#rare moment of me posting again in less than a week

[notaplaceofhonour]

I was raised in the People of Destiny cult (later renamed, and more well-known as, Sovereign Grace Ministries, now Sovereign Grace Churches).

The valorization of martyrdom and The End Times was so ubiquitous it was ambient noise. We stood in the church lobby theorizing about who the antichrist would be, we argued about whether Jesus would rapture us all before, after, or during the Tribulation Period where Satan would be given free reign over the earth. There was a strong Christian Zionist fixation on Israel as the final battleground and capital of the coming Messianic Age. But the one thing we were all certain of was is that we were in the End Times, that we were not of this world and couldn’t get too attached to our lives here.

We were raised to believe our sin nature made us undeserving of life, that we deserved death and eternal conscious torture.

My parents read us the Jesus Freaks books (a series by Christian Rap group DC Talk about martyrs). I spent “devotional time” reading Fox’s Book of Martyrs. We had guest speakers from Voice of the Martyrs, their pamphlets were often stocked in our church’s information center. We grew up with our dad listening to right wing talk radio and making us listen to songs about how the Godless atheists were outlawing Christianity in America, that we could all become martyrs soon.

The group’s theology was damaging & traumatic in a lot of other ways that contributed to the suicidality I have continued to struggle with for the rest of my life. For a long time I did not believe I would live past 20. There are times when the idea of giving my death meaning by using public suicide to make a political statement has appealed to me.

So now, seeing so many social media posts glorifying the suicide of a US Airman this week, I have been furious. Reading his social media posts, I recognize so much about the way I was raised in his all-or-nothing, black-or-white mindset, the valorization of death-seeking & martyrdom, and the apocalyptic fire-and-brimstone imagery of self-immolation. The moment I saw people I followed celebrating his self-immolation, I said to myself “this feels like a cult”

So when I learned he was raised in a cult too, nothing could have made more sense to me. His political orientation may have changed, but his mindset did not—it was no less extreme or cult-like.

I’ve talked about so many of the reasons this response from the broader left scares me, including how it’s laundering that airman’s antisemitic beliefs, but I cannot think of anything that would hit me in a more personal place than this specific response to this specific situation has.

When I see the images, I think: that could have been me. That scares me, and what scares me more is that so many prominent people are overwhelmingly sending the message to people like me that there is nothing else we can do that would have a more meaningful impact than killing ourselves for the cause.

I do not believe that. I will not even entertain it. And having to see his death over and over and over again, to argue against people who are treating this like an intellectual/moral exercise or a valid debate we all have to consider has been immensely triggering and fills me with a rage I rarely feel. It’s unconscionable that we are even putting self-harm on the table, and that pushing back against that is somehow controversial.

There is hope. Our lives do have meaning. There are far more effective means of fighting injustice. And the world is a better place for having you in it. Don’t fall into believing this is a way to give life purpose.

[milaisreading]

🌱🩷: this was a request from @yukiimasked and it's basically where Karasu met manager!Yn's family. Post Blue Lock timeline, btw

Warnings: Reader uses she/her. Requests are open

⚽️Bleu lock belongs to Muneyuki Kaneshiro and Yusuke Nomura ⚽️

"Tabito, are you alright?" (Y/n) yawned as she walked into the shared apartment, only to find the pro-player frozen in the hallway.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I am great, don't worry." Karasu gulped nervously and slowly walked to the living room.

'Was practice bad today?' She wondered and put her stuff away to follow him.

"I can tell from a mile away that you aren't doing well. What happened, Tabito? Did something happen at practice?" (Y/n) asked softly as she sat with him on the couch, hugging his arm.

'What is he so tense about? He was more relaxed during the World Cup...' She thought while waiting for the boy to finally speak up again. Karasu kept quiet for a good 5 minutes, looking around the room and at (Y/n). She really didn't understand what the issue was. Karasu was doing alright the whole morning.

'Was...was he maybe breaking up with me?' She gulped in fear as Karasu got up and out of her hold.

"(Y/n)... I... don't think I can do it." Karasu said, looking at her in desperation. Thr girl felt her heart break in two, afraid that her thoughts really came true.

"Wh-what?! Are you... breaking up-"

"No! No, I would never do that! You know I love you more than football even." Karasu said quickly, realizing that his wording was very bad. So, out of guilt for the distress he caused, Karasu walked up to her and gently took her hands into his, gently giving them a squeeze.

"I am sorry for what I said, what I meant was your family... They are coming over to Paris next week, and I am just too nervous to meet them." Karasu gulped as (Y/n) blinked a few times, relief washing over her form that this was his main worry.

"Oh, that. You are that nervous?" (Y/n) questioned, earning a nod from Karasu. It was rare to see him so vulnerable and distressed.

"Yeah, I really want to be with you! Heck, I want to marry you in the near future, but... but what if your father doesn't like me? What if he demands for a break up."

'Wow... that was a lot at once. Wait! He said he wants to marry me?!' (Y/n) felt a small spark of happiness light up inside her, but she decided to let this slide for now. Comforting Karasu was more important. She gently smiled and got up to hug him, something he gladly returned.

"Listen, I know it's an intimidating moment, I met your parents and know what you feel. Just know that I will be by your side, ok?" She smiled up gently at him. Karasu took a few minutes, but eventually nodded his head, kissing her on the forehead.

"Ok. I think I can do that."

A week later...

'I absolutely can not do this!' Karasu gulped as he sat across (Y/n)'s father and brother at the table. Isabella, her sister-in-law, and (Y/n) tried to make the situation less tense by some all talk, but it wasn't working as well as they expected.

"Oh! It seems like the chicken just finished cooking! I will check on it." Isabella laughed nervously and quickly ran into the kitchen. (Y/n) found the whole situation amusing for a moment, but then felt Karasu grip her hand under the table. She looked over at the boy and sent him a gentle smile.

"So, Karasu, what are your plans with my sister?" The two turned to look at the brother, who had a murderous look on his face.

"I am interested as well. Especially since she moved to France for you." Her father suddenly spoke up, which surprised Karasu a little. The man was quiet the whole night.

"You two are being too much now." (Y/n) sighed in annoyance.

"Uh... it's fine." Karasu spoke up as (Y/n) and the other 2 males looked at Karasu.

"Tabito..." (Y/n) gulped nervously as the other looked straight at the 2.

"I really love (Y/n), and words can never describe how much I do. I also can't properly express how much I want to be with her and protect her." Karasu took a deep breath, trying to ignore the intense stares from the older men. (Y/n) was meanwhile shocked at his words, he never said these things so openly.

"I do plan on marrying (Y/n) eventually, after we are both stable in our careers. I hope you all can eventually accept me into the family, I will be patient with that. I really want us to get along, if not for me, then for (Y/n). She deserves it, and much more." By now, the couple was blushing in embarrassment. Karasu didn't plan on being so open with his thoughts in front of (Y/n)'s family, and neither was she. But... she couldn't deny the small amount of happiness she felt from his words.

'He cares that much, huh...' (Y/n) smiled warmly at him.

"Aha. Well, I can't say I am happy with this relationship." The father cleared his throat, catching their attention.

"Dad-"

"But, I will give you a chance. I can see you love and care for her." The elder finished, earning a sigh of relief from Karasu and a grateful smile from (Y/n).

"Same goes for me. You have my approval for now, Karasu. But, if you break my sister's heart I will break your leg. Don't test me." The brother spoke up, his glare more intense at the end.

"I won't ever hurt her, so no need to joke about the leg breaking." Karasu laughed nervously.

"I wasn't joking." The brother said more sternly this time, interrupting Karasu's laughing.

"He really wasn't, Tabito." (Y/n) confirmed, caressing his knuckles.

"Oh..."

[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. 

[ramp-it-up]

I Still Have You

Paring: Chris Evans x Reader

Word count: 1.5 K

Summary: It’s a very pregnant Christmas for the Evanses.

Warnings: 18+ As always, MINORS DNI. RPF, SMUT. Not Beta’d. Flashbacks, discussion of miscarriages, grief, angst, beach vacay, piggy back ride, Kit cooking, family dynamics. Graphic depiction of pregnancy sex. Dunkin’. But mostly fluffy fluff.

A/N: This is for #DJ’sAllIWant4KChristmas and based on this ask. Also listen. Look me in my eyes. This was not easy for me to write and I don’t want to see any dumb comments about miscarriages. Heed the warnings. This is a part of the How I Met Your Father AU.

I no longer operate a taglist. Follow @rampitupandread to be notified when I post.

I Do NOT consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

Chris’s hand snaked around your baby bump and pulled you flush against his chest. You snuggled back against him and his hard body.

“Hmmmmm…G’morning.”

Chris buried his nose in your fragrant curls, your bonnet having come off in your sleep. You were less able to be comfortable as your pregnancy progressed, but luckily this pregnancy was healthy, despite the worry of the first few weeks.

You’d lost two pregnancies since you had the twins 12 years ago. You and Chris had been heartbroken, but decided not to try again and that your family was complete. You loved and lived life to the fullest.

However, when the twins were 12 years old, you discovered through a home pregnancy test that you were expecting again. It was right before your family trip last summer, and you were on edge for the first few days of the vacation.

You decided to tell Chris as you walked on the beach on the second evening.

“I have a secret to tell you, Chris.”

“What is it, Angel?”

Chris was a little concerned, you’d been jittery and moody. He stopped and looked at you in the light of the golden hour. You were so beautiful.

“Is everything okay?”

He reached for you and pulled you into his embrace. You relaxed into his strength, his warmth, and his smell. And you started crying.

“Chris. I…I’m… I’m”

“Shhhh. It’s okay. I know you’ve been stressed. What with the new position, the twins going to junior high and your cousin’s graduation and this trip.”

He kissed the top of your head.

“I see how exhausted you’ve been, falling asleep on the couch every night. That’s why I had hoped that you would take this opportunity to relax…”

“Chris. I’m pregnant.”

Chris didn’t believe he’d heard you. Your last pregnancy was over five years ago. He’d gone ten toes down for his perfect little family. And he didn’t know if he could go through that loss again. He knew you couldn’t.

Chris drew back to look you in the eye.

“What did you say?”

You looked into the deep blue pools of his eyes and took a deep breath.

“I’m pregnant.”

“But… how?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at him. He joined you.

“I mean…”

He grinned at you, your laughter making him stronger.

“Well, you’ve always had that super soldier sperm. And it’s rare, but vasectomies can fail…”

Chris just blinked at you.

“Oh my god. We’re gonna have another baby. When?”

Chris was absolutely giddy.

“I haven’t been to the doctor, but maybe in about eight months? January?”

Chris was still in shock.

“Boy or girl? Twins or just one?”

“Yep!”

You both broke down in laughter. You were beginning to think you could do this.

A jolt of joy suddenly struck Chris. He couldn’t wallow in grief; this was another chance.

He picked you up and twirled you around.

“CHRIS! CHRIS! I’m gonna throw up!”

You were laughing, but also about to hurl.

“Oh shit. I’m sorry. I just. I love you so much. And I love us. And the twins. And this bundle of joy in here.”

Chris’s warm palm covered your belly, and you reached up to kiss him, for a moment, all fear of loss gone.

He beamed down at you and you up at him.

“I love you too, Chris.”

You smiled at him again, and then hugged him.

“How are you? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine!”

Chris looked back down the beach.

“It’s too far for you to walk back.”

“No, I’m…”

He turned around and bent down. He looked back at you over his shoulder.

“Get on.”

“Chris, you’re being…”

“Get on, Y/N.”

You sighed and climbed on his back. Chris easily stood up and set off toward the beach house. You put your chin in his shoulder and started to think as he effortlessly carried you back.

“Chris…”

“I know. We’ll wait until we go to the doctor to tell anyone.”

You nodded, grateful for the connection between you and your husband. After you told Chris, you were able to relax and enjoy the rest of the trip.

Telling the twins after you were past the 12 week mark was an experience.

“You two are disgusting.”

“Wynn Angel Evans! You need to watch your tone.”

“I’m sorry. But aren’t you both a little old for this?

Chris wasn’t having it.

“Do you want to go to your room until you’re as old as we are?”

Wynn got quiet, not used to harsh words from her dad. CJ was just silent. You sensed some warring emotions in him. You two had always been close. He looked at you with those eyes just like his dad’s and you knew. You cocked your head and CJ came to give you a hug. You held your arm out for Wynn, who sat on the other side of you, between you and Chris.

“Listen. I know this is a lot. And you’re right, I am older, but I’m not that old. But dad is.”

You nudged Wynn and laughed as Chris protested.

“Hey!”

Now there was laughter in the room.

“And neither of you have to worry that you will be replaced. We will love you forever. Our hearts will just get bigger.”

You looked from twin to twin.

“Yours will, too.”

Everyone calmed down a bit after that, catching the joy of a new life in the house. You took a sabbatical from work in order to take care of yourself.

That was over six months ago. You’d had a healthy pregnancy and were excited to meet the new member of the Evans family. At Christmas you were 37 weeks. So close.

You snuggled back onto Chris’s erection as he gently felt up your sensitive breasts. Your nipples pebbled as he pressed his lips to the side of your neck.

“What are you up to, Daddy?”

You felt Chris’s dick jump against your backside.

“I’m trying to make you feel good. Give you an extra present after yesterday’s festivities.”

Chris’s hand moved down your side and slid under your belly to slip his thick fingers into your panties.

You moaned as he found you wet and wanton, moving against his hand for more friction.

Chris gently but down on your pulse point, causing you to keen.

“Chris…”

“What do you want, Angel? What do you need?”

Chris was grinding against your panties, the wet tip of his cock promising something that he had yet to give you.

“You, Chris, Please…”

“Oh My beautiful girl, you don’t need to beg. This is always for you.”

As he whispered praises in your ear, Chris was lifting your thigh, pulling your panties to the side, and slowly entering you while laying down

“Oooohhhh….”

You arched and threw your head back onto Chris’s chest. The shudder as he entered you was inescapable.

“Dammmmmnnnnn, Angel. So so tight.”

Chris was fully seated inside of you and gripping your hip to keep control.

Lovemaking wasn’t vigorous anymore, but it was needed. And you knew that It would be a while after the baby came. You wanted to savor this connection.

“Ohhhh. Chrissy. Please. Give it to me…”

“Nnnnnnnghhhh!”

Chris moaned.

“You always have me wanting to lose control. Lose myself in you… My favorite thing.”

“Hmmmmm.”

You licked your lips as Chris started moving, him looking down over your shoulder as he watched you cream on his dick in the early morning light.

“Even after all these years?”

The kiss he gave you on your cheek would have been chaste, except that his huge cock was invading your fat, swollen, sensitive cunt.

“For many more to come, god willing.”

Chris started pumping a little harder now.

“Please, I want to die like this..”

Chris kissed the side of your neck as he rocked his cock deep inside you and his words made your heart swell and beat in time with his, and you started to climax.

“Ohhhh…ohhhhhhh, ohhhhh! Chris!”

“God you’re squeezing me… I can’t. I can’t hold it damn you make me…”

Chris thrusted for dear life as he emptied his seed into you. He lazily thrummed your clit, causing you to shudder as you came down.

A few minutes later, Chris carefully slipped out of you and led you to the shower, where he lovingly washed you both up. Your eyelids were drooping.

“Get some rest, mama. I’ll get you some food.”

One hour later, your growling stomach and kicking kid propelled you out of bed to the kitchen, where you caught the tail end of an argument between Chris and Kit who had come to Massachusetts with your family for Christmas. Wynn and CJ were watching, enthralled.

Someone (you guessed Kit) had tried to make pancakes in the microwave. What resulted was a rubbery mess.

“You really can’t cook, can you?”

Chris was grumbling as he cleaned up the mess.

“No shit, Sherlock. When in the 13 years that you’ve known me, have you known me to cook?”

Chris scowled.

“Then why did you say yes when I asked you to make breakfast for your best friend?”

“Because I will do anything for her. And don’t you forget it, Dude Bro.”

Kit was threatening Chris with a rubber pancake.

“How ‘bout we go to Dunkin’?”

You chuckled as you rescued your husband from certain doom.

Less than 24 hours later, Jack Arthur Evans was born, healthy at 7 lbs 8 oz two days after Christmas.

The moment everyone met him, no one could imagine the world without him.

When in doubt, reblog it out!

[nevarrhoe]

nsfw hcs for billy, eddie & steve?? <3

anon, i have been waiting for you. i have many, many, thoughts on this and i am more than happy to share with the class. i hope u enjoy.

-jazz (@dameronology)

smut (afab! reader) below the cut!! by hitting read more you and thereby consenting to said content & agree that you 18 years or older. if i catch minors interacting with this post or following me i will put u straight in the bin

eddie munson

ok i know canonically that eddie isn't the most popular guy in high school but i refuse to believe he hasn't had sex before. he plays in a band once a week at a bar?? hello?? also there's definitely some popular girls who find him high-key hot and seek him out because it's shameful and maybe they're into that

MY POINT IS basically that eddie is experienced and he knows what he's doing

he's a little above average, in terms of endowment. kinda skinny but blessed with a fair bit of length that hits the right spot

it's hairy but trimmed

what he probably has less experience with is sex in a relationship; like being with one person long enough to learn their likes & dislikes, to find kinks, to have actual romantic sex, etc

and trust me, this boy is eager to learn!! after your first few times, he starts to pick up on what gets you going on, what spots are the best for your pleasure & he's gonna map them out in his head and learn them like the back of his hand

eddie is hyper-focused on your pleasure; it's a win-win situation because he gets off on you getting off

his favourite thing to do is go down on you. he could literally do it for fuckin' hours, tongue just playing around and sucking on every sensitive area. it's when he moans in pleasure and your entire goddamn body seizes beneath him that he normally just cums himself without even being touched

bonus points for when he uses his arms to hold you down when he's giving you head

speaking of head: eddie will never say no to receiving. he always has two hands on your head when you do it, guiding you a little but never pushing

because he's not the kind of guy who always wants to instigate the whole sub/dom thing; he loves when it happens but for the most part, sex with you two is sort of like an equal partnership??

he's definitely the more commanding one though. this might be unexpected but c'mon mannn we've all seen him playing d&d and i refuse, REFUSE, to believe that he doesn't have elements of that in the bedroom

when he does go full top/dom/whatever u wanna call it, he's still quintessentially eddie. he'll tower over you, large, ringed hand around your throat as he gently praises you and rings orgasm and orgasm out of you until you forget your own name

he's also absolutely willing to give up control as well. he's an absolute slut for a cocky, confident partner and if you catch him in the right moment he will do literally anything you say

eddie somehow has an endless stamina. maybe it's his blatantly fucking undiagnosed adhd but his recovery period is actually impressive and he's ready and raring to go even after like four rounds jfc

he's also pretty much always horny i won't lie to u. he absolutely will not push it onto you but if you give even the most subtle hint that you're good to go then this man is pouncing on you

that means you've had sex in a lotta different places; the car, the shower, the throne in the d&d room, round the back of the theatre, in a cleaner's cupboard at starcourt mall...the list goes on

kink-wise, eddie is down to try anything at least once but from the get-go he actively encourages choking, marking and being tied up (for both of you)

position wise, his favourite is cow-girl and doggy but again he will try anything

after care !! he doesn't always have the supplies for it but you bet your fine ass his heart is in the right place

he'll probably grab the nearest shirt of his if there's no cloth but hell, it works. and sometimes the water he has on his nightstand is like two days old but water is water, right??

steve harrington

it's at least a little bit canon that steve used to pull a lot, so it's safe to say he has some experience both in a short term and long term sense

he is very average sized; six, maybe six & and a half inches, but he uses it fuckin well and it's curved super nice. trust.

a little hairy, but trimmed

steve harrington is a manscaper. u heard it hear first.

overall, he's very good !!

at the basics

missionary?? he's got it down. moaning encouragingly when you're sucking him off?? absolute king. fingering you?? mind blowing stuff

and good LORD he is obsessed with calling you "good girl/boy/etc" like he'll be ploughing into you and just repeating it over and over like a mantra

so essentially he's like mostly a top but it's not until he gets super comfortable in a relationship and you begin to communicate with him your likes & dislikes that it really and truly comes out

the signs were always there, mkay? it just takes the right encouragement and confidence and suddenly he's literally getting off on you giving him full control

it's definitely a trust thing. there's so much love in trusting this man and he feels it in his bones

so sex w steve is 50/50; sometimes it's kinky and rough and other times it's very slow and sensual

it'll be those times that he likes you to ride him. back against the headboard, you on his lap with one hand on his shoulder and one tangled in his hair so that he can press kisses to your lips and chest and collarbone

steve is very basic with his kinks: he was all like "omg no mine are so shameful" and then admit he's into choking and all you can do is laugh, not bc you're kink shaming him but because it's cute he thinks he has to be ashamed

so yeah, he loves to have a hand on your throat

one day he accidentally leaves scratch marks on your back and the next night he goes fuckin FERAL. and that's the story of how you discovered steve's marking kink

he loves car sex. it's cramped as hell because he's a lanky little shit but it's his favourite thing

his favourite position is missionary, as basic as it is, but if he's feeling a bit more rough he'll pull you into doggy and pound into you from behind

steve has a pretty good sex drive but after work he would literally rather cuddle than have sex

but then he also has days where he's pulling you into fuckin closets to fuck you because he has to have you there & then

he just loves to hold you straight after, arms wrapped tightly around you as he presses kisses to your bare skin

billy hargrove

billy is probably the most experienced out of all of them. he's got a new girl every other week (minimum) so his body count is pretty high i'm ngl

he's not fucking stupid about it though - he gets tested for shit regularly and uses protection

any sort of sex with billy would start casually

there would be no emotion but that does not mean he doesn't fuck your brains out

it's pretty much a silent agreement amongst us all that he is well above average in terms of length and width

(his hair is very fair down there so it doesn't need much work, but he does trim it)

and even though billy is ice cold, he very self-aware of his monster dong and will prepare you accordingly with his fingers until you're wet enough - probably actively encourages lube as well

that's pretty much the start and end of him being nice because everything else involves him pounding into you from behind, a hand either pulling your hair back or shoving your face into the pillow

if you can think of a degrading nickname i can guarantee that he's used it

billy's favourite sight is you on your knees in front of him

he leaves marks everywhere; bruises on your hips, hickeys on your neck, between your legs, literally everywhere

but you tell him to stop at any minute and 100% he will

aftercare in that stage of your relationship is pretty much non-existent. he'll ask if you're okay but then his jeans are on and he's out the door before you can even come back down from your high

NOW let's assume, by some freak of nature, you manage to make this man feel something for you

sex will be different after that. there will still be times when it's all of the above but there's a more giving side of him that you can unlock, like some freaky sex video game

he'll let you be on top for once, which is pretty much unheard of before; hands exploring all over your body - probably settling on your ass tbh - but occasionally tangling your fingers with his

billy will kiss you during as well which he never did before

he never spoke before either, but when you're more intimate he's using all kind of pet names

his go to "my girl/boy/etc" but also "sweetheart" and "angel"

there's aftercare as well!! mostly he just wants to hold you and be vulnerable for a second, but he'll also clean you up and sleep beside you

[putellas11]

A/N:  Merry Christmas everyone! 🎁🎄 So happy to participate in the Christmas Writing Challenge alongside such an amazing group of writers. Thank you to @nytb for putting all this together! Check out @nytb’s fic that was posted earlier as well as @redhairedwolfwitch's fic coming out soon!

Small but Meaningful (Mapi Leon x Reader)

You’re not one to make impulsive decisions. It’s crucial to think things through and carefully consider all the pros and cons before making a final verdict. It doesn’t matter if it's deciding on a new job or a new pair of shoes, the process is the same. 

To you, this is completely normal. It’s the way you’ve always been. To others, however, it’s a little extreme. Everyone in your life, at some point or another, has encouraged you to be more spontaneous. To not think things through so much and to just go with the flow. But, they quickly realize that it’s just not in your nature. 

And yet, you managed to fall in love with one of the most impulsive human beings you’ve ever met. Unlike you, María Pilar León rarely gives more than five minutes of thought to any decision. If her heart calls for it, she will do it. Mapi doesn’t fear consequences. She knows she can handle anything and everything that is thrown her way. And that’s why you love her so much.

Her tattoos are a perfect example of this. One night, the two of you are just lying in bed, scrolling through social media and occasionally showing each other a funny video or meme. 

And then all of the sudden, Mapi sits up with a gasp, “me encanta!” 

On her screen is a tattoo design of a skull with an outline of a light bulb. The moment you see it, you know the two of you will be in a tattoo parlour in less than 24 hours. 

And just as you predicted, you’re now sitting next to Mapi as she discusses a few modifications to the design with the artist. Within seconds, Mapi made a decision that can last forever. She liked it, so she’s getting it. For her, it’s that easy.

You’ve thought about getting a tattoo before. The idea initially excites you, but once you really start thinking about it, you end up talking yourself out of it. Although Mapi’s personality and perspective on life have certainly rubbed off on you a little, just the thought of getting a tattoo gives you a headache. 

With the design finalized, Mapi can barely contain her excitement. “Do you like it?” she asks, looking at you with a sparkle in her eye. 

You may never actually get one yourself, but that doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate the beauty of tattoos. Not to mention how hot they look on your girlfriend. 

“I love it, babe.” 

Mapi, satisfied to hear your answer, leans back to allow the artist to apply the stencil to her skin.

“And when will I have the honor of tattooing you, Y/N?” asks the artist, still focused on her work.

Mapi stifles her laughter. She, of all people, knows the chances of you ever getting a tattoo are slim, if non-existent. 

“Por favor, don’t make me laugh,” Mapi shakes her head, a teasing smile on her lips, “I think her brain would short-circuit trying to pick out a tattoo.” 

You nod, in full agreement with Mapi. “Not an exaggeration.”

“You should have seen her last week trying to pick out a new toothbrush. She had like five tabs opened on her phone, just reading review after review.” 

You squint your eyes at Mapi, giving her a little kick. “Hey! It was a big decision and it didn’t even take me that long to decide, anyway.” 

“Remind me again how long it took you?” 

You look down at the floor, feeling a little warmth creeping up behind your neck, “I don’t know,” you mumble, “like 30 minutes.”

Mapi turns to the artist and gives them a clear and obvious, I told you so, look. “You see what I’m dealing with?” 

“I’ll get one, one day…” you say, trying your best to sound confident. 

“Sure you will, baby. Sure you will.” 

You and Mapi may be two very different people, that doesn’t mean you don’t share a few similarities. Like Mapi, you are very competitive. The very few times in your life when you’ve said, fuck it, without thinking of the consequences, have been for the sake of winning. 

“Go ahead, underestimate me. That’ll be fun.”

Mapi, noticing the change in your tone, blows a kiss in your direction. She loves to tease you, but also knows not to push you too much. Unlike so many others in your past, she never wants to make you feel bad for what some might consider a flaw. 

“You could always just be a little one, y’know,” the artist says, working on the lines of the tattoo “and if it means something to you, even better. Small but meaningful.” 

You remain relatively quiet for the remainder of the session, lost in thought. What the artist said resonated with you. 

Small, but meaningful. 

___________

For the first time in years, you don’t have to stress about what to get Mapi for Christmas. She has loved every gift you’ve given her in the past — no matter how simple or expensive the gift. But still, you agonize for months on what to get her. 

Now, just a few days before Christmas, you’ve never been so calm. Of course, Mapi has noticed how out of the ordinary this is for you. 

“Something’s not right,” she says, standing in front of the TV and blocking your view. 

“What do you mean?” 

Mapi looks you up and down, “you’re acting weird.” 

“How am I acting weird?”

“Two days before Christmas and you’re sitting here, watching TV, calm as a cucumber.”

“And what’s so weird about that?” you try to look past Mapi and at the screen, acting oblivious as to what the big deal is. 

Mapi snaps her fingers at you in an attempt to get your attention, “you should be freaking out!” she exclaims. “This is like the most stressful time of year for you. I mean, did you just decide not to get me a gift this year?”

“I already know what I’m getting you, amor” you tell her, brushing her off.

“You do?” 

“Mhmm.”

Mapi squints her eyes at you, one eyebrow slightly perked in suspicion. She knows you have something up your sleeve, but you know she’ll never be able to guess as to exactly what. 

For the next two days, you find Mapi snooping under the bed, in the closet, in every cabinet and every possible hiding spot in the apartment. If you were able to decide on a gift so quickly, it must be a good one. 

Now, sitting together under the Christmas tree, Mapi’s gift is still nowhere in sight. 

“I can’t take this anymore!” she says, tapping her knees impatiently, “come on, stop messing with me and give me my gift.” 

You’re just as excited to show Mapi her gift as she is to receive it. Her impatience is to be understood. This is the first gift you've given her that did not require any second guessing out of fear that she’ll hate it. 

Wanting to draw out the suspense, your movements are slow. Very carefully you tug up the sleeve of your Christmas sweater. Mapi can’t help but lean forward when she sees the reindeer band-aid on your wrist. 

“What happened?” she asks with concern. The gift is suddenly of no interest to her. 

“Go ahead, take it off,” you encourage her. Now only a few seconds away from the reveal, you can’t help the grin spreading across your face.

Mapi delicately pulls on the end of the band-aid until a small, number 4, can be seen. As soon as she sees it, she leans back. A puzzled look on her face. 

“What is that?” she asks, refusing to believe what she's seeing.  

“What do you think it is?” 

Mapi shakes her head, refusing to even believe the possibility. “No, I don't believe you” she says, leaning in again to get a closer look. “It can’t be real.” She wets her finger and tries to wipe away the number, but there it remains. 

“I know I tend to overthink everything and that it drives you crazy sometimes — even though I know you’ll never admit it,” you tug her chin so she’s looking you in the eyes, “but if there’s one thing, I’m hundred percent certain of, it’s you.” 

Mapi melts under your touch. She’s perfectly aware of how big of a decision this was for you and the fact that she’s the inspiration for your first tattoo makes it all that more special.

“I love it,” Mapi gives you a big smile and leans in to give you a soft and tender kiss, “and I love you,” she says against your lips.

Her reaction is everything you hoped for and more. 

“I have so many cool designs to show you!” she says, shaking you side to side with her hands on your shoulders. 

You put up your hand to stop her, “wait, don't you get too excited now.”

But it's too late. Mapi's already reaching for her phone.  

[starsurface]

LOVED the diapered babyspace Liu Kang post, especially because I’ve been so sick with a tooth abscess this week and these were so comforting to read!! tysm!!! I’d love to see any more you have for diapered Liu across both timelines lol, especially if he’s feeling fussy because maybe he got sick too but needs Raiden to look after him? They’re so precious! 😭

I'm so glad you liked them!!! I'm very glad they they're comforting for you, Sugar. <3 These are a bit more on them being sick, but I promise there are some diaper hcs there too!!!

Also I hope you feel better!!!! That really doesn't sound super fun. :(

A quick restate from my last Padded Request:

(Some strong languageuse) Before we get to the hcs, I want to say that there is nothing wrong with using or needing diapers. Some people use diapers use them for weird kink related things, but with age regression they are used for comfort and unfortunate inconvenience. Do not come to my blog because you wish to relate this with any kind of kink. Kindly fuck off and leave my blog alone, thank you.

^ This isn’t to bash regressors btw!!! This is me saying to fuck off if your a dd/lg or any type of blog like that. <3

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

CG Lord Raiden w/ Babyspace Regressor Liu Kang That Uses Diapers MK11 Hcs pt 2

⛈️ Liu Kang doens’t get sick often, normally he get use his powers to burn whatever he has away

❤️‍🔥 Othertimes he’d just tough it out, either until it goes away, or until Kung Lao forces him to go to bed (and that’s when he’s sick sick)

⛈️ Raiden is a bit upset when he finds out how sick Liu kang is, and how he tried to ignore his physical health to train, but any lecture he has is going to have to wait

❤️‍🔥 Why? Because the moment Liu Kang sees him he starts blubbering, making grabby hands towards his Dada

⛈️ He’s tiny tiny too, feeling all sick and icky, he just wants to be babbied :(

❤️‍🔥 Raiden will put him into some padding, which makes Liu Kang very fussy

⛈️ He might feel icky and tiny, but he doesn’t need one!!! He’s big! He swears he’s big! >:(

❤️‍🔥 Raiden gently shushes him, saying it’s just a precaution, and lets Liu Kang throw a small tantrum before changing him

⛈️ Unfortunaly . . . Liu does end up needing it, which only makes a crying fit happen

❤️‍🔥 Raiden gently shushes him, rocking the poor boy before giving him a gentle bath and changing him again

⛈️ Liu Kang ends up feeling better quickly, especially with how Raiden makes him have yucky medicine and a lot of naptime

❤️‍🔥 Liu Kang would despise any kind of colorful design on his padding

⛈️ Those are baby baby diapers!!! He doesn’t need to use those!!! >:O

❤️‍🔥 He’d much rather have plain padding, atleast for a while

⛈️ Would be devastated if anyone other than Raiden, Kitana, or Kung Lao knew he used them

❤️‍🔥So when Raiden accidentally forgets to put the box away and Sonya questions him about it? 

⛈️ Freak. Out.

❤️‍🔥 Absolute tears, sobbing over the fact someone found out, even if Raiden was asked about it and Liu wasn’t

⛈️ ^ Don’t worry, the rest of the gang was very supportive about it, and Sonya apoligized for snooping through Raiden’s room (she wasn’t snooping, she was just trying to find Raiden, total difference, but whatever 🙄)

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

CG Raiden w/ Babyspace Regressor Liu Kang That Uses Diapers MK1 Hcs pt 2

🌩️ Gods don’t usually get sick, such an ocurance is extremely rare

🌟 But that doesn’t mean it’s truly impossible

🌩 His monks are the one who send him back home, and Liu Kang uses his baby monitor to kinda beg for Raiden to come over

🌟 He wants his Rai Rai, and he feels too tiny to get up :(

🌩 Luckily, Raiden came over very quickly, almost in a rush (he didn’t want his baby to be all icky and alone)

🌟 Liu Kang is a little less fussy about wearing some padding, but still whines and tell Raiden that he’s not that tiny 🥺

🌩 Although . . . he clearly is, and Raiden isn’t buying his little fit

🌟 He does end up needing them, which does resolve in another crying fit, but Raiden’s very soft and gentle about it

🌩 Giving Liu Kang a nice warm bath, putting him into something comfy, it’s never nice feeling small and icky :(

🌟 Kung Lao pulled some strings and got Liu Kang and Raiden some soup from Madam Bo’s (Madam Bo just also adores baby Liu Kang, and might have given him a discount . . . Lao calls favortism)

🌩 He does feel better very quickly!! Being a God, and a fire God, he ends up feeling good about the next day

🌟 Is a little more open to padding with cute designs on them, especially since Raiden has some for when he’s small

🌩 Gasped and almost became a bit excited when Raiden showed him one with tiny dragons on it, and those are the ones that Liu Kang uses the most

🌟 ^ It does help Liu Kang’s little fits about padding lessen, and Raiden didn’t know why he didn’t think of something dragon related earlier

🌩 Or, until Johnny made a small joke about it, and now Liu Kang’s crying in Raiden’s arms

🌟 Johnny gets sent to a timeout, which also causes him to regress, and now Raiden has two fussy little ones to take care of

🌩 Liu Kang upset because he was just getting more comfy with padding and even though Johnny’s joke was more about dragons, it was still about him using padding and he didn’t like it

🌟 And Johnny’s upset because in his eyes, he didn’t do anything wrong!! He just made a joke, he doesn’t know why Liu Liu’s all upset!!

🌩 ^ Don’t worry, Johnny does apoligize after Raiden explains that Liu doesn’t like those kind of jokes, and Liu Kang does forgive him (and gets Johnny out of a second timeout because Kenshi wasn’t too happy about the situation)

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

[rin-and-jade]

I'm Definitely Faking: A Post about Self Doubt

Alright, i get it. Many people had done things like these but it won't stop me from taking this topic deeper than anyone had done (as i ever read them too) so, for any of you who are interested, or attempt to find a dedicated answer/discussion around this topic, please and PLEASE read it, you will not regret this.

I'm very sure most of you are doing your usual routine, until a thought strike at you fast as lightning, "wait, what if i'm just faking __", or if you knew something you "shouldn't" (say, being a system) then it makes you spiral down the rabbit hole, right? And it is not beautiful, it's extremely taxing both emotionally and mentally. Nobody wants to lie accidentally to people, what if we're actually fine? How would you know? Are you tricking people to get the attention you never received as a child?? How would you actually know?? And etc. I will tell you how. It will stop those doubts for good.

Where it all started..

First of all, anything can be the starting point to where it all goes down. But, generally speaking i think it stems from how people think of what being a system is like, and i mean it in a personal view. Too rare to have one? Probably faking, Good communication? Faking, aware of other presence of parts? I'm faking, can't switch? Faking again, darn it. You get the idea here, right?

About that crippling doubt of mine..

Why would someone panic when they think they’re faking, when real fakers never gave a fuck? The problem is not on the disorder but more on the lack of proof for certainty,, and because you start to doubt from it, you then think you’re actually faking. I have a few to say about how it attacks, so bare with me:

Tendency to think on extremes When you start to think that having something means needing to suffer for like every single second.. that one minute period of ease and relieve will be the bullet in the gun to trigger a thought of "faking". Getting a better view that, for example how depression means you can laugh or feel good from a comfort show, does not mean you don't have depression due to that particular moment.

Focusing on the wrong dot What if i tell you, that you might be looking at the wrong side? Be it only looking at one side of the coin (biased towards looking for clues to prove yourself wrong, e.g. alters are not distinguishable from each other, and so it means you're not a system) or focusing too much about how other's experience is like and if you don't relate then you're not real, or maybe you have your own assumptions/expectations about how the disorder should look like and when it doesn't meet the criteria.. well.. you know what to say.

"I feel like.." When emotions hits to the roof, logic gets thrown out from the house. Tell me who can think well in stressful moments,, the answer is no one, some can appear more collected or have a higher tolerance before they can panic but you get the point. We all have feelings at the end of the day, no one is unfeeling and no one can escape from it,, i'm not saying you have neglect it, more like i want you to be aware when those said emotions are controlling (more like affecting) your thoughts. Too much of it can throw off the balance in rationality, easier to dismiss proof, and worser decision making. So, if you feel overwhelmed,, make a quick choice on calming yourself down, it will be easier to challenge the worries and negative thoughts once you are aware and actively practicing.

This isn't my first time..

You guessed it. Sometimes one assurance won't do the trick anymore after a few weeks, it comes back with more and more bullets to shoot you down, who says the bullets are gone when someone makes a post about people that their experience is valid? You have to work on yourself, because one day, you will doubt about something people never post and you are alone,, dealing with all the murky thoughts will be less harder, if you follow these tips:

Everyone is different, the disorder never look static and same for everyone. Having a different struggle or way of functioning never equates to being a fraud. Tell yourself that.

Focusing on evidence, not on what you don't experience or have, being a green apple does not make you a pear,, you are still an apple because of its shape and taste and overall appearance. Not just because you're green, it invalidates every other evidence of what counts as an apple.

Throw away all those unhelpful confirmations, you don't need to constantly check wether your other parts are real, you don't need to know having a blackout means you're still not faking, you don't need anything related to this? Because we are going to heal and learn, confirming becomes obsolete,, as things will change, clinging onto an image on how you should be or live like will do no good. Seeking constant assurance does more harm.

Never downplay your own experiences. Easier said than done but i know someone will say right on my face that being beaten up regularly by a father is not that bad to develop trauma or a system (for example) while it darn is. If things are downplayed more often and to many aspects, you will be more prone to thinking that you're "faking". Due to the nature that developing this disorder requires severe and ongoing trauma, and guess what,, trauma comes in all forms.

With this, it will be much easier to accept you have a disorder,, and accept that it's not all black and white, actually this can be applied with anything, but my point is that. Practice more compassion for yourself, by understanding and being aware,, and not resorting to self negativity or elses, this will not be a major problem for you ever again. Also noting that yes its alright to relapse and question everything again, but this time you fight back,, you hear me soldier?

Do you copy that, *walkie-talkie sound*

- j

[missnight0wl]

Y7Ch57: The Final “Battle”

*sigh*

Ok, let’s talk about this disaster.

Ah, yes. Because everyone knows that as soon as Dumbledore is not at Hogwarts, the faculty becomes totally incapable of doing anything – including people like Minerva Badass McGonagall or Filius Former-Duelling-Champion Flitwick. Yes, of course.

Funny that you say that, Jae. I’ll actually come back to it a little later.

You know what? No. Rowan would cry at least for a week straight if they knew how fucking stupid everyone is at this point.

All right, that might be my biggest problem with this whole “battle” because… WHY?? Why do we even care whether or not they get to Hogwarts? Minnie alone would kick their asses in under a minute – and quite frankly, I’d love to see it. Just let them through!

WHY THE FUCK DO WE CARE?!

Ok, so it’s never really explained who’s exactly Perry’s target here. Sure, we’re told it’s about an adult Legilimens, and MC deduced that both Dumbledore and Snape are adult Legilmenses. Still, it’s never addressed directly again, and it kinda bothers me. But whatever, I guess. Apparently, we’re supposed to assume that it’s indeed Snape who’s Perry’s target. But like… if there’s anyone at Hogwarts fully capable of defending themselves... IT’S SNAPE. Like… just imagine this encounter.

Perry: Severus Snape? I have a proposition for you that--

Snape: *lazily waves his wand*

Perry: *flies over the Black Lake, slightly smoking because of the impact of Snape’s spell that hit him*

Or…

Perry: Severus Snape? I’m Peregrine Lastname, I’m the father of MC and Jacob. I--

Snape: Sectumsempra!

Perry: AAAAAAAAAA!

Snape: I suffered years because of your two spawns.

Perry: Help! I’m bleeding out!

Snape: Yes, that’s a very accurate description of my suffering.

Seriously, why do we care?! I swear, this fucking “battle” has no stakes whatsoever, and I just don’t understand why it even exists.

Another absurd: why the fuck Verucca wants to kill Peregrine?

Ok, so at least it’s clear that Verucca is indeed a Snyde because apparently, all the Snydes are stupid bitches. If Verucca thought just for a moment, she’d realise that the Ministry focusing on Peregrine meant they’re focusing less on her. And that means she can do whatever she wants more freely. But whatever, I guess.

And here’s another stupidity. If Verucca wants to lead R, all she has to do is to convince other members that Perry is insane and that she’d be better for the whole organisation. Like, it should be super easy after he fucked up with the recent mind control test. And who fucking cares that he ruined R’s name or whatever? Rebel people against Perry, lay low for some time, change the name of the organisation, and enjoy your fucking profit! What would Perry do when left alone??

Because I’m gonna do it myself!

A friendly reminder that Verucca is also Merula’s mother’s sister (according to Y5Ch28) which means it’s quite likely Merula’s parents are cousins – which is not rare among pureblood families, after all :)

I know, it’s really disappointing.

Also, the Circle of Khanna behind us, especially Ben and Corey (and especially if you chose to ban Merula from the Circle a couple of chapters ago):

No, really, it’s just… so pathetic, considering that the vast majority of the Circle never cared about Merula and Merula never cared about them.

I… I’m…

HOW EVERYTHING ABOUT IT IS SO BAD??

Also, WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS FIRE?!?!?! How anyone at JC looked at this and was like: “Yeah, that’s good enough”?! I swear we had dragon fire animations before better than this abomination…

Ok, but Ben’s utter disappointment in this scene is the only good thing in this damn chapter. I can even say I actually enjoyed it.

I mean… Yeah, there were 17 of you and 7 of them, so… By the way, I talked more more about the fighting alone in this post.

Ok, but does anyone remember that R is supposed to be an international organisation? Was it simply retconned or are we supposed to believe that an international organisation has like… 14 members? Am I counting it correctly? Perry, 7 idiots he brought with him, Verucca, Merula, Shiratori, Burke, Zenith Xeep, and Rakepick. Right?

I don’t know how it’s possible, but this whole situation gets more and more pathetic the more I think about it.

Also, I mentioned in the post linked above that I felt more threatened by Mrs Norris in Y1. But you know what else had more tension than this damn “battle”? Our very first trip to Knockturn Alley. Remember this?

Now, let’s compare those situations.

Honestly, it’s just so upsetting that this game used to be created by people who actually could create tension for one simple event that doesn’t even matter that much in the great picture, and now we’re getting… THIS. The final “battle” with R had literally no stakes. There was no logic and therefore also no threats. I felt absolutely nothing, and I’m truly baffled remembering how many emotions this story could give me back in Y5.

Unfortunately, it all changed with the extremely stupid end of Y5, and it was getting only worse ever since. It’s like JC’s greatest ambition is making things worse than Y5Ch31 was.

But let’s move on because I’m not done.

MC’s reaction is about as emotional as I felt during this whole chapter. It’s just hilarious, sorry not sorry.

Ok, so at first, I wanted to leave this part because JC clearly doesn’t know what they’re doing anymore. But you know what? I’m gonna rant. Because no, Rowan’s sacrifice was not honoured. And quite frankly, you keep desecrating it by still using it at this point.

Learning the truth was something very important for Rowan. I mean, this is our conversation from the end of Y1:

By the end of Y7, I’m pretty sure we didn’t solve a single mystery of the story. And what’s the worst is that we didn’t solve the mystery of Rowan’s death. Sure, Peregrine told us that Rakepick went rogue or whatever. But it still makes no fucking sense.

First of all, only an idiot would believe in anything Peregrine says. But more importantly, we actually know about things suggesting that Peregrine lies. In the insane route, Rakepick in Azkaban is absolutely terrified of R, so how she’d go rogue if that’s the case? On top of that, we saw in Olivia’s memories that Rakepick talked with someone from R about Duncan brewing his potion. Yet, Peregrine claimed that R didn’t get involved with the Cursed Vaults until Jacob went missing. You know what it means? It means that Perry fucking lied. And if he lied about something this important, why should we believe him about anything else?

Moreover, we still don’t know why Rowan died. Rakepick told us in Azkaban that it wasn’t Rowan who was supposed to die that night. Then who? Ben? Why? Sure, Rakepick herself claimed in the Forest that she wanted to kill MC. And sure, you can say it makes sense if she saw MC as her competition – except it makes no sense! Why? Because it only made things harder for her. And the game even addressed that!

Why would Rakepick make things so much harder for herself just to get rid of her competition? Especially since she should’ve known where the Sunken Vault is because we know that R was there before (thanks to the note from the Weird Sisters TLSQ). But even if she didn’t know… it still would be more reasonable to not draw attention to herself and simply use it to work on getting to the Vault before MC.

You didn’t honour Rowan’s sacrifice. You ignored about 95% of things that ever happened in the game.

[chewyjellycable]

You should talk about the remnant parasite au more you really should i am wiggling my magic fingers at you and casting a spell at you that makes you talk about your interests and ideas forever💥💥💥💥💥

WAHHH it took me a hot minute to get to this ask but I am smiling big and wide and am ready to ramble about this AU. I may repeat some information from previous posts and some info might be different since I ACTUALLY THOUGHT ABOUT IT more. This will mainly be about Xylitol Nova's fall to the parasite and is somewhat of a preamble to the Cyborg stuff.

WARNINGS: Talk of Parasites, Terminal Illness

Xylitol Nova is infected with a parasite caused by his Xyl-Suit breaking during his search for XyL-Q. He seems alright for the first week or so on the ship that the Xylitol population is stuck with living in. After which, Nova begins to show small signs of infection. They're minor things. Mouth pain, eye aches while waking up, anxiety... And appearing a bit out of it now and then.

The leader "goes missing" for recovery, which essentially is him going into hiding (none of the other residents aside from Xylitol Researcher know) in one of many residential rooms on the ship while Researcher gives him the usual check-up.

Give it another week, and the symptoms have not gone away. If anything, they have gotten worse. Not to mention Nova being alone in his containment, as comfortable as it is, does not help his mental state. Thoughts of violence and destruction that once cropped up very rarely appear in his mind more often, scaring Nova much more than it should.

Researcher arrives to give Nova another check-in, getting some... odd results from the scans that they run. They run it again, and... It's shown to them that the infection that their leader has is sourced from the very thing that destroyed Planet Xylitol. The parasite is attached to Nova's heart.

Researcher emplores Nova to make an announcement for recovery, because despite all this, he doesn't want his citizens to worry about anything. Especially not after the whole disaster they've endured. Nova reluctantly agrees.

Before any more notes can be made, Researcher is spooked by the whites of Nova's eyes being blackened. They're blood-shot, but rather than blood, it's some black bile produced by the parasite.

Other symptoms that Nova experiences over time: Blood being replaced by the black bile, lethargy, an increase of violent thoughts and an increasing desire to act on those, a lowered ability to take in nutrients, replacement of existing teeth with much sharper versions, various aches and pains ranging from mild to debilitating, other parasitic symptoms...

Rather than having only Researcher working on this task, Nova permits them to have a group of medical staff (hence where Cyborg comes in). Progress is slow, practically non-existent.

The leader becomes less and less peaceful and willing to participate in tests and scans. There's a moment where Nova nearly wails his staff on Researcher but stops himself just before. The horror between those two lingers and only becomes worse the more time passes.

And though Nova becomes more intent on destroying others, after a particularly bad scuffle with Researcher, he stops attacking them. Particularly them. Testing is resisted, but Researcher isn't harmed. It's odd- as if there isn't a point to that any longer.

Researcher has the idea of throwing Nova into space or just. Killing him outright. That way the infection doesn't get any worse- though that only means the parasite would spread through the rest of space. This thought scares the hell out of them and gets them to check themself for any form of infection. And, unfortunately, the readings come back positive for the black hole's remnant parasite.

Not only have they caught the parasite, not only is the leader unable to act like himself and needs to be actively restrained in due time, but... Testing the other medical staff almost all come back positive. With no progress on slowing or stopping this parasite, the ship may very well be doomed. It doesn't help that the infection's symptoms halt any progress between staff members.

Note the Almost. Cyborg, not being a Xylitol and being made of different components and bodily composition, is resistant to the parasite. They essentially become the last hope the more the parasite spreads and the more hosts it begins to inhabit.

[WE ARE XYLITOL. YOU CANNOT BEAT US.]

[chemicallady]

Perfect Pitch

Prologue

A/N: This is just the introduction chapter. If you will be invested in this idea I'll write the entire FF!

Couple: Noah Sebastian x Reader (in which reader is a talented musician and the new member of Bad Omens. This is an Alternative Universe in which the guys decide to pick up someone to fill in for Vincent.)

Content Warning: this FF will include describing different delicate subjects like states of anxiety, depression, gender violence ( bad place, the industry, for a girl) and possible suicidal thought. Be careful if you feel exposed by one or more of this topics. Feel free to write me in PM about anything ♡ Since the main characters of this story are real people, I want to underline that this is the idea I have of them and not the reality since I don't know Bad Omens. I don't want to be disrespectful in any way because I have tons of respect for the guys and their job. I also don't want to dig in their private lives or whatsoever aside the things they reveal by themselves on interviews of post on social, present and past.

Summary:  reader has always wanted to be a musician her entire life. She pictures herself as first chair in a majestic orchestra, but thanks to her soft spot for metalcore, destiny is leading her somewhere special.

....

◇◇◇

The first time you have seen Noah Seabastian, you were in the pit. Vans Warped tour 2017, a fucking hot texan day. You had never heard about Bad Omens before, but they had such an incredible energy on stage. Good enough to surf crowding in front of the barricades to look closer. The bass guitar player smiked at you when he noticed that your shirt was lifted by the continued movement of hands all over your body. In the moment the security put your ass back to the ground you had found a pair of deep brown eyes on you. The singer was asking the crowd to sing along the main course but you had no idea about the lyrics so you simply smirked, lifting all way your tshit and unreveal the bra.

And.... thats it.

Rock'n'roll and a couple of extra beer made you brave.

Nothing less, nothing more.

No hot stories as a groupie walking her way to a bus tour or anything else. Just a glaze, one among millions.

At the end of that hot summer you started to looking for a job after you graduated at Julliard in NYC. It was the best time of your life. You have always been a talented violinist since you were 5. The prodigy from a very small town, ready to astonish New York.

But it never happened.

Always third chair.

Moving around the country as a ball in an arcade grew you tired after 6 months. The low salaries, the necessity of having a home for more than six weeks....

Settle down. Adopt a cat.

You wanted some stability.

So you started to work as a waitress. You have no idea of how you ended again in texas, but life in here is simpler compared with NYC.

Almost a year had passed when you met Shane and Zac. Summer was running out fast when the Oh Sleepers played in the small pub you were working. A couple of words after and a decent amount of good luck brought the singer to share with you an important information.

《 if you can play the bass, I know a band is looking for someone to fill in.》

You can play bass. You can actually play five instrument and sing. This is your only talent. Music. Feeling it. Being able to figure the notes in your head just listening at them once.

The ability of discover a F# when a pillow fall from the sofa on the ground. The ritmic dissonance of a A and a G in your steps while you walk home drunk.

The perfect pitch.

At least, you could work as a music engineer.

Shane was intrigued by the way you tuned a guitar whitout flicking before their show and from your musical curricula. It is far more than it should be in the industry. But he also saw something in you. How much you have work your way though the mud and sweat to end up in a pub, verbaly molested by creepy guys on daily basis.

Such a waste of rare talent.

《 try your luck. That's is his phone number. See if he still wants a replacement or if he's fine with is guitarrist as bass player. I lost track over their decisions, but their good friends of me. The singer slays on stage》

You picked up that piece of paper with a bit of concern. For this guy privacy in a first place but also for you. You were dreaming about orchestras, beautiful dresses with long sleeves to cover your tattoos.... but you have always wanted to be a rockstar.

A queen.

And you have never wanted to be that broke.

So... Why not?

《 alright. Thanks man. Just... what's the name of this guy?》

《 noah. Noah sebastian》.

***

I chose the Oh Sleeper to introduce bad omens to the reader because I've always find this video hilarious. Feel free to give me your opinion about this prologue!

[fangbangerghoul]

My week has felt so looooong and it's only WEDNESDAY!

My spoons are low, and I have released a new chapter of Fleeting Pleasures recently! I haven't gotten to write as much as I wanted but its mostly due to my school work. They really have me reading and writing 24/7.

Tagging the usual! @silurisanguine @eridanidreams @staticpallour @toxiclizardwrites @bearlytolerant @a-cosmic-elf @lisa-and-shadow @aislingdmdt @booburry @therealgchu @samcoesclub @5oh5 @staticpallour (if i forgot you holla at me and I'll add you!)

No one is obligated but it's fun to see you post! Feel free to tag me so I can see your work!

Under the cut is a snippet from Chapter 10 of Fleeting Pleasures!

The tall grass repelled from their movements and tickled the bare skin of his hands. The winds of the planet woefully sung their warning that less than peaceful weather was nigh. The night was just ahead of them but the star that warmed this planet bore on their backs still fighting the horizon and gallantly displayed a warm hue of sunflower kissed yellow. The two of them had just finished up their current excavation and Sam was grateful for it to not only be over but for this planet to be breathable unlike the last four they had journeyed too.

She walked ahead of him, taking her time and her hands softly swinging with the grass. This was one of the rare times her luscious curly green hair was down and the winds whipped it around like two kids fighting over a doll. When she turned back to check on him, her cat-like eyes reflected the planet’s sun like topazes which was a stark contrast to the dark skies behind her.

“Are you coming?” She asked the same topazes staring straight through him, making the storm of feelings within him just as violent as the breeze around them.

“Yeah, just taking a moment to appreciate the view.” He felt a smile creep up on his face as he looked at her in wonder. Sam always wondered if she knew how he really felt. Ghoul put her hands on her hips and stood there trying to patiently wait but they both knew her patience was about as far as she could be thrown.

He started to take a step forward itching to meet her where she stood but something stopped him. It was a sudden and sharp pain in his left side and it made Sam groan out in pain. Ghoul’s face flashed with concerned and as he looked down, he saw crimson stain his shirt and his hands immediately went to apply pressure to the magical wound. When he looked up again the sweet yellow hues from the horizon behind him were gone and the winds picked up rolling the storm from ahead into their area. Ghoul’s face was pale, jaunt, and her golden eyes dimmed as if she were a lifeless corpse. Her mouth twisted in dismay and pain as if frustrated with him.

“I told you, you shouldn’t of came.” She said coldly, her face relaxed into resignation with every ounce of empathy washed away from her.

His surrounds became black, the floor beneath him now replaced with manmade metal in place of the soft earth that was there before. They were on Sondoor. He was here with here again. The pain spread throughout his veins and he felt a sharpness within his chest. His instinct was to reach out to her, for her to grab his hand but she now was adorned with Crimson Fleet attire and took a step away from him. Shadows that shouldn’t be there casted along her face painting a new picture that produced crashing waves of sorrow within himself.   

Then he woke.

[iisasarcasticlittleshite]

Comfort Mini Series Part 6 (U.Tengen)

This may or may not be a direct result of my binge watching demon slayer all day. I can neither confirm nor deny...but this might not be the only demon slayer post you see outta me.

Uzui Tengen

You dropped your blade at the door, sliding it onto its mount on the wall beneath Tengen's.

Suma spots you almost immediately, bounding over in delight at your return.

It's rare for you to be sent on a mission alone, this one, for one reason or another, was solo. It should have been straightforward, but demons never make anything easy.

'Welcome home, honey! I'm so glad you're back, Hina made dumplings and...oh.'

The moment she dives into your arms, she knows something's wrong. Your shoulders sit tense and your heart is still racing as if you were fresh off the battlefield.

'Suma! Don't just go crowding them first thing! They could be hurt!' Makio rounded the corner, her scolding glare falling away the instant you met her gaze.

They know you too well by now, there's no hiding anything from them, and as Suma slides herself under your arm to make room for Makio to kiss you in greeting, the household goes into comfort mode.

The two make quick work of baring your feet and ridding you of your haori and no amount of objecting will change their minds. They may bicker through the whole process, but their hands are achingly gentle.

Prodding for wounds, you're sure.

'Nothing of consequence, I promise.' You smiled, eyes desperate to fill with affection, rather than the stress of the past two weeks away from home.

Hinatsuru joins you soon after, happily pulling you into her arms with nothing but pure understanding.

They have you bathed and fuss over even the smallest of scrapes before redressing you in comfortable robes and herding you to the bedroom.

Tengen finds you there, still being pampered, your body liquifying under your wives' loving attention. They spoiled you rotten, or rather, you spoiled each other, rotten.

'Well well, you make good time!' There's relief in his eyes, tension leaving him as he sees you home at last.

He has no reason to doubt your ability to bring yourself home for him, but that'll never stop him from worrying whenever you're sent off alone.

He bends to kiss you, long and deep, savouring the safe return of the missing member of his family.

Even when his lips part from yours, he does not go far, resting his forehead against yours as your breaths mingle in the space between you.

'You're alright?' He prompted.

You smiled, pecking his lips affectionately. 'Of course, and I won, obviously.'

There's such freedom in being with them, such acceptance in being nothing more or less than yourself. They loved you so wholeheartedly, faults and all.

Tengen let loose a boisterous laugh as Suma cooed, snuggling into your side again. Makio lingered off your opposite shoulder, her warm skin brushing yours before she reached for your hand.

'Well of course you won! Keep that up and you'll be flashier than me one day!'

'Somehow, I doubt that.'

Hina leaned up to kiss his cheek, gently pushing him out of the room. 'Come on, all this flashiness calls for dinner.'

'Right! Come here, gorgeous!'

'Wha-hey!'

He knows those shadows in your eyes just as well as anyone else. He knows when that smile doesn't quite reach your eyes, and he hates that he can't just make you happy and watch it go away. Those memories are yours, and you'll carry them forever, the same way he does, the way all of you do.

He also knows that nothing melts your heart more than cuddles, you're a sucker for physical affection and if spoiling you rotten for a day or two is all it takes to ease that beautiful mind of yours, it's an easy price to pay.

Already aware of his plan, the ladies follow him out to the dining room as he's scooped you up and left you securely in his lap at the dinner table, enveloped in his arms, the safest place in the world.

You spent the night there, being passed from one loving embrace to the next, despite your brave face.

They know you smile for them, they know you try for them, and deep down, they know you don't respect that life order Tengen gave you.

If push came to shove, you'd set the world on fire for the, watch it burn if it meant they'd be safe. It's not something you can change, and they'd never want you too, so making sure you never have to is part of life for them.

Such if life in this, your perfect little family.

[cricketnationrise]

Hi! I’m so excited to leave a prompt! 7:12am, Dex, and the Haus kitchen!

hey if this is your prompt come say hi properly!

want your own ficlet? rules here [ONE WEEK LEFT]

🏒🏒🏒🏒

haus kitchen, 7:12am

Dex wakes up to the scent of warm cinnamon wafting down the stairs. There’s something so nice about waking up on his own, no alarms, no practice, no shifts at the student center – just a rare Saturday with no obligations. In fact, Dex is almost asleep again, so comfortable in his blanket cocoon, when he gasps – Bitty is visiting Jack this weekend. He rolls over to check the clock and frowns. It’s just a little after seven on a Saturday, usually the Haus is totally still, only faint snores of hockey players to disturb the peace. But today, there’s spices in the air and if he strains himself, Dex can hear the coffee maker bubbling away. 

Quickly getting socks on his perpetually cold feet and throwing on his warmest sweats, Dex climbs the stairs to the main floor and makes his way silently to the kitchen. The sight of Nursey carefully drizzling some sort of brown sauce into a bundt pan stops him in the doorway. His tongue is poking out the side of his mouth in concentration. It’s cute.

Nursey finishes his drizzling and slides the pan into the oven, setting an alarm on his phone. As Nursey bustles around gathering up his dishes, Dex spots a second bundt pan sitting on a cooling rack. It’s clearly the source of the smell and Dex can’t help but drift into the kitchen properly, drawn inexorably toward the aroma.

A quiet “holy shit,” slips out when he gets near enough to see the beautifully baked Monkey Bread inside. The biscuit pieces are a perfect deep golden color underneath the caramelized butter and brown sugar topping. The mixture is actually still bubbling around the edges – clearly fresh from the oven. Dex’s mouth waters; he hasn’t had Monkey Bread since the last Christmas his grandma was alive – no one in his family has had the heart to make it since. He’s so lost in his sense memory that he doesn’t register the water turning off. 

“Fucking hell, Dexy, make a noise why don’t you?” Dex turns to see Nursey clutching the counter with a death grip, his other hand braced over his heart, the very picture of cliche startlement.

“Sorry – I just – Monkey Bread?”

“Yeah,” Nursey says, still breathing harder than normal, “I woke up randomly early, couldn’t go back to sleep – had a craving. My Auntie used to make it once a month like clockwork. Figured I’d give it a go. Share with the team if it went okay enough.”

“I’d say it went more than okay. It smells amazing. Just like my grandma’s.”

“High praise indeed. Poindexter seal of approval,” Nursey teases.

“Doesn’t come lightly,” Dex jokes, “There’s usually a rigorous application process.”

Nursey’s eyes crinkle up as he laughs, no less devastatingly beautiful for how quiet it is in deference to their still-sleeping Haus-mates. Dex feels his breath catch in his throat.

A soft chiming breaks the moment and Dex reminds himself to actually exhale while Nursey checks his phone.

“The first one’s done cooling,” he says, moving to the counter. He pauses, then looks at Dex for a long moment, searching. Dex holds still, uncertain, but Nursey must find whatever he was looking for in Dex’s expression because he beckons Dex closer with a jerk of his head. “Help me flip this? I don’t want to drop it now and ruin it.”

“It looks so good I’d even eat it if it fell on this floor, but sure.”

“Wouldn’t want you to catch something – you know we’re only four days post-Kegster, the floor is still half biohazard.” Nursey pulls out the platter that Bitty normally piles high with cookies and lays it over top of the bundt pan, then hands over a set of oven mitts. “You hold that side, and I’ll take this side and we’ll flip on three, okay?”

Dex nods, Nursey counts, and they flip the pan in perfect sync with each other – clearly d-men magic is good for other things besides hockey. Nursey carefully pries the bundt pan up, revealing a perfectly formed ring of biscuity-cinnamony-buttery-gooey goodness. Delicious, yes – good for their diet plans, no. Dex will be eating at least a third of it regardless.

“Here,” Nursey says, handing over a fork. “Dig in.”

There’s no talking for a while after that, just the soft groans of delight at the taste, the contented hum of well-fed hockey players.

[thatwritingho]

Strap... Pregnancy?

Pairing: Relish Rating: Explicit Summary: What the title says! A direct follow up to Strap Breeding. Completely AU! Inspired by the posts going around about strap getting you pregnant in the mtl universe, and by my buddy m3ga's strap pregnancy post! Also featuring Robin Greeves, who belongs to m3ga! Tagging: @m3gahet

Read on AO3 here!

It wasn't until weeks later that news of a mysterious new strap-on which was magically causing pregnancy caught Pickles’ eye, the drummer freezing at the headline, blood running cold. He didn't fully understand the science of it, nor did he care to, as the important facts stood out — the strap increased libido of the wearer, allowing them to cum harder, mixing in their own bodily fluid with the cum lube, warping the structure of their genetic makeup only enough to allow copulation.

Pickles had been ravenous these last few weeks, fucking like an animal while mostly using his favorite new squirting strap-on. A strap-on, it was now dawning on him, that made him cum really, really hard. A strap-on that he rarely had to refill.

Oh.

Fuck.

Olive had her tubes tied, but… she had been waking up sick the last few days, had been moodier than usual, and come to think of it… when was her last period?

And… when was Robin's?

Oh.

FUCK.

When he made it to Olive's room, he found her in her bathroom, staring at the pregnancy test in hand, another on the black marble counter. He could see the two lines on both sticks from where he stood.

When she didn't speak, he inhaled a breath, floundering for words but beginning a sentence all the same, "Oliv-"

"Did you see the news, too?"

Mouth dry, he nodded, "Y-yeah."

"Incredible, huh?"

Pierced brows furrowed, "I-I guess, dat's one words fer it, but-"

"I mean, like, scientifically. That this can even happen at all... it's incredible, huh? Like, how amazing is this? For humanity as a whole? For all the couples who couldn't have children together before, and now they can? Like, holy shit!" Olive's face had lit up, eyes sparkling as she spoke. It was adorable, but Pickles' stomach sunk further the longer she avoided the problem at hand, "And, the doors that have been opened, here, altering genetic material to this level without compromising the integrity of-"

"Olive. Honey. Sweetheart," Pickles interrupted before she could go further, approaching her with weak knees to grip her shoulders in trembling hands, kneeling to her level, attempting to be strong for her, "...yer pregnant."

Dark eyes closed for a moment, and he could tell she was grinding her tongue ring on her teeth. Her gaze met his again, and she nodded, 'Yeah. I know."

Pickles released a shuddering, shaky breath, 'O-okee. So, uh," he hated to ask, because it didn't really matter, but it also did, "Do you, uh, yanno. Do yah know who's it is?"

Pursing her lips, she nodded — Pickles had been insatiable for weeks, and as such she had been largely tangled up with him, sleeping with the other guys less frequently.

"No one else has cum inside in weeks."

Blood turning to ice in his veins, Pickles nodded, nervously thumbing over her shoulders, "Okee. Okee. So, uh... what-" he licked his lips, closing his eyes, head spinning a bit as he attempted to process this whirlwind of circumstance. Again, he hated to ask, but it was a question that needed to happen, "what do yah wanna do?"

Her small, warm hand cupped his face, and Pickles leaned into the comforting touch.

"Hey. Breathe. Don't need you fainting on me, baby."

Nodding, Pickles inhaled a few deep breaths, laying his head in her lap.

"What do you want to do?"

"It's yer body, babe. It's up to you if yah wanna go through with this."

Silence enveloped them for a few moments, his hand finding hers. Finally, she spoke, voice soft, "I- I can't believe I'm saying this, but... I don't know. And... I guess my answer not immediately being "No," like I thought it would, means..."

Pickles lifted his head, green eyes meeting dark, a flurry of mixed emotions in both their eyes.

"So... you wanna have a baby?"

"I- I think so..." Olive couldn't believe herself, couldn't believe the words she was saying. But as she gazed down at Pickles, she knew her answer, "Yeah. Yes. Do... do you?"

Swallowing, Pickles felt tears burn the backs of his eyes, throat tightening. Lips pressing to her knuckles in a kiss, he nodded, "Y-yeah."

A smile lit up her face, and Pickles melted, "Olive, I-"

A swift knock to the door frame interrupted, a shock of soft blonde hair popping through the threshold, and Pickles blanched.

Fuck.

This was not how he wanted to talk to Robin about this!

"Olive, I really need to talk to you. It's important," Dark eyes took in the scene before her, widening as they landed on the two sticks on the counter, "Fuck... you, too?"

Dark eyes mirrored hers, widening comically, shocked, "Me, too? So, then you're..."

"Yeah."

"Damn...” With a small, nervous giggle, Olive shook her head to clear her thoughts, then held out a hand, reaching for the blonde, “What're the odds?”

Robin hesitated for a moment, glancing down to Pickles, then back to Olive, but strode forward to hold her hand nonetheless, squeezing tightly as Olive ran her thumb over Robin's knuckles.

Robin knew the answer already, but had to be sure, so asked with bated breath, "Do you know who the father is?”

“Yeah…” Olive nodded down to the drummer still knelt before her, "Crazy, right? What about you?"

The atmosphere became tense, the air thick. Robin was quiet, then exhaled a held breath, murmuring a small fuck it. Squeezing Olive's hand, she nodded down to the drummer, as well.

When Olive froze, Robin feared she would be angry, somehow, despite Olive knowing Robin and Pickles were involved. But after a few tense moments of Robin and Pickles both squeezing the absolute life out of Olive's hands, she giggled.

And kept giggling.

Continuing on until it became full blown laughter, releasing their hands to cover her face as she snorted, Robin and Pickles staring at her in shock. Though, Pickles couldn't help but begin to laugh as well, Olive's infecting him, and soon he was doubled over with his head in her lap.

It took a few moments longer, but, when Olive leaned her head against Robin's stomach for support, weak with the laughter shaking her, and placed a soft hand on Robin's lower abdomen, giggling out "We're... we're both... he got us both... with a STRAP!" Robin broke, too, giggles overtaking her, snorting her laughter right along with Olive. Robin’s hand sought out the one over her womb, laying softly over Olive’s, a gentle warmth filling her chest as the three continued to laugh over the ridiculous situation. With a snort, Robin managed to speak between giggles,

“Pregnant by a fucking strap.”

[thestalwartheart]

Hi there ! ✨

I’m a huuuge fan of your writing (I mean, I wait for your updates the way I would wait for a new Tay Swift song)

If you’re still taking prompts I was wondering what tou could do with “pillow” ?

Have a nice day and happy writing!

Hi! Your ask was so kind, thank you so much. Waiting for my updates like a Tay Swift song is such high praise!

This took me far too long for what it is, but life got in the way for a few weeks there.

This one was meant to be wholesome and sweet but instead we ended up in E-rated territory. 🌶️ I do think it's still quite sweet, though, and domestic enough to probably fit with @mi6-cafe's Jammies January theme.

You can read it below or on AO3.

Enjoy!

Q sighs awake to feel a kiss at the nape of his neck. His pillow smells of citrus and smoke.

A weak beam of light streams in from the gaps at the edges of his blinds, revealing the chaos and untidiness of Q’s room. It’s the sort of light that says nothing about whether it’s a nice day or not, though it's definitely a cold one outside the bed covers; he knows that much. The freezing sliver of his face bared to the room is proof enough of that. The rest of him, however, is lovely and warm.

“Good morning,” croons a voice from behind him.

Bond.

Q is getting worryingly used to waking up to find Bond curled around his back like this. He must have snuck in during the night, finished with whatever had kept him away at the end of his last mission in Brazil. A woman, maybe. The weather, probably. The latter, at least, was irreplaceable in London.

“What time is it?” Q shoots an arm out from under the duvet — rather bravely, he thinks — in search of his phone. Bond catches his hand before it can make it very far and hums, sounding awfully content.

“Don’t worry about what time it is.”

Q would usually be more sceptical of a plea like that, but in the foggy recesses of his memory, he recalls deliberately not setting the alarm on his phone last night. It’s the weekend, then—a rare one without any work to get out of bed for. And James Bond is back on home soil, which means Q will be doing little else except rolling around between the sheets with him.

Q resolves not to worry about the time and instead sinks into the warmth of Bond’s chest. As a reward, he gets another kiss to his neck.

“Finished the job, then?” sighs Q.

“Mm.”

“And you’re all in one piece?”

“I am now.”

Alarmed, Q tries to turn around. It wouldn’t be the first time Bond’s hidden an injury from him. The last was a dislocated shoulder that Q had only found out about in the breathless wake of a post-mission shag when he’d gone to lay his head on Bond’s chest. He has no desire to hear a grunt of pain like it again.

Bond stops him from moving. “I’m fine, Q. Relax.”

Q wishes it were easier to resist that, but with Bond’s arms trapping him in place and his sturdy, warm hands of his travelling the length of Q’s torso so pleasantly, it’s hard to put up much of an argument. It’s harder still when one of those hands starts teasing at Q’s morning wood through the soft flannel of his pyjamas.

“Oh, I—”

There’s another scorching kiss to the side of Q’s neck before Bond begins murmuring filthy, delicious promises in his ear about how many times he’s going to make Q come and how they’re going to fuck each other all over this house and how neither of them are going to be putting clothes back on for the entire weekend unless it’s Q slipping into one of Bond’s shirts for a while.

(The whole aim of the latter, obviously, is for Bond to rip it off in short order.)

At some point during all those promises, Bond’s hand slips under Q’s waistband to pull slowly at his cock. The overwhelming heat of it has Q bucking forward, desperate to feel it tighter and faster.

Being with Bond is always like this. Zero to sixty in less than a moment. One flick of his hand, one kiss to the neck, one filthy smile from across a room…each acts like a flick of a match to an open gas valve. It’s a wonder they aren’t both incinerating beneath the duvet cover. Q certainly feels as if he’s burning up.

He tries to grind back onto the growing hardness at his back, but again, Bond refuses the movement.

“Slowly, Q,” he chides, sounding aggravatingly unaffected. “There’s no rush.”

There is, Q would argue. He hasn’t been in the same room as Bond in weeks, and in that time, he’s had to watch the man being chased across rooftops and over cliffs and into the sea and into other people’s—

With a huff, Q flings away that thought. It only matters that Bond is here now. That he has returned to his Quartermaster again, as he always seems to these days. That his hand is a tight pump around the head of Q’s cock, that his thumb is circling, spreading around the wetness there, playing Q expertly. That his lips are sucking little red marks into Q’s neck, into his shoulder. Though his breath remains even, Bond is clinging to him, as he is wont to do with anything that promises life or pleasure for a few desperate hours.

“Christ, Q. I’ve missed you.”

An embarrassing noise escapes Q’s throat at that, not that he’ll ever admit to it later. He can’t stop his hips from moving in little bursts, pushing into the tacky warmth around him, then back to the hardness that has settled between his cheeks, a hardness which is hot and pulsing even through layers of clothing. Bond is no longer teasing. It’s still slow — infuriatingly so — but it’s tight and intense, and Q’s burning inside. Slowly. Deliciously. It’s the sort of drawn-out, hot-treacle pleasure he never has the patience or the time to give himself. He rests his head on his fist and feels as if he might pass out. Bond’s hands and mouth seem like they’re everywhere.

“James — oh — I’m—”

Bond hums again. His teeth graze Q’s ear lobe, and that’s it. He’s shuddering, he’s splintering, he’s—

“Fuck.”

He’s making a bloody great mess is what he’s doing. There’s come all over his belly, the sheets and Bond’s hand. No matter—he’s flying too high to care. It’s been weeks since he’s had this, any of it. Working so late so consistently means he hasn’t been able to summon the energy for a wank in ages, let alone a date or a one-night stand. That’s just the way of things. He’s not bitter about it, but he is glad to feel this kind of pleasure again.

As Bond turns Q’s head to kiss him, Q smells a familiar hint citrus and smoke. It reminds him of the lemon twist in a lethal drink. Of gunpowder, cigars, peated whisky and sunnier climes. Of his sheets when Bond’s been sharing his bed.

Q can’t help a grin. He smothers it in his pillow before whispering, “Welcome home, James.”