in your chest, your heart still hammering and your fingers still trembling subtly against the cool, wet neck of your beer. 

To your surprise though, Tom doesn’t even bite back. Not this time, and that makes you feel even more annoyed, somehow. It makes you feel as though your anger is misdirected. As though Tom’s not the asshole here. As though he’s not the dude you’re fuming at after all. 

Still, your comment served its purpose well enough, you think, as steady, safe banter erupts again. You are pleased that you avoided the full impact of this collision, brakes slammed on as you still teeter on the cliff edge; but your heart feels bruised and rattled in the roll cage of your chest all the same. 

Mainly though, you are pleased that you are no longer the focus of everyone’s attention. However, your skin warms when you notice one man’s eyes remain on you, his gaze fixated and hooded and intense, and a shiver of heat dips down each notch of your spine. 

You look away. You tug Will’s cap a little further down over your eyes and you wait. You wait for the topic to shift so that you can excuse yourself without the cause being quite so obvious. You wait, until you can’t take the heat from this fire a second longer. Then, and only then, you make your excuses and dip out, retreating into the empty, quiet shell of the house. 

You pad into the kitchen, the cool interior immediately relieving against your hot skin, gooseflesh snaking down your arms and making your hairs stand on end. The dim light is certainly a respite from the searing brightness of the fire and the sting of the smoke in your eyes. But most of all, of course, it is relief from him. 

Santiago. 

It’s rough. Rougher than you expected. You simply can’t take this distance from him. You’d thought, before, that the miles between you - between here and Colombia - had been hard to reckon with. But this distance? The vanishingly small distance where he’s right here yet has never felt further out of your reach? That’s a thousand times harder. This petty distance – this rupture, this wound – hurts far more, because it feels far harder to heal. Far more festering than a clean break, and seeing him has already torn out every self-applied suture. 

You don’t like that things seem to have been irrevocably changed. You don’t like that your two bodies - which used to be so in sync - are now so awkward around one another. Purposefully aloof, rather than tactile. Remaining so separate, rather than together. 

It has been slowly amassing all day, the weight of this pain. Of this lack. And now, after feeling the absence of his touch so intensely - of that blessed togetherness- ironically, you finally need a moment alone. 

You cross the room and fold yourself over the kitchen counter, hinging at the hips. You rest your head in your hands, laying your forearms flat along the cool, marbled surface. 

For a brief moment, it is even a relief. You breathe deeply. Put him out of your head. But, after only one moment more you find yourself missing the pain. You’ve become fond of it, in a way. You haven’t been able to let go because, in truth, you’ve wanted to feel the continued burn of this loss - like a scar.

It is the only proof you have left that he touched you at all. 

That you came close to having something with him. Within touching distance of it. 

But now… 

You sigh deeply. You hate this torment. You hate not knowing how to be around him. The way the familiar is recast as unfamiliar. Your certainty now uncertainty. Your home now a hotel. 

You’ve spent the whole day so far keeping your distance. Talking only to the group, always some buffer of Tom or Will or Frankie in between you. Always leaving one seat between your bodies. Avoiding prolonged eye contact. Going out of your way to make sure the two of you were never left alone.

Being left alone with him is the last thing you want; and the first, of course. 

And, as if on cue, a low whistle sounds from behind you. You know the sound without looking, and your body stiffens. “An ocean view and now this?” Santiago jokes cautiously as he approaches behind you, clearly faced with a perfect view of your ass as you fold over the counter. “Pretty sweet deal. You should get Tom in on this real estate action. He might actually sell something.” 

Despite everything, all of it, you can’t help but laugh at that. You appreciate the dig at Tom a hell of a lot more than you should, actually. 

“Listen. Are you… alright?” Santiago asks next, much more softly. You hate the way his voice prickles the hairs on the back of your neck; but also, you don’t hate it at all, of course. 

You inhale and stand, pushing your torso up from the counter. You look up to the top of the cabinets, not blinking until the would-be tears have dried, and only then do you turn towards him. 

Santiago. 

Only then do you face your sun, praying that you will not be singed.  

All day, you have had a buffer in between the two of you. Clouds, to dim his brightness. But now, it is just you and him, alone in the kitchen of the beach house. 

This bland domesticity sure is a far cry from the field, yes. From your original shared domain. But, it also serves as an all too painful reminder of the last time you saw him. Of the last time his lips moved against yours. Of the last time, in that kitchen, that he’d had you. Taken you, bunched up naked against the fridge as he filled your slick heat with his fingers. As he kissed you and tongued you and claimed you back, as if he ever intended to keep you. 

It is a reminder of the time he had told you he loved you, and with finality, you had both realised that it still might not be enough.

You turn towards him, finally, and you brace. 

Brace like you’re about to collide. 

Like there will be an impact when your eyes meet.

Your brace like you’re expecting hot tempers, hot feelings, hot words. Wounds splitting and salt being rubbed in. 

Still, that’s not at all what you get. 

Instead, Santiago’s eyes are as wet as your own. All of his boldness and bluster is gone, and he’s standing on the very perimeter of the room as though he is the one who dares to venture no further. As though you might burn him if he gets too close. 

“I missed you,” he rasps, and despite the softness and the sincerity of the words, they feel like a rough struck match against your skin. 

You try desperately. Try desperately to fling this offered spark away before it catches, but it is futile. 

He missed you, and his admission already has you blazing for him. 

He’s standing mere feet from you.

And, despite everything, all you can think about is closing this oh so petty distance. 

[berryispunk]

The Sea Is Calling Your Name

summary: Frankie has reoccurring dreams about a lighthouse. A new reality awaits him.

tags: mention of drug usage, alcohol, divorce, possibly ptsd/trauma, all the hard stuff, but we’re getting better, I promise

notes: this is part one of a series ! it’s basically the backstory for the rest of it, so come back for more :) also readable on ao3

moodboard to set the tone further here

When Frankie joined the army he hoped that it would finally give him the feeling of belonging somewhere. As a child of immigrants who had always been on the run, being desperate to chase the American dream but never creating a real home nor making enough to cover basic needs, Frankie always found himself longing for safety and stability. After years of serving, countless close calls and even more scars decorating his body than he could count, he still had nowhere to call home.

If anything, he was more restless than ever. The after-effects of serving his country, losing friends and seeing more people dying than the average individual should ever witness left its mark.

The nightmares, the short temper; he was a marked man, that much he knew. The army had swallowed him whole, took the best years of his life and spit him out like he was worth nothing.

That became even more clear when his wife had filed for divorce three months after his last

deployment. Just when he thought he could settle down for good, have a family, financially stable enough to provide not only for him, she left. The nightmares and his anger issues scared her. He couldn’t blame her, how could he?

Sometimes he couldn't even stand his own face in the mirror.

So naturally, he returned to the only way of coping he knew. Drinking and drugs. Drowning his sorrow in cheap booze and mourning what could’ve been with not-so-cheap drugs.

Every evening when he returned to his shoe box that called itself his studio apartment he crashed onto the couch face first with his brain dazed enough to stop his inner turmoil for at least a little while, he found himself dreaming of the sea.

When his eyes were closed he pictured himself on a shore, the wild waves breaking on stones. There was something beautiful in the wilderness of the sea, a force of nature, powerful enough to destroy lives and whole cities, but at the same time something very calming in listening to the waves crashing.

Overlooking nothing but the horizon and water always gave Frankie what not even the drugs could do: tranquility and freedom. When he found himself with his toes in the sand, the cold water hitting his ankles, it grounded him. It didn’t matter if it was the Gulf of Mexico, somewhere in the Dead Sea or the waters close to his home in Florida.

In the following weeks Frankie kept dreaming of the same shoreline over and over again, overlooked by a white lighthouse from a stone cliff. It was strange because he didn’t recognize it at all. His brain might be a bit hazy at times, but he would never forget a place he had once visited, so this place was new. But how could it be?

With his head thumping from the previous night’s high, he found himself reading some newspaper. He had yanked himself back to the land of the living with a coffee strong enough to give him a heart attack, although the drugs had already tried that beforehand.

Usually he didn’t care about the news, but some strange gut feeling told him to do it today. So as he mindlessly turned over a page his gaze immediately fell onto an employment ad with a small picture of the exact lighthouse of his dreams. He blinked in disbelief, rubbing his eyes. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real. How was that even possible?

After the initial shock he gathered himself and started to read the advertisement

“Looking for a lighthouse keeper.

Permanent contract.

Starting date: open position, so available immediately”

There was also a phone number written under it so Frankie, without second guessing, dialled it immediately.

After two rings a man picked up.

“Hello?” a deep, gravelly voice coming through the speaker.

“Hello, this is Frankie Morales. I call for the lighthouse keeper job?”

Silence for a beat before the man on the other end said,

“Oh… yeah. So you saw the ad? You know where the lighthouse is?”

“No, Sir. Could you give me the address?”

“That’s not how that works, boy,” the man coughs.

“Excuse me?”

There was a deep, rumbling laugh on the other end.

“You heard me. The lighthouse finds you, you’re not the one finding the lighthouse. When you see the newspaper ad you’re already close.”

Frankie couldn’t believe his ears. What the actual fuck?

“You are joking, right? Look, I’m not even sure how…”

“I don’t have time for your games, son. You’ll figure it outsoon enough. Good luck.”

And with that the line went dead and Frankie held his phone for a moment, too stunned to speak.

What the hell just happened? What kind of sick joke was that?

Maybe this was it, he thought. Maybe he had finally lost his mind for real. Wouldn’t be surprising given the amount of drugs he’d consumed in the past weeks. Maybe he really should cut down on his dosage. Or better yet, quit entirely.

The following night Frankie didn't drink or take any drugs but when he drifted off into a rather fitful sleep he dreamed of the lighthouse on the cliff again.

Startled in his sleep, covered in sweat and breathing heavily, suddenly there was one thing on his mind.

A place name. Blurry at first, almost like a distant memory, too out of reach for his conscious mind to put it into words. But after a few moments it cleared up enough to grasp and he grabbed his phone to put the name in his notes app.

Two days later Frankie found himself on a plane.

He was acutely aware of the absolute craziness of that whole situation but something just told him to keep digging, so he did. He didn’t tell anybody about the whole thing either, fearing he would be called crazy. And who would care, anyway?

When he arrived at the place it had that eerie feeling of being in the middle of nowhere. Only the ocean surrounding the small island with the lighthouse on it. There were literally no other houses around, so he headed straight to it.

If it looked impressive from afar, its sheer size was even more imposing up close. Frankie tried to remember if he ever went to a lighthouse beforehand, but all he remembered was seeing them from the sea. Might have even been a movie.

The facade of the white lighthouse was rundown with the color cracking in a lot of places. The harsh weather of the sea had probably accelerated its decay.

Its navigational light was moving relentlessly and this close you could even hear the movement. It was a whirring sound that created a unique soundtrack with the waves crashing against the shore and the wind blowing.

“You made it, I see,” a deep voice yanked him back to the present.

He looked towards the direction it came from and was greeted by a tall, old man with a white, long beard and an old worn-down wool sweater, the print so faded its colors almost bled into one. If he’d had to guess he’d say it was an 80’s print.

The man hobbled towards him but his steps were purposeful.

“Come on in, boy,” the man hollered against the strong ocean breeze and held his beret.

Frankie nodded and threw his duffle bag over his shoulder as he followed the man inside the lighthouse.

The inside was all old wood with a fireplace in the center. A small sofa and an armchair were placed right next to the heat source and a few other older pieces of furniture scattered around. It looked cozy and warm and Frankie allowed himself to relax for a moment as he sat down on the sofa.

“You want a drink?” the man asked, already a bulbous whiskey glass in hand.

Frankie nodded and took it from him as the man flopped down on the armchair with a loud sigh.

“Where am I?” Frankie asked

“In your new home,” the man retorted, which caused Frankie’s eyebrow to shoot up.

Home? A place he searched for his whole life.

Here?

“Why am I here?” he asked as he took a sip from the whiskey.

“You’re my replacement.”

“Replacement? As in… Doing your job as a lighthouse keeper?”

“Yes. This is your life now, boy. The lighthouse chose you.”

Frankie shook his head in disbelief at the absurdity of this statement.

“It’s a lighthouse, it doesn’t have a brain or feelings for that matter,” he scoffed and the man chuckled gravely.

“Oh, the lighthouse is so much more than you think it is. It’s a lover, a mother, a provider for all people open enough for it.”

Frankie frowns. “So I stay here and you leave?”

“Yes. My time on this earth is over I fear.” The man coughed like he had back on the telephone.

“What if I have questions? What if I… I… Don’t want to do this?”

“The lighthouse will give you all the answers you need, son. Trust in it and you’ll be heard,” the man said calmly but also with a hint of authority.

“How long have you been here?” Frankie asked, mustering the man for a moment, registering his weariness.

“Almost four decades my son,” he declared.

“Where do you go when you leave?”

The old man laughed deep and rumbling again.

“I don’t know. Nobody does. But I hope it’s a place without pain,” he stated simply.

They paused for a second.

“Why me?” Frankie asks, brandishing the glass of whiskey in his hand.

“Well… I don’t know. I didn’t know either when I first came here. But what I know is that I never feared anything anymore since that first day. I found solace and something tells me that’s what you need, too.”

His words strung a chord in Frankie as he felt their weight.

“What if I’m not the right person for the job?”

“You are. Believe in yourself. The lighthouse already does.”

The man emptied his own drink and with a wince of pain he rose back to his feet. He placed his glass on a rickety little table next to his chair.

“Will you tell me your name?”

“Why do you need to know my name?” the man asked back.

“So I can remember you. Only things with names can be remembered,” he replied.

“I am Richard for you,” the man nodded and gave Frankie a reassuring smile and a firm pat on his shoulder.

“Farewell, Francisco.” The man’s voice can be heard from the small door frame of the lighthouse, the light from outside so bright Frankie could only see his shadow.

“Farewell, Richard.”

And with that the door closed with a loud noise, echoing through the whole room. Frankie was left with a million questions on his mind and a different feeling than he had come in with, blossoming in him the longer he sat on that sofa.

Purpose.

feedback highly appreciated as always 🤍

my masterlist (in case you’re curious for more)

tags (let me know if you wanna/don’t wanna get tagged)

@jolapeno @morallyinept @suzdin @millersocean @lady-bess @grogusmum

[romana-after-dark]

Rooms on Fire: Sundown

Dark!Santiago Garcia x Fem!Reader

Dark!Francisco Morales x Fem!Reader

Dark!William Miller x Fem!Reader

Dark!Benjamin Miller x Fem!Reader

Also: FishBen, and an assortment of other M/M relationships (no Millercest). Everyone is Bisexual

Series Masterlist: Main Masterlist

Spotify playlist

Summery: Ben shows his true colors

Warnings and Content:

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

DUB CON MOSTLY but there WILL BE NON CON. Major character deaths, forced breeding, physical abuse, brainwashing, manipulation, violence, gore, alcoholism/addiction, BIG OLE BLASPHEMY WARNING like this cult appropriates a lot of religious themes and they call reader their Madonna, Santi is called the Pope, like all that stuff. However, this is a cult so I mean. It happens. None of it are my thoughts on religion or meant to make fun of religion or demonize religious people. Disgusting views on virginity. Attempted rape outside the boys. T*m warning. Age gap. Creepy terrible men. Non-reader rape, dub con, violence. Covert incest, massive mommy issues, sexual abuse all around, past grooming by parental figure. no CSA but the victim isn't much older. some Bates Motel type shit. I cannot properly warn you for everything, without just telling the story but consider this a major warning that there are dark dark themes. No one involved here is morally clean, and who you perceive as the good guy cannot be relied on. Don't come to my story and say im romanticizing these things until at least the story ends.

Extra warnings for chapter: Oh my god the violence. Violent is here. Im so sorry.

4.4k words

"I can picture every move that a man could make Getting lost in her loving is your first mistake Sundown, you better take care If I find you been creeping 'round my back stairs Sometimes I think it's a sin When I feel like I'm winning, when I'm losing again" ~Sundown, Gordon Lightfoot

Rey always had a way of making things better.

You were sat on the kitchen counter in a loose tank top and baggy shorts that may or may not be Will’s boxers, watching Ray cook for you an Iris. She’d been feeling unwell this morning, no doubt the stress of everything that happened the last few weeks getting to her normally impenetrable facade. You found out she caught the tail end of what Will did to Jonah. Now both of you had watched your fathers die.

But Rey had been emotional support to both of you. You leaned more on your husbands, but Rey gave a sense of normalcy. He was a lot like Ben, making it so you could let go of the guilt that plagued you constantly, clearing your mind of the swirling thoughts of Beatriz and Santiago’s true natures.

Will was safe. Protective and gentle and strong, he continued to dot on you, massaging vitamin c oil into your scars to reduce them now that they could take a little bit of pressure. Your healer, your guardian. You thanked him profusely for protecting you against Jonah’s attempt to rape you, even if parts of you still wished he wasn’t dead.

Francisco was who you were the most honest with. You could tell him how you felt about Santiago and Beatriz, work out your confusing thoughts in soft whispers when you were with only him. Santiago never let Francisco sleep with you anymore at night.  

Walking past you to open the oven, he gave your hand a squeeze, lingering a bit. There was nothing romantic or sexual about it; he just wanted you to feel better. To know he was there. He was better than this place, you knew now. Better than this world.

“Madonna! There you are!” Ben rushes in with Will behind him, reaching for you. “Christ! I was worried!”

You’re a bit shocked, but can’t help sliding into his arms. “What do you mean? I’m right here…”

Ben holds you close, your body pressed against his, skin to skin making you cringe. It wasn’t him, it was the idea of touch lately at all. 

Will clarified. “You said you were going to be in the garden, we were worried when we didn’t see you.”

You try to squirm out of Ben’s arms. His grip is hard and uncomfortable… he’s too close. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just- ow, Ben- I didn’t think I needed to let you know? I never did before… Ben, please-” He’s kissing you now, your cheek, your neck, your lips… you don’t want Rey and Iris to see you like this… You hear Iris say something, but can’t quite make it out.

“That was before. With everything that’s happened, Jonah, the assasination attempt, we need to know where you are, always.” You didn’t like him talking about Jonah in front of Iris. You didn’t like him talking about Jonah in general. You squirm and try to dodge his kisses.

He rubs against the deepest burn on your belly, making you whimper, trying to push him away. Memories of Jonah’s attack flash in your hands, and suddenly he’s pulled off you. You think for a moment it’s Will, but you see Ben’s blonde hair fisted in Iris’s hand.

“She said stop!” Iris yanks him away and horror drops in your stomach. Ben wouldn’t hurt her, no, you didn’t need to worry, Ben was loving, fun, sunshine- He swung, clocking Iris on the jaw.

What happened next was a blur. Reyansh was on Ben is a second, a rage you’d never seen from your sweet guard before, and the two rays of sunshine throwing hands. Reyansh is slammed against the wall and you shout, wanting to run to him but before you even move Will’s hand is on your wrist. You watch two men you love beating on each other, Rey kneeing Ben in the balls and throwing him to the ground where he momentarily had the advantage. Ben, however, gripped Rey’s hair and used the momentum to roll their bodies over so Ben was on top. You’d seen Ben use the same move during sex. 

“WILL! DO SOMETHING!” You scream, watching them hurt each other but Ben with the clear advantage. Still, all he does is hold you back, fingers stroking your hair in an attempt to placate you, but you can’t stand by… still, you can’t get in the middle of a bloody fist fight, especially after watching Jonah die… why couldn’t Will step in when he clearly had the strength to? Ben has the upper hand, and looks like he’s close to killing rey the way Jonah died.

You see Iris make a move to get Ben off him, and Francisco who was previously frozen in shock runs to her. She tried to get out of his grasp, but he simply pushes her away and tackles Ben down. Francisco uses his weight to pin him, using a soothing voice to try and calm the fit. You yank your hand, hand, releasing it from Will’s grasp and painfully pulling on the burnt skin but you needed to get to Rey. Iris pulls his head on her lap, and he spits out some blood onto her dress but gives his girl a weak smile.

“You alright, my love?” He asks her, despite you cleaning blood off his face and her seeming unharmed.

She chuckles, crying but gives him a smile as well. “I’m alright, baby. I’m alright.”

Will is standing above you. You see Ben and Francisco are rising now, Frankie still holding Ben.

“What the hell was that, Saha!”

Rey doesn’t dignify Will with an answer, but you turn to him, giving a little bite to your tone. 

“He was defending his girl, Will. You’d done the same for me.”

“Madonna…” He warning in a stern voice, one that made you feel like a child being admonished by a house mother again. “He is a guardsmen, sworn to protect us, not throw punch-”

You looked up at him again, snapping. “He hit Iris!”

Ben chimed in with a ‘She hurt me first!’ but Will ignored him. “She involved herself in something she had no business to.”

“But Ben!-” You were cut off my Iris whispering your name. Her eyes were fearful… and you realize they held the same glint as when you caught her and Ben together… She mouthed, ‘don’t.’

Your eyes never leave hers. “Well, she’s my friend and he’s my personal guard so she’s under my protection.”

Fracicsco’s arms pull you, careful not to touch your sensitive parts. He’s telling you to go, but you worry for Rey and Iris.

“Will, you can’t hurt them, please?”

“I’m not-”

“But you are!” You pull at Francisco’s hand. “You are, because they hurt Ben but please! Don’t!”

Will sighs, shoulders relaxing down as he decides not to lie. “Madonna, they have to be punished. I promise it won’t be harsh.” His blue eyes look remorseful and honest, like he’s resigned to his duties. You trust he wouldn’t be unnecessarily cruel and you knew punishment was important in corrections… but this was Rey and Iris, your friends… Rey, who had only ever loved and protected you. Iris, despite everything, she took care of you. 

This time when you pull your arm Francisco lets go, and you rush to Will. You reach for his face, cupping it as you stare into his eyes. Will’s expression was soft, indulgent. He was listening. “Look at him, Will.” You gesture to where Reyansh still bloodied Iris’s skirts. “They both got hit, and Rey took enough for both, don’t you think?”

He seemed sympathetic to the pain Rey was in. “That’s the natural consequence of a fight, Madonna. I need to punish them properly, according to our rules.”

Tears fill your eyes and you hear Ben grumble, Francisco shushing him. “My husband, my love…” You beg him in choked words. You try to appeal to his sense of ownership over Rey and the guards. “He’s your guard, and someone hurt him… can’t we just call it even? Please?”

“No, Madonna.”

Rey coughs from the ground below you, trying to sit up. “I can take it, Will. Just don’t hurt Iris.”

With that, Will’s face shifts. This pulls at something and you take it. “He was just trying to protect her! You’d do the same if anyone hit me, Will, please you killed a man for me, you killed Melanie for me, I know you understand…” You take his hand in yours, kissing his knuckles that were still healing for beating Jonah to death. “Please… there's been so much pain here this week… I promise, I promise they learned.”

Ben must've seen Will considering, because he spoke. “Don’t let them get away with it, that bitch put her hands on me!”

His language shocked you, never hearing him talk like that, and Francisco saw the look in your eyes. “Will, c’mon… I think his nose is broken… and Iris just lost her dad… Madonna is under a lot of stress, don’t give her more.”

Finally, Will sighs despite Ben’s protests. He walks over to where Iris and Rey sit and helps them both up. “Go.” He says to Iris. “You can use my medicine closet. Patch him up. I expect him back on duty tonight.”

“Will! What the hell!” Ben shouts but you run up to Will, giving him a short peck on the cheek and whispering thank you.

Will tells Ben to fuck off, and goes to unlock his medicine for Reyansh. Iris turns and gives you a smile. 

“You just like to touch everyone but me, don’t you?” Ben’s words shock you back to reality.

“What? Ben… it’s not…” You reach for Francisco’s hand for security as he admonishes Ben, but he continues.

“You kiss Will, and I see you holding Saha’s hand, and now Frankie? But don’t think I’ve noticed you havn’t fucked me!”

“Benjamin!” Francisco shouts as you shrink at Ben’s words. He’s never spoken to you like this, and you don’t think you’ve ever even seen him angry, certainly not at you. “She’s had a traumatic months for fucks sake! Between Santi and Jonah can you go without pussy for a few fucking days?”

“I don’t know Frank, can you go without Santi’s dick in your ass for more than a few days?”

For the next several minutes, the two argued, exchanging heated words and painful secrets. You’d learned Francisco fucks Santiago every night, and the dark spots on his neck were from the husband who’d burned you alive. You learned Ben was sleeping with half of delta still. You learned there was a whole word that existed between the four of them that not only happened before you, but existed outside of you. You thought you were the nucleus holding them together. Instead, you were just the meal they feasted on.

*

You were finally well enough for him to take you on the horse, a careful walk, out to your meadows again. By now, you were too big to straddle him with his cock inside you and your skin and belly couldn’t bear his body against you. So, as you watched him set up the blanket, you knew you’d miss the feeling of napping in the warm sun with his cock stretching you.

“C’mere, baby.” Francisco helps you sit and then lay down, pulling you close with you using his meaty arm as a pillow.

“I miss you.” You mutter, and he kisses your neck.

His hand holds your stomach, feeling your baby kick. “I’m right here”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know.”

There was silence for a moment, letting the birds sing and breeze below through the rustling grass. It was so nice out, and you were thankful for your skimpy dress. You are reminded of all the times you laid here, endless hours making him flower crowns, braiding the little ones into his hair, kissing him, napping… all while he’s stuffed inside you, your skirt spread around your thighs. How many times has Jonah seen you like this? Had he watched from the trees as you fucked in languid strokes, not even trying to cum but just to feel him bucking into you? 

Or when Santiago had tripped you, burning your cothes off, fucking you by the fire… had Jonah stood and watched? Had he taken in the view, his own pornography, before helping you? Or when Francisco finger fucked you on the horse, had he savored your sweet sounds and memorized them for nights alone with his fist? How long had he wanted you? How long had he taken even innocent moments and turned them into something vile? 

You felt Francisco’s hard cock nestled between your ass cheeks, and by instinct you scoot away just a tiny bit.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry Madonna I’m not trying too- I don’t know why-”

“It’s okay.” No one had been inside you since Jonah’s attempt, you barely let them touch you… but you had to trust Francisco, right? He was good. He was so, so good. “It’s… it’s okay…”

The feeling of him shaking his head russells your hair. “No, no love, it’s not…” He’s pulling back from you and you miss the warmth of his body so you reach back and grab him. 

“I miss you…” You choke out. “I miss feeling you inside me… I miss you… please? I want you so bad, Francisco.”

“Baby…” He caresses you cheek with the back of his hand. “You’ve been through a lot…”

“And I don’t want it to change us. Santiago, Jonah… I won’t let them tear us apart…”

He kisses the back of your head. “They won’t. I won’t ever let that happen. You are more important than them.”

It slips out before you can stop. “Am I more important than Ben?”

“I love you.”

You don’t have it in you to press further, instead you arch your back so that your ass brushes against his cock in his pants. “So much has happened… I need this… I need to know you still love me.”

He sighs, stating firmly. “I do love you…” but he moved to unbuckle his pants. You wished you could see him, you wished you could see the way his belly folded over his jeans. You wished you could run your hands over the skin and feel the hair on his chest. But you weren’t ready for that. Instead you just relaxed into his arms, relaxed into him, his safety, his protection. When he pushes your skirt up, his hands are large over your asscheeks and you enjoy feeling covered by him. When he slides in, your body makes room for the familiar feeling.

“Do you want me to make love to you? Or do you just want me inside?”

“Make love, please…”

A gentle kiss on the cheek. “Anything for you.”

*

Sliding inside you once again, Frankie felt a homecoming. He loved the long hours you and him would spend here, cumming inside you multiple times but keeping you plugged up with his cum. He wished he hadn’t wasted so much time getting inside you properly, loving you the way you wanted to… he would have knocked you up first if he’d been going at this rate… but now, the odds weren’t in his favor.

Frankie revelled in the sound of your mewling, soft and tender like a little kitten… his to protect. As he slowly thrust into you, he vowed he wouldn’t let anyon hurt you again. He needed to talk to Ben, to Will… he needed them to get on board. You clearly cared for Iris and Rey and they cared for you, so he needed to make sure they were protected. Ben had been sneaking out more, going into the community to presumably fuck some other young niave thing… but a rule had been laid about Iris. The fact she was fucking him had been out of her character anyway, but it was over now.

Ben needed to stop sleeping with everyone he could get his hands on, and he needed to respect Madonna’s personal space and boundaries. He was not entitled to her body, especially after all this happened.

Looking up the hill and into the trees, Francisco saw Ben. He stood tall, a scowl on his face; he didn’t like that he got to be inside you.

Francisco sped up his movements, fucking up into you and making you cry out in pleasure. You were unaware of your audience. He never let up eye contact as he rammed his cock into your core and pressed you close to him. His hands felt you up, showing Ben what he was missing. Sitting atop his horse, Francisco watched as Benjamin pulled out his dick and began stroking himself furiously. It was a scramble after that, Frankie wanting you to cum before Ben did, to ruin his little show but still show off what Frankie could do, the sounds you could make. 

“Francisco…” You whine, and he buries his face in your neck after checking your eyes were still closed, lost in pleasure.

“I’m right here, Madonna. Always right here…” His longer fingers swirled your clit, and he knew you were close by the way you were clenching down hard. Perfect, you were perfect. Your body shook in his arms as he filled you, the sweet sounds of your orgasm echoing through the meadow valleys and hills and up to Ben’s ears. Francisco didn’t see if he came; he didn’t care anymore. He needed to take care of his Madonna, for suddenly you were crying.

“I wish it was you.” You sob into his sleeved up arm. He was thankful today didn’t require undressing. He didn’t want to have to explain the cuts. 

“What do you-”

“The baby! I wish it was yours!”

He brushes a stray lock out of your face as he attempts to sooth you. “May it is… we don’t know…”

“It’s not.” You shake your head. “It’s Will or Bens. I just know it. Those first months, you barely touched me, and after I fail the first time Santiago only touched me once a night!” The way you had switched from Pope to Santiago was not lost on him. “It’s one of them!”

“Is that a bad thing? They’ll love that baby too, just like I will.”

“SANTIAGO WILL KILL ME!”

You explained yourself then, what Santi said. How he threatened you. You had one job, according to him, and that was to get pregnant. It wasn’t suppossed to matter if it was by the Millers, by Santi or himself… but of course, of course Santi had to fuck with you more, because it isn’t really about the savior for Santi.

It’s about Frankie.

*

It had been a few days and Rey’s face looked awful. He had definitely broken his nose, bruising showing deeply despite his brown skin. 

“I’m fine, swear to the gods.” He promises after catching you staring at his face. 

“Your eye is almost swollen shut.”

“Like I said, totally fine.” he jokes and you give him a little kick from where you sat on the counter. Iris was feeling sick so Rey and you were taking over cooking dinner. The pineapple upside down cake was in the oven, and Rey was working on the main dish right now. 

He watched you watching him, hesitating before he spoke, his tone more sololm than you were used to. “If you could leave… would you?” He watches your eyes go wide, so he rushed to explain more. “You’re pregnant with the savior, there's nothing that says he needs to be raised here! You told me yourself, Beatriz was evil, Santi… sweetie c’mon he threatened you if the baby is blonde! What if he kills the savior when they are born?”

“Rey!” You whisper harshly. “You’re talking heresy!” Your eyes are wide.

He chuckles tiredly. “We crossed that line a while ago… Listen… I know you love that baby, I know you want them to grow up safe and happy but that can’t be here. You’re husbands, they are batship insane and you know it.”

“No.” You shake your head, refusing to accept it. “No, it’s just… Santi, I think he needs help… I can help him, I can make him a better-”

Reyansh grips your shoulders now, an intensity you weren’t expecting. “No! You can’t! It's not just you, you have to realize that. He didn’t hurt you because you did anything wrong. You take off Frankie’s shirt right now and you’ll see a fucking masscure because he’s fucking losing it! He’s dangerous! And Ben, he-”

 Reyansh stops, voice cracking and you notice the wetness of his eyes. The pain is etched into every line on his young face. “He rapes my wife. My beautiful, precious wife- he… and I didn’t know, this whole time I had no idea what he’s been doing to her…” You can see he’s crying now, and you’re frozen in fear, reaching for his wet face. “I just let it happen this whole time but now I know the truth, and it’s not happening again and I can’t bear to see you get hurt again. I’m gonna get her out, and I want you to come. I don’t want to leave you here but… I have to protect my family. I want that family to mean you too, anuja.”

There was so much to process here, your mind was whirling from everything you were told, but the idea of Iris and Ben… Did you walk in on her being raped by your husband? Had Ben truly tried to get you in on it, to kiss and touch her while she was raped? To make you an accomplice in his crimes? You think of how she looked at you… fuck, how could you not see it? How did you think she was willingly a part of it when it was clear she loved Reyansh? And you treated her so horrible after…

“I’m gonna be sick.” 

Your head spins, and Rey wraps his arms around to set your feet on the floor again. The hand that gently touched his wet, bearded cheek now was on his shoulder to steady yourself as he slid you down from the counter. His arms firm but chaste around you as he pressed against the marble.

“Hey take a deep breath-” His face was ripped away from you, eyes wide as Rey was pulled back by his hair. Then, before you can react, his already bruised head is slammed into the corner of the countertop.

He begins screaming and you do too. 

You can see Santiago in the doorway, but he makes no attempt to stop the events unfolding in front of you, does nothing as Ben grabs the kitchen knife and throws it directly into Reyansh’s chest where he lay in agony. The scene has begun to garner a crowd, Frankie running in at the sounds of your screams but freezes in shock as blood files the kitchen once again.

“BEN! STOP!!!” You scream, but Ben’s eyes are crazed and he’s screaming at Rey not to touch you.

You aren’t sure the exact moment his eyes go dead and body falls limp, no longer reacting to the mass of stabs Ben continues to inflict, but you know it’s already too late when Iris bursts in, screaming her lover’s name. When she runs to where Ben is slowing down, straddling over your best friend’s dead body, Francisco reacts quickly, scooping her up and grabbing Iris’s arms behind her back. 

“REY! REY! REY!” Iris screams non stop, fighting to get out of Francisco’s grasp as he tells her it’s too dangerous. 

Finally, Ben falls over, panting in exhaustion. He throws up on the floor and you realize he’s drunk. The smells of vomit mixes with copper in the the room as the fluids run together. You are barely standing, knees weak, palms sweaty, unable to process what you’ve seen as Ben stands up and stumbles towards you. Will is in the room now, taking it all in, muttering ‘jesus christ Benny… what did you do…’

But walks towards you, a bright smile of white teeth a strange flash of color among the red covering his face. Red. He’s covered in Reyansh’s blood.

“Hey baby, wanna give me a kiss?”

Ben is pulled away from you.

“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!” Francisco screams to him and you slide to the ground.

“He was touching her!” Ben tries to defend, but francisco is infuriated. He shoved Ben away, moving him to the door. On the ground, Iris is desperately trying to get Rey to come alive. The shakes, the touches to his face, the wretched sobs and ugly cries do nothing as he lays limp in her arms.

“FUCK YOU BENNY! HE WAS HER FRIEND! HE WAS MINE!” Francisco shoves him hard, making Ben stumble into Santiago.

Will steps up, gathering his fist in Francisco’s shirt. “Hey! Keep your fucking hands off him!” In which Santiago steps in and says something similar to Will. They begin to argue and fight and scream at each other; you are left on the floor, inconsequential. When you have the courage to look at Rey’s mangled corpse again, you gather the courage to crawl to him. Up close, the carnage in unbelievable.

There are massive gashes in him, holes in his body you can’t believe he had the strength and rage to go that hard into so many times. A stabwound in his eye.  A hole in his cheek.

“Rey…” You sob, reaching out for your bloodied friend. The door shuts behind you and you aren’t sure whose left. “Im so sorry, I’m so, so-”

Iris shoves you backwards, forcing you to fall softly on your butt. “GET AWAY FROM HIM!” She screams at you, and you sit in shock. She’s never spoken to you like this.

“Iris-”

“I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU THAT YOU WERE DANGEROUS TERRITORY!”

Francisco’s arms are around you, a feeling you’d recognize instantly. “I D-didn’t- I did mean-”

“You NEVER DO!” Her eyes are vicious, a fury that far surpassed anything you’ve ever seen in your life. “You are so goddamn stupid, walzing around here like you live in  FUCKING FARIE TALE and leave a trail of dead bodies behind you! You dad, Jonah, and now YOU HAD TO GET MY REY KILLED!”

You are speechless. She’s right. Everything is your fault. Jonah said your dad just wanted a better life for you… was that drive the reason the uprising started? Was the death of him, Deacon Tom, Delilah and all the rebels your fault? She had said she didn’t blame you for Jonah… but now her voice joins the chores of everyone else in your life… it was all your fault.

Francisco picks you up.

I'm so sorry

Months and months ago while constructing this story, I had a friend i was working on it a lot with. She had a big hand in creating Iris and Rey. The entire time, before it was entirely planned out even, I knew he was going to die. I knew there was no happy ending to be had for Iris and Reyansh. And that made some scenes very hard too write. Rey didn't deserve any of it. He was a good man who loved his "wife." (not legally married bc cult stuff but in all the ways that matter, they were.)

There is no going back from this now. Madonna is shown who Ben and Santi are.

The last poll i fucked up! It was suppossed to be who does BEN love most lol

Save the children (which has absolutely nothing to do with QAnon who hijacked their hashtag) our currently supporting relief efforts in the Congo above our listed some quick facts that I hope you’ll take a moment to read, and if you can afford it, please consider making a donation. I have made a small one, but if we band together small donations make a difference

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LOVE YOU ALL!

How to keep up with the story!

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[blue-sadie]

The Different Versions

Masterlist

Oscar Isaac Characters: Moon System, Marcus, Shiv, Basil Stitt, Jonathan Levy, Llewyn Davis, William Tell, Cecil Dennis, Robbie Paulson, Outcome 3 (David), Santiago Gracia, Kane, Nathan Bateman, Leto Atreides, Poe Dameron, Peter Malkin, Bassam, Prince John, Orestes, Laurent Leclaire, Oscar Isaac

Preview

Prt 1. The Ones I Don't Remember Summary: waiting is more tiring then being together, what changed was it you or him?

Prt 2. The Bad Influence Summary: waking up in an unknown place untouched by wounds and another version of your husbands

Prt 3. The Slick Back Summary: waking up in a small apartment in Moscow it reminds you of something and someone

Prt 4. The Lonely Summary: waking up in an modern apartment with a strange but nice neighbor who likes to wear a bag over his head

Prt 5. The Married Summary: waking up in a classroom being taught by... marc?

Prt 6. The Musician Summary: waking up at 00:31 in the morning and not being able to fall asleep maybe water will help right or something... else

Prt 7. The Focused Summary: waking up in a room with another version of your husbands but he's so much like them

Prt 8. The Revengeful Summary: waking up on yours and your doppelgangers shared birthday and getting the best gift ever

Prt 9. The Accused Summary: waking up by someone pulling you out of bed is a rude awakening so he just puts you to bed very nicely

[laurfilijames]

🎃 - Ask a creator about a current project or WIP.

Do you have a favorite wip currently? If yes, what is it about?🤭🤭

Hiya and thank you so much for sending this to me! It's really nice to meet you Sydney! 💗

I'm going to go ahead and use this to shamelessly talk about the series that I'm currently working on, and about to finish (😩😭) Breathe, featuring Will Miller from Triple Frontier.

It's the fic that I first wrote when I joined the Hunnam fandom and truly means the world to me. This fic has so much of my heart and soul in it and I've poured hours of sweat and tears (literally) into writing and crafting a story of how I imagine Will's life was like prior to the events of TF.

12 chapters may not seem like a drop in a bucket to a lot of writers and readers, but to me it's huge. I've never written this much for a single story before and I'm immensely proud of it, and especially for picking it back up after almost an entire year of not updating it!

So, even though I'm working on its final chapter, I'll still consider this a WIP because right now it very much is. I'm trying so hard to get it written and giving my all to make sure this story is wrapped up in the absolute best way and just how it deserves to be. Without spoiling anything, I'm very excited about the things that happen in this last chapter and think that the scenes I have planned out for it will close the story perfectly and are full of a love and happiness that this wounded character deserves so much.

I'm not even sure if this is how I should've answered this ask and I know I've rambled on a lot 🤣 but I'll link the series Masterlist here and drop the summary below!

After the Publix incident and breakup with his fiancé, Will begins to find peace and healing when he least expected it, but navigating falling in love again while living with PTSD doesn't come without its hurdles. Can building trust and a healthy relationship prove to outweigh all the demons he faces and finally allow Will to live the life he never thought he deserved?

Thank you again!! 💗

[intoanotherworld23]

Deep Water IV

Characters: Will Miller, Ben Miller, Frankie Morales, Santiago Garcia and female reader

Warnings: drinking, some swearing, mention of violence, mention of killing, minor kissing, and some inappropriate thoughts

Summary: Going back to the house after a bad night at the club you play a game of never have I ever and things start to heat up

I know I said I wasn’t going to post anything for a few days but I already had this written up, so I figured I owe you guys another chapter! If you wish to be added to the tag list for this please let me know! Hearts, comments and reblogs are greatly encouraged and much appreciated! Thank you all so much! XOXO

Part 3

Check out my other works on my Hall Of Hunks

"I told you we shouldn't have brought her." Frankie argued as he raced back to the house. "It was a bad idea."

"Shut the fuck up." Will growled as he wiped his forehead.

"I could have stayed with her and been fine." Frankie continued irritating Will even more.

"I said shut the fuck up Fish." He screamed at him as Frankie sunk further into his seat. "We did what we had to do."

"We should have known his men were going to be there though." Frankie mumbled shaking his head hating how south things went.

"If he would have just paid up he could have enjoyed his game." It sounded like Will was almost mad he was inconvenienced by this man not giving him what he wanted.

Benny and Santiago sat on either side of you looking down to their sleeves seeing drips of blood. Your head was starting to pound a slight ringing in your ears. Gulping as it sunk it they had just killed another man. Something must have gone wrong for them to shoot him.

All you heard was shots ringing out and hands grabbing you. Looking up to see that it was Will who had you in his hold while Frankie held his gun up covering the both of you.

It felt almost like Will was shielding you himself from anything or anyone getting to you. The way that he grabbed your hand had your heart racing and your blood pumping. He wasn't rough with you or aggressive. It was gentle and comforting which surprised you, and you didn't want him to let go.

"Look at her man." Benny sneered as he nodded to your shaken up figure. "She's absolutely terrified."

"You think I don't know that?." He turned around to glare at his brother.

"She could have been killed." Santiago said with a softer tone but Will still didn't want to hear it.

"But she didn't Pope." He argued as he looked at you just staring straight ahead your mouth slightly parted.

"Who was he?" Quietly asking as three heads turned to look at you making sure they heard you correctly.

"Some Russian asshole who owed us." Will turned back around as Frankie looked through the rearview mirror shaking his head at you.

"What was his name?" You pushed knowing it was a bad idea.

"That's not important." His hands clenching into fists by his side not wanting to involve you in any of this.

"He was still a human being." Will admired your respect for human life, but unfortunately he didn't respect them like you did.

"Not anymore." It terrified you to hear how careless he was towards someone else's lives.

Santiago placed a comforting hand on your knee giving you a weak smile. They knew what you must have been thinking and feeling, and they wanted you to know that everything was going to be okay.

They felt bad that you were in the dark, and they couldn't lend you a hand like you wanted. It was something that Will needed to inform you, and not them since they didn't even know the whole story. You really just wanted to know why and how Will knew your father, and what happened.

"What about the bodies?" Hearing that their were multiple people dead made you feel sick to your stomach.

"One of the security guys will dispose of them for us." Will had an answer for everything and could make anyone disappear.

"Won't the people at club say anything?" You asked Will turning his head to the side at your question.

"They know not to say anything." He sounded so confident you wondered if that were you would anybody say anything.

As you pulled up to the house Will was the first one out while Frankie and Santiago were walking by your side. Benny was right behind Will as they walked into an office hearing the door slam making your body jump up. Frankie wrapped an arm around your waist as you absentmindedly leaned into his body.

Right now you just needed someone to comfort you. Even if it wasn't exactly the person you wanted none the less it was still a warm body.

"I need a drink." Flicking your boots off as you shuffled to the kitchen.

"Haven't you already had enough." Frankie stating with concern at your mental status right now.

"Please that's nothing compared to what I can actually drink." Scoffing to him remembering all the times you would drink so much you were surprised you could even handle it.

Rummaging through the cabinets and drawers finding a bottle of tequila. Taking the cap off you took a shot without even bothering to get a glass. After the night you've had you sobered up since then, and you just wanted to numb this feeling you were having.

"We have shot glasses for a reason." Santiago teased you as sat down in the chair next to them.

"I plan on finishing off this bottle tonight." Both Frankie and Santiago laughing at you as they just sat back.

"Let's play a game." You stated after you took another large shot lifting your legs so your feet was pressed against the side of the arm rest.

"Like what?" Frankie looked confused hearing your suggestion.

"How about never have I ever?" They looked to each other with a shrug as they nodded.

"If we're playing that I'm gonna need something to drink." Santiago stood up as he opened the fridge cracking open a beer.

"Me too." Frankie shouted to him who tossed him a beer catching it waiting a few moments before he opened it.

"I'll go first." Raising your hand as you took another shot. "Never have I ever stolen something."

Both men groaned as they lifted up their beer and took a swig. That was probably a stupid question to ask to two men who were members of a notorious mob. Surely as the night went on and the more drinks you had the better the game would become.

"Never have I ever been to an amusement park." Looking over at Santiago with a shocked look and gasp.

"What?" Exclaiming as you and Frankie each took a drink. "You've never been to an amusement park?"

"Nope not once." Pressing his lips together as he shook his head. "Fish your turn."

"Uh never have I ever gone skydiving." All three of you looked at each other as nobody took a drink.

"Okay never have I ever." You looked around as you thought of something to say. "Been to a strip club."

Watching as both men smirked to each other taking a drink. Rolling your eyes not surprised by that one at all. As you sat there waiting for them to continue as they started discussing their stripper stories.

Laughing along as they joked how Benny got a boner from one of the strippers, and she left him hanging. Telling you how angry he was and that him and his right hand had to get very familiar that night.

If it wasn’t for the liquor coursing through your veins this topic of discussion would have disgusted you. This wasn’t appropriate at all, but it was amusing to you at the time.

"Okay okay never have I ever set a car on fire." Frankie looked directly towards Santiago who groaned as he took a drink.

"Come on man it was one time." Throwing his hands up as Frankie chuckled whereas you looked at them raising an eyebrow.

"What happened?" You asked nobody in particular.

"This idiot tossed his burnt cigarette near a car that he just poured gasoline on." He started off raising your eyebrows as you started laughing while glancing at Santiago. "The thing went up in flames."

"It was an accident." Throwing his head back not liking to be reminded of the things he messed up on.

Frankie continued laughing so hard he placed a hand on his chest. Santiago didn't look amused at all but you two were finding it hilarious. Santiago stood up straighter as he leaned forward grinning at Frankie.

"Alright fine never have I ever gotten head in a car." He smirked at the blushing man who immediately stopped laughing and a frown took on his face.

"Not you Frankie." You teased as he lifted up his beer taking a drink. "Alright young man explain yourself."

"It was a stripper by the way." Santiago butted in before Frankie could say anything.

“Wow shocker.” Lips pressed together not surprised at all that strippers were involved.

"At least I've gotten head in a car dick." Bob argued back as he flipped him off making Coyote burst into laughter.

"Yeah well at least I've never had to pay for head before." A hand went over your mouth as you tried not to cry from laughing so hard.

“Do you guys have any stories that don’t involve strippers?” Asking through brief chuckles.

“Not really.” Santiago confirmed.

You hated to admit it but you felt a little jealous of the stripper with Frankie. There was something about him that had you clawing at the cage to get inside. Wanting to know more about him, and possibly spend more time with him.

Granted he helped kidnap you, and was a part of a deadly gang. He seemed like a sweet man who has a big heart, and just wants to love someone deeply. Hoping he didn’t catch your stares through the night.

"Okay my turn." Taking a sip of your drink already feeling yourself getting very tipsy. "Never have I ever done it in public."

Both Frankie and Santiago took a swig as you looked at them with squinted eyes. Santiago shrugged meanwhile Frankie was just blushing even harder now. It made you giggle as you turned your focus on him, more turned on than you would’ve liked.

"And where was this Frankie?" Placing a hand under your chin as you asked the red cheeked man, Santiago wiggling his eyebrows at him.

"It was at a library." Now that was something you didn't expect to hear.

"Santi?" Turning to look at the other man with raised eyebrows, meanwhile Frankie still kept his eyes on you.

"It was at a club." Rolling your eyes playfully with his answer.

It didn't surprise you at all with that in fact you wouldn't be surprised if Benny and Will have also done it in a club. Feeling bile rise up in your throat at the thought of Will pressing another woman up against the walls of a bathroom. Hands on her hips with his lips kissing and sucking on her neck.

As you were picturing certain images in your mind you didn't realize how Frankie’s gazes on you were lingering longer and longer. How he would smile wider every time you laughed or teased him.

Frankie thought you were incredibly gorgeous and sweet. The more he get to be around you the more he wanted to keep you by his side. He felt extremely protective of you, and wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you.

If it wasn't for the alcohol that was in his system and his confidence feeling high he wouldn't have pulled his next move.

"Never have I ever." Frankie spoke as you and Santiago looked at him waiting for what he was going to say. "Kissed a woman named Y/N."

All you heard was Santiago ooohing as you lowered your head with a huge smile on your face. Frankie looked like an innocent little boy who was asking his crush to kiss him for the first time. It was kind of cute, and Frankie was an incredibly handsome older man. He might be a really good kisser for all you know.

Without saying a word you took another drink before you stood up to make your way over to Frankie. His eyes on yours the whole time as you sat on the other side of him Santiago looking between the two of you in bewilderment like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Looking from his eyes to his lips you watched as his Adam's apple bobbed. It was a joke at first he didn't think you were really going to do it. Like him though he was feeling the alcohol in his system.

Leaning forward as you placed your hands on his knees one of his hands grabbing your waist as you placed your lips on his. Santiago’s mouth dropped down to the floor as Frankie pressed his lips even harder into yours.

His lips were soft like clouds, and yours were tingling at the delicate pressure he was applying. You’ve never felt like that when you’ve kissed someone. You were hoping he felt the same way.

Frankie groaned in your mouth as your fingers squeezed his thigh. If it wasn’t for Santiago being right there who knows if kissing would turn into more. You could feel the familiar tingle and ache between your legs the longer you kissed.

His other hand came up to caress your jaw as he was really getting into it. Feeling the edge of his glasses pressing on your face. Frankie surprisingly was a really good kisser and didn't seem awkward or uncomfortable at all. What you didn't expect though was to feel his tongue pushing against your lips begging to enter.

Before you could you heard a door opening and two hushed voices. The sounds of their shoes echoed in your ear, but Frankie wasn't letting you go. He wasn’t about to let this moment go so quickly.

He didn't care if the other guys were watching he was loving the attention he was getting. He wanted the other guys to secretly be jealous of him right now. That is until Benny decided to speak first.

"Holy shit Fish." He shouted making you and Frankie jump apart wiping your lip as you stared down at your lap. "Didn't think you'd have it in ya."

"Shut the fuck up." He growled but there was a smirk behind those words.

"Was hoping I would have been her first kiss." Benny winked towards you rolling your eyes at him.

Feeling embarrassed knowing the two of you just got caught kissing. Looking up you immediately made eye contact with Will. Who was staring you down so much you literally felt like you were shrinking down to the floor. You couldn't tell if he was angry or disappointed.

Will was pissed to watch as Frankie had his mouth all over yours. He wondered since the moment they took you what your lips would feel like and taste like. Now Frankie was the first one that got to know that.

It wasn't your fault for how he was feeling you were drunk, lost and confused about everything. Besides you weren't his to control or claim so he couldn't yell at you for kissing another member. He was just glad it wasn't Benny cause then he'd be seeing red.

"Pope." He looked between the two men staring daggers at the man in the glasses with red cheeks. "Fish."

"Benny will catch you up to speed on what we're doing." Both men stood up leaving their beer bottles both nodding as they passed by Will.

Will watching them as they walked away making sure they were gone before looking at you. His stare was really intense and you couldn't look away. Right now you were nervous wondering what he was thinking and what he was going to say to you.

"Let's get one thing straight." He started off as he started stepping closer to you. "You're not here as a guest."

"You're our hostage." You hated being reminded of your situation but he kept going. "We've kidnapped you and I decided to keep you alive."

"Fucking my men is out of the question." His words had venom in them as he spoke. "If you think sleeping with them is going to get you out of this I suggest you try another option."

"Acting like a whore isn't going to get you what you want." Your mouth parting in anger when he called you that.

Will really didn't want to say those things to you, but he wanted to piss you off. He wanted you to steer clear of him and his men, and not try to get close to any of them. The last thing he wanted to happen was any of them forming a bond with you.

Even though deep down inside he wanted to keep you all for himself. He was selfish, and didn’t want any other man to have you.

"I'm not a whore." Huffing as you stepped closer to him this time.

"Could have fooled me." He scoffed wanting to erase the image of you and Frankie kissing.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Judging by the way you were kissing Fish I’d say if it wasn't for us you probably would have fucked him right there." He snarled his cheeks and neck turning a slight shade of red.

At first the way he was talking about you and being so quick to judge you was pissing you off. Then you saw a light bulb turn on and knew exactly what he was really trying to tell you. Knowing from the moment he caught you two to where you both were now.

"Oh I get it." Looking at him with a knowing smirk.

"The fuck do you get?" He asked scrunching his face together curious to where this was going.

"You're jealous." Pointing your finger at him his face unmoved and unchanging.

"Are you fucking serious?" He was acting baffled hoping that you bought it.

"Oh my are you so jealous." You we're starting to find this funny now. "And of Frankie too."

"Shut your fucking mouth." He pushed back and it only made you laugh harder at him.

"That's so cute how jealous you are." You confined to tease with a baby voice you were pressing your luck.

"I said shut the fuck up." He was screaming at you not taking notice that he was now standing in front of you.

"I'm gonna start calling you jelly Mcjea-." Before you could say anything else you felt rough plump lips pressing against yours.

——————————————

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[perotovar]

into the beat of the night (interlude) "skin"

pairing: frankie morales/oc!river price (they/them) rating: E (18+) content: talks about top surgery, river is afab and nonbinary, pwp, unprotected p in v, multiple orgasms (referenced), overstimulation, nipple play, dom!frankie, sub!river, praise kink, takes place sometime after ch7, could be read as standalone as long as you know that this is frankie's first relationship with a nonbinary person. i promise river will get to dom tf out of frankie next time lol word count: 1k dividers by @saradika-graphics beta: @scenaaario

a/n: written for @romanarose 's pride event, for the prompt: "transitioning". thank you so much for reading! ♥

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“Frankie, I’m–!”

“I know, amorcito,” Frankie grinned, panting into River’s ear. His lips latched onto their shoulder and sucked hard, hips hammering into them. “Another.”

River panted underneath him, face twisted in pleasure and flushed a deep red color. They gripped the sheets in tight fists and their face was buried into the pillow. Drool, sweat, and bite marks covered the soft material. “I–I can’t,” they whined.

“Do you need to stop?” Frankie breathed, slowing down the speed of his hips, but not letting up on the intensity.

“N-no! Please, keep going,” River groaned weakly. They turned their head to look back at him, eyes glazed over and pupils dilated. 

Frankie’s face softened a little as he looked them over. Their long, inky black hair was stuck to their sweaty skin, covering them like a blanket. Those big green eyes of theirs were pleading with him to let them come. 

He gripped their hips, large hands feeling more powerful than they usually did when his thumbs dug into the dips and dimples there. He turned their body onto their side and lifted one of River’s legs to rest on his shoulder. Each of his knees were planted on either side of one of their other thigh.

Frankie slowly eased back inside of them, the stretch making River moan openly. “Good,” he praised, the hand not holding their leg in place pressed to their stomach comfortingly. “Taking me so well, baby.”

River bit their lip and watched his face closely, their eyebrows turned downward in pleasure and pleading. Frankie started picking up the pace again, the obscene wet suck of River’s pussy pulling him in further and echoing in their ears. “Oh, fuck,” River whined, head lolling back into the pillow. They panted hard, their chest heaving rhythmically with each of Frankie’s deep thrusts.

From this angle, Frankie could see everything; their damp skin, the way River’s lips trembled, and the way their tattoos glistened in the low light of his bedroom. His eyes dragged over the defined muscles of their thighs and trim waist, then landed on the distinct scars on their chest. 

“Play with your nipples for me,” Frankie breathed, hips bucking into theirs. He looked down and watched as his cock fucked into them, the sight of River’s slick covering his cock giving him chills down his spine.

River obeyed, tweaking their nipples as the heat built in their core. “F-Frankie, I’m gonna fucking come,” they whined. 

“Do it. Come for me,” grunted Frankie, planting one foot on the mattress to drive into them harder.

River let out an obscene noise before stilling as they came, their hips bucking with the waves of their high. 

“Good, Río,” Frankie panted, and leaned over to kiss them deeply as they shook with the aftershocks. “So fucking good,” he groaned into their mouth, the lewd plap plap plap of their hips sending him over the edge with them. He bit and tugged on their bottom lip as thick ropes of come covered the walls inside them. 

River hummed and purred like a happy cat at the warmth and sticky feeling between them. They brought their leg down and curled it around Frankie’s waist, their arms doing the same at his neck. “C’mere,” River breathed, kissing him languidly and tangling their fingers in his damp curls.

Frankie got comfortable and laid on top of them, softening cock still inside them snugly. Their kisses were lazy, but deep, and lasted for a long time. River always got especially clingy and affectionate after sex, and Frankie was hardly going to complain.

Eventually, they came up for air, and looked at each other. River snorted at his hair sticking up in all directions and pecked his cheek. “I gotta pee so bad,” they groaned. Frankie laughed and slowly pulled out, watching as his come dripped out of them. He smirked at the sight, thumb rubbing at River’s inner thigh.

After River went to the bathroom and Frankie removed the dirty sheets, they got comfy under the covers and cuddled close. Frankie looked down at their head, hair now pulled back into a loose braid. “I’ve got a question for you, Riv,” he said softly.

“Anything,” River smiled, kissing his pec before looking up at him. 

“How bad was it?” 

River raised a brow and frowned. “How bad was what?”

“Your… When you got top surgery.”

River blinked, but smiled softly. “Where did that come from?” They chuckled.

Frankie blushed, his eyes going wide. “W-well, I was just curious! When we– While I was on top of you, well. I looked at the scars, and I just sort of wondered.”

River laughed quietly and cupped his face. “Do you wanna know the whole process, or…?”

Frankie shrugged. “Only if you wanted to tell me.”

River hummed, exhaling a heavy breath as they thought about it. “Well, the healing process sort of sucked. I slept like shit.”

Frankie frowned, concerned.

“I’m fine now,” they rolled their eyes playfully, poking him in the nipple. “But my left nipple still isn’t as sensitive as it used to be.”

Frankie looked down at their left nipple and tweaked it teasingly. River giggled, and covered it protectively. “Hey!” 

He grinned and gave them a kiss on their shoulder. “Go on,” he chuckled.

“But yeah,” River continued. “I had a really good friend come with me and we both cried afterwards. It felt… right. I think I even told him that I was always meant to look that way.”

Frankie’s eyes rounded softly. “Oh, Río,” he smiled. “I’m sad I wasn’t there.”

“Me too,” River nodded. “But you’re here now. And now I don’t even remember what it felt like to have breasts.”

He hummed thoughtfully, nodding. “I love you, River,” he said softly, cupping their face and rubbing his thumb on their cheekbone.

“And I love you,” River grinned, kissing him deeply. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“Wondering. Accepting me,” they shrugged, looking at a freckle on his chest.

“Of course,” Frankie said seriously, making them look back up at him. Deep brown eyes bore into green, and it made River’s breath catch. “Always.”

And River believed him when he said it, too.

[penvisions]

one fish, two fish {chapter 2}

Pairing: Local! Frankie Morales x Transplant! Reader

Summary: Reaching out and another chance encounter undoes the wonderful night you shared with Frankie. But maybe a chance encounter with his friend from the bar can undo all that...

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: canon typical language, canon typical bad luck, angst, unlucky encounters, misunderstandings, reader gets ghosted, then frankie gets ghosted, feelings of inadequacy, recovery, ptsd symptoms, past drug use, na meeting setting, conversations with a sponsor, a lot of feelings, reader has imposter syndrome, rude people, entitlement, workplace politics, degrading language, reader has a callsign nickname but no assigned name, lemme know if i missed any (nicely) please!

A/N: kind of scared to post this, i know i have other fics that are 'due for' an update but inspiration is low as i prepare to start working again and recoup from a camping trip. this'll be the heaviest chapter, wanting to do more fluff for this fic and go back to funny moments and silly times with frankie! thank y'all for reading and as always, hope the days are good to you ♡♡

ao3 link || series masterlist || frankie masterlist || ko-fi

Radio check for Fish, come in Fish.

Read out loud and clear, Angel. Go ahead for Fish.

Roger that, requesting communication.

Request granted. Glad you’re back on the airwaves. Everything okay?

Affirmative.

Copy that. Standby…

Phone poised in hand, you wait for the speech bubble to pop back up, indicating his return to the conversation. But when half an hour, an hour goes by you sigh and load the inactive thing into your bag to continue your errands. After a rather frustrating visit to the phone provider you had chosen, a weak argument of ‘but it was an accident’ when told that the damage to the phone looked purposeful and just in time for the newest phone release, you had sat down at a coffee shop to grab breakfast and set up the new device. Now though, you guessed it was time to get the rest of the day’s errands done.

The paper Frankie had handed you nearly a week ago had found itself tacked to the half corkboard, half whiteboard calendar you kept in the kitchen. Your eyes sliding to it more often than you’d like to admit as you made dashes through in the morning on the way to work or cooked in the evenings.

An entire week goes by and you try to put it out of your mind. New phone heavy in your hands when you settle with it on the edge of the couch, or check it each morning before work, at the office on your lunch break. But no new messages come in, just that once funny copy that, standby. Standby…. Standby….

You had thought things were getting better, but the girls at work were being weird and conversations hushed whenever you walked into the breakroom or entered the bathroom and more than two were together. You hadn’t even bothered to bring up the fact that they ditched you at the bar the night you officially met Frankie…because it didn’t matter.

They had done it and it was over. If it had been intentional then that was on you for not seeing through their false offers of genuine camaraderie. If it had been accidental, then that was on you for not noticing how short their attention spans were. If it had been to give you a chance to go home with the not one, but two guys that approached you the second you were alone, then it was appreciated but a bit vapid of an assumption of what type of person you were.

The atmosphere at work and the novelty of being a new person to the team had quickly vanished. You were now the one whose desk was piled high with files and sticky note reminders of tasks to complete that carried over into the next day in an endless cycle. The routine of it all was so monotonous and draining.

Wake up, breakfast, commute.

Work, lunch, return emails about work that won’t be finished.

Commute, run, prep lunch, make dinner, clean.

Shower, pace the house, sleep.

It was dizzying as much as the errant thoughts of visiting one of the dance clubs downtown and tracking down the sirens call of pills or powder, anything to help you get out of your head and the endlessly swirling thoughts of doing everything wrong.

But you couldn’t, even if relapse was a part of recovery. It was not a part you wanted to end up being complicit with, one you were trying to avoid with every fiber of your being. The feeling of drowning and sinking down to the bottom of the ocean an all too real one that consumes you from the second you wake up to the second you finally pass out at the end of the day. Waterlogged clothing and the weight of water in your lungs too real.

Memories of turbulent water and debris raining down into it all around you only adding to the chaos of your mind.

You could hear the higher pitched prattle of a little girl on the next aisle over and you find yourself smiling despite the exhaustion that makes your body heavy. The basket hanging from your arm is laden with a bunch of bananas, a few other fruits, a carton of coffee creamer, and a pack of gummy sharks. Just one more thing to gather was a box of oatmeal, on the cereal aisle that you turn on.

There’s the broad back of Frankie, standing in front of one of the larger carts the store offers for shoppers. He’s quietly speaking to someone on the other side of the cart, eclipsed by the big form of him. The cart is nearly full though, you can see the colored boxes and wrappers of various foods inside as he leans over to grab a box of plain corn flakes.

You’re about to call out to him, your cheek tingling where he had pressed his plush lips to you nearly two weeks ago now. But a shrill peel of happy laughter from a child that is revealed to be in the seat of his cart.

“Daaaaddy, that’s the wrong one, silly! We need the frosted corn flakes.” Daddy. Dad. Frankie was a father. Your entire body freezes as you’re faced with the reason for his radio silence for the past several days. He had been so…charming and down to earth once the miscommunication had been cleared up but apparently he hadn’t shared with you one of the biggest parts of himself.

“No, mija, we don’t.” His shoulders are shaking with his own laughter as he places the box into the cart and goes to pull it behind him as he nears closer to you in front of the oatmeal. The little girl in his cart turns her eyes toward you, catching sight of your surprised expression.

“Dad! That girl is really pretty, her dress is so cute!”

“Who- Oh.” He’s looking up from the suddenly too bright boxes of cereal with their mascots and large block lettering. His eyes widen and he looks like he’s been caught, something you don’t have the energy to dissect at the moment. But one thing is glaringly obvious, he’s a father and family man. You went out on what was essentially a first date with a man who had a family. The realization slams into you and you’re blindly grabbing the closest box of oatmeal, throwing it into your basket before turning on your feet and fleeing to the checkout lanes.

“A-“ But before he could even get your name out you were down the aisle and turning out of sight, heart beating far too fast and anxiety thrumming. The entire process of checking out and paying for your groceries was a blur, you weren’t even sure if you thanked the cashier or bid her a good day. The slam of your car door was loud as you quickly shut it behind you. The image of him across from you in a diner, the easy conversation and goodnight kiss now tainted with the fact that he hadn’t been responsive and was a father. He could very well have a wife or girlfriend and you hadn’t even thought to ask that of him, his behavior so willing to help clear the air and ensure you had a way home.

Had you misread the vibe?

Had you just not picked up on the signals he was giving you, reading too much into the shared meal?

Had you done wrong by not asking?

The what ifs plagued you as you made your way back home, realizing that you weren’t too far from where he lived, most likely with his family. Your stomach churns and your temples throb, your lunch not settling well in the wake of your fast exit.

A migraine, you’ve worked yourself up to the point of a migraine.

The rest of your evening is spent putting the groceries away, brewing a small pot of coffee, and taking a too hot, too long shower before laying down in total darkness. You don’t flip on a switch for lights for the entire weekend as you try to keep the curtains drawn over the windows and the sounds down to a minimum as the pounding in your head persists. You don’t hear your phone go off in your purse by the front door but even if you had, you wouldn’t have known how to respond through squinting eyes.

When you manage to drag yourself out of bed on Monday, the world is still too bright and loud, but you have to get to work. Calling out would be a bad reflection and you didn’t want to disappoint the boss, someone who knew someone in your family. A favor, that you had been considered for the job in the first place, especially in a new city where you had no experience or connections. The entirety of your screen was grouped messages from your brother, from your coworkers asking after emails you hadn’t responded to. One voicemail from a mechanic to check out the weird sound your car was making when you braked, too tired to look into it yourself. And then there was the block of notifications from Fish.

Two questioning texts in the joking manner dragged on from the previous thread he had abandoned. A single one of your actual name, asking if everything was okay and if you could just message him back to let him know. A missed call and a voicemail.

‘Hey, um, so I realize how that may have looked. At the grocery store. I just…I wanted to apologize- again, for the way our interactions seem to spiral. But I swear to you, I was going to tell you. I get it if…if you don’t want to see me again or feel like you can’t trust me even if you only did for those few hours in the diner. But…I really do like you, Angel. You’re…never mind. Just…reach out if you need anything or a nudge in the right direction for businesses and shops….Bye.”

You weren’t sure what to think, emotions warring with each other inside your chest and mind. The deep velvet of his voice soothing even if you didn’t want it to be. The words never mind repeating in your head over and over again. But the one thing you were sure of was that this job was turning out not to be the one for you. The pile of files stacked on your desk was so tall you could see it across the room, the cubicle partition doing nothing to hide them from view.

The seat is barely squeaking with your weight when your boss is approaching you with a too sweet smile and a big hand on the back of your chair. His fingers brush the hair you’ve kept down today to avoid another wave of the migraine that had kept you down all weekend. The sunglasses you had worn the entire drive downtown had been only mildly helpful. Your hopeful mood for a decent day swirls from your chest and down to the bottom of your stomach, settling heavily.

“My office. End of day.”

“Yes, sir, of course.”

The day is a blur of emails, finishing up file notes that aren’t even under your name, of a salad you forgot to add dressing to, and finally you’re sitting across from the boss with your bag settled in your lap.

“It’s been brought to my attention that you’re having trouble finishing daily tasks. Most are being started either too late in the day or the day after they were due.”

“I’ve submitted everything assigned to me on time. And while I have no problem with the additional tasks, the submissions that are late tend to be the ones dropped off on my desk after I return from lunch.”

“Then perhaps you need to skip lunch in order to ensure the get completed.” He’s not even looking up from the paperwork he’s going over, the scratch of his ballpoint pen never stopping as he makes notes on it and circles large chunks of text.

“Excuse me?”

“There have been a few complaints that you aren’t doing enough to aid your superiors, they rely on new people to help pick up the slack. The files moved under your name for completion often go undone. A few complaints have been made about the language of your email signoffs as well. The phrase ‘passive-aggressive’ has been brought up.”

“So I’m getting reprimanded for work other people aren’t completing? And then scrutinized for the more than professional communications I ensure to include when emailing finished work to the people responsible for it?”

“We all work together here, there is no ‘my work, her work, his work’. We all help each other to get stuff done in a timely manner.”

“There certainly is. I have files assigned to me, Shannon has files assigned to her. Mark has filed assigned to him. Even if their files are dropped off on my desk to be done, that doesn’t negate the fact that they aren’t assigned to me.”

“Then perhaps you need to start taking work home. But at home hours are a privilege, so there will be no compensation for-“

“I quit.”

“Excuse me?” He finally looks up from the paperwork, surprise coloring his features.

“I quit, I’m not about to play office politics with you all. If someone has a problem with my work or the way I speak, then they should confront me and not run off to HR. I haven’t done anything wrong to warrant this write up.”

“I see…” His hands are clasped over that damn document, the pen neatly lined up beside it. He’s schooled his face into one of thinly veiled politeness, but you can see the disappointment in his eyes.

“Yup, thank you for the opportunity.” You go to shoulder your bag, the strap falling from your fingers as his next words. It thuds to the floor, but you don’t reach for it.

“Not much of those for…someone like you.” He’s not even looking at you, his eyes focused on the bag partially opened on the floor. On the prescription bottle peeking out from the now busted zipper.

“A simple ‘thank you for your service’ goes a long way, you know. But it’s nice to know you don’t really give a fuck what I’ve sacrificed for you all to sit here in your offices all day and make fun of me for how I dealt with the things I’ve see and experienced.”

“Most people don’t turn to hard drugs to deal with the difficulties of life.” The words sting as they cut into your chest, the judgement and disgust aching. It’s always shocking, the ways in which people react to the way your life had played out. The way you had no choice in how it played out. The drugs hadn’t been your choice nor your preferred poison. The allure of them had been born of a too strong prescription, written for you at the same time the paperwork for your retirement had been drawn up.  

“And what’s so hard about your life? The fact that you’re sleeping with your secretary and you don’t want your wife to find out? Oh, the cliché of it all. You dug that hole yourself, put yourself in that situation.”

“And you put yourself in the situation of serving during a war.” But you’re even less prepared for the words as they slice into you, digging deeper than the first. You’re sure blood is visible through the silk of your office appropriate top, the blazer over your shoulders allowing for the damage to be seen across the pristine desk.

“Fuck you.”

“Don’t put this job down on your resume, you won’t be getting any kind words from me should another employer call.” The dismissal is expected, the call he’s sure to make to inform your family friend is as well. A call to you in the evening already draining what little energy you had and it hadn’t even happened yet.

“Gotcha.” Chair clattering as you stand, you don’t even return to your desk or retrieve your Tupperware from the sink in the breakroom. You feel the eyes of too curious people follow you as you cross the open space, whispers sprouting as soon as you pass. Fuck them, fuck all of them. You need a job but not bad enough to put up with whatever fresh hell was going on there.

You’re blinded by the brightness of the outside world when you push through the front door, the lady at the front desk bidding you a good day in too chipper of a mood for you current ability to handle. Your breath is punched from you as you collide with something solid. You feel hands grip your upper arms and help prevent you from careening to the ground.

“Woah, hey. Oh! You’re the woman Fish was talking about! The one from the bar.” You glimpse that tightly curled, dark hair over a handsome face as you steady yourself and step back. Brown eyes so bright in the sunlight they remind you of Frankie’s in the fluorescents of the diner and your stomach flutters.

But it’s his friend, not him. Right outside your former place of employment, the attempt at a new life that was quickly crumbling from under your feet.

“Yeah, your buddy is a real piece of work.” Tone scathing, you can’t help the way it curls your lips as it’s given breath. Ire at yourself and shame at the way you had hoped for the smallest moment that he would turn out to be something good filling your chest uncomfortably.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He’s taken aback by the bite in your tone, his easy smile turning upside down, jaw clenching tight as he watches you with narrowed eyes. Defensive, not something you were willing to deal with as you feel your fingers twitch and your stomach drop. The flare of emotion dissipating as soon as it had flared to life.

“Just…forget it. I’m sorry, I just quit my job and I’m a little…”

“Let’s grab a coffee, I’m sure we can work out something.” He’s so earnest, his dark brown eyes catching the afternoon rays of sun. Such a small, well-meaning smile making your heart soften and your quick judgement of the man back at the bar melt away.

“I don’t know you and you don’t know me, what-“

“I work for the PD and one of the guys in our friend group, he works for the military still. Does recruitment and works in the VA. I know we need-“

“I’m not interested in another tour, I’m retired. Probably wouldn’t even qualify.” You cut him off still, unable to even begin to entertain the thought of donning a uniform again. Of the slick updo you had mastered to pull all of your hair up and out of the way. Your skin prickles as the hot feeling of shrapnel embedding itself into your side blooms, all to real as you stand in the middle of the sidewalk downtown.

“No, no, god no. I wouldn’t either to be honest. But depending on your skill set I know they need mechanics and technicians. Explosives expert, right? Means you’ve got engineering skills.”

“How do you know about that?”

“Fish was very chatty after your little diner date.”

“That was three weeks ago.” Denial is on the tip of your tongue at his description, but that’s what it had been: a date. With a man who hadn’t told you of his family.

“Yeah, and he’s been a bit of a bummer since you haven’t contacted him since.”

“Look,-“

“Santiago Garcia. Pope was my callsign. Whichever you prefer.” His large hand is warm as it reaches for the one you were trying to wave him off with. Electricity sparks and you feel it travel up your arm, momentarily shocking you before you pull your hand away. A sheepish smile and mumbled apology from him at the mishap lightens the mood a little, something about how the shirt he’s wearing has been making it a common occurrence today. The need to go shopping for more dryer sheets humanizing him further.

“Look, Santiago. I appreciate what you’re trying to do but I just really want to go home and eat my weight in Chinese takeout, okay?”

“Okay, I get that. Believe me, I more than get that, but-“ He’s pulling out his wallet, a thick card is being offered to you with his name and contact information printed on it. “Just consider it, yeah? We all gotta stick together, civilians don’t understand even if they try to. We can find you work, something that’ll keep your hands busy and your mind occupied. Office work doesn’t suit you, you shouldn’t have to subject yourself to it, okay?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Good enough for me, hermosa.” And with another charming smile, he’s back on his way down the street, his destination unknown to you. Sighing, you pocket the card and make your way around the building, waving at the security guard that walked up and down the block throughout the day. Your truck is dirty, washing it pushed back further and further as a storm closes in on the coast and inevitably travels inland toward you. The thought of heavy rain and whipping winds turning you off from the waste of water, suds, and an afternoon you could spend looking at things to do around the city.

When you go to turn the key, nothing happens. No clicking, no beeping of the dash lighting up, nothing.

“Fuck.”

Shrugging out of your blazer, you fix your hair up in a messy bun to get it out of your face and pop open the hood. But it’s useless, everything looks to be in working order. Leaving only the possibility of the alternator or battery having died and left you stranded. You’re sure you have a reader for the battery…at home in the garage. The card shoved in your back pocket burns into your skin, prompting you to pull it away and dial the numbers printed in a nice font.

Two rings and it picks up.

“Santigo, it’s Angel.” He doesn’t ask what’s wrong or if you’re okay. Only your location.

“I’m just down the street, turning back around now. The parking lot just behind the building?”

“Yes, I- thank you, Santiago.”

“No problem at all, hermosa.”

“You said you need engineers? Where exactly?” He’s looked over the mechanics of the vehicle just as you did, diagnosing the problem exactly the same. Something unable to be fixed at the moment. He glances up at you under his long lashes as he types out something on his phone, an instant response buzzing.

“Someone should be here in a few, my friends are just down a few blocks. One of them owns a gym and we hit up the dive bar across from it every Monday.”

Nodding, you try to recall the buildings he’s talking about. But you haven’t explored as much as you’ve wanted too. Throwing yourself into work and trying to play catch up on building secondary savings. The help to purchase a home welcome, but the house needed work that was only discounted, not covered.

“There’s a flight school not too far outside the city, where recruits are sent. They need some help that isn’t gonna up and leave them, assignments are up and they need someone reliable.”

“I don’t know how to fly.” Fleeting hope deflates and you really wish your emotions weren’t so easily pulled from you. The weekend you spent hiding away proved to have been more draining than you anticipated. But he soothes the furrow of your brow with two fingers and a hint of his teeth as he smiles at you, so close you can feel the heat of chest.

“They’ve got a few solid instructors. Fish has been pulling doubles doing the repairs and the lessons. They need a mechanic and an engineer, something tells me you’d be the perfect fit.”

You can only see the genuine way in which he’s willing to help reflected back at you, his eyes open and his smile charming. A smile is spreading across your own lips falters as the sound of a vehicle turning into the lot catches your attention. There are two figures visible through the windshield. A blonde man is backing into the spot your truck faces, concentration steeling his features. And from underneath the bill of a worn hat and through a pair of dark aviators, Frankie Morales is staring at you.

previous chapter || next chapter

taglist: @76bookworm76 @christinamadsen

@readingiskeepingmegoing @brittmb115 @darkheartgatita

@sawymredfox @burntheedges @hiddenbabynyc

@southernbe @inept-the-magnificent @littlemisspascal

@jessthebaker @janaispunk

[pedroscurls]

Third Time’s A Charm | series masterlist

COMPLETE | ao3

Summary: There is history between you and Frankie. In fact, you have both broken up twice and yet, you still seem to find your way back to each other. Could this third chance be the last and final one? Character pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader Rating: 18+, explicit (minors dni), each chapter will have warnings -- if applicable.

Part 1.

Part 2. 

Part 3. 

Part 4. 

Part 5.

Part 6.

Part 7.

Part 8.

Part 9.

Part 10.

Part 11.

Part 12.

Part 13.

Part 14.

Part 15.

Part 16.

Part 17.

Epilogue.

[pimosworld]

read it again part II

My continuation of some of my favorite fics and series to re-read.

As always please check the individual warnings on each one. I have a wide range of things I read and enjoy and it’s up to you to indulge or skip whatever you’d like.

Part I here

Frankie Morales

Taste like heaven- @magpie-to-the-morning

Fuck it I love you- @psychedelic-ink

Take care of you- @whiskeynwriting

The hunt- @absurdthirst

Santiago Garcia

Ride or Die series- @writefightandflightclub

Cold shower- @the-little-ewok

Santiago Baby- @reallyrallyauthor

Baby Please Series- @hoedamn-eron

Triple Frontier (all the boys)

Then and now- @softlyspector

Team Building Exercise- @mylifeliterally

A proposition- @dameronscopilot

Bloom- @charnelhouse

Steven Grant

But you can’t wait to sink in- @moonknightly

Batons and Unicorns series- @stormkobra-5

Panic- @peterman-spideyparker

Make it up to you- @preciousscarab

Marc Spector

Shibari- @bits-and-babs

Making trouble- @juneknight

Far too long- @fettuccin-e

Tag team- @babyboibucky

Jake Lockley

Getting to know you- @moonlight-presence

Let me help you- @screwtodd-stevesherdaddynow

Look at me- @luc-k-y

So cold- @loki-hargreeves

Moon Knight ( all the boys)

A long night- @myfictionaldreams

Limitless- @missdictatorme

More hearts than mine- @starryevermore

Torn, Show me- @blackleatherjacketz

The shape of you-niverse- @bit-dodgy-innit

Feel free to leave a comment with your favorite re-read or message me directly to include in future installments.

Please comment and reblog the authors works that they pour their time, heart and soul into.

[bellofthemeadow]

Series Masterlist

Series Summary:

For most of your married life, you dedicated yourself to waiting for Frankie. After each deployment, you patiently awaited his return, longing for the moment when he would be by your side again. During those nights when nightmares consumed his thoughts, you yearned for him to open up to you, hoping that he would find solace in sharing his pain. And as his addiction spiralled out of control, you held onto the hope that he would recognize his problem and seek help. However, despite your countless protests and pleas, you now find yourself waiting for him once more as he ventures off to Colombia, engaged in God knows what.

But this time is different. Determined, you make a solemn promise to yourself: You will never wait for Frankie again.

Rating: M for Mature (18 + no minors allowed)

Warning: Applicable for the entire fic / PTSD, drug use and addiction, postpartum depression, abusive familial relationships, self-hatred, unhealthy coping mechanism, explicit sexual content, violence, mentions of suicidal thoughts, super angsty

Chapter 1 - At Long Last

Chapter 2 - Broken Promises

Chapter 3 - Tangled Truths

Chapter 4 - Letting Go

Chapter 5 - Family

Chapter 6 - A Change of Season

Chapter 7 - One Day at a Time

Epilogue - Family

Link for AO3

[writefightandflightclub]

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

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

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

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. 

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

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

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

AND I have nothing against Philadelphia!

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

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

Many years earlier

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know. I know you do, sweetie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s been worse places, trust me.”

“Yeah. Your fucking pocket?” 

“No shithead, I won it from Catfish.”

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

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

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

“I really need to meet that guy.” 

“Sweetie, you’ve met him.” 

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

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

“You just don’t remember him.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soldiers; not friends. 

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

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

Friends; not lovers. 

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

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

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

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

Fuck. Focus, pendejo. You need something. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well… That isn’t a lie. Not exactly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boy. He’s glad to be proven wrong. 

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

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

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

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

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

…realises he is having fun. 

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

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

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

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

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

He’ll follow you anywhere. 

***

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

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

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

“Sure, lady. Then what’s your name?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?!”

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

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

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

“Great. Thank you. I mean it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yay!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does though. Wants to be a little bolder. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.” 

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

“Thank you, Sir.”

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

“Santiago. And hey, congratulations.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Yessir.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye. Here’s to that.” 

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

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

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

“Can I give you some advice?” 

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

“Marry her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Colin has this all wrong. 

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

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

Isn’t that the same thing?

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

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

You. 

You. 

You.

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

There’s nothing here. 

Nothing with you. 

Nothing he could have with you. No way. 

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

“No. ‘M good. Fine,” he says tightly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You a’ways do, asshat.” 

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

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

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

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

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

Even? 

It could never get close to even. 

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

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

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

“Promise?”

“Promise.” 

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

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

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

It scares him.

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

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

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

“Hey. Hey,” he soothes. “What is it?”

”I’m not sad, idiot.”

”No?”

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

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

“Yeah,” you exhale. “Perfect.” 

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

***

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

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

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

“Ew. I need a fucking shower.” 

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

“I stink.” 

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

“Mmm hmm. Okay then.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m only a man, Princesa.”

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

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

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

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

“Feel like staying awake a little longer?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well? Do you think he’d be down?”  

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

You scoff. “What? For real?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A fucking condom?”

“Ay, dios. Just open it, would you?” 

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

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

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

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

“But I can’t-“

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

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

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

“But won’t your mom-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Listen. Thank you.” 

“It’s the least I could do.“

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

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

“Yeah. Exhausted.” 

“Let’s lie down then, alright?” 

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

“What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmm.”

“Do you…?” 

“Do I what?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you ask, anyway?” 

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

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

“Pfft. I give ‘em a month.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s only what you’re due.” 

“Oh?! A thorough ass-kissing?” 

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

You snicker chaotically. “Huh. Maybe.”

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

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

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

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

“Jesus. You’re demanding, Princesa.”

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

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

“Thank you.” 

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

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

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

“She gives me everything

And tenderly…” 

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

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

“No. No, please.” 

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

“The kiss my lover brings,

She brings to me-ee,

And I love her.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bright are the stars that shine,

Dark is the sky. 

I know this love of mine,

Will never die.”

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

“And I love her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The day he met you.

The day he almost lost you. 

The day he realised he was in love with you. 

And the day he started running from that.

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

The fourth will be tomorrow. 

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

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

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