#my life has changed so much since loosing him and a lot of that was directly tied to his loss

[absurdthirst]

Fucking Fungus {Joel Miller x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: SEX POLLEN, dub con, post apocalyptic world, scavenging, guilt, shame, desire, Joel having a bad attitude, mentions of periods, rough sex, neediness, unprotected sex, cream pie

Comments: Coming across Wymore, NE, you hoped to find some much needed supplies for the coming winter but you find that the fungus has mutated in dangerous and frightening ways. Needing to insure that there are more hosts to infect in a very basic kind of way.

🎊🎉🎊🎉🎊🎉Happy Birthday @storiesofthefandomlovers!!!! I love you and hope you have the best damn day! In thotty tradition, here is a sex pollen to celebrate another year around the sun!🎊🎉🎊🎉🎊🎉

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|| MasterList || Joel Miller MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

The world has changed in the past twenty years. None of it for the betterment of humanity. The crunch of the dried leaves grinds under your boots and your head rotates left and then right as you watch, listen. Waiting for any sign of life or more importantly, danger. The weight of your rifle is heavy in your hands, although you hold it down, unassuming but ready to be lifted at a second’s notice. 

“I don’t know why you don’t just hook it over your shoulder.” Ellie snorts, her backpack bouncing slightly on her back from the steps that seem so unencumbered by worry. Why should she worry when there are two fully armed adults on either side of her. Her own personal guard in a manner of speaking. “There hasn’t been anything out here for daaaaaays.” She drags the word out like it's the most horrible thing in the world that it’s been peaceful. 

Joel snorts, rolling his eyes as you glance over at him and then look back out at the surrounding terrain. “Yeah, that’s why we are on guard.” He grunts, even though his own rifle is on his shoulder. His hand gripped the shoulder sling loosely but he had only just put it up there half an hour ago after you had taken your turn relaxing as much as you can. “it’s too fucking quiet.” 

He’s right. After the disasters that had been Kansas City, you had tried to avoid major cities, but even in the small towns, you had come across plenty of cordyceps and clickers. You hate the clickers with a passion.

The isolation can account for a lot of the silence. Miles stretching between remnants of civilization. The crumbling buildings and overgrown roads give the entire midwest a sense of peace. It’s unnerving. 

Your grip adjusts, head rolling around your shoulders slightly to try to loosen the knot that builds up in your shoulders after so long. The weight of your pack isn’t as heavy as it should be, the rations not exactly filling since you had to escape that one clicker in Du Bois, Nebraska. Your pack had been ripped and most of the food you had been carrying was lost. 

You glance over at Joel, noticing the way his shoulders seem to hang, almost a reflection of the way you feel. “We need to risk a larger town.” You murmur quietly, knowing that his first instinct will be to argue with you. You stumble slightly over a rock and hiss when you feel the hole in the sole of your boots. 

“Too dangerous.” Joel snorts, shaking his head even as he watches you regain your footing. “I’ve got some duct tape in my bag.” He reminds you, knowing that you should probably reinforce that shoe before you lose the sole all together. 

“It’s not just shoes.” You protest, trying to ignore the way that Ellie groans obnoxiously loud and stomps her foot. 

“Come on, man!” She throws her own arguments into the ring. “I need tampons! We could find them if there was jack shit out here, but there’s not. Do you want me to attract wild animals?” She presses, glaring at Joel who looks equal parts horrified and unconvinced. She cracks an evil grin. “Circling us in the wild as I just leave behind a trail of blood? Aaaaand tears.” She adds, lifting her brows. “Periods are really emotional things.” 

Biting your lip to keep from snorting, you watch as Joel; normally stoic, no bullshit Joel, can’t seem to string together the words to respond. His eyes slide over to you, almost pleading with you to say something. 

Your brows lift in question and he twitches slightly, his dark eyes unhappy with you not immediately jumping in to save him. “We could use the food if we can find any.” You rationalize, smirking when his brows pinch together and he looks like he had just been betrayed. 

“Clean underwear!” Ellie adds. “Or….cleaner. And a heavier fucking coat.” She shivers slightly and you can see that is the moment when Joel caves. He acts like a prick most of the time, but he’s got a soft spot for the kid. He won’t admit, maybe not even to himself, but he looks over at the faded and nearly rusted out sign. 

You continue walking, not pressing any more and you can hear the grumbling thoughts that are rolling through Joel’s mind. The now half hearted protests about why this is such a bad idea but you wait for the sigh. 

Almost even with the sign is when it comes, heavy and it sounds almost pained. Like he is going against everything he believes in. “Stop.” He huffs, shuffling to pull his bag off his back and kneeling down with a groan and the small pops of fifty plus year old knees. Unzipping the pocket where he keeps the Atlas and flips the worn pages to Nebraska. Glancing back at the road behind you and then at the sign before looking at the map. Tracing the route that you had already traveled before looking ahead at the towns that were on highway 77. 

Ellie doesn’t say a word but she practically bounces on her toes as she waits for his decision. You know that he’s going to agree, it’s just a matter of which town he chooses. He knows the truth of the situation. Winter is going to come quicker than any of you want, your food supply is low, you could probably all use a new set of boots, and all of you would kill for a halfway decent musty mattress to sleep on. Four walls and a hopefully non-leaking roof over your heads would be the icing on the cake. 

“Wymore is coming up in fifty-eight miles.” He taps the map and looks up at you to see what you think. 

Ellie shuffles slightly and instead of grinning, you crane your neck to look at the map yourself. “It looks like it’s bigger than the last few towns, but at least it’s not like we are running into Lincoln.” You hum before you nod. “I say we try.”

“Yessssss!” The teenager pumps her fist in excitement and she grins when Joel rolls his eyes. You’ve noticed that like any normal teenager, her favorite activity is annoying any kind of parental unit and pushing boundaries. This applies to Joel whether or not he likes it. “I want to find another joke book too.” 

Joel groans but you just turn around, grinning yourself as Joel mumbles under his breath, stuffing the map back in his pack and zipping it up. Joel and Ellie are alike in a lot of ways, especially their penchant for mumbling. 

You resist the urge to offer him a hand up, knowing he will be even more pissy if you do. For someone who complains about being older, he gets downright grouchy when he’s reminded of that same fact. “Well then, the quicker we get there, the quicker we don’t have to hear ‘are we there yet?’.” You snort, making Ellie grin shamelessly as she shrugs, knowing she will do exactly that. 

“So let’s get going.” She doesn’t wait for anyone, just setting off down the road and leaving the two of you to catch up with her. 

****

It takes you nearly three days to get to Wymore. All of you are tired, but Joel is the one who barely sleeps, even when you force him to lay down. It’s as if he cannot stop trying to protect Ellie, and also you, long enough for him to rest. He gets upset when he has to sleep, staying up until he is nodding off. The coffee supply has been exhausted and it’s probably a good thing. He would drink it all day to the point where his hands would shake from too much caffeine. Still he just wouldn’t trust you to make sure that no one snuck up on you for a few hours until he was past the point of being useless. 

The first signs of the town are a welcomed relief but it’s also an added source of tension. Each mile that you had traveled had added to the fear that this might be the time that you fail. That something goes wrong and someone else dies. The road here has not been easy and the losses have weighed heavily on all of you. Joel still won’t even mention Tess and you hate it when you wake up in the early morning hours to find him staring down at the broken face of his watch with a look that breaks your heart. 

Every approach into a new area can mean danger, either from the clickers or from humans and honestly you don’t know which one you fear more. Your gun is back in your hand, the weight of it familiar and comforting as you pass the first gas station, the windows busted out and dried fungus clinging to the building. 

“Fuck.” You hiss, uneasy at the presence of the fungal vines, even if they look like they aren’t active.

“I wonder why it looks pink.” Ellie frowns as she squints at the building. “It’s usually an ugly brown color, right?” She looks towards Joel for confirmation, but he’s busy frowning at the building himself. 

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea.” If the cordyceps have spread this far out of town then there’s a possibility there are still active branches closer to the supplies that you are looking for. 

“Come on man.” Ellie groans, kicking a dirt clod. “There’s nothing for miles. It’s probably all dead.” 

You know that Ellie is probably right, but it’s a risk. You bite your lip, looking over at Joel. “Why don’t we sweep the town and we can see?” You ask, knowing that if everything is dead, you could desperately use the rest. Cordyceps rarely return en masse when the vines have withered and died. It could be a safe place to recharge and for Joel to sleep for more than ten minutes at a time. 

You’ve stopped walking as you talk, Joel looking around as he contemplates your alternatives. To be honest, there aren’t many and both of you know it. Not without a lot of backtracking which none of you want to do. 

Joel sighs and you know that he’s going to agree. He turns to Ellie. “Don’t fucking touch anything until we say it’s alright.” He points at her for good measure, as if his finger would impress the importance of his words. “Got it?” 

“Got it.” She huffs. “Jesus, you act like we haven’t done this before.” You roll your eyes and look away, knowing you shouldn’t encourage her right now. 

It takes hours to make your way into the center of town. Not because you are blocked by clickers or avoiding humans, it’s because you are stocking up. It’s like the fungus took over this town and just let it rot. Nothing inside the first few blocks of town is disturbed. No looting has been done here, plenty of supplies to be had. 

Both you and Joel have been cautious but slowly optimistic as you’ve found boots and heavy jackets, gloves and hats. A new pair of clothes have been rolled into everyone’s bags and you’ve even grabbed another pack to fill with the mylar sealed packs of camping food from the sporting goods store. It was a miracle that nothing had been ransacked, but it makes you wonder exactly what the fuck happened here. Did the army sweep through and round up all the residents right away? It would make sense, but then why were there dead spores of the fungus here? You haven’t seen one body so far and it makes you nervous. 

“This place is a fucking gold mine.” Ellie grins like a kid in a candy store, perhaps because you’ve actually found candy and she has been sucking on the jolly ranchers until the top of her mouth is raw. “Now we just need to find a place to sleep. I want my own room.” 

Glancing over at Joel, you expect him to immediately tell her no, but he doesn’t say a word. Continuing to look around like he is expecting a clicker to pop out from the doorway of the local McDonald’s, now completely covered in that strange pink fungus. It’s like he doesn’t even hear her as he frowns at the building. 

She takes that as approval and immediately starts talking about how she’s going to spread out. Making you snort when she talks about sitting in her underwear for an hour. There hasn’t been a lot of privacy out here on the road, so you can understand that desire. 

“Joel.” You murmur his name softly, knowing that the best thing you can do is to find the motel and get settled down for the night before the sun sets. Even if this town is as safe as it appears on the surface, you would rather not be fumbling around in the dark . He doesn’t look over at you, still staring at the overgrown building as if it’s holding the secret. Maybe it reminds him of the Boston Museum, ominously covered with the tentacles of the fungus and the horrors that you had found inside it. “Joel!”

“What?” His head whips around, body tense as he’s ripped out of his thoughts. Relaxing when he finds you and Ellie staring at him. “We need to find the motel.” You remind him, nodding towards the sun getting lower in the sky. “I think we could all use a good night’s sleep.” 

He stares at you for a moment, his eyes searing your face, looking for some hidden meaning beneath your words before he glances over at an eager Ellie. “Yeah, sure.” He agrees, adjusting his rifle to sling it onto his shoulder and adjusts his now much heavier pack on his back. “Probably on the other side of the main drag.” 

His new boots thump against the cracked pavement. The roads leading deeper into the town is the guide towards what will hopefully be a comfortable bed and at least eight hours of sleep. 

Your own new boots feel pretty good, but maybe a day or so here, going through supplies and really making sure that you can take on the coming winter would be a good thing. Allowing you to break in the shoes without blisters. You’ll have to talk about it with Joel after Ellie sequesters herself for the night. 

It’s about another fifteen minutes before you get to the small motel that looks like it will be a good place to spend the night. Half the building is covered in another large cluster of the fungus, the pink hue looking particularly bright in the fading sun. 

“We’ll get some keys.” It will be better than breaking down doors, especially since the motel wasn’t equipped with the keycards that the high end hotels had started switching to before society came crashing down. 

The bad news is that the motel doesn’t have any adjoining rooms, so Joel and Ellie get into a small spat about her having her own room, Ellie eventually winning after promising that she will block the door with a dresser and he’s allowed to sweep the room before she locks herself in. Half the building is so overtaken by the vivid pink fungus that you swear looks like a big splat of bubblegum thrown over the walls. 

She doesn’t even want to have dinner with you and Joel, making the man go through the room and then telling you both goodnight and shutting the door in your face. Making you laugh as Joel frowns at the door, rethinking this entire situation. 

“Well, you can have a room to yourself too.” You offer, smirking as he cuts his eyes towards you. You know that Joel would rather everyone sleep where he can keep his eyes on them, so you getting privacy is off the table. 

“Shut up.” Joel grunts, walking down towards the next room and kicking it open, watchful even though you’ve both already been in the room and deposited your bags. It’s a nice room, two double beds so each one of you can stretch out and relax. 

You laugh quietly and decide to walk down the railing towards the portion of the building that has been overtaken by the fungus. Your curiosity about this variant is finally getting the best of you and you want to get a better look at it. 

It’s thick. The tendril that is draped over the metal railing of the second floor, wrapping around it and up the support column. You bite your lip, tilting your head when you see the withered remnants of some kind of flower. What kind of fungus sprouts flowers?

You jump when something touches your back, whirling around to find Joel behind you, holding his hands up. He smirks at you, his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Fuck you.” You hiss, narrowing your eyes and he huffs. “What are you doing?” He asks. 

Turning back towards the fungus, you sigh. “This is different from any other kind I’ve ever seen.” You comment, stepping closer to it only to feel Joel reach for your arm to pull you back. “It’s dried out.” You remind him, jerking your head towards the husk of the cordyceps. “Have you ever seen anything like this?” You know that he spent a lot of time sneaking out of the Boston QZ, it’s possible he had seen it before. 

He grunts, relaxing his hold on you and he shuffles slightly closer, looking at the flower buds that extend from the tendrils. His own suspicions about anything fungus related is deep, but it’s dried. “I haven’t.” He admits after a moment, narrowing his eyes slightly and trying to think if there is any reason why this pink coloring has the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. 

“So it’s something new.” You bite your lip and lean in, feeling the disapproval radiate off of Joel in hot waves but you ignore him. Tilting your head and reaching out to touch one of the dried flowers. 

“Don’t-”

The second your finger touches the wilted bloom, it bursts open, spurting you and Joel behind you in a cloud of pink dust. You gasp, holding your breath but there’s no hope for not inhaling the pollen. 

“Fuck!” Joel coughs, shaking his head and backing up so quickly he hits the side of the building and reaches out to drag you away from the lingering cloud of dust and starts to practically beat it off the two of you. “We need- we need-” He leans over and starts coughing, obviously having inhaled just as much of it as you had. 

“We’re okay.” You gasp, shaking your head and brushing the dust off your clothes. “We- it’s dead. Right?” You hate that you are asking that, but you hadn’t expected that from a dried out fungus.

“It- we should clean up.” Joel blinks, the pollen making his eyes itch and that has to be the cause of the rush of heat that slides over him. It’s just adrenaline. Fear. Anything that would scare both of you would make the slight nip in the air disappear and make you feel like your skin is superheated.

The water is gravity fed. The large cisterns on the roof are still full and while it’s not warm, perhaps a cold shower might be better right now. Joel drags you both to the room and locks the door, although he doesn’t push a dresser in front of it in case Ellie needs you in the night. 

In the bathroom, you are shaking as you start to strip down, worrying about how stupid you just were and if you completely fucked yourself. The anxious fear covering the way your skin seems to burn and feel so sensitive to everything. Shuddering when your hand brushes over your thigh as you push your jeans down and kick them off before you pull your shirt over your head and remove your bra. 

Clean up. Get the pollen off your skin and cool down. Your body seems to be working on overdrive. Your nipple hard under the cold water and instead of gasping in shock, you moan softly. Enjoying the sensation and reaching for the bar of soap that is still wrapped in plastic. 

Hurry up, hurry up. Joel paces around the room, his hands curled into fists. Practically sweating even though the air is cool as the sun sets. His body feels like it’s on fire, like he is battling a sickness. 

Over and over again, he goes through the symptoms of the infection of the cordyceps, there’s no veining, he’s stopped and checked his eyes and reflection in the peeling mirror about twenty times in the five minutes you’ve been in the bathroom. And he doesn’t fucking think the fungus makes his cock harder than a fucking rock in his jeans. 

He’s not thought about sex in months. Nothing beyond fleeting moments of attraction to you that he swiftly buries under guilt and responsibility. Normally, it is when you’re bent over and your ass is presented to him in such a way that he thinks about sinking into you from behind, or when your shirt pulls tight over your breasts and he imagines cupping them in his hands as you sit on his cock. Immediately dismissed and ignored as he reminds himself of how he had failed Tess, he doesn’t deserve to find warmth and comfort in your arms. 

Now, it’s all he can think about. The urge to palm his cock makes his fingers twitch and he almost moves his hand over his crotch before he flinches back to reality and tries to examine his face in the mirror again, wondering if his eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep or if he is infected. 

Scrubbing your body is nearly painful, wanting to stop and touch yourself, but you can’t. You need to get this done and get out so Joel can shower. Still, despite the cold water, you feel like you are on fire when you shut off the water and realize that you didn’t bring your bag into the bathroom. You will have to go out there in nothing because you can’t put those clothes back on. Not until they have been washed. 

Moderately dry, you hear Joel bang on the door. “Hurry up.” He growls, making you clench your thighs together at the raspy tone and hating how it spears through you. You know Joel isn’t interested in you, hasn’t ever looked at you like that and the crush that you had on the man had been buried deep. 

“I’m done.” You don’t have a chance to be embarrassed as you open the door and Joel practically shoves past you into the bathroom and slams it behind him. “Fuck.” Your annoyance cools the heat for a moment, but it’s only temporary. 

The water is icy, but still, Joel curls his hands into fists against the shower wall. He’s fucking hard. Harder than he had probably ever been in his entire life, even when he was a horny teenager and would have fucked anyone who let him between their thighs. He’s not felt like this ever. The need to touch himself builds to the point where his hips are rocking into thin air against the spray of the water. Want clawing up his throat and pooling in his stomach in a heavy knot. 

You don’t dress, you can’t. Crawling under the covers of one of the beds, you listen to Joel groan in the bathroom, it’s muted over the sound of the shower but it’s sexy. All of his sounds are sexy, from the low grunts he gives when he’s stiff and sore, to the huffs and groans of annoyance. It’s all sexy to you. The rasp of his voice when he’s not spoken for a few hours. 

Closing your eyes, it’s easy to give in, to let your hands drift over your skin. He’s not here, you can take care of this frantic need that is swirling inside you. You just need to slide your hand between your thighs and ease it. It wouldn’t take much more than a few swipes of your fingers against your pulsing and aching clit. 

Trying to fight it, you concentrate on your breathing, in and out. Inhaling slowly and holding it so you can exhale when the burn in your lungs tells you that you’ve reached your limit. It helps, but not much. Not when you’re imagining Joel in his shower. Touching him. Being free to touch him and having his hands on your body in return. 

Your hands slip over your breasts, squeezing them hard enough to moan softly and your legs shift to press together. Clenching around nothing and wishing that you were full while your hands start to move down over your stomach. 

The first touch is almost a relief, your entire core quivering as your fingers press against your clit. It’s overwhelming and not enough. You need more, fingertips pressing and rubbing around the puffed up bundle of nerves. You’re already soaked and can feel it dripping down your slit. 

Spurred on by that insatiable need, you slide your fingers around your entrance and start to press them inside. Biting your lip to keep yourself from moaning. Imagining that it’s more, that it’s a cock that is starting to break you open and fill that void that is aching. 

You are so caught up in the bliss of that first stretch of your fingers that you don’t hear the shower turn off. The quiet curses coming from the bathroom are muffled by the rush of blood in your ears, the feeling of relief coursing through your nerves and taking over. You don’t hear the click of the lock and the turn of the handle. The door opening doesn't even register as you plant your heels on the bed and push your hips up, needing to get your fingers deeper, not quite reaching the spot inside you that craves fullness. 

You don’t hear him until he chokes out a sound that is pained and low, like he’s injured. Your eyes pop open as you lurch up off the bed, your fingers ripping themselves out of your cunt hard enough to make you whimper. Fixed on Joel’s towel draped body, tented over his waist. 

“Joel, I-” “Fuuuuuck.” He growls, his eyes closing and his hands bunches into fists, one holding his towel and the other by his side. “I’ve tried to not think about you, about touching you.” His words are rasped out, strained against his vocal cords. “I’ve goddamn beat into my brain that you aren’t to be thought about this way and now, I can’t stop.” His stomach clenches and his body twitches as he struggles to keep still. 

Your chest heaves and you see his eyes drop down to your uncovered tits. His jaw clenching and his Adam’s Apple bobbing as he swallows. “I - I need to touch myself.” You admit breathlessly. “I - it hurts so bad and I need something inside me.” 

Joel groans again, shuddering so violently that you can see him shake from where you are. “I’ve jerked off in the shower twice and it's still hard.” He drops the towel, revealing his hard and leaking cock, making you whimper at the sight and clench around nothing. “I think that- that we- that the flower-” “I don’t care.” You moan, shaking your head and crawling to your knees and shuffling forward. Showing him all of you and so goddamn desperate to touch him that you think you are about to explode. “Touch me, Joel. Fuck, touch me, please.” You beg, your hands on your own body. “We-” He shakes his head and his face changes, morphs into pain.

“Fuck me.” You hiss, watching as his resolve breaks. His cock bounces as he lunges for you, hard and swift, driving you back to the bed with a bounce. Almost as if he is attacking you. 

He’s not gentle. His mouth finding yours in a harsh kiss, your permission unleashing the coils of restraint that he had tried to put on himself. His grip bruises as he hauls you up the bed and settles between your thighs. 

You’ve always attributed Joel with rough gentleness. The type of man who would make you ache and then hold you close. Groaning in pleasure when you find out that is exactly what Joel Miller is like. His hands spreading your thighs with a desperation that proves he is just as afflicted by this fungal pollen as you are. His cock hard and pressing against your folds as he rocks his hips forward to line up. Almost unable to find the hole with his eagerness to sink into you. 

“Joel, hurry.” Your hands shake, holding onto him and urging him closer to you, frantic with need now that you know that you are going to have him inside you. 

“Goddamn, I’m trying.” He hisses, hating to let you go so he can take his cock in hand. Rocking into his own grip as he shuttles his hips forward. “I’m fuckin’ trying, sweetheart.” 

You whimper when you finally feel him pressing against your entrance, choking out a sound of need that is animalistic. Only to cry out in bliss as he pushes inside you without another delay. 

He groans, eyes cinched shut as he slides inside you to the hilt, burying himself in your heat and feeling that coil in his stomach tighten even more now that your walls are around him. Immediately starting to move just as soon as he fills you, driving by that need and burning in his very veins. 

It’s exquisite, the pain and pleasure blending and fusing in your stomach, nerves alight and responding to every small movement. You can’t get enough of him, you need more. Wrapping  your legs around his hips, you rise to meet his harsh thrusts. Clenching down around him every time he hits that spot deep inside you that you couldn’t reach with your fingers. 

He shouldn’t be inside you, he shouldn’t be touching you, but now that he is, he can’t stop. Turning his head, he presses his lips to yours and slides his tongue into your mouth. Needing more. Kissing you like he had imagined a thousand times before. Giving into every urge he has had since the day he met you and repressed before right now. Snapping his hips forward sharply and pulling every groan out of your mouth to swallow down. 

Every thrust makes it better, eases that burning in your core, your cunt slick and squelching every time he drives into you. He absorbs every sound you make, almost greedy for them. His hips jarring as they slam into you. Rocking you both up the bed. 

“Oh god,” breaking away from the kiss, you moan into his ear. Closing your eyes as he pants and puffs while he fucks you. “So deep, so deep, Joel.” Your nails drag down his back, making him hiss in pleasure and pain. 

“Shit.” He groans your name, lost in the rhythm of his thrusts and the building pressure. “You needed this?” He growls, making you clench down around him hard and whimper his name. “Yessss.” You agree, nodding against the pillow. “Needed it so bad.” 

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight.” He huffs, burying his face against your neck. Continuing to pound into you, and not letting up even though his back is screaming in pain. His body won’t let him do anything but rock his hips. Driven by a need that overrides everything else. 

His words make you burn, making you even more desperate for him. Your hips rock up and legs tightening around his waist even more. Loving how his cock stretches you out and scrubs against every nerve in your cunt. Lighting up your body until you are gasping on the edge of that much needed orgasm. 

Every plunge into your body brings him closer to cumming, desperate to feel that emptiness, that wrung out filling once he has filled you. He shouldn’t cum inside you, he knows that, but he’s not going to be able to stop himself. He can barely pull back enough to rock his hips back into you. 

His arms have banded around you, holding you into place as he fucks you. Deep and primal, as if he is trying to fuse the two of you into one. His cock punches into the depths of your body that you never imagined anyone reaching, but he touches it with ease. Your body pulsing with that need to come apart. 

“So close, I’m so close, baby.” You whine, body starting to tremble underneath him. “So close.” Your nails dig into his shoulder, grounding yourself to him in desperation. “Joel.” 

“I gotcha.” He groans, eyes closed and his breath fanning against your skin. “I’mma take good care of you, sweetheart.” He promises. “You’re gonna cum all over my cock, ain’t cha? Just like you wanted.” 

His words throw you over the edge, that need built up so tight inside you that it busts on the next thrust. Lights careen and collide behind your eyes, bright and beautiful as your whole body ignites into pleasure like you’ve never experienced before. Crying out loudly and soaking  him in a wave of your juices. Cumming harder than you ever have before. 

Joel growls your name, his hips stuttering as you come apart around you. Unable to hold back any longer. He buries himself deep into your hot passage and paints your walls with sticks ropes of his seed. Panting against your lips as he empties himself body and perhaps his very soul into you. 

Both of you pant, relieved and exhausted from the pure exertion of need as you had taken from each other. Joel presses into you, trying to catch his breath, but the fire is still burning low in his belly, his cock still not softening as it twitches inside you. 

“Oh fuck.” You feel that same desire still curling in your stomach, not satisfied by the intensity of the orgasm that you are still coming down from. “Joel-” 

He huffs and shakes his head. “Don’t-” he presses his lips to your again, body screaming as he starts to move again. “Shhhhhh.” 

The need still burns and both of you are still locked in its fiery grip, not yet free from the desire that washed over you from a burst of pollen. 

****

“What the fuck man, open the door!” The thudding on the door finally penetrates the bone deep sleep you had finally fallen into. You don’t know how many time Joel fucked you, or how many times he had spend himself inside you as you blearily open your eyes. 

Joel grunts, slowly opening his own eyes and unwinding himself from the tangled together position that you had passed out in. The knocking on the door keeps on. “Joel!” Your name is also shouted, Ellie starting to sound somewhat panicked when neither one of you is immediately opening the door. 

“Fuck! I’m coming.” He drags the top blanket off the bed and wraps it around his waist before flinging the door opened to blink into the harshness of the sun. “What?” He growls roughly, making Ellie’s eyes blow wide with shock.

“Holy shit, what happened to you?” She demands, pushing into the room and stopping short when she sees you sitting up in the only bed that has been disturbed, the sheet anchored beneath your armpits. “Oh shit, you fucked.” She gasps, turning and shooting Joel an impressed grin. “Way to go, old man, you made a move.” Her grin quickly turns into an expression of mild disgust when she realizes that she’s congratulating you two on having sex. “Uh, I’m gonna go now.” She huffs, wrinkling her nose and pinching it. “It smells in here.” Waving her hand in front of her face, she darts back out the door and Joel just stands there for a moment before he rolls his eyes and goes to shut the door before he thinks better of it. Sticking his head out of the room, he shouts after Ellie. “Stay away from the fucking fungus!” 

You snort, grinning to yourself as your body starts to ache. Fucking fungus indeed. 

[border-collie]

Thinking about him a lot today.

[kenjakusbraincum]

Heey, I LOVE your writings on soft sukuna, you write so beautifully🩷 please can you do one where he is jealous (fluff)😭🩷

Thank you sm for the kind words!!! Here's my best attempt at doing your idea justice <3

Sukuna has no real reason to be jealous. He practically owns you, controls every aspect of your life, who or what could he possibly be jealous of? Every servant who dared approach you in an inappropriate way would be dealt with swiftly. And you're a good pet, who has eyes for no one other than your master. You really don't give him a reason.

But there's this one thing... Since you've been so good and obedient, Sukuna has allowed you many liberties. You're permitted to skip around the mansion, watch Uraume cook, even enjoy little hobbies. You've tried many before you found that crocheting particularly piqued your interest. Ever since you've learned the basics, you've been spending hours working on perfecting your skills. At first it was cute, watching you squint in concentration as you move the hook. But then the math became really simple - having this hobby to keep you busy meant you approached Sukuna out of boredom a lot less. And he noticed it. It irked him, but you're not technically doing anything wrong. You were still as happy to serve him as ever, he just had to ask. But why would he have to ask? You should be all over him on your own. He should have to push you away, not beg you to give him attention. He didn't like this disturbance in your master and pet balance that this little hobby of yours caused.

He stands at the door now. You're crocheting again. You and your favorite servant laugh at your failed creation so sweetly, you don't even notice he's waiting. He clicks his tongue to establish his presence, and your servant falls to her knees immediately. You however, are not held to that high of a standard anymore.

"Master!", you call him, and hop up to greet him with a deep bow. Before he can say anything, you've picked up the piece of fabric you've been working on and ran into his arms to show him.

He looks at the ugly form and scoffs. "This is what I'm sponsoring?", he says and pulls a loose piece of yarn, making your little creation fall apart. He always was a bully, but you note his bad mood.

"I'm only a beginner...", you sulk.

"That much is obvious.", he flicks the yarn away and it falls onto the floor. Before you can bend to pick it up, he seizes your wrist and pulls you back. "Aren't you a little young to waste time with hobbies for the elderly?", he asks. You look at him with your cutest, practiced doe eyes, but it doesn't work.

"Come, pet. I know an activity more suitable for your age.", he says when you don't respond, and steps out of the room. You hop after him, unaffected by his condescending comments. You know that they're just for show. If he really thought you were a hag, you would've been gone a long time ago.

"Sitting at your throne all day?", you tease innocently and join him at his side, sliding your arm underneath one of his. You hope your playfulness will distract him from whatever is bothering him. "Or in a bath?" His lower set of eyes peeks at you and smirks, noticing that you're feeling particularly daring today. He's not sure how he feels about that. "Or in your bed." He rolls his eyes gently and opens the door to his chambers.

"At least then you'd be serving your purpose and actually spending time with your master.", he comments and shuts the door. His comment catches you a bit off guard and you stop in front of his bed. He makes his way towards you, and you look up at him with an insulted expression.

"Master, are you jealous of a ball of yarn?", you ask playfully, and squeal when he suddenly pushes you down to sit on the bed. Now you're at eye level... with his crotch.

"You've got quite a big mouth today. Put it to good use for a change, will you?", he runs his hand from the crown of your head to the back of your neck. You seem to have struck a nerve, so it really is the ball of yarn. Is it possible that Sukuna is this clingy?

"Will you?", he repeats and tugs on your hair and narrows his eyes. You smile obediently and reach behind him to untie his obi.

"Yes Master."

-

You try your best to manage the time you spend crocheting from then on, working on productivity in the hours that you dedicate to developing this skill. And it helps that you have a specific goal in mind now: helping Sukuna realize that this hobby is a friend, not an enemy. He still catches you engaging in it sometimes, and gives you a dirty look, but you're as quick as ever to drop what you're doing and join him. That seems to satisfy him.

When you're finally happy with the result of your creation, you look for Sukuna around the mansion. It's not really that hard to find him, as he frequents three places most of all: the dining room, his bedroom and his throne room. This time, he's sitting on his throne, and a small line of people wait for their turn to be gifted his attention. You on the other hand, don't have to wait in line to get it. His lower set of eyes spots you the moment you enter the chamber. You're allowed to roam the mansion, but barging in unannounced is not standard even for you.

Still, Sukuna has learned that you usually only feel daring enough to cross boundaries when you're sure he'll like what you have in mind. So for now, he will let this slide. He's bored as hell anyways. The people are dismissed and you pass by them on your way to his throne, nestled on a pile of bones. You stop in front of it and greet him with a bow.

"Master, I come to you with a humble offering.", you say with your hands on your thighs and your eyes fixated on the ground.

"Show me.", he says simply, but you recognize entertainment in his voice. You climb up the bones and feel his stare scan you from head to toe, before you sit on his knee.

"May I ask you to close your eyes?", you ask and flutter your lashes. Oh the way you seduce him. Who else could ask Sukuna to do something as dangerous as close his eyes? Give his opponent valuable time to land an attack. Who else could dare? And who else would he ever listen to and really close his eyes? Really do as he's told? Oh how safe he feels with you.

You take one of his large hands into yours, and gently pry his long fingers away to open his palm. He has beautiful hands. The only ones you've ever known, but you're sure they're the most beautiful hands in the world. So dangerous, so elegant. You want to press a kiss to his palm, but you hope your gift will have the same, maybe even more profound effect.

Something soft touches his skin, and then you speak, as politely as before. "You may look.", in your softest voice. And when he opens his eyes, he finds himself looking at you first. You're an offering on your own.

Then he looks at his hand. Two crocheted plush figures resembling him and yourself lay flat on his palm, connected through their holding hands. At first glance, it looks like they're two separate creations. In a sense, they are, but... He tries to part them.

"We're sewn together.", you explain. He hums in amusement and inspects your gift more closely. His plush is bigger, recognizable by the pink hair and four buttons for eyes. It's even wearing his favorite kimono. Yours is smaller and less detailed. You look like any other human when placed next to him, insignificant. But in a sea of pets, entertainers and lovers he's had in the past, he would never fail to recognize it as you.

He's spent so long looking at it with that face of his that you just can't read. You're starting to grow restless in his lap, and he feels your eyes dwell into his soul. When he looks back at you with one pair of eyes, your brows are furrowed in worry and you're fiddling your hands in your lap. He pats you on the head and pulls you closer, so you have no choice but to lean on his frame.

"It's beautiful, darling.", his fingers run through your hair, scraping your scalp softly. "No loose threads either.", he looks at you with all four eyes now, and you feel so small in his arms. You're not used to receiving this many compliments from Sukuna at once. Not ones that weren't directed at your body or performance. Especially not when he's looking at you so tenderly, when every word sounds so loving and genuine. "You've improved so much.", his hand is on your face now, and you catch him glancing at your lips. You part them to start thanking him, but you already know how much he hates listening to that.

You stay quiet instead, and lean closer, letting him take you. And he kisses you so softly, fingertips light against your heated skin. You feel like you're floating, like a lily pad in a warm pond. The littlest gesture of his affection has you melting in his embrace. The power he has over you... and how wonderful it is to surrender yourself to it.

None of the liberties and privileges you've been awarded with compare to this. You know that many pets have walked these halls before you. Many warmed his bed and claimed the title of his favorite. But how many loved him like this? Enough to dedicate time of their day to making intricate gifts. How many could say Sukuna kissed them lovingly, for no other reason than to show gratitude and affection?

You're flushed completely red by the time his lips leave yours. You can't hold the intensity of his gaze, as he stares at you in adoration. "I'm happ.. I'm glad you l-like it...", you stumble through the words and win a giggle out of him. You are just so cute. Like a pet should be. He rubs your head again and pushes you away lightly.

"Go now, the people await me.", he says with a benevolent smile gracing his face. "I'll see you tonight."

You bow to him and leave.

And when you visit him that night, he is as gentle as he was when he kissed you earlier, still in a good mood after your gift. Caressing your hair, shoulders and back, as you lay comfortably with your head on his chest. Keeping you warm in his embrace. You're trying your best to follow the conversation, but sleep is slowly taking over you. Sukuna notices and plants a kiss to your forehead, wishing you goodnight. The last thing you see before your eyes close, is your handcrafted plushies sitting on his nightstand.

[citricacidprince]

Thinking about a Dungeon Meshi swap AU where Laios is eaten instead of Falin

I think everything is relatively the same in the terms of party members. Chilchuck would stay, not for Falin, but for Laios cause he and the blond are actually close and he wouldn’t say it out loud but he’s worried about him and no I won’t take criticism. Marcille would stay, definitely for Falin but she’s worried about that weird guy in her own way. Namari would still leave and wish Falin the best. The only difference is that Shuro would definitely come this time if it was Falin who asked, however he’d probably tell her to go on ahead without him so he can get a bigger team to help and meet her down there. Senshi, of course, still joins the group.

There are a lot of little things that would change but I have such a specific scene in my brain that won’t leave.

In the swap version of the scene where Chimera Falin fucks everyone up and then run off, Falin watches as her now monsterfied and wounded brother flee, tears in her eyes as she attempts to stop herself from crying but can’t. Marcille, immediately assuming that she’s crying about Laios, tries to comfort her by saying they’re going to find a way to revert this, even if at the time she’s just saying an empty promise to make Falin feel better since she has no clue on how to fix Laios either.

But that’s not why Falin is crying.

During the fight she watched her brother very closely, the way he moved, the way he analyzed each person who came close, the way his eyes softened and he gently smiled when he recognized her for just a moment before turning back into a beast. A gut wrenching realization ran through her head the more she watched him and it got even louder when he fled.

She realized that when her brother appeared as that chimera, that monster, his yellow eyes shined bright in the dark and his toothy grin could be seen for miles, and the grin barely faded even during the battle.

Falin has never seen her brother so unapologetically happy in her entire life.

It was like he was made to be a monster.

She wondered if it would be cruel to turn him human again, a horrid thought that she might be ripping him away from what was assumedly his dream come true. Who gave her the right to ruin her brothers happiness when she knows Laios would do everything in his power to make sure his little sister was happy.

She quickly shook away the thought. She had to save her brother. She had to.

But no matter how much deeper they traveled that small persistent thought stayed in her brain, trying to make her doubt the rescue and convince her that, while he wouldn’t tell her outright, Laios would grow to despise her for turning him back a tallman when being a monster was so freeing and easy.

Falin knows in her heart that her brother could never hate her and it was just her stressed and anxious thoughts getting the best of her, but it doesn’t stop those fears from manifesting in her nightmares.

Ignore me I’m running on 2 hours of sleep and I’m loosing my mind slightly

[eccentricallygothic]

|| Wrong Turn ||

Pairing: Mountain Man Silver Fox Nomad!Steve Rogers | You. 

Trope: Neat and clean ‘civilized’ Princess-like young trophy wife X Filthy beast of a wild and scary man who only got her because he has the power. 

Description: In a desperate attempt to save your life from the wrath of the mountain people that your friends and you stumbled upon and accidentally killed on a hike gone wrong, you had to offer yourself up to their Leader to use as a ‘resource’. But little did your ‘husband’ know, you had been actively getting rid of his seed to avoid actually getting pregnant. Naturally, when he does find out, he is very unhappy… And also very determined to make sure you don't make it out of your punishment without a child, or two.

Warning(s): Dubcon, barbaric!Steve, breeding kink (gone wild), unprotected p-in-v, reverse cowgirl, doggy style, missionary, he has a wife bod kink (but it is inclusive), misogyny, smut with perhaps too much plot, fear kink, size kink, exhibitionism, possessiveness, jealousy, age gap, hair pulling, spanking, biting, allusions to painal and Steve being a teasing sicko about it but he doesn't actually penetrate, overstimulation, dirty talk, humiliation, degradation, boob play, squirting, Lloyd makes an appearance with his own young bride, dacryphilia (it's me), self degradation, Stevie is a perverted old meanie, infantilization, mind break.

Disclaimer: Very loosely based off of the movie that I do not own. You don't need to know it to read this piece but do note that it takes place in a fictional setting. Minors do not interact. 

Inspo-ish: This post.

Note: For someone who was on their period, I should not have been this horny. But I need this marriage, now. Ps, though this rotted in my drafts for a long time… in honor of Chris growing out his beard again, ig.

MASTERLIST

. . .

You have no idea how long it has been since that fateful twilight when everything changed in your life, leaving you to a lifestyle you could never have even imagined for yourself.  

“Eat up, woman” but as your barbarian of a husband commands you in his rough and animalistically deep voice, you cannot help but break out of your reverie and shudder at the sight of the barely cooked meat piled high on the platter in front of the two of you. “So you can bear me healthy children” although you're the one who was made to prepare his beastly dinner -that never fails to leave you aghast when it's gorged down- as you're his wife, you cannot help but gag under your breath and feel disgust for the loaves that sit before you in the company of a tall stone carved jug that brims full of the foul smelling mead that your husband is ardently fond of. 

You muster up your best coy smile. Keeping up the appearance of a happily mated pair is important. Or people stare. And then the old man becomes unpleasant. “I had quite a lot while I was cooking, dear” your lies sting your tongue out of the fear you feel of getting caught, but the mere hope of not doing so is better than eating this. “Y- You go ahead” you slowly turn in his muscle hardened lap, that you are always to sit on, to give him a small smile but your expression almost transforms into one of horror because of how wildly your heart jumps at the sight of his stern, predator-like face. You are quick to recover though, as it is a usual occurrence. 

“You need it. You work so hard—” there is just something about his rough looks that never fails to send a chill down your spine. You have never seen anything, let alone an actual human man like him before. 

A beard as thick as the very forest his people populate and as dark as the nights can get here in the absence of lanterns due to the heavy trees, age that streaks some of his gold locks with its silver has not marred the sternness of his jaw that remains firmly set under the heavy mane of his facial hair. His shoulders seem akin to the mountains that surround his village and his piercing dark eyes the mysterious waterfall that flows some way down south from the entrance of the settlement. The frightening mass of his shoulders is so toned that if the barely noticeable wrinkles that sometimes appear under the dark of his eyebrows and next to the crow-feather like lashes that frame his eyes, he can easily be mistaken for a man in his primeful late twenties and no older. His unrelenting strength and wolfish stamina would only further serve to bear testament to the misconception. 

Your strict husband bluntly catches your shaky hand that you extend in his direction to feed him some of the meat, the force that he uses coupled with the coarseness of his skin making you jump. You bite back a yelp and whimper when you look up at his dark blue eyes from where you were watching his bearded mouth to carefully place the food in.

“I don't care” Steve does not care much for being polite -unless it is you who disregards it in your behavior-, especially when it comes to you denying or diverting his ‘care’ for you. “You eat more” you bite back the scowl that threatens to break onto your face from how he turns your hand around in your direction instead. “Wives always need to eat more. They do so much at home for husband and children” he probably feels proud of these ‘values’ that have been transmitted to him by his elders. But all they make you want to do is to crack him across the jaw for being a misogynistic and backward shithead. Especially with you. 

Your ‘husband’ believes that everyone has a role to play; a contribution to make to their people and home. That is how this archaic village of theirs has survived in these mountains hidden away from the rest of the world for so long. 

The greasy piece of a disturbing excuse of a rare steak touches your lips and you've been here long enough to know better than to argue or worse yet, fight. So you smile and lean into his arm that cases your form against his through the embrace he holds you in from behind, his fingers playing with one of the many flowered braids your attending ladies had put in your hair a bit before his arrival at ‘home’. 

“O- Of course” you reluctantly open your open and grip your flowy dressing gown for a semblance of support for your sanity, taking the smallest bite you can -which is still a lot as the man pushes nearly the whole piece into your mouth the moment you open up- as you keep your eyes trained on his to avoid looking down. Your mind always becomes more aware of the taste when you look. “Thank you, dear” you focus on swallowing it without gagging and feel your smile split in places because of how uncomfortable you are.

He probably notices it because he slightly raises one eyebrow and snorts before hugging your smaller form -that is tiny compared to his- closer and puts the rest of the piece in his own mouth. If there is one thing you have learnt in your time with him, it's that you can never fool him. Not really. No matter how well you may think you have lied or pretended, he always sees through it. 

Sometimes you suspect he even enjoys it.

Steve finally begins to eat himself, silently offering you another piece that you politely reject by shaking your head and then quickly pressing an apologetic kiss to his scruffy cheek to lighten the blow. Apparently, a wife can never be polite enough to her husband. And though the change in his expression begins with an unhappy frown, your show of ‘affection’ seems to suffice him and he relaxes in satisfaction, now looking down the long table and at his clansmen and maidens that sit enjoying their dinner, their chatter and laughter a dull roar in the large eating hall of the Leader's dwelling. You pick up the heavy jug of mead with both your hands and obediently hold it to his lips to sip from. Steve looks away from what one of his main men are saying and gulps down a mouthful, rubbing your back as a gesture for thanks before moving his hand quickly down to squeeze your ass to heighten the effect of his expression of gratitude. 

His form shakes in mirth when you yelp and blush. He knows how embarrassing you find being openly ‘affectionate’ in front of people and that is one of the reasons why he enjoys it so much besides showing off that a thing of such beauty and youth like you is all his. You rest the jug between your boobs that he has fucked and squeezed into increasing in size and use your other hand to gently finger and stroke his golden locks that he keeps pushed away from his face outside the bedroom. Though he says nothing, you feel his usually vigilant and always firm stature slowly soften and you cannot help but smile, though what he says next quickly deflates it.

“Do you feel any change in you, wife?” You know what it means and now it's you who becomes tense. He only uses that name for you when he speaks to you as a husband inquiring about your marital matters. “Has my seed attached to your womb yet? Does it grow there?” You gulp and feign shyness, moving closer to his hair and nuzzling yourself in him. “Hm?” He closes his hugging arm around you and reaches for your stomach, fingers groping your covered skin as gently as he can -which isn't much- to feel it. “Answer me” he demands when you refuse to speak. 

“I… I don't know, husband” you always promise yourself that you'll demand more rights for yourself; ask him to treat you like the other husbands treat their wives, only to fail the minute he enters your vicinity. 

“What does that mean?” His tone turns blunt and you whimper at the tightness that snaps back in place between his shoulders. 

You get it.

That was the deal, after all. 

Healthy children in exchange for your life that was required by their judicial laws for bearing false witness to your friend accidentally killing one of their people in mistaken defense. Steve had promised you before accepting you as a citizen that if you failed to fulfill your task you'd walk the darkness in the dungeons. He had shown you how it would be before declaring you a member of their tribe and the sight you had seen was something that had given you nightmares for days. 

But that did not mean you actually wanted to have your old captor's children.

You doubted it would ever be something you'd look forward to.

“I- I mean” regret shoots up your spine in the form of fear and you lose your speech to it momentarily. But then two of your main attending ladies -by that you mean Steve's top agents when it comes to you- enter the horizon of your sight and you hurriedly blubber out the first thing that comes to your mind. “I've n- never been pregnant before, s-o I d- don't know how to…” Your husband turns to look at you, his handsome features twisting into a rogue scowl but before he can scold you, one of the two ladies, Kaira, speaks in their language to Steve. 

Not everyone here can speak English and those who do speak it do so a rather odd version of it. Naturally, you don't speak their language and so they give you the full experience of an outsider when they need to discuss the business they want to keep private from you. The thought makes you want to laugh, like you'd be able to do something with whatever informations they withhold.

But it doesn't really bother you, because you don't care.

You've also learnt that ignorance is bliss here. 

Especially for someone like you.

Better to be the doe eyed trophy wife of an angel who can't tell her head from her ass.

“Is that so?” Your heart jumps when Steve chooses to speak English. That means that this definitely concerns you. You place the mead down and wrap one arm around his broad shoulders before nervously combing his thick beard with your other hand. Since you have no interest in or desire to learn their language, the only word you manage to pick up on when you focus really hard is ‘baby’ and that is solely because of the annoying amount of times it comes up for you. 

“Is not this strange?” He speaks once the women step back after finally ending the nerve wracking conversation that seems to go on forever. “Do you hear what they say about you, little one?” Fuck, you're definitely in trouble. 

He is reminding you of your place. 

You put on your best charming smile but you're painfully aware that your nervousness gives it away. You can feel it. “W- What do they say, dear?” They were such bitches. They knew how to speak English, that's why they were your attendants, but yet they chose not to. And now they were glaring at you like you weren't above them— oh no, not these thoughts again. You will never become like them! No, no! 

Steve pushes his plate away now. Your head spins from the realization. It's only half finished. Your husband never wastes his food. It is a near sin for them to do so. “They tell me the most odd things” oh just fucking tell me! You mentally scream but outwardly tilt your head to the side in confusion, your chest vibrating with the rising beats of your heart. “And now that I think about it myself…” His fingers wrap around the mead before he raises it to his lips. “I see the—”

“What did they say, Steve?” Your mouth works faster than your better sense and he pauses mid sip, dark blue eyes flickering up from the stone jug to look at you. Your face flushes a noticeable hot and your ears get sweaty from the awareness. 

Fuck. 

“They say you've been getting rid of my seed” he feels played and thus angry at the both of you. Perhaps more so towards himself than you; his silly little child-wife. How could he let a thing as tender and small as you fool him so? “... Do you?” It is obvious you are guilty. Besides, he is confident that his people would never lie to him unlike one young and beautiful girl that he had found kneeling in front of him in his court while bawling her eyes out one fateful night, fear stricken as his people surrounded him like a doe trapped. 

And of course, your expressions and reactions don't help your case, as always. “W- What? No…” Your mind becomes erratic.

“No?” He himself knows not what kind of a chance he offers you with that. But typical to your nature, you make it easy for him by refusing it.

“N- No! Of course not! W- Why would I ever do such a thing to m- my husb- hubby and my b- babies?!” Steve has to clench down his scoff. 

“You wouldn't, would you?” Your naivete never fails to amuse him.

“No! I- I don't know why they accuse me so—” you mend your speech from the archaic form that tries to leech to it everyday. “I don't know why they would accuse me of that but they must be mistaken! This is a misunderstanding!” 

He hums. “I see…” His scarred fingers begin to toy with your braids again. “So you remain devoted to me and faithful to our family, don't you?”

“Of course!” You nuzzle closer to him, your heart thundering into his chest. “I don't know why they still treat me like an outsider” you purr as you nervously stroke his hair, playing a card of your own and making an absolute fool of yourself by doing so. “I try my best… like I promised.” 

“Yes, your promise” his distant eyes -they get like that when you disappoint him and you hate the sight because it never fares well for you- travel down to your empty stomach. His gaze makes it wrench. Your fear skyrockets at the same rate as your anger. If only there was a way for you to get back at those bitches without having to give birth!

“I- It takes time sometimes, dear…” You hug his shoulders with one arm. “But it will happen. I know it…” Your other hand reaches for his fingers that rest on your abdomen now. 

“Oh?” Steve raises one dark eyebrow at you. His hair is the most fascinating combination of blonde and dark brown. “Is that what your modern day sciences say?” His people were not always like this, he had told you. They did not originate from here. Rather, some families had abandoned ‘civilization’ when it was going to hell -in his words- by killing each other for meaningless constructs such as caste, creed and color differences and migrated up here to establish a system of their own; one free from such nonsense. 

Apparently.

You take a deep breath. “Stevie—” you only call him that when you find yourself dangerously close to the dungeons.

“If that is what you believe in, wife,” he never cuts you off. Usually, that is. His age that streaks his blonde strands with its silver ones has granted him enough patience. Normally, he waits for the other person -who is most often you- to mess up themselves. But whatever the ladies have told him seems to agitate him into rebelling against his own nature today. “I'll do it your way. After all, happy wife happy life, is that not what you tell me often?” Okay, you might have said that during a particularly cocky moment in bed once. 

But the intention behind that had not been nearly whatever he is moving towards now. 

“Y- You don't have to, l- love…” You nervously giggle. “You're perfect the way you are” you run your nails that he insists you keep trimmed for hygienic -as if- and practical purposes through his silver-blonde hair.

“Oh no…” Now he pushes his food farther away. “I will indulge you, little one” he moves your other leg over his laps so now you face the people down the table with both of your legs on either sides of his, ass to his… fuck. “Time conspires against us, and so we must make haste.”

Your eyes widen and your heart leaps up in your throat. “M- My love?!” 

Steve moves your flowy gown out of his way, keeping a firm hold on one of your thighs even though he doesn't really have to. Your fear of him would never let you attempt an escape. “Yes, my stars” the name is so full of sarcasm it nearly pierces you open. “Let us leave time to its devices, and us ours” your husband is usually a very possessive and private man when it comes to you, but his ire seems to get the better of him today. You hear the buckle of his own clothes come undone. The table goes silent and heads turn in your direction once they realize what's going on. Oh no… Your stomach drops. Not in front of everyone. Not when Steve makes you so vulnerable in that condition. Not in front of these lowlifes!

“Husb—” blood bubbles hot under your cheeks as you feel him align himself against you. 

Holy shit.

You feel one of his coarse hands wrap around your throat and he pulls you closer to his mouth so he can whisper in your ear. “You will contribute, my stubborn little wife,” you whimper from the menace his words hold, your well trained cunt obediently squelching open against his thick hard tip as he lowers you on his cock with the hold he has on your thigh. “Whether you like it, or not” sometimes, deep down, you fear that the dungeons are not an option anymore. 

He keeps you in the horizons of his sight too much for them to be. 

It appears as though the sentence has changed. 

It is now Steve, or Steve.

You cry out from the strain his log-like girth puts on the narrow band of your entrance. God. You will never get used to his size regardless of how many times and ways he tames your pussy in. Yes, it does not refuse him or rip around him now as it used to in the beginning -and it did that for a long time- but the size to which his cock makes it expand is like a mini-birth. Feels like it, looks like it. Only, it feels way too good. And that's why you don't mind it—

No. You don't know what that was or meant. But you don't take responsibility for that thought!

“Oh!” The balmy velvet of your cavern grazes down the bulging veins and hard skin of the brute's cock until your petals squish against his heavy and very eager balls. Your head spins when you feel his tip tickle your cervix. It never takes his dick long to find it.  

His hands are pushing you back up almost instantly so he can slide you back down. You look anywhere but at the tens of faces in front of you, instead choosing to look at the wall on the opposite side of the table. You never thought these people were capable of being this quiet until now when your pussy makes an embarrassingly loud squelching noise as Steve tugs you back to his leaking tip and then allows gravity to suck you back down. You desperately bite your lips and try to focus on ignoring the way your insides are beginning to thrum with the excitement and stimulation; to show these brutes that you're better than them and aren't some animal of nature. But to no avail. His slimy precum mixes too well with yours, the rough skin of his hands digs into your thighs too well and the manner in which your petals rub against his cock when he lifts you yet again -now forming a momentum- before letting you slide in again is too much for you mask with nonchalance. 

Indifference has never been among your strong suits.

“Tell me, my pretty” Steve begins again, his dark eyes now finding the young and hormonal pack of unsuspecting boys who clearly do not know better. “Have you ever had a cock like mine?” He says it in their own language so the foolish miscreants see, understand and learn the fact that you’re only his. You belong to him and he will go to war for you, not that a pack of rug rats will ever be a cause of worry for him. “Has anyone ever fucked you as good as I do?” He switches back to the language you understand, roughly fumbling for your jaw before he grabs it and bounces his hips into yours at the same time. 

Your traitorous legs have begun to do what they always do; fuck yourself against him -if he hasn’t bound you, which he hasn’t- in whatever position he has you. You only realize that your breathing has become heavier when you open your mouth to answer. “Only you, my husband! Only you!” Your brain is running too fast for reason or reflection to catch up so you leave wondering why you answer him with the only words he has been able to teach you in his language to later. Your words are muffled as his fingers that grip the lower half of your face nearly slip in your mouth from the disordered urgency of the both of your actions. 

“That's right” your mouth falls open and you begin to softly pant in that animalistic way that you detest when he makes you watch yourself in a mirror while fucking you sometimes. In your defense, it is always unintentional on your part; you barely even notice it while taking his fucking. And yet, it is inevitable due to the force he does it with. “Look at you; dutifully fucking yourself up and down your husband's cock like a bitch in heat” a twinge forms in your knuckles from how your fingers hold the edges of the table to aid the gliding of your fuck hole that now slams up and down his cock in a rhythm you're all too familiar with, the smacks of your bare ass slapping against his naked abdomen making appalling noises that you're too worked up to dread over right now. “And you're a bitch in heat for me, aren't you?” His fingers move down from your jaw to your throat. “Wanting to be bred over and over again until you're so full of my children that your little belly is round and heavy to the brim, hm?” In these moments, you tell him anything and everything that he wants to hear.

Steve knows it all too well.

And he loves it.

“Yes!” Your voice disappears midway from how he squeezes your windpipe. His hips meet yours midway now, the wetness of your cunt and the force of his thrusts causing for his balls to try and push past the tight boundary of your sexual cavern. “Yes! Yes! I am! Please!” Your eyes roll to the back of your head when his free hand finds your petals to play with. “Ohhh!”

“You want to be bred, don't you?” He rubs your drenched pussy lips while his hard cock pistons in and out of your sopping cunt. “Want to contribute…?” He chokes you once more and this time his fingers pinch one of your pussy lips punishingly at the same time and you cry out. “Provide your husband with a house full of heirs?” The oxygen in your mind depletes and your eyes flutter as a result, cheeks turning red and nerves becoming prominent on your glistening temples. Your horny yet defensive pussy finally relaxes around him a bit so it doesn't hurt his dick and he savours the moment by holding you by the curve between your legs and fucking into your form that gets limp by the moment to push you towards your first orgasm. 

It always gets better after that. 

For him, at least. 

You don't choke him out so much then.

“Y- Yes!” When Steve finally lets go of your throat to let you breathe, you blubber out an an answer obediently once the light returns to your eyes. Your walls stiffen around him once more. But by then he has already worked himself closer to your womb. “Yes! Yes!” It is all your mind can muster.

“Good” he makes a point of taking both of your boobs in his hands and thoroughly massaging them to show off his ownership over you. “Now ask me to breed you” the fence of heat that has formed around your loins becomes tighter when his hands that previously fondled your clothed breasts slip under your gown -for Steve is too possessive to actually expose you to the eyes of others- and he softly rubs your tense sides a couple times before his fingers form pinches around your hard nubs. 

“Please breed me!” Your voice is so loud and strained that its quality is nearly blood curdling. “Please breed me and s- stuff me full your children!” Your hands fly to grip his from over the dress as you throw your head back and slip from the edge of your anticipation, parrotting all the words he has taught you over the course of your marriage. “Oh GOD! Please!” Your back arches from the coming undone of the hot belt of expectation and scorching gratification spills from it, seeping down your legs in the form of a nearly unbearable electric feeling that transforms into a subzero energy when it reaches your toes that curl, causing them to feel as though they are freezing. “I need your b- babies so bad, hubby!” 

Steve's own ears blush from the heat that courses through them in the form of adrenaline as he snorts, some of his blonde strands coming loose from the push and tug that he plays with your cunt. “Tell them” his balls ache from the strength it takes him not to fill you up right then. “Tell everyone that you want me to fill you up with my babies” since your sensitive body tries to curl and move away from the overstimulation, the older man wraps both of his hands around your thighs to keep you going. “Say it!” And he makes you say the words that he desires in the language of your spectators that look embarrassed for the first time since you got here. 

Save for your husband's best men who look equal parts aroused and proud. 

You want to cringe and be disgusted but your sensitive pussy is being pounded too hard for you to attempt a conjuring up of any dignity. 

“Need hubby babies bad!” You cry out again from memory when Steve's thick seed begins to fill you up at last. “Oh, my God!” The feeling of his hot cum filling you up and painting every inch of your sensitive walls penetrates your already hazy mind and the warmth that steams out of the pearly liquid steams its way up to your womb, making you shudder at the feeling. Your opening tightens around him in protest of the overstimulation and it instead causes for a barrage of bitter-sweet electric sparks to explode through your abdomen in the form of a half post-climax orgasm. Your body grows tired.

But your insatiable is far from done.

“Flattering, but no” Steve pushes you against the table before standing up when he is done fucking his orgasm as deep as he can reach into you. “The father of your children will suffice” your eyebrows furrow at his words but the older man does not give you a chance to ponder over them because now he is hooking his hands under your thighs that your rapid and messy fucking has covered in both of your juices. 

“W- What?!” Your vision is hazy and your mind dazed as you incoherently tap about. “What's— oh!” You wince from how much easier it is for him to move inside your worked open and much lubricated but torturously overstimulated walls now. “Oh! Oh…” Your hands blindly feel behind you to try and get him to stop. “Oh, no! No, please!” You cry out weakly, your upper body hanging low in the opposite direction from the exhaustion. 

“No?” The older man darkly chuckles, paying no mind to your flailing. “You think you can say that to me?” One of his hands desert their post on your thighs to roughly grab at your hair. He hasn't forgotten what started all this. “You think you have the same rights as everyone else around here, wife?”

But you're scowling from the burning pain in your walls, mind hazy and unwise. “Stop! Stop!” Your puffy folds ache from how his stiff skin rubs against them as he moves in and out of you at a normal pace… for now. “It hurts, stop!” 

“That is the part and parcel of having children” your body curves outwards as he pulls you further back and closer to himself by your hair. “And is that not why you're here?” His cocky tone along with the hungry and wondering eyes of the wildlings make you angry. “What you were spared for in the first place?” A twinkle in the eye of a man pisses you off and…

“It hurts, you old bastard!” Your young blood gets the better of you and your mouth runs before sense can catch up. “Stop, stop, stop it!” Since your hair holds you closer to him you manage to land a few smacks to his rock hard arms before you try to snake your fingers under his to pry off the hand that he coils around your thigh in a weak attempt to move away. 

Steve only chuckles, clearly unfazed by your fighting as he bounces your smaller form up in the air with each thrust. “Did your mother not teach you anything, wife?” He lets go of your hair only to restrain both your arms on the small of your back. “Good girls never tell their husbands no” your body flops forward again and you've no choice but to face the long table full of people. “They lay down pretty with their legs spread and let their husbands fill them with their children and then they express their gratitude for being granted a family.” Though your mind is confused and rather disoriented from the influx of sensation, you can make out new additions to the crowd of your humiliation from the corners of your vision. 

“Ugh!” You grunt from the rapid jabs he gives to your sore pussy, his firm hold nearly searing into your wrists. “I don't wanna have your stupid blonde babies!” Steve breathlessly lets out a real laugh at that. “Let go!” 

“There” he can swear he will never tired of you breaking the little character of the obedient wife that you so naively think you have mastered only to break it when he has you all riled up like this. “Right there, easy now” his other hand leaves your lap and he pushes your head down and against the table in the most condescending manner imaginable. Steve has got you to expose yourself for the brat you are, no need for play anymore. “Now I make a bunny out of you” his dark eyes now meet with those of the boys sitting at the other end of the table and his use of their language is a silent message. The Leader knows how his wife is desired. And he doesn't appreciate it in the least. The young males all panic and look away, gulping to themselves and praying for their lives. 

You try to struggle again, your lip curling in disdain and protest as you feel him fuck his cum right up your cervix. The bitter pleasure you get from it makes your head spin and your fingers and toes flex defensively. “Ooof!” Your cheek rubs against the table and you puff out your face to express how tense you feel down there. 

“Brat” Steve shakes in silent mirth as he reaches for your ass with the hand that he was holding your face down with. “Don't you move a muscle.” You're too busy rocking over the table and being held down to try. 

“Hubby, please!” You whine when one of his veins twitch deep up your walls and your knees shiver from the sensation. “Please!” Maybe if his cock wasn't so comically huge, it would have been easier to move past the rough friction of your raw, orgasm worn skins. But it is and so you are ready to abandon the dam that begins to form in your abdomen again if it means to avoid this pain. “Owwwiee!”

“Aw” Steve cooes as he now moves to a pace that falters your vision and causes for the great table to shake with each thrust that he gives you. “So small and sore, aren't we?” The spank he lands on your unsuspecting ass right after is the stark opposite of his tone. “Maybe we shouldn't act out so much when we are so weak and pathetic, huh, wife?”

“Oooof!” One of the shyer ladies get up before she carries her young son who stood next to the group of the young ones away and the realization of the fact that your spectators are all real people who see you everyday and will continue to do after this drips down your limbs like ice cold water. Your hips cannot help but clench from the embarrassment that you dully feel in some part of your mind way far at the back. “Hubby, please!” The spanks increase with each snap of his hips and though the turmoil between your legs takes up most of your sensory powers, your cheeks now begin to noticeably sting from the pain that builds from how the swings of his hand against your poor ass increase with each thrust. 

“Please?” Steve muses like he isn't balls deep into you and fucking the literal daylights out of you like a crazed heathen. “Oh, but I thought I was a mean old bastard” of course, your pleas always only mean that you want more, according to the brute you are married to. They cannot mean anything else, apparently. “And you didn't want my stupid blonde babies” you grunt from the frustration and land a helpless fist on the table. You are in an uncomfortable tug of war between the mutilation of your sensory glands and the tall barrage of tight hot anticipation that cannot help but form in the base of your stomach again because of how hard and rough he fucks you. 

Your husband's main man, Lloyd, laughs in a comically daft voice to tease you and be the insufferable asshole that he is. “You've got yourself a feisty little pup there, Steve” he is the only one who can refer to the blonde haired man by his name. Or maybe, he doesn't care to use the honorific and his usefulness backs him up. You wouldn't be surprised if the latter really is the case. “Don't you agree, my sweet?” He side hugs his own young bride who ironically is one of the sweetest and perhaps the only nice person in this entire village and Lloyd grins down at the girl whom you now notice is blushing furiously. 

Before you can let the humiliation swallow you whole, Steve spreads your burning cheeks and chuckles at the sight he finds glistening and blinking up at him, the madenned hammering of his cock unceasing. “Look at this adorable little button of yours, darling” you are not personally familiar with any of the faces that witness you trying to pathetically crawl away when your devil of a husband begins to tickle your pucker so you realize it was actually not quite hitting you as bad as it does now when you become hyperaware of Rainie's gaze. If it weren't for how your eyes roll because of Steve's hot seed shooting deep up your cavern again and nearly searing into your very flesh this time around from the brutality of it all, you reckon you would have tried to hide. But now all you do is let out choked blubbers as your wide eyes sting from tears due to the sensory overload. “I think it's time we deflowered it, what do you think?”  

Oh, no. 

His cock is not something that you can handle in your ass without splitting all over the place!

“No answer? No?” It feels as though you are the one who is cumming and not Steve because of how good he is at wearing the mask of nonchalance. “Hm,” he roughly pulls you backwards by your hair before hooking an arm around your waist to keep you from trying to get away from how he toys with your trembling pucker. “Maybe we should let sweet Rainie decide for you, hm—?”

“OH, GOD!” You cannot help but scream over him. 

He is too much.

Steve ignores your exclamation, thrusts delayed -more jab like- but so strong that his tip spears into your cervix with each thrust, thus causing for your head to spin from how he chooses to fuck out his orgasm. “She's your friend, isn't she?” Steve's beard gently stings the sweaty and teary skin of your jaw from how his mouth presses into your ear. “Aren't you, Rainie dear?” 

Yep, you are never looking her in the eye ever again. 

“Answer him, sunshine” Lloyd eggs his wife on and you notice through your cloudy vision that he is making her palm his own bulge. You nearly cringe back into Steve's chest from the obscenity of it all. 

The girl, a new bride herself, is shy and small next to her own flesh boulder of a husband as she meekly peeks up at you through her lashes. “Y- Yes, sir. We are friends” her voice is barely audible and both your husbands chuckle. 

If it weren't from how a dull orgasm rips itself apart somewhere deep between your loins, you would have felt angry.

It is like the assholes know that you're friends, and they're having their fun with it.

No wonder they are best mates.

“Good, good” you can feel Steve's cum splattering your thighs with each brutal jab, the sound and sprays of his shaft making a mess of your juices underneath your dress ample in its audibility. “So, do you think it's time your girlfriend's dirty little button was opened up, hm?” He keeps one hand on your pucker and reaches for your boob to grope with the other.

Rainie blushes again and furiously lowers her head the moment her eyes connect with yours. Though you don't know it, her own has been deflowered not too long ago and she isn't sure what response would be favourable by you, so that and the embarrassment of the Leader questioning her for something like that about his wife when she is on amiable terms with the girl makes her choose silence for as long as allowed. And her own husband cockily leaning into her and mansplaining into her ear how it would work for you by comparing it with what he did to her pretty ass only makes her curl further. 

“Shy little thing, isn't she, my precious?” So your husband turns his unwelcome attention back to you, bending the both of your bodies forwards so he can smack your asshole with the back of his hand easier, the impact making you rock violently forward. “Maybe you should learn some manners from her, huh?” The howls you let out from getting your pucker pinched and hit is something you would rather not narrate. All you choose to disclose of that ordeal is that sobs echo in the hall, another orgasm rips out of you and you are sure your body releases more liquid than normal for an average orgasm. “Look at how polite and nice she is, hm? While all you want to do is to curse your husband and be an ungrateful little sloth” it sounds as though a newfound annoyance causes him to grit his teeth towards the end and the tip of his fingers finds recourse in seeking for itself a passage past the tight barrier of your unwilling button as a result. 

And so your mouth begins to run in the desperate way he loves. “N- No, no, no hubby! No!” You vehemently shake your head as you feel your knees start to buckle from the exhaustion. “I- I didn't mean it!” The bearded corners of his mouth pull into a deep smirk. He knows its coming, and he loves it. 

“You didn't?” How can he not when he is the one who trained you to it and taught you the words to say during. 

“No! No!” Your voice comes out child-like from your mind's succumbing to its defeat. For the day, at least. “I d- didn't!” 

Steve is a jackhammer in how he fucks his children into you and works towards giving you more. “Oh, I see” now he speaks to you like an elder speaking to a young one, like you are no older than five winters. “Then, will you tell me why you said such naughty words to your husband who does so much for you?” He knows you're small now and so he chooses his words accordingly.

After all, it is Steve's meticulous tailoring of your mind and body which brings you to act out this specific sequence. 

Nothing less, nothing more.

Just this. 

A shrew tamed into a compliant wife equipped with the mind of a babe. 

He may never admit it outright simply because it goes against his very code of life but Steve knows in his heart of hearts that it is this very push and pull you put up in your own passive little way that keeps him alert and your marriage interesting. 

Addictive.

“Is ’cause— hnnng, cause—!” He pulls both of your bodies back up with the intention of turning you to face him but he chooses not to do it just yet. He wants you, those silly boys and everyone else who suspects that his judgement grows soft because of his fancy for your youthful beauty and adorable personality, to hear it. Steve can always pull you right back down if wants. Your reins will always be in a hand's reach to him. Just because he lets you sneak in your foolish ways sometimes doesn't mean you've conquered his nature-gifted better sense.

“Because, what?” Everything in life calls for balance and so each time your misbehavior that you think you hide so well from him begins to rise above a level he deems no longer amusing, he is there to hammer it down. 

Quite literally. 

“Because I am j- just an i- impudent,” Steve grunts and moans, feeling his cock twitch from how you always mispronounce imprudent when you are in this state. He taught you that word and true to your little baby self and mind, you can never get yourself to say it right. “Little wife and I am a d- dumby—”

“Fuck…” Steve feels a drop of cold sweat trickle down his back from your little vocabulary. He feels himself pant from how hard he fucks you, his windpipe alight from the friction caused by the air he heaves in with each desperate inhale.

You are a proper trouble; something he has never had before, and he loves it.

“— D- Dumby sloth who dunno any real worries besides e- eating and b- being spoilt b- by my lovu hubbsy—” your tongue is kinetic jelly between your teeth and Steve has begun to moan from how fucked stupid you sound. “So I get shtoopid and u- ungateful” Steve cannot contain it anymore. In a fevered and desperate confusion of how to express the thunderstorm you cause in his head, he slaps your hair away, causing for some of the flowers to go flying about, and sinks his teeth into your flesh, growling so deep into your skin that you feel the vibrations cause ripples in your blood. Perhaps that is what Steve yearns to taste. “B- But husby always fixes” your head goes limp against his as he sucks your skin like a crazed animal for you lose a track of how long. Your vision and hearing bolts away from your comprehensive faculties like a bullet train and your body gets sucked into the vacuum of your husband's beastly grip. You are just a lifeless doll rocking in whichever direction and manner he pleases.

Next time your brain catches on with your reality, your body has been placed under his with your back against the table. You faintly notice when your dress begins to get wet that splashes of mead cover it due to your brutish husband's depraved madness. 

“Look at me, hey” he pats your incoherent face until your wandering gaze settles on him, teary eyes distant. “This is the face that you will see in those of your children, and children you shall have until this residence cannot contain any more” his promise echoes in your buzzing ears like the bestowing of an ultimate truth upon you by some powerful deity. “This is the face you will look up at as you spread your legs,” his tip is so swollen, raw and hot against your worn skin that you can feel it even in this state. Your features scrunch from the discomfort. “This is the face you will kiss and cherish” his fingers find your throat again and your eyes roll to the back of your head when he puts pressure on your windpipe. “And this is the face that you will look at until you breathe your last” he holds you until you are on the verge of losing consciousness, though letting go only to stifle the gasp you let out to resume your breathing with a hot sealing kiss.

Your muscles twitch and your body spasms in the position he has you in. Laxness washes over your limbs and you begin to violently shake from the dull and yet stinging quakes of sensation that bloom through your whole form. 

For some dark, twisted and depraved reason, you cum from the helplessness of your situation and it is present in Steve's amused and proud smirk that the knowledge is not lost on him. Swiping an arm around you from behind with an air of satisfaction, he collects your limp body closer to his and walks off to your chambers with your drenched sexes still connected, leaving a crowd of embarrassed, curious, satisfied as well as tamed spectators in his wake. 

You surrender yourself to him and close your eyes as your body collapses on top of his. Your mind barely works but you know one thing— fact as clear as day; you are not making it out of this without at least one child on the way. 

And there isn't a single thing you can do about it.

. . .

[miviaceleste]

A Blackrock Story: A Boy with Turquoise Eyes

Happy 12th Anniversary to Blackrock Chronicle!

This comic ended up being 47 pages long (when I first sketched it, it was only 20 pages long). Since I can only upload 30 images in a post, I had to combine 2 pages into 1 image so hopefully it's still visually fine and not annoying to scroll through!

I wrote this mini-story more than 10 years ago, so I figured it was time to finally make it into a comic (after editing the writing a lot because I became a much better writer since lol).

Be aware of the TWs, and I hope you enjoy this comic!

TW: Violence || Blood || Injuries/Scars/Burn Marks || Kidnapping || (Temporary) Death || Loss of Limb / Amputation

Thank you all for reading one of my most insane projects ever!

Now, here’s another long story:

About 8 years ago, my life became so busy that to stay on top of my studies and activities, I stopped watching a lot of YouTubers, including the Yogscast.

I’ve grown up throughout the years. I had to stop acting like a kid to figure out what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I’m still an artist today, but I haven’t drawn in this way for about 3 years to pursue my real passion. I love to draw, but I didn’t have the time or inspiration to make something grand.

About 3 months ago, I suddenly got curious about how all those YouTubers I stopped watching were doing, so I checked out their channels and watched a video or two before moving on. When I got to the Yogscast channel, on the other hand, I quickly fell in love with the new content and with everyone again.

It was insane to see how immediately my love for them came back. In 3 months, I’ve watched so many videos and streams/VODs. It’s all so comforting, funny, and uplifting. Clearly, I missed so much content in the past 8 years, but at least I don’t have to worry about running out of things to watch for a while.

What made me most happy was that despite changing a lot, I never stopped being that kid who laughed at the Yogscast’s shenanigans. It just goes to show that no matter how much the world tries to push you around, you never lose that sense of joy you had as a child.

Now, about Rythian:

Since I started watching the Yogscast in 2011, Rythian has always been my favorite. I loved his series so much, especially with how he got into character to give us an immersive experience. It was an escape for me as a kid. When difficult moments were thrown at me, I watched Rythian’s series to find a sense of comfort.

So when I started watching his and Zoey’s Blackrock series, my mind was blown. The storytelling, acting, humor, and drama of the series were so immersive and touching that my creativity exploded.

I mainly use art to express myself and my interests because I struggle to talk about it. But funny enough, Blackrock was the only interest of mine that got me to not draw, but to write. I wrote a lot of short stories about the series—even how I envisioned the series would end. I was so inspired to create all the time from this series.

And what’s crazy is that at the beginning of this summer, I found all of those written drafts and notes from when I was a kid. I kept them all for 10+ years and found a very loose (and not that good) draft of this comic and I felt really inspired to finish it.

It was roughly when I was first watching Blackrock too when I realized that I can be creative in the future. The Yogscast helped me understand that I can do whatever I want for the rest of my life. If they could do it, then why can’t I?

What’s also wonderful is that even after so many years, Rythian never stopped being my favorite. When I started watching the main channel again a few months ago, I immediately found myself rooting for him whenever he was in the group videos. I just remembered how much happiness he brought me when I was younger and it makes me so happy that I still get so much joy whenever I hear his voice.

While working on this comic, I watched all of Kirbycraft and caught up on Kirby Farm. I can’t help but smile the whole time Rythian, Briony, and Kirsty interact with one another. The dynamic of these three brings me so much laughter and comfort. A part of me is upset that I didn’t get back to watching everyone when Kirbycraft was still live, but better late than never, right?

I also originally started this comic without the intention of posting it. But then I figured, Hey, it’d be great to share it with everyone who’s also been impacted by this series and the Yogscast in general, so I made this blog to post it here. Honestly, I’m not sure when the next time I’ll be able to draw is (who knew building a career takes away a lot of your energy and time?). But I think that’s what’s so wonderful about my love for Yogscast and particularly Blackrock: I didn’t make this comic for the likes or views. It was just because I wanted to, and I’m so happy to see there are so many people on here who feel the same love for them as I do.

This series and the people who made it, along with the people who supported it and loved it and continued to love it, impacted me for the better. I learned so many years ago that I can be creative for a living, and have been working hard towards doing that since.

Happy 12th Anniversary to the Blackrock Chronicle. To Rythian and Zoey who put a smile on this kid’s face even during the toughest of times.

And to the Yogscast, thank you for being there for me when I needed you all the most and for still being here when I came back. Your ability to inspire me and make me laugh never disappeared throughout the years I was gone, and I’m ready to laugh some more.

[joelalorian]

Fall Into Me - Chapter Four: Until I had met you there was no sun in my sky

dbf!Joel x f!reader

Summary: Joel is hanging on by a thread as a single father to a tenacious 10-year-old Sarah. Feeling like he's drowning, like the world is about to spit him out, he needs some help before he breaks in half. At your dad's insistence, you show up in his life and change everything.

Story is inspired by the song Fall Into Me by Forest Blakk. Chapter titles will be lyrics from the song.

Word Count: 3.5k

Chapter Warnings: Mature, under 18 take a hike. No outbreak AU. Lots of feelings, confusion, and self doubt. Two idiots falling and pining for each other, but there's a little bit of progress. Tommy is the hero in this chapter. Age gap of about 9 years (Reader 24/25, Joel 33/34). No use of y/n. Reader has a nickname used only by her dad. Emily is modeled after my sister and JB is based on my dad, who used to try setting me up with his younger work buddies when I was in my 20s :)

Dividers by the wonderful @saradika-graphics

Thank you for reading this little tale! I did not expect all the love - my heart is fit to burst over all the wonderful comments and reblogs!

Chapter Three | Main Masterlist

Sleep evaded Joel Saturday night, his mind unable to shut down and rest. He spent half the night searching for words to fit what he was experiencing. The right one didn’t occur to him until nearly five o’clock in the morning.

Turmoil.

That was the perfect word to describe the utter confusion and uncertainty boiling inside him.

His date went about as well as could be expected when one wasn’t particularly interested in the other person. There was conversation, but it mostly revolved around Annica and her interests. She asked a few polite questions about Joel but didn’t seem too interested in his responses. To be fair, they were short and rather ineloquent, but he barely had the chance to talk about Sarah before the woman changed the subject. She was also very much not his type.

She wasn’t you.

That’s the part which caused the most turmoil.

Joel didn’t realize how quickly he was falling for you until he was on a date with someone else. It somehow felt like a betrayal toward you, even though you and Joel weren’t together. Even though you didn’t even know that he liked you, more than liked you.

This entire thing was eating him up inside, all your interactions since Friday, but especially the way you bolted from him last night. He didn’t understand what happened until he checked out his face in the mirror, your parting comment finally making sense.

Annica had kissed him goodnight when he dropped her off. He knew she wanted more, at least a real kiss, but he offered nothing other than a loose hug and brief thanks for joining him. So, she pressed her painted lips to his cheek for several moments too long, subtly trying to turn his face toward hers, before he finally stepped back and walked away. He didn’t even wait for her to get into her house safely.

To his dismay, she left a clear and distinct reminder of her on his cheek that he was not aware of until you mentioned it. His face burned with the feeling of being marked like territory, and the worst part was you saw it. Who the fuck knew what you thought of him now.

Joel needed advice, someone to talk this all through with. If the situation didn’t involve you, he would have gone to you for advice. You were so easy to talk to and he opened up more easily with you than he had with anyone else in his entire life. But that was out of the question for… obvious reasons.

Your dad was equally as easy to talk to, a quality you must have inherited from him. But he couldn’t turn to JB about this for the same obvious reasons.

That left his brother. Tommy would give Joel a good ribbing about all this. Joel wasn’t ashamed to admit that his brother had more practical experience with dating and complicated relationships, especially recently, than he did. It was time to capitalize on all of Tommy’s shenanigans.

Dangerously under-caffeinated and bleary-eyed, Joel made bacon, eggs, and pancakes for the usual Sunday morning family breakfast. Tommy joined them a little after nine o’clock and helped himself to the spread. He knew better than to ask Joel about his date in front of Sarah, so the younger brother made quiet conversation with Sarah as Joel sipped at his coffee. She told him all about her adventure to the movies with you and how much she loved hanging out with you, how smart you were, and how pretty.

A stupid grin spread over Joel’s face as his daughter spoke about you. He could feel Tommy’s narrowed gaze burning into the side of his head, which he ignored until Sarah finished her food and ran off to play a video game in the living room.

“You gonna make me ask?” Tommy grinned at Joel as he cleared the table. Joel merely quirked a brow and focused on washing the dishes. “Fine, ya ol’ grumpy ass. How was the date?”

“Was alright. She talked, a lot,” Joel emphasized, “and mostly about herself. We don’t have much in common other than we like to eat. The movie she picked to see was God awful. I’d rather have seen the other movie with Sarah.”

“Really?” Tommy placed the last of the dirty flatware next to the sink, watching as Joel scrubbed each item before rinsing it off. “Annica texted me that she had a wonderful time and hoped there’d be a second date. Asked if I could put in a good word for her. Guess that’s not happenin’.”

“There’d be no point. She’s not who I’m interested in.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying, and he cringed when Tommy latched right on them.

“Ohhhh, and who might you be interested in, dear brother?” The shit-eating grin on the younger brother’s face let Joel know that Tommy already had an idea on who piqued his interest. “Couldn’t be JB’s hot little daughter, could it? You going cradle robbin’ now?”

Punching his brother in the arm, hard, Joel growled. “I ain’t robbin’ any cradles, asshole. She’s only about nine years younger than me.”

“Oh, is that all?” Tommy teased, rubbing his arm to soothe the sting.

“Don’t get me started on how you almost got busted for statutory rape last year, dickhead.”

“Hey now, I’m just teasing. Don’t get your panties all in a bunch.” Tommy surrendered, adding a grumbled, “And you know damn well that wasn’t on purpose. That girl looked 25! She sure had me fooled.”

Joel nodded, heading out to the back patio with another cup of coffee. Tommy followed, stopping briefly to grab a can of soda from the fridge. The pair sat quietly listening to the sound of songbirds singing the songs of their people before Joel finally spoke.

“I feel like an idiot asking this, but how do you tell if a woman is into you?”

Tommy nearly spilled soda all down the front of himself, the question caught him so off-guard. “Whadda ya mean?” he spluttered, trying not to choke on the carbonated liquid.

Rolling his big brown eyes with a huff, Joel glared at his brother. “I mean just what I said. I’m so outta practice with this. I keep second guessin’ everything. I just don’t know…”

Taking pity on his older brother, Tommy refrained from razzing him further. He was intrigued by this version of his brother who lacked self-confidence, so different from the over-confident man Joel used to be, at least when it came to women.

“Just so I understand, do you want to know how to tell if any woman is into you or a specific woman?”

Brows pulling together, Joel stared at Tommy blankly for a moment. “Does it make a difference?”

Tommy’s lips spread into a wide grin, deep brown eyes sparkling mischievously. “It sure as hell does, brother. There are few key ways to tell with most women, but if it’s a specific woman you’re curious about, I may have some intel.”

The struggle to hide his overwhelming curiosity on the ‘intel’ his brother had was a losing game, and Joel relented, his cheeks growing hot as he uttered the words. “Fine. It’s JB’s daughter.”

The room stilled as the brothers stared at each other, the grin on Tommy’s face growing impossibly wider until nearly all his pearly whites were on display. “I knew it! You dirty dog.”

“Tommy,” Joel growled, drawing out the two syllables until his brother sat back in his chair with a satisfied smirk.

“Fine, no razzin’.” Tommy grumbled. He waited a few beats until Joel grew even more uncomfortable. “She’s into you, too.”

Joel perked up at that. “That’s your intel? How do you know?”

Looking around the backyard, Tommy thought of all the times he’d been around and caught you ogling his brother when you thought no one was watching, but none rivaled that time in the kitchen when you stared as Joel pulled his tee shirt off to put in on right side out. Tallying it all up in his mind, Tommy was certain that you had a thing for his brother. And now, it seemed he had a thing for you, too.

The question Tommy had now was, would either of you do anything about it?

With recent history as proof, he had his doubts.

Perhaps it was time to give you each a little nudge.

“It’s in the way she looks at you, all wide-eyed with wonder, like she’s imagining what it’d be like to be with you. I flirted with her for nearly an hour one day and she never looked at me like that once.” Tommy smirked at the glassy look that overcame his brother’s eyes. “Well, that and the drool dripping down her chin every time she sees you.”

“Yeah… wait, what?” It took a moment for Joel to catch on. “Fuckin’ asshole, I swear. She doesn’t drool when she looks at me.”

Laughter rumbled from deep within Tommy’s chest. “She might as well do with as into you as she is. I’m telling you, pay attention to how she is around you and you’ll see.”

The brothers fell silent again with Joel’s thoughts drowning in you. If what Tommy said was true, then you must be hurting over the fact that he went on a date with someone else, more so since you also saw him on that date. Already feeling like such a dick, worry over you weighed more heavily on him this morning. He had to fix this, but how?

Part of Joel wanted to rush over to JB’s and check on you, but the other part was terrified of how that would work out, especially if your dad was home and wanted to know why his best friend was frantic to see his daughter.

Shit. JB. Joel still needed to figure out how to navigate that part of this entire situation. The two of you could like each other all day long, but how would JB react?

Joel envisioned several scenarios that ended with him getting his nose bashed in by your old man. He wasn’t looking forward to that.

“What about JB?” Joel finally broke the silence, looking once again to his younger brother for guidance. “If I’m gonna do this, I want to do it right.”

Placing his empty bottle on the patio table between them, Tommy nodded. “Ok. Let’s think about this. Do you always check with a chick’s dad before askin’ her out?”

“’Course not, but this is different.”

“I get that but hear me out. What if you try before you buy?” Tommy asked.

Joel immediately stiffened. “I’m not gonna just fuck her before asking her on a date. Jesus, Tommy.” Not that he didn’t want to fuck you… he most certainly did, but Joel wanted to do this right. He wanted more than just sex. He wanted something meaningful, and he suspected you would as well.

“That’s not what I meant, asshole. Ya can quit clutchin’ your pearls like you ain’t banged a chick before the first date before.”

“Tommy,” Joel growled again. Little brothers were the worst no matter what age they were.

“Jeez, alright, fine. You’re really into her, I get it. I’m not sayin’ sleep with her first. I’m suggestin’ you ask her out and see where this is goin’ before you go to JB with your tail between your legs, is all.” Tommy explained, already getting fed up with how easily Joel got his feathers ruffled.

Considering the advice, and ignoring his brother’s snippy tone, Joel bobbed his head in a nod. “That’s not a bad idea, actually.”

“I’m full of good ideas, sometimes. I got another one, actually. Get your grumpy ass to the store and buy some new shirts. Everything you own is at least ten years old and worn down. You need to dress better if you’re gonna date a younger woman.”

Another point to Tommy. He sure was racking them up.

“Fine. I fuckin’ hate to admit it, but you’re right,” Joel grumbled, looking down at the tee shirt he was wearing. It used to be black and faded to a cloudy gray from years of wearing and washing. “You mind watchin’ Sarah for a while so I can run to the mall?”

“Not at all, brother. I was hoping to watch the game on your flat screen anyway.” Tommy led the way back inside the house.

Emily: Sounds like you need some retail therapy, asap.

The pair of you spent the past hour texting about Joel’s date the night before. Emily’s emoji reactions were priceless as you recounted seeing them together at the movie theater and she was pissed on your behalf when you told her about the lipstick mark on his cheek. The conversation came full circle before Emily suggested the retail therapy.

You: Omg do I ever. Mall?

Emily: I can’t ☹ Ed wants my help with the garden. Again. I swear, I hate this fucking garden.

You: Booo. How dare you pick your husband over me

Emily: I gotta go with the one who has the bigger dick. Ur girl has needs u know that 😉

You: Yeah yeah. Chat later?

Emily: You bet. Have fun. Buy lots!

An hour later, you walked through Barton Creek Square, window shopping with a chocolate smoothie clutched in your hand. Not sure exactly what you were in the mood for, you started with clothing. This mall was a bit upscale for your budget, but you always enjoyed perusing the department store discount racks. Tossing your empty cup into the garbage can, you entered the large store.

Somehow, you found yourself searching through flannel shirts in the men’s department. Stopping for a moment once you realized what you were doing, you sighed. There was no escaping thoughts of Joel Miller, even subconsciously, it seemed. Huffing in frustration, you turned to walk back to the women’s section where you’d find things you actually needed when you heard your name.

Joel stood on the other side of the rack, eyes wide with surprise at the sight of you. His cheek was clean, no lipstick mark in sight, you noted. Just the normal, totally endearing patchy scruff. “Hey darlin’, what are you doing here?”

“Shopping,” you stated the obvious with a shrug, delighted at the pink tinge creeping up his cheeks.

“Me, too. Obviously.” Joel nodded, rolling his eyes – at you or himself, you weren’t sure. “I could use your help, actually.”

You weren’t expecting that. He looked at you with such open hope in his eyes, you couldn’t deny him. “Ok, shoot.” Your heart nearly exploded at the smile that spread across his face, putting his dimple on full display.

“I can’t decide which of these to go with,” Joel replied, holding up several flannels. After a moment, he put those across the top of the discount rack and held up a pile of tee shirts. “Or these.”

Eyes taking in the details of each selection – he had good taste; you could picture each option on him – you hummed. “Have you tried any of them on?” Joel shook his head, the mop of curls swaying deliciously with the movement. “Ok. Go try them on. That’s usually how I decide.”

Turning toward the fitting room with a nod, Joel paused and turned back around. “Come with me? I need your honest opinion on each one.”

Brow furrowed, you followed behind him wordlessly, eyes straying to his backside of their own accord. He wore the same dark, fitted jeans as last night and you swore beneath your breath at yet another reminder of his date. No amount of staring at his nice ass could pull that jealous feeling from your gut. He went on a date with someone and for all you knew, it could have been the best damn date of his entire damn life.

Leaning back against the wall opposite the fitting room Joel chose, you crossed your arms in front of your chest and wondered what the hell you were doing. You came to the mall for a distraction, to treat yourself and get your mind off the man on the other side of the fitting room door. Now you were… what? His wardrobe consultant?

Helping Joel pick out new clothes seemed like the job of a girlfriend, not his daughter’s babysitter. Let’s face it, you thought, that’s all you were to him. Mood growing sourer by the second, you startled as the door ripped open in front of you.

“What do you think?”

The universe was a fickle bitch. It wasn’t fair that Joel stood there looking like the man of your dreams and you didn’t get to call him yours.

The first shirt Joel tried on fit like a glove, like the factory made it with his frame as the model in mind. The material had just the right amount of stretch across the breadth of his chest and shoulders, while hanging on for dear life around his biceps.

After ogling him for far too long, your eyes finally met Joel’s. “Looks good,” you said, the cadence of your voice not giving away the riotous flutter of desire flaring to life deep in your lower belly. “Let’s see the next one.”

Chocolate eyes sparkled with delight at your response as Joel slipped back into the fitting room. What you wouldn’t give to follow him in there. Already picturing it in your mind, you would slip to your knees in front of him, fingers undoing his belt and the button of his jeans before slowly sliding the zipper down. You’d wind one hand inside his pants to trace the curve of his cock through his boxer briefs before slipping the length of him out of the little secret pocket. Joel would be trying on his shirts as your lips—

“How about this one?”

“Jesus fucking nutcracker!” you exclaimed, Joel’s voice jolting you right out of that wonderful little daydream. So deep into the fantasy, you hadn’t heard the fitting room door open.

Concerned, Joel reached out a hand, his calloused fingertips and palm running over the bare skin of your forearm as you steadied yourself. “Do, uh… do you have Tourette’s or something?”

Bemused, you blinked up at him, head thumping back against the wall. “What? No, no. I was just lost in thought, and you startled me.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with having Tourette’s, you know.” Joel tripped over himself to make sure you didn’t think he was making fun of the disorder.

You waved him off. “Of course not.” Clearing your throat, eyes closing to recenter yourself, you counted to ten. The heat of Joel’s gaze like a burn on your skin, you opened your eyes and assessed his shirt. It was nice, a deep burgundy color, but the fit differed from the last one. You hated it. “I like the way the other one fit you better.”

The pattern continued until Joel tried on every shirt in his pile. You managed to keep your mind from straying again by making conversation.

“How did your date go last night?” You dreaded the answer but needed to know.

“It was… I’ve had better dates. She talked a lot,” he said through the fitting room door. “I couldn’t wait for it to be over, honestly. I just wanted to be home.”

“So, no second date then?” you confirmed, butterflies beginning to take flight in your belly.

“Hell no.”

A wave of relief washed over you at the conviction in Joel’s voice, but you tried not to let it show on your face or in your voice as he stepped through the door. “That’s too bad. You deserve to find someone great, Joel.”

He looked at you for a long time, his eyes penetrating like he was trying to tell you something without using words. You just had no idea what. You were about to bid him farewell as he paid for the shirts you chose – the bluish gray tee shirt that fit him so well and a flannel with similar hues, and two more just like them – when he stopped you.

“Uh, would you have lunch with me?” he asked shyly, eyes brimming with such eager hopefulness you nearly melted.

Part of you wanted to turn him down over hurt feelings he wasn’t even aware of, but you couldn’t. Not after what he just told you about his date. The other part of you screamed not to read too much into it, that he wasn’t asking you on a date. It would just be lunch with your boss. But the final part of you, the hopeless romantic who wore her heart on her sleeve and just helped the man pick out clothes like a girlfriend would, screamed that this could be your chance to get closer, that it could be a date if you made it one.

Fearing you stayed silent too long arguing with yourself, you rushed out a quick, “Sure.” Joel’s face lit up like you’d never seen before. He didn’t look anywhere near this happy when he left for his dinner date the night before.

tbc

Taglist: @mellymbee @untamedheart81 @anoverwhelmingdin @runningmom94 @leilanixx @pedropascalfan221 @lovelyjess69 @sarahhxx03 @sofiparallel @tammythr @lulawantmula @islacharlotte @allyourfavesinoneblog @lover-of-books-and-tea @pedropascalsbbg @ashleyfilm @brittmb115 @lilmizmoz @loveisacowboyyy @shotgun-shelby @deninoe

[joeys-babe]

Joey B Imagines: Peewee

————————————————————————-

Summary: You take your boyfriend, Joe, to your little brother’s first tackle football game. Your little brother, Tommy, has always been such a huge fan of your NFL boyfriend and both you and Joe loved how much he idolized him.

Warnings: So so fluffy.

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Reader

Imagine universe: None! (Misc.)

A/N: Joe isn't injured and the Bengals have a very late bye week!

————————————————————————-

December 18th, 2023

If you told me a year ago, when I started dating Joe, that we would have to go two months without seeing each other, I wouldn't have even agreed to go on a date with him.

Joe and I had an… age gap. He was 27, with an amazing career and a life built for himself, and I was 20 and still in college.

He was in Cincinnati while I was in Athens attending Ohio University.

We had met through our fathers who were both on the coaching staff at OU. We had a family dinner together, and Joe was the only one of Jimmy’s three boys who was able to make it.

Joe swears up and down still to this day that it was love at first sight when he saw me. He was just out of a relationship and wasn't looking for anything but he says that all changed when he saw me.

Now back to the two months without each other. Obviously, we were long-distance, and it was the mid-football season for him so that meant he was busy all of the time. I had just gotten done with finals for my fall semester, so up until now I had been super busy with university stuff.

Today I would see Joe for the first time since early October, and I couldn't be more excited.

My parents were even super excited because they were the ones on the receiving end of my griping the past couple of months.

My little brother was also super excited. Tommy was 10 years old and playing his first-ever tackle football game today. It was my dad’s travel football team he was playing for. My dad doesn't trust the coaches at his school so Tommy’s not allowed to play there.

Tommy’s only request for his first game was that his favorite NFL player be there.

It was Joe of course, and he promised he would be there.

He didn't disappoint either, just as my dad and Tommy took the field, Joe texted me saying he was a couple of minutes away.

“Are you excited?” - my mom nudged me

“Yeah. I've missed him.” - you smiled

“Oh, we know.” - your mom

I glared at her and rolled my eyes before I pulled out my phone to pass the time.

“Look, there he is!” - my mom

My head snapped up and there he was in all of his glory. Joe was walking over to the bleachers while watching the field.

“Go!” - my mom

I jumped up and ran down the stairs, seeing my mom get her phone out to record in the corner of my eye.

Joe by now had realized I'd seen him and stopped walking to open his arms for me.

When I was within inches of him I jumped into his arms.

His strong arms wrapped around my body and he slowly swayed with me.

“There’s my beautiful girl.” - Joe

“I missed you so much.” - you

“I missed you more. A day didn't go by that I didn't wish I was with you.” - Joe

My legs wrapped around his waist and my arms were around his neck. I knew that Joe wasn't a fan of PDA but this moment was too good, and there were barely any people in the bleachers anyways.

“You’re not allowed to leave me for that long again.” - you

“Never again sweetheart. I'll take you with me if I have to.” - Joe

“I love you.” - you

“I love you too…. so much.” - Joe whispered

A few moments of just hugging later, I spoke up.

“Can you walk us up to my mom? I don't want to let go yet.” - you

“Of course.” - Joe chuckled

My grip on him tightened as he easily started walking in his usual loose-hipped strides.

Climbing the stairs wasn't a problem for him either with me in his arms, Joe was taking two steps at a time.

“Hey Joe!” - your mom

“Hey! It's good to see you.” - Joe

“I don't know if you can tell, but she's missed you a lot.” - your mom

“I think I picked up on that.” - Joe chuckled

Joe gently lowered me onto the bleacher and plopped down next to me. We always sat at the top so we could sit against the wall of chain fencing.

I couldn't help but admire how cute he looked right now. Joe was wearing light grey sweatpants with a dark grey sweatshirt and flannel over top of it. The white backward hat was the icing on the cake.

“You're so handsome, Joe.” - you laid your head on his shoulder

“You say that all the time, baby.” - Joe smiled

“Because I mean it.” - you

Joe looked down at me with a large smile and kissed my forehead. One of his arms looped around my waist as he pulled away.

“Well, you're pretty gorgeous yourself.” - Joe

Feeling my cheeks heating up, I hid my face in his neck. Joe would usually try to make me blush more, but he was enjoying the heat of your red cheeks against his cold neck.

My mom handed Joe a blanket to which he gave her a thankful smile before draping it over our legs.

“You warm?” - Joe

“Mhm. You emit a lot of heat.” - you giggled

“Good.” - Joe

“By the way, you're going to have to activate your muscles and carry my bags to your car later. I have a few.” - you

“I’ll start warming them up.” - Joe joked

My mom laughed along with me and I couldn't feel any happier in that moment.

——

I knew Joe would cheer the boys on, but I didn't expect him to be jumping up, yelling, warning the defense when the other team was doing a pass play, and so much more.

This one time specifically, the game was kind of getting slow so I was falling asleep on Joe’s shoulder. My brother’s team got a touchdown and Joe abruptly jumped, waking me up in the process.

“Sorry, my love.” - Joe sat back down and pulled you back into his chest

The scene made me wonder about my future with Joe. Maybe one day we’ll be doing the same thing with our own son.

“I'm so proud of Tommy. He acts so maturely football-wise for his age.” - Joe

His statement sealed my previous thought. There will be a future for us, and maybe I'm right about us cheering on our future son.

——

Come halftime, my dad’s team was up 12-0.

“Joey.” - you nudged your boyfriend, who was deep into a conversation with your mom.

“Mhm?” - Joe

“Can you get me some hot chocolate from the concession stand?” - you

“Of course. I'll be right back. Do you want anything to snack on?” - Joe

“Mm, no I'm okay. Thank you! I love you!” - you

Joe stood up and moved the blanket onto me more before placing a kiss on my cheek.

“I love you too.” - Joe grinned and walked away

A few minutes later, Joe walked back with a drink carrier and a paper bag in his other hand.

“What is all of that?” - you laughed

He handed me and my mom a hot chocolate before setting one down for himself.

“You said you didn't want a snack but I know that means you wanted one.” - Joe handed you the bag

Gosh, he knew me so well. After giving Joe an appreciative smile I opened the bag to find three chocolate chip cookies.

“There was an older lady up there selling baked goods so I thought I'd snag a couple cookies. You can have one if you want to, y/m/n.” - Joe

“Well aren't you sweet.” - your mom took a cookie from you as you handed it to her

My mom happily munched on her cookie and I couldn't help but laugh at my own thoughts.

“What?” - Joe

“You're trying to impress my parents, huh?” - you

“Well, I’m taking you three hours away for a week! I want them to know you're safe staying at my place.” - Joe

That's probably what I'm most looking forward to out of this whole day. After the game is over, I'm going with Joe to Cincinnati where I'll be staying at his house for the week since it's their Bye.

“Joey, they already know that. I wouldn't be going if they didn't. Also, I'm an adult I can do what I want!” - you

“Babe. I know you're an adult. I just don't want them to be wary because I'm an older guy.” - Joe

“Joseph, you're seven years older stop acting like you're forty.” - you

Joe rolled his eyes but I scooted closer to him and threw the blanket over his lap.

“You're allowed to want to impress my parents, but don't feel like you have to. They love you, because I love you.” - you

My heart did pretty much the exact opposite of the rest of my body and warmed deeply when Joe placed a tiny kiss on the tip of my nose. It was a signal that he didn't know what to say back in the moment but appreciated my statement.

——

“Joe!” - Tommy ran out of the gate and up to Joe, who had his arms open for your brother

The team had won, thankfully and now we were all standing and waiting for the kids to get out of their post-game huddle.

I couldn't put into words how I felt when I watched Joe hug Tommy like his own brother. It was so sweet and I'd never felt so in love.

“You’ve got one good man, y/n.” - your mom

“I know.” - you grinned

My eyes drifted from my mom’s smiling face back down to my boyfriend, the love of my life, hyping up my little brother over a couple of his receptions.

That's when I knew Joe was the one.

————————————————————————-

Authors note: the fourth day of Christmassss

Guys who is she… consistently updating like this…

This fic came from my own mind! 🤍

Hope you enjoyed! 🫶

[idkmanimreallysleepy]

You know I was thinking about ceo!gojo satoru and what he would do when he and his girlfriend got in an argument.

(My writing may be ass, apologies)

ceo!gojo satoru who knows he fucked up real bad, who knows it's his fault and that his girl, his y/n, the light of his life, was simply looking out for him. He knows he can't fix it by just saying sorry. But again, he's a great observer when it comes to you, so he knows exactly how to apologise.

ceo!gojo satoru who tries calling you, leaves more than hundred texts, which were left at delivered, he grows impatient by the minute, you're not at home and you're not picking up his calls, he feels as if he's suffocating. Just the thought of loosing you makes him loose his breath. He can't afford to loose his pretty girl at all :((

ceo! gojo satoru who finds out you're at your best friends house. And he's speeding there, he's breaking every traffic rule there is, but that's okay since he's rich (come on people let's be real, I say this as I write a drabble on a fictional man...) So, he rushes to your best friends apartment, continuously ringing her doorbell and it's her boyfriend who opens.

ceo!gojo satoru, who's told "sorry dude, my girl gave me strict orders to not let you in. Try the window maybe" by the boyfriend. And yes, you bet your ass he climbed through the window to be greeted by a closed one. However, your best friend shrieked as she saw the sunglasses and the white hair at her window.

ceo!gojo satoru who gets a scolding and a glare from your best friend, but that's okay, he'd change the course of the world if it meant his girl would talk to him. And so, now you're both finally left alone. He sees your tear stained face, you're still mad at him.

ceo!gojo satoru, who goes on his knees, hugging your legs and blabbing out his apology in the most messed up way, and you're not exactly listening to any of it but that's until he says "I fell on my ass while trying to climb the window, baby, please. I'd do anything just talk to me, please." ugh, hes so desperate and pathetic it makes you feel bad, I mean come on, him and his... blue eyes. plus! you don't even remember what the fight was about!

ceo!gojo satoru who looks like he got his life back as you ask him, "Are you hurt?" it's in a cold tone, but it's better than nothing, satoru would rather eat sand then have you not talk to him. And he's a drama queen so of course he uses his dramatics, as if it hurt his ass so much to climb a building... "oh, it's probably nothing, I mean I did fall twenty times but that's okay " and he says that while pouting!! And you sigh, finally giving in, because let's be honest if gojo satoru pouted in front of you or me I wouldn't deny anything he asks for. "You know you still need to make up for it right?" and he has the brightest smile on his face. "I already got you those diamond earrings you saw in the magazine last to last night." You're stunned, "How did you know about that?!" and he's a cheeky lil bastard, "I notice you a lot you know...it's almost as if I'm in love with you or something" he gets a slap on his shoulder from you for that.

[n0ts0surel0ck]

Some autistic Sherlock headcanons!!

Based on my own autism

Sherlock hates getting his hair cut. He can’t wear ear defenders and he despises the small talk and how loud the clippers and blow dryers are. So, he generally wears his hair long and/or cuts it himself. Mariana eventually starts cutting it for him, since it equally bothers him when his hair touches his ears or neck. She’s just… not very good at it.

John finds a salon for Sherlock that does sensory appointments. It’s a silent appointment, so he doesn’t have to talk, and John gets him some earplugs to help with the noise. They’re not as good as his ear defenders but they do for the short time it takes to get his hair done. He mostly gets a dry scissor cut so he doesn’t have to be wet and so the clippers don’t touch him. He doesn’t like the vibration. He finds that he actually enjoys the sensation of a blow dryer when the sound isn’t overwhelming him. The heat and the air pressure are soothing.

Sherlock is very particular about fabrics. He despises polyester and other scratchy, synthetic fabrics. Everything he wears has to be 100% cotton. If he got his way, he’d wear an old pair of holey, decade old pajama pants and a jumper everywhere, but he doesn’t. He understands that he has to be presentable. He likes linen, the material doesn’t touch him as much, doesn’t stick to sweat, and allows for plenty of airflow. During spring and summer, and often stretching into fall and winter, he wears a pair of grey linen trousers. When it finally gets too cold, he switches to a pair of cotton ones that have an elastic waist band. He hates when there’s a lot of pressure below his diaphragm, so he keeps it loose. Shirts are mostly tees in the summer, a bit too big so they don’t touch him much. In the winter, he wears big sweatshirts, a half-peacoat, and a green scarf.

He’s been buying men’s high-top converse since he was in middle school and refuses to wear any other shoe. They’re comfortable, allow him to move without being heard, and don’t add to his height. He hates breaking in new ones, and so holds on to the ones he’s wearing for dear life. John has seen him wrap duct tape all the way around his shoe to keep the sole from falling out before.

His bedroom is kept perfectly organized by absolutely agonizing effort. He is particular about that space, since it’s where he rests. He doesn’t work in there. His chemistry equipment is in the living room and he never goes into the room on cases unless John forces him to change clothes. His room is a sensory heaven that he works tirelessly to keep so. Cleaning is difficult for him, but he resets the space every time he leaves it, even when he’s in a rush.

The rest of the apartment is a bust. His executive dysfunction takes over as soon as he crosses the threshold into the hallway. He leaves toothpaste uncapped, cups and plates everywhere, clothes wherever they fall. It drives John insane and he tries to clean up after himself, but it feels like an insurmountable task.

His hyper fixations overtake conversation constantly. Sometimes he and John will engage in conversation that is just… incomprehensible to those around them. John’s talking about the weather and Sherlock’s talking about Pendolino trains. Neither is acknowledging the other’s topic of conversation, but they’re responding to each other in turn and seemingly having a lovely time.

He likes to stim “with” John when something exciting happens. He grabs both of John’s hands so they’re facing each other and has John pull him back and forth quickly. He likes it when John and Mariana mimic a stim back to him, especially vocal ones. When the three of them are in the office together, it’s just an echo chamber of mouth pops and buzzes.

Sherlock respects the fuck out of routine. His in unconventional, but he follows it almost religiously. This means he respects other’s routines just as aggressively. He never moves John’s items, and if he borrows anything, he puts it back exactly where it was, position and all. He noticed John folding laundry in a certain way and now, if he steals one of John’s shirts and washes it after, he folds it in that certain way.

[miraclewoozi]

hi j!! congratulations on 500!! can’t think of anyone who deserves it more than you :) hope you’re having a lovely day! just wanted to send in a request:

❛ don’t be a stranger, okay? ❜ from the fluff list with woozi?

it’s no pressure though! thank you so much <33 mwah

LEE JIHOON, YOUR EMOTIONAL SUPPORT I.T GUY. - l.jh

pair : jihoon x gn!reader prompt : “ don’t be a stranger, okay? ” wc : 2.3k heads up : coworker!jihoon. fluff. kinda silly.  notes : HI BESTIE thank u sm for sending this in!!!! i hope you like it.<3 notes 2.0 : everyone deserves an emotional support IT guy, in my unprofessional opinion. i also think that 100% of those should be woozi.

You knew Jihoon was leaving. You’ve had a lot of time to prepare for this: he told you before he even handed in his resignation that he had accepted a job offer elsewhere. But despite trying everything in your power (including, but not limited to, bribery, begging and three whole days of the cold shoulder), his decision didn’t change. When you gave him a full lecture about abandonment and betrayal, and the fact that nobody else in your work’s IT department comes close to solving some of the shit that happens with your computer…

He had the audacity to fucking laugh. 

In your moment of desperation. Your hour of need. Practically begging on your knees (all right, he was stood next to your desk while you were looking up at him from your office chair) for him not to leave you high and dry like this, he patted you on the shoulder and chuckled as he told you that you’d be fine. As if this wasn’t actually, literally, the end of the world. 

Asshole. 

And okay, whatever, maybe Jihoon isn’t ‘just’ the only person on the tech team who understands that you’ve been followed by a curse when it comes to computers since you were in middle school. Maybe he isn’t just so good at his job that him leaving has the potential to ruin your ability to do yours.

Maybe... it’s a little bit deeper than that.

You first met nearly five years ago, when he was brand new. In his first week, he came stumbling into your office, bleary eyed and coffee in hand, at 8:15 on a Monday morning to try and ‘fix’ your PC. After about 6 seconds of fumbling, your screens came to life and he flushed as he told you that a cable on one of your monitors had just come loose. Ever since, you’ve been totally taken with him: with his frowny concentrating face, his pretty, nimble fingers, his quietly delivered jokes. The way he always goes pink when the older ladies in your office coo over him and how he splutters when they tease you for practically being work-married, by now.

Not least because he’s a very nice guy, and you find him so easy to talk to, and now? Now he's leaving you. 

The guy who brings you snacks on days you have to work through your lunch breaks. The guy who comes by just to make sure you’re not about to dive out of a second floor window on a Wednesday afternoon. One of the special few people you choose to hang out with outside of work. He’s the man who meets you for coffee some weekends and lets you complain about the fact that the next closest person in your department to you in age could still be your mother, while he complains to you about bossy executives who escalate their IT jobs to a ‘critical incident’ after just five minutes. Jihoon is the guy who has brought you a silly gift to decorate your desk with every birthday and Christmas since you met. The guy who picks you up (with breakfast) when your car is in the shop getting work done. 

He even pretended to be your boyfriend one year when Johnny from accounting started to make moves on you during the annual Christmas function. (Perhaps him posessively keeping a hand on your thigh every minute you were sat down next to each other made it the best night of your life.)

All this to say… he gets you. He always has. Your weird little friendship with him works, and even though you still get butterflies every time you see him, you’ve never felt so comfortable with a colleague before. You can ignore your little crush when you start thinking about your devastation over him being gone soon. Your feelings have no part to play in Jihoon being someone you trust, someone who helps you immeasurably: someone who makes your working life a little more bearable. 

What on Earth are you going to do without him?

His last day has rolled around faster than you know what to do with, and at 3:30 on Friday afternoon, like clockwork, his head appears around your office door. An apologetic smile replaces the cheeky one he usually wears when he shows up, and you narrow your eyes at him before telling him to go away.

“Charming as ever,” he laughs, sliding into your office anyway and making a beeline for you, waving at the people who glance up and greet him. He leans against your desk and you sit back finally, crossing your arms. 

“I’m busy,” you lie, frowning at your screen. You finished everything you needed to do about ten minutes ago, but you’re not about to let him — or anyone, for that matter — know so. You’ve worked hard to master the art of looking occupied and you’re deploying every tactic you know: there’s no way you’re going to get five more projects added to your to-do list this close to home-time. “Traitor.”

“Last thing on a Friday? Like hell you are,” Jihoon chuckles, leaning down and looking at your screen too, speaking quietly enough to ensure no one around you can to hear him. 

“Blow my cover and I’ll slash your tyres,” you playfully threaten under your breath. “I’ve already rejected a meeting request this afternoon.”

“Well, aren’t you a team player,” he quips, rolling his eyes before he sits back upright and says louder, “I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to drop this off.”

He places a small brown bag on top of a neatly stacked pile of paperwork on the left hand side of your desk and gestures for you to look inside. When you do, you know your attempt at a stoic gaze starts to soften and you look up at him again with a saddened pout. 

“Hey,” you say quietly. “You can’t do this to me, I’m fragile enough already.”

It’s just a muffin, for crying out loud. He’s been bringing you these from the bakery across the street every week, for as many weeks as you can remember. But something about him doing it on his last day makes your heart beat out a funny little pattern and you bite the inside of your lip as he shakes his head. 

His hair is tied low today with a few pieces left out to frame his face: it softens him, giving him a bit of a curtain to hide behind, but you can still see his cheeks flush as he glances away from you. You slip your hand into the bag and pull the muffin out, setting it on your desk and peeling the paper back. 

“I’m really gonna miss you,” Jihoon says, momentarily stopping you as you rummage through your desk drawer for the cutlery set you keep wrapped up in there. You just wanted a knife so you could cut it in two. You just wanted to share this last little treat with him.

There are a million ways you could respond. Last-ditch attempts at telling him to retract his notice to leave. Advise that it’s his own fault. Pretend like you’re not going to be miserable here without him. To name but a few. 

But the fact that he’s picked up, and started to play with, the little fidget cube you keep by your pen holder for particularly boring Teams calls tells you that he isn’t saying it in the way he does when you’re taking a week off to go on vacation.

His thumbs rhythmically play with the little clicking buttons on one side and you pull the blunt knife free from the plastic bag hidden beneath your favourite notebook. Instead of teasing him, you cut the muffin equally and pick up one piece, holding it out to him.

“I’m gonna miss you too.”

He eyes you to make sure you’re certain before he takes the slice out of your hand and holds it in his fingers. You pick up the other piece and extend it towards him, bumping the two halves together in a mock ‘cheers’ for the time you’ve spent together. 

You take bites from the muffin in unison and you know the zesty lemon flavour spills onto his tongue at the same time as it does yours. Soft hums come from the both of you and Jihoon tilts his head back for emphasis, too, sighing contentedly after he swallows. 

“Don’t be a stranger, okay?” You ask of him, laying the paper bag down flat and putting your own piece on top of it. “I mean it. You better not forget about me.”

“As if I ever could,” he says.

“You might, if there’s someone at your new job more pitiful than I am,” you counter. “You’ll have a replacement ‘me’ quicker than you can blink.”

Jihoon laughs, setting what’s left of his half of the muffin down too and dusting the crumbs off his fingers into the trash can at your side. 

“Trust me,” he starts, folding his arms. The subtle flex of his muscle makes the shirt he’s wearing tighten around his biceps and you glance down at them, at how his sleeves are pushed up to the elbows and his long, delicate fingers lay over the neatly folded cotton. “My eyes are up here. Trust me — I don’t want a 'replacement you'.”

You know your eyes go wide as he calls you up for staring and you look at his face immediately, at the coy smile he’s wearing, at the way the tips of his ears — just visible through the way his hair separates — are dusted pink. You just nod. He takes another bite, savours, and swallows it before talking again.

“So, I actually… kind of lied? There’s another reason I came down here, uh—”

You know this catches the attention of your office’s resident blabbermouth by the way her eyebrows pick up from a few desks in front of you and you tap his hip with the back of your hand, darting your eyes towards the door quickly to hush him. Jihoon catches your drift, nods, and stands up; you lock your computer and lead him out. When you’re in the hallway, door secured (and checked) behind you, he turns to face you again, leaning one shoulder against the wall.

“Okay. Shoot.”

“Okay,” Jihoon nods, tilting his head forwards for a second to gather his thoughts before he shakes his hair out of his eyes and looks back up at you. “I-… I know HR have this whole thing about, like… internal… relationships, and- and stuff? So I didn’t ever… you know—”

You hold your breath, clasping your hands behind you in the hopes he doesn’t see how they start twitching. His own, you realise, are deep in the pockets of his slacks. For the same reason?

“I wanted to. Trust me. For— shit, for so long, but I didn’t know if you’d go for it, and I really didn’t want to have, like… anyway — uh-…”

The blush that was formerly only given away by its presence on his ears has migrated to his cheeks now, and is starting to spread dangerously towards his temples and down his neck. He keeps glancing everywhere around your head, as if he’s chasing pixies in the air with his eyes. It's adorable, but...

“And… I guess what I wanted to say, is—”

“Yes,” you say before he can finish. He’s never been the most outgoing but you’ve still never seen Jihoon fall over his words like this before; you’re starting to feel agonised by how long it’s taking him to get to the point. 

(Especially when said point is what you’ve been waiting a small lifetime for.)

“I didn’t even ask—”

“You didn’t have to,” you laugh. He breaks into a chuckle as well. His shoulders relax. He exhales through his pretty, pursed lips. 

“Are you busy tomorrow night?” He asks, finally, thumb tapping against his forearm. 

“Free as a bird, actually.”

“I’ll pick you up at 7?” 

“I’ll be waiting.”

He lifts one hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose, still laughing, screwing up his eyes and his nose in a way that makes him look entirely too kissable. You have to forcibly remind yourself that there’s nothing you can do about that right now, though, that someone could walk through that door any second and technically, he still works here until 5:30pm today.

Tomorrow night? Well. That’ll be a different story.

“I’ll let you go back to clicking through your emails,” he says then, pushing off from the wall. “Text me later?”

“Keep your voice down,” you grin, settling your hand back on the doorknob. “Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Jihoon bites his bottom lip as he nods and starts to back away, ultimately beginning on the walk back to his own department. You, however, need to let yourself calm down before you can so much as think about going back into your office: you fan your face with your hands and take a couple of deep breaths first, and only when you’re sure that there are no visible signs of glee left on your face do you re-enter, walking as nonchalantly to your desk as you can and pretending like every middle-aged, bespectacled set of eyes aren’t waiting for you to spill the gossip. 

You don’t need to spill anything, though. Pressed to the bottom of your keyboard, clear as day, — he must have done this as soon as you stood up — is a bright yellow Post-It. His immediately recognisable — but almost illegible — handwriting in the thick, black felt-tipped pens he always uses decorates the note, accompanied by a signature smiley face in the top corner. 

The ink is dry. The paper is a little curled. He wrote this before he came to find you, the giddy voice in your brain tells you. The words he’s written down only heighten that feeling. 

He gets you. He always has.

Don’t be a stranger, okay? Miss you already. - J.

thank u so much for reading, i hope you enjoyed it! as always, likes, reblogs, comments & feedback are so so appreciated.&lt;3

[svnoofy]

SYNOPSIS - your entire life has been measured by christmases, specifically– those spent with the lee household. every christmas, it was the same, and your feelings for the boy you grew up with during those christmases stayed the same too. however, as time passed, a few things changed and matters of the heart become a little more complex. could it be possible that there was more to look forward to this christmas than just your favorite hot cocoa?

PAIRING - lee heeseung x fem reader

GENRE - romance, slow burn, fluff, an attempt at crack, light angst, brother’s best friend trope-ish, “she fell first, he fell harder” trope

WARNINGS - profanity, minor references to sex and inappropriate topics, heeseung being very much conrad-coded

THIS STORY IS LOOSELY BASED OFF THE SERIES: THE SUMMER I TURNED PRETTY

christmas at the lee household was something you looked forward to each and every year. so much so that your entire life was measured by christmases.

you spent christmases with your mom, older brother, yeonjun and the lees, conveniently because your moms were best friends. mrs lee had a son– heeseung, who you basically spent your entire childhood with besides your brother.

while heeseung and yeonjun had a close relationship from the start, you and heeseung, didn’t always hit it off. at one point, he was hiding your christmas edition barbie dolls because he was embarassed to be seen with them! (you didn’t blame him though– he was two years older than you so he didn’t get the hype)

but eventually, both of you grew out of the silly trivial things that pulled you apart as young kids and you found yourself enjoying his company just as much as he did yours.

he’s seen you through all your phases and vice versa. he was there when you were wearing pink everyday, your emo era and even through your braces and dungarees phase (which was literally last year) and to be completely frank, somewhere along the lines: you fell for him.

oh, and as if news didn’t travel fast enough: the whole house knew! and it has become a tradition for everyone to tease the hell out of you when he’s around. no worries though, he made it painfully clear that he saw you just as his little sister (yikes)

every year it was the same: it always started off with a family dinner, followed by cocoa by the fire place with some fun games to accompany— which repeated until christmas day itself, which, you thought, when the fun really began.

“are you seriously not going to bring any sexy outfits? seriously?”, giselle raised an eyebrow from your bed– supposedly helping you pack.

you shot a confused look at her, “babes i’m going to celebrate christmas with my family not a honeymoon at bora-bora”

giselle rolled her eyes, “if you WANT heeseung to finally look at you, then—”, she dangles a red, slinky, dress towards you, notioning you to add it to your luggage.

“tis’ the season you get laid babes”, giselle winks.

your cheeks flush pink, “giselle!”, you smack her leg.

“HEY, I’M JUST TRYING TO HELP”, giselle yelped in defense.

giselle gets up from bed and drags you to your standing mirror— “you’ve changed a lot since last year, and you HAVE to embrace it babes! i promise, he’s going to regret ever sister-zoning you!”, she hugs your shoulders.

part of you knows she has a point, but realistically, how much could you have changed? giselle was probably just being nice.

“y/n are you ready? we have to go soon!”, your mom called from the bottom of the stairs.

you gave giselle one final hug and you intertwined your hands with her in a secret handshake.

“promise you’ll tell me whatever happens between you and heeseung?”, she prompts.

“duh, you have my word”, you wink before lugging your bags down the stairs.

the drive to the lee family house was long and with your brother driving, of course you two were arguing over the bluetooth connection. yeonjun had presented the lame excuse of “needing it for gps”, when really: you knew he wanted to blast anime music that you had no understanding of.

“come on jun, just let your sister play her music–”, your mother notioned to yeonjun, who pouted at the mirror and sighed.

“fine”, he pouted yet again, earning a scoff from your mother.

you rejoiced, finally!, you thought.

you put your christmas playlist on shuffle and stared out of the window, the familiar neighborhood coming into vision amidst the blanketing snow.

your heart swelled at the sight of the people putting up lights, garlands and decorations alike: christmas is here again, you fondly thought.

as you drove through the icy roads, with last christmas by wham! playing in the background, you felt as though you were in a scene from a christmas movie.

when you arrived at the drive way of the lee family house, you were hit with the nostalgic scent of rosemary. mrs lee must be baking her famous potato casserole again, you thought– eliciting a grumble from your stomach.

“y/n, come help me unload our bags”, she taps your shoulder from the backseat, to which you quickly unfastened your seat belt to assist your mom.

at this point, yeonjun had long disappeared into the warm embrace of the cabin while you helped your mother unload the bags.

“soojin?”, you heard a familiar voice call out.

it was mrs lee– she stood on her door step, arms wide open to give your mother a welcome hug.

your mother smiles back before coming into her embrace– the sight was warming your heart more than any fire could.

mrs lee’s eyes stray to you for a moment and she almost screeches.

“y/n! my dear you have grown so much! she’s gorgeous soojin!”, mrs lee praised.

she went towards you and placed her warm hand on your cheek, “you’re in bloom, my snowflake”

mrs lee had a way of saying things that almost made you believe her.

she then notices the bags on the driveway, left unattended, to which she gasped, “let me get the boys for this”

she goes up to the door to beckon the boys out, and as you stood, frozen on the driveway in anticipation, you saw him, struggling to get his gloves on.

he had his usual polo sweater on, but this time he was taller, his hair was longer and it fell a little over his eyes– which had always been your favorite feature of his.

as you stood frozen on the driveway, your eyes met with his as he walked towards you. you felt your heart beat a million times a minute.

there he was, the boy you’ve longed for your entire life.

you stood there, across from him, as he took the sight of you in.

“what happened to your glasses?”, he asked.

“i don’t wear them anymore”, you explained.

he went around you to get your bags, lifting them easily compared to you and your mom’s efforts combined.

“i liked your glasses”, he leaned over slightly causing you to stiffen up, “but welcome back, y/n”, he pinches your nose– another familiar tradition.

he lugs your bag into the house and right as he reached the doorstep, he looked back at you, hands motioning you to come in.

“come in, you’ll freeze out there”, he says. you run towards the door at his invitation, closing the door right behind you when the both of you enter.

“so, how was everyone’s year?”, mrs lee asks, wine glass in hand.

“it was great mrs lee— i got into our university’s dance team!”, yeonjun bragged earning exaggerated and sarcastic applauses from heeseung, to which yeonjun responded by tossing a potato in his direction.

your mother shot yeonjun an icy glare as a reminder to behave, and he cleared his throat in realization.

“oh yeah and mrs lee, your son is a HIT at campus, he’s being hit on by girls left and right, it’s sickening!”, yeonjun remarked.

you were somewhat in a state of disappointment yet you weren’t surprised.

you had to admit, you always found lee heeseung handsome— but somehow, this christmas, your heart catapulted more than it usually did.

heeseung fiddled with the potatoes on his plate using his fork, clearly uncomfortable of the topic that arose.

“i guess— it’s because he looks so much like me”, mrs lee commented with a wink, earning a chuckle from heeseung– who was clearly unsure how to react.

you pursed your lips, avoiding eye contact with the boy across you.

“how about you, my snowflake?”, mrs lee asks– all eyes darting towards you.

“uhm..”, you thought about what had happened this year that was remotely interesting to share.

off the top of your head, you shared: “i got my braces off”, you smiled flashing your pearly whites, eliciting laughs from mrs lee and heeseung.

“no shit, dumbass”, yeonjun remarked, earning a kick under the table from your mom.

“yeonjun, be nice”, to which he pouted to, “come on moomm, you always defend y/n”, he flashes his morbid puppy eyes at her, only to earn a distasteful roll of the eyes from your mom.

“my snowflake has grown so beautifully”, mrs lee remarked, causing you to blush.

“thanks mrs lee”, you smiled at the nickname she has always given you.

you didn’t even notice the eyes that lingered on you a little longer than they should– from the boy across from you.

as usual, cocoa by the fireplace followed suit after dinner— and you were so excited to finally taste the best hot cocoa you have ever had in your life again.

as you topped your cocoa with a pile of marshmallows in the kitchen, you couldn’t help but overhear the boys chatting with each other.

“is that girl from school still texting you?”, yeonjun asked.

“uh i guess, there are a few of them”, heeseung replies, doubtfully.

“bro– don’t tell me you’re still hung up over wonyoung– come on man, that was monthsss agooo”, yeonjun drawled, earning a half-hearted sigh from heeseung.

oh, he’s had a girl friend before this, you thought– the familiar dreadful feeling arising in your tummy.

“i guess, but i don’t know– i feel like i still like her”, heeseung says, very much in the same doubtful tone he started with.

you don’t know why you were all sad about what you heard, it’s not like he was your boyfriend after all– but you couldn’t deny that it stung a little to witness the boy you like missing someone that wasn’t you.

you stayed up all night thinking about the conversation between heeseung and your brother – the name in the conversation repeating itself in your head like a mantra.

wonyoung, she sounds beautiful – you thought as you brushed your teeth.

after washing up, you sleepily make your way down to the kitchen, where everybody was. heeseung was with your mom, solving a crossword puzzle while yeonjun helped mrs lee with the pancakes for breakfast.

when mrs lee noticed your presence, she set her spatula down and rushed in to give you a hug.

“good morning sweetie, did you sleep good?”, she asks only for you to lie: “slept great, mrs lee”

you took a seat at the bar table, eyes wandering for the oat milk carton. before you could even stand up to look for it, heeseung comes up from right behind you and places a tall glass of oat milk right beside you.

“i know you hate cold milk”, he says with a smile– before walking over to yeonjun, who was trying his best to salvage his pancakes.

your heart fluttered at heeseung’s gesture, this was one of the many reasons you had fallen for him.

FLASHBACK

“which flavor should we get heeseung?”, a young yeonjun asks with a mischievous grin on his face.

the whole family was spending the day at the market– and although the boys were warned far earlier to stay away from the candy cart, yeonjun and heeseung had been saving up to splurge on candy the whole year! and with a little bit of will power, they managed to slip away from their moms– who at the time, were distracted by the attractive holiday candles for sale.

“i want peppermint and licorice!”, yeonjun exclaims, grabbing a fistful of each candy he wanted.

unlike yeonjun, heeseung was carefully contemplating his choices— but, before all, he reached in for the pink berry blast candy, which shocked yeonjun to say the least.

“ewwwwwww, you’re choosing pink candy?”, yeonjun gags earning an annoyed eye roll from heeseung.

“it’s for y/n, not me”, heeseung explains before continuing to carefully select his own choice of candy.

when they returned to their mothers, who were, to no shock, still at the candle stand– you stood idly by, noticing how the boys managed to slip away and come back unnoticed.

you weren’t one to snitch though, fortunately.

as you sucked on your thumb, waiting for your mom to finish indulging in the various holiday scented candles, heeseung taps your shoulder.

“i know you like this candy”, he hands the bright-pink candy over to you, a smile plastered in his face.

you were too young to understand what was happening right then and there but even little you, didn’t fail to blush at the kind gesture that was presented to you.

END OF FLASHBACK

the day moved rather slowly— the weather in the neighborhood switched between being gloomy and snowy, which made it hard to plan activities around.

you were laying in your room, folding your laundry, when you heard a knock on your door.

“hey loser”, it was yeonjun.

you rolled your eyes– “no, i am NOT going to fold your stupid underwear again”, you say almost predictably.

“what– no, i just wanted to say– heeseung and i are heading to a party tonight, and you have to keep it shut to mrs lee and mom, got it?”, yeonjun commands.

“what the hell, you guys are sneaking out?”, you ask.

“duhhh, do you think we stay in EVERYTIME for cocoa and game night? obviously heeseung and i are cooler than that”, he explains earning a gasp from your end.

“you’ve BEEN sneaking out this WHOLE time?”, you were exasperated to say the least.

“jealous, loser?”, he teases with a wink, causing your face to contort to a distasteful look.

“whatever it is, we’ll be back midnight, see ya loser!”, he storms out confidently.

what he doesn’t know is, you found out which party he was going to (the only party in town, which giselle took the very kind initiative of finding out) and there is no way in hell, you would miss the opportunity to rebel for once.

when yeonjun and heeseung arrived, the sight they saw was nothing extraordinary.

there were drinks, people making out, and music blaring from every corner.

“heyyy boys!”, the host, jake sim, greeted– giving each of them a dap in the process.

“great to have you back here this year”, jake roughly places his hand on yeonjun’s shoulder– simultaneously handing him a shot of tequila.

“i feeel aliveeee”, yeonjun exclaims after downing the tequila that was handed to him.

jake notions heeseung to take a sip, but he refuses.

“i don’t drink tequila”, he confesses– to which jake nods in understanding with an “ah ok”.

before heeseung could even decide what to do, yeonjun was off on the dance floor, girls surrounding him as if he were a magnet.

heeseung laughs at the sight before moving himself to one of the lounges, grabbibg a can of beer to pop open and enjoy.

unexpectedly, he sees a familiar face wrapped around someone.

wonyoung?

“girl, why are you dressing like a saint– how is heeseung gonna notice you when you’re wearing a literal nun-fit”, giselle remarked when she saw your quote-unquote “overly covering” outfit.

you were rummaging your bag at this point, before you found a rather intriguing piece of clothing– which you definitely never owned.

“is this yours?”, you dangle the red, slinky, dress towards the camera.

“YES! THANK GOD YOU FOUND IT”, giselle cheers in victory.

“yes bitch wear that– hello, there’s a reason i packed it in”, giselle commands, to which you hesitantly oblige.

after you slipped into the dress, giselle’s eyes almost pop out of her skull.

“OH MY GOD Y/N? YOU LOOK STUNNING?? I AM DEAD”, she jokingly motions– earning a shy giggle from your end.

the dress was indeed beautiful, you were just unsure if it looked good on you– it seemed way different than what you would usually reach for.

“if you’re even SECOND-THINKING right now i will smack you from my phone”, giselle suddenly says, as if reading your mind.

“please y/n you look stunning, like santa’s mistress but innocent and hot at the same time– damn, i suck at explaining but you look HOT”, she comments, giggling at parts, almost fangirling.

“now put on that red lipstick you bought and bam, femme fatale who?”, she winks at you with her suggestion.

you apply the red lipstick as instructed and when giselle saw your final look, she almost fainted.

she gave you her final best wishes and told you to put on your best heels– which in true y/n fashion – you forgot.

so, you just slip on your converses and carefully sneak out of the house, careful not to wake your moms.

now you just have to hope, yeonjun is too drunk to notice you were ever there.

when you arrived at the driveway, everyone had their eyes on you.

you felt a little insecure, walking in your dress and parka, into this completely new environment. before you could even make a step further, a guy stops you in your tracks.

“hi beautiful, welcome to my party”, he had a smug look on his face and you just smiled back and thanked him in response.

“have i seen you before? you look new”, he asked– technically you’ve gone to this neighborhood your whole life, it was just your first party.

“yeah, it’s my first party—”, before you could even say anything else— the guy yells: “WE HAVE A NEW PARTY COMER EVERYONE!”

heeseung had his eyes on wonyoung, who was enjoying herself with her new boy accessory.

he wanted to approach her, liquid confidence in hand.

but before he could even take a step towards her, he hears jake’s voice echo to the living room he was in.

“WE HAVE A NEW PARTY COMER EVERYONE!”

from there on, a good majority of the crowd’s eyes diverted to the door– where jake was escorting the new guest, arms linked.

heeseung couldn’t believe his eyes. you were absolutely gorgeous.

crowds cheered and whistled at your entrance, and heeseung stepped closer to where you were walking.

it can’t be her, can it? , he doubted himself.

he confirmed it was you when he saw your stained converses, what is she doing here?

you stood at the kitchen, unsure of what to do. there were so many people, yet you couldn’t find the courage to get along with any of them.

“i love your dress”, you heard a voice from beside you.

you turned to the direction of the voice, to see an angel-like girl next to you.

“oh my god, that means a lot coming from you”, you say with a smile.

“what’s your name, pretty?”, she asks with a smile, before taking a sip from her cup.

“y/n— choi y/n, nice to meet you..”, you prompt for her name in return.

“wonyoung, jang wonyoung”, she smiles.

wonyoung?, you thought– could it be that wonyoung?

before you could ponder a moment longer, the guy who greeted you returned.

“i’m so honored to have the most beautiful girls in town at my party—”, he slurs, earning a scoff from wonyoung.

“grow up jake, i have a boyfriend”, wonyoung rolls her eyes– did they get back together?, you thought

“i didn’t want you anyway.. it’s her i want”, he slurs, smirking at you.

you gulp, unsure what to say or do.

“don’t let him get to your head y/n, he’s just pussy deprived”, wonyoung said.

jake slips his arm around your waist, finishing the last drop of his drink. at this point, you were more than uncomfortable.

“what the hell?”, you hear an agitated voice say.

you look back to see heeseung, infuriated.

heeseung marches up to the both of you and right as you expect him to drag wonyoung away, he drags you away instead.

“heeseung, let go!”, you command. heeseung was fuming.

“what the hell are you even doing with jake? are you trying to fuck yourself over?”, he was angry.

this was the angriest you’ve ever seem him, which brewed similar feelings in you.

“why do you care, heeseung? i want to have fun too!”, you retaliate– attempting to walk away from heeseung to enjoy the party.

he pulls you by your wrist, “no you aren’t, i’m calling a cab– we’re going home”

he drags you with him into the sea on the dance floor, fishing yeonjun out of it, his grip still firm on your wrist.

when he successfully got yeonjun off the dance floor, he was wasted.

after successfully calling a cab, he drags yeonjun in and asks you to sit in the back while he sat at the passenger seat. the whole car-ride was silent. heeseung must’ve been really mad.

you admit you felt bad for ruining their night but: why was he so mad?

seeing you and his ex at the party wasn’t exactly what he expected.

however, what blew him up was seeing jake wrap his arms around you, sickeningly intertwined like lovers. when he saw what ensued, he lost all his cool.

he could barely register that his ex, whom he tried to approach the whole night, was right there.

the next morning comes quickly, and as he laid in his bed, he kept asking himself: why he was as mad as he was seeing you with jake?

it was confusing, he still liked wonyoung– he was certain of it– but even after seeing wonyoung and her new boyfriend smooch around for minutes on end, he barely lifted a finger.

however, when he saw you standing there, a little too close to jake, he lost every ounce of cool in his body and gained a new confidence that he never thought he could have.

you’re not crazy heeseung, it’s different because she’s like your little sister— it’s natural you reacted the way you did: his subconscious self tried to justify his thoughts, with the very same excuse its been using for years.

just like that one time you came to support him during his first talent show at university, and how you proudly cheered for him. his heart fluttered at that but his psyche silenced his heart with that very excuse: “it’s normal for her to support you– she’s like your little sister”

or that one time he felt butterflies in his stomach when you helped patch up an injury on his leg with your barbie first aid kit, before proceeding to make him a cup of hot cocoa– when his heart fluttered yet again, but his subconscious self convinced him: “siblings care for each other, this is nothing”

or even that time he saw you for the first time in a year, and when he saw you standing there, so beautifully in your dress at the party. again, “she’s just like your little sister”

he didn’t understand what was happening to him– could it be denial? maybe, but whatever it was, he wasn’t ready to face it.

at that point, it was a few days until christmas. the house was busy, with cleaners and workers running left and right–hanging decorations and dusting off ornaments.

you decided to help as well, helping the workers hang stockings and garlands around the house.

heeseung stood by the door frame, watching you help the workers decorate the house– a smile unintentionally creeping up on his face.

he observed how your hair was neatly tied back with a ribbon, and how your reindeer knit sweater, which he knew you got from his mom, ran a little too big for you.

you were laughing along with the workers, at a slanted ornament you hung.

a tap on his shoulder snaps him out of his haze, “yo, mom and mrs lee needs us to go to the grocery store to pick up a turkey for the christmas eve dinner so let’s go”, yeonjun announces– dragging heeseung away from the scene.

you barely even noticed his presence, too busy trying to fix the decorations you accidentally ruined.

on the car ride to grocery store, heeseung clears his throat to speak.

“wonyoung’s got a new boyfriend”, he speaks up, eyes on the road.

yeonjun’s eyes widen, “what? SERIOUSLY? i thought she only brought that guy at the party to make you jealous–”, yeonjun says.

“what? no–”, heeseung tries to explain only to be cut off by yeonjun again.

“i think so though! heard you had a new girl during the party– red dress and all! i heard everyone thought she was a hot take– too bad i was too drunk to notice her because we all know, she would’ve come home with me”, yeonjun smirks causing heeseung to cringe.

this guy would regret saying that if he knew it was his sister, he thought.

but hey, since yeonjun already ingrained that scenario in his head– heeseung might as well play along with it. plus, he could use some advice.

“yeah, i had a new girl but i don’t think i can like her”, he confesses.

“awww man, why not? you’re hot, kind of–”, yeonjun giggles, heeseung snorting in response.

“well, being with her is complicated– she’s beautiful, but i’m afraid i would hurt her”, heeseung admits, earning a scoff from yeonjun.

“you say that as if you didn’t date the dean of our university’s daughter but okay– come on heeseung, stop over thinking for once, if you like her, then make your move! don’t let your mind cock block”, yeonjun advises, hitting heeseung with a playful punch.

“alright then”, heeseung says, really hoping yeonjun won’t regret what he said.

“now let’s get this dang turkey”

the night of the christmas eve dinner came quicker than you expected.

the house was filling up with friends and family members, and it was finally beginning to look a lot like christmas.

you went down the stairs, dressed and ready to greet all the faces you hadn’t seen in a year.

you were surprised to see some of the faces from the party too– one of them being, wonyoung, which you assumed was invited by heeseung.

you waved at her, and the other people that were around.

“nice to see you again bub”, she greets, with a hug.

you’re not surprised why heeseung would date someone like her– she was so warm and kind.

when the dinner began, the adults were sat at the dining room, while the kids were sprawled out in the living room.

“i’m sooo bored”, jake complains after the dinner, earning an eye roll from yeonjun.

“you’re always bored when you’re not drunk, jake”, he retaliates.

wonyoung sat across from heeseung, which seemed strange for a couple.

“do you guys want to play spin the bottle?”, jake smirks.

everyone cheered in unison, approving his idea.

yeonjun grabs a bottle from the kitchen, and everyone forms a circle on the floor.

the first few spins were uneventful, the kisses being short pecks rather than long, deep, kisses– which earned boos from everyone.

however, when the bottle landed on heeseung and wonyoung, the air tensed up.

heeseung sat still, wonyoung the same.

“are we getting a kiss or no– OUCH”, jake groaned, when yeonjun kicked his foot– intentionally.

the air was so thick with tension– you began shifting in your seat uncomfortably.

“fine, let’s change the course— heeseung do you like anyone?”, wonyoung suddenly asks and his eyes widen.

his eyes land on yours before he could say anything.

however, right as he was about to answer, your mom called out to you.

“y/n can you please get something from aunt mijoo’s car”

when everyone left, it was late in the night.

you had trouble falling asleep, so you headed to the kitchen to make some hot cocoa.

you were shocked to see heeseung, still in his sweater, staring out the window.

“heeseung– oh my god you scared me”, you gasped.

he looked at you, his body slightly slumped.

“are you hungry?”, he asks, observing your actions.

“nope– i just need some cocoa to help me sleep”, you reply, earning a chuckle from the boy.

“you’re the first person i know who uses sugar to fall asleep”, he walks up to you and pats your head.

at that point, it was nearing midnight.

you opened the cupboard, searching for the cocoa powder.

great, you thought, it’s waayy on the top shelf

you sighed in defeat, your head hung low.

heeseung notices this, and he easily reaches for the cocoa.

“need some help?”, he offers the cocoa powder in his hand, a smirk plastered on his face.

you roll your eyes, “thanks, i guess”

he giggles, leaning back on the kitchen island– watching your every move.

you whip up your concoction, preparing an extra mug for heeseung– as he stood by, watching you.

“wonyoung is so pretty”, you suddenly say– causing him to choke on some air.

“suddenly?”, he remarked.

“she is though, i understand why you froze around her”, you giggled, eyes focused on the hot cocoa you were making.

heeseung was speechless, he wasn’t sure where exactly you were going with this.

“i mean i wouldn’t expect less from the lee heeseung’s girlfriend”, you bitterly applauded, which causes the boy to choke on his spit.

“girlfriend? where’d you hear that?”, he asks confusedly.

“she’s your girlfriend.. right?”, you tilt your head, twice as confused as he was.

“uh– first off, sure i guess she’s pretty but when i froze– that wasn’t the reason, second– she’s not my girlfriend, well, not anymore at least”, he explains.

when you heard this, you somehow felt a sense of relief – relief at the fact that wonyoung and heeseung weren’t together.

“what!”, you let out, sounding a little too happy. you cleared your throat and ask him again: “heeseung, why did you get mad at me during.. the party?”, you hesitated a little towards the end, flashbacks of heeseung’s anger replaying in your head like a broken tape.

“well..”

oh shit, he thought. he hasn’t quite figured out the reason himself– so, he’ll stick to his brain’s text book answer.

“because, you’re like my little sister, y/n”, he lies– he knows that, of all reasons, was not the one.

there it was, the very thing you dreaded to hear.

“oh..”, was the only thing you could respond with.

good thing your hot cocoa was ready! you poured two servings, one for him and one for yourself.

you took out all the toppings, and proceeded to add marshmallows to your hearts content.

“did you want some?”, you asked heeseung– but he shook his head no.

“but i’d like some whipped cream please”, he asks, extending his mug of cocoa to you.

you nod, prepping the can of whipped cream for him, skillfully giving him a swirl before you got a mischievous idea.

you took some whip cream on your finger, stood on your tippy toes, and smeared it on his face, “your wish is my command”, you smirk.

he gasps, taking some cream to do the same with you.

“hey! i just removed my make up!”, you shielded yourself from his attack.

“you started it!”, he exclaimed– chasing you around the kitchen, determined to get some cream in your hair too.

before you knew it, the clock bells rang as it hit 12 am, it was finally christmas.

the both of you stood face-to-face, looking at each other’s cream smeared faces for a moment.

“merry christmas, heeseung”, you greet, earning a giggle from him.

“merry christmas, y/n”

when you left the kitchen, hot cocoa in hand, heeseung’s heart beat raced more than he ever thought it could.

he had been trying so hard to deny it, but now he thinks he can finally accept it: you were more than just a little sister to him.

the wholesome scene in the kitchen replayed itself in your head until the next morning.

you even texted giselle at the crack of dawn to tell her what happened– to which she could only fangirl in response.

everyone was gathered at the living room, sat around in their pajamas.

“merry christmas everyone”, you say– kind of sleepy.

you joined your mom and mrs lee on the couch, giving them a big hug.

“don’t forget, later we have secret santa with everyone coming so, perk up kids!”, mrs lee reminded before she left to go to the kitchen with your mom, to which all of you responded with an enthusiastic smile.

“did you guys manage to get anything for secret santa?”, yeonjun asks you and heeseung.

you and heeseung nod in approval, “yeah, why? did you get anything?”, heeseung asks yeonjun.

“uh yeah– totally, i – yeah fuck it, i forgot”, he finally admits.

“it’s okay i can get a bag of cheetos, i don’t know– what do girls even like”, he sighed in frustration.

you laughed at his defeat, causing him to shoot a glare your direction.

“shut up, loser”

heeseung giggles beside you, causing you to shoot a glare at him. “ok, i’m sorry”

guests poured into the house, one by one, soon enough— all the kids and adults were sprawled out in the living room, getting ready to play secret santa.

unlike the night before, the circle of people who attended that afternoon was a more intimate group of people.

“ok, heeseung, it’s your turn– who are you secret santa for this year?”, mrs lee prompted.

heeseung smiles a little, shyly picking up the small red bag beside him, standing up to head to his designated person.

without you realizing, he made his way towards you.

“merry christmas, y/n”, he greets again, in his gentle voice, to which you shyly accept the red bag whispering a shy “thank you”– all eyes were on you at the time, observing the chemistry.

to be frank, everyone in that room knew how you felt about heeseung, and how much you wanted him to be your secret santa, time and time again.

this time you got what you wanted, and as you caressed the small red bag in your hands, your cheeks warmed up– heeseung’s gentle voice repeating itself in your head.

the day passed quickly and you didn’t get a chance to open the gift yet.

it was only when you had gone back up to your room that you had the chance. you undid the ribbon delicately, as if the bag itself was more precious than what it contained.

you took out the tissue paper that protected the small velvet box which sat in the centre of the bag. you caressed the velvet box with your fingers, your stomach brimming with butterflies and anticipation.

when you open the box, you gasp in surprise and adoration.

it was a necklace, but not just a random charm necklace.

it was a snowflake, each crevice covered in crystals, which sparkled brightly under the moon light which shone through your bedroom window.

you took a moment to read the card it came with, which left you smiling wider than you thought you could:

i saw this necklace at the store a few days ago and it made think of you– because you’re our little snowflake:) i hope you like it.

merry christmas, y/n

you admired the necklace in your hands, a smile creeping up on your face once again. it was beautiful, just like him.

you picked up your phone, typing up a quick text message.

you: thanks for the gift, heeseung. i love it c:

heeseung: no problem, i’m just glad you like it :)

heeseung: hey, it’s snowing out, wanna go build a snowman? ;)

you giggle at his sudden invitation. you put on the necklace, wrap yourself in your warm scarves and puffer jacket before heading downstairs.

you quietly snuck out through the back door of the kitchen, eyes looking left and right for heeseung.

your search didn’t last long when you felt a snowball hit your back.when you turn to the back, you see heeseung hiding behind a bush, gloves messy from the snow ball.

you scoff, rolling up a snow ball and hitting him in return– just like you used to do when you were younger.

“hey! ouch! stop!”, he squirmed, the cold impacting him more than he thought. you laughed at his defenselessness.

again, you stood across him, face to face– admiring his face, just like you did when you first arrived.

the snow was falling from the sky, gently trickling your jackets and hair.

his eyes locked with yours, and you swore time stopped.

“i think there’s something you should know..”, he took a step closer to you, anticipation brewing in your stomach as you looked up at him.

“hmm?”

“i’m sorry i got mad at you during jake’s party and brushed it off as me being protective because “you’re like my sister”–”, he apologized.

“truth is.. that wasn’t even close to the real reason–”, he begun, your eyes glued intently on him.

“thing is.. i never understood why or how i felt about you— and, my subconscious mind would consistently tell me it was because you were just my little sister”, he looked down briefly before meeting your eyes again.

“but, when i found myself missing you, thinking about you and your silly laugh when i crack my terrible jokes– and when i found myself infuriated at the idea that another guy could make you laugh like that, i knew that you were more than what i tried so hard to convince myself you were..”, he took your hands in his, eyes still locked on yours.

“how could i have been so blind to the one person who’s always been there for me.. from the time you patched up my little injury with your precious barbie band aids or even the time you stood front row during my first talent show— it has always been you”, he grips your hand tighter.

“so i was hoping i could be the one for you too..”, he nervously says.

“what do you mean heeseung?”, you ask suddenly, pulling your hands away from his.

at this point he was expecting his heart to be shattered– until you cut off his train of thought.

“you have always been the one for me”, you say suddenly– flashing him with the smile he loved so much.

before he could say anything further, you leapt up onto him, the warmth of your lips embracing his.

he smiled into the kiss, “i love you, my little snowflake”

you giggled, “i love you too”, you say briefly before he engulfs your lips in his again, twirling you in his embrace.

you have always loved christmas, but now, he’s given you a million reasons to love it more.

[ hera’s note ] – hello loves! merry (ADVANCED) christmas! 🎄 here’s an advanced heeseung christmas piece that i wrote while listening to taylor swift and sabrina carpenter’s new christmas EP HAHAHA i hope you all enjoyed this piece 🤍 please let me know what you thought about this one-shot and reblog it if you enjoyed it! i wanted to upload this early because i may be offline for a few days to celebrate this festive season :) anyways, i hope everyone will have a wonderful christmas, hera loves you! <3

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[suashii]

— 𝓂𝓎 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉'𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓈 (𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒹𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝒾𝓉?) ౨ৎ

geto suguru x f!reader. 2.3k wc. ﾉ smut (nsfw, MDNI) ﾉ college au ﾉ fuckboy!geto ﾉ fingering ﾉ petnames ("baby" + "good girl") ﾉ geto is a little mean :3 ﾉ degradation if u squint

your life has changed a lot in the past few months and, strangely enough, it’s not because you’re entering a new phase of it. it’s because you’ve met a new person. a dorm room that isn’t yours has become like a second home to you and a man that you can’t be sure feels the same has all but stolen your heart.

to be lovesick is absolutely humiliating.

you think that much as you lay on geto suguru’s bed. he sits at his desk and you watch as nimble fingers fly across the keyboard of his phone. other than the light hum of music playing from his speaker—so low that you can’t even make out the lyrics—the room is uncomfortably quiet. you speak up to break the silence. “who are you texting?”

“why do you want to know?” he asks, eyes flitting up for just a moment, a short second, to look at you. you hate when people do that—answer a question with another question, but the usual annoyance that causes you to roll your eyes is nowhere to be found in this case. looks like geto is an exception.

he shouldn’t be.

in an attempt to downplay your pestering, you simply shrug. “i’m naturally curious, i suppose.”

suguru clicks his phone off and carelessly slides it across his desk. for the first time since you got here, you feel like you have his undivided attention. you smile at that but the grin on geto’s lips should be enough to warn you that something less pleasant than his attentiveness is coming. “more like naturally nosy.”

you scoff and then pout at his comment, rolling onto your back and focusing your eyes on the ceiling instead of facing him. is it not perfectly reasonable to want to know who’s occupying the attention of the guy who invited you over? you don’t think so but you also know that you selfishly want to be the only thing—the only person—geto is concerned with.

he chuckles and despite it being at your expense, the sound makes your heart flutter in your chest. geto has an effect on you that you can’t really describe, one that makes you just as bothered as it does excited. any flicker of annoyance that sparks within you goes as quickly as it comes and is replaced by a much longer-lasting feeling of longing—yearning.

from the corner of your eye, you can see geto moving. you can feel him, his warmth, getting closer, too. you feign disinterest and indifference by keeping your gaze glued upwards. although, his next words make your ears perk up. “do you really want to know?”

against your better judgment, you turn your head to look at suguru. he’s leaning in his desk chair, one arm thrown over the back of it and legs spread wider than they should be. dark strands of hair spill from the loose bun situated on the back of his head and frame the smooth skin of his face. obsidian eyes bore into you and the grin from earlier is still tugging at his lips. it’s playful but you don’t feel like you’re in on whatever he’s got planned.

still, they don’t say curiosity killed the cat for nothing.

“yeah, i do.”

reaching behind him, geto pulls the elastic out of his hair, letting it fall over his shoulders. you try to ignore the urge to run your fingers through it. as he gathers the silky strands in his hands to tie it up more neatly, he tells you, “it was a girl from my psychology class. she invited me to a party tonight.”

you bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from saying anything impulsive, but the thoughts cloud your mind, nevertheless. why would you tell me that? are you trying to make me jealous? how can you so easily hurt my feelings with a smile on your face?

you’re able to pick out one thought from the rest that doesn’t make you seem envious beyond reason or shine a spotlight on your heartache. “are you gonna go?”

he hums and shrugs. “i’m not sure.”

disappointment fills your chest with his answer but you try not to let it show on your face. you can feel sorry for yourself in silence—geto doesn’t need to pity you, though, you’re not even sure that he would.

but, as you look at him from your place on his bed, you can’t help but think he looks unsatisfied by your lack of reaction. the grin pulling at his lips looks more lazy, like the corners had slowly fallen since he spoke last. “what do you think; should i go?”

you want to tell him no, that he shouldn’t go, that he should spend the night here with you like he’d intended to and not ditch you for some girl that butted in on your plans. but the words are stuck in your throat, an uncomfortable lump that you can’t seem to get out.

“if you want me to stay here with you, then tell me.” his words are almost sweet, encouraging, before the next part. “because if you don’t, i’m leaving.”

you've done a pretty good job of concealing your emotions up until now but you can’t stop the frown that takes over your face as you sit up—the way the corners of your lips tilt down and how your eyebrows scrunch together. “no! i don’t want you to go.”

the thought of some other girl cozying up to suguru  creates a flurry of emotions within you—jealousy, anger, insecurity. just imagining someone else on his lap, someone else playing with his hair, someone else kissing him makes you sick. you can’t hide how that affects you no matter how hard you try.

it seems as though your mini-outburst is exactly what geto was looking for. something about the way you’re wrapped around his finger floods the man with a sense of accomplishment. you’re practically putty in his hands—his to shape and mold. and he likes it. he likes it a lot.

“oh?” he can’t stop the way the corners of his lips turn up. he leans forward the slightest bit but the short distance brings him closer to you. “why don’t you show me how much you want me to stay?”

your tongue pokes out to wet your lips and the little motion catches geto’s attention. the obsidian shards that are his eyes follow the glistening stripe your tongue leaves behind before flitting up to meet your gaze. there’s expectation swimming in the dark irises. that and the fear of the man standing up and walking out the door urge you forward.

his lips against yours are soft, pillowy, like a marshmallow and his breath is minty. the two make for an intoxicating mixture and, suddenly, you can’t get enough of him. a whiny whimper of yours sounds throughout the quiet air of the dorm and the noise, as indistinct as it is, seems to convey every bit of your need to geto.

and he’s more than willing to give.

a hand makes its way to your neck, fingers tipping your head back and firmly holding you in place as suguru deepens the kiss. your tongues meet in a messy, passionate dance and it almost feels like you don’t need to come up for air—his kiss is all the oxygen you need. at least, that’s what you think.

by the time you pull away, your lips are tingling and the taste of the man lingers.

“that’s all?” his eyebrow quirks with his question. “with the way you were pouting earlier, i thought you really wanted me to stick around.”

“i do,” you tell him, trying to keep the neediness out of your voice. that part is easier said than done. the way he’s staring you down with such intense anticipation makes you eager to please and turns you on more than you’d like to admit.

you rub your thighs together in an attempt to grant yourself some relief. the movement isn’t as subtle as you think or geto is more observant than you’d ever realized because his eyes drift down to your legs, curiosity—or maybe enthusiasm—glimmering in them.

and it takes almost no time at all for his hands to rest on your knees. they’re cool to the touch and your skin beneath them erupts with goosebumps at the contact. his palms make their way up your legs, over your thighs, and under the fabric of your skirt agonizingly slowly. you’re growing warmer by the second and it feels like you’re on fire by the time his fingers finally graze the lace of your underwear.

it’s a struggle not to squirm with his hands so close—mere centimeters away from where you desperately want him. the pad of his thumb runs over the trim of your panties, so slowly that you’re sure he’s teasing you on purpose. still, you keep any sounds of protest from bubbling up your throat in concern that your impatience will only come to your detriment.

your choice to stay quiet for the time being is rewarded when geto’s thumb ghosts over your clit. it hovers for a moment before pushing against the sensitive pearl, drawing a sharp gasp from your chest. it’s only now that you realize your panties are practically sticking to you.

“now this is convincing.” you wouldn’t even have to be looking at him to know he’s smiling—you can hear it in his voice. his gaze flicks up to you with his next words. “are you this wet from one little kiss, baby?”

your head moves up and down in a bashful nod. that earns a laugh from geto, a small one that he breathes out through his nose. you don’t have time to pout at him before all of your focus turns to the way his thumb begins to circle against your clit. you have to try twice as hard to concentrate on any of his questions. “is this why you wanted me to stay? so i could touch you? so i could fuck you with my fingers?”

it feels embarrassing—shameful—to say yes. and, beyond how heavenly his hands feel on you, what you really wanted, more than anything, was for him to choose you.

“tell me.” his thumb slows. “if you don’t, i’ll stop.”

your heart jumps at that and your answer comes soon after. “i want you to touch me. i want you to make me come.”

geto’s lips stretch into a smile. “good girl.”

deft fingers hook your panties to move them to the side. the air that meets your wetness makes you suck in a breath that you nearly choke on when those very same fingers start gliding between your folds. they work at spreading and collecting your essence, all while his thumb continues to swirl the sensitive nub.

your soft moans are music to geto’s ears but he can’t help but want more, can’t help but want you louder. he bites back a grin as his middle finger probes at your hole, teases your opening. his eyes flit up to read your reaction and he takes note of the way your eyes ever so slightly widen as he slowly pushes into you.

geto lets out a breath before letting himself smile. “this pretty pussy stretches so good for me, yeah?”

it’s always a surprise just how filling one of his fingers is—how much one of his fingers can set your nerves ablaze. and maybe you should be embarrassed at how little it takes—a finger and some dirty talk—for pleasure to build in your abdomen, for heat to pool in your cheeks, but the bliss outweighs any shame buzzing within you.

“feels s’good,” you tell him, the statement punctuated by a whimper. the words come out slurred, the spit pooling in your mouth meshing them together.

your declaration is all the motivation geto needs to continue plunging his finger in and out of you, to keep circling your swollen clit. his hunger grows with your pleasure and the man is beginning to think that he wants you to orgasm as much as you do. he licks his lips before letting another finger delve between your folds.

the invasion makes your eyes squeeze shut and your lips fall apart. despite the hint of pain, once you’ve adjusted to the newfound fullness, the addition is all the more satisfying. the way his knuckles graze against your walls and the way the pads of his fingers curl up and push against the spongy spot that fuels the fire within you bring you all the closer to your precipice. you’re practically writhing on his fingers in only a matter of minutes and all it takes to snap the tension and push you over the edge is the harsh feel of geto’s thumb flicking over your clit

you come undone on his fingers, crying out his name without a care as to who can hear on the other side of the thin walls of his dorm. the only thing you’re concerned with at the moment is how geto works you down from your high, lets his fingers leisurely pump in and out of you.

he takes note of how pretty you look with a sheen of sweat glazed over your face and how you can’t seem to control just how shaky your thighs are. you really are fun to play with. 

and, luckily for you, you’ve done a good job of convincing him to stay.

as geto finally pulls his fingers out from you, he reaches for the buckle of his belt with his other hand. a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “should i fuck you for real now?”

thanks for reading! if u enjoyed, pls consider reblogging or commenting ❤︎

[fluentmoviequoter]

Take all the time you need 💕

My idea: Deacon got a girlfriend (let’s pretend Annie isn’t there) and she is a teacher at a high school.

One today there is a shooting going down at her school and Deacon and the team don’t know if she is there or not and can’t reach her. Turns out the shooter is in her class and Deacon has somehow get her save.

I hope it makes somehow sense 😅 English isn’t my native language -🥰

Thank you for being patient and for requesting!! This makes perfect sense; no worries. I love pretending Annie doesn't exist lol. I changed this a teeny tiny bit and let the reader do a little bit of saving before Deacon saves her. I hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think!🤍

Warnings: canon-typical action/danger/violence, school shooting (loosely based on 2x11), angst, fluff.

Word Count: 2.3k+ words

Picture from Pinterest

Worried for You

When Deacon Kay imagined his future, he did not picture being 30 David this far into his career, nor did he dream that he would have a girlfriend who spends her days teaching high school students. Since he met you, his life has been brighter. You make each other happy. The last year and a half of dating has been filled with late-night phone calls, weekly date nights, and more joy than you thought possible.

“Deac!” you call, jumping into his arms when he turns to greet you.

“Hey, you,” he replies, hugging you tightly. “Our table is ready if you are.”

You nod, beaming at him as you slip your hand into his. He leads you to the table, pulling your chair out before sitting across from you.

“How was your day?” you ask, ignoring the menu after all the date nights you’ve had here.

“It was pretty good, mostly training since it was quiet for once. But I’m more interested in you and your day,” Deacon responds.

“Nothing special, just teaching teenagers. Again. Tell me a story?”

Deacon sighs as you bat your eyelashes at him but begins a story anyway. “Hondo and I were paired up for a breach a few years ago, but the way the house was laid out, we weren’t going to be able to see each other for long. We didn’t know how many people were in there, so we made an inconspicuous code word to alert the other if something went wrong. Well, it should have been inconspicuous, but Hondo’s first choice was ‘mango.’ Great if you’re in a store or something, not so great in a barricaded safe house.”

You laugh with Deacon, reaching across the table to hold his hand as you ask, “Should we have a code word? We could use it when you’d rather spend time with me than Hondo.”

“So, daily?”

“Seriously, David. Can we?”

“Of course. What were you thinking?”

“It has to be something that fits into any conversation, so… tree?”

“Not bad. What if I need to know something about a tree though?”

“Like what?”

Deacon’s eyes stay on yours as he concedes, “Good point. Tree it is.”

“Do you- do you have quiet days often?”

“Depends. Some weeks are quiet, and sometimes you don’t have a quiet day for months.”

“I just- you know I worry about you, so I like hearing about quiet days.”

“Hey,” Deacon says, dipping his head to catch your eyes. “I know worrying is inevitable, and I can’t imagine what it takes to be in a relationship with me and what I do, but I promise that I will always fight to come back to you. I have a good team and we watch each other’s backs.”

You nod, but Deacon looks like he wants more.

“I know you’ll do everything you can to come back to me. And that helps a lot. Thank you, Deacon.” The moment is more serious than most of your date nights, so you add, “At least you don’t have to worry about me. I just have to deal with teenage hormones and ears that don’t work or brains that don’t comprehend.”

“That sounds much worse than what I face every day,” Deacon replies dramatically.

✯✯✯✯✯

Your students know when you’ve been on a date, you’re always in a great mood the next morning. You habitually check your phone throughout the day but smile more after a date.

“Are you ever going to tell us who the lucky guy is?” one of your students pries.

“Are you ever going to meet the rubric requirements on an assignment?” you reply sarcastically.

“Ooh,” several of the students exclaim.

“Alright, guys, let’s get started,” you begin, pausing when your phone chimes.

“You said no ringers in class,” someone laments.

You snatch your phone up at Deacon’s text tone, holding your breath while you read it. Everything is fine; he just texted about your next date night. You breathe out and smile, typing a quick reply before you turn to the board.

✯✯✯✯✯

During your third class, a distant scream is audible through the closed door. You glance at the window, unamused with and immune to teenagers and their obnoxious actions. When you hear a gunshot, your demeanor switches instantly.

“Quiet,” you snap at a girl who looks ready to scream.

Several more shots echo, so you can’t tell where they’re coming from.

“Everyone in the supply closet, take your bags with you,” you demand quietly. “It will be tight but stay down and stay quiet.”

Someone whimpers your name, and you crouch in the open doorway.

“Everything is going to be fine,” you promise before closing the door.

You slide a desk over, lining it up in front of the door in a way you hope looks like it is supposed to be there. Crouching, you walk back towards your desk, trying to avoid the windows and the glass pane in the door. The doorknob jiggles, and you rush to your desk, grabbing your phone as you fall into your chair.

“Drop the phone!” the shooter yells as he enters, leveling his gun on you.

Setting the phone down, you lock it to hide the half-typed text to Deacon. That may be the last thing he hears from you, so you’re glad you started by telling him you love him. You raise your hands and look at the crazed gunman before you.

“Just stay calm okay, this doesn’t have to be like this,” you say gently.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Let’s roll, 20 David!” Hicks yells as he enters the common area. “School shooting going down and we have to get in there now.”

“Confirmed casualties?” Hondo asks.

“Do we know who the shooter is?” Deacon adds.

Hicks takes a deep breath and turns toward the team as he tells them the name of the school. “Casualties unknown and no confirmed ID, but two possibilities. I’m sorry, guys, but you’re the best option here.”

“Let’s do this,” Hondo says, leading the team to Black Betty.

Luca pulls out as soon as everyone is in. Hondo and Deacon remove their phones to check for messages from you.

“Anything?” Hondo asks, looking up from his empty phone.

Deacon shakes his head before raising his phone to his ear. His leg bounces until he lowers his hand and shakes his head at Hondo again.

“She has me on emergency bypass, if she could answer, she would have,” he explains. “And her location sharing isn’t loading.”

“Then let’s go get her and everyone else out safe,” Luca announces, taking a sharp turn.

✯✯✯✯✯

You flinch as Deacon’s ringtone dies out, the sound of glass crunching under a boot drowning it out.

“Who is supposed to be in here with you?” the shooter demands.

“No one. It’s my grading period,” you explain, trying to remain calm. “That’s why my ringer is on, because I don’t have students until after the next bell.”

The shooter nods, the gun bouncing erratically in his grip.

“Look, we can all walk away from this, but not until you stop,” you add.

The gun straightens, and you force your eyes to stay open.

✯✯✯✯✯

Deacon taps Hondo’s shoulder after he feels Street’s hand on his shoulder. They enter through the gym, giving students quiet directions to safety.

“Do you know where the shooter is?” Hondo asks quietly.

“He went that way,” a young girl answers, pointing as she runs.

“Let’s split off. Luca, Tan, go east. Street, Chris, west. Deac, we’re going for the shooter,” Hondo directs.

Deacon falls into step beside him, moving slowly and clearing classrooms as they go.

“Her room is down here, right?” Hondo whispers.

Deacon nods and then slows when they hear a gunshot. Moving faster, they reach the end of the hall: your class on the right and a large glass wall on the left.

“It doesn’t end well, it’s too late!” a man’s voice yells in your classroom.

Deacon’s eyes widen as he watches the door, praying you’re not in there, that you're somewhere safe.

“It’s not,” your voice replies calmly.

Deacon sighs, a minuscule amount of tension escaping when he hears your voice. That’s a good sign for now. Hondo slides his back against the wall, peeking into the glass on the window. He lowers quickly and looks at Deacon.

“His back is to us, and he has a gun on her, we have to think this through, Deac,” he says.

“Of course. We can’t storm in, he’s a loose cannon,” Deacon agrees.

They hear the gunshot before the door rattles, and Deacon lurches forward, reaching for the doorknob as his other hand moves toward the trigger. Hondo’s arm wraps around his shoulders, pulling him backward.

“Deac, man, calm down,” Hondo grunts, struggling against Deacon. “Charging in won’t help her any.”

“And if it’s too late?” Deacon whispers harshly, relaxing enough to pull his arms from Hondo’s grip.

“Why did you do that?” you ask inside.

Hondo pats Deacon’s back, creeping back to the door. They listen to footsteps as someone, presumably the shooter, paces in the classroom. Your voice is low as you try to calm him down. Deacon has never loved you more, but he’s never been this scared before. He has less than a split second if something goes wrong, and that’s not enough time to save anyone.

“Of course,” you answer. “See if you can find the tree.”

Deacon nods at Hondo and reaches for the doorknob.

✯✯✯✯✯

“What is that?” the shooter whispers, pointing to a display on your bulletin board.

“It’s a collection of the best projects this semester. Do you think yours may be up there?” you ask quietly.

“Can I look?”

“Of course. See if you can find the tree.”

You saw the corner of the SWAT helmet in the window before, and you hope Deacon is out there. Using the code word was pointless if he isn’t, but maybe the shooter will be distracted either way. The doorknob twists and you drop to your knees behind your desk before the door opens forcefully, banging against the wall behind it.

“LAPD SWAT, drop your weapon!” Hondo yells.

“You don’t want to kill anyone, including yourself, we know that. So drop the gun and we can get you help,” Deacon adds.

You close your eyes as Deacon talks, trying to imagine that you’re alone in the room and neither of you is in danger.

“Okay, okay,” the shooter repeats.

You hear something hit the floor, and then Hondo says something into his radio as he steps toward the shooter. Deacon’s arms wrap around you, but you keep your eyes closed as you turn in his arms, pressing your face into the plate protecting his chest. His hand rubs your back as the other cradles your head against him.

“You’re okay, it’s okay, we’re all safe, baby,” he whispers into your hair, his helmet discarded.

“There’s kids in the closet,” you say against him, tightening your arms around his waist.

His head lifts from beside yours as he tells Street to check the closet. You hear their muted gasps and stifled screams before they realize who’s opening the door.

“Are you okay?” Deacon asks.

You lean back just enough to look up at him. Nodding, you keep your arms around him as you look into his eyes.

“And you said I didn’t need to worry about you,” he says playfully, pushing your hair out of your face.

“Now you know how I feel all the time,” you reply.

He helps you to your feet, keeping a hand on you. Your students are out of the closet, and when one sees you, they all look up.

“You’re dating a narc?” someone asks.

“SWAT, actually,” Deacon replies, smiling easily. “Everyone alright?” He gets mixed nods and muttered yeses before he adds, “EMTs are outside to give you a quick check before you go home to your parents.”

The same student who wanted to know who texts you throughout the day pauses by your side to whisper, “He’s cute. Good job.”

You roll your eyes and hug her quickly before tucking yourself into Deacon's side.

“Nice work with the code word,” Hondo says, moving to stand beside Deacon. “You might’ve saved some lives today.”

“That was all Deacon,” you reply.

“No, no, I was going to charge in here and get everyone killed,” he admits. “I was worried and Hondo made me wait. How’d you get him to turn his back?”

“He wanted to see the display,” you explain, pointing to it. “Figured I could at least kill some time telling him to look for something that wasn’t there.”

 “How’d you know we were out there?”

“I didn’t know who was out there, but I saw the edge of a helmet in the window.”

“Oh, that was me. Which makes me the savior, no?” Hondo teases.

“I think she’s still the savior,” Deacon replies, tipping his head toward you.

“But you saved me, so what’s that make you?” you reply.

Deacon smiles as he loops his arm around you again.

“Get out of here,” Hondo grumbles.

✯✯✯✯✯

You spend the evening wrapped in Deacon’s arms. And his shirt that you stole.

“It’s okay to not be okay after something like that,” Deacon whispers, holding you against his chest as a forgotten movie plays in the background.

“I’ll be okay,” you promise. “All I could think about was you. I was texting you when he came in, and then you called right before he crushed my phone. Then you saved me.”

“What did your text say?”

“Not much. All I got was ‘I love you. There’s’ before the door opened and I stopped,” you answer, tracing shapes on Deacon’s chest.

“You started with I love you,” Deacon muses, shaking his head. “I love you so much.”

“I love you. Thanks for saving me.”

“Anytime.”

You lay down on his chest and kiss his jaw, glad to be alive, home with Deacon, and in his arms.

“That wasn’t an invitation to get into trouble on a regular basis,” Deacon adds. “Just for the record.”

Deacon feels you laugh against him, your chest shaking against him as another kiss lands on his jaw. He doesn’t know how you deal with the uncertainty and the worry every day, but he knows he would do it a million times over for you.

[writefightandflightclub]

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

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

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

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. 

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

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

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

AND I have nothing against Philadelphia!

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

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

Many years earlier

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know. I know you do, sweetie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s been worse places, trust me.”

“Yeah. Your fucking pocket?” 

“No shithead, I won it from Catfish.”

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

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

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

“I really need to meet that guy.” 

“Sweetie, you’ve met him.” 

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

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

“You just don’t remember him.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soldiers; not friends. 

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

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

Friends; not lovers. 

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

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

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

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

Fuck. Focus, pendejo. You need something. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well… That isn’t a lie. Not exactly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boy. He’s glad to be proven wrong. 

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

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

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

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

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

…realises he is having fun. 

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

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

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

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

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

He’ll follow you anywhere. 

***

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

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

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

“Sure, lady. Then what’s your name?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?!”

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

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

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

“Great. Thank you. I mean it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yay!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does though. Wants to be a little bolder. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.” 

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

“Thank you, Sir.”

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

“Santiago. And hey, congratulations.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Yessir.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye. Here’s to that.” 

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

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

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

“Can I give you some advice?” 

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

“Marry her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Colin has this all wrong. 

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

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

Isn’t that the same thing?

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

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

You. 

You. 

You.

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

There’s nothing here. 

Nothing with you. 

Nothing he could have with you. No way. 

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

“No. ‘M good. Fine,” he says tightly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You a’ways do, asshat.” 

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

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

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

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

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

Even? 

It could never get close to even. 

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

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

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

“Promise?”

“Promise.” 

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

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

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

It scares him.

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

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

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

“Hey. Hey,” he soothes. “What is it?”

”I’m not sad, idiot.”

”No?”

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

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

“Yeah,” you exhale. “Perfect.” 

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

***

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

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

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

“Ew. I need a fucking shower.” 

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

“I stink.” 

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

“Mmm hmm. Okay then.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m only a man, Princesa.”

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

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

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

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

“Feel like staying awake a little longer?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well? Do you think he’d be down?”  

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

You scoff. “What? For real?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A fucking condom?”

“Ay, dios. Just open it, would you?” 

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

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

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

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

“But I can’t-“

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

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

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

“But won’t your mom-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Listen. Thank you.” 

“It’s the least I could do.“

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

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

“Yeah. Exhausted.” 

“Let’s lie down then, alright?” 

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

“What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmm.”

“Do you…?” 

“Do I what?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you ask, anyway?” 

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

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

“Pfft. I give ‘em a month.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s only what you’re due.” 

“Oh?! A thorough ass-kissing?” 

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

You snicker chaotically. “Huh. Maybe.”

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

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

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

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

“Jesus. You’re demanding, Princesa.”

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

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

“Thank you.” 

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

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

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

“She gives me everything

And tenderly…” 

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

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

“No. No, please.” 

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

“The kiss my lover brings,

She brings to me-ee,

And I love her.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bright are the stars that shine,

Dark is the sky. 

I know this love of mine,

Will never die.”

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

“And I love her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The day he met you.

The day he almost lost you. 

The day he realised he was in love with you. 

And the day he started running from that.

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

The fourth will be tomorrow. 

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

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

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

[josephquinnswhore]

Hi 🌸

What about a fic where reader is walking with Pedro and they are at the airport but they get swarmed with paparazzi. Everyone wants to talk with Pedro so the reader falls and the paparazzi start to push her around and he freaks out trying to find her 😩☺️

Breaking Point - pedro pascal x female reader

Summary: pedro looses his shit after you get hurt from paparazzi.

Word Count: 2k

Content Warning: paparazzi being assholes, reader gets hurt, slight panic attack, Pedro losing his shit.

Note: I FUCKING LOVE YOU ANON. TRULY. Anyway I’m gunna source Pedro’s rage from that video of him at the airport where he’s frustrated but make it 100 times worse lol. I cant believe people are actually requesting my fics, I love you guys.

It’s no secret that Pedro spends a lot of time in LA when he’s not at home in New York, snaps of him plastered on the internet for the world to see; exposing his location within the day of him arriving. Privacy wasn’t a luxury you could afford, especially after his upcoming fame after his role as Joel Miller in the last of us, paparazzi just seemed to be everywhere you went, no matter if you were ordering a coffee, driving to a family members house or even going to the gym. Pedro was often apologetic about the lack of privacy and how intrusive the paparazzi could be, your life has changed drastically since being with Pedro. It was hard to acclimate to, being followed and having hundreds of photos of your face and personal life plastered on the internet and magazines worldwide. You had put your big girl pants on and learnt to deal with it, Pedro admired your resilience, even though the paparazzi were moderately tame up until today.

Today was one of those instances where you and Pedro were on your way to LA, a frequency that had become a fortnightly occurrence, the airport was nearly empty, a few people floating around, you try not to draw to much attention to yourselves regardless as you pull your luggage behind you, the few people that occupied the airport seemingly recognising Pedro despite the cap and sunglasses in an attempt to hide his face. He never minded the fans approaching him, in fact he loved it, as long as they were polite he would entertain them, what he didn’t need however was for someone to post online that he was in the airport, much against your luck that’s what happened when a particular fan approaches the both of you.

“Oh my god Pedro! Could we get a photo please, I’m such a huge fan!” A young girl asks him, his attempt of a disguise obviously failed, Pedro offers a polite smile, “yeah of course, thank you for your support.” You step to the side while she takes a selfie, not wanting to intrude on her moment, “I can totally take a picture for you if you like?” You offer kindly. The girl smiles and is trembling as she hands you her phone, you snap a picture of them together, Pedro wearing a genuine smile, his tired pose captured in the image on the girls iPhone.

You hand the iPhone back to her and she thanks you both, speed walking back to her friend that had been left by the seating area, showing her phone and seemingly posting it to the internet. Within minutes your phone is buzzing from a text notification, Lux sending you a screenshot of the post on Twitter from the girl, in her excited high she exposed your location to the world; worse off the paparazzi. You try to prepare yourself for the shit storm bound to happen.

“This isn’t good.” You mumble to yourself, a loud sigh leaves your lips that catches Pedro’s attention. “What’s wrong honey?” You simply turn your phone to him, he squints through his sunglasses and exhales loudly. “This is going to turn to shit.” He looks around the airport as you walk toward where you’ll be boarding your plane, about to stick your luggage on the belt carousel when you hear shouting and clamouring heading in your direction, that didn’t take long. Pedro turns your body away from the audience as to give you some privacy from the invasive images being snapped of you. He wished just once that the way he touched you would be kept private, he gentle hand on your back, his lips on your temple, nothing seemed sacred between you and Pedro despised it.

“Pedro, Pedro! Look here!”

“Please here look! Just one picture.”

“Someone move the girl out of the way.”

The paparazzi were screaming over each other, pushing and shoving their way closer to you with every second. Their desperation to get a new picture of Pedro outweighed any morals they had, if they had any at all. You struggle to make out their sentences and demands as they rush you, pushing you a few steps back, separating you from Pedro as they surround him in a half circle as they scream at him, each trying to gain his attention for their news report.

You begin to panic once you’re separated, never having death with paparazzi that act like this before, the noise and clamouring becomes too much to handle, it’s easy to become overstimulated when the screaming overlaps each other and the noise becomes havoc, you try to squeeze between the gaps to get back to Pedro, reaching out to him as you try to get his attention, to no avail. Pedro is polite in the way he’s shielding his eyes from the blinding flash as he calls your name, asking them to move out of the way so he can find you, unable to see you past the swarm of strangers. “Pedro!” You call out, voice breathless and strained as you panic, you’d never been around paparazzi like this before. “Please move out of the way so we can get on with our day.” Pedro pleas.

One man shoved past you harshly, seeing the gap you occupied in order to get the perfect picture of Pedro once he had taken his sunglasses off. You trip backwards at the force of his shoulder barging you, stumbling over your luggage that’s pulled tightly behind your legs and as if in slow motion, it takes a few seconds to register the pain in your head as it smacks into the floor as you fall onto the cold tile.

“Baby! Oh my god look at what you people have done! Move out of my way!” Pedro tries to shove his way past in an effort to get to you, seeing you being brutally shoved to the ground, groaning in pain set a fire inside of him.

You grunt in pain as you cradle your head, the area hot to the touch where it met the cold floor, the throbbing spreads to your ears leaving a ringing noise to squeal through them. “Oh fuck,” you mutter which comes out slurred, your own voice sounds unrecognisable, unable to stop the room as it spins around you, the dizziness sets a nausea in you that climbs from your stomach to your throat.

“What the fuck is wrong with you people, have you got no dignity or respect?” Pedro snaps as he rushes towards you, seeing your face paler than normal and the pained look on your face as it scrunches. He kneels above you, your eyes seeing doubles as he comes into view. “Baby, are you okay?” His hand is cradling your head and one is waving in front of your eyes, you blink slowly, trying to gain a clearer view of your surroundings.

Pedro slowly helps you sit up, leaning against your luggage as the clicks of the camera are still shuddering throughout the ordeal, not caring that they’ve physically hurt you. Pedro’s face is red and a large vein in his neck and forehead begin bulging in his rage. “You fucking cockroaches, you did this to her. You can expect to hear from my lawyer for this stunt. Get that camera the fuck away from me.” Some of the men flinched, never seeing this side of Pedro. It was a first for you too; the indescribable rage he’d shown was a direct result of your injury at the hands of these people. The clicking and flashes of the camera finally stopped, your vertigo stops to a standstill and you’re brought back to your senses. “We’re sorry man, we just wanted some new pictures. I got a family to support you know.” The man who pushed you excused himself, the irritated tone didn’t go unnoticed, Pedro scoffs, “go and get a real fucking job. All you do is harass people it’s pathetic. Now get the fuck away from us before I call the police. You’re lucky I don’t beat your ass for this.”

“I’m sorry man, I can’t afford a lawsuit.” The man stutters as he realises Pedro is dead serious in his threat. Pedro helps you stand and you wobble on your feet, his arms hold you upright as he leads you away from the crowd. “I don’t give a fuck if you can afford it or not you spineless prick.”

“Come on baby, you need to get your head checked out.” The paparazzi that lingered snapped a few more shots of Pedro leading you to the front desk as they’re escorted out by security.

You’re sat down on a small chair, an EMT approaches you, kneeling down so you can see him.

“Hey, how’re you feeling? Heard you had a bit of a fall.” He starts, opening his medical pack as he observes you. “A fall? She was shoved by those heathens.”

“Its okay.” You turn to assure Pedro, but it was totally not fine, he just shakes his head at the way you’re still trying to make this out to be no big deal. “I think I’ll live. I still feel a little dizzy though.” The EMT takes out a torch, you blink harshly a few times as it blinds you, you try to adjust to the bright LED light. “Just follow this light for me. That’s it, now look up.” Your eyes follow the light lazily, seeing Pedro with a concerned expression on his face out of the corner of your eye, made you feel guilty for ruining his whole day.

“Your reaction is a bit sluggish. Just going to check your head now okay? Where does it hurt?” You nod and point to the area at the back of your head slightly to the left and wince as his gloved hands part your hair where the giant egg on your head was. Pedro’s hand sits on your knee, rubbing it to reassure and offer some support to you. The man gently prods the sore spot and you tense, holding your breath, a headache coming on at the sudden contact with the sore spot.

“It’s very possible you’ve got a concussion. I’d advise not getting on a flight until you’ve been cleared. It may take a few days.”

You sigh, “thank you for looking over me.”

“It’s no problem at all, look after yourselves,” the man farewells as he walks away. Your hands are aggressively rubbing your hands over your face in annoyance, you’ve just delayed Pedro’s flight and now you would have to stay home while he flies to LA for his interview.

“I’ll call a cab to get home, you should still go to LA. You can call me tonight once you land.” You offer weakly and Pedro frowns deeper, the stress lines on his face making him age a few years by the whole ordeal. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m leaving you here after that, concussion or not. I’m staying with you honey.”

Before you can protest Pedro hushes you, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I can rebook the flight and reschedule the interview for next week. I need to be here to make sure you’re okay. Don’t ask me to leave without you.”

“Okay.” You accept which helps Pedro relax, his face red from where the stress lines had been a semi permanent fixture on his face. “Let’s get you home baby. Gotta make sure my girl is looked after.”

Pedro calls a cab outside the airport and helps you into the car, the taxi driver loads your luggage for you. “They’re going to point the narrative about you being awful. You know that right?” You look up at him through your lashes, Pedro scoffs, “let them, they can get fucked.”

He tucks your hair behind your ears and slips his fingers in between yours to hold your hand, a sincere look in his eyes, “no one fucks with my girl and gets away with it.”