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miinatozakiii · 9 months

Text

(i love you) for sentimental reasons

kindergarden teacher!sana x fem!reader. (pt. 4)

summary: fate seems to love you and sana being alone together, so do your niece and jihyo.

wc: 8k

warnings: mentions of food ; slight (barely) suggestive(?) ; cursing

pt 1. pt2. pt3.

a/n: thank you all for the kind words and support on this series! it was fun writing it and the support on this has been amazing. thank you and enjoy :-]

“What would a young teacher usually order at a cafe.” You ask Chaemin, staring at the espresso machine and pondering. The taller, dark-haired barista looks at you, quirks a brow, then yawns.

“Do I look like I’d know what your five-year-old niece's teacher would like?” Chaemin mutters sleepily, “I’m tired, it’s early, and me personally I need something strong as hell to get me through this damn shift. Maybe she needs something strong since she has to deal with so many kids running around?”

“What if she doesn’t like strong, what if she’s more fond of something sweet? What if she prefers tea?”

“Well maybe you should’ve asked her or something, how do you not know what your dream woman likes.”

“I’m not gonna ask my niece to ask her what her favorite coffee is, that’s weird.”

“You already make Hana tell you about her teacher, I don’t think that would make anything different, y/n.” Chaemin sighs, “Look, I have to prepare for that fucker that orders six drinks and complains to me that they’re not made in two minutes every Wednesday morning. You have fun figuring out what to order for this wonder of a woman, but make it quick. I need to prepare at least 7 shots of espresso before that damn regular walks in.” He says, walking past you and over to the coffee bean grinder.

It’s 7:53 in the morning and the form said to meet in the lobby of the school by 8:30. You’re trying to get your daily caffeine in and decided to ask for an extra beverage to give to your nieces' teacher. Is getting a drink for a woman a form of flirting?

“I’ll just get my usual, and then I guess I’ll get something sweeter and I’ll ask her.”

“Okay, so what’s the sweeter thing gonna be?” Chaemin questions, weighing out the coffee grinds for your usual iced americano. You think to yourself for a bit as he tamps the grinds down and puts a filter on,

“Vanilla latte? Hot, since it’s cold out, maybe she would appreciate that.”

“Can’t go wrong with that I guess.” He sighs while pulling a shot of espresso over a cup of iced water.

You get to the school at 8:23 am, and by the time you’re all parked and in the lobby it’s 8:27.

The lobby is filled with at least sixty kids, probably more. There are four other kindergarten teachers, you assume they’re teachers from the lanyards they wear. At least ten parents are also present, scattered around the lobby with the teachers of their own students. It’s loud and crowded, you wonder if Hana had gotten lost until you look over to the corner to see Hana waving at you, and return the smile at her before making your way to the girl and her class.

Sana watches you with the two coffees in your hand and a smile spread across your face as you walk over to hug your niece, making sure not to spill the beverages. You’re wearing a patched, dark-blue denim jacket and a white t-shirt with a graphic that Sana can’t fully make out, and the t-shirt exposes some of your collarbone, Sana notes. The bottoms you wear are simple, yet effortlessly stylish. You have on washed, dark gray wide-legged jeans that compliment your top, along with black laced loafers to complete the look. Sana thinks you look amazing - Your casual, yet striking style is added to her mental list of what makes you so effortlessly stunning.

After hugging your niece, you make your way over to Sana, the grin that is plastered on your face seems contagious as it makes her grin back. You stand in front of her and greet her with a simple “Hi.” and somehow, her cheeks are already starting to warm up.

“It’s nice to see you, as always,” Sana greets, and you chuckle lightly,

“Yeah, likewise.” You start. The latte that was once about to burn your hands is now at a reasonable temperature, at least one that won’t burn anyone’s tongue (you hope). You look from the latte and back to Sana, “Do you prefer sweet or strong? I stopped by my work and I wanted to get something for you, I didn’t know which you preferred so…” You trail off, looking back at her with uncertainty.

Sana doesn’t know how you’re so perfect.

“Y/n,” She mumbles, looking at the drinks in your hands, “You didn’t have to.”

“I thought you might need some caffeine before working with so many kids you know.” You joke. Sana pauses, you think of her?

She wonders how often the thought of her crosses your mind (which is a lot), and it gives her a little hope in her heart.

“You’re so sweet, Y/n. What are the options?”

“I got a vanilla latte and iced americano. I mean you got an Americano when we ran into each other at the store, but I had to make sure there were options.” You explain, though you realize there are definitely not a lot of options. You'd bring her the whole cafe if you could, just to make sure she could have a beverage that she'd like.

“I’ll take the latte, I like sweet things.” sweet things like you, she thinks to herself. You hand her the warm vanilla latte with a grin before another voice joins in,

“Good morning Sana!” A shorter woman chirps. The woman with the bob has her own hot beverage in her hands, and she’s dressed warmly to fit the weather as it transitions from late fall to early winter.

“Jihyo!” Sana cheers, hugging the woman. You smile at the woman (although your jaw tenses a little. You want to be able to hug Sana like that), and she smiles back after pulling away from the teacher. You examine her outfit; she’s wearing a black coat over a dark form-fitting shirt, and casual blue jeans paired with white tennis shoes to finish the look. She also has a beige bag that is hung on her shoulder and a silver ring on her left ring finger.

Sana looks at the two of you, and she holds back a small giggle looking at your height difference. Jihyo’s head is angled upwards to meet your gaze and even though the woman is shorter – you can’t help but be a little intimidated by such a strong aura: it screams authority.

“Ah, Jihyo, this is Y/n,” Sana says a bit shyly, and the slightly shorter woman with the bob looks back at Sana with slightly raised brows,

“Oh? Is that so?” Jihyo says amusingly, looking back at your taller self. You seem a little smaller under her gaze, and it’s scaring you a little. Jihyo temporarily washes your worries away by sticking her hand out and grinning at you, “I’m Jihyo. Sana has told me a lot about you, it’s nice to meet you in person.”

“She has?” You question, a brow arching. Sana clears her throat and it stops Jihyo from exposing her, though you wanted to know more.

“Y/n, this is Jiyeong’s mom. We used to be roommates,” Sana quickly says. Jihyo just laughs and nods before Sana adds, “Y/n is Hana’s aunt.”

“Oh, you didn’t tell me that,” Jihyo responds with surprise. Jihyo knew your name and that Sana had a really big interest in you, but she didn’t know that you were her daughter's best friend’s aunt. Sana shuts her down before she can say anything more to make her cheeks redden.

You’re confused, to say the least. Sana talks about you? What does she tell Jihyo? Is she into you? You’re thinking a lot of things and you want answers to all the questions you have running through your mind, but for now, you'll have to wait. Sana walks off, face flushed, leaving you and Jihyo to chat with one another.

You look over from Jihyo to her daughter, who is talking to your niece and laughing as they converse.

“My daughter talks about your niece quite often,” Jihyo says, and she’s looking in the same direction as you while she sparks a conversation, “Hana seems like a sweet one, she makes my daughter very happy. It’s nice to meet the one who takes care of her, you must be as kind as Sana says.”

“Thank you,” You respond, turning to see her still looking at the two girls, “Can I ask… What else does Sana say about me?”

“You’ll have to find out yourself.” Jihyo simply states.

Aw, man.

“This is your chance to talk to Ms. Minatozaki alone! I can’t keep being the one to talk to her and then talk to you! I want to talk to Jiyeong too y’know.”

“Oh.”

“Papa was right, you need to be not shy for once,” Hana sighs, “I thought you said you had the cool genes!”

Ouch.

Hana had insisted that you sit with Sana after giving you a lecture, or was it her just scolding you? Same thing. You realize that you literally got lectured by a five-year-old, it humbled you a bit.

The conversation between you and your niece ended after she gave you a pat on the cheek, fist-bumped you, and let you run off on your own as if she was your own guardian – how ironic.

So, you make your way onto the big yellow bus, looking for the familiar face of someone who you think might be an angel. You wave to her and ask if you can sit next to her, she nods happily. Now you’re closer to Sana than you have ever been, all thanks to that five-year-old, and you’re not too mad about it.

You never fully noticed before, but she smelled really good, not in a weird way or anything – it’s just, she smelled like roses, fruit, and vanilla – it really fits her. Her shoulder was dangerously close to yours, and you figured you’d explode if you guys made even the slightest bit of contact.

Sana is dressed up warmly too; she wears a thick, dark gray cardigan with a white shirt under, and the hem of the shirt peaks from under the cardigan. She’s dressed in casual pants, they’re loose on her legs and just a shade lighter than the cardigan she wears, and to top off the whole look, there are white sneakers that she wears. Her hair is tied up into a ponytail, and some strands fall over her face. She looks beautiful, you might faint right then and there.

Sana looks at you again and tilts her head a bit,

“You’re not sitting with Hana?” She questions, and immediately regrets it after wondering whether it sounded like she didn’t want you next to her, because she definitely did want to be next to you; in fact, you were the only thing she had on her mind last night before she fell asleep. You turn your head to look back at your niece, who’s laughing with Jihyo’s daughter,

“Hana wanted to sit next to Jiyeong. I guess it’s not too bad that she didn’t want to sit with me if I get to sit next to you now.” You say boldly. Sana looks at your expression, you look unbothered and the way you just flirted with her was so smooth it had her blushing from ear to ear. You give her your signature, toothy smile, and she has to take a moment, it makes her look away for a few seconds,

“Your niece kicked you out?” Sana teases, trying to compose herself,

“They grow up so fast.” You sigh playfully. Sana giggles.

The bus driver gives the signal that he’s ready to start heading to the art museum, Sana stands up and starts to talk to the students.

“Alright everyone, I’m going to need you all to use your indoor voices for Ms. Minatozaki. If you do so, we’ll get to the museum quicker, alright?” She announces,

“Yes Ms. Minatozaki!”

“Thank you, everyone. We’ll be there in twenty minutes, maybe less if you all behave, so make sure to leave a good impression on the bus driver and make it easier for him to get there!” Sana finally says. The students respond with another “Yes Ms. Minatozaki,” and the young teacher counts all the kids on the bus, making sure she doesn’t miss anyone. After making sure everyone is all aboard, she signals to the bus driver that they’re all good to go. The bus shifts a bit as it starts, then it starts moving forward.

In an attempt to spark small talk, Sana decides to bring up the weather.

“It’s getting cold, huh.” She mutters, looking out the window. You hum in response, looking in Sana’s direction, but not at the window. Your look stays on Sana’s side profile, and you wonder how every feature on her face is so flawless, whoever made her took their time for sure. Her nose is angled perfectly, and her plump lips are just barely parted as she stares out the window, you could stare at her forever.

Sana turns her head back towards you and you quickly shift your stare to the window to avoid eye contact and to make it seem like you weren't admiring her for the last ten seconds. You clear your throat.

“Yeah, definitely.”

“Thank you for the latte, it was really good. It warmed me up.” Sana says. Eye contact is shared again and you bite the inside of your cheek,

“Anytime. I could uh, bring you more if you’d like?”

“It’s alright, I don’t want to make it seem like I’m using you for coffee.” She laughs, “But I appreciate the offer.”

“Well,” You start, “If you ever change your mind you can always tell me when you see me.” You shrug. Sana smiles at you again, nods, then gives you that look from your lips to your eyes that turns your heart into a beating mess. She looks out the window again and you have to stop yourself from admiring her the whole time.

A few words are shared between the two of you every time Sana spots something pretty, she talks about how it reminds her of things from her past or her friends. You learn a little more about her, she’s so pure and cute it’s heartwarming.

The bus ride goes well.

As soon as the bus comes to a stop, the kids are all rowdy again, however, Sana quiets them down with ease. She simply claps her hand in the same pattern as she would usually do to grab their attention, and they clap their hands in the same pattern back, all eyes are on the young teacher now.

“Alright everyone, we’ve made it! Now, in order for us to get started with our field trip, I’m going to need everyone to be patient and exit as I say. The grown-ups will exit first, then the kids. We’ll go by row and I’ll be the last one out, okay?”

“Yes Ms. Minatozaki!” The kids respond, and you admire how much they seem to trust and adore the teacher.

Getting everyone out of the bus was easy, each kid listened and Sana told the parents to keep them in a group once they had gotten out. Once the disembarking had finished, Sana made sure that everyone was present, taking another headcount. After knowing that no one had wandered away, she smiled and kindly ordered them to follow her.

After the guides had introduced themselves, given a brief description and synopsis of what the museum offered, and handed out maps, the class was split into groups of four. There were exactly twenty-eight students, seven guardians and/or parents, and Sana. With that amount of people, it was easy to make the groups.

Originally, Hana was set to be in the group that you and Jihyo would watch over, but Hana insisted that you switch with the parent paired with Sana. Jihyo and Hana talked for a few seconds, which you had noticed from the corner of your eye. They exchanged smiles and understanding nods, and whatever they plotted somehow allowed you to be with this wonder of a woman.

And so, you’re with Sana now.

Sana is happy to accept her new partner; in fact, she’s more than happy to spend time with the woman she’s been gushing over for weeks.

The groups decide to pick their own section in the museum to start at and make their way through the whole place from there, making sure to meet in a few hours.

Your group had seven kids, and each group did. You and the young teacher had stumbled across a certain section with an adult that would give the kids a thirty-minute detailed guided tour, leaving you and Sana to wait alone together and wander around the nearby exhibits. You two would’ve joined in on the tour, but of course, the max capacity was eight people.

You had insisted that Sana should go join, after all, it was her class. Sana, being the caring person she was, had assured you it was okay if she missed the tour and stayed with you. The tour guide had made sure that he would take care of the kids, after all, the exhibit was mainly for young kids like them, and he had dealt with many before.

Fate decided that you two spend more time together, and this time, alone.

“Have you been to this museum before?” You ask.

“No, you?”

“Once.” You mumble, “In high school.”

“You’ve lived here since high school?” Sana questions, suddenly invested. You nod and look at the painting in front of you,

“I’ve lived here since I was in fifth grade, but in the more suburban area, rather than here in the city.” You simply respond.

“Well,” Sana hums, “Maybe you could show me around sometime.”

“W-what?” You practically choke out, a blush creeping to your cheeks.

“I moved here at the beginning of the year, I’m still a bit new.”

“I see,” You begin, trying to recompose yourself, “Yeah, It’s a nice area. I wouldn’t be against the idea of showing you around.”

Sana smiles and turns to face you again, “Maybe you could start by showing me around the museum? We have twenty-five minutes.”

There’s a sudden nervousness that spreads throughout your whole body, as well as a warmth that spreads across your chest. Sana wants you to show her around, and she asks you like it’s a normal request (it is, but you figure it’s not because the person asking is particularly striking).

You nod your head and respond with a small, “Okay.” and her radiant grin grows.

The exhibits were all unique in their own way – some were filled with modern art, some with abstract art, and even some with Renaissance art. Each section had works that were all tremendously striking; however, the most beautiful thing in the museum had been by your side the whole time.

Sana makes her way to a pleasant-looking painting, something floral. Maybe it’s an oil painting? She can’t really tell, but it sure is a wonder. It’s detailed and vibrant, the colors complement each other well with such a diverse color selection. Each stroke seems to have been placed so carefully, every single swipe of paint complimenting the stroke next to it.

Sana stares at the painting with much interest, “This one is beautiful,” she says in awe.

“Very…” you hum, though, you aren’t observing the painting,

Your eyes are fixated on her.

The day goes by quickly, unfortunately.

You and Sana aren’t able to indulge in many conversations as you two were busy making sure everyone was still nearby and not running off.

The kids finish the painting activity that was scheduled for them at the end of the trip, and they leave the museum with their hand-crafted art. everything had gone by too fast, you wished it hadn’t, then maybe, you could admire Sana for just a few moments longer.

Sana helps everyone get situated on the bus, so you end up sitting down first and getting the window seat this time. You wait for her.

Sana sighs as she sits down next to you, a bit worn out from the day and keeping everyone in check.

You try to ignore the contact that her shoulder makes with yours when she shifts to get more comfortable in the seat, and you also try to ignore the fact that your knees touch a little, just for the sake of your sanity. Sana seems to be unbothered by the physical touch, and she looks at you innocently,

“I think the kids enjoyed it.” She says proudly, resting her head on the seat. She turns her head a little so that she’s looking at you with the most soft, tender look in her doe eyes, “Did you?”

“Of course.” You say, voice just above a whisper. Of course I enjoyed it, who wouldn’t enjoy their time with a woman like you? You think. Sana lets out another content sigh, and she rests her head against your shoulder a bit, not even bothering to think about how bold the action is, she's too tired and she figures you wouldn't mind – you don't mind at all.

“I’m glad.” she mumbles, and you hope she can’t hear your heart beating out of your chest, “Wake me up before we get back?”

“Of course.” You hum lowly. Her eyes close and her weight seems to shift onto your shoulder more. Your cheeks redden and you let out a small breath as you relax into the seat – you couldn’t be any happier.

The chaperones and their kids bid their farewells to Sana, though you stay a bit longer since Hana and Jiyeong want to hang out more. Your mind wanders a bit and you can’t help but stare into the distance, and your gaze somehow manages to land on Sana as you remember what she had said: Maybe you could show me around sometime? The words seem to replay in your head, a thought pops up in your mind.

Jihyo looks over to see you in a trance, and she chuckles to herself as she notices what – or, who your eyes are fixated on,

“Did you two have fun?” The shorter woman asks, a smirk tugging at her lips. Your head turns quickly to her in surprise, cheeks turning a bit red as you realize you’ve gotten caught staring. Jihyo laughs at you playfully, shifting her look towards the woman you had been admiring before, “Sana was really excited to be able to spend time with you today.”

“M-me?” You stutter out, mentally punching yourself for such a response.

“You two are oblivious, I could tell from the few interactions I saw.” Jihyo sighs.

You look back at Sana, who’s now walking over with a smile on her lips. She looks at you first, then at Jihyo when she meets with the two of you again,

“Everyone just left, sorry for making you wait, Jihyo.” Sana sighs. Her shoulders are drooping down a bit, and she seems ready to go home and rest again, though this time on her bed and not your shoulder (much to your dismay).

She turns to eye you again, and suddenly she’s full of life, as if the energy that had been squeezed out of her had suddenly come back.

“Ah, y/n. I’m happy that you were able to chaperone. I’ll see you…?” She trails off for you to respond, or in this case, finish her sentence, because she hopes to see you again this week.

“Um, I don’t think I’m picking up Hana for the rest of this week. My shifts go on until five because I took today off.” You explain, “So, next week.” You nod. There’s a familiar thought from earlier that crosses your mind, you avoid the woman’s gaze and try to forget about it.

Sana notices you biting the inside of your cheek and breaking eye contact as if you were about to say something to her. Sana decides to let it be.

“Well, we’ll be going now Y/n,” Jihyo says, almost sighing. She looks you dead in the eye and raises a brow, almost as if she could read your mind earlier, almost as if she were urging you to go through with your sudden thought.

“Yeah… Me too. Um, yeah.” Your words are tumbling off the tip of your tongue from nervousness, “Hana, let’s go. Your dad must be waiting at home.” You finally say, waving to the two women and Jiyeong.

As you depart, Jihyo looks at you slightly disappointed.

You’re back in the car after saying goodbye and you stare out the windshield while holding onto the wheel, simply thinking.

The sight of Jihyo and Sana catches your eye from the side-view mirror, and there’s a sudden rush of confidence that takes over.

“Hana, I’ll be back in a bit.” you quickly say.

Your fingers fumble with the seatbelt that refuses to unbuckle due to your nervousness, though you manage and hurry to open your car door, rushing out. You’re trying your best to prepare yourself for whatever the fuck it is that you’re about to do, your jaw tensing up and your hands trying to straighten up the denim jacket you have on. Self-consciousness and worry took over, but you ignore it, you can’t have Jihyo looking at you like you’re a big loser the next time you see her, can you?

So, here you are.

Jihyo notices you first and raises her brows in amusement, Sana notices you after seeing Jihyo’s expression shift.

“Hey, Sana,” You say with a surprising amount of confidence. You clear your throat and your eyes dart to anywhere else but Sana’s eyes, “Can I talk to you for a moment,” You ask, “Alone.” and you practically mumble that last word. Sana tilts her head and Jihyo smiles knowingly,

“I’ll be in the car,” Jihyo says amused, then grabs her daughter's hand with hers, urging her to come with and leave the two of you alone.

You and Sana are alone now, in the middle of a barely filled parking lot.

“Did you need something?” Sana questions. You nod and it takes a bit for you to continue talking, the words in your mouth getting tangled in your tongue.

“Uh, well.” god, you really need to get a grip. “At the museum, you uh, you mentioned, well - you said, you said maybe I could show you around sometime? I mean I can. I hope you’re still up for it, I mean,” You close your eyes out of embarrassment and turn your head to the side a bit, and you really try to compose yourself this time.

“This Sunday, yeah. There’s always a flea market on Sundays, they’re on until around eight. We should go, I mean if you’d like. What I’m trying to say is I’d really like to show you around.” You finally say, you say what you’ve been thinking and you say it without tripping over your words.

“You’re asking me out?” Sana asks playfully,

“You implied that you wanted me to.” You simply say, making eye contact with her again. Now it’s Sana’s turn to be all flustered as she looks up at you. Your eyebrows are slightly raised as you wait for an answer, and her cheeks are dusted a faint shade of pink as you waited for a response,

“So?” You question again,

“I’d love that,” Sana says almost immediately.

“Really? I mean, yeah- yes. Okay, that’s,”

“You’re so cute.” is what Sana says, and it has your heart skipping a beat, Sana’s heart too, “Let me get your number, so you can text me the details?”

“Yeah, here.” You respond, handing her your unlocked phone.

You both exchange numbers, and before departing you can’t help but grin at each other, and you grin at each other for a while.

Mission success.

You agree to pick up Sana from her place in the evening around five.

Your fingers tap against the wheel of your car and you tap your foot anxiously as you wait. There’s a sound that’s heard from your phone as it vibrates against the cup holder, and you immediately check to see what it is. There’s a message from the young teacher and your eyes light up immediately as you open it,

Sana

I’m on my way out right now

Can’t wait

y/n

Take your time

Can’t wait to see you

You probably look like a fool who's in love as you read her message, reply, and hit send because you’re smiling at the screen and biting your lip slightly from the rush of excitement that courses through your veins.

Sana shows up a couple of minutes later.

Your eyes widen almost immediately and your cheeks are definitely tinted – no, fully crimson. Your grip on the wheel tightens, and it seems to do so every time you see the wonderful woman. Your heart does flips and beats at an unhealthy rate as you take in everything about her.

She wears something so striking, but slightly casual too. She has on a black blazer, almost a jacket, you think. It’s worn over a black shirt and the tops she wears are complimented by silver jewelry that loops around her neck, sitting just above her collarbone level. She’s wearing dark jeans that are just slightly loose around her legs, and casual sneakers to really top it off.

She’s so incredibly stunning that it makes you wonder if you’re dreaming.

Sana waves as she makes her way over and you’re trying your best to act normal – or at least act like this woman isn’t making you completely lose your cool.

“Hey.” She says, getting in your car,

“Hi.” You say in awe, “You look beautiful.” and that’s just an understatement. You’re unable to look away from her as if your eyes were a moth and she was the flame drawing you in. Sana simply smiles and she’s extremely flattered by your compliment, as well as the way your lips slightly part while you check her out.

“Thank you.” Sana responds as she puts on her seatbelt, “You look really cute.”

You’re going to explode.

“Thanks.” You mumble, quickly turning your head away and back to the steering wheel. Sana plays the passenger princess role too well, with emphasis on the princess part because her looks are something you would expect to see from a descendant of royalty, something in a renaissance painting that has the words 'do not touch' beside it. You adjust the rearview mirror for no apparent reason as it’s already been adjusted, but you’re doing anything to distract yourself from the jaw-dropping sight to the right of you.

As you drive toward the city, there’s the faint sound of a slow romance song playing. The mood is extremely intimate and romantic, you’re having trouble focusing on driving as your heartbeat ups its pace.

It takes about fifteen minutes to get to the flea market area downtown. Fifteen minutes of small conversation and Sana’s gaze on you every couple of minutes.

You two arrive and you turn off your engine, making sure to get out first and open the door for Sana. She gets out and smiles at you sweetly, which makes you smile back. You close the car door for your passenger princess.

The brisk winter air carries a hint of anticipation that invites everyone to immerse themselves in the weekly event. It’s early winter and darkness envelops the slightly crowded, dimmed, and busy streets. the sun had almost set completely, though there are bright lights that illuminate the areas which seem to be hidden away from the lamp posts that lighten up the main streets. Each store and vendor has its own uniqueness, selling different types of items, clothing, accessories, and more.

You and Sana walk towards the flea markets, the space between you two getting smaller and shoulders occasionally brushing every now and then. The two of you explore and interact with any vendor or stand that seems to have anything interesting, which helps you learn about one another.

Sana learns that you have an interest in old rings, silver ones specifically. You buy three silver rings, and it all ended up being ten dollars in total. She learns that you have a liking towards graphic t-shirts; in fact, you buy two while walking around. Sana had picked out both for you, telling you that you’d look cute in them, making your cheeks flush, though your cheeks might've been red ever since you laid your eyes on her.

You buy an old vintage camera and film for less than thirty dollars, and Sana thinks it’s so extremely cute how your face lights up after you purchase the two items, holding them up as if they were trophies you had won.

You learn that Sana seems to love jewelry, and she buys various bracelets and necklaces for herself and even buys one of each for you. You insist that it’s okay and you don’t need it, but you give in when she looks at you with those puppy eyes – you learn that you can’t say no to her. Sana buys a few samples of fragrances, and she explains that she’s always had a thing for collecting different scents, you think it’s adorable.

You’re the one who had asked Sana on this date, but she’s the one who ends up dragging you to every little section that manages to catch her attention. The knuckles that brush against each other lead to the intertwining of fingers and flushed cheeks.

After almost two hours of walking around and exploring, you two decide to relax and get ice cream, even in the cold weather because the two of you are warmed up enough from just being around each other, ice cream won’t hurt anyone.

“Have you tried this ice cream place before?” You ask Sana, who’s taking a picture of the dessert in front of her. She shakes her head,

“No, you?”

“Twice. Once in high school with Johnny and last year with Hana.” You explain, taking a bite from the sweet treat in front of you. It’s matcha flavored, though the sweetness is still there. The strength of the matcha is more prominent than the coconut base, just how you like it.

Sana melts as she takes a bite of her strawberry ice cream, her eyes lighting up and shoulders relaxing. You can’t help but laugh.

“What?” Sana questions,

“You’re just really cute.” You simply say, taking another bite of your ice cream. Sana’s heartbeat quickens. Sana tries to compose herself in front of you, changing the topic of the conversation,

“So,” She clears her throat, “What do you like to do? It’s a cliche and unavoidable question, but other than being a barista do you do anything else?”

“I actually write a little. I used to write for some art articles online, I still do it every now and then.” You explain, “You?”

“Just teaching.”

“Did you always want to teach?”

“Yeah, actually. I’ve always liked helping others and I don’t know, I like encouraging the kids.”

“That’s cute.” You mumble, “You’re so cute.”

The night goes on and you two learn more than just about your interests in occupations. Sana learns that you rock climb every weekend, which explains why you’re so unbelievably athletic looking and toned. She finds your love for cooking and making drinks extremely cute and admirable, it seems as if the more she learns about you, the more she falls for you. She learns that you moved to the city with Johnny when you were 18, and that was the same time Hana had been brought into your life, one of the best things the universe had given to you. You’re the type of person who lives life to experience the beauty the universe has to offer, she thinks that’s amazing.

You learn that Sana had moved with the help of Jihyo and that they had been friends since college, Jihyo was also the reason Sana had landed her current job. Sana shares that she’s an only child, and in contrast to you, she wasn’t the athletic type really. You notice how bubbly she is talking to you, her more professional demeanor had completely broken down and a new, lively side was revealed. Sana is incredibly talkative and she rambles a lot, you think – no, you know you could get used to this.

The night had gone by too fast, Sana is back in your car again and you’ve just reached her apartment complex.

It seems that time spent with Sana seems to go by too quickly, and you hope that there's a chance of being able to spend more than just a couple of hours with her.

“Thank you for everything y/n, I really enjoyed tonight.”

“It’s no problem,” You start, “I’m glad you liked downtown.”

“Maybe you could show me around again sometime? I’d really like to do this again.” Sana says, and her toothy grin is so bright it nearly outshines the lights in your car.

“I’m not against that at all.” and you think you might die right then and there from the way your heart beats, and you want this moment to last forever; just you and Sana together.

“I’ll see you then, text me.”

“Yeah,” you breathe out. She opens the car door and your heart breaks slightly, not ready for her to leave just yet.

Sana seems to have read your emotions because she pauses before she gets out and turns to you.

“Wait,” She begins, “I forgot something.”

Before you ask her what it is that she had forgotten, she seems to answer your question before you can even let any words out of your mouth,

her lips are suddenly on yours.

The contact is sudden and you’re a bit unprepared, but you easily grow accustomed to it and kiss right back, eyes fluttering shut. Sana’s lips are so incredibly soft on yours, and the scent of vanilla and fruit is takes over your senses. Sana pulls away and your lips chase for hers again, and when they meet again it’s like the oxygen from Sana’s lungs had been snatched. Your hand moves to cup her cheek and your shoulders relax in the moment because it feels as if nothing else in the world matters except for her, as if all your worries had vanished just like that. Sana moves her hand to your neck and gently caresses it as you two share a few more soft, slow, and steady kisses, there’s no rush as if this moment would last forever. You two are practically unable to pull away from how much you both like the feeling of each other's lips on one another.

You want to live in this moment forever.

You two finally pull away after what had seemed like forever, though your hands seem to linger on each other a bit and both of your lips are parted slightly. Your lips are still so close that they’re slightly brushing against each other, butterflies are in your stomach and you’re forgetting how to breathe, think, or even function.

“I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I saw you.” Sana mumbles against your mouth, “You’re so cute.”

If you were in a cartoon right now, you’d think your heart would be dramatically beating out of your chest, and your jaw would be on the floor. You pull away a bit and it’s almost impossible to make eye contact with Sana, but you manage to do so anyway.

“I think I might die right here right now.” You mumble, it’s the only thing you can say or think of in the moment. Sana giggles and presses another soft peck on your lips,

“Let’s do this again.”

“Yeah.” You breathe out.

the light from the car shows her flushed cheeks and warm smile as she leans away from you, opening the car door and smiling at you one more time as she closes it. She turns to leave and you’re left in the car alone, your heart beat slowly beating back to its normal pace.

You put a hand on the wheel and grip it tightly, still processing what just happened before smiling to yourself and driving away from the apartment complex.

Sana has you head over heels, and you want to kiss her again and again.

Chaemin had been teaching the new high school student that had been hired. He helped her measure out the espresso grinds, telling her how many grams would be needed for whichever drink, and she listened carefully.

“Hello.” A customer beams, Chaemin turns his head.

“Hello, I’ll be with you in a moment.” Chaemin starts, giving the woman a friendly smile, “Eunchae, just measure out the grinds and pull a shot. Give it a try and I’ll be back.” He says to the young, new employee.

Chaemin walks over to the register and taps at the screen. He gives the woman his signature smile and greets her,

“Hi, what can I get started for you?”

“Oh, I’m not ordering, I was just wondering if y/n was here?”

Chaemin quirks a brow, “Y/n?”

“Yeah, she should be off in ten minutes, no?”

“She’s off soon, just putting stuff in the back. You are...?”

“Sana.”

Ah.

“So you’re the woman she’s been gushing over.” Chaemin laughs, “God she has not stopped talking about you since she met you.”

Sana’s smile grows a bit from the sudden remark and she laughs,

“I see… That’s sweet.”

“You had her going insane for three months.” Chaemin jokes playfully, “I’m glad she finally found a way to ask you out. I haven’t heard her complaining as much about not being able to take you out for about two months or something, though she’s still always gushing about you.”

Sana and Chaemin talk about you for a bit, laughing at your antics and Chaemin decides to tease you here and there. The two get along very well, and Sana is very happy about that.

“You know one time, I think, maybe before you two started dating? She came in the morning and asked me what a ‘young teacher usually order at a cafe’ and I swear she almost-” Chaemin gets cut off when you push him aside, pushing his face away with your hand and squishing his cheeks. He groans.

“Alright that’s enough.” You say, embarrassed. “Whatever he said, do not listen.”

Sana giggles and it’s time for you to stop being annoyed by Chaemin and start smiling at the girl you’ve been with for almost three months now. Chaemin narrows his eyes at your sudden mood change, scoffing playfully.

“Hi, Sana.” You say all giddy, “You didn’t tell me you were stopping by,”

“I wanted to see you. It’s also Friday, maybe we could-”

“Yes.” You cut her off, “I’m down for whatever.”

Chaemin rolls his eyes at you, chuckling to himself, “You’re so-”

“Go back to teaching Eunchae.” You retort, narrowing your eyes and Chaemin can't lie you look scarier than usual, you are infatuated with this woman.

“I’m not letting this go.” Chaemin finally sighs, walking back over to Eunchae.

Your attention is back on Sana, who’s smiling at you, “Dinner?” she asks,

“Yeah.” you respond, “Where?”

“My place?” Sana suggests, you nod,

"Let me get my stuff and I can drive us."

"Okay." She beams.

You two grow extremely fond of each other after spending more time together as a couple. Three months of being together turned into four months, six months eight, and suddenly you’re together for a year. Each and every second that passed by while you were with her is another moment that you had fallen more in love.

You love Sana for so many reasons.

She's the only one you want to see when you roll over in the morning, the only one you want to kiss awake after intimate nights after seeing her with her oh-so-messy hair flowing down in different directions around her. You love to carry her to your now shared living room and set her on the couch while you make her coffee, her giving you the kisses you can never get enough of, ones that you reciprocate and smile into. You love her radiant smile and the way her nose scrunches up when she giggles at you for slipping and falling on accident, you love the sound of her high-pitched giggles so much that you would purposely slip and fall over and over again just to hear her laugh again and again.

As you grow more attracted and attached to Sana, the physical aspects of her seem to disappear for a moment, you fall for not just her outside beauty, but all the internal aspects. You’re in love with how comfortable she makes you feel – you can sit in silence for hours and there are no words that need to be said because you two simply just enjoy each other's presence. You’re in love with how caring she is, she naturally is a caring person, she always has been. She’s always looking after kids at her job, making sure they’re all satisfied and happy – then she comes home to you, making sure you’re loved, and you return the favor. She’s beautiful not because of the way her features fit perfectly on her face, but because she makes you feel so giddy and happy. She makes you smile and that’s the thing that really makes her so captivating.

You’re in love with all of her, from her physical beauty to her caring heart. She is the one who you love so tenderly, so warmly, you love her and it’s real, genuine, and you don’t think you could ever love anyone the way you love her.

Sana also loves you for many reasons. She’s been in love with you since the day she saw you – whether she knew it or not.

The first time Sana had woken up next to you she knew she wanted to be with you forever.

Her nose was buried in the crook of your neck and her arm was lazily thrown across your chest while her legs were tangled with yours. The only thing that was heard that morning was your slow, labored breaths, and Sana could feel your chest rise up and down with each one. A smile had formed on her lips as she traced your jawline, her heart fluttered and the moment was so simple, yet so soft. Sana wanted to live in the moment forever.

Sana loved you because you were there when she needed a pillar of support, you were her pillar of support. She loved you because you loved and cared for everyone important to you, whether it was your parents, Johnny, or Hana, you loved them all so deeply and it was so genuine that it made Sana so incredibly happy to realize that you would love her as much as you loved them – it’s almost as this love that you had for everyone you cared about was the most precious thing in the world, and she was someone you shared it with.

Sana loved the late-night drives with you, humming softly to the romantic music that would play. She loved the way you’d mumble sleepily in the morning, your cheek squished against the pillow, it was a cute sight. She adored you when you would pull her aside and serenade her to slow songs in the living room during the evening, and she loved when you'd cook or make coffee for her, how you’d kiss her as she fell weak to your touch, and so many other things that not enough words could ever describe.

Sana felt so lucky to have you in her life, she was so glad that your niece had her as a teacher because if she didn’t she wouldn’t have met you. You were so glad that Hana had helped you get to know her kindergarten teacher, you were so glad that Johnny had that business trip because it allowed you to meet Sana.

You’re so glad that a five-year-old helped you meet the love of your life, you're so damn glad.

#sana imagines #sana x reader #kpop x reader #twice sana #twice x reader #twice #twice imagines #minatozaki sana #sana twice

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scuderiahoney · 3 months

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congrats on 1k followers! i've actually been binging your work this past week and the tangerine series has my heart, can i request something with the tangerine pair with "i really want to kiss you." "Now? In the rain?" as the prompt, maybe they're on another late night adventure but feel free to do what you want with it! congrats once again, so deserved!! <33

1k celebration! hi thank you so much, babes! my insomnia has been bad lately so tangerine!Osc has been heavy on my mind. so here we go 💛

It's another late night, and you’re far too awake. It’s chilly, and the wind makes it even worse. Next to you, Oscar’s holding onto your hand like a lifeline. He’s fading quickly, eyelids growing heavy. He’s made a valiant effort to stay up with you tonight, insisting on it. You think he noticed your mood, the way your mind has been racing all day. You didn’t complain when he said he wasn’t tired, when he asked if you wanted to grab a late, late dinner at a pub down the street from the hotel. He’s been doing his best, but you’re trying desperately to get him back to the room and into bed before he passes out from exhaustion.

As if to add insult to injury, you feel a droplet of water land on your forehead. Then another, and then, suddenly, the sky opens up above you, and rain comes pouring down. You swear and tug at Oscar’s hand, racing down the street towards the hotel.

It’s only when he skids to a stop outside the front entrance that you realize he’s laughing. You try to pull him inside, but he stays put. You turn and look at him, bewildered, and find his face lit up with happiness, the exhaustion gone from his eyes. He pulls you back into the rain, and you try to shield your face.

“I really want to kiss you,” he says over the downpour.

“Now?” You ask, already completely soaked. “In the rain?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding firmly. “Always, but yeah, now.”

When his lips meet yours, they’re cold and wet. It doesn’t take long for him to warm you up, though. And suddenly, you don’t care nearly as much about the rain. It runs down your cheeks and neck, soaks you to the bone, but Oscar’s hands are on your hips and face and you’re slipping your wet fingers under his t-shirt. His skin is warm against your hands, feels almost feverishly hot, and you press your palms to his abdomen. He tugs at your hip and crushes your bodies together, and then he pulls his lips away from yours.

“We should go inside,” he says, a raindrop running down his nose. “Take these wet clothes off.

You laugh and nod. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

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garfunklefield · 2 months

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May I request a fanfiction of Gojo getting pegged? Maybe? Mayhaps? Please?

Angel Food Cake and Cream (pegging series 1)

18+ viewer discretion is advised

fem!reader/satoru gojo Warnings: fingering, fem!dom, gojo is a sub, submissive whimpering ya'll, pegging, bratty gojo, he nuts everywhere, degradation, hair pulling, controlled orgasm Word count: 2011 words DESC: You want to spice things up in the bedroom and Satoru "I'll try anything once" Gojo obliges.

This is for you anon! If you want something please request I’m running out of ideas!! And yes I’m making this a series who should get pegged next?? Nanami?!

“Seriously? You’d let me peg you?” You raised an eyebrow at the man standing before you. You never thought in a million years your “straighter than straight” (but you’ve seen the way he stares at Suguru’s ass) boyfriend would ever accept getting pegged. Now not to say that pegging made anyone gay, but you knew how sensitive masculinity was for certain guys.

Satoru was a hard one to gauge. Some things he was completely fine with, were skirts and nail polish. But then other things would dramatically hurt his masculine ego, like wearing an apron or being the little spoon. So when you suggested pegging and he accepted quickly, you were confused but delighted.

“Yeah,” he nodded, turning back to rifle through his closet of expensive clothes, “I’ll even take you to go get me a strap-on and everything.”

Was he seriously okay with buying the strap-on? Hey you weren’t complaining. You were one to always try anything even if it didn’t pan out how you wanted and you knew Satoru was about the same. But there was something a little… suspicious about how quickly he agreed. I mean, your first threesome with Suguru had to take some convincing. This, however, took only the statement.

If you had asked him, Gojo would shake his head and proudly state, “No! I’ve never done butt stuff!” And then wink. Now you were starting to think he was either aching to try it… or he has his collection of anal beads.

“Well, if you’re paying we can go now,” you suggested, standing up and motioning for the door.

The corner of your boyfriend's mouth twitched in a subtle way that he hoped to god you didn’t notice. I’m gonna let you in on a little secret reader, the most powerful Jujutsu sorcerer had been yearning to be stuffed by your silicone cock for months now. God the feeling of you degrading and railing him at the same time turned him on so much, but he was a bit ashamed. It’s okay if you like butt stuff, that’s not the issue. Satoru was ashamed he had claimed so proudly he wasn’t into it, that to retract the statement would cause him a lot of teasing and bullying (from you).

But now he couldn’t handle waiting any longer. He lay with his legs spread and his ass wiggling in the air as you rummaged around on the side table beside his bed for some lube.

“Hurry upppp,” he groaned, resting his head against the mattress with a pout, “I’m getting flaccid.”

You shot your blue-eyed fiend a look and lightly flicked the side of his hip, eliciting a shiver from the male, “Be patient. It’s not my fault your side table is stuffed with fucking candy wrap- ah-ha!” In your hand was now a small container of… cherry flavored lube.

“Satoru,” you frowned, turning the bottle over in your hands to read the backlist of ingredients, “I thought you said you bought water-based lube.”

“It is water-based,” he lifted his head up to make eye contact, “...I think.”

“Okay whatever, it’s your asshole, not mine,” you shrugged, popping open the cap open. The pink-tinted liquid globbed onto your hand and with a toss you flung it to the side of the bed to be used later.

Without saying anything else you slicked your index and middle finger, coating each section of skin in the cherry-smelling lubrication. Your boyfriend continued to lay patiently, although from this angle you could see his cock twitching eagerly. Even just the thought of your fingers massaging his prostate made his backside covered in goosebumps.

One of your delicate hands rested against his hip, giving him the signal you were about to start. He turned his head to the side of the mattresses to watch you. A small smile played on his lips as you donned a very concentrated expression. Remember, you were still convinced he didn’t even know what his asshole looked like, so you wanted to make this as painless as possible.

“I’m gonna start, kay?” You whispered, pressing the tip of your finger to his asshole. Satoru bit his lip and nodded a few times, instinctively grabbing onto the bedsheets. He couldn’t believe it was so close to happening.

You slowly began to push inwards, taking your time to let his plush walls adjust to the foreign feeling of a finger. What you didn’t notice from being so focused on making sure he wasn’t hurting, was that he was completely rock hard. Just from one finger? It's kind of pathetic if you ask me.

Satoru let out a noise that could have been from pain or pleasure and you instantly stopped, looking down to see if he was okay, “Satoru…?”

“Mm…” His eyelids fluttered close, “Keep going. Add another one, actually,” he mused, pressing his lips together in a fine line, “I can take more.”

You raised an eyebrow and nodded. Now at this point you had seen his boner and come to the conclusion he liked it a lot more than he’d ever admit. Maybe you could rail the truth out of him? Oh… that thought increased your arousal. You didn’t need to get off this time if it meant giving him pleasure. You were okay with only pleasing him because it made you feel good.

Without another word you proceeded to stick another finger in, without as much care to being as gentle as before. Satoru’s breathing hitched for a moment and he let out a long groan, followed by something muttered under his breath.

“Two fingers and you’re already throbbing, huh?” You teased quietly, beginning to massage around his prostate.

“H…hey,” he warned, biting down on his bottom lip again. Doing it himself was one thing but to have someone else provide him with this stimulating pleasure was sending shockwaves through his cock. It twitched again, begging to be stroked.

One of his hands trailed from the bedsheets to his cock, covering the head and then stroking down the side. Noticing how he was already touching himself, you grinned and began to spread apart your fingers. You had seen it done in a video or two from a health website and who were you to say no to a health and sex expert?

“F-fuck,” Gojo breathed out, shutting his eyes tightly as he embraced the new sensation. God, it felt so good to be stretched out like a piece of meat. It felt so good to be finger fucked by the person he loved most in the world. Sure, it would feel good regardless of who was fingering him, but the fact that it was you turned him on even more.

His pale hand curled around the base of his cock and stroked upwards, keeping the pace slow. He didn’t want to cum yet. He didn’t want to cum at all. If Satoru could have stayed in this middle ground of teasing pleasure forever he wouldn’t be able to complain.

But as quick as his arousal began, you slowly pulled your fingers out of his asshole. Your boyfriend frowned and opened his eyes, releasing his cock from his grip, “I didn’t say you could stop.”

“Oh, so you don’t want me to use the eight-inch dildo you insisted on buying me?” You retorted back, watching his expression shift from annoyed to embarrassed.

“Fine,” he pouted, turning back to rest his head against the soft mattress.

It only took you a couple of minutes to put on the strap-on and situate the harness to your form. The dildo fit perfectly inside like a glove and within seconds it was lubed and ready to go. Satoru was throbbing from even just seeing you in that get-up. The thought of you pushing it inside of him was going to make him cum from anticipation. Any second now he was going to be stuffed full of your fake cock. And god he couldn’t wait.

“Okay…” You put both hands on either of his hips to align your dildo with his entrance, “On the count of th-”

Gojo groaned loudly, “Just put it in.”

“Okay, smart-ass,” you frowned and thrusted inwards. Satoru gasped at the sudden sensation and before he could have time to adjust you continued to thrust. If he was going to be a brat you were going to treat him like a brat, “Aww, is someone getting too much?” You teased, trailing one hand to his ass cheek and squeezing it in the way that he had done to you so many times in the past.

“I…ha-ah f-fuck pl…please,” Your boyfriend stuttered out between your quick thrusts, burying his face down into the bed, “Ah…a-” And then he began to … whimper.

God this was so much better than fucking him until he confessed. This was fucking the truth out of him. Satoru Gojo couldn’t deny the fact he was lusting after being railed because his whimpers and whining proved otherwise. He threw his head back and gasped, one of his arms clawing down into the mattress for some kind of stability.

“You’re so pathetic. You just wanted my big cock, huh?” You cooed, slapping the side of his ass cheek with more force.

“A-ah y..yes! I-I mm…” He cried out, barely able to contain his arousal. His cock was begging to be stroked but from the force of your thrusts, he couldn't bring himself to reach down and touch himself. So he lay in blissful agony as his prostate was overstimulated. It was better than any kind of fucking Satoru could do to himself. It was better than any anal wand, anal bead, or anal plug. This was truly what he needed.

“You’re going to cum,” you suddenly demanded, leaning forward and grabbing a fist full of his hair. You yanked it backward and watched as Satoru whined from pleasure.

“Y-yes…” Was all he managed to spit out in between his whining and crying for more. The sensation had already been building in his stomach from the moment you forced your dildo inside his asshole. It was throbbing deep in his length and shooting throughout the lower half of his body. It was so painful… but god was it amazing.

“When I tell you to, you’re gonna cum. Kay?” You spoke, running your hand through the tuft of hair to grab it forcibly from his scalp, “Understood?”

Gojo nodded. You didn’t have to tell him twice. The mere action of holding back his orgasm was getting painful so he was just yearning to release himself all over his mattress, which he would clean up later. You let go of his hair and hooked your hand behind each hip, slamming your dildo deep into his hole, just tickling the base of his prostate.

He let out another cry, spit, and drool forming at the bottom of his lip and dribbling down to his chin. Holding back this orgasm was so painful, that Satoru could barely contain himself anymore that he began to beg mindlessly. Anything and every kind of begging you could think of that pathetic white-haired slut was whimpering out. Just to get a taste of the building orgasm in his gut.

“Cum,” you uttered those godforsaken words and he didn’t have to be told twice. Like from a Yaoi manga, Satoru gasped and loudly sobbed out. His cock spasmed out an intense orgasm, convulsing out thick spurts of cum all onto his mattress. Each time he thought he was done another wave hit him and he cried out again, shooting out another round of cum as you kept fucking him.

Finally, you slowly came to a stop, patting one of his hips to signal you were done. Your boyfriend puffed out a loud breath and fell against the mattress once you pulled out. His body shivered and he gave you a soft look, staring through a row of thick white eyelashes. The only thing he said before he passed out in a pool of his own cum was a simple sentence.

“I think I’m bisexual.”

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em1e · 10 months

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baby fever | seeing shin w a little baby

⿻ mini series ft. you dating shinichiro and whatever chaos that comes from that !! ✕ cute fluff !! to make up for the heartbreak from the last one ♡ series m.list

shinichiro wants to be impressed, honestly, with how quickly his day can go downhill.

first, he woke up to mikey and emma arguing about who’d get to take the spiderman lunch box and who would get to take the batman one to the dojo with their grandpa (shinichiro was the deciding factor, and it turns out neither of them would get either – which could’ve been a mistake on his part, since the choice just made them whine and complain more at having to take brown bags).

then the clothes he threw in the dryer for his day with you weren’t completely dry, so he had to make the decision to wear slightly damp (and sour? was that smell coming from the clothes?) or be the disgusting human he knows he is deep down and wear the clothes he’s been wearing for the past week . . .

he goes for the latter, because surely he can just douse himself in cologne and that’ll get rid of any underlying smells the clothes have accumulated . . . right . . ?

there’s no time to dwell on it, because now he’s late picking you up!

you were going to kill him. he prays it’s a sweet, painless death as he knocks on your door.

and of course the universe is against him. he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this bad luck, but god. he might have to start repenting.

you pull the door open, and there’s a baby bouncing on your hip. you look tired, hair a mess and still in your pjs despite it being a little past the start of lunch, and the baby doesn’t look any better, crying despite your constant movement and shh’s that it’s okay.

“uh . . hi?” he offers, brows furrowing, “something you wanna tell me?”

“saw this one on the street, and thought ‘wow i’ve always wanted one of those’.” you joke humorlessly, opening the door wider so he can walk through, “my sister dropped her off because her stupid boyfriend got in trouble with the cops and her sitter canceled.”

“so no date?” he concludes, and the way you whirl around to glare at him has him holding his hands defensively, clicking his tongue, “i’ll take that as a no . . want me to take her for a sec? how long have you had her?”

you don’t hesitate to offer the baby to him, “since six this morning. she’s been fussy because her mom left.” you run a hand through your hair, clearly exhausted, but the second she’s in shinichiro’s arms, she quiets down. your eyes narrow, “how’d you do that?”

he moves to sit on the couch, and you scramble to sit beside him, passing the baby blanket he points to from her diaper bag and laying it gently over her.

“do what?” he asks, voice a thousand times softer with her in his arms, “mikey was a fusser when he was a baby, wouldn’t stop crying unless you held ‘im like this.”

it’s . . really fucking cute, admittedly, the way he gazes down at your niece and slowly rocks her to sleep. you would be upset at how easily she relaxes in his arms if it didn’t make your heart clench.

and you’re honestly too worn out to hold a grudge over something so silly.

your head finds itself on shinichiro’s shoulder, toying with a loose thread on the blanket.

“you wore that shirt yesterday.” you comment off-handedly, when your niece has been rocked to sleep and you’re ready to follow her down that same path if your eyes fighting to stay open is anything to go by.

“how do you know?” he asks, the hint of a smile teasing its way to his lips.

“grease stain from your bike,” you pause with a yawn, then continue while snuggling into his side, “saw ‘em when you drove me home from work.”

“and you didn’t tell me?” he sounds offended, but really, how does he expect you to take him seriously with the lilt in his voice like he’s still talking nonsense to your niece?

it’s soft; a side of him you’ve never seen, and it makes you ache at the prospect of having him all to yourself. your own family, your own house with a picket fence. so domestic.

“can’t wait for us to have our own.” you mumble in favor of answering his question, sleep edging its way into your voice.

“yeah?” you can still hear the way he’s smiling as he speaks, relaxing further into the couch for the impromptu nap. you only hum in response, and he knows then you’re too far gone to provide a real reply.

looking down at you, holding this baby in his arms . . . he thinks he can’t wait either.

#salmon rowe #sano shinichiro x reader #shinichiro x reader #shinichiro sano x reader #sano x reader #sano shinichiro #shinichiro sano #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers #x reader

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deathbecomesthem · 2 months

Text

Crawling to the Finish | Part 1 of 4 | 2.6K

I am queuing up all 4 parts of this story, and they will all be released throughout the week on the dates that are indicated on the Materlist. This story is already completed, and I do not intend to revisit it for editing. My emotional labor on this one has already been done.

Warnings: There will be lots of descriptions of medical stuff. The reader is physically disabled due to an undefined accident. Major bone trauma. Lots of talk about pain. Later parts are going to have smut, because disabled people have sex like everyone else.

Summary: You have to go back to school while still recovering from surgery. Principal Higgins is determined to make you as comfortable as possible, so he assigns someone to help you get around.

A/N: The physical disability described in this series are my own. The experiences are very close to what my own. Be kind.

This one goes out to CJ - you helped me carry my books my junior and senior years of high school because you got to leave class early. You were a real one.

The crutches rubbed the skin of your armpits raw. You’d tried everything. Your mom has sewn pieces of flannel over the arm rests to try to make it more comfortable. It didn’t matter. The only solution was to give it time, let your skin grow tougher. These crutches would be your best friends for the foreseeable future.

The immediate concern after your initial recovery was getting you back to “normal” life. That meant school. The thought of trying to wade through the crowds at Hawkins High while balancing on your crutches was enough to send you into a fury. It was so unfair. Your parents and the administration were determined to make it work.

You would be allowed to leave your classes 5 minutes early, working your way through empty hallways. You could carry your backpack to your classes, despite the rule about keeping them in lockers. You can’t imagine trying to rest your tender hip on the cold desks that could be found in every classroom, but Principal Higgins has a solution for that. One that you’ve promised yourself you’ll never use.

“I’m not sitting on a donut.” Your mom has tried to show you how much more comfortable you would be sitting on a donut designed for hemorrhoid pain. “I’d rather die. I’ll deal with the pain.”

Dealing with the pain was something you always did. You learned early on that complaining about it wouldn’t make it lessen, it just made the people around you make sympathetic noises that set you on edge.

Being on edge is your new normal. Everything set you off. You took everything personally. If someone was overly nice to you, you took it as an insult. Everyone wanted to help, but you wanted to do it yourself. You were so tired of people using you to make themselves feel better. “Oh, I helped that poor cripple girl today when she was struggling with the door. Aren’t I special?”

So, you taught yourself how to do everything – with adjustments. Because you didn’t want to miss out on more than you had to. You gained stamina. You once crutched 3 miles with a group of friends to watch a fireworks display. It almost killed you, and you couldn’t lift your arms the following day, but you did it. And you watched those fireworks with your head rested in your boyfriend’s lap. He never asked if you were ok. He never suggested that maybe he should have stayed back with you and watched them from the back of his truck. So, you did it, and you hid the pain.

It only reinforced the idea that you had to be better at pretending to be fine when that same boyfriend cheated on you while you were in the hospital recovering from surgery last year. You had insisted he not miss junior prom because of you, insisted he take your friend. Megan was one of your best friends, and she was more than happy to do it. You didn’t know that they’d been secretly fucking for months.

Your brain knew that he was a dick, and that what he did was fucking awful. You also knew that you were a burden to everyone around you. Of course he wanted out, but how do you break up with a cripple without being an asshole? The answer was that you didn’t. But that was last year, and this year you didn’t have to worry about boys and friends. You just had to worry about making it to graduation. Fuck the rest of it. You would crawl onto that stage if you had to.

The first morning back to school after the most recent surgery came halfway through your senior year, 3 weeks after having your sixth major hip repair surgery. The previous five were failures. This is a last-ditch effort with a new surgeon. As soon as you turned 18, you left the pediatric orthopedic surgeon you’d been seeing for the last 5 years – he was one of the best in the country – to see someone new. Someone that wouldn’t attach the expectations of pediatric care with your treatment plan anymore. You need a life, and you’ve already lost so much time.

When you saw the new doctor, he looked at your images and said, “this is a mess.” One 6-inch rod attached to your thigh bone and at least 8 pins holding the failed hip fusion in place. His treatment plan was, “let’s take it all out and see what happens.” He promised if you gave it a full 6 weeks to see what happens, he’d do a full replacement. He’d give you your life back.

So, you let him have his little experiment with you. You let your parents hope for some miracle, let them ask their church friends to pray for you. You give your doctor the agreed upon 6 weeks to ”see what happens”, and then he’ll take that diseased bone out of your body and replace it with metal, plastic, and ceramic.

Today is the day you crutch your ass back into high school and try to have a normal day. Completing course work at home has been a breeze, but the district is determined to not be labeled as unfriendly to disabled people, so you’re here now. The first three periods are ok, it’s English, Algebra, and a typing class. Painful, but bearable. The fourth class of the day, American History, started with a bang.

Mr. Willis is a short man with a perpetually annoyed expression. He is known for openly mocking his female students. His room smelled of onions, and his short sleeved white button up shirts always sported yellow-green armpit stains. The onion smell was always worse when he moved around the room, his arms lifted high in the air to get a point across.

The class starts, as all classes do, with a roll call. Perfectly reasonable, nothing out of the ordinary until he reaches your name.

“Y/N – you’re gracing us with your presence today?” His eyes are glaring at you from behind his desk. “That’s a shame.” He stands and walks over to you, his stench trailing behind him, “I need you to go to Vice Principal Brobeck’s office immediately.” He has a disciplinary slip already filled out in his hand.

“What?” You can’t help your tone; it’s confused and annoyed. How could you possibly be in trouble when it’s been weeks since you last sat at this desk.

“Your truancy needs to be addressed by the administration. A string of unexcused absences. Go!” He barks out the last, finger pointing to the door, and you can’t help but scoff at him.

“Uh, fine, I’ll go. Can I ask you, though, are you blind?” You wave your crutches at him while trying to maneuver and get your backpack over your shoulders. “I had surgery.”

He prattles on about your tone and lack of respect to your back as you crutch your way down the long hallway to the administrative offices for the school. You were exhausted already, and adding another trip around the school with your heavy backpack left you feeling angry. You could feel hot tears of frustration burning behind your eyes while you stumble a little at the office door.

The secretary has you take a seat in one of the soft cushion chairs in the entryway, which is a small mercy for your sore hip. Someone is sitting next to you, but you barely register his presence in your current state of distress and pain.

“Uh, what the hell did you do to get sent down to the office?” His voice is playful with you, but you’re not in the mood to engage with anyone.

“My existence in this building is enough, apparently.”

Before he can manage a response, the Vice Principal’s door opens, and he calls your name. The boy in the chair next to you tries to help with your bag, but you just snatch it out of his hands and throw it over your shoulders before crutching into the inner office.

“So, Mr. Willis says you’ve been truant. Do you have an explanation?” You can tell by his glassy eyes that he’s just going through the motions without actually taking in the situation sitting right in front of his face.

“I’m sorry, are you serious right now?” This gets his attention. You can practically see smoke coming out of his ears at your attitude, until he really takes a look at you. The crutches, the obvious pain in your face. “I’ve been out for 3 weeks because I had surgery. I’m back because Principal Higgins insisted the school could accommodate my needs. Call my parents if you want.”

He has your mother on the phone in an instant. You imagine her sitting at the kitchen table just waiting for a call from the school, which is probably exactly what she’s been doing. She’s devoted years to your recovery. As soon as Mr. Brobeck says the word “truant”, you can hear her yelling through the phone line, demanding to speak to Principal Higgins. So it goes.

The boy is still sitting in a chair waiting for whatever punishment is coming for him when you exit the office with both principals at your heels. Higgins is falling all over himself apologizing, promising you’ll have no more problems with Mr. Willis when he spots Eddie.

“Munson, you want to get out of detention?” Your eyes are drawn back to the boy, finally taking him in fully. He’s shaggy haired, wearing leather and denim with big rings adorning his hands. A metalhead. In Hawkins.

“Uh, yes sir.” He’s standing wearing an open face, ready to accept any terms that are offered to him. Your assumption is that most of the staff at the school would use any excuse to give him detention or get him expelled.

“Y/N is going to need someone to help her get from class to class,” You start to protest, but Higgins speaks over you, “how do you feel about taking on that responsibility? You’ll have to leave your classes a few minutes early and make sure she can get around the school without a problem.”

“Of course. If that’s ok with her.” He looks to you. You have no choice but to agree, how can you say no with him looking at you like that? His eyes pleading.

So, it was decided. Eddie Munson, the problem child of Hawkins, would escort you between classes. The assumption from Higgins is that you’ll be happier with a little errand boy helping you, but this boy likes to talk.

“So, what’s with the sticks?” He’s sitting with you while you wait for the hallways to clear before heading to your next class. Would it be rude to tell him to leave me alone?

“It’s complicated. I had surgery a few weeks ago. I’ll probably have another one in a few weeks.” It’s all you can offer.

“Woah, that sucks. Are you new? I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you here before.”

“Not new. I’ve lived in Hawkins forever.” You could explain that you’ve been in and out of school for the last few years due to your accident and subsequent surgeries, but you don’t have the strength. It also bores you to think about having that conversation with someone new.

“Really? How have I never seen you before?” He’s trying to be friendly. Don’t be a dick to him.

“I don’t know, maybe you’re just not very perceptive.” It’s a low blow, but he laughs at it, which is promising. “Listen, I’m really drained. Can we just sit here?”

“Yeah, no problem. Sorry.” He looks genuinely apologetic, but something about this interaction is different than what you’re used to. He’s not looking at you like you’re broken. He’s talking to you with interest, not pseudo sympathy.

“It’s ok. Ask me questions another time.” You let your head lean back against the wall and try to block out the noise in the room, and the pain zipping down your leg. This last surgery was a short one, but it left you drained. You feel loose, like your body is coming apart without the metal holding you together. You think it must be in your head, and remind yourself that you only need to get through a few weeks of this. It’s nothing, a few weeks is nothing.

You and Eddie have lunch together at his regular lunch table, which you agreed to because he promised his friends would leave you alone if he told them to. And they did, mostly, even though you got a lot of side eyes. Especially from the younger ones. You could see them practically vibrating with the need to talk to you. Especially the one in the hat. You can tell he’s gonna go for it before his mouth even opens.

“So, Eddie tells us he’s helping you get around for your classes.” The kid is being casual, and it’s so endearing, you can’t even be mad. A pretzel hits the kid in the face, Eddie looks like he’s ready to leap over the table and strangle him.

“Down boy, it’s ok.” You give him a little smile, so he knows you’re not mad. “Yes, Eddie’s helping me so he can get out of detention. It works out.” You give the kid the best smile you can manage, which you’re sure looks weak on your blood drained face.

The boy nods a little and says, “That’s a sweet deal for him, though, isn’t it? He gets to leave classes early and he gets out of detention.” Another pretzel is lobbed at the kid’s face, and now you’re giggling.

“You’re definitely right, I’m not sure what I’m getting out of it.”

“Can I ask –“ before the words come out of his mouth, Eddie is walking over to put his arm around the boy’s shoulder.

“Dustin, what did we talk about?” Dustin, you’ll remember that.

“You said that you had a friend joining us and we had to leave her alone. But –“ Eddie tightens his grip, but Dustin persists, “BUT, I just want her to know that as a fellow disabled person, she can talk to me! Ok, I’m done now.”

The rest of the lunch period goes by without any incidents, but Dustin does slide over half of his oatmeal cookie to you at one point with a giant grin on his face. You mouth a little “thanks” and give him a weak smile.

Eddie gets you to and from the last few classes of the day, and even walks you out to your car after your last class. As the day goes on you, you decide to accept his help with as much grace as you can. Especially because the situation is actually helping him too. It makes it easier to swallow. Less like pity.

“Well, I’ll see you in the morning, Ilene.” His delivery of the joke is lame, and you let it hang in the air for a minute, letting him squirm. “You get it? Ilene?”

“Yeah, I get it Eddie.” You let your face fall, casting your eyes to the floor of your car. “That’s really insensitive. Maybe I should tell Principal Higgins to get me a new errand boy.” You’re trying to bite back the smirk his lame joke is threatening to bring to your mouth.

“I’m sorry, I thought it was funny –“

You’re giggling at his panic, “Eddie, that joke was so lame, it offended me. Do better. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x disabled!reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #eddie munson smut #eddie munson stranger things #disability in fanfiction

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megu-meow · 12 days

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take my breath - sukuna

Part 4 of my Hockey Player Sukuna Series - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Lmk if you want to be added to the tag list! :D

This part is shit, I'm sorry. After TTPD I found myself unable to write fluff, but I've kept people waiting, so I had to force myself to write this.

When Sukuna says soon, he means the next Thursday. He calls you on Wednesday after practice to ask you formally whether you could keep your schedule open for the next evening and you agree, because you have been waiting for your date for a few days now. However, you find yourself frustratedly trying on every piece of clothing you own, being indecisive about what to wear. You want to look good for him, because as you shyly admitted to your brother, you really like Sukuna. He's rough around the edges, but he seems like a good guy, unlike all the other people you've dated before. You contemplate calling one of the girls, but Senna and Akane love to gossip, and for the time being, you'd like to keep this little date with Sukuna a secret. So you call the only person you can trust in this situation.

Sophia arrives ten minutes after calling her saying you need help getting dressed for a date. She's the only one of the girls who knows that you have something going on with Sukuna, it makes total sense to reach out to her in your current circumstance. You already made her swear on your brother's life that she's not going to say anything about it to the girls, so you're safe in that regard. Plus, she has a keen sense of style, which comes in handy considering you want to impress the pink-haired centerman with your looks. You noticed already how many pretty girls were wearing his jersey to games, you know that he could have any of them at his disposal in a second. It still seems sketchy that he became so fond of you in such a short period of time, but you're not complaining.

"He was so nervous when I left, Kento thought he was going to explode." Sophia says as you try to put socks on, balancing on one foot.

"Who was?" you look at her and you nearly kiss the ground, regaining your balance at the last second.

"Sukuna, of course. He's been pacing around the apartment like a maniac all day."

"Really?" you ask timidly.

"Yeah. Kento said he had never seen him so stressed." for some reason hearing this makes you smile and your heart warm. Sukuna doesn't strike you as someone who would be nervous about dates, but you already learned not to assume anything about him, because he always surprises you with the way he acts.

"I'm kinda nervous too. I want this to go well." you explain and you try to put your earrings in. As you look at yourself in the mirror, wearing the outfit your sister-in-law put together, you're content with your reflection. You look amazing and you feel confident in the pieces you're wearing. Your makeup and hair are done in your usual way, you don't want to look like a completely different person. Apparently, Sukuna agrees that you look good. Because the moment you open your door for him, he freezes in place, with his eyes wide and glimmering. For a second you think something is wrong, but those thoughts are quickly dismissed as he speaks.

"You look beautiful, y/n." he states, his voice softer than you've ever heard. He is wearing a burgundy suit, one that complements his skin tone. His hair is sleeked back, but it still looks effortless in a way. You can smell his usual cologne, the musky scent that lingers. It suits him.

"Says you, handsome." you compliment him back and you swear a blush appears on his cheek. Suddenly, he remembers something, and he gives you the flowers he was hiding behind his back all this time. "Thank you! What happened to all flowers are stupid?" you ask as you smell the peonies in your hand.

"Well I got you some sunflowers, but your brother told me I was insane, so he dragged me to a florist to get 'ones that girls actually like'." he explains.

"He's right, you know? You made me wait four days for this date, the least you can do is give me some girly flowers." you joke and he rolls his eyes. Nonetheless, he reaches out for your hand. You slip it in his palm, which is calloused from holding a hockey stick most hours of a day, but very warm.

"Listen, woman, I made you wait because I wanted to take you to a 3 Michelin Star restaurant that specializes in your favorite food." he explains as he opens the door of his car for you to hop in.

"What?" you ask in shock before he closes the door after you. He leans down, looking into your eyes with a smirk across his face.

"You heard me, y/n. Now, don't be so shocked, I told you I would go all out for our date."

"You didn't have to though. You could have taken me to a hole-in-the-wall ramen place and I would have liked it." you say, slightly feeling bad "How did you manage to get a table anyway? These places are booked months ahead."

"The owner is a huge Wizards fan and apparently I'm his kid's favorite player. I had the team sign a jersey and got them season tickets, so they were glad to do me a small favor in return." he explains like it is nothing, but it means the world to you. No one has ever done something so grand for a date with you. It makes your heartbeat go nuts and you can't help but stare at him as he drives. You observe his tattooed hand that is on the armrest, shaking slightly. You smile and instinctively take it in yours, laying your intertwined hands in your lap. He turns his head towards you in shock, but he quickly looks back to the road. The blush from before returns, even his neck turns pink, and you smile, adoring his reactions.

The dinner goes by fast, despite lasting for hours. The food is exquisite, as expected. Most importantly, there's not one dull moment. You and Sukuna talk like you've known each other your whole lives. He asks about your interests, what you like to do in your free time, where you went to school, and about your friends. He seems interested in everything you talk about, he listens with an intensity you find rare. He drinks up every single word that leaves your mouth, he asks questions, and he's genuinely curious about how you perceive the world. You ask him plenty of questions yourself and he answers them gladly. He seems very fond of his brothers, he shows you pictures of them and you observe how Yuji has the same color hair as him and Choso has a very similar line tattooed on his nose as Sukuna's.

"They're coming to town soon, by the way." he comments and your eyes light up.

"How come?"

"It's Yuji's draft year and it's held here in Tokyo. Choso just tags along because he clings to that brat like a leech."

"That's so rude!" you exclaim, but you're smiling. You're aware that Sukuna probably shows his love towards his brothers a little bit peculiarly.

"Well, it's true."

"Do you see a chance of Yuji being drafted by the wizards?" you ask.

"Not really. He is prospected to be in the top three of the draft and we are clinching the playoffs this next game as number one in the league. We probably won't have a pick in the top ten."

"I'm sorry to hear that. It would have been cool for him to have you on the team he's drafted to."

"I don't think so. If I'm being honest, I'm glad there is little to no chance for that to happen as of now."

"Why is that?"

"He won't have a target on his back. Otherwise, people would be mean to him and would rough him up with the sole purpose of pissing me off. This way he can become a professional player without being concussed every game."

"You're very protective of your brothers, huh?" you ask and he smiles.

"You could say that." he smirks "I'm protective of everything I own, you know." he adds looking into your eyes deeply. You know there is a deeper meaning behind his words. He's implying that he would be just as safeguarding about you if you were his girlfriend. You find it hard to believe that a guy like him exists. He is so charming but respectful. He is attentive, you mentioned one time what your favorite food was and he remembered, moreover, he went out of his way to get you the best version available of it.

"Where were you my whole life?" you ask, not realizing that you blurted out your thoughts just like that. You feel embarrassed as your hands fly to your runny mouth, covering it. However, Sukuna just laughs. He rarely laughs like this. It comes deep from within, the type that shakes your whole body and you're sure you're red like a lobster as you observe him.

"Sweetheart, I've been asking that question about you since December." he answers, his charming smile never fading.

"December?" you question.

"Oh, I thought your brother told you about that too." he seems shocked, but he continues "I've spotted you in the crowd at the Family Game in Kyoto. I was mesmerized, I even ran into one of my teammates on accident, I was too preoccupied with looking at the angel in the Wizards jersey."

"Oh, I remember that. I was laughing about that with Akane." you recall and Sukuna frowns "So you've had your eyes sat on me since then?"

"Well, I didn't know I was going to meet you on my first day in Tokyo while I was shirtless, but destiny has its way, I guess."

"You believe we were destined to meet?"

"I told you before, sweetheart, I am superstitious. Take that as you want, but I do think we are here having dinner for a reason." he explains.

Your date ends when the restaurant staff asks you nicely to leave because they've been closed for two hours already. You didn't even realize that all the other customers had left and the staff was ready to close. Sukuna pays for the bill and he sends you a death glare when you offer to pay for your part. "Woman, you won't have to pay for anything while you are out with me." he states, irritation evident in his tone. He also drives you home and walks you to your door. You're wearing his suit jacket, because you were a bit cold, although he turned the heater on in the car.

"Thank you for tonight! I had a lot of fun." you smile up at him, as you're trying to say goodbye on your doorstep.

"There is nothing to be thankful for, you got what you deserve, princess." he says and he seems a little bit disappointed, but you're not able to determine why. Maybe the date didn't go as well in his perspective as you thought.

"Is something wrong? Did I say something to offend you?" you ask in panic and he quickly shakes his head, dismissing it. Suddenly the redness returns to hiss tattooed cheeks and he suddenly seems nervous.

"I just thought I deserved a kiss after that." he whispers shyly, his face down, gaze locked on the tip of his shoes.

It's your turn to laugh at his awkwardness, but you still cup his cheeks in your hands and pull him in for a kiss. You don't quite understand where all this fearlessness came into you from, but you're glad it did because the kiss is magical. It's soft but eager and you can feel him smiling into it as his large hands find their destined spot in your hips. You're the one to break the kiss, but Sukuna pulls you in closer, resting his forehead on yours, and looking deeply into your eyes. His smile reaches his ears and he whispers to you softly:

"I hate to break it to you princess, but I don't think I can go on with my life without doing that every day."

You smile, and respond with a smile just as wide as his "Good, because I don't think I can either."

The next day is game day and you arrive at your brother's apartment beforehand. You usually drive with them to the arena. Sukuna emerges from his room in his game-day suit, his eyes glowing up the moment he sees you there.

"We're gonna be down at the car, Bambi." Sophia says as she and Kento leave in a hurry.

Sukuna steps closer to you, embracing you, his muscular arms around your shoulders.

"Hello, princess! How are you?"

"I'm great, Sukuna. Thank you for asking! How are you?"

"Better now that I know you're coming to the game to cheer me on." you smile, stepping away from the embrace, and you look into his eyes. "Are you gonna give me a good luck kiss or what?"

You're surprised by his boldness, but you leave a peck on his lips nonetheless.

"If I do good today, you're gonna have to do that before every game." he states.

"Alright. You've got yourself a deal." you smile and you urge him out the door, before your brother and his wife could start thinking that you're doing something inappropriate in their home.

Good does not describe the way Sukuna plays that night. He has one of the best games of his life and after the first goal, as his celebration, he looks towards where you're standing and points at you with a wide smile on his face. This is your sign that from now on, you're gonna have to keep your promise of giving him a good luck kiss before every game.

🩵 Tag list: @ichorstainedskin @ureuphoriasworld @new-weather47 @deepchromatose @cvr2mya @janrcrosssing @bakuhoes-bxtch @deluluforcarlos55 @stainednailpolishremover @thejujvtsupost @bleachisfood @dorck26 @chilichopsticks @when-worlds-end 🩵

#ryomen sukuna #sukuna fluff #sukuna ryomen #jjk imagines #jjk x reader #sukuna #sukuna imagine #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x you #jjk imagine #jujutsu kaisen imagines #Ren Writes - Sukuna ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

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writefightandflightclub · 27 days

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

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

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

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here.

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

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

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

AND I have nothing against Philadelphia!

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

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

Many years earlier

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know. I know you do, sweetie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s been worse places, trust me.”

“Yeah. Your fucking pocket?”

“No shithead, I won it from Catfish.”

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

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

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

“I really need to meet that guy.”

“Sweetie, you’ve met him.”

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

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

“You just don’t remember him.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soldiers; not friends.

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

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

Friends; not lovers.

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

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

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

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

Fuck. Focus, pendejo. You need something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well… That isn’t a lie. Not exactly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boy. He’s glad to be proven wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

…realises he is having fun.

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

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

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

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

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

He’ll follow you anywhere.

***

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

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

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

“Sure, lady. Then what’s your name?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?!”

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

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

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

“Great. Thank you. I mean it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yay!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does though. Wants to be a little bolder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

“Thank you, Sir.”

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

“Santiago. And hey, congratulations.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Yessir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye. Here’s to that.”

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

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

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

“Can I give you some advice?”

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

“Marry her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Colin has this all wrong.

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

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

Isn’t that the same thing?

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

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

You.

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

There’s nothing here.

Nothing with you.

Nothing he could have with you. No way.

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

“No. ‘M good. Fine,” he says tightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You a’ways do, asshat.”

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

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

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

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

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

Even?

It could never get close to even.

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

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

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

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

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

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

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

It scares him.

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

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

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

“Hey. Hey,” he soothes. “What is it?”

”I’m not sad, idiot.”

”No?”

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

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

“Yeah,” you exhale. “Perfect.”

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

***

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

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

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

“Ew. I need a fucking shower.”

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

“I stink.”

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

“Mmm hmm. Okay then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m only a man, Princesa.”

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

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

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

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

“Feel like staying awake a little longer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well? Do you think he’d be down?”

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

You scoff. “What? For real?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A fucking condom?”

“Ay, dios. Just open it, would you?”

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

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

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

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

“But I can’t-“

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

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

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

“But won’t your mom-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Listen. Thank you.”

“It’s the least I could do.“

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

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

“Yeah. Exhausted.”

“Let’s lie down then, alright?”

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmm.”

“Do you…?”

“Do I what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you ask, anyway?”

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

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

“Pfft. I give ‘em a month.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s only what you’re due.”

“Oh?! A thorough ass-kissing?”

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

You snicker chaotically. “Huh. Maybe.”

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

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

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

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

“Jesus. You’re demanding, Princesa.”

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

“She gives me everything

And tenderly…”

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

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

“No. No, please.”

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

“The kiss my lover brings,

She brings to me-ee,

And I love her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bright are the stars that shine,

Dark is the sky.

I know this love of mine,

Will never die.”

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

“And I love her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The day he met you.

The day he almost lost you.

The day he realised he was in love with you.

And the day he started running from that.

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

The fourth will be tomorrow.

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

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

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

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

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noyaetnox · 10 months

Text

SAVANACLAW HEADCANONS:

The series: DIASOMNIA / HEARTSLABYUL / OCTAVINELLE / POMEFIORE / SAVANACLAW

- first things first, bro would NOT make it obvious he likes you. Not at all. "Oh, but Noya-" NO. He wouldn't even be like, soft with you. You would get no hints. None!

-> he, like the smartass he is, knows that you have the hots for him 😌👍 he uses it for the longest time before you two actually start dating.

- I feel like Leona is very unlikely to just have a crush? Like, it is hard to explain, but he doesn't go around getting crushes just like that, out of nowhere.

-> when he found out you have a crush on him, he just thought about it and was like: "I mean, I wouldn't mind dating the prefect 🤷 they're alright," and he just falls in love once you do start dating.

-> that is not to say he's an asshole or like toxic (just a little) it's mostly due to like his whole trauma? Where he has a hard time believing someone would actually like him and just the thought of being loved in a romantic way is so distant to him? All that, in turn, makes him very emotionally unavailable and he just never opens up about what and how he is feeling.

-> it only comes after he ends up actually falling for you that he allows himself to be emotionally vulnerable around you - he is rarely physically vulnerable (it's caused by his mental state) so it is definitely surprising to you

- don't go into the relationship with the "I can change him" mindset, because he will not. All the developments that have happened ever since he genuinely told you his first "I love you" is just the things he's always been coming to the surface

- back to you crushing on him and him using that ☝️

-> he finds it amusing at first. "The herbivore has developed romantic feelings for me? How absurd," or something 🤷 and he just uses his charms to get you to do shit for him, starting from small things to full on trials by fire 😐

-> he would first order you to get him food from the food cafeteria and a month later you're feeding killer animals or like, washing his dorm roof (which he ordered you to do, just to see if you actually will - you did and he almost lost a limb when your friends found out)

-> that is not to say he doesn't care about you. He just wanted to test your loyalty? And like how far you would actually go for him. He expects you to just be like: "No, Leona, I can die," but then you actually do the thing without complaining and he can't sleep for the next few days (calmly) because not only have you baffled him with your determination but he was also extremely worried about you

-> once you started courting and later dating, he's just become so anxious and nervous when it came to you. There would not be a moment when he isn't thinking about your physical and mental well-being. One thing is being friends with the troublesome Adeuce and Grim, but another is that you're basically his weakness - and though very few people care about him, someone could still do something to you just because you're close to the prince. At first, he kept all these worries to himself (and almost Ruggie? Who just noticed something was wrong but Leona never voiced his problems) until you just one day straight up asked him what's wrong and if it's anything you've done or if he's embarrassed to be seen with you because you two just keep on hiding.

- that was the moment your relationship completely changed. He understood that him not sharing things could end up driving you away, so he finally told you about all of the worries he's been having and the fact that you finally understood. You thanked him and told him that it's totally normal to be a little paranoid considering his whole life, and he was just so full of love when you've continued to be nice to him. Ever since, he just tells you everything, with you telling him everything in return.

- Leona is very intelligent, and at first he didn't bother remembering anything you've told him, untill he started actually liking you and suddenly everything you say is like the holy scripture and he's got everything memorized and stuff. It's really sweet!

- anyway, you two often have deep conversations that go on for so long and it's crazy because he seems to know everything about everything (is bro ok?)

- platonic: he just protects you and is rude to you still. Like, he would even hit you and stuff... You can't catch a break

- you all were best friends until you weren't

- to this day you don't know how the two of you ended up official

- you were suddenly kissing and holding hands and you just accepted that

- you cook for him and he cooks for you. Like there was no agreement there, you both just love feeding the other and it's so sweet please get a room :(

- Leona tried to get you to work for him, too, but you actually take Ruggie away from him. That does mean Leona kinda hates you, though.

-> Ruggie finds that hilarious while you fight for your life :"D he's cute when he laughs but he wouldn't help you

- he's a little sh*t! Bro would torment you on the daily!

-> he stops only when you're obviously pissed and then he apologies

- he does that thing where he jokingly takes your things. Like you're searching for something, say a pen, and you're going crazy because you'd swear it was on your desk and then you look at Ruggie and bro is mischievously grinning at you with the pen in hand. It's very amusing to him.

- he's extremely smart but just knows how to use the things at his disposal in his favour and you just can't help but thank gods you're on his good side because he only does those things jokingly or like in a fun way. Like he would force you to share food with him, or the previously mentioned taking your things, or he would take things and give them to you.

- Ruggie doesn't really have many things he likes and enjoys doing so it's mostly you planning dates, taking him to all these new places

-> that said Ruggie is the **MAN**. Like, bro is a man for everything. A handy man. Like you'd have water leakage and Ruggie shows up at your doorstep with the proper equipment and it's repaired in a few minutes. Lightbulb change? Already done. That broken window? Ruggie repaired that days ago, please. You tore your shirt? Man is sewing the hole. He's just so- a total male wife. Househusband Ruggie, yes please.

- I HC that Ruggie just loves his lover deeply. He doesn't do any of that silly stuff. If he's dating you, he's already got the future planned with you in mind. Like, you are the one for him and he's weighted all the options.

-> he definitely puts you first. You might sometimes fight for that position with Leona but nore than not, you come out on top. That said, Ruggie often feels bad about that - both ways. So more often than not, he just combines the two. Like, you can't even count how often your date with Ruggie turned into a date with Ruggie ft. Leona... Or like a date with Ruggie but the idea is that you two are running errands for Leona 🤭 so romantic

- lots of cuddling and PDA

- you guys talk about serious stuff very often also, like with Leona. Ruggie feels safe enough to speak about his feelings while you also feel very safe with him

-> despite all the pranks he pulls, you just know he would never dare actually hurt someone he loves. Like, if you tell him a secret, he protects it with his life, not even Leona will know ☝️

- which reminds me. Y'all spend so much time outside you don't have to take vitamin D anymore because you get so much Sun you are charged for YEARS with this guy.

-> CUTE DATE IDEA! And it's just the two of you picking flowers. Or the two of you doing sports

-> Ruggie will definitely make you do sports with him. No questions asked. One second you're chilling somewhere the next you're catching a ball Ruggie just threw at you (he's crazy strong because he's a beastman, you almost die each time but Ruggie just finds it fun)

- platonic: bro is just annoying. You can't catch a break. It's like you're his chew toy and he just wrings you dry of everything you have physical and emotional

- when I say innocent love, I say innocent love

- honestly speaking, I believe Jack would not date in school. He considers that to be too much of a distraction and he just has other things to worry and care about that don't include a relationship

-> ... But we pretend here that you are just so irresistible (which you are, you slay <3) that Jack just had to against his ideals and get into a relationship with you

- that means he was the one who confessed. No other way. Like, even if you were the first one to confess he would just reject you. It just has to be him, okay?

-> so you definitely don't start dating anytime soon. He will take forever because he will think he'll get over it (a crush, which he will refuse to recognize as such), only finally doing it when Epel calls him out - he was tired of watching Jack have heart eyes for you and not do anything about it.

- he's very excited about planning the dates so you let him. Sometimes they are straight up just sport meets, but surprisingly, many of the dates are very sweet. I strongly believe Jack is a very raw guy, so he likes dates like picnics, where he just gets to enjoy you without any distractions.

- he is shy but he will do anything and everything for you. Like, if you ask him to let you play with his hair and put braids and pony tails into his hair? You can do it. Paint his nails? Sure. Do his make-up? Feel free. Like bro is so comfortable with his masculinity. And honestly? Good for him.

- his love language is gift giving. But hear me out! DIY gifts. And it's so cute and he's so shy about it but you love it so much and always put things from him on display somewhere.

- he is also very handy like Ruggie so you can expect him to just do everything. Fix something at Ramshackle? You got it. Also very nice of him.

- that said he will REFUSE to call you any endearment. You could beg him to call you something sweet and he's just like: (Y/N) 😐

- he will ask you to keep the relationship between the two of you a secret but bro is so obvious everyone will find out almost right away.

- I'm running out of ideas for Jack.

- he will definitely take care of you.

- I think in general all the Savanaclaw guys will fall hard. Like, Leona will date for fun but once he falls he falls hard, while Ruggie and Jack would not dare date for fun. And it's like, they chose you and that means you're their forever. They know what they want and it's you, they're not playing around. Especially Jack. Since he would refuse a relationship otherwise, I think because you two somehow ended up dating. He's basically already married to you but you're students so he's waiting for you two to finish school. But you get me, right?

- I just think it'll be a very sweet relationship. Jack doesn't have much experience, it's all new to him but he tried his best and it's just so sweet. You two move very slow. And he probably had everything planned years in advance. Chronologically. So you're in for a fun ride! Maybe....

- platonic: I just know Jack is the best friend. Like out of all TWST guys, he's the most best friend. Best friend material fr fr. Which is something I really regret? Because Jack just doesn't get enough screen time, he doesn't get as much attention as the rest and I feel so bad about that because then I can't write about him because I don't know what to write 😐 like please give Jack something better

Character.ai isn't working so I came with a new chapter that I have had for weeks but was too lazy to edit the banners and make the post but here it is!

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yesimwriting · 2 years

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Final Girl (Part 6)

A/n your comments, reblogs, and likes have helped me through this rough patch immensely :)) not to be pushy but,, comments really make my day :)

Series Summary: Y/n can’t believe that she has to leave the only home she’s ever known just because her mom’s latest boyfriend has a house in some town in California. Just as she’s starting to think that Woodsboro might not be that bad, something life altering happens after she agrees to sleep over at Becker’s house. Now her name is practically synonymous with Ghostface’s.

Chapter Summary: The aftermath of Ghostface’s phone call leaves Y/n a little reliant on some good friends.

Final Girl Series Masterlist (updated parts 1 - 9 and extras)

----

Billy’s breathing doesn’t reveal enough about what he’s feeling, but considering how silent the two of us have been, I have absolutely nothing else to go off of.

I should leave him alone, I stomped on his foot, locked him outside while a murderer was watching us, threatened him with a knife, and accused him of being a murderer. It’s a miracle that he doesn’t hate me, I really shouldn’t push.

If it wasn’t for Billy, I don’t think I would have gotten through the aftermath of the phone call. He convinced me that the police wouldn’t care that I had been drinking and when I couldn’t form the words, he gave them the information over the phone. He also helped me call my mom.

When Dewey finally got to the house, he seemed a little more like an older brother asking me what happened with genuine care and compassion instead of some kind of officer desperate for answers. It was nice, the kind of energy and patience I needed. He even offered to take me to his house so I could sleep over with Tatum, but remembering how drunk she was at the party, I had a feeling she might not be coming home. I don’t know what she told her parents and I really don’t want to get her in trouble or interrupt her time with Stu (since he threw such a hissy fit this morning), so I insisted I could tough it out. Dewey didn’t seem convinced until Billy offered to stay the night, just so I wouldn’t be alone.

The offer comforted me as much as it annoyed me. All I wanted was to prove that I didn’t need anyone, and now Billy’s weird group date night party thing has been cut short because of me. Technically, it’s not my fault. It’s not like I asked some murderer to call me, and he’s trying to be nice. Or at least, I think he is. And it’s not like he was the one complaining about me today, he even tried making me feel better by saying he’d take me to the bookstore tomorrow.

Despite knowing all of this, my awkward and uncomfortable emotions that have been amplified by both panic and alcohol would have had me sending Billy home if I had the chance. But Billy’s offer was the only thing that seemed to get Dewey to relax and before he left he made both of us promise that we’d stay put and keep a phone on us in case of emergency. I couldn’t kick Billy out after that, not with the way Dewey physically eased.

I guess it’s fair. Two is always better than one in these kinds of things, that’s why splitting up in a scary movie is always a bad idea. And if I had to make a cursory assumption about Billy’s physical appearance, he seems kind of strong, I guess. Not that I’ve ever paid attention to his physique or anything. And it’s not like he’s going fight off a killer, or whatever. But Dewey seemed to be comforted by the idea, and after tonight, if I have to choose between potentially bothering Billy and potentially bothering Stu by stealing Tate from him...

And, if I’m being completely honest, the thought of being alone is absolutely nauseating. Before leaving, my mom always drills me on self defense. The whole ‘gun’s in the safe’ talk. Honestly, I’m pretty sure the fact that my mom’s been taking me to the shooting range since I was legally old enough to in Texas is the only reason she felt comfortable leaving me alone. But I’ve been drinking, and shooting at a target is nothing compared to shooting at a person.

Also, unfortunately, I’ve come to realization that Billy’s presence is comforting. He lingers, sometimes at a distance, sometimes close. Like a cat.

“What are you thinking about?” It’s a fair question, I guess. We’ve both been through some stuff tonight, and we’re both tense, but it’s not like we can both sit at an awkward distance from each other and stare off into space until morning.

Not trusting myself to not stare at him, I drop my gaze from the wall and onto my lap. My mind is racing a mile a minute, and a weird combination of dread, panic, and guilt have been drowning out all rational thoughts since Dewey left, but none of that feels like the right thing to say, so I go with the literal answer. “Nothing much, just that you’re kind of like the cat my mom never let me get.”

He lets out a breath that could be annoyed or amused. I’m too much of a coward to look up at him and check. “You’re not that predictable.”

His tone is so specific it takes a second to sink in. The words came out low and cautious, like he was admitting some kind of weakness he didn’t expect himself to express. But they also felt a little like shy praise.

“Thanks, I guess, weirdo.” Finally looking up at him, I realize that he’s already looking at me. “Thought I was easy to read.”

Billy tilts his head downwards, a strand of hair falling across his face. “You can’t hide what you’re feeling, but that doesn’t make me a mind reader.”

Did Billy move closer to me at some point and I just didn’t notice? Or did...I somehow move? “That was a very polite way of telling me that I say weird things.”

“No,” if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was smiling, “I meant it in a good way. It’s...refreshing.” Billy pauses, eyebrows just barely drawing together like he’s debating something, “You’re refreshing.”

The admission comes out almost soft. I grin at his awkward wording. “Keeping you on your toes, just how I like it.”

My bad joke lands even though Billy tries to hide his slight smile behind a controlled smirk. “One minute you’re accusing me of murder and the next you’re making jokes. I’m definitely on my toes.”

I can’t tell if the switch is meant to be lighthearted, but I react regardless. Turning my head away, I clasp a hand over my mouth a little too dramatically. “I am so so sorry about that. Did I apologize for--”

“Yes,” he cuts me off easily, “Relax, I was joking, and I get that you were scared and Stu told me that Noel said Casey’s name in front of you.” Billy hesitates, voice dropping slightly, “And I know that I said the wrong thing, but it was a lot to know that you thought I could do something like that to you.”

Guilt feels like a spear cutting through me. All of my other feelings are small in comparison. One conversation with someone that only knows surface level Billy and that’s all it took for me to get that freaked out? And right after I started wondering if Stu could have done it just because he happened to date Casey at one point?

Maybe it was the alcohol or the desperation to have some sense of closure. There’s a chance that I was just mad at them and my subconscious ran with that.

I let myself watch Billy openly. There’s a strange flicker of vulnerability adding a quality to his features that makes him feel less sharp. If I squint, it’s similar to the way he looked when he mentioned his mom earlier.

That strand of hair is still out of place, just barely brushing against the tip of his nose. I don’t know what gets my hand to move, but while I’m imagining how satisfying it’d be to have that strand pushed back into place, my arm extends. My movements are slow as I tuck his hair behind his ear.

Billy lets me, only reacting to wrap long fingers around my wrist once I’ve accomplished my goal. There’s a lot I could say about my down spiral. I could tell him that he was my second suspect during a 10 minute trail down a dark rabbit hole. I could tell him that I was so out of it that I wanted to go to Casey’s house alone at night while drunk.

Instead I say, “I know you wouldn’t hurt me.” It’s the truth, and somehow it feels like the only thing worth saying.

He holds my gaze for a little too long. With no warning, Billy moves my arm, pressing a quick kiss to the inside of my wrist.

Ignoring the strange warmth that follows the gesture, I turn my head. “I was so out of it and desperate for answers I wanted to go to Casey’s house. You were right to make me go home.” With a self deprecating laugh, I pull my hand back. “I just wish I could’ve proven that I could go one night without having some sort of crisis.”

“I like your crises,” Billy says after a beat, “They end up making me look like a good guy and it’s nice to be needed every once in awhile.”

I look over at him, glaring as he grins. His sudden lightheartedness is shocking, and a tiny bit infuriating, but not unwelcome. I like the way he gets when it’s just us or us and Stu.

The thought of Stu hits me a little too hard. It’d be nice to know that things with Stu are okay. Plus I...begrudgingly kind of, maybe miss him a tiny bit.

Billy being around is great, but after tonight, it’d feel settling to have our trio all together and safe.

Rolling my eyes, I adjust my position on the couch. “One, I don’t think you need me to make you look like a good guy, and two, I’d keep you around even if I was completely stable.”

“Really?” There’s a bit of smugness behind the humor in his voice. “Keep me around?”

I halfheartedly glare at him, shoving his arm. “Maybe I like you.”

“Maybe?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

He grabs my hand, squeezing it slightly. “You okay?”

Ugh. Of course he’d notice that tiny shift. Billy’s so perceptive it’d unnerve me if he was anyone else. “If I admit something you have to promise me that you won’t tell anyone.”

“I can keep a secret.”

It’s not exactly the assurance I wanted, because him being able to and willing to keep a secret are separate things. Something tells me not much goes unshared between him and Stu. “Is it weird I kinda miss Stu?” The admission is embarrassing, but it’s probably the least awkward thing I’ve said all night. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m still mad at him and he was a total asshole, but he’s like my asshole, y’know?”

The corner of Billy’s mouth turns upwards. There’s something about his expression that I don’t understand, but it’s not a bad thing. “I get it.” He shifts slightly without letting go of my hand. “You should call him tomorrow, he’d like it more than he’d admit. Not a lot of people go out of their way to reach out to him first.”

I’m not wasted or naive enough to not notice how intentional Billy’s final comment feels. I can see why he’d want Stu and I to make up sooner rather than later. No one likes it when their friends are fighting. I have half a mind to call him out on it, but decide against it. Sure, it might have been a point he kept to himself under different circumstances, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.

It’s hard to picture Stu, who’s always so outgoing and himself as lonely or unwanted. He’s always throwing parties and included in things. But parties don’t necessarily mean a lot of friends. Anyone would be willing to spend a Saturday night drinking free alcohol in a parentless house. And it’s possible to feel like you’re not important while surrounded by a large friend group. Plus his parents are always gone. Two nights without my mom and I’m losing it, I can’t imagine what coming home to an empty house every day must feel like.

But it’s no excuse. It’s not like I’ll be mad at him forever, but it’s deserved for now. “I will when I feel a little better.”

Billy pauses, thinking through what I just said. “He’ll cool off. It’s more about this week than you.” Right. His sister, his parents.

I must be more tipsy than I realized because I blurt out a question that I’ve managed to keep to myself for awhile, “What is the whole thing with his sister?”

A switch immediately flips. He doesn’t really move or do anything, but there’s a shift behind his eyes. A change so slight and certain I wouldn’t have noticed if it had felt any less harsh. I don’t know why, but I know that that was the wrong thing to say. I’m pushing us towards what’s considered unsteady territory.

“I-I just mean that I know they don’t get along because of that time at his house with the picture, remember? I’m not saying it’s anything, just that I--I don’t have any siblings, so for all I know all siblings are like that.” I scratch the back of my wrist, vaguely reflecting on that cliche expression about cats. “I-I have a step-sister, technically, and I can barely stand her and I only see her on holidays, so actual siblings must be...”

He turns his head enough to watch my expression. There’s something about the draw of Billy’s eyebrows that eases me. Something in my jumble of words has intrigued him. “You have a step-sister?”

Ugh. I think I’d rather him be mad at me. Shrugging, I answer honestly, “My dad got married when I was nine. His wife had a daughter that was ten.”

“You don’t like them.”

It’s not a question, but I can feel that he’s expecting some kind of elaboration from me. “Not particularly.” It’s not what he wants, but I’m not exactly chatty when it comes to my step family. Maybe that’s how Stu and Billy feel about the parents they live with. The thought leaves me more sympathetic than before. “It killed my mom.”

“I didn’t ask about your mom, I asked about you.”

Wiping my palms on the couch, I stare off at nothing in particular. There’s no nice way to summarize the whole step family thing. The competition, the terrorizing while adults weren’t looking, the feeling of being replaced. The feeling of knowing the kind of dad my dad would have been to me if he had just had me a little later. There’s an anger there that’s hard for me to acknowledge.

“The whole thing with my dad’s fucked up, and I can’t talk about it without sounding fucked up, too.” My voice is both too harsh and too honest and I regret it instantly. “Sorry, that was a lot.”

Billy’s quiet for a long moment, expression unreadable. “Fucked up doesn’t bother me.”

He sounds so genuine and patient that I believe him wholeheartedly. I don’t think that’s a good thing, but I tell him everything regardless. My dad, the on and off addiction, locking myself in the bathroom while he dealt with withdrawals, the way he completely changed for Charlotte and her mother, and watching my mom fall apart for someone that never loved her as much as she loved him. And, for the first time ever, I don’t keep it just factual. I tell him how it all made me feel, even though it’s not pretty.

Drinking and emotional conversations never go well together. By the time I’m done with the story, my eyes are watery. Maybe I could have blinked the tears away and played them off in front of someone else, but Billy notices everything. I take a settling breath before gently wiping my thumb across the corner of my eyes.

“...Sorry, this is stupid. I’m too old to get this upset over my dad and his family.” I’m too self conscious to look at him, so I stare at my lap instead. “It’s extra stupid, because my mom’s so great, she’s more than enough, but it’s always been just us, and sometimes that gets lonely. Especially now that she has someone else and I--”

It’s ridiculous. I’m not jealous of my mom having a boyfriend, but I do miss the way things were before Wells. She’s never had a super serious boyfriend before, and it’s starting to feel like she’s getting more family and I’m not.

Billy’s arm moves around my shoulder. I don’t think twice about the gesture until he pulls me into his side. His strength is surprising, but his touch isn’t harsh or overwhelming. It’s actually kind of nice. After a second, I relax into the contact.

“You don’t need him.” His body is as rigid and tense as his voice. The change in mood is fleeting. Billy recovers so quickly I nearly get whiplash as he teasingly taps his knee against mine, “You do have someone else.”

He watches me for a long second, dark eyes taking in every detail of my expression. Up close like this, there’s something nearly soft about his features. I can make out the individual hairs of his lashes and a faint touch of barely-there freckles beneath his left eye. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed the slope of his lips before.

I don’t know if he finds what he’s looking for in my expression because all at once, his intensity retreats with the drop of his head. “Two someones,” it’s practically shy, “Stu might be an asshole that doesn’t think before speaking, but the good thing about him is that he’s always there.”

The sincerity and obvious fondness that’s just so thinly veiled I know better than to call him out on it leaves me warm in a different way. It clutches at my chest.

“Maybe for you,” I hum, hoping that my tone lightens the mood, “But I don’t think Stu’s in the mood to be there for me.”

Letting out a slight sigh that I can’t interpret, Billy rests his head against the back of the couch. He keeps his head turned in my direction. We’re close enough that this new angle doesn’t create any distance, it just changes things a little. His breaths just barely reach my lower cheek.

“He’s just moody because of his parents and sister. They’re both in town at the same time maybe twice a year.” Sympathy’s fangs graze against me, ready to sink in. “He cares about you, you know that.” When I don’t react immediately, Billy continues, “You’d have to considering the way he babies you.”

Did he just? Shock and embarrassment twist oddly in my chest, making it impossible to take a full breath. My scoff comes out too small as a result. “He. Does. Not.”

The corner of Billy’s mouth turns upwards. Great. I’ve given away that he’s struck a nerve. “You let him.”

It’s a second bullet wound. “What? I--he doesn’t try--I wouldn’t if--you’re just making stuff up.”

Billy takes my stuttering and inability to decide where to look like he has all the time in the world. “He peels your oranges, angel.”

“I don’t ask him to.” My answer escapes me too quickly, too defensively. Stu does peel my oranges, but he only dos that so he can make a joke about not minding getting his hands dirty. He also does it so he can steal as many orange slices as he wants. “I--I don’t, he does it because he has a whole bit about getting his hands dirty. That’s it.”

“He waits with you by your locker at the end of the day.”

That is not the big deal Billy is making it out to me. Stu stands next to me while I sort through my books before going home and sometimes he’ll hold things for me for a second to make things easier...but that’s not babying me.

I open my mouth to tell Billy all of that. Before I can get the words out, a realization that I could have gone my entire life without strikes me in the chest. Hard and fast enough to nearly knock the breath out of my chest.

Because, yes, Stu peeling oranges for me and hanging out by my locker while I go through my backpack doesn’t add up to him babying me. But that paired with Stu walking me to our shared first period after homeroom because one time a super rude football player ran into me; Stu always offering to wait up with me on the phone after a bad dream; Stu caring about my class schedule more than he cares about his.

“That’s just being a friend.” Maybe that defense could have worked if I had managed to say it normally, but I can feel my own awkwardness. There’s no way that Billy didn’t pick up on it.

He’s enjoying this too much. “I’ve been friends with him for years and he’s never peeled an orange for me. Maybe it’s because I’m not as pretty as you.”

Stu’s reputation for flirting often outshines Billy’s. I think that’s something Billy relies on, it lets him get away with a little more. Rolling my eyes instinctually, I move to shove Billy’s shoulder.

My fingers have just barely grazed against the fabric of his shirt before Billy’s hand wraps around my wrist. He holds me there for a second, staring at where our skin meets. In a move so quick I barely notice it, Billy pulls me closer by my arm.

His grip tightens in a way that feels instinctual. It doesn’t hurt, but there’s something almost panicked about it. Billy’s jaw seems to lock but I can’t convince myself that it’s not just the lighting. “You should go to bed.”

The words feel strained by something I don’t get. I’m too lost to his proximity to care. He’s so warm and there’s a sense of safety radiating off of him that I can’t think to question his intensity. It’s too relieving, too comforting. I want closer.

That realization is worse than what we were joking about earlier. That thought scares the shit out of me. It’s a sign that I should jump back. Get away. But I--

“Don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.”

He blinks. My reaction seems to ease him enough to let his hand relax. His fingers ghost down my forearm. “Should still go to bed. You need rest.”

I nod, thinking that that’s my cue to scoot back, but Billy’s still holding onto my arm. This close, the bags under his eyes seem so much more prominent. A tiny pinch of guilt flares through me. He’s the one that could have been murdered because I’m slowly going insane. “So do you.”

“Then go to bed so I can.” The correlation only somewhat makes sense.

Right. He’s staying over. “You can stay in my room and I’ll sleep in my mom and Wells’s.”

It feels awkward, but there’s not much else I can do. Despite the decent size of the house, the only guest room on the property was turned into my room. The other rooms are mainly storage that Wells hasn’t gotten around to cleaning out. I guess his grandparents and great grandparents were hoarders. Maybe that’s just what happens in family homes, the stuff that’s saved to be passed down just gets shoved into back closets and unused rooms.

“You don’t want to have another sleepover?” His slight smile reveals that he does want to fluster me. That should make it less effective, but I still struggle to hold his gaze.

I try to glare, but I really doubt it comes off right. “Not sure us falling asleep in the same bed because we were too drunk to think ahead counts.”

Billy gilts his head forward. The shift is small but still oddly noticeable. I guess that’s how it is when you’re this close. Any movement closer or farther is noticeable because it feels more significant. “You’re saying you need to be drunk to get into bed with me?”

It’s just cheesy enough to get me to laugh. “You know what I mean.”

At the somewhat serious answer, Billy straightens slightly. “I want to know that you’re there.” His words are so hushed, so unlike him in their closeness to nervousness that my heart stills. “That you’re okay.”

He’s regarding me with a sharpness that doesn’t fit the low way he’s speaking. I’m struck with the feeling that there’s another layer to what he’s asking me. I almost feel like I’m being tested. If he seemed any less vulnerable I’d question it.

“You don’t think Sid would...” I don’t even know what I’m asking. Am I asking if she’d mind? If she’d think that there was something weird about it?

“No.” Billy’s answer is quick and hard, leaving no room for argument. His fingers tighten around my forearm. The change is so quick it almost feels needy. It’s different than when Stu holds on a little too authoritatively. It’s more desperate and that makes it feel more volatile.

All at once, he softens again. His hold returns to bearable. Not quite as casual as before but no longer unsettling. “She wouldn’t. She’d understand.” He says it so simply, like he has absolutely no doubts.

He’d know better than me, I guess. They’re the ones dating, which means Billy knows Sid’s boundaries about this stuff better than I do. Which means it is really up to me.

I don’t know what I want, but I know what I don’t. I can’t take anymore grief tonight, anymore worries or arguments. I also know that I don’t want to be alone and that latching onto Billy like this is the most peace I’ve felt all night. “O-okay.”

He exhales, something in him relaxing at my answer. “Okay.” Billy’s voice is more sure than mine. It’s comforting enough to cut through my uncertainty. “Let’s go to bed.”

----

Rationally, I know that technically this is my second time having Billy stay in my room, but it feels a lot different without excessive alcohol. I’m not completely sober yet, I don’t think it’s physically possible to sober up that fast.

The call and panic definitely cut through my buzz, leaving me only with sluggishness that follows drinking. A tired that I can’t give into because of anxiety.

Billy’s laying next to me, and from what I can tell, he’s breathing easily but I’m not convinced he’s asleep. Despite that, I can’t bring myself to even glance at him from the corner of my eyes. Billy has a way of noticing things like that no matter how subtle I try to be.

He moves, the hand that’s closest to mine brushes against the back of my palm. It’s likely an accident but the small rush of warmth that runs up my fingertips until it reaches my chest is so soothing it nearly gets me to ease. Or jump. Those two feelings are often hard to tell apart around him.

“Can’t sleep?”

He hasn’t moved any more so I remain just as still, eyes trained on the ceiling. “I’ll pass out eventually.”

“Might help if you close your eyes.”

The way Billy just knows things would be scary if it wasn’t so annoying. “Wow, a crystal ball and a deck of cards and you could have your own booth at the fair.”

Billy lets out a quiet laugh that’s meant to be a scoff. “The fair?”

I roll my eyes before dutifully returning my gaze to the ceiling. “Come on, don’t tell me that there’s no fair here. It’s not like Woodsboro is some metropolitan, crowded--”

“Sometimes I forget you’re from Texas and then you start talking about--”

“Shut up.”

He sighs in good humor again, his fingers stretching and brushing against my knuckles. “Then go to sleep.”

If only it was that easy. Ever since what happened at Casey’s, sleep is more of enemy than an escape. When I don’t have dreams that make my stomach turn with guilt, my mind goes over everything that I did wrong. And when I’m spared from that, my thoughts panic over what I’m not sure I remember.

Sometimes I think that doubting my mind is the worst of it and then the guilt doubles. At least I’m alive. I bet Casey would give anything to feel like she’s going crazy if it meant she could be alive.

With no warning, Billy turns his hand, pressing fingers in between mine so naturally that I instinctually adjust so that we’re loosely holding hands. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

Promises like that, promises that no one can guarantee, are the most gentle. They come from such good intentions. “Can I ask you something?” Before I can back out, I blurt out the important part, “And you’ll be honest? Promise you’ll be honest?”

A small moment of silence followed by the squeezing of my palm. “I promise.”

Slowly, I turn, pulling my hand away. Billy’s hold briefly tightens, but when I persist he lets go. He moves to face me after a second and when he sees that I’m now holding out my pinky, something about his expression softens. He covers his reaction with a pointed look meant to make fun of what I’m asking.

He links his pinky to mine. “You think this actually makes people not lie?”

It’s a light comment, probably meant to help me shake my mood, so I ignore it. “Do you think I’m crazy?” He’s watching me in a way I can’t interpret. “Or going it?”

“You’re hurting and you need time.” Billy’s answer isn’t careful or fragile or overly sweet like the sympathetic answers I’m used to. It’s straight forward and blunt enough to pass as honest. “You’re not crazy. You’re smart and that’s the problem.” I draw my eyebrows together. “Smart people always want answers but this isn’t about that. Answers won’t fix anything or bring anyone back.”

I nod somberly, surprisingly relieved. When my mood doesn’t get better, Billy pulls my hand towards him by my pinky. He presses his lips to my knuckle quickly. It’s enough to make me crack a tired smile, which I guess was his goal. “Thank you.”

“For telling you you’re not crazy after you accused me of murder?”

Partially glaring at him, I answer, “Just thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he mumbles, “Now go to sleep.”

“You sound like a mother.”

His lips press together briefly. “Like your mom has ever had to ask you to do anything twice.”

That joke’s getting old. “I’m tired of the jokes. So I listen to my mom, she deserves the lack of stress.”

Billy hesitates, “She’s a good mom.”

“It’s weird without her around.” My mom is the life of the house. She’s always on the phone with friends or playing music or yelling at the TV when characters on a TV show she likes do stupid things. “Quiet.”

He drops his gaze towards our hands. Our pinkies are still together. “There are worse things than quiet.” His tone reminds me of the way he was when he mentioned his mom. It’s a flash of something wounded. “Quiet’s easier.”

Another tally in a column about his home life. “What are you thinking about?” The question is a surprise for us both.

“My mom knew how to keep things quiet.”

I must be in total shock because after a second I ask, “What happened?” His eyes snap up and I regret not swallowing my words. “Not that--I just--I know it’s just your dad and it wasn’t always just your dad.” It’s my turn to stare at our hands. “You don’t need to tell me. Honestly, I--I didn’t mean to ask.”

He turns over my hand, something about the motion feels strained. Billy’s pointer finger traces patterns against my palm. “It’s fucked up.”

“Fucked up doesn’t bother me.” My repetition of his earlier words is awkward and much less sure than the original.

Billy’s quiet for a second, an odd tension floating through the room. “Not much to tell. Some whore fucked my dad and my mom did what she had to. My dad didn’t take it too well.”

Oh. His words hit me a little too hard. I don’t know if the story or the unexpected harshness is what gets to me. Before I can react, Billy places a hand on my shoulder. With no warning, he pushes me so that I’m laying flat against my bed. A tiny yelp escapes me, but Billy doesn’t move. “Now that we’ve done the whole deep dark secrets thing, go to sleep.”

His voice leaves no room for argument but his touch is harder to ignore. “You know the deep dark secrets thing is a major part of girl’s sleepovers. One minute everyone’s painting their nails and the next we’re all crying over our dads or moms or the messed up things we did in middle school.”

“Go to sleep,” he sighs, hand that’s not pinning me down sliding downwards, just barely touching my hip.

I nod slowly, not trusting myself to speak again. Satisfied, Billy takes his time moving back to the position he was in. This time, he stays closer than he was before.

Hating myself for it a little, I break the comfortable silence, “Billy?” He huffs slightly, like I’ve woken him up after a deep sleep that only took him minutes to find. “If you ever want quiet and can’t get it anywhere you can come over.” I already regret this. “Not--not in a pity way, just a--just so you know, I guess.”

He shifts closer, pulling my arm towards him. “Might end up moving in then.”

His muffled words make me let out a partial laugh. “Should let you know it’s like a metaphorical quiet because half the time you can hear my mom talking on the phone to her friends or talking to the TV.”

“Might have to rethink it then.” The edge in his voice is ruined by the slight smile that I can feel through his tone.

Billy’s hold on my arm is an anchor I’ve gone too long without. Thoughtlessly, I move my free hand towards his back. My fingers brush against his skin gently. “Did you offer the same thing to your boyfriend?”

It takes me longer than it should for me to realize what he’s talking about. “Noel?” His silence is enough of an answer. “No, I guess that means I like you more.” He stays quiet. “And he’s not my boyfriend. I just--”

“Weren’t getting enough attention?”

With a sigh, I let my hand rest on his back. “I can still kick you out.” He doesn’t move. “And for the record, I just...I thought it’d make me feel normal.”

“Did he?”

The question sits with me for longer than it should because I know the answer immediately. It sinks into my chest like a weight threatening to suffocate my lungs. “Not as much as you.” I shut my eyes as if that will save me from his reaction. “I’m going to sleep.”

---- a few days later ----

“You fucking love it.” Stu makes no attempts to hide petty bitterness as he pulls a joint back to his lips. The whole point of smoking was to stop thinking about you, but weed doesn’t always work the way you want it. “At least admit it.”

Billy lifts his head enough to reach over for the joint, taking it from Stu. “What’s there to love?”

Stu sighs. “Fuck off.” Billy breathes in slowly, letting smoke fill his lungs. “You love that Y/n can’t do anything without you. That she lets you sleep in her room more than you sleep in yours.”

“Just say you’re sorry, give her one of your looks, and say something about your parents.”

Dropping his head back, Stu frowns. “You remember how quick she was to go after some other guy. Like she didn’t give a shit.” Billy patiently watches Stu, noting the way tension continues to expand across Stu’s demeanor. “Even Casey used to--”

“She gives a shit.” When Stu scoffs, Billy sits up a little more. “She does. Asks about you all the time and then makes me promise to not tell you.”

There’s only the tiniest shift in Stu’s demeanor, but it’s a start. Your little spat has lasted longer than Stu thought it would, and with each day that you go without initiating conversation, the more the sting of silent rejection bubbles. Billy’s had to keep up with his moods, making sure that Stu’s feelings remain contained.

“It’s cute,” Billy continues, “Like she has a crush she doesn’t know what to do with.” When Stu stays silent, Billy decides to keep going, “She likes you and she misses you. Use that.”

“With the way Tatum’s always breathing down my neck now?”

Maybe if Stu was in a better mood he’d make a joke about how even he can’t really blame Tatum. Stu’s been in a shitty mood for almost two weeks now, which means he hasn’t exactly been devoted. “I’ve got an idea that’ll get you alone with Y/n. No friends, no class, just you and her somewhere she can’t avoid you.”

At that, Stu manages to crack a grin. “Sounds like my type of situation.”

----

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