#queued on may 18

[akkivee]

another rio and dice plot parallel i like is that they both had mics before chuuoku chose to redistribute them

[causalitylinked]

‘ you’re my best friend. ’ / kaen for herja or rana! whichever you like!

                      the inside outtakes. » still accepting!

     “Ah... I’m most pleased to hear that, Kaen-dono.” The corners of her lips would tug upwards into a soft, genuine smile... making it rather apparent that she wasn’t at all entirely unaffected by the sentiment of their words. “I feel much the same, however. In truth, I do not see you as a mere employer... but someone who is very dear to me, so I also confess to being very fond of you,” Herja then goes on to admit. “Hopefully, I can continue living up to that title... for there can be no greater honour than occupying that space in your heart as your best friend. Truly, I’m blessed to have someone like you holding me in such high regard.”

     Of course, it may be due to the fact they were closer in age, yet either way, there could be no denying the fact Kaen was always comfortable to be around. Why, for once, they made her feel like a normal girl, when all her life, she wasn’t exactly allowed to be one.

@strywoven

     .

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Someone New 7

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include angst, pining, romcom tropes, and some darker elements later in the series. Some triggers may not be specifically tagged. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This fic will contain explicit content. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You’ve had a crush on your best friend for years, but you’re slapped in the face with reality when he takes things to the next level with his girlfriend.

Characters: Steve Rogers, Thor

Note: I am queuing this so who knows if Im still suffering.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The morning is going splendid. You spilled your coffee and the tea you packed in a thermos, you left on your counter. The realisation doesn’t hit you until you pull up to the site. You huff and hang your head, gripping the steering wheel as you brace yourself for your caffeine withdrawal. 

At least it’s dry. Mostly. As Thor forecast, the rain didn’t come until the night. The steady patter kept you awake, along with that lingering displacement that never quite leaves you. Fatigue is another constant. Your new normal; sleepless nights and sleepy days. 

You get out and set to work. It’s all you can do. It’s all you’ve been doing. Just keep going. It doesn’t matter how, just get it done, get through the day. 

You yawn at your task, brushing digging, oh so gently wiggling the little form. It’s almost out. Almost free. In your eagerness for some progress, you get careless. Your hand slips and the spearhead grazes our palm. Is isn’t until the stinging splits your skin that you realise it’s a slash. 

Damn it, you didn’t put your damned gloves on. 

Great, with the luck you’re having, you’ve just contracted some ancient virus. You hiss and grip your wrist. Your adrenaline triggers your heart. You take a few breaths to stay calm as you watch the blood bead to the surface. 

You curse and stagger to your feet. You grab the rag from your back pocket and clutch it in your injured hand. You grip it tight as you cross the site, careful not to tread to heavily, and you angle the fencing to sidle between two panels.  

You clumsily pull open the car door and reach under the seat. You always keep an emergency with you. It’s a rule of thumb for your sort of work. You never know what might happen. Bug spray, sunscreen, bandages, swabs, a hole trove of supplies. 

You shake as the pain intensifies, thrumming through your palm. You come out and rest the plastic tote on the hood and sift through with your single hand. This is going to be awkward as hell. While you enjoy your solitary, it can sometimes be unsettling. What if something worse happened? 

“Ruff, ruff, rrrrruffffff,” the growlish yet high-pitched barking comes from up the mountain road. 

You pause as he peek under the rag and peer up as gravel mulches. Another visit? Your work is so boring, you wouldn’t expect him again. Thor appears as Thunder hops before him, spastic as she sniffs the ground in circles. He smiles and waves but you can only manage a grimace before you look back to your wound. 

“Morning,” he booms as he scoops up the small dog and nears the other side of the car, “it’ll be a sunny one.” 

“You sure?” You look up at the greyish blue skies, than at him. Hm, the hue of above is rather similar to his eyes.  

“I know so,” he assures you and tilts his head curiously, “why are you so grim?” 

You show him your hand as you lift the cloth from it. He lets out a sympathetic hum and sets Thunder on the ground. She runs over to inspect the fence as he rounds the hood towards you. As he gets closer, his size is even more obvious. He’s well-built, you can see it even at a distance, but up close and personal, he’s almost inhuman in stature. 

“Yikes,” he offers his hand, “may I?” 

“Really, it’s not—I can handle it.” 

“I’m certain you can. Only the bravest woman would come to these grey lands and sit alone in the dirt,” he jokes. “Please, it’ll be easier with two hands.” 

You relent, a tinge of embarrassment hot in your cheeks, and peel the rag away. You hold your hand out to him and he brings one of his large ones to cradle it. Wow. He’s massive. The difference in your hands is startling. 

“Nasty cut,” he muses as he reaches over for the swabs you’ve piled out on the metal, “but it shouldn’t need more than a snug wrap.” 

“Thanks,” you look away, eyeing the dirt as his proximity makes you squirm.  

You can’t remember the last time a man touched you, especially a handsome one. Well, aside from Sam and Bucky but those were just hugs and usually ended in them arguing anyway. You’ve never been the most popular girl in the world and those men you managed to reel in didn’t stay on the hook very long. You never really tried to keep them. You were always too distracted. 

You wince as he wipes the cut with the alcoholic cloth. He softens his touch but holds your hand firm from beneath. He offers a rumbling apology as he focuses on tending to you. His intent is new to you. The way he looks at your palm holds more than any look you’ve ever gotten from a man. Or anyone. 

He crumples up the used wipe and takes another. He’s thorough. You feel a shiver roll through you despite the warmth in the air. He trades the wipe for the roll of gauze and wraps the strip around your hand, hooking over your thumb and looping your wrist. He uses the little metal clip to pin it then turns your hand over, brushing his own over it as he grins. 

“Good as new,” he announces, “though I recommend you not use it too much. And perhaps a pair of gloves.” 

“Yeah, I forgot. Long day.” 

“It’s nine in the morning?” He chuckles. 

“Yep,” you agree dryly. 

“Hopefully it gets better,” he says. 

“Yeah, maybe,” you agree dully and toss the things back in the tote.  

He picks it up before you can and keeps it from your reach, “like I said, you should take it easy.” 

“Well, there’s work to be done,” you say as he moves to the open door and slides the tote inside. “What are you doing back here?” 

“Ah, I let the queen lead the way,” he stands straight and closes the car door. He looks past you and your head perks up. Thunder is very quiet. “As ever, she does not tread with caution.” 

You turn to find the chihuahua inside the fence. You jump in place and sprint over, clattering between the panels as you call after her. “No, no, sweetie, be careful!” 

You chase her around where you were digging as you sense Thor watching from without. Great! You hope she didn’t pee anywhere. 

A sharp whistle pierces the air and Thunder stops. She sits in place, still wiggling, but doesn’t move. You peek back at Thor and he nods. You near her and pick her up. 

“Sorry about her, she is a free spirit,” he tuts as you cross back to him. “I will be certain she does not stray again. My apologies.” 

You’re taken aback by his sincerity. You try to remember the last time someone apologised to you and sounded like they meant it. Hell, when’s the last time you even got an apology. You dip out between the grating and hold out the dog. 

“I would hate to get in your way any more than we already have,” he hugs her with one arm and spreads his other hand over his chest, “we will be on our way. I do hope the sunshine brings some brightness to your day.” 

“Um, thanks,” you shift on your feet and hide your twiddling fingers. “You too.” 

“I’ve already found my sunlight,” he grins even wider and blinks, “now, Thunder, let’s go make a storm somewhere else.” He twists on his heel and lumbers off, “perhaps mother might put up with you for a time.” 

You stand just outside the fence and watch him go. A lock of his golden hair hangs loosely form his bun, dangling down his back, wagging almost like the dog’s little tail. He bounds over the lumpy ground and disappears behind the rock face. You look down and smile. 

Not everything is so bad and you can see the amber ribbon limning the clouds. The sun will be there soon. Just like he promised. 

💟

Thor comes back again. 

It’s a week since you cut your hand. Like before, you can’t predict him. You don’t hear him approach as he’s alone. You only notice him as he clangs something on the fence and lets out an ‘oops’. You pop your head up and look over at him through squinting eyes. Your forehead hurts from the expression. 

You smooth out your face and stand, facing him. He wiggles a metal canister in his hand. The wind sweeps the strands around his square jaw as the sky pulses in shades of gray behind him. 

“Thought you might like some hot tea,” he holds up the thermos. 

“Oh, uh... you didn’t have to...” you look at the sky and its quivering blanket. You’ve been pondering packing up for the last hour. “Thanks.” 

“Not to worry, I was restless.” 

“And you always go walking through the mountains when you’re bored?” You wonder as you step around the markers in the dirt. 

“I live here, there isn’t very much else to do and it isn’t a good day for swimming.” 

“Swimming?” You nod and click your tongue. “Sounds like the life to me.” 

“Mm, it can be rather languid when there isn’t work to do,” he turns the thermos in his hands as he talks, “Have you tried cloudberry?” 

“Cloudberry? Never heard of it.” 

He pokes the thermos between the panels and you take it. He pushes the barrier back into place between you, hooking his fingers into the links. You feel the warmth through the copper-coloured metal. 

“You didn’t have to come all this way for tea,” you laugh. 

“I wanted to ask after your hand. See how it’s healing,” he says. 

“Oh, uh,” you open and close your gloved hand, “just a scab now. I’m all good.” 

He smiles and keeps himself from leaning to heavily as the fence dips towards you. He coughs and realigns his feet, brushing back the looses strands around his face with a flick. He pushes his shoulders back and drops his hand. 

“So uh, you should try the tea. I put together the herbs myself, steeped it...” he bounces on his heels, “I suppose it’s not that impressive but it is good. Antioxidants, anti-inflammatory.” 

“Wow, sounds like one of those superfoods,” you scoffs as you pull of your glove and tuck it into your work belt. You untwist the cap and steam wisps out. You smell the tea and blow over it. You look up and find him watching you. “You’re starting to make me nervous, what’s in it?” 

“Just tea,” he assures. “I can’t lie to you, though. It wasn’t my idea. My mother suggested it. She’s very interested to see what you’re digging up but I’m afraid she can’t do much at the moment.” 

“Oh, your mother? Is she sick?” 

“She is in perfect health aside from her dislocated knee. She went rock climbing and well, accidents happen, eh?” 

“Yeah, sure do,” you show him your cut. “But they get better.” 

A lull rises as you take a dainty sip. The tartness tweaks your cheeks and you scrunch up your nose. 

“You don’t like it?” 

“It’s... different but not bad,” you say. “So, your parents live up here too?” 

“Mm, yes. I’m afraid I’m occupying their attic at the moment. I sold my home in Oslo, it was much too... cold.” 

You can’t help but snort, “it’s Norway.” 

“Ah, so it is. I should be used to it,” he agrees. “And how are you faring here? Have you adjusted to these dour lands?” 

“Eh, I’m trying,” you put the lid back on and turn it until tight. “Thanks for the tea.” 

“My pleasure,” he assures you. “Seems lonely work.” 

“I don’t mind it,” you shrug and cross your arms, tucking the thermos beneath one arm. 

“Interesting though. Have you found very much?” 

“Ugh, a spearhead and some pieces of the shaft. A vase, cracked though. Some beads.” 

“Beads,” he echoes thoughtfully, “is this all confidential?” 

“Not really, you wanna see?” 

“Very much so,” he says. 

“Right, uh, let me just...” 

You go back to where you were sat and plant the thermos in the dirt. You scurry around, overly aware of his observation, and go to the pin of your catalogued items. You find the bone beads and brings the little dish of them over to the fence. You hold them up as he peers between the links. 

“They have runes,” he intones. 

“Yeah, I’ve got the meaning of all of them except, er...” you pull out the single bead made of jade, “this one.” 

He hums and considers it closely, leaning in. 

“Not a rune. That’s a family symbol.” 

“Oh?” 

“My family’s.” 

“Wow, uh,” you lower your chin, “that’s... I... kinda feel like a thief.” 

“Can’t have cared very much about it if it’s down there,” he remarks, “you know, my father has mapped out much of our genealogy. As much as he can. He might be able to assist with your research, if he can find the time. Bit of a hermit these days.” 

“Oh, uh maybe, I’d hate to bother,” you smile sheepishly, “erm...” you look around, “where’s Thunder? Awful quiet without her.” 

“She’s keeping mother company. I’ve told her not to be too much of an imp, can’t have her making it worse,” he shakes his head. “The two of them are both stubborn as the other.” 

You can’t help the twitch in your eye. All this talk of your family has you suddenly homesick. You fight not to crack and swallow tightly. 

“Anyway, thanks again for the tea.” 

“Your parents must miss you,” he says abruptly. 

“Erm, yeah, my mom calls now and then but she’s better as an empty nester. Dad’s got his head under a hood most days so...” 

“Friends? Boyfriend?” He wonders. 

You arch a brow. He’s not very subtle and yet his inquiry can’t be anything but innocent, right? You’re still strangers. He can’t be into you. Not someone who looks like him. How long did you pray for Steve to even see you like that? This man is definitely not going to. 

“Friends. Sam likes to pester me when I should be sleeping and Bucky... they’re funny.” You sniff and gaze past him. You won’t mention that giant elephant in your head. The one you think about at night. 

“Lots to miss back home, it sounds like,” he breaks the silence before it can settle. 

“Yeah, but not every day you get to travel.” 

“And to a beautiful land,” Thor declares, “I hope one day you’ll come out of the dirt and see more of it. You’ll be surprised what lays further up the mountain.” 

You smile and look down, “yeah, maybe one day.” 

“Until then,” he backs up on his heel, “I won’t distract you any further. Enjoy your tea.” He turns and strides away, pausing halfway as you linger by the fence, “the rain will be here around five so I would leave early, otherwise you’ll be driving through it.” 

“Right,” your chest deflates just a little. You don’t know what you wanted him to say but you’re disappointed, “thanks.” 

[writefightandflightclub]

Ride or Die (Santiago "Pope" Garcia x fem!reader): Series Masterlist & Warnings

Posting schedule and Series Masterlist

This is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are queued.

Chapter One: POSTED

Chapter Two: POSTED

Chapter Three: POSTED

Chapter Four: POSTED

Chapter Five: POSTED

Chapter Six: POSTED

Chapter Seven: POSTED

Chapter Eight: POSTED

Chapter Nine: POSTED

Chapter Ten: POSTED

Chapter Eleven: POSTED

BONUS content: PLAYLIST (TBC)

Series Warnings (below the cut):

To avoid chapter by chapter spoilers, this time I'm providing general, series-level warnings of the main themes covered throughout. This may also mean the list is non-exhaustive. If you need more information in order to safely avoid a trigger/topic, or to enhance your reading experience, you are welcome to DM me / send in an ask. Also, if you spot something I missed that you think should be included here to aid other readers, hmu!

Please note, the whole series is NSFW, MDNI (18+). Minors or ageless blogs interacting will be blocked.

Smut: EXPLICIT, CORE THEME e.g. fingering, unprotected sex, rough sex, casual sex with other non-pairing partners implied off-screen.

Angst: A CORE THEME. Relationship angst. A lot of arguing / yelling (not trying to romanticise this at all!). Some toxic jealousy. Conflicts with friends. Abandonment fears. As well as this central relationship conflict, side characters are dealing with individual issues, such as those referenced in canon (divorce, prior violence, drug misuse etc.). 

Drugs / alcohol mentions: reader participates in casual social drinking throughout, some heavier drinking in one chapter (party context). Smoking (one chapter). Brief mentions of drug use (cocaine).

Food mentions: casual, frequent. 

Mentions typical of canon / e.g. wartime, US army, bullet wounds, car crash, injury, fear of mortality, violence (no graphic descriptions).

Mental health: implied past trauma typical of canon. Brief mentions of nightmares, possible PTSD.

Reader descriptions: fem!AFAB reader. Uses she/her pronouns. Reader’s hair is described a couple of times as being e.g. “pulled”. No hair texture / colour / style / other details specified or implied. Reader has a family who appear in a couple of chapters (sister and nephews). No physical descriptions of them are supplied. Mentioned that reader grew up with her sister, though not specified whether biological / adoptive / found family.

Spanish language: reader understands / speaks Spanish, though not specified what her first language is (or isn’t). I have avoided lengthy Spanish translations / text as I am not a native speaker. Some Spanish language is included, limited to terms of endearment and the like. I am always happy to be corrected. I research, but some mistakes are likely.

Sexual health / pregnancy: mentions of reader using birth control, including mentions of emergency contraceptives / slip-ups. Not a core theme. 

Religion: mentions of Catholicism.

Other: contains significant Tom. It’s pre-canon, I’m so sorry. 

[thebandghostofficial]

[MESSAGE FROM THE CLERGY]

Due to the large number of devoted siblings of sin’s offerings, after this weekend, propagation of your wicked work will be designated to Fridays.

The tag #Fanart Friday will be used here, continue to tag us and use #FroqueYourself and #PhantomimeUnholyVestments in the meantime!

Your benevolent benefactions will either be reblogged or queued. Please understand that it may take time for yours to appear here!

Fanart Friday Rules:

We may share multiple pieces from the same sibling of sin, but please do not spam the tags! Give others a chance to be seen.

This is a sanctuary for all ages! We will not share nudity or pornographic content, censored or not. We encourage debauchery! But remember Ghost is for everyone. Think before you tag!

To keep things fun for everyone we may not share certain art if it is “ship”-oriented, even if it is sfw.

This is The Band Ghost’s blog! Please keep posts you want us to see Ghost-related, and refrain from tagging us in content of other bands and projects of those who serve the Clergy.

No hate speech allowed! Violations of this rule will result in an immediate block.

Say something! Don’t just tag us in your image and expect to be shared without even saying anything. Rude!

Please do not tag other people’s work. If the person posting their content wants it to be seen, they will tag it. Tagging it against their will may put them in a difficult position that they didn’t want.

Just as we will not share explicit content, do not expect us to share posts linking to explicit content, including webpages and users. Again, there are many underage children of the clergy and others who simply do not want to see such content. Think before you tag. If it needs to be marked with “18+”, it’s not for this blog.

You may tag us in concert photos, gifs, videos etc, but we will likely not share them for Fanart Friday.

Rules will be changed and added as needed. Those who repeatedly break them, we will be forced to block!

Have fun and be good to eachother! Ghost loves to see your dedication!

[whoishotteranimepolls]

I post over 50 random polls a week, all in the name of some good fun. Requests Closed Please stick to the rules. All polls are queued, so if you did make a request, it may take a few days for them to be posted, but the queue is also frequently shuffled, so I can't give an exact timeline

Propaganda is welcomed. However, please be respectful.

Request Rules

It must include both the character name and show name (please make sure names are spelled correctly or at least close enough that Google can figure it out)

It must be a matchup, for example, between character A and character B from the X and Y shows. Don't just send me a random list of characters

Characters must either be assumed to be adults or high schoolers in the story or canonically confirmed to be over the age of 15. Absolutely no one under that age. Now that means minors can and probably will be matched up against each other and against 18+ characters. Please don't come at me about that choice. These characters are fictional. You can't hurt them, and a blog like this isn't going to normalize preying on minors. YES, it's wrong in real life, but anime teenagers are not normal teenagers. I literally just finished an anime about an assassin trying to get back to his wife. He was 16 and had a wife. I swore he was at least 20, but sometimes anime ages don't make sense. Please don't start anything, or I will start blocking. But for those of you who don't want to participate in those polls, I will tag them with #minor poll so you can block all polls that have confirmed 15-17-year-old characters. So if you have a problem with this decision, block the tag and don't participate. Don't start crap. Now, that does mean please, in your request, say there is a 15-17-year-old so I can add the special tag for the sake of everyone that doesn't want to participate in these polls. To clarify, if they started the series at 14 and ended the series at 16, they will still qualify for my polls. Now if you see a character that is a minor and the poll is not tagged, please let me know. You can politely leave a comment or shoot me an ask and I will add the tag. Some people are not the best at letting me know their poll has a minor in it and needs the tag when they request

Characters, where age verification is complicated due to magic, time travel, other universe shenanigans, or the immortal child trope are accepted on a case-by-case basis and will be tagged with the #schrodingers minor just to be safe

Characters must be from a manga, anime, or anime-like show. Right now, no characters from webtoons, webcomics, mechs, or sentient weapons. No strictly video game characters. Not sure if the show counts here. Is it a list of cartoons and anime-like shows and if can they be requested before you ask

Up to 5 regular matchups or 1 Six Way Poll per request. A lot of people have been ignoring this. So quit doing it. Your request will be deleted moving forward if you go over the max.

You can request up to Six-Way polls.

Please limit your request to two asks a day during the duration of requests being open that's up to 10 matchups. Let's let everyone request polls

Please format your request in a way that's easily legible, I am very dyslexic, and I have shared multiple examples of good request formats. You can find them easily. If your post is illegible to me, I will give you a chance to resubmit it in a better format, and then it will be deleted. Look under the tag #requests example if you want to know how to format your request so it's easily legible to me

Rules for ships

Both characters must meet the age requirements stated above

If the ship is incest, whether it be adopted or blood I will have to tag it with #incest ship so So people can filter it out if they don't want to see it. So I would like a heads up and the request if it needs the tag and if you see a poll that needs it. Let me know in the comments. However, this does not include found family. Please do not try to argue that ships like Naruto/Sasuke or Zoro/Sanji or somehow incest. I have seen things on the internet so I have to clarify.

If you do not submit a photo, I cannot guarantee your request will be honored because it is sometimes very hard to find photos of ships that are not fan art and I do not accept fan art

And ship requests are different than Duo and trio requests or polls?

Rules for Duo, Trios and Groups

All characters must meet the age requirements listed above

These are not entered as ships, so their rules are different. For example, you could submit the Straw Hat Pirates from One Piece or the Dungeon Meshi adventuring party as a group or Jessie and James from Pokémon as a Duo. Again, these are not necessarily ships, but they are a group of characters

If you don't submit a photo again, the request might not be honored because of the difficulty with finding photos

General request guidelines and recommendations

If you don't follow the rules, and submit an underage character It will be deleted

Rematches are allowed if you feel like your character was wronged or victim of recency bias but the original poll must be over. That's one of the advantages of not doing a tournament and just doing random polls for fun

Not required but recommended if you want your poll to end up in the queue faster putting their age in the submission saves me time and will probably make your poll end up in the queue faster. Especially if there's a 15-17-year-old so I know to put the minor tag

Also recommended but not required. You could submit photos along with your request. This is especially for people who have super specific photo requests. You just did half the work for me and as long as it's not fan art because I would need that artist permission to use it, I'll use it. And again because you just did half the work for me. So, your poll will more likely end up in the queue faster. Now if you do submit photos, please make sure both photos share The same orientation they either both got to be landscape or portrait for formatting reasons.

And if you send photos please no photo links. They are unreliable. They frequently do not work. And because I try to only use official photos, I do not accept links to Facebook or Pinterest for photos

If you have any questions or even want an example of a wonderful request that makes my life easier, please look under the tags, #not a poll #ask #request rules #poll requests #request questions & #requests example. See if your question was answered there. If not, shoot me an ask and I will add it to the ever-growing list of posts under those tags

Polls that contain spoilers relating to any fandom will be marked with the tag #spoiler poll so you can go ahead and block it now Now if you see a poll that contains a spoiler you can leave a comment and I will mark it. People are also terrible at letting me know if things are spoilers.

If you request polls anonymously you probably won't get a response unless I make an announcement that says I emptied out the request box and everything's in the queue. And honestly, there's a chance your poll might be posted before I do that. The only other way you will get a response is if there is an issue like I can't find a photos because the show came out 2 weeks ago so you should try again in a month when there's actual photos on the wiki or something

However, if you don't request anonymously, I can always just respond privately to your requests telling you that it's in the queue

Non-Poll Series

These can all be found under their respective title tags

Poll Analysis, where I write down my thoughts about observations I have made about fandom behaviors and trends because some of you guys have interesting behavioral patterns, and I read every tag and comment left on my polls

Nicknames and Funny Tags, where I collect All those creative tags and comments that have been left on my polls for your viewing pleasure. I have posts dedicated to specific fandoms and their creativity, which I update whenever I have time

Fandoms vs Illiteracy, where I publish one of the many essays I receive asking me to ban certain characters or fandoms and due to their problematic nature or other stupid reasons. This can sometimes turn into a fierce debate

Defend Your Blurbo, my bi-weekly series discussing how some people can find (insert Blorbo of the week) attractive. This can be funny. This can be stupid. Sometimes, this involves PHD level dissertations in defense of our favorite 2D characters. You never know what you're going to get. Also, look under the Defend your Blurbo response tag. That's where all my followers send their responses to the original Defend Your Blurbo post. Those can get wild! DyB Masterlist and Series rules and guidelines

The Horny Scale is a series where people ask where particular fandoms fall on the horny scale. I made details here, and the Masterlist

Fandom Jail, aka the Wall of Shame

All fandoms listed below are serving their jail sentence due to bad behavior. Here are the dates of when you can expect to see polls from these fandoms again

The jail is empty. Everyone has been on their best behavior. Let's keep it that way

[rp-partnerfinder]

Hello and welcome to RP Partner Finder!

The goal of this blog is to help 18+ roleplayers find other adults to write stories with. We aim to create a space for mature, like-minded people to find eachother. As such our primary demographic is older adults.

We are not a roleplay blog, we are a roleplay advertising blog. If you are 18+ and looking for other roleplayers you can submit an ad to this blog and we will post it.

We do not discriminate against most adult content. However, we do not accept ads with requests for underage users or characters, real person fiction, or ads that contain racists terms. For further details, please read our rules before submitting an ad.

-- TEN-ISH RULES FOR SUBMITTING TO RP-PARTNERFINDER-- FAILURE TO ADHERE TO THESE SIMPLE RULES WILL RESULT IN YOUR AD BEING DELETED

1. Not all stories posted contain smut or dark themes, but YOU MUST BE 18+ TO SUBMIT OR CONTACT PEOPLE FROM THIS BLOG.

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3. We no longer allow "maximum ages" in ads. (ie 20-25, 18-22, etc.) We believe this excludes many of our users and goes against the spirit of this blog. For further explaination you can read this blog post.

4. We will not publish ads looking for underage roleplayers or characters. NSFW involving child characters (canon or original) will not be posted. NO EXCEPTIONS.

5. Child and minor characters MUST be aged up, regardless of NSFW material. It is the blog's assumption that all characters are 18+ or that characters will be aged up for RP.

6. This blog is lgbtqia+ and kink friendly, but keep NSFW mentions vague (this is to avoid getting the blog flagged). Listing kinks/fetishes is okay (for now.)

7. No Real Person Fiction. This includes KPop bands! RPs looking for a certain faceclaim are allowed. It is this blog's assumption that "actor-verse" requests are not for RPF.

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Thank you for reading! 

For additional advice on writing your ad, check this post.

[chestnutisland]

Are you ready for our annual Chestnutfest?!

Posted a month in advance, I hope that's enough time for you lovelies to whip up something sweet to celebrate our favourite DBZ OTP♥ Please click Read More to view this year's details!

Happy creating everyone! And pls do share the post around!♥

As always, here are some guidelines.

Starting the 12th of September, upload your submission for the day's theme, note that 9/18 is a free space but you can also use the theme Indirect kiss for that day, and tag me so I can re-blog your marvelous creations! Please use the following tags in the first 5 tags of your post so I can see them in my tracked tags. They are the blog tag Chestnutisland and this years specific tag Chestnutfest2k24. You can also Mention me as @ chestnutisland (without the space) and I will get a notification.

Preferably upload the theme for each day on the actual day but if you can't or rather upload them all at the same time for example, or maybe can't finish on time for one of the days, or just want to participate for one or a few days, that's fine too. As long as you use the tag system I will see it.

Of course, this is Tumblr we're talking about so if for some reason I don't see your work, please send me a DM.

Of course, you are also welcome to use the submit post button to directly submit to me!

Any medium is allowed, art, fics, AMV's,moodboards, playlists, anything you can come up with.

Any rating is allowed, however for NSF(W)T works, please censor your work and use a link to a different website to view uncensored. Please use a Read More as well as a community label and tag appropriately. In example, Ao3 and Pixiv both allow these kinds of works.

No works that break up K18, please. And Absolutely No NTR or ANYTHING of that nature. I will not share it and I will instantly and permanently block you if you submit it.

Please use Tumblr's link feature for off-site fics like on AO3 or FF.net, use a read more if you post fiction directly to Tumblr, that way we don't clog up everybody's dashboards.

Other characters are allowed in your works, of course, hey the more the merrier right? But do make sure K18 is the main focus, please.

The exceptions to the above rule are submissions for 9/17. I decided to dedicate one day of the fest to Android 17 and/or Marron. You can focus on one of them for that day or both, as long as one of them is the focus it's totally cool. Oh and just in case and to be crystal clear because it is out there...**Do not submit Mar17 works, I do not condone those sorts of works for these two characters together!** Ship art of either of them with different characters is allowed as long as it is appropriate. For example, MarTen or 17xOC is fine.

As always, if you have any questions, just send an ask or DM my way, and I'll happily answer any you may have!

This post will be queued a few more times before the start of the fest.

[dreamofjoys]

𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐅𝐉𝐎𝐘𝐒 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒

— Act like an Angel, Dress like crazy

Participating fandoms: Genshin Impact, Honkai Star Rail (HSR), Twisted Wonderland (Twst), Ikemen Prince (IKEPRI), Ikemen Villain (IKEVIL), Lovebrush Chronicle (LBC), Wuthering Waves (WuWa), Love and Deepspace (LADs)

Please read the whole post before proceeding!

RULES

NO MINORS allowed, 18+ only ; I have said this many times and I will say it again. I do not want minors in this blog reading my fics / interacting with me. I am uncomfortable with it. I will be blocking blank blogs or blogs with no age indicator in their bio.

READ WITH CAUTION. Some kinks/content may not be for you. Content warning will be posted on every fic. Make sure to read them carefully (lmk if i miss out anything!)

DO NOT REPORT my fics! This happened in 2022 & majority of my fics got hidden away, I had a hard time tracking them back as people were requesting for it. If you don't like what I write or hate seeing my content, simply block me and move on. I will also be deleting and blocking hate comments.

THIS YEAR'S KINKTOBER SPECIAL / NOTES:

♡ Event will be divided into 4 series

- Short fic series (short headcannons of 2 characters per day) - Full fic series (more words + features 1 character per day) - Threesome series (you read that right, threesome. enjoy 2 men fucking/fighting over you. or maybe they will cooperate together to make you feel good) - Gangbang / Dragon series (heavily demanded lmao if you have read my fic 'The Dragon's Beloved' then yeah same lineup same characters // expect to be f by multiple dragons // this is for my followers who have been waiting for a long time)

♡ All fics are strictly character/characterS x afab/fem reader

♡ Expect content such as Noncon, Dubcon, kidnapping and etc. They apply to certain fics only

♡ Fics will be posted at 6pm sharp (GMT +8) basically 1hr slower than jp/kr timing - queued posting

♡ As I am typing this, I have yet to finish writting all fics. There may be delays (I hope not because I really want to finish this) Please forgive me if you don't see the full list of fics.

♡ I will not be doing taglist. As mentioned previously, the fics will be queued for posting. I may not be available at that timing to do tagging

♡ To navigate this year's kinktober fics, you can refer to this post for the full masterlist OR search #dreamofjoyskinktober2024 on my blog (in the event that the links on this post does not work)

KINKTOBER SCHEDULE —

SHORT FIC SERIES (separated)

Day 1 ➤ Gun Play ♡ Boothill (HSR) , Gilbert (IKEPRI)

Day 2 ➤ Mirror Sex ♡ Dr Ratio (HSR) , Prefect Luminary (LBC)

Day 3 ➤ Hate Sex ♡ Blade (HSR) , Alhaitham (Genshin)

Day 4 ➤ Masochist ♡ Sunday (HSR) , Geshu Lin (WuWa)

Day 5 ➤ Manhandling ♡ Danfeng (HSR) , Chevalier (IKEPRI)

Day 6 ➤ Clothes Grinding ♡ Zayne , Sylus (LADs)

Day 7 ➤ Somnophilia ♡ Ayato (Genshin) , Malleus (Twst)

Day 8 ➤ Thigh Riding ♡ Nanook (HSR) , Chevalier (IKEPRI)

Day 9 ➤ Aphrodisiac ♡ Jiaoqiu (HSR) , Neuvilette (Genshin)

Day 10 ➤ Degradation ♡ Cael , Prefect Luminary (LBC)

Day 11 ➤ Breeding Kink ♡ Zhongli (Genshin) , Lilia (Twst)

Day 12 ➤ Face Sitting ♡ Sunday , Nanook (HSR)

Day 13 ➤ Cock Warming ♡ Neuvilette (Genshin) , Malleus (Twst)

Day 14 ➤ Mutual Masturbation ♡ Chevalier , Gilbert (IKEPRI)

FULL FIC SERIES

Day 15 ➤ Bondage ♡ Blade (HSR)

Day 16 ➤ Vouyeurism ♡ Jingyuan (HSR)

Day 17 ➤ Orgasm Control ♡ Gilbert (IKEPRI)

Day 18 ➤ Somnophilia ♡ Chevalier (IKEPRI)

Day 19 ➤ Body Worship ♡ Zayne (LADs)

Day 20 ➤ Corruption ♡ Sunday (HSR)

Day 21 ➤ Monster Fucking ♡ Malleus (Twst)

THREESOME SERIES

Day 22 ➤ Public Sex ♡ Jiyan & Geshu Lin (Wuwa)

Day 23 ➤ Shower Sex ♡ Cael & Prefect Luminary (LBC)

Day 24 ➤ Oviposition ♡ Neuvilette & Zhongli (Genshin)

Day 25 ➤ Deepthroating ♡ Jingyuan & Blade (HSR)

Day 26 ➤ Spanking/Mating Press ♡ Chevalier & Gilbert (IKEPRI)

Day 27 ➤ Overblot Smut ♡ Leona & Malleus (Twst)

Day 28 ➤ Daddy Kink ♡ Victor & William (IKEVIL)

Day 29 ➤ Oviposition ♡ DanHeng & DanFeng (HSR)

GANGBANG / DRAGON SERIES

Characters involved for both fics: Neuvilette, Zhongli (Genshin), Malleus (Twst), Danheng, Danfeng (HSR)

Day 30 ➤ Sex Toys

Day 31 ➤ Hunter & Prey

I do not own any of the above characters. Please do not repost/translate/plagiarize any of my works. I do not condone any irl actions of my fics. I made the banners myself. Please do not save/copy.

[cowgirlcherrie]

00. hey there! all star 𝄞 [masterlist]

rockstar! ellie x singer! reader x rockstar! abby

synopsis: At All Star University deviance isn’t tolerated. When the band room is up in flames with 3 music students to blame, community service at a band camp in the summer is in order.

warnings: 18+, MDNI, smoking, drinking, arson, fighting, will get sexual in further chapters, platonic between r! and abby, partying, slightly dark but may get darker, kissing, touching, angst, crushing, mutual pinning, swearing, rock band references, music college AU,

━━☆ heavily inspired by rebelde and camp rock and SOUR

01. all stars repent

02. the pink pen

03. brutal . . . queued

⬭ 𓈒ㅤ updated with each new chapter

[chameleoncharm]

New Home Soon!

Just a reminder to everyone that soon Chameleon Charm will be moving to a new home. I'm working on getting things switched around, but soon ChameleonCharm.com will take you to the new home of Chameleon Charm instead of the old Tumblr that I was posting on before.

As a reminder, starting Sept 18 - the 12th anniversary - I'll be relaunching the comic over at a new ComicFury page. The old Tumblr will stay up for archival purposes, and I may still post new comics to it when we get there, though maybe at a staggered rate from the ComicFury.

Hopefully the change over should go off without too much of a hitch, but if you'd like to register for #ComicFury so you can leave comments and subscribe, please check out the landing page for CC:

Again, no pages yet (queuing them up now so I'm ready to go), but take the time to get nice and cozy for the relaunch in a few weeks.I hope you all have a safe and fun Labor Day if you're doing anything this weekend!

Take care, Fil

[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. 

[fish-donna-week]

What’s sort of fishy activities are going on around here?

Welcome to Fish Donna Week!! (May 12-18)

Fish Donna Week is a week for creating works based of off Aphverse’s very own Donna! Why fish? Read about it here! Fish Donna Week also acts as a sort of MCD edition of MerMay.

All forms of media are encouraged from fanfiction, fanart (digital and traditional!), playlists, poetry, edits, and any and all miscellaneous third things I’ve failed to list!

Pieces made for Fish Donna Week will be queued and reblogged here! Be sure to tag this tumblr otherwise I won’t be able to see it. I am but one singular mod sailing this ship. Please also be sure to use the tag #Fish Donna Week 2024

Thank you to the citizens of Aphblr for helping choose the prompts! Feel free to interpret, combine, and manipulate the prompts however you’d like!! You are free to start working on your pieces early, however, please do not post your pieces until the allotted date!!

Day 1 (5/12) : Babe House / Water Village

Day 2 (5/13) : Sea Lanterns / Pearls

Day 3 (5/14) : Pirate AU / Fairytale AU

Day 4 (5/15) : Siren / Bioluminescence

Day 5 (5/16) : Wedding / Child

Day 6 (5/17) : Moonlit / Rainfall

Day 7 (5/18) : Free Day!!

I encourage everyone to create a Fish Donna design that they love and works best for them, but if you would like to use a premade design (character design is hard guys, I totally get it) feel free to use this reference!

There is no pressure to complete the week!

This is a fun activity. We will be joyous. Delight and glee are mandatory /j

[haru-noir]

❁ hello! welcome to my haru rp/ask blog! ❁

❁ MUN: they/them | 18 | PST (but my hours are really inconsistent so it hardly matters)

an indie rp/ask blog centered around a somewhat headcanon-based haru okumura from persona 5!

please make sure to read my rules below prior to interacting. thank you!

all rp ❁ haru answers ❁ haru blogs

RULES

➨ ONE: No NSFW or 18+ at all. I'm not comfortable with these things, and would rather not interact with them. For these reasons, I will likely not interact with any accounts that post primarily NSFW or 18+. ➨ TWO: Please be patient with me, as this is my first time running a RP blog. I tend to be a bit slow in responding, but I will try to respond as soon as I am able. ➨ THREE: Interactions (as in through RP) with Haru are restricted to Persona canon characters and Persona OCs at this time, reason being I'm not sure how I would write such crossovers, at least flr now. Although, sending asks is alright! I love getting asks! ➨ FOUR: I might not respond to an ask if it makes me uncomfortable or if I am unable to think of a proper answer. Apologies! ➨ FIVE: Please avoid god-moding, or controlling my character's actions.

OTHER INFO

➨ feel free to send asks about ships! i am a multishipper, though i lean more towards shipping makoharu (makoto x haru). just keep in mind i am not very good at writing romance or romantic gestures. ➨ that being said, please do not push headcanons or ships on me. ➨ i'm really, really bad at social cues and this is my first rp blog (;_;)/~~~ if you send me an ask/response in hopes of it being a longer rp or for me to continue responding, please let me know. my dms should be open if you want to start a rp with me or anything! ➨ i've only played persona 5 royal and persona 3 reload so far, though i know a little about persona 4 and its characters as well. ➨ a lot of my posts are queued/scheduled, so online does not necessarily indicate i'll post, and a post does not necessarily indicate i'm online. ➨ this isn't related to the blog, but if you have any fics that you made or enjoy that are for persona 5, please share them! i love reading and I'm not picky about ships/characters it's about, as long as it is fairly sfw

i may update the above at any time. i'm new to rping on tumblr, and i'm a generally anxious person, so i am likely to make mistakes. please kindly let me know if you find any that i missed. thank you for reading!

[yumeka-sxf]

A chronological analysis on Twilight and Yor - Season 1 Wrap-Up

*This is a wrap-up post for my Twiyor analysis series. If you missed the Introduction/Part 1, click here*

----------

As some of you may know, I'm fairly new to the SxF fandom, having only started watching the anime in October of last year. But it didn't take long for me to become hyperfixated enough to binge the manga, start my own blog, and develop ideas for analysis posts.

I've always enjoyed meta writing for my favorite fandoms, and SxF is definitely one of those! While I like many things about the story and characters, the Forgers overall, especially Twiyor, are my favorite thing about it, so I wanted to focus my first analysis posts on them. During my early months in the fandom, I found lots of good analyses and was impressed by the amount of talented fan writers out there. But rather than write random stand-alone posts, I wanted to express all my thoughts in chronological order. I eventually came up with the idea for this post series in December of last year, and after spending a solid month of writing during most of my free time, I finally felt I had enough to begin posting on a weekly basis.

Now that I've come to the end of the season 1 posts, I want to express my sincerest thanks to everyone who read them, especially those who left nice comments and reblogs. Even for those of you who only left likes, I appreciate it! I pay attention to the notes on my blog and it always makes my day to see the same people interacting with each new post every week. It's especially gratifying when I see a new person come along and leave a like on each post in order, one after another! In the many fandoms I've been in over the years, I always write for myself and my own enjoyment first, regardless of whether other people will enjoy my writing too. But it's nice to know that other people can also appreciate how I interpret things.

So here's what's going to happen with the post series going forward…

Since I want to continue keeping the posts as manga spoiler-free as possible, I won't start releasing the next batch of posts until season 2 airs (it's scheduled to air in October). I'll most likely release part 19 and onward towards the middle or end of season 2's run. I already have a good idea of what manga chapters will be adapted and will get them queued up beforehand.

On that note, I did end up having to tag a few of the season 1 posts for manga spoilers. I tried to avoid it as much as possible; I only discussed manga spoilers if I felt not doing so would be a disservice to my analysis. However, once season 2 airs, all but part 18 should be safe for anime-only fans! (I'll go back to those posts and remove the spoiler tags)

At some point during or slightly before season 2's airing, I plan to reblog all of my Twiyor analysis posts in order. If I can get the timing right, I hope to reblog part 18 (the last season 1 post) right before my start date for the first season 2 post. I'll probably do the reblogs just a few days apart before doing weekly releases again when I get to the new posts (for the reblogs, I'll be using the hashtag "#reblog for season 2 hype")

I don't have any other big analysis posts planned until then, with one exception…I do plan to write a post about Anya. I originally wanted to include her in the chronological series, but since her character arc is simpler and more straight-forward compared to Twilight's and Yor's, I didn't have nearly as much to say about her and figured it'd be best to talk about her in a separate post. Not sure when I'll release that post but should be sometime before season 2 as well.

Guess that's all for now! Thank you again to everyone who read this post series and I look forward to more compelling discussions in season 2!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Wildest Dreams 2

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, manipulation, lying. Tags are not exhaustive and more may be added as the series progresses.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Andy Barber lost everything and you’re about to give him it all back. (dark!reader)

Characters: Andy Barber

Note: I had something else queued but chose this instead.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like snakes love Woody’s boots. Take care. 💖

“So honey, what do you want for dinner?” You chime as you reach for Andy’s hand. He shifts his foot back and pulls away, “I make a mean meatloaf. Ooh, or I can do some bolognese–”

“Stop,” he snips, “stop, whatever you’re doing. Stop.”

“Andy,” you smile and bounce in place, “you want me to stop loving you?”

“Lov– listen, you need help. I’m going to get you some clothes and then… is there someone I can call?”

“I don’t need help, Andy,” your face falls as your tone harshens, “you do. That’s why I’m here.”

“N-no, no. Okay–”

“Yes, you do,” you insist, “I see how you live. So alone. You need someone to make you dinner, to talk to, to sleep beside you–”

“I don’t know you,” he throws his hands up.

“Oh silly,” you giggle, “if you want to know my name, you just have to ask.” You offer your name brightly and reach for him again. He flinches as you touch his chest, “how about I get you a cold beer and you sit down and unwind. There’s a game on tonight. Sox are playing.”

He catches your hand and peels it off him. He’s strong. So strong. You bask in the strength around you as he keeps you from replacing your hand on his wrist.

“You need to go.”

“You don’t know what I need, Andy. You don’t even know what you need,” Your voice lilts, “I’m just trying to take care of you, honey. I know it’s scary. You’ve been alone for so long, but look at me… I’m perfect. I made myself perfect for you.”

His jaw ticks as he focuses on your face. He’s too noble to look further, even as you stand in lacy lilac and nothing more. That’s the thing about Andy Barber, he’s a bit stubborn.

“Well, if you want to hang out in the garage, I’m not going to stop you,” you untangle your hand from his grasp, “I’m going to get started on dinner. It’s so late already.”

You spin and set out across the concrete, strutting as the panties give a generous view of your ass. His footfalls scuff suddenly and he catches your arm. You face him, ready to melt into him.

“I said get out. Go!”

“Don’t be mean. I don’t like yelling,” you pout as you twist your elbow and tap his chest, “and trust me, Andy, you don’t want me to get mean.”

He searches your face and sputters, “Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispers, “you’re fucking psycho.”

“Psycho? Psycho!? Andy, you take that back.”

“No, you’re fucking– fucked. What’s wrong with you?”

“You watch that potty mouth,” you grit through your teeth and pound on his chest, “I’m not… psycho.”

“You’re intruding in my house and you’re–”

“Andy, Andy!” You grab the lapel of his jacket and screech, “you take it back.”

“No, you’re fucking psycho and I want you out–”

“Rape! Rape! Someone! He’s hurtin–” he covers your mouth as you wails and backs you up to the shelves, the content rattling as he hushes you.

“Shhh, shh, what are you doing?”

You laugh into his palm and he cautiously drags it away from your mouth. His hand hovers over your throat as you grin up at him mockingly, “Andy, imagine someone walked in right now.” You tut and shake your head, “that wouldn’t look very good for the new DA.”

“Shut up,” his hand clamps around your throat, “shut the fuck up.”

“You gonna do it,” you force out, “huh, Andy? You got it in you? You get if from your father?”

He squeezes and your windpipe compresses. You gasp for air and smile as beads rise in your eyes. His hand feels perfect around your neck. How many times you wrapped a belt around your throat and pretended it was him. You croak and wheeze as you tilt your chin up and brush your hand down his chest, curling your finger around the edge of his grey coat.

He lets you go suddenly and tears away from you, “what the fuck? What– you like that?”

You cough and catch your breath as you let a hand snake down your stomach.“Mmm, Andy, you’re so strong,” you say dreamily, “oh, I’m so wet for you right now.” You touch the font of your panties and push your fingers against the fabric, rubbing yourself just a little.

“Stop!” He reaches back to touch the back of his neck, a crimson tinge in his cheeks, “stop that, please.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barber,” you put your arms to your side, “I’m sorry. I’m a naughty girl and I have a hard time controlling myself.” You step away from the shelves as you put your hands on your hips, “do you want to give me a spanking?”

He winces and evades you as you reach for his hand. He paces along the side of the car and combs out his hair, “why are you doing this? Why?” He mutter, “what do I do?”

“I can tell you exactly what to do, Andy. I’m not a bad person. Really, I just want to be your perfect wife.”

He stops short and drops his arms. He pivots on his heels slowly and faces you, his face contorted in confused rage. “Wife?”

“Andy, you’re the DA now and you’re going to be so busy. Don’t you want someone to come home to? To make you dinner? To bring you special surprises at work?” You walk towards him, gently running your hands up his thick arms, “or suck you off?”

His eyebrow twitches and he looks away darkly. The tic in his cheek gives him away as he shifts his feet again. You know he’s feeling it. You drag your hands over his shoulders and knead them gently.

“Can’t you see I want to be a good girl, Mr. Barber? Why don’t you let me cook you dinner?” You reach and touch his cheek, caressing him softly, “and when you’re done, I can take care of the little DA.”

You reach down to the front of his pants and squeeze. He yelps and jerks in surprise as you fondle his half-hard dick. He quickly pushes you away and tries to hide himself as he puts his back to you.

“Just go make dinner,” he sniffs as he keeps his face down, averted, “now.”

“Yes, honey,” you trill, “I’ll be waiting.”

🌹

You hear Andy enter the main house at last. You’re almost done cooking, the fragrant smells swirl in the air richly as you move methodically around. You adjust the apron over your dress before you strain the noodles over the sink, a puff of steam clouding around you.

You listen to his steps, uneasy and uncertain. You expect this. Andy is a man of routine. Of planning. He does everything based on extensive research and premeditation. He’s a lawyer through and through. You know it’s all a bit sudden but he needs spontaneity in his life. He isn’t getting any younger.

You put together a plate of linguine and the deep red sauce, garnishing it with parsley and a sprinkle of parmesan. The dish could appear on any cooking show and win first place, you’re sure of it. 

You sweep into the dining room and set it between the curved pint glass and bottle of Stella, a tall glass of water waiting to cleanse his palate. The mat is expertly set with cutlery and a folded cloth napkin. He will see what you’re worth.

You go to the rounded archway that looks into the front room. Andy chews his thumb as he walks in circles, his face furrowed in thought. It’s wired in him to find a solution, to plot his next argument, to know his next move. He just needs to go with it. You’re not his enemy.

“Andy, dinner’s ready,” you say, “you okay, honey?”

He glances over at you sharply and lets out a long breath through his nostrils. He doesn’t answer as he marches towards you. You smile but he surpasses you, nearly bowling you over with his shoulder. You turn to follow him back to the dining room.

You scurry around and pull the chair out for him. He sits heavily with a growl and scrapes the chair closer noisily, your fingers nearly bending at the jolt. You back away and come around to watch him, grinning proudly over your precise work.

“Low sodium. Good for the heart but lots of flavour,” you announce.

His eyes flick up and he blinks at you, face humourless and pale. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced and the crow’s feet around his eyes deeper. He swallows and his forehead creases as he scowls.

“Where’d you get those clothes?”

“Andy, I can’t walk around in my panties— unless you want me to.”

“Jesus,” he breathes and looks at the steaming pasta. He tilts his head to one side and reaches for the beer. He uncaps it and ignores the sparkling glass as he sucks foam from the neck., “what is wrong with you?”

“Wrong with me? Nothing. Andy, isn’t this nice? You’re eating at the table, you get to just relax, oh and how expensive is all that takeout?”

His irises flash as they return to you. He picks up the fork, spinning it in his hand. He stabs it into the pasta and takes the spoon to wind up a neat mouthful of linguine. Your heart flutters as he leans forward and inhales the scent. His lips part but he pauses before he can dig in.

“Why aren’t you eating?” He sneers.

“Look at me, I can’t have carbs,” you flourish your hands around your figure, “not if I want to look good for you.”

His eyes lower and he frowns at the forkful. He lifts his chin defiantly, “eat it.”

You roll your eyes, “you think I would put something in your food?”

“I don’t know you so yeah, I fucking do.”

You scoff and strut over to him. You bend forward as he raises the fork and you open your mouth around it. You’re not a fan of so much garlic and the carbs are going to be a regret tomorrow but you will do anything for him. Anything.

You suck the noodles off the forks and stand, licking the sauce from your lips with a purr and a yum. You smile at him as you chew and swallow.

“Delicious,” you say.

He sighs and lowers his hands to hover at the sides of his plate. You hear his stomach growl as he reluctantly coils up another fork of pasta. You dab your mouth with the back of your hand. You wait patiently as he takes his first bite. He chews deliberately and washes it down with a swig of beer.

“Is it good, honey?” You ask hopefully.

He’s quiet. He keeps eating without a word. He must be hungry. You know he skipped lunch today, as he does most days. And he drinks too much coffee. His stomach must be clenching.

“How long have you been watching me?” He says at last.

Your cheek dimples. He’s talking at least. You come forward and slide out a chair and sit. You fold your arms over the table cloth.

“Four-hundred and thirty-eight days,” you reply bluntly.

He clears his throat and puts the cutlery down. He has some more beer as he thinks. You see the calculation in his eyes.

“Why?”

“Why?” You echo dumbly.

“Why me?”

“Who else?” You counter.

His throat bobs and he forces himself to put the beer down. His fingers linger on the label, his thumb picking at the corner.

“You know… everything. About my family…”

“It’s heartbreaking,” you reach to touch his hand and he forms a fist as you rub his wrist, “really, Andy, it really affected me. I couldn’t let you be alone. I’ve been… through loss before and I know it’s no fun doing it by yourself.”

He pulls his arm away and sits back, dropping his hands into his lap, “I like being alone.”

You cluck, “Andy, you can’t lie to me.”

“You don’t know me. Whatever you think you know,” he says in a brittle tone, “it’s delusion.”

“What do I know about you?” You smirk.

His eyes dart to yours and his jaw squares. You laugh and sit up straight.

“I know that your favourite search term is ‘doggy style’ and that when you are feeling in need, you like to pull out your laptop, out on the couch mostly, and watch a few good videos to get you going–”

“Shut up–”

“I also know about your little office games,” you continue, “but who would suspect the DA is having a little fun behind a closed door. I could help you with that. I could get under your desk, make sure there isn’t a mess to clean up–”

“I said shut up!” He hits the table.

You touch your chest and gasp, “oh, your anger. It’s so scary but very hot.” You grope yourself through the dress and purr, “you can take it out on me. Anyway you want.”

“I don’t— I don’t want to do that. I want you to go. I want you out. I–”

You stand slowly and reach behind you. You unknot the apron as you do and let it flutter to the floor. You push the chair aside and slide down the zipper along the side of your dress. He swallows his voice and stares at the table. You shimmy free of the fabric and it pools down at your feet. You step out, still in your heels and unhook your bra, flinging it away. You had to get rid of your panties after soaking through them.

Naked, you step towards him and grab the wooden armrest as you lean over him. You brush your fingers along his soft beard, it’s so nice. Better than you could imagine. He stiffens and presses himself to the back of the chair. 

“Look at me, Andy,” you bring your lips close to his cheek, “look at me and tell me you don’t want me.”

He tenses and his fingers curl against his thighs. You look down at the bulge twitching in his pants as his stomach moves steadily with his breath. You slip your hand down to feel the beating in his chest.

“I saved myself for you, Mr. Barber,” you whisper as your graze his cheekbone with your lips and take his hand, “please, I need you so bad.”

You pull his heavy hand away from his lap. He resists for a moment. The strength drains from him as you guide his hand between your legs and push his fingers between your slick folds. You exhales against him and hum.

“Can’t you feel how badly I need you inside me?”

He trembles and you feel his fingertips wiggle, gliding over your wetness. He closes his eyes and suddenly pulls away, shoving the chair back behind as he stands. He nearly overturns his seat and storms off with a barely repressed snarl. You shake your head in disappointment as you listen to his retreat and the subsequent slam of a door.

It’s fine. You’ll crack him soon.